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What Would You Keep?

July 30, 2025 //
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It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Look around you, contemplate the things you have accumulated over the course of a lifetime, things you value, things you treasure, things you worked hard to be able to acquire… what does it all mean, though? What is of earnest and heartfelt value to you personally may have little value to others around you. If you had to “start over” completely, and could only take from all of your possessions two or three items, what would they be? If you were fleeing a wildfire or some sort of disaster, what would you most hope to find had survived when you return to your home? What would you try to take with you? What matters most?

…And when you’re gone, and what remains of your life are only those memories you’ve left behind in other hearts, and this accumulation of goods and trinkets, what do you suppose will be done with “all of that stuff”? Do you imagine your heirs may value it all as you have valued it? Do you imagine collections remaining intact, art becoming prized in other households, and items of value being cherished fondly as mementos of times shared? You do know you have no control over that outcome at all, right? You’ll be… gone. What matters to you is about you – and the framework falls apart once you’re gone. If what becomes of those things is actually something you care deeply about in any practical way, maybe have conversations about that with people you hope may wish to “carry on” your “legacy” in some way. Better to know now, isn’t it? Then your plans at least have some connection to some potential real outcome… though there’s no avoiding the underlying basic fact; you have no control over that at all. Not really.

Why do I even care? I don’t know, maybe the display of carefully selected antique porcelain demi-tasse cups and saucers is worth caring about (maybe not). Maybe the many dozens of art works on canvas are worth making some attempt that they end up in the hands (and on the walls) of friends and loved ones who will really appreciate them, and take real delight in seeing them each day (and perhaps thinking of me as they pass). There’s so much bullshit and stuff that accumulates in one ordinary human life. Paperwork. Books. Mementos of places and people. Dishes and small appliances and tools. Art. Plants. Sachets of tea. Socks and undies and camping gear. Photos.

…I’m pretty sure I could let quite a lot of it go, myself, before I ever shed this mortal form, and save my loved ones quite a lot of tedious and emotional work. Isn’t grieving already difficult enough…?

I sip my coffee and think my mortal thoughts. If I were fleeing dire circumstances (and I’ve had to do so once or twice), what would I take with me? I suppose it depends on the nature of the dire circumstances, and whether I would be limited to “what I could carry”, and how much time I had to prepare, and what my state of mind happened to be. I know that when I left home at 14, despairing, sorrowful, angry, and emotionally wounded, I took just one bag with a strap. I put a change of clothing in it, my journal, my wee address book, some cash, and walked away from my life as I knew it. I learned a lot about what “being prepared” actually requires (cuz that wasn’t it). These days, my “go bag” (a well-equipped backpack) lives in my car full-time. It’s there for camping or for emergencies. I could survive a lot of circumstances with just what is packed in that pack. I check it each year and udpate it. If I were fleeing some emergency, I guess I’d also grab my handbag (ID, etc). If I had time for rational thinking and a bit of planning, I’d likely snatch a couple of favorite paintings from the walls and try to protect them from harm – but I have images of all of my work, and in the abstract, I think I could let it all go, if I had to.

…Could you walk away from your whole life if circumstances demanded it, and just start over again?

I sip my coffee and reflect on disaster and on life, and on my good fortune, generally. I’m grateful that I don’t consider these things because I have to in this moment. They are only abstract reflections on legitimate real-world potential concerns. It’s an exercise in anxiety management, actually. My own most common sort of existential dread has to do with being displaced, or faced with one of life’s terrifying unexpected “rug pulls” and being entirely unprepared. “Losing everything I’ve worked for” is a terrifying idea. When life feels pretty comfortable and safe and good, my anxiety flares up (sometimes severely) and keeps me spun on the “what ifs” that are not now, and for me the most effective practice for dealing with that is to look those fears in the face and ask the question (some version of “what would I do, if…?”) – and answer it.

Sometimes a change in perspective relies on a change of scenery.

