Archives for posts with tag: choose your adventure
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Road’s End

April 18, 2026 //
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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…

Sometimes the path isn’t an easy one.
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Categories Allegories, anger, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, Despair, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, more than a little bit of bitching, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

What Moves You?

April 6, 2026 //
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This morning I am struggling to focus. I feel merry. Purposeful. Suffused with contentment and joy, even. Yesterday was a good one. Satisfying and for the most part quite pleasant. The latter part of the day found me taking a break, muscles sore from joyful labor. My Traveling Partner joined me. I made salads for dinner. We spent the evening dividing the time between watching videos and love.

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

This morning I woke slowly, some little while before my alarm went off. My muscles protest against every demand I make, however ordinary. Ouch. Healthy effort, healthy work – ordinary sore muscles. I’m not even complaining, just reminding myself to take care of this fragile vessel; more manual labor today. Today the Anxious Adventurer loads the moving truck he’ll drive back to Ohio, back to a life he left with purpose and intention. It’s familiar, and familiar is easier. I do understand.

We’re each having our own experience. Each walking our own path. Each finding our own way – or not. Many people find settling into someone else’s way enough for most of a lifetime before ever questioning that choice. I wish the Anxious Adventurer well, whatever path he chooses to walk; he’s as close to a son as I’ll ever get, and I hold no grudges about his time with us. I do find myself wondering what moves him? I let it go. It’s not like he’d know how to answer if I asked.

What moves you? What shakes off your ennui or distractions and fills you with purposeful energy? What gets you up each day to face a few more steps on your path? What gives your life meaning? I sit with those questions and watch the halfmoon setting between the trees.

It’s not a very good picture, but it is a very good metaphor. What will you do with your moment?

I keep my walk short today; there’s real work yet to do later. I walk the mile it takes to wake up and warm up these sore muscles, pausing along the way for a slow gentle attempt at this or that yoga pose. I get back to the car and check on my work team (I’ve taken the day off, but want them to feel supported). I give myself time with my thoughts, time to write, to meditate, to reflect on love. I sit thinking about purpose, and the way we seek meaning, and where I find that – or create it – myself.

The clock is ticking. The path ahead is sufficiently clear. I suppose the only thing left is to begin again…

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Categories Allegories, Anxiety, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, Frustration, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

What Path Are You On?

April 2, 2026 //
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I walked down the trail this morning, with my thoughts and a smile. I feel pretty good, in spite of arthritis pain, in spite of a handful of chronic conditions that do slow me down (but generally don’t stop me). I’m grateful for the changes in health science that find me, at almost 63, in the same relatively good health as my grandparents were in their forties. Progress.

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

I do my best to take care of myself. It’s vexing when the guidance changes over time, but that is a necessary consequence of progress. Unfortunately, it’s also an unfortunate consequence of human stupidity or corruption and greed, and it’s sometimes less than obvious where changes have come from. Right now, it’s mostly pretty obvious, because the fucking clown car of corrupt greedy assholes in our government are like cartoon villains, and pretty easy to spot.

This morning the only thing that matters, really, is this moment here, and this path I’m walking.

Where does this path lead?

It’s a lovely mild Spring morning. I think of dear friends, faraway, and remind myself to reach out. Life is precious and too short. Our best moments are in the company of our dear friends.

I think about the garden. It rained during the night. If the afternoon is warm it will be a great time to plant new starts. I remind myself to get going on that.

It’s a short work day ahead. The Anxious Adventurer is coming by a little later to complete some moving details, and help move things around after his furniture is moved out. It’s a milestone and a bittersweet moment. I’ll admit, I have mixed feelings about it; it could have gone quite differently. Ah, but here we all are with choices made and actions in progress. I’m looking forward to having my space back, and my own bathroom, and enough room to paint, and more privacy for sex with my Traveling Partner (no kidding, that’s just real).

We choose our path and walk it. I watch the full moon setting. 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, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being, The Big 5

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

In The Beginning

February 20, 2026 //
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A new day is dawning. The morning is cold and misty. The trail is slick with lingering dampness from rain. No frost, but the winter chill reminds me how quickly conditions could become icy.

My eyes see shades of gray, the camera shows me blue hues. The oaks stand silent on the question of colors.

A mist develops, and begins to thicken and spread. Daybreak arrives with the fog. The day begins here, now. What will I do with it? One thing I won’t do with it is sit here for long minutes reflecting on life and watching the sun rise. First; it’s a foggy gray morning, and there won’t be much to see sunrise-wise. Second; it’s cold! I don’t prefer it for lingering outside, still and quiet. I’m already feeling the cold in my hands and in my bones. It’s a good morning to keep moving.

…I do like the walk through the fog, though. It brings mystery to the mundane and wonder to the familiar.

I breathe, exhale, and relax, as I stand and stretch. It’s as good a time as any to begin again. I look down the path into the fog. Where does this path lead? I’ll know when I get there, I suppose. The clock is ticking.

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Categories Allegories, anhedonia, Anxiety, art and the artist, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, The Art of Being, War and News of War, winter, Words
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