What a delightful day yesterday was. I was in a ridiculous amount of pain, but it didn’t halt the shared good time of visiting with an old friend. My Traveling Partner wasn’t in a great place, lacking the rest he needed, and apparently having developed a nasty sinus infection, but neither of those things threw off the great vibe. The Anxious Adventurer was welcomed and accepted and it seemed we all had a great time together, talking, laughing, listening to music, and sharing the moment. I made a delicious pasta dinner, and the Bolognese sauce was perhaps my best ever. Good times.
It’s a new day. New opportunities for connection, for adventure, for sharing the journey. My beloved Traveling Partner is getting some rest. The Author and I will head to the city to explore and talk and catch up. Making memories and looking for interesting books and having breakfast and the sorts of things we enjoy and simply can’t do, generally, due to geographical distance. Fun. I’m eager to begin. I love going out to breakfast, too, and rarely do it. It’s one of my favorite things.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. A whole day with a good friend? Sign me up! There will be time for stillness and solitude later.
I smile to myself. Short walk this morning. An icy cold and wintry walk down a frosted path sparkling under artificial light. Almost magical, but g’damned cold. Definitely time to begin again – with a bite of breakfast, a hot coffee, and conversation with a friend.
Thanksgiving dinner was delightful and delicious. Everything came to the table hot and I’m pleased and satisfied with the outcome, generally. Oh, sure, the stuffing was a little dry (I tried a better quality cubed bread, but didn’t correctly account for the additional liquid I’d need, and failed to crush some of it to crumbs), and I didn’t also make rolls or biscuits (are you fucking kidding me? I made the meal without help, and only have 1 oven and four burners! lol). Still, the “bitching” about those details wasn’t a big deal and overall the meal was well-received.
… The sous vide turkey was fucking amazing!…
By the end of the evening, we were all relaxing, food put away, dishes cleared, kitchen tidied up, and the first load of dishes in the dishwasher, watching old UFC fights and having a merry good time. My feet were hurting like crazy from being on them all day. I’m pretty sure everyone was in pain from their own limits being reached over the course of the day. I was tired, too. Up early, at it all day…no nap. lol Like a little kid, I was at risk of being moody and emotional. I went to bed abruptly when it was suddenly super clear that any little thing might set me off.
… Because little things had begun to set me off, not because I’m emotionally aware and wise from experience. Just human…
Oh damn, what a lovely Thanksgiving, though. Leftovers, too. Yummy. Today? Well, I’ll be safely at home not shopping, putting up the Giftmas tree and decorating the house with festive things. No way am I going out into the retail chaos today! There was already traffic at 05:00 a.m.! Fuck that. I’ve got better things to do.
Long weekend. If I get the tree done today, I am hoping to paint tomorrow. My Traveling Partner has brought something to my creative experience that no previous partnership has; structure. He’s been actively encouraging me to make a point of painting on Saturday. I’m not entirely sure why, exactly, but having that bit of structure has been…nice. I paint more, and it’s becoming an actual practice, which feels good and definitely nurtures something within me. Easy enough to also do laundry, rotating the loads between paintings and folding things and putting it away after the painting is all done, or while taking a break to think about the next piece.
As things are these days, I quite literally do not have any “days off”, at all, unless I leave for the coast or to go camping. There’s just too much to do, and I’m also employed full-time. I’m not even bitching (well, maybe a little); there’s just too much non-negotiable workload between work, household upkeep, caregiving, and errands that need to be run. It can’t not get done, and at least for now it all falls to me day-to-day (although the Anxious Adventurer handles the majority of the heavy work to do with things in the shop, or big projects like assembling furniture or the hot tub maintenance). I’m damned lucky any day I can sit down for a few minutes. Even taking time to shower sometimes feels like a luxury. Having my partner’s encouragement to paint, in spite of all that… well, I feel very loved.
I manage to keep getting a walk each morning, and making time to write. Self-care matters, and these practices fit neatly into a time of day in which I wouldn’t be inclined to do noisier things around the house. It’s something. It’s a lot, really. I’m grateful for these quiet moments alone with myself. They’re as important to me as time spent at my easel.
A new day.
I stop at a convenient picnic table along the trail and write for a few minutes. Chilly morning. Gray daybreak becomes a gray dawn. Looks like a gray autumn day ahead. I listen to a flock of Canada geese pass overhead.
I’m grateful for this good life, and each new day. Yesterday I made time to renew connections with old friends, and distant family. Our relationships matter more than most other things about being human. I’ve got some good friends. I smile thinking about the various conversations about food and recipes. What a delightful thing to share. I feel fortunate. I sit awhile reflecting on life, recipes – and gratitude.
