Disappointment and sorrow are part of the human experience. So are misogyny and poor decision making, I guess. I feel sad this morning. It’ll pass. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and take time for gratitude.
I’m fortunate. I’ve got a nice little house in a good neighborhood. I’m married to a man I adore and who loves me unreservedly with his whole heart. I’ve got a good job and my health is better than it’s been in a long time. My commute each morning is a pleasant one, and I enjoy long walks on lovely trails nearly every day. The bills are paid. The pantry is stocked. My stepson helps around the house. It’s a good life and I am fortunate. Four years feels like a long time, but it will pass, and the future is unwritten.
It isn’t generally helpful to waste time on anger that can be better spent on joy. It isn’t generally helpful to grieve horrible shit that hasn’t actually happened yet. I do my best with it, sitting here quietly before my walk, thinking my thoughts.
Another breath. I lace up my boots. It’s time to begin again.
I’m sipping a hot cup of black coffee this morning, the first hot one this year, I think. It was a choice based on preference and chilly weather. It’s a foggy morning and the autumn chill made the thought of iced coffee less appealing. I’m grateful to have the choice, the freedom to make that choice, and the agency with which to act upon my preference by doing so.
A whole lot of years ago, (about 47 or so years ago) I made a choice based on preference that I stood firm on with few regrets, no hesitation, and only rare moments of poignant wonder about what a different choice might be like; I chose to be childless. I chose not to parent. I chose to avoid motherhood. I made this choice at a pretty young age, before ever having a moment of therapy, and before having to face the necessity of terminating a pregnancy. I made this choice based on my preferences, my understanding of myself, and my perspective on life, and the world. It was less that I knew what I wanted, and more that I knew what I didn’t want. I did not want to become little more than a vessel for other life, and it sure seemed to me at that time that such was the lot in life of most women with children. So I chose. I was free to do so. I had the agency to enact and stand firm on the choice I made, though I had to fight for it time and again.
…It was a smart choice, for me, all things considered, and I remain glad that it is the choice I made for myself…
How you vote in this election may determine whether your daughters and future generations of women are free to choose to be childless, if that is the choice they wish to make for themselves. It’s an important election, and there really are people in the world who would like to force women to breed for some nebulous greater good, or as punishment for their fundamental humanity, regardless of the risk, regardless of whether the woman is suited to motherhood… regardless of her choice. Pretty terrifyingly grotesque, frankly. I don’t understand such people. That’s the stuff horror movies are made of.
Anyway. Vote. Your freedom of choice and even your personhood and agency may depend on the outcome. Yours, and a lot of other people’s besides.
I’m sipping this excellent cup of coffee daydreaming about love. I enjoyed a lovely evening with my Traveling Partner yesterday, after a difficult (but short) workday fighting off a nasty headache. It’s not so bad today, and I’m grateful. I face the day ahead relaxed and at ease. I slept decently well and I feel rested. I want to paint, but it’s not time for that and I laugh at my foolishly inopportune inspiration. Maybe later? I’ve committed to taking some photographs for my partner later, but perhaps after that?
I sit quietly on this rock at my halfway point on my morning walk. Shorter walk today, but no less appreciated. I can see the traffic going by on the highway, a stream of lights through the fog. I finish my coffee and my thoughts. I look over my writing before I head back up the trail to the car, and on to the office. My heart is filled with love and I am enjoying this strangely tender, grateful moment. I’m so glad I’ve gotten to live this life I chose. It’s a worthy journey. There’s more ahead, and further to travel on this mortal path.
I’m sitting at the trailhead listening to the rain drumming on the moon roof of the car. I can see clear skies here and there in spite of the rain and the predawn darkness, so I’m expecting this to be a passing shower and hope to wait it out before I hit the trail. I enjoy the sound of it, and for the moment I can imagine life without my tinnitus.
The drive this morning was delightful. There was no traffic. I don’t mean to say there were very few cars on the road, which is generally quite pleasant. It was better than that. I had the highway entirely to myself, aside from one car going in the opposite direction. The soaking rain storms in the night left the highway glistening. Autumn leaves clung damply where they fell. A sliver of moon peeked from between pearly puffs of clouds scattered across the night sky. It was quite wonderful. Still is, as I sit here waiting for a break in the rain and enough light to safely walk the trail. Even now, there’s very little traffic passing by on the nearby highway, and no one else here in the parking lot of the nature park. Lovely quiet solitary moment, and I sit within it, joyful and at ease.