Camping next week. I’m excited to spend some quiet time out in the trees, walking new trails with old thoughts, and finding new perspective on what matters most. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I’m grateful for a loving partnership that supports my wandering trails alone, and welcomes me home at the end of each adventure. I’m grateful to have a partner who loves me as I am, and understands (or at least accepts) my need for time alone. We aren’t all the same in this regard, and we’re each having our own experience. My Traveling Partner misses me terribly when I’m away, and I know he must sometimes worry about the “what ifs” that trouble him most when I’m gone, himself. I love that each camping trip is framed with his loving embrace and encouragement, and followed by his sincere interest in where I’ve been and what I’ve seen.

Perspective matters. Is it a forest, or some trees?

Every time I go camping, I reflect on what to take along with me and whether I’ll actually need that thing. I’m prone to overpacking and being “too prepared”, dragging along shit I’m just not going to need, want, or use, but could imagine some remote potential circumstance that might require some item that makes no sense otherwise. I chuckle at the recollection of past camping trips with an assortment of items that just got left in the car, untouched. Each camping trip, each year, I leave some of that baggage and bullshit behind, and do a little better to plan for the most likely circumstances, only, no “extras”. I think of a camping trip when I packed my camera bag (my “real camera” is a nice Canon with several useful lenses), and also my journal and some books to read, and also my paint boxes for some plein air painting… and I didn’t do anything that trip besides hike, meditate, and gaze into the fire in the evenings! I didn’t paint anything, never even took my camera out of the bag, and never opened any one of the (several) books I’d taken with me! I still laugh at how ridiculous that seems, even now. My aspirations far exceeded my will or my capabilities. lol These days I plan more skillfully, and work to be honest with myself about both my intentions and also my capabilities.

Plein air on a drizzly Spring day – no camping required.

…Being weighed down by useless excess and unnecessary baggage is a tactically poor decision in most circumstances (real or metaphorical), just saying…

I’ve wandered far from my original topic, perhaps, but these thoughts are connected. How much baggage can I really afford to carry through life? It’s a worthwhile question, I think. I sip my coffee and wonder how to answer it. I’m grateful that I’m not fleeing some sort of dire circumstances, because I for sure don’t feel prepared for such in this moment, right here. lol

When I sat down this morning and logged into my computer the first thing I saw was a picture of my Traveling Partner and I, taken the day we got married. We’re holding the marriage certificate in our hands, together, and laughing with such visible delight that I’m immediately transported back to that moment of love and joy and celebration. My face hurts from smiling all this time since that moment. It’s almost time to begin again, and although I definitely don’t have answers for all my questions in life, I feel pretty confident that I definitely do know what matters most (to me). It’s a good place to begin.

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Categories Allegories, art and the artist, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, Spring, Summer, The Art of Being

The Deer Like My Romaine

April 19, 2025 //
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I ended the work day, yesterday, happy to see the week end. I arrived home tired and aching, but whether that was sore muscles from previous days’ work in the garden or from my tetanus booster, I don’t know. Doesn’t really matter, does it? I almost talked myself out of heading into the garden to make good use of the sunny hours after work.

Blue sky overhead head.

I managed to stick with my current practice of going into the garden every day – ’tis the season, after all. I carried the new clematis around to the newly begun “west side garden” to plant it in a large nursery pot ready for it there. It’ll be a lovely splash of fancy pink flowers. While I’m at it, I grab the almost forgotten six-pack of arugula starts that I’d left in the front garden to plant later, deciding to plant them in the bed with the Swiss chard, and maybe add a row of more delicate salad greens of the sort prone to bolting in full summer sun. I got everything planted and watered, and did a bit of weeding and pruning in the front of garden. I felt satisfied and pleased when I quit and went inside for the evening.

Clematis “Markham’s Pink”

This morning as I left the house, I walked past the front garden smiling to myself, then noticed that the doe that visited my garden during the night (captured on camera) had eaten my romaine (which had been doing quite well). Right to the ground. I just kept walking toward the car. Nothing much to do about it. “Fucking little bitch!” I said under my breath as I passed the garden. It’s Spring. She’s probably pregnant or just recently dropped her fawn. It’s hard to be mad, really. Good healthy greens, I guess I even understand. My Traveling Partner likes romaine, too. lol

I’ll replant if necessary, of course, and I guess I need to figure out a wire cover of some kind. I think it over as I drive to the trailhead to get my walk in, along the marsh.

The forecast said sunny…

If my timing had been routine this morning, I’d have been well down the trail and unprepared when the rain shower began. Instead, I’m relaxing into the moment, enjoying my thoughts, and writing, and waiting for more light and a break in the rain. No hurry. It was nice to sleep in, even if only for 15 minutes.

There are things to learn here. I sit with my thoughts, reflecting on these experiences awhile, and enjoying the way the muted grays of winter have become the many shades of green that are Spring.

I sit wondering if the dwarf clover, vetch, and wildflowers that I planted on the shallow slope at the foot of the retaining wall will be tasty for the deer, when those grow in? The deer will be more easily able to get to them, and should happen upon them before climbing the steeper slope at the edge of the neighbor’s yard, which has to be to crossed to reach my garden beds and my roses. I planted the clover and vetch for erosion control. I planted the wildflowers for the bees and the birds. It’ll be nice if the deer enjoy them too – and leave my damned salad greens the hell alone! lol

I chuckle to myself. I’m not even mad, not really. It’s Spring. This is the way of things. I planted my garden. I made the choices. There are lessons to be learned on life’s journey and my results will vary. The trick is to move forward with new knowledge and wisdom gained from experience. Hell, I’m even grateful for the unexpected rain; it’s good for the garden after a few warm sunny days. I sit awhile longer thinking about my garden as a metaphor before putting on my boots and reaching for my rain poncho.

The clock is ticking. It’s time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gardening, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Roses, Spring, The Art of Being

An Interesting Coincidence

March 8, 2025 //
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I’m watching the sunrise, preparing for my walk, boots on, between moments, when I am struck by an interesting coincidence in timing. It is Lent for many Christian observers. It is also the time of year many gardeners know as “the hungry gap”, that time between the last of the winter crops, and before the earliest Spring crops are ready, and during which there is little fresh produce available. (I pause to appreciate what an amazing thing a global supply chain and supermarket produce actually is for humanity.) It’s interesting timing that Lent happens to occur – with its ritual fasting – right at the time when the food supply is likely to be at its least plentiful. I don’t have anything to say about that. I just think it’s interesting.

Sunrise

I set off down the trail, walking with my thoughts. There’s work to do in the garden. The neighborhood feral cat that menaced my garden for the past four years died during the winter. My Spring garden (so far) is undisturbed by constant digging and cat shit, for which I am grateful. It vexed me having to deal with that. It bodes well for the flower beds, too. I proposed putting in a second raised bed this year and my Traveling Partner seems open to the idea. I mentally calculate the cost of the lumber, and the soil to fill it… These are times when there is profound benefit to growing as much of our own food as we can. I’m grateful to have that option.

I sit with my garden thoughts at the halfway point of my walk, enjoying the chill of a Spring morning and the solitary luxury of having the trail to myself. A small herd of deer step past me quietly. I pretend I don’t see them, and avoid sudden movements. This is a lovely moment and I savor it. I’m not in any hurry. The overcast morning sky is streaked with blue-gray clouds. It’s doesn’t feel like rain, it’s just a rather gray morning, now. Geese and ducks drift quietly on the marsh ponds. Nutria go about their business at the edges.

I walk on.

