I sipped my first coffee, feet up, sitting by a cozy fire, watching the light change with the gray coastal dawn. The view to the west is layers of gray and soft blue. For me, this place is more than a delightful destination to get away for a little while; the ocean symbolizes a relentless force of reality that compels self-reflection and forces me to face myself as I watch the waves roll in. There’s no arguing with the ocean. It represents a resilient nature indifferent to external storms, even in the midst of them. Obstacles are washed away, or, like driftwood, piled on the shore, visible, removable, and easy to avoid. The ocean is unyielding about her boundaries, and for me she provokes deep thought, and a presence that I find I must linger with.
…The views from this hotel are spectacular…
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I pour a second coffee. The coffee machine here is quite clean, and the coffee must be fresher than usual (for a hotel); it’s quite good. I sit watching the waves. The tide is going out. I am surprised by a deer ambling up the steep slope just beyond the window.
It’s worth it to slow down and observe what’s going on, even when nothing seems to be going on.
She looks at me through the window, pauses to nibble some tasty plant, and ambles on.
Two of the women most dear to me (and most significant in my own life as a woman), loved the sea and seaside places. My Dear Friend and my Granny have ended their mortal lives some time ago, but when I am at the seashore, I feel them with me. It doesn’t matter whether it is the rocky coastal beaches of the Pacific Northwest, or the marshy edges of the Chesapeake Bay, or the kitschy seaside towns that tourists flock to each summer. I love being by the shore, too, if only because it connects me so deeply to these two women, who are so much a part of who I am myself. Sometimes when I most need to be alone, I am taking that time to “talk with my ancestors” in a way I find difficult to describe. It sometimes seems funny that I never feel my Dad’s presence in such places; his are the forests and meadows. The ocean seems to me to be a very feminine sort of energy. I find myself wondering if sailors feel that way, too? Theirs is a very different relationship with the sea…
Fisherman early in the morning.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I feel well and whole, and capable. I feel comfortable in my skin and grounded in the goodness of my life. I’ll head home eagerly to see what my Traveling Partner has done while I’ve been gone. He is, himself, a force to be reckoned with, and as his abilities return he is capable of moving mountains (and definitely furniture). Certainly, he moves me.
For now, it’s me and this beautiful expanse of beach, and this gray ocean under a cloudy sky – and another cup of coffee. I’ve got plenty of time to begin again, a little later.
I’m sitting at a favorite spot on the coast. Beautiful coastal forest, nicely private cove with a beautiful beach and a rock formation with great tide pools. I’m not on the beach; too crowded. One end is crowded with loud families doing beach-y family things. At the other end, some gathering of a … tribe?.. of fundamentalist looking folks of one variety or another, the women inappropriately dressed in heavy ill-fitting sack dresses and bonnets, thick stockings and uncomfortable looking very plain shoes.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The two groups don’t mingle. In between there is almost some sort of understood zone of bare beach, by way of which a random neutral party could make their way from the parking lot to the water’s edge. I got close enough to see the arrangement. I’m not here to feel crowded or scrutinized. I go back to the car and park in a shady spot well away from anyone else.
I grab my coffee and my power bank, and sketch book. Turns out I don’t feel like sketching. I sip my coffee listening to the birds and savoring the breeze. It smells of ocean and forest flowers. It’s quiet here. I like that about this place. Every passing stranger feels like an encroachment on my consciousness and I’m eager to check into my room. Check-in time is not until 16:00. I’d hoped for an early check-in, but the hotel let me know that would not be available today, after all.
Well, shit. Today has been like that, generally. Plans? Let me welcome you to reality. I’m not bitching, I’m just being reminded that plans or no plans, without any consideration for expectations, wishes, or hoped-for outcomes, reality is what it is.
Lovely day on the coast feeling loved and grounded? Nope. Not this morning.
Pleasant brunch at a favorite breakfast bistro? Sure, if I’m okay with being elbow-to-elbow with other customers. Popular morning for brunch, I guess.
Soul-healing walks on favorite beaches wrapped in solitude? Um… not exactly. It’s a beautiful day; the beaches are crowded.
