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Love and Luxury

January 10, 2026 //
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He asked me “what’s your plan for tomorrow?” I replied with a short summary of a fairly typical morning for me, I’d dress when I woke, head out quietly for a walk, and stop at the store on my way home afterward. He looked at me with a very serious look, and a lot of love. “I don’t like the idea of you being out so early in the cold and the dark, that can’t be good for you after being sick, and with your arthritis. I read your blog, you know.” (That was the gist of it, I’m sure I’ve gotten the words a little wrong.) He asked me to consider staying home, waking up whenever, and having coffee before I get started doing things out of the house. I’ll admit, it’s an idea I enjoy. I love a leisurely morning over my coffee, and some writing, embraced in the warmth of “home”. I agree that I will stay home and have my morning coffee before I got out…and I did. (Well, I am.)

…This is definitely a better cup of coffee, and the soft lo-fi in the background is lovely, too…

What a luxury this is! I mean, it’s such a simple thing, but I feel very loved, and I am enjoying the morning. No tinnitus. I just now noticed that these noise cancelling headphones with the right music playing do a pretty sweet job of masking it. If I focus on it, I can still hear it, but otherwise it fades into the background, dim and unnoticed. Good coffee. Quiet morning. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and savor this simple luxury. Weekends.

I love a weekend. I’ve got this book, too. I’m already so eager to read it that I’ve set aside “A Canticle for Leibowitz“, which I got for Giftmas. I can pick it up again after I read “The Stand (1990 complete and uncut edition)“. I choke briefly on a sigh that became a chuckle; “too many books to read” feels like a fun problem to have. lol It is quite possibly one of my favorite “problems”. I think fondly back to walking to the local library each summer (often) and returning from hours among the aisles of shelves with an armful of books. I spent so many long summer days quietly reading, uninterrupted as I visited far off places and other lives through those pages. It was the 1970s, and even at nine years old, I was allowed to walk to the library alone (it was only half a mile), and had my own library card. By the time I was 12, I was reading from the adult section, too, although the librarian always double-checked that I wasn’t checking out something wildly inappropriate (I was 13 before she let me check out books by Anaïs Nin or Henry Miller).

When I deployed for Desert Shield, in the summer of 1990, I tucked books into small spