It’s a foggy morning. On the other side of a short list of errands, I’ll head to the coast for a few days for some solitary time, painting. I’m eager, but not anxious. There’s no hurry. I planned with care and stayed mindful of my current capabilities and limitations when I did so.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I’m sitting at a favorite trailhead, waiting for the gate to open. A short walk will be enough this morning. I want to leave myself enough energy at the other end of the day to easily enjoy hanging out with the ghosts of Claude (Monet), Vincent (Van Gogh), and Peter (Max). I’ve already got my pastels packed up, ready to load into the car.
… Definitely eager…
When the time came to end the work week and pull my head out of the spreadsheets and tool portals, yesterday, I found it difficult. I’m definitely for sure over that, already! My thoughts now are of colors, hues, shades, tones, and the challenges of bringing light into pigment, and giving life to an image on paper. I am expanding into the sense of self that feels the most me. It’s comfortable and familiar, and natural; there’s no need to mask anything or operate from some pretense of whatever is defined as properly professional this year, for this or that industry. It may take hours to really sink in, that the next three days are wholly about where inspiration might take me. This is my time.
I breathe, exhale, relax. Some things don’t change. Some practices have value no matter what may be on the calendar. Meditation. Writing in the morning. Enjoying a pleasant walk. We become what we practice. Taking myself to some other physical place to paint doesn’t change what I need to do to care for myself, manage symptoms, and preserve my emotional resilience. I reflect on the successes and failures of various practices over the years. They don’t all work out, and there’s been some trial and error to “finding my way”.
… Shit… I already miss my Traveling Partner and I’m not even gone yet! 😆 Well, I knew that would be a thing. I adore him. We’re deeply connected. Our lives are intertwined. I feel obvious “separation anxiety” when we’re apart – but there is value in the reminder not to take love for granted. We get the benefit of perspective from a chance to miss each other, and reconnect more deeply when we reunite.
So much of life is about love and loving.
At the halfway point of my walk, I sit with my thoughts of my beloved, sleeping at home. I could have set things up to take off for the coast at first light. I didn’t set up my plan that way specifically to run these couple of errands and take the time to hold each other a moment before I go, and do some little things to make him more comfortable and less inconvenienced by my absence. This doesn’t just feel like the right thing to do for him, it meets needs of my own, to support my partner. Without these courtesies, I’d be distracted the whole time I’m away, wondering about his experience, instead of living mine.
… I think about that for a little while…
Daybreak comes. The fog muffles the sound of traffic on the highway adjacent to this nature preserve. The darkness lifts slowly, revealing more fog, and the dark silhouettes of the grand oaks on this hillside. It seems a good setting for self-reflection and meditation. Inspiring. Lately I have been feeling so deeply inspired to paint, it spills over into other things. I’m looking forward to giving in to it for a couple days.
Daybreak comes.
I hear voices, approaching from up the trail. When they come into view, I wave and call out a good morning greeting, to avoid startling two photographers, approaching preoccupied with their conversation and their gear. They return my greeting and walk on past, towards the photographer’s blind out on the marsh. It’s a good time of year for it; migratory birds are passing through, and the weather hasn’t turned shitty yet.
I sigh to myself and bring my thoughts back to my own experience. Here. Now. Nice moment to be. I sit with my thoughts a short while longer, finding it a luxury to do so. I consider my pain, and pain management. Look over my shopping list one more time, before admitting to myself that it’s probably time to begin again. I smile like I know a secret, as I get to my feet, stretching.
… Travel tissues! I add them to my list and get going.
The morning mist caught me by surprise. No reason it should, I suppose; the temperature warmed in the wee hours after several cool Spring days, and today is expected to be hot (27C/80F). Tomorrow is forecast to be even hotter, and there is an extreme heat advisory.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The sunrise began with a ferocious heat-threatening diffuse orange. Pretty, although I’m not looking forward to the heat or increased wildfire risk. I remind myself to drink plenty of water.
Beautiful sunrise, hot day ahead.
The mist clings to the low places, gathering in near the rivers and creeks mostly. It envelopes me as the trail turns to wrap around the vineyard, leading me down closer to the creek that runs adjacent to the trail. As I walk I wonder if maybe I should have worn a fleece or my cardigan? It’s not hot yet. 😆 I’m chilly, in spite of walking.