… I also don’t feel like dealing with my bullshit, and apparently I brought that with me…
Early check-in and feasting my eyes on the gorgeous ocean views at a hotel I’ve long wanted to try… Well, I’ve got the room reserved, but no early check-in. I won’t know what the room itself is like until later. (If I had come expecting to paint I’d have been disappointed.)
I had hoped to do a bit of shopping, but retail spaces are also crowded and my mind recoils from the contact. I really just want to be quite alone for a little while. I don’t find what I’m looking for.
…My fucking left foot is already hurting (plantar fasciitis)…
I sigh to myself and sip my coffee. It’s cold now. I don’t really care. It’s fine. I’ve now gone from Road’s End to Fogarty Creek, and two things are demonstrably true; everywhere I stop there are other people, and everywhere I go, I’ve still got to deal with the woman in the mirror.
Reality does not care about my plans, my needs, nor my beliefs. It’s just real. A smile breaks through; I’m okay for most values of okay. I’m finding enough solitude to recognize patterns in my thinking, and to process shit that has been on my mind, and to meditate and reflect without interruptions, even from my own wandering primate mind. A chance to unpack some baggage maybe, or find a clearer sense of direction in life. I breathe, exhale, and relax. Enough has to be enough, at some point.
I think about my Traveling Partner and let myself wonder frankly and without evasion whether our paths have begun to diverge, has paths often do. I think that would break my heart. I would probably bounce back, eventually, but I doubt i would ever be quite the same. This relationship has changed me so much. It has become a defining part of who I have become over time and has influenced what I choose to practice and how I see the world. I’m suddenly aware of my back pain, amplified by the moment of sorrowful contemplation.
I love this man too much to let this partnership just fall apart. Funny thing, on the subject of reality, this partnership – this love – sometimes doesn’t “feel real”, even after 16 years. I don’t mean that it feels somehow insincere or performative, I mean that it is often like a fairytale, at least from my perspective. We have to work at it, we’re human beings after all, but so often I feel as if I am living a romantic story. It’s beautiful. I reliably feel like a jerk when I break that spell.
I’m human, too.
I move the car to a different beach. There are still “a lot of people” here, but this beach stretches seven walkable miles when the tide is out, and people in small family groups tend to spread out.
My idea of “a lot of people” has my own desire for solitude as it’s comparison. This may not be accurate for most values of “a lot of people”.
I watch the waves crest as they near the shore and listen to the sound of seagulls mingling with the sound of children laughing. I make a lot of choices that influence my experience (and thus my subjective experience of reality), and I have a lot of control over how I react to, and interact with, that experience. Can I do better? Yes! I keep practicing. I still fall short of my expectations of myself, sometimes. I learn from it and keep going. That’s enough.
My heart fills with love for my Traveling Partner. Living with my chaos and my human foibles and failures has to be hard. I hope it is worth it to him, the way I find loving him as he is worth it to me. We’ve grown a lot together over the years. I still choose him.
I sigh to myself and look at the time. It’s a little while until check-in. I pull my sunscreen out of my purse – seems smart today – I’ve got time for a walk on the beach before I begin again.
Roads end. I mean, I guess they do, at some point, even this one, although it doesn’t appear to end here. That’s just the name of this place, “Road’s End”. It’s a small state park at the edge of the shore, with a trail down to the beach. I am here, listening to the sound of wind and waves (and some asshole with their car radio on loud enough to be heard, which I could do without).
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The view from Road’s End
I definitely need this time alone. I don’t get much solitude as things are, and my Traveling Partner was encouraging to the point of being willing to find me a suitable hotel and book a room for me. (I was going to make it a day trip and call it good enough.) I felt very loved, and excited to enjoy the day on the coast, and a night of solitary fun, reading, writing, and meditating.
A small bird. A moment.
This morning is different. At least for now I am neither merry nor at peace with myself. Instead I’m wrestling demons. It’s fine. Part of life with cPTSD and brain damage, I guess, and in spite of some 30 years in and out of therapy of one sort or another, I still deal with the chaos and damage. I’m not surprised by that, though I am dismayed, disappointed, and even sometimes despairing over it when shit blows up over some little thing, or I disgrace myself by losing my temper or hurting someone I care about with thoughtless words or actions. I do my best, I still fail. This is human.
… It’s also human when it’s someone else having a moment. It is important to forgive, and to make room for people to grow through experience. We’re each having our own experience…
So I’m sitting here at Road’s End, thinking my thoughts. Thinking about endings and beginnings, and change, and trying to be grateful for the solitude I am fortunate to enjoy. I need this time to myself, it meets needs I struggle to meet without the quiet of solitude. I do wish I were enjoying it on other terms than these but feeling mired in my bullshit, I’m glad to be alone with that.
… But is the sky still blue?
What matters most? I sit with the question for a little while, on a fence rail looking out at the sea. The sound of ocean waves reaching the shore and the sea breezes used to be enough to drown out my tinnitus. Now there is a high pitched whine that I still hear, but only on the left side. I frown, momentarily distracted from my thoughts. I hope it’s nothing serious.
I’m thinking about my “baggage”. Not the carefully packed weekend bag I slid onto the seat of the car. I mean “my baggage”. It’s a figure of speech that is so apt it’s easy to forget it is metaphorical. No matter where I go, no matter what relationship I’m in, I drag my bullshit along with me. Baggage. I’ve made so many changes, and I have grown and improved my thinking and behavior so much over the years, but at any moment I may yet again be standing in the middle of my pile of carefully crafted custom matched set of baggage I still lug around with me, somehow only partially unpacked even after all these years. It’s super annoying. Frustrating. Discouraging.
Beginnings. Endings. Practice.
We become what we practice. We choose what we practice. It is important to choose wisely and stay focused on who we most want to be, because if we choose poorly, we may become someone else entirely.
I sit feeling the breeze and watching the horizon. My head is filled with ghosts and regrets. Weird morning to have them turn up and demand attention. My skill with choosing relationships has been poor: a violent psychopath, a manipulative slacker looking for a meal ticket, a cruel woman who delighted in gaslighting me, an assortment of lovers who may have lacked any explicit bad intentions but found value in my limited capacity to understand that I was being taken advantage of… Then there’s my Traveling Partner. One good relationship in a lifetime of trauma and chaos, but the opportunity came late in life, and I still find myself picking metaphorical shards of past damage out of new emotional wounds. I find myself apologizing a lot. That’s got to wear thin after awhile. It still matters, and I keep practicing.
I sit by the sea feeling the breeze, and the weight of all the many mistakes I have made over 16 years with this singular human being. I wonder if he does the same thing, when he finds that he’s hurt me without intending to. Neither of us are perfect beings of pure love and empathy. I feel confident neither of us would hurt the other intentionally. That’s not who we are. We are, however, quite human. I sigh to myself and let it go, at least for the moment. I remind myself that self-care matters, and in solitude there is no excuse to treat myself as second best, ever. I left rather abruptly this morning, instead of enjoying a leisurely coffee with my beloved. Coffee and some healthy calories would be good…
… The descent into madness often begins with poor self-care and low blood sugar…
I guess I should begin again. I don’t know where this path leads…
I slept well and deeply, woke gently, on time more or less, and made my way to the trail for my morning miles without any fuss. I think I even managed to avoid waking my beloved Traveling Partner on my way out. The day begins well.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
In the distance, clouds, hills, a horizon.
As my steps carry me along the path, I notice the distant mountain foothills have snowy patches, partially obscured by low clouds clinging to the hillsides. Instead of blue sky above, more clouds. Even nearby, the weather seems less like the Spring I expect, and more like late winter in the Pacific Northwest. It’s cold, too. 1°C, very nearly freezing. The path is slick and frosty. There are little birds everywhere. They don’t seem to mind the chilly morning.
Here and there, blue sky peeks through the clouds, like a promise. Everything looks green and ready for warmer days. This chilly morning was unexpected, but not wildly outside the obvious possibilities, for the area. I was less than ideally well prepared, this morning. I walk briskly to my halfway point, hands jammed into warm pockets. I sit on a cold bench at my halfway point, pausing my writing now and then to warm my hands again before I continue. I’m okay with it.