… For a few joyful moments my background stress recedes to nothing and I am truly content, joyful, and calm…
I haven’t been sleeping well. Last night was unexceptional in that regard. It’s a combination of work stress (very busy time), life stress (my Traveling Partner is going through a lot and it requires much from me to support everything he needs), and election stress. I admit it, I’m really struggling with that last one. I so earnestly want to believe that we’re smart enough and have learned enough, not to put a treasonous, dishonest, mentally impaired, lying, misogynist, rapist, fraudster back into the oval office, and that surely – if nothing else – Americans don’t hate women enough to put us through that? But I honestly don’t know. Is misogyny still so prevalent that we’ll use any excuse to avoid electing a highly competent woman – even if it means putting the nation in the hands of an old man so clearly in the throes of serious mental decline? Scary. So very very scary. It’s actually wrecking my sleep, I am that worried about it.
I sigh. I’m so grateful for this quiet moment of real joy dropped unexpectedly into this stressful time. I really need all the joy I can find right now. The smallest moment of delight is worthy of my attention.
I sit with my thoughts. I am thinking about love, and how much it matters to me. I am thinking about my Traveling Partner, frustrated by the slow progress of his recovery, and wondering how I can be more encouraging, a better partner, and what other things I could do to be helpful. Recovering from an injury and surgery is hard, and demands a lot. I sometimes worry I’m failing to do my part to foster a hope-filled and uplifting environment in which recovery feels inevitable. I’d definitely like him to have that feeling. Caregiving is complicated and I still have so much to learn.
… I find so much joy in this relationship. I’m glad we’re “sharing the journey”…
The rain stops, then starts. It’s still quite early. I smile to myself. I’m okay right now. This is a delightful moment. I accept it as it is, and savor the experience. It’s enough, at least for now. Later, I’ll walk the trail, and run some errands on my way home… And begin again.
I woke up feeling mostly okay-ish, but by the time I was in the car and heading towards another work day I was feeling pretty crabby. I found myself feeling rather foolishly resentful, not about anything specific, just the expected basics of a typical adult life weighing me down.
The whole “working for a living” thing is actually a serious buzz kill most days, not gonna lie. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m grateful; I’ve got a good job, it pays for what we need, and I like the work I do – but I sure wouldn’t be bored to be able to live on my own terms, and I definitely don’t mind not working. I actually quite like having my time be my own.
… There are so many books yet to read, so many moments of inspiration to paint, trails to hike, conversations to have with interesting people, and so much love to enjoy…
I sigh quietly. I’m mostly resigned to it at this point (I have yearned for retirement since I was 18, but lacked the tools, knowledge, and foresight to make that a reality at the time, and here I am). Still gets to me some mornings, on my way to work.
I get to the trailhead. It’s dark, but I’m walking anyway. I lace up my boots and exchange a few messages with my Traveling Partner, surprised that he’s already up. I’m glad he exists in my world. To be clear, none of my resentment about working is directed toward him, or about him at all; it’s 100% about the culture and the weird expectations of what counts as “productive” in our society. I frankly have better shit to do with my finite mortal lifetime and my conscious waking hours than putting them in servitude to someone else’s profit, but here we are, eh? If I want those drab green squares of paper and positive numbers on my balance sheet, I’ve got to sell my life an hour at a time.
I shrug off my annoyance. It’s a spooky foggy autumn morning. The fog clings to the marsh. It’s chilly – definitely autumn – and I’m grateful for this warm fleece. I pull my scarf and gloves out of my gear box in the back of the car. They smell vaguely of summer. I wrap the scarf around my neck grateful for the extra warmth and that I am so well prepared. I grab my cane and my headlamp and hit “save”. It’s time to get going. This trail isn’t going to walk itself. I’m fortunate to have this time to enjoy, walking with my thoughts on an autumn morning.
Imagine for a moment that you are a traveler on a long journey, arriving at an airport perhaps, after a long flight. You’re groggy from lack of sleep, long hours, and you are deeply fatigued. You’re in a strange busy place, noisy with unfamiliar language, brightly lit, chaotic – and you are hungry. Hungry and fatigued, to the point of tears, in a foreign place. You don’t speak the local language. You enter a Strange Diner, are provided a seat, served a beverage, and given a menu. The menu is… vast. Huge like an unfolded paper map. The print is tiny. You don’t read the language, or understand it when spoken to you. Everything is strange. You feel a little lost by the incomprehensible selection on the menu in front of you. You look around at what other diners are having, point to a picture, figure it’ll do and hope for the best.
Eventually, over time and repeated return visits to the Strange Diner, you learn to fold the menu accordion-style, as you see other diners doing. You pick up some of the language a little at a time, and figure out the characters that make up the language on the menu. You learn the table manners by watching other diners, and you pick up some of the culture and behavior of “the locals”. You begin to conform. Conformity is comfortable. The menu seems more manageable folded small, revealing only the few familiar options you feel safest with. Comfort feels… comfortable. Safe. Easier.
…There is so much you haven’t explored, so much you don’t know, because you’ve chosen conformity, comfort, and safety, again and again, in the Strange Diner. Most people do. This Strange Diner is your life. The menu is as vast and interesting as you allow it to be. It is as narrow and predictable as you insist on it becoming. You are making choices.
