Archives for posts with tag: caregiving

Yesterday was a good day end-to-end. I sip my coffee thinking about it, and waiting for the sun. Daylight Savings Time ended in the wee hours this morning, and dawn will seem to come an hour earlier. There’s no “real change” to when the sun will rise, only to where we human beings place the occurrence on our clocks. I sit with that thought awhile. Time is interesting to contemplate.

I spent a couple pleasant hours at my easel yesterday, painting. Well, more accurately, I was painting at the dining table, and the piece of Pastelbord I was painting on at any given moment was taped to the table to prevent it sliding around. I no longer have an easel, and if I still had my enormous floor-standing easel I wouldn’t be using that, it was far too big for the small work I presently feel inclined to do. lol Having a tabletop easel might be nice, though; pastels are dry, but still manage to be quite messy, as little drifts of colorful dust settle here and there. An easel would tend to keep the work itself cleaner, requiring fewer pauses to carefully blow off the loose pastel.

Colorful flowers, insignificant and delightful.

I think about having a French easel, too, for working en plein air (an unnecessarily fancy way of saying “outside”). I shop for something of that sort, again and again, trying to find a combination of characteristics I like, and that properly suit my painting style. It’s proving to be surprisingly difficult. I sometimes wonder how much what I just don’t yet know about what I actually need may hold me back from recognizing what may realistically suit me in practical terms. We don’t know what we don’t know, and every “what if” scenario is incomplete because of that. I sit thinking about that for awhile.

Some autumn sunrise from a favorite view.

I sit contentedly reflecting on the paintings I painted yesterday. Each pleases me in some way. Each has some detail I’m more critical of. It’s funny that I’m simultaneously quite delighted with them, while also seeing them through critical eyes. I smile at the flowers, while thinking “ah, but if I had done this other thing, wouldn’t it be better?”, but I don’t really know that it would be better – only different. Thinking about decisions in life is much the same; we can consider how we might have done differently, but we can’t know what that other outcome might truly have been.

“What if…” is like any other sort of wishful thinking or daydreaming; we can’t really know, we can only wonder.

I watch the horizon for daybreak. Soon. I sip my coffee. It’s a chilly morning and the warmth of the hot coffee cup in my hands feels good. I think about how good a hot shower will feel after my walk, and smile with some satisfaction that the dishes are already done and won’t be waiting for me. Such a mundane detail to give me so much pleasure. It’s funny (to me) what sorts of utterly practical things can provide so much contentment and joy.

I think about my Traveling Partner, sleeping at home. He continues to make progress with his recovery, and it’s really beginning to show. That’s an immense weight off my heart, I admit; I’ve felt so helpless and worried. Caregiving is a lot of work, but beyond that, I really want my beloved to live (and enjoy) his best life!

Day breaks on another rainy gray autumn morning. The trail is visible as the sky lightens. There’s a mist clinging to the ground and the scent of the marsh is in the air. Everything seems quite still and quiet. Later, there will be time for painting between loads of laundry, and happy hours hanging out over coffee with my Traveling Partner, talking and sharing life. For now, it’s time to put on my boots and get out on the trail, and begin again.

I slept last night. I woke this morning feeling pretty good, in spite of my headache, and my arthritis (which are becoming generally non-negotiable elements of my day-to-day experience). I moved through my morning routine pretty efficiently and quietly. I took my morning medications on time without a mishap, and the rain stopped just as I got to the trailhead. Seems like a pretty good morning so far.

Yesterday wasn’t all that bad, once I got past the morning, though I had considerable difficulty staying focused on work after my Traveling Partner pinged me good morning. I would have preferred to spend the day idly conversing with him, intimate and connected. The evening, after work, was relaxed and genial. We talked and shared the time contentedly. Dinner wasn’t fancy, pretty low effort but still a tasty home-cooked hot meal. I got some basic housekeeping chores handled. We communicated easily with each other, no stress, no drama, in spite of my fatigue. It was a great time all around.

I sit with my coffee and a smile in the pre-dawn darkness, a small circle of light cast by my headlamp, set to my side on this bench, to reduce the glare while I write and reflect. I turn it off to meditate, enjoying the diffuse light of town and street lights reflected back by the cloudy sky. It’s dark, for many values of darkness, but my eyes adjust quickly and I could probably walk the trail in the dimness without my headlamp if I chose to. It’s just easier with a bit of light. I smile at the implied metaphor and let my thoughts move on.

My Traveling Partner admitted yesterday that he hasn’t been reading my blog for awhile, caught up in his own experience. I didn’t feel hurt by that, and I even understand. It does tend to explain how misaligned we’ve sometimes felt, though; he has lacked a ton of explicit knowledge of my day-to-day experience, because rather than “repeat myself”, I’ve left things unsaid that I wrote about. That was a poor choice on my part, and we’ve paid for it in frequent misunderstandings and miscommunication. Well, shit. Now I know. I’m not even annoyed; the fault is mine. I made an assumption and didn’t check in on that. Ideally, I’d have been “using my words” and trusting my beloved to alert me if he was already aware of some detail.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s a good morning so far. I hope the day ahead is as pleasant. I’ve got work, and a couple things to get done to care for my partner and our home. I’m looking forward to working from home today and enjoying lunch together. I feel… good. It’s nice. It’s enough.