My fingernails are a shimmery shade of blue that seems fitting for reflecting this sky on this cold morning, and I smile each time I see them. Getting a manicure is a treat, and I was a bit overdue. I like my new manicurist, too. She does beautiful work, and makes pleasant conversation.
What do you see when you look?
The tangle of oaks overhead seem as if they have captured the cotton candy pink of the dawn sky in their branches. I feel merry in spite of the chilly weather. Another work day ahead. I’m eager for warmer days and long afternoons in the garden. The deer have begun wandering through each night, eating the tender shoots and new growth from the tops of all the roses. I’m glad I didn’t hustle to get starts planted! Between the cold and the deer it would have been a wasted effort.
I think about that for some little while; the idea that practicing non-attachment, and taking a more relaxed approach to getting things done sometimes allows me to out wait some vexing circumstance, and move on more easily, isn’t a new idea. It is the “wait and see” approach on of many relaxed people. Low stress. Low drama. I’ll still get the garden planted, probably this weekend when I also have time to put together the fence I’ve planned, hoping to keep the deer from also eating my garden (as they did last year). Maybe rose cages for early Spring, next?
The chilly morning begins to distract me. I’m not really dressed for the cold, although my cardigan is quite warm. In the distance, I see sunlight touch the hillsides. I wonder what the day holds? I get to my feet to begin again.
It’s definitely Spring here now. Everything is so green and getting greener each day. The combination of warm sunny afternoons, rainy nights, and cool misty mornings here is so lovely! There are so many hues of green!
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I started down the trail quite a bit later than I do on most mornings. My Traveling Partner was already up this morning, and invited me to linger over coffee. I’m glad I did. We laughed and shared a few humorous moments of lighthearted conversation, a delightful start to the day.
So many hues of green..
The trail is damp and the puddles are plentiful. The oaks are wearing a bright green haze. Mixed among the evergreens along the creek bank, the deciduous trees are becoming hues of lush green and the grassy rows between the vines in the vineyard are bright green and fresh looking (appealing to bunnies, apparently; I see several as I pass by). A sneezing fit stops me briefly, and I am grateful for the packs of travel tissues my beloved gave me from his truck, yesterday. Well-timed generosity. I feel loved.
I find the bench at my halfway point occupied this morning. A rather fat raccoon sitting there tearing open a soggy fast food bag to get at whatever was left in it. She sees me, and before I can snap a picture, she grabs her prize and hops down into the weeds and quickly disappears into the trees and down the creek bank. The bench is damp, but the morning is mild. I put my hoodie down and take a seat.
I sit reflecting on happy outcomes of clear communication and truly having the support of my Traveling Partner. I spent most of yesterday in the studio, and enjoyed “playing in the colors” again. I really needed it. The chance to work creatively in media that feels comfortable, the opportunity to express things I struggle to put into words, and sure, also the satisfaction of creating was long overdue. Cooking doesn’t do the same thing for me. I’m a painter (as many pictures as I do take with my camera, I don’t really consider myself a photographer). It’s not even about “good” work versus “bad” work. I’m not sure art really works that way. A piece that I think was completely flubbed, not worth saving, is just as likely to move someone else as any piece I personally look upon as “a real masterpiece”. Art is very personal. I painted two pieces yesterday, and one of those thoroughly delights me. It’s enough.
“Road’s End”
I sigh contentedly, followed by a poignant pang of sorrow; my Dear Friend will never see this piece. I think she would have loved it. A large plump robin stops in front of me and sings his song directly to me, quite loudly. “What are you trying to tell me, my dude?” I ask softly, though I don’t expect his reply, a further bit of cheerful song, possibly a little demanding in tone. I’m not sure; I don’t speak robin. He cocks his head and looks at me as if waiting for something, before flying away.
I meditate and think about the day ahead. I remind myself to do some laundry. I’d rather paint, but there are other things that also need my attention. I’m okay with that. It feels like balance and normalcy may be returning to the flow of my days. I like that thought.
The gray morning gives no hint at the passage of time. I know the clock is ticking. It’s probably time to begin again.