I stop later, it’s a longish walk, and sit for a little while on a fallen oak. It’s a nice spot to rest. Not much of a view; scrub grass cluttered with sparse oaks, horizon obscured by nearby trees and brambles. I’m near the river, but I don’t hear it as it flows by quietly. I only hear the geese overhead, and the sound of distant traffic on the highway at the edge of the park. Robins ignore me, as they pick through the leaves left behind by autumn, looking for a bit of breakfast.

I sit quiet, aware, observing. Sometimes it’s enough to simply be, here, now. I don’t really need more. This is enough. I sigh quietly, contentedly. I enjoy the moment, the birdsong, the soft breeze, and the feeling of contentment and joy. I linger here awhile, understanding that moments are fleeting, and this one will pass. That’s okay. Still worth being here for it.

I’ve got a list of things to do, later. I get up, stretch, and brush off my jeans. It’s time to walk on. It’s time to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, breathe, Free Will, gardening, gratitude, inspiration, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Practices, solo hiking, Spring, The Art of Being

Finding Peace

March 1, 2025 //
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Grief has its own time, its way of guiding us down a path. It’s not always obvious that the way out is through. Yesterday I took time to really grieve the loss of my Dear Friend, with my whole heart and nothing else on my mind. I needed that. Somewhere along the way I found my peace with it. I still miss her, sure, I always will. That’s appropriate. She was a good friend and our friendship endured almost thirty years of growth and change and even the break-up of my relationship with her first born.

The crocuses have begun to bloom.

I got home at a decent hour. Made my Traveling Partner a late lunch. Got a little gardening done. Evening came and dinner was a pleasant family affair, just the three of us, nothing fancy. My beloved had been busy with something in the shop that clearly had his attention. It’s easy to respect that; I’m delighted to see him on his feet and productive again.

As evening closed in on bedtime, my beloved came to me with a gift. A beautiful lithophane of a wild rose, framed in a light-box, originally (long ago) planned to be a gift for my Dear Friend. It was one of the first CNC projects started in my Traveling Partner’s shop, but had proved to be more complicated than originally expected as designed, and then circumstances pushed it to the side, unfinished. Time passed. Too much time passed, the opportunity to give the gift was lost.

I loved the lithophane more as a thing he was making than the potential gift it represented. I had taken the photo, a favorite picture of a rose. The interest in lithophanes as an art form was mine, too. The potential to be a gift was a way to see the thing done; it felt too complicated and frivolous to just ask for such a thing. So much work involved. Here it was, in his hands, finished, his gift to me to help heal my heart, a fitting moment of closure to a year of grief, this gift that began as an idea of a gift for a dear friend, becoming a gift for me. A demonstration of my Partner’s enduring love. I hadn’t expected it. I wept tears of joy and love and the day felt complete in a way I hadn’t expected it could.

I know my partner felt his own grief and regret that he’d never finished the lithophane, most particularly that he hadn’t finished it in time to give it to my Dear Friend. She’d have loved it, I’m sure; she loved every gift I gave her, and especially those that he had made for her. It would have joined the happy clutter of the many little things she didn’t have room for, along with paintings I’d given her over the years (which have now come back to me). I hope my beloved found his own peace in finishing the lithophane. I know I’ll cherish it always.

I know just where I’ll put it.

Grief has its own way, and follows its own path. Mine led me to peace. Now it’s time to begin again. I wonder where this path leads?

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Categories breathe, Free Will, grief, Love, meditation, Moments, Perspective, Relationships, The Art of Being

1 Year Without my Dear Friend

February 28, 2025 //
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I’ve taken the day off work. I’m not really fit for working, today. The loss of my Dear Friend one year ago weighs heavily on my heart today. I slept poorly, plagued by sorrowful restless dreams. I left the house early and headed to the seashore, a place both my Dear Friend and my Granny loved. I feel closer to them any time I am at the seashore.

I arrived just before daybreak, too early for breakfast. I parked at a favorite beachfront spot and waited with my thoughts and the coffee I bought for the drive (but barely touched). It is a foggy, misty morning, well-suited to grieving and thinking thoughts.

