Archives for posts with tag: change is
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Friction and Pressure

June 20, 2026 //
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Sometimes life feels pretty easy. Some other times, not so much. I could probably stop right there, it is a complete thought.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

I start down the marsh trail leaning more heavily on my cane than on most mornings. Pain. It is what it is. It is mostly managed. The path ahead appears deserted, but the handful of cars in the parking lot when I arrived tell a different story. I don’t much feel like seeing or talking with people – strangers or otherwise. The stormy looking sky suits my mood and the pain I’m in.

Sometimes the path ahead is not obvious.

I walk with my thoughts until I get to my usual halfway point on this trail. There are photographers set up there. Birdwatchers, probably. I didn’t ask, I just walked on.  I give a casual wave to someone who waved at me. No one speaks; I don’t want to have conversation, and they don’t want to disturb the wildlife.

I woke too early. I woke already in pain. I’m not saying so to complain about it, it’s just an observation and a potential explanation for my shitty mood this morning. I don’t plan to let either the pain or my dark mood take over my day, although it isn’t always easy (or reliably successful) to change course. Emotions are complicated. For now, this is the experience I’m having. “The way out is through,” I remind myself, and I keep walking.

“Emotion and Reason” 18″ x 24″ acrylic on canvas w/ceramic and glow. 2012

I get to a fork in the path. There’s a convenient rock to sit on, and I am alone. I reflect on paths and journeys, on beginnings and endings, and on how difficult uncertainty makes decisions. I sigh to myself and sit with my thoughts awhile. I ignore the silent tears that well up and slide down my cheeks. A brief moment of sunshine doesn’t last, and the morning returns to shades of gray.

I write for some little while, without ever nearing any sort of useful conclusion. My thoughts are mostly my own, this morning. I breathe, exhale, and relax. Every time my mind begins to sink into meditation, the tears begin, slow and steady. I know this is probably telling me something, but I’m less certain I want to deal with whatever emotional mess is percolating up from within. I let it go, and let it go again. It is a new day, and I’ve got options. I sigh quietly. “Choose wisely,” I remind myself. The menu of the Strange Diner is vast. I don’t have to stay in the mire.

I start to feel stiff as I sit here. No wise woman on a mountain to consult with, only a mirror, and a moment, a woman, and a path. I get to my feet feeling cross about pain and mortality. I turn and look down the path. I can’t see beyond the next bend, and reluctantly I begin again.

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Categories Allegories, anger, anhedonia, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, Despair, forgiveness, Free Will, grief, health, loneliness, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, Oregon Trails, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Summer, The Art of Being, women, Words

Hope and Hard Questions

June 4, 2026 //
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I don’t have all the answers. Some days, I’m fairly certain I don’t have any “answers”. At least, not to the questions I’m asking. This morning there’s this, though, which seeks to answer a whole lot of the “hard questions”, and offers a different path humanity could follow.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

This morning i feel hopeful, but also more than a little cynical; human beings (particularly wealthy ones) don’t like plans that require those with much to give anything up for those with little. We’re sick like that. Still, I read an article about the report (a report prepared by knowledgeable experts in the relevant fields and based on a metric fuck-ton of data over decades) and it certainly sounds promising. I track down the link to the report for later. I definitely want to read the whole thing.

Human beings, being human. Most of the people who will be arguing about this report and its recommendations won’t actually read the report. They’ll read an article in the Guardian or the NYT or the Washington Post, and blurt out redigested opinions they don’t actually hold based on any depth of knowledge or real commitment, and behave as if they had a thought. That’ll be supremely irritating but it may be an unavoidable byproduct of our desire to “sound smart” – style over substance. I sigh to myself; I’m not immune. I’m human, too. I’m definitely going to read the actual report though; I enjoy feeling hopeful.

I walk down the trail on this chilly morning. Peculiarly, it feels more like autumn than Spring. I’m glad I wore a fleece over my sweater. The sky overhead is a cozy comforter of puffy gray clouds. There’s a strip of open sky on the western horizon and the blue gray hills in the distance are enhanced by layers of far off clouds that mimic still more hills, as if even taller mountains are beyond those hills I always see. It’s a visually appealing illusion. I find myself tempted to return to the car and drive to those faraway hills.

…It is a work day, an ordinary Thursday, and not the day for adventure…

I yawn as I walk. Still waking up. The morning is a festival of green hues. The dark greens of the oaks and pines, the bright strips of green that are the young vines in the vineyard create a lovely scene. The yellower and bluer greens of this or that flower or shrub keep things interesting. It’s a beautiful morning. The feeling is deepened and enhanced by this fragile feeling of hope. It’s a nice beginning to a new day.

As I walk, a realization hits me; I never saw my Traveling Partner stumble even once last night! I’m given yet another moment to feel hopeful and encouraged in life and I feast on it. I’m not starved from joy these days, I definitely get an ample portion, but little gives me more joy in the moment than my beloved’s continued recovery from injury. It’s the very best “birthday present” I can imagine.

