Sometimes I find a moment of peace through happenstance, sometimes I make choices that create a moment of peace. Either way, I enjoy the moment.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
This morning is a bit of both, I guess. I chose to set my alarm for an early hour, in spite of being Saturday, and in spite of an interrupted night’s sleep. I chose this particular trail, in a small state park. It is pure luck that I’ve got it all to myself this morning: no other walkers, no dogs, no talkative children, just quiet, and birdsong. It’s lovely.
A new day, a path I chose.
I start down the trail as the sun rises. The air is sweet and spicy with that particular fragrance of Oregon wildflowers that I love so much. My steps feel comfortable, my stride feels relaxed and confident. For the time being my pain is minimal, and I’ve got my cane to steady me if my energy runs out, or I stumble. It’s a good beginning on a new day, and I savor the beauty of the moment as I walk.
Wildflowers line the trail.
I walk. Breathe. Exhale. Drink in the sights and scents of this lovely summer morning. Granted, it’s easier to create and enjoy a moment of peace in a place such as this, but I’ve found similar peace in some unlikely places. The success is in the outcome, not the setup. I sigh to myself; I’m not fooling anyone. It definitely is easier to find (or create) a peaceful moment in a place like this. I smile as I walk. I’m grateful for this lovely easy peaceful joyful moment of solitude on a carefree summer Saturday morning. Moments don’t last, so I savor it while it does.
Be present; every step counts.
I peer over the edge of an odd gap between trees off the edge of the trail. Something clearly uses this as a route to somewhere… but it is treacherously steep. I don’t test my agility; I am too aware of my limitations, cautious, and reluctant to be injured in a location where I might not easily be found. Choices.
I walk on. The sun lights up the tree tops, green and gold. I get to a favorite spot with a lovely view and stop to watch the sunrise.
A nice spot to reflect on a new day.
I’m not really thinking about the day ahead just yet. I’m enjoying the moment I’m in. That’s enough. This beautiful moment is as fleeting as any other – all too brief – it makes sense to enjoy it as it is, and soak myself in this delightful feeling of peace. It will pass. I chuckle to myself. Good or bad, the moments pass. The clock is ticking on this mortal life. I don’t let the awareness fret me. I just walk on.
I get to my feet, feeling content and merry and ready for a new day, wherever my path may lead. It’s time to begin again.
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.
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.
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.
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?
Evening Light 