Sand and sea, and solitude.

I sit on the sea wall, in the morning chill, listening to the gulls overhead and watching daybreak become dawn. Cloud cover obscures any hint of sunrise. I’m okay with that. Slow tears fall. I miss my friend as I sit here watching, listening, waiting… What am I waiting for? Grief to fade? It’s an unrealistic expectation. She was too dear to me, and too much a part of the woman I have become over the years of our friendship. More so even than the son who was my partner for a time, which makes me laugh somewhat inappropriately as my tears fall. Grief is funny like that; it makes its own rules.

The year that has passed since my Dear Friend’s death has been mostly too busy for grieving, beyond the most minimal momentary sorrows that overcame me unexpectedly now and then. I immersed myself in the busy-ness of life, work, and caregiving of my injured Traveling Partner. There was so much I would have shared with my Dear Friend, and I have felt her absence deeply. So… I’m here, now, taking time to feel my feelings, and to grieve honestly, without reservation. No holding back. No excuses. Just me, her, and the seashore, alone with my thoughts and memories, my cherished joys, and my moments of regret. Were there things I wish I had said? Definitely. Do I wish I had visited more often and sooner? Yes. Could I have been a better friend? A better person? More helpful and present in times of need? Yeah. Still though, in spite of those very human regrets, I’m also celebrating the joy and wonder that was our close friendship of almost 30 years. The things we did say, the moments we shared, the wise counsel we exchanged over the years, however geographically distant our residences happened to be at a given time.

… She helped me get past my conviction that I couldn’t do math, and taught me basic algebra (in my 30s), and showed me that math was just another sort of language – one that I could learn. I’ve benefited greatly from that teaching, too, subsequently going on to make my living (for a long time) in a field of endeavor reliant on relatively complicated math. Over the years we enjoyed many conversations about math, numbers, and various number theories. Good times.

… I miss her…

A hint of an idea for a bite of breakfast develops, but it’s too early still. I drive down the coast a bit further to another spot I like. I walk on the beach, listening to the sea birds, and the crash of the waves. Tide coming in? Going out? I watch for a little while, hands jammed into my pockets for warmth. I make a mark on the beach with my foot and watch the waves crashing in awhile longer. The tide is coming in. I smile to myself and walk on. The fog begins to thicken down on the beach. I walk back to the car thinking about breakfast and hot coffee.

Some time later on a foggy morning.

Breakfast was pleasant and relaxed. I had a cozy seat by a warm fire. I enjoyed the hot coffee, properly made and freshly brewed. The meal was well prepared, a half portion of biscuits and gravy. Instead of pork sausage gravy, it was crab , unexpected, but quite delicious. After breakfast I returned to my wandering and my thoughts. I would have loved to have had my Dear Friend’s company at breakfast; I think she would have enjoyed that place. (I know I always do, and it is my favorite breakfast spot in the area.)

I sit awhile in this particular beachside location, watching the tide come in, and taking occasional pictures as the light changes, changing the view. I am listening to the gulls. I sit with my recollections of the many times on similar trips I have sent my Dear Friend pictures of this or that – some view, or a snapshot of wildlife, or a flower – and shared my thoughts on how I might paint that scene. I don’t consider her to have been my “muse”, but she was deeply appreciative, and a fond fan of my art. Being an artist herself, she understood what moved me, and how to share her thoughts with me in ways that were reliably encouraging and thought-provoking. She often understood things about what I had communicated in colors, on paper or canvas, that I hadn’t explicitly acknowledged myself. I miss those things.

Time passes, the fog begins to dissipate.

Siletz Bay slowly refills, seawater covering the mud flats inch by inch. I sit quietly, enjoying the solitude, and the sound of gulls enjoying the morning their own way.  I watch flocks of sea birds, some drifting over the calm water of the bay, others lifting as a group, taking flight and passing by overhead. Sunshine begins to break through, here and there.