I look at the sky. Daybreak hasn’t come yet. It will, though, and the clock is ticking. It’s time to begin again.

I’m sitting quietly in the pre-dawn darkness, waiting for the sun and sipping my coffee. I was up earlier than planned, earlier than I needed to be. Early. Laying around restlessly seemed more likely than going back to sleep, so I got up quietly and dressed, made coffee for my Traveling Partner, who was (probably still is) sleeping, and slipped out of the house and down the road to this nearby trail.

Long exposure with the night settings reveals a hint of purple in sky I wouldn’t see otherwise.

This morning I am feeling aggravated over nothing. I’m not certain why I feel this way. My headache, maybe? Maybe the lingering irritation over yesterday’s attempt to relax at home and paint while I did the laundry. That didn’t go well, although I did do a bit of painting, I gave up on it rather quickly rather than deal with my headache and my partner’s irritation with me. It was just too hard to create a comfortable creative space so I said “fuck it” and put it all away, and laid down for awhile hoping to also put the headache to rest. I wasn’t successful at that either. The headache is with me still.

Tears well up as I think about it. There’s more going on here, maybe something that needs more thought and care? It would probably be helpful to have a better understanding of what is actually causing this feeling of hurt.

“Why do you do this thing that you love?” I ask myself. It’s a question worth knowing the answer to, isn’t it? I’m not what would be considered a commercially successful artist. I sell pieces now and then, but I don’t invest energy (or time, or money) in representation, or the business of art. Definitely not “why I do it”, like, at all. I paint because it’s another way to communicate things I don’t have words for. I paint because the process itself meets an emotional need, and satisfies something within me. I love to see my work hanging in my home. It’s always been “about me” – by me, for me. I’ve always been okay with that, too, though I definitely get great joy from the experience of someone else enjoying my work.

Even in my least comfortable, unhappiest relationships, my partners at the time made room for my art, and for my creative process (and the occasional mess). My boundaries and needs as an artist were respected (and even in my terrifying violent first marriage). I felt valued as an artist even when I didn’t feel valued as a human being. Maybe that’s odd? It “felt right”. The people in my life, regardless how they seemed to feel about me, personally, in a given moment, seemed to appreciate my artistic work.

… Things have been feeling different, lately. Artistically, at least at home, I often “don’t feel heard”. I sometimes have a peculiar sense that “nothing I do” (artistically) matters at all, and that the art is, itself, a nuisance or an inconvenience. As if it’s somehow just “in the way” or taking up space. It’s a very strange and very unpleasant sensation.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I sip my coffee and wonder what there is to learn from this feeling, and this moment. I work on fitting it into the context of life, right now, with so much else going on. It’s been a while since I have been this productive as an artist, and although that is definitely meeting needs for me, what effect does that have on my Traveling Partner, I wonder? He’s certainly got his own shit to deal with right now, and any time I spend artistically is potentially time I am not spending focused on caregiving. Does he have feelings about that?

I am eagerly embracing the joy of feeling inspired by a new medium, and wanting to spend more time on painting (and savoring the feeling of satisfied inspiration), but I’m missing feeling a sense that my partner is enjoying it with me… and I don’t know why. Maybe he honestly just doesn’t care for the paintings I’m doing right now, but doesn’t want to hurt my feelings? Maybe my notion of what enjoying them looks like is a poor fit to the reality of it? Landscape paintings are probably less cognitively demanding of the viewer than abstraction, perhaps they don’t lend themselves to prolonged conversation?

… Maybe it isn’t about any of that at all…

I sit quietly with my thoughts. This isn’t going to be worked out over a single cup of coffee before the sun rises. It feels important, though. It’s a good time to remind myself that I paint to satisfy something within myself. The person who really needs to hear me is…me. Am I listening?

I have been here before. Self-reflection is a process, and a practice.

I sit thinking about the many hours over weeks, months, and even years that I have gazed thoughtfully at my paintings, hanging here or there. I’ve barely gotten started in pastel. Have I truly taken enough time with each new work, once completed, to really “get the point”? Am I feeling as if I were shouting in an empty room because I have not given the new work enough of my own time and attention? This feels relevant and real.

I’ve been painting in pastel for just 96 days. Over 96 days, I’ve painted 25 new pieces. That’s not my most intensely productive pace, but it’s damned close…am I spending enough time appreciating the work, reflecting on each new piece, and understanding what I’m going for? Maybe not. I think I’ve been tending to finish them, take some pictures, and move on to the next piece – sort of the artistic equivalent of talking without letting anyone else get a word in. The art isn’t being given enough time to really “speak to me”, I suspect – and I have to wonder if this is a bigger deal than I understood?