I get to my halfway point and stop to write and reflect. It is Thursday. (Already?) Tomorrow is my birthday, 63. (Already?) I’m taking a few days off, an entire week. My Traveling Partner is in the middle of an important work project. He encouraged me to consider fucking off for a couple days, and I make plans for a couple nights on the coast. It’s nice to have that kind of freedom. I feel very loved. So far this is an extraordinary birthday celebration. Yesterday he gave me another book – and I’m thoroughly delighted – Barbara Walters “How to Talk With Practically Anybody About Practically Anything”, which I’ve wanted for a long time. It was a surprise that it is also a first edition in excellent condition.
There is so much more to find within the pages of a book than mere words on pages.
… I’ve got a lovely stack of books to read…
…63?
I don’t “feel my age”. I’m not sure I gave much thought to what being 63 would feel like, though. I feel more or less as I’ve always felt. The feeling of age or aging only hits me when I notice my capacity for manual labor is less than in my twenties, or I happen to take a longer look at my hands. “Aches and pains” don’t signal age for me; I’ve lived with serious chronic pain since my twenties. There’s some gray in my hair. Arthritis that was limited to my damaged spine for a lot of years turns up in my joints now, too. But, generally speaking, 63 feels like any other year. I will probably enjoy it every bit as much as I’ve enjoyed 62. 😆 The clock is ticking, but mostly I don’t notice.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. Pretty morning for meditation. The morning sun lights the trees along the trail. The mist begins to thin and fade away. There’s a whole new day ahead, then my birthday.
I happily contemplate a couple days on the coast as the weekend wanes… I’ll set off early, after I water the lawn in the morning. I’ll pack light, maybe bring my pastels, and load the car the night before. I’ll be gone just as the sun rises, probably, and I know my Traveling Partner will miss me – that’s part of the point. Having that chance to miss each other prevents us taking each other for granted, over time. I anticipate the joy of walking miles of beach in the cool morning breeze, and enjoying an iced coffee at some choice spot to sit and listen to the waves caress the shore, and the gulls calling to each other overhead. There’s a fantastic bagel shop near a beach I like, and I look forward to a fantastic bagel on the beach. It’s the kind of small delight that I savor. They add up to an immense quantity of joy, over time.
I smile contentedly. The best part about a couple days of solitary time away is returning home to a cozy life filled with love. I’ll never be wealthy but I feel rich; I have love.
I take a deep breath of the cool morning air and taste the scent of flowers. Summer is coming. I look down the trail amazed by how far this journey has taken me. 16 years ago I could not imagine being actually happy, like, at all, ever. I figured settling for surviving my life would be the best I could do. I’m grateful to have given myself a chance to continue on. I would not trade this life as it is for any other. My first real glimpses of happiness left me more confused than appreciative; I was ignorant of real lasting love, and certainly had no skill at being happy when happy moments turned up. It took practice just to accept the possibility of happiness. There was still so much chaos and damage to sort out. So much to learn about love and loving. There’s still more to learn even now. I’m okay with that. The journey is the destination and I’m traveling in very good company.
I glance at the time and the clear blue sky. It’s time to walk on. It’s time to begin again.
It is an ordinary morning, begun in the usual way, following a night of very sound and restful sleep. I woke feeling merry and grateful to have a comfortable bed and a partner with the thoughtfulness to adjust the thermostat when the weather changes.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
All the way down the trail this morning, I thought about the weekend ahead. With my Traveling Partner’s encouragement, I am planning to take a couple days to rest (and maybe paint) on the coast. I’m rarely so last minute about such things, and I am delighted to have the opportunity, if I can make it work out. I walk with my thoughts, sifting through my recollections of various other similar short getaways. I have options. A rough plan begins to take shape… A short work day, a relaxed drive to the coast, an “early” check-in if I can get it, and an ocean view room from which to watch the sun set, sounds like a fine beginning. I sometimes surprise myself by being able to sleep in, at the coast. Is it the sound of the sea? The scent of the ocean breeze? I don’t know, really, but I’m happy to continue to study the phenomenon. 😆
I sit at my halfway point now, thinking about the weekend ahead. Painting or photography? Reading or writing? Meditation or beachcombing? Does it have to be either/or? I can mix and match. I grin thinking about times when I’ve packed for every possible option and found myself just napping, stargazing, and enjoying a bit of sightseeing instead of doing any of the things I had tried to prepare for. 😆 Human primates are weird.