As I walk, I notice that I feel physically less “weighed down by life”, less burdened, and I marvel at how much my emotional experience determines my physical experience. I’ve noticed it before, too; when I feel sad, pain seems worsened along with my mood. When I feel merry, my pain often lessens, too – or seems less bothersome, however bad it is. I’d say “that’s funny”, meaning strange, but I don’t want the observation confused for amusement. It’s useful. We not only become what we practice, we inhabit an experience colored by our emotions. That seems like an important detail.

I get to my halfway point almost unexpectedly. I have been lost in my thoughts. I sit awhile listening to the creek beyond the trees chortling as if amused by my human foolishness. I watch the illusion of mountains on the horizon begin to curl and shift and take on a pink color from the sunrise. They definitely look more like clouds than mountains, now.

… Change is…

I breathe, exhale, and relax, grateful for my warm sweater and cozy fleece. I meditate awhile, feeling fortunate to have these quiet minutes to enjoy before a busy work day, aware that this is a choice. This? Here, now? It’s a familiar path, even metaphorically, but that doesn’t diminish the value in the path, the metaphor, or the lessons I can take from walking it. It’s a nice change to feel so hopeful.

I watch the clouds shifting and the changing light and shadows as the sun rises. I savor this hopeful feeling, grateful for the moment. I get ready to begin, again.

Hope is a feeling. Change is a verb.
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Categories Allegories, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, women, Words

Strange Days

April 10, 2026 //
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I’m still getting used to the sense of peace that has seemed to envelope our home. The Anxious Adventurer is well on his way back to his maternal family. He shares pictures and updates from the road, whenever he stops along the way. I’m glad he’s taking his time and having a safe journey. I’m glad he has moved out. I still don’t get how he managed to create so much tension and discord from his purported good intentions. One of life’s unsolved puzzles, I suppose.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

Yesterday ends with a pretty pink sunset.

Yesterday was a lovely, rather ordinary seeming work day. I’m able to comfortably work from home any day – which was not at all the case while the Anxious Adventurer resided with us. We just weren’t getting enough good quality sleep and it was a far better choice to avoid bullshit conflicts caused by fatigue and lost resilience by working elsewhere. I sit at the halfway point of my walk this morning thinking about that between sneezing fits. I add travel tissues to my shopping list.

Today begins with a chance to begin again.

The weekend is almost here. I plan to spend time in the garden. I remind myself to ask my beloved Traveling Partner to turn on the outside water to the front of the house (I can’t reach that valve) and add a reminder to turn on the water to the back (which I can stoop down for more easily). It all feels so relaxed and ordinary.

… I feel so much love…

Pain changes who we are. Mine is more well-managed than it had been. The medications we may be asked to take for some variety of conditions may change who we are. I watched my beloved go through it both before and after his surgery. Of course the changes we go through (or which are inflicted upon us) also change us. No question about that, and as human beings we go through a lot of changes. The Anxious Adventurer chose change, but found it uncomfortable and never quite embraced the opportunities it presented. Fighting change also changes us. We are who we are – also true – and change itself is nonnegotiable. Change is.

… What we choose to do about change and how we behave in response to it matters a lot, and we have so much control over that…

I sit smiling, breathing the almost warm Spring air. It smells of flowers. I sneeze a few more times. Tree pollen. I’m okay with it. I like the smell of flowers more than I care about the sneezes. I think about my beloved Traveling Partner and my heart is filled with joy and encouragement. I’m grateful that in spite of going through so much these last couple of years, we’re still together, still a strong loving partnership. The outcome wasn’t guaranteed, and at times I had doubts. It was hard sometimes and I honestly wasn’t sure I could do the needful when called upon. I was so tired, so often. Here we are, though, on the other side. I’m glad.

I sit listening to the noisy robins and watching squirrels play. I spot shy bunnies in the underbrush at the edge of the trail. They are quicker than my camera this morning. I’m in no great hurry to rush off to begin the work day. I sit with sore muscles thinking about love.

For a time I allow myself the luxury of paying no mind to the ticking clock. I am not measuring minutes or moments, just enjoying them awhile. Later will be soon enough for work calendars and meeting schedules, housework and to-do lists. This moment is mine. I savor it. I can begin again a little later.

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Categories Allegories, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, women, Words

Like Ripples on a Pond

April 3, 2026 //
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Yesterday was busy. So busy. Changes. I took off work to help the Anxious Adventurer finish moving out. It was a lot of manual labor and by the time we were finished, I was “done” – but there is so much more to do.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

I’ve spent the past two years accommodating a relative stranger in our home. No ill will; it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I got used to a lot of compromises. Now… I’ve got my space back. My own bathroom once again, and my studio, my library… my peace. I’ve also got to deal with the changes, and it is a lot for me. So much upheaval, so suddenly.

Around 17:00 in the evening, I “hit a wall”, figuratively speaking. My feet were hurting. I was fatigued. I just couldn’t move one more thing and started weeping. My Traveling Partner, set up a lovely footbath for me, it smelled of orange blossoms. It felt wonderful. We relaxed together and watched a favorite show. He reminded me there is no hurry and to have fun with the process. I feel very loved and understood.