My Traveling Partner pings me a greeting, and checks that I made the trip safely. I wish him good morning, and confirm that I arrived safely. I feel loved. Tears spill over again. I don’t have any reason why, but I don’t do anything to stop them, or trouble myself with overthinking the moment. I just feel the feelings as they come, and let them pass when they will. I needed this time for feeling feelings, that’s clear to me.

I decide to make my way further down the coast… This spot is becoming a bit crowded.

Boiler Bay

I take my time walking the muddy path around the edge of the small state park at Boiler Bay. There’s a lot to see here, for someone into rocks and waves and sea birds. The crashing and booming of the waves bringing in the tide are intense and the spray reaches the fence where it is closest to the rocky edge of the cliff.

Some waves strike the rocks so hard it sounds like gunfire.

I linger a long while in this place. Often crowded in summer months, it is almost deserted today, except for a small assortment of photographers, decked out with very serious camera gear. We pass each other on the path, each of us pausing here and there for some particular view. Each having our own version of this peculiarly shared experience. There is a common purpose, demonstrated by the unusual lack of conversation, even in groups; no one wants to ruin someone’s pictures or videos.

There is a crow checking out the goings on. He has no reluctance about making a racket when someone is filming. lol I sit nearby on a picnic table, watching him watching me for some little while.

The cold begins to stiffen my fingers and I return to the car to warm up. I think about all the beachfront places my Dear Friend and I had talked about seeing together, rather long ago when she was still up for traveling. After a few minutes of thought, I decide to head back up the coast to “Road’s End”, and begin again.

The path isn’t always easy.

The path down to the beach from the pull-off at Road’s End is steep and treacherous, unpaved and pocked with loose rocks… unless of course I go a few steps further on, to the proper paved path, which is much less treacherous but still ankle twistingly steep. I’m grateful to have my cane with me. I slowly take the walk down to the beach, insisting to myself that I not give up on this sort of thing. “Use it or lose it”, I mutter to myself, thinking of my Dear Friend and those last couple years, by which point she had lost most of her ability to walk more than the few painful steps the length of her small home. Long before then, she had encouraged me to keep walking, and extracted from me a commitment to avoid “losing my legs” for as long as I am able. I keep walking. At the base of the path down to the beach I look back grimly. It’s going to be a hell of a trudge back up that steep path. “Good for you, though, ya lazy bitch,” I comment to myself, more amused than annoyed.

The sun has finally come out. Midday approaches as I return to the car. Another pause to breathe the sea air. I sit with my thoughts awhile, before I make my way to the next beach, and another moment of reflection.

A bench in the sun and the sound of the sea.

The day feels warmer now. I’ve got a seat on a quiet bench in the sunshine. The fog has receded, appearing now as a cloud bank on the distant horizon. The sky is blue and my tears have dried. It’s a new day, a nice one. I sigh to myself, and smile at the little brown bird that took a seat next to me quite fearlessly. She’s having her own experience, and eyes me curiously. I want to ask her “are you my Dear Friend joining me for a moment?”, but I’m not sure I believe that sort of thing at all (I’m also not sure I don’t). I know my Dear Friend would have been quite delighted to make an appearance as a small brown bird. She sings me a bit of her song, then flies away.

My Traveling Partner interrupts my moment, reaching out about a bill that wants paying. Real life. I do the needful. Then, I breathe exhale and relax and gaze out over the sea, thinking thoughts of love, and art, and cherished dear friends who are never truly gone, after a lifetime of close friendship. Friendships of such depth don’t end with death. Death is just another change of address.

I needed to take this time for myself, to grieve, and to celebrate. To savor a friendship that has meant so much to me that it endures beyond the end of one finite mortal lifetime. We are mortal creatures. Change is. It’s only another time to begin again… There are more beaches to see, and more paths to walk.

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Categories Allegories, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, joy, loneliness, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Moments, pain, Perspective, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, women, Words
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