The day stretches ahead of me. It’s already time to begin again.
This is the sort of morning I would happily spend some time emailing my recently departed Dear Friend…
The sunrise from the trail this morning.
I would certainly share a picture of the sunrise, probably commenting on its beauty. Recent years found my Dear Friend to have very limited ability to get around without help, and she wouldn’t see such a sight without pictures shared by friends. She often asked for details and anecdotes about my unassuming local travels. (I miss her, greatly.)
Tomorrow being my birthday, and having already received (and opened) gifts from my Traveling Partner, I would share those details with her, too. The context, the sentiment, why each gift delights me so, and the “back story”, if there is one, would all be shared and talked over together. She’d tell me why celebrating this birthday matters more than I think it does, and remind me that I am precious to her. She’d embarrass me a bit with praise, and point out how easily we can lose our abilities through disuse. She would encourage me to do more and go further. She would cheer me on and share my joy. If I were feeling beat down or defeated, she would laugh at my dark angry humor and give me her own wise perspective.
…She would slyly say nothing about some handmade delight she had sent my way, that would surprise me the day of my birthday with something more to open…
…Fuck I do miss you, my very Dear Friend…
Of the roses I planted this Spring with my Dear Friend in mind, one has bloomed. I grinned to see the colorful flower. I took a picture to share with her, forgetting for just an instant… I shared it, instead, with another friend who was similarly close (closer, for years longer) with my Dear Friend, hoping it might bring her a smile, too.
“Rainbow Happy Trails” blooming in a corner of my garden.
I walked the trail this morning, watching the sun rise and the morning take shape. I breathed in the scents of Spring flowers and meadow grass as I walked along between river and marsh. I’m not really “sad” this morning, and the moment of poignant recollection passes without tears. I honor my Dear Friend through these memories and I am okay with missing her; she meant a lot to me, and our friendship got me through some hard times when I sometimes felt I had no one else to turn to. We could count on each other’s good will and affection, and we were there for each other through joy and hardship. That’s a beautiful thing.
…61, tomorrow… it is a bit weird not sharing it with her…
I walk on down the trail. I’ve got it to myself for now. I walk with my wandering thoughts. The work day will begin soon enough. When it does, I’ll begin again. Soon enough. Soon enough. No reason to rush. In the meantime, I walk with my thoughts and my memories, stopping at my halfway point to meditate, reflect, and write a few words about a very Dear Friend of mine. Time well-spent.
I finish up my writing and sit quietly awhile. Photographers coming down the trail purposefully remind me that this is a work day. I check the time, happy to see I’ve got time to spare. Lovely morning.
Another new day, and I’m feeling good about it. It’s a Friday, my calendar is pretty light, and it’s payday – all practical details that are a suitable foundation to a pleasant morning. It’s early, not yet daybreak. The office is very quiet, and I’m working with the lights out, letting me see the nuances of the sunrise, when it comes. I’m sipping my coffee and thinking of moments, and of people. I’ve got a song stuck in my head, which I woke with. It’s one that my Traveling Partner plays for me, and hearing it fills me with warm affection and a sense of romantic connection. My inbox is full of email from friends, replies to recent emails I sent to them. I’m eager to take time to reply to each one, but that moment is not now.
…Nice start to the day…
I sip my coffee, and consider the day, the moment, the upcoming weekend, the things that matter most to me, and dear friends (most of whom are quite far away, these days, others who are nearer… well… we all behave as though we’re far away, anyway, welcome to the 21st century).
I drove into the city wrapped in a soft misty rain. I smile thinking about it; it’s the sort of rain a garden full of tender sprouts and seedlings really loves. The thought carries me to my garden, and I think about the rose that has arrived, and is ready to plant, and I think about which seeds can now be sown (is it time to plant beans?) and reminding myself to get out there and weed the flower beds before the friend who cuts my lawn undertakes the task (being helpful) – he isn’t reliably good at telling the seedlings of young flowers from the seedlings of weeds (me either, sometimes, but I do know where I’ve put seeds). I grin at my eagerness to do this bit of manual labor; as a kid at home, it was one of my absolute least preferred chores to find assigned to me on a weekend day! Funny how we grow to embrace some of the things we hated growing up. Time in the garden as a kid was just a lot of unpleasant toiling with no value to me personally (that I could understand at the time). Now, time in my garden is my time, well-spent, appreciated, and thoroughly enjoyed – and not in spite of the work involved, but often because of it. My garden, my time, reflecting my thinking and choices, and done with love to be shared with my Traveling Partner (who isn’t so into it, but loves it along with me, because I love it so much).