What might happen if you were to unfold the menu? Maybe just a fold or two at first, a peek at other options, other flavors, other experiences… other choices. Life’s menu is vast (so vast) – there is so much to choose from, and each new choice could open still another folded section of that menu to reveal still more experiences to choose from. There is so much to see, do, and experience. So much “flavor” to life that you’ll never taste, however boldly you choose from this vast menu; there isn’t enough time in a single mortal life to taste it all.
Many years ago, when I was first “trying things from the menu” as an artist, I decided against pastels. My first choices were based first on ignorance (I really knew very little about art, generally, or painting specifically – only that I wanted to do this thing). Later I made choices based on my assumptions about various mediums – and myself as an artist. I like things “easy”, there’s no point saying otherwise. I folded the menu, concealing the options to do with pastels (and sculpture, lithography, anything to do with fine metal work… lots of stuff disappeared from view based on how I folded that menu). I simply didn’t consider them. I was a different sort of artist, and I focused on the menu items I was most comfortable with, myself. I made my reasons make sense to me – and I made my choices. I wasn’t even unhappy about it, not at all – it all made sense to me. That was enough. I enjoyed my art. I didn’t give pastels another thought – that section of menu was concealed from me by my own hand, and it disappeared from view. “Out of sight, out of mind” – quite literally. Life (and art) moved on. The menu stayed folded.
Recently, it became clear that my physical limitations were becoming a constraint on my artistic work. Big canvases yielded to smaller ones. Homeownership placed firm limitations on storage space – and work space. More choices. The menu folded, again. Still more recently, circumstances put a new choice in front of me; give up my studio to make room for my Traveling Partner’s son to move in for some temporary-but-undetermined time, or go without help caring for my Traveling Partner while he recovers from surgery. Well, shit. Not much of a choice, but doing so would constrain my artistic “freedom” still further… wouldn’t it? Over days, I considered the “folded menu” (metaphorically) in my hands in life’s Strange Diner…
…So, I carefully unfolded it, revealing so many artistic options I had mostly given no thought to… I could return to working in watercolor, on paper… why had I given that up? What about pen & ink… drawing instead of painting? Fused glass? Origami? The menu quakes in shaking hands, reminding me that choices have consequences, and not all choices are a great fit for the need of the moment – or the artist that I am. Like someone with a bad case of munchies on a limited budget, I stared at that menu for… days. I thought about the options. How they might fit into my experience. Was it too late for a change? (The equivalent of giving up on it as “not really hungry after all”, I suppose.)
Tucked in a little box, in the corner of a drawer, hidden behind my carefully kept watercolors (it’s a very nice set that I rarely use but definitely love)… a small box of iridescent hard pastels, never used. Why do I even have these? I still wonder… My Traveling Partner and I watched a video – serendipity is definitely a condiment in the Strange Diner, it sits on every table. Pastels appear on the menu in that moment when serendipity hints at something more to a small unused box of pastels that has gathered dust in a box of art supplies since the early 80s. It no longer matters why I bought those then, what matters is what I choose to do about them, now.
The menu takes on new color – quite literally – as I consider pastels. Oil pastels? Soft Pastels? What brand? What colors? What surfaces and what tools? As exciting as trying an exotic new dessert, I make new choices, and try new “flavors”. By July, I’ve given up my studio at home, and purchased a basic set of soft pastels to “try out”. I’ve built a playlist of artists’ video tutorials, and gathered some useful reading material. I study the new medium thoughtfully. On July 10th, I paint my first small piece using the new medium, and distract myself from my timidity by doing it while I was on a conference call during a work day, letting the medium guide the work.
“Recollection of a Sunset” 3″ x 6″ soft pastel on La Carte Pastel Card, 2024 (I’m not saying it was good, just that it was first.)
It’s now been 86 days – and 16 new paintings. It’s hard to imagine working in any other medium at this point in my life as an artist – a bit as if I’d eaten nothing but burgers and fries in the Strange Diner all my life, then finally tried real French cuisine and fallen in love with food all over again. Artistically, this is very much what has happened. I am changed – because I chose change. I opened the menu to reveal new options. There are soooo many options. The menu in the Strange Diner is disturbingly vast. It’s no great surprise that most of us live our lives keeping that menu folded up quite compactly. It’s more convenient. Less overwhelming. It’s generally enough – but there is more. So much more.
Anyway… I’m just saying; you’ve got options. No matter the circumstances. Whatever has stalled you. Whatever is holding you back or limiting your apparent choices – there is more to the menu in your hand. Unfold it. Take a look. See what life has to offer you from the menu of this Strange Diner. Try something new. Maybe you regret it. Maybe you don’t care for it. Maybe it’s too spicy or too bland. Maybe it’s too strange or not a great solution for you in this moment. You do have choices, though, and life has not revealed all there is to know. Not yet; you’ve still got that menu all folded up for convenience. Go ahead – unfold it.
Evening Light 