… What do I really need most out of this time? I sit quietly reflecting on that…
What matters most? It’s a big question. I sit with that awhile. I decide to keep things simple, and open, and a very loose “plan” (so unlike me) and see where the journey takes me, for a change. Low effort, maximum rest. I’ve always got my sketchbox in the car, and my cellphone is more camera than phone in everyday use. I’ll bring a book and a change of clothes. It feels like enough. I’m only going for a day, framed by two nights. It’s more about getting the restful quiet time than any agenda or itinerary. I’m not looking for an achievement.
I smile to myself, feeling easy. This feels somehow “settled” now. I shift gears to thinking about today. I remind myself to stop at the store on my way home from work. It’s not yet the weekend, and there’s today to be lived. I bring myself back to here, now, and draw in a deep breath of cool Spring air. Pretty morning. Cloudy skies but no rain, cool but not cold. I’m okay with this. I chuckle to myself; it wouldn’t change anything if I weren’t okay with it. Reality would just go on being real, at least with regard to the weather. The weather is not within my control.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s almost time to begin the day. I wonder briefly how many of you read the layers of meaning or look for the lessons or metaphors? I smile to myself, unconcerned, just curious. I get to my feet and turn towards the sun. It’s time to begin again.
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.
I’m parked where I can see the ocean, smell the scents of the seashore, and hear the sound of the waves rolling in. I arrived shortly before sunrise, but well past daybreak. Dense gray clouds cover the sky and obscure the horizon. There will be no dramatic hues of orange nor charming delicate shades of pearly pink or luminous lavender today. It’s all gray skies as far as I can see into the distance in all directions. I’m okay with that, it’s still beautiful.
What’s holding you back? Is it externally imposed, or something of your own doing?
I sit with my thoughts awhile before tackling the steep trail down to the beach. I listen to the gulls and the waves. I breathe the fresh sea air and enjoy the soft breeze and the morning mist. I breathe, exhale, and relax, letting go of the accumulated tension and stress of caregiving, waiting, and worrying. I’m in no hurry to do anything at all. I’m just being here, now, in this pleasant moment, in this lovely place.
The temperature is quite a bit cooler here than in the valley to the east. I dressed with that in mind and I am comfortable in spite of the chill of the seaside at dawn. The air is mild and not actually cold, but definitely suited to the baggy shapeless sweater wrapping me in warmth. I sit contentedly sipping an iced coffee. It’s a couple hours yet before I will check in to my hotel room. I don’t care about that at all, sitting here watching the waves roll in. Sooner or later I suppose I’ll do something about breakfast, but for now I have everything I want; this quiet moment is enough.
I remove my shoes when I reach the beach, and walk a damp mile along the wet edge, where the sand is firm with only a little risk of wetting my feet. The damp sand is cold and it feels at first refreshing, and later, chilly. I don’t mind. I enjoy the way the sand yields to my footsteps. I sigh and smile as I walk. I have this stretch of beach to myself, at least for now. This,too, is enough. More than enough. I drink in the satisfying feeling of contentment and fulfillment. I walk the beach grateful for the moment, and the opportunity to rest and “recharge my batteries”. I give silent thanks to my Traveling Partner, who is so steadfast in the support of my mental health and self-care, and to the Anxious Adventurer, whose presence in our life and home makes it so much easier to “step away” for a few days to get the downtime I need without continuing to carry the full measure of stress and concern for my injured partner while I am away. I am fortunate, and I am grateful.
… Gratitude feels really good…
Distracted by my thoughts, I stray too close to the incoming tide and soak my feet. I laugh out loud, but turn back the way I came and head back to the car. Dry socks feel luxurious and the warmth of socks and shoes is disproportionately pleasant after the cold walk back up the beach. I sit awhile with my thoughts, and write a bit. The lack of time pressure feels… amazing. I feel my shoulders relax. I feel a steady joyful calm creep over me.
Breathe. Exhale. Relax. It’s enough to be here, now. I sit with my thoughts awhile longer. There’s no hurry. I’m enjoying this. It’s enough. Later, I’ll begin again.