…My thoughts about the garden carry me back to my thoughts about love, and friendship, and the moments we choose to share with those dear to us. I put the song that’s stuck in my head at the top of my playlist and hit “play”; it’s time to begin again.
I had a restless night of interrupted sleep. No bad dreams, just periodically waking up for no obvious reason, before settling into sleep once again. It wasn’t unpleasant, but the night seemed unreasonably long and I got up well ahead of my usual time, dressed, and left for work early. The commute was effortless, because at that hour there was no traffic on the road. Now, I’m sitting at my desk, looking out at the dark pre-dawn cityscape, sipping my coffee. It’s a Tuesday, and my calendar is pretty full, but all that begins quite a bit later, and I have some time to sit with my thoughts.
A cherished handmade gift from a dear friend.
Last night as I was tidying up a quiet room that is mostly decorated with books, I found this small handmade paper journal sort of just set aside, waiting for some moment. It was a gift from my recently deceased dear friend, celebrating my 60th birthday. It was intended to accompany me on a camping trip with my Traveling Partner, and as I recall now, I elected to keep it safe from harm by not taking it out into the wilds where dirt, wind, or rain might wreck it, knowing I’d find some similarly meaningful use for it some other time and place.
It even came with instructions. 😀
I sat for a moment with this cherished gift in my hands, gently unfolding the letter that is still tucked into a pocket inside the cover. I reread the letter, my heart filled with love and fond memories, a soft sad smile on my face. I miss my friend, but how delightful to have this memento of our friendship to remember her by!
Each page decorated by hand, each page unique, bringing to mind the illuminated manuscripts of another age.
I turn the pages, one by one, each one different, each one ready for some thought, or poem, or random handful of words to be written there. I felt so inspired, just to hold it in my hands! I examined each page, reconnecting with so many memories of the friendship we had shared. I delighted in the recollection of her enthusiasm for small handmade gifts, and how extraordinary and special each such gift to me remains to this day. I smiled thinking about her best friend bringing a similar cherished gift to the hospital while I was there visiting, to share that precious memory. What a beautiful human being my dear friend was! She was – is – so well loved by those who knew her. Missed.
“Friendship is a gift that lasts.” – It is indeed.
I turn to a page with a pocket from which a string dangles, and a note attached to the pocket reads “Pull the white string up”, and so I do – and as if speaking to me from “the beyond”, a tag appears that reads “friendship is a gift that lasts”. My eyes fill with tears that don’t fall, and the smile on my face becomes a bit brittle, a little fragile, with this reminder that I was also dear to my dear friend. I feel loved. I feel grateful to have shared this amazing friendship. My smile deepens as I sit with my memories for a moment. I’m okay. Grief is a process, and there is no escaping it; “the way out is through”. Fucking hell, what a first rate friend she truly was.
The last page. A bookmark. A reminder.
I turn page after page of this small handmade journal, and imagine writing in it, at long last. What would I write in such a precious space? What words fit in this slim fragile volume? I imagine for a moment that whatever I wrote here might be something she could read, from wherever her spirit rests. Fanciful, but comforting. The bookmark tucked into the pocket on the last page says only, in large letters, “Roses”. I smile and think about the roses I recently purchased to add to the garden with her – and the memories of our friendship – in mind. I allow myself the fancy of imagining she somehow knew. (Certainly, she knew I love roses.)
What a beautiful little moment! It lingers with me now, and I woke this morning to see the wee journal resting on a cushion, next to my neatly folded clothes, waiting for the new day. Where will this journey take me? What is ahead on this path? I sip my coffee and think happy thoughts of trails to hike, and roses to plant, and long summer days in the garden. I think about the wee journal, and my dear friend, and what words might fill these pages.
My mind wanders to other cherished friendships. I could be a better friend; I make a commitment to reach out to friends I haven’t spoken to recently. I think fondly of my Traveling Partner – our deeply loving relationship is also built on a firm foundation of a cherished friendship. We were friends long before we were ever lovers. I’m grateful for that friendship, it has carried us through some tough times with considerable affection and grace. Whatever else goes on in life, friends are such a huge part of life being worth living in the first place. I sip my coffee and think about how fortunate I am to have the rich friendships I do. The value isn’t in numbers of friends, either, it’s in the quality of enduring friendships, and the love and laughter they bring to this very human experience, that can sometimes feel so lonely otherwise.
I look up as I finish my coffee. The morning sky is hues of blue and shades of gray where clouds crowd the horizon. Daybreak has passed. Sunrise is moments away, although I doubt it will be anything exceptional to see, this morning. Regardless, here it is a new day – and already time to begin again.
Evening Light 