A new day dawning.

I sigh quietly, and wonder what to do about it. I drink my coffee pensively, looking at the hint of daybreak approaching on the eastern horizon. I shift uncomfortably, pain (arthritis, headaches) isn’t helping my mood. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I’ve got this day ahead of me. Things to do. Things to think about. I prepare to begin again.

Nice morning. Mild. Quiet. I’m okay. I got a decent night of sleep after several restless nights of degraded sleep. I needed it. Dreams instead of nightmares. The morning started pretty well, and I’m not in much pain this morning. Manageable.

I sit quietly at the trailhead, waiting for the sun. I watch a pair of walkers hit the trail in the darkness, with a flashlight. The light swings and bobs as they disappear up the trail, the faint shapes in the darkness becoming formless shadows as they reach the first bend along the path. I don’t prefer to walk the trail in the dark. I become hyper vigilant rather quickly and it’s not much fun to walk along scanning the environment for unseen threats. I am unavoidably aware that those potential threats are not foolish imaginings; human beings can be quite dangerous.

So… I sit and wait for the sun.

I had planned to skip my walk today, to be certain of finishing the work day early enough to get home to take my Traveling Partner to physical therapy. On top of that just being a bit unnecessary, he messaged me during the wee hours; he’s not feeling up to it. Understandable. He’s tapering off a medication and the process fucks with his head, and his physical experience. I feel for him. When I saw the tapering instructions I was dismayed at how little regard appeared to be given to how the drug actually works, and it’s half-life. Doctors often seem to be fairly fucking uninformed about the psycho-pharmacology of the drugs they so casually dispense. Profit and process over people. It’s disappointing.

I am momentarily distracted by the bright lights of a freight truck rolling by on the highway. It’s decked out in so many lights! I am delighted by the display and grinning like a little kid. It’s a weirdly joyful moment. I wonder if the driver knows? Was the choice intentional? Do the lights make them smile, too?

I sit quietly awhile with my thoughts.

Daybreak soon.

This quiet time is so important for my well-being. I’m fortunate to have the will, the opportunity, and the partnership that support it. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I sit quietly, meditating, writing, and waiting for the sun. It’ll be daybreak soon, and time to begin again.

Well shit, yesterday went sideways abruptly after what had been a very pleasant day. Tempers and hurt feelings flared. Perspectives on individual experiences clashed. Unmet and unstated needs collided with the force only human emotions can create in such a short time. “Unpleasant” doesn’t even begin to describe it. I said things that were incredibly hurtful and will be difficult to apologize for adequately, if that’s even possible (and I am ashamed of having lost my temper so severely). He said some terrible things I can’t unhear. We hurt each other’s hearts – and the appalling thing about it is that we are each the person the other turns to for love, support, understanding, care, consideration… all the things. The person we hurt so deeply is our fucking partner.

… I didn’t sleep much last night…

Even after things calmed down and some sort of apologies were offered, the pain lingered. I went to bed unhappy. I don’t doubt he did as well. The house was quiet when I woke. My heart was heavy. Still is. Can we come back from this? Tears well up with the question every time it crosses my mind. I behaved appallingly.

I make my Traveling Partner’s morning coffee, put out a fresh glass of water, and a glass of iced tea, with a couple of fig bars to start his morning when he wakes. I hope he sees these things as the gesture of love I mean for them to be. I can’t imagine my life without him…

I’m not sure how we got to “this place”, and I sure don’t want to stay here. I remember a very different “us”, even quite recently (although it’s hard to stay mindful of how recent it was and that these changes are the result of injury, infirmity, and legitimate struggle, that truly will pass). I can do better. I’m confident he can too, and even that he means to. The medications he’s on make him more volatile and less clearheaded (no less so while he tapers off). The pain and fatigue I’m struggling with shorten my fuse and I rather stupidly try to avoid burdening him with information about my condition (that he actually needs to know to do his best to support me as much as he is able).

… I failed us both last night…

Fuck. The refrains of annoying 70’s break-up songs play on a loop in my thoughts. I snarl back at the unwelcome “programming”. I push them aside, because the feeling of hopeless and wistful futility that wells up is really terrible. I put on actual music (grateful for the technology that puts it within reach). The most positive thing I can think of for the circumstances… The Monkees, “A Little Bit You A Little Me”. Nailed it. I listen to Davy Jones singing words that remind me of my partner’s own pleas for me to “talk it out”. There’s wisdom there and hope. Don’t we deserve that for – and from – each other?

I breathe, exhale, and relax. The path isn’t always smooth. I’m still glad we’re walking it together – I’d be pretty spectacularly lost without my Traveling Partner. I hope he still feels the same about me.

We’re in this together.

There are apologies and amends to make. Work to do, and to do better. My results clearly vary… And I need more practice to become the person I most want to be. I’ve got to begin again. I hope he’ll continue this journey with me.