Last night we both slept well and deeply, through the night. That has been rare for the past two years. I woke to my alarm, also rare. My routine is a bit broken, but I’m adaptable as hell, and a new routine will quickly develop. This morning, though, was a bit chaotic. “Be careful what you wish for,” I muttered, as I wandered around looking for my boots.

… I still managed to be on the trail by sunrise, with plenty of time for my walk before work…

This morning my muscles are sore, and very few things are where I remember leaving them. There are paintings to rehang, and paintings in storage to bring home (to store in better conditions). There are work surfaces to return to my studio, and books to put back on shelves. It is all joyful work, really, but change still feels like a lot to take. For me, that’s a complication that exists at the nexus of brain damage and PTSD. I’ve learned to deal with it more skillfully than I once did. That’s not nothing. In fact, it’s an important improvement in my experience and I’m grateful for how much better this experience feels now, because of it.

… That, and having a partner who is willing to help, and to love me as I am…

One moment of many. Change is.

There’s so much yet to do. I’m okay with that, I just have to give myself time and some consideration. I sit with that thought at the side of this trail watching the dawn of another day. I’m grateful to see it. I’m even grateful for the joyful work ahead. I look up the path. It disappears around a bend. That’s a bit how life feels. Or, perhaps more like ripples on a pond after a stone is cast into the water? I consider that for some little while.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I meditate. I write. I enjoy the quiet of morning on this trail. I glance at the time and get to my feet. It’s time to begin again, and this trail won’t walk itself.

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Categories Allegories, Anxiety, art and the artist, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, Words

How Making Things Work Works

March 18, 2026 //
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[No AI was used in writing or editing this content.]

It is Wednesday. An ordinary day in all obvious respects. Today I did not drop any bombs on my neighbors. It was surprisingly easy. There is reciprocal communication on all sides; I wave and say “hi!” when I see them, they return my greeting. No bombs required. I’m quite certain that adding bombs to our interactions would not be at all helpful, and the destruction would be costly. Just saying, the whole “let’s drop some bombs” approach to diplomacy isn’t a particularly useful way of reaching accord with one’s neighbors. It seems, in fact, pretty fucking stupid, but here we are; fuckwits with too much power dropping bombs because no one is stopping them from doing so.

I get to the trailhead before daybreak, put on my headlamp and set off down the trail. I get to my halfway point in darkness and sit listening to the sound of the creek nearby, still full and fast from recent days of rain. No flooding, and most of the puddles on the trail are gone after a couple of warm Spring afternoons. I hear soft hesitant footsteps, something stirring in the brush. A deer steps out of the trees along the trail and slowly walks past me,  her eyes on me as she passes, then another, and then a third. They step down the trail a ways, before turning and disappearing from view.

I sit awhile with my thoughts. I have a lot to think about. I let the thoughts come and go like clouds, or the turn of an unread page in a book I’ve read many times before, skipping ahead to something better. I am choosing what to spend my time on, and where to put my attention.

I’m eager to get back to painting, if not this weekend, then after the Anxious Adventurer has moved out and I have my space back. The lack of creative work isn’t really about the space, though, it’s the environment. Initially, I was exhausted from caregiving and uninspired. This stopped me painting for about a year. The “emotional environment” became a more profound impediment, fairly quickly. It was an unfortunate harbinger that the living arrangement wasn’t going to work out long-term; I need to be able to paint in my own home. It wasn’t anything deliberate and there was no malicious intention, but there also was no willingness to be aware of the problem nor to address it. So. Here we are.

The wheel keeps turning. The clock keeps ticking.

One more work shift, then a long weekend for the Equinox. I hope to spend most of my time in the garden, preparing it for Spring. I may drive out to the coast for a day trip and some time walking the beach and listening to what the wind and waves have to say. I plan to continue my practice of specifically not dropping bombs or shooting people. So far it has been surprisingly easy to avoid. No idea why the head fuckwit in office is having so much difficulty with that, honestly. (One might be forced to assume that chaos, destruction and murder were explicitly the desired outcome. So incredibly vile and horrifying.)

I sigh to myself and watch the sky turn a deep blue gray as daybreak comes. I’m grateful for another day on which I can look into the sky without worrying about bombs or drone attacks; this place is not a target of bombs or drones (so far). I’m fortunate.

The clock is ticking. Where does this path lead?

The thought of my Traveling Partner sleeping at home brings a smile to my face. We’ve been enjoying each other’s company quite a lot, and as his recovery progresses, our intimacy is restored and the connection we share deepens. It’s lovely. It’s also another reason it will be good to “have our space back”. No ill will towards the Anxious Adventurer, and I’m grateful for the help he provided while he was here, but our lifestyles are not similar enough to make cohabitation easy, with regard to intimacy.

Change is.

I sit awhile longer. The clock ticks on. Eventually, it’s time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, Anxiety, art and the artist, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gardening, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, War and News of War, women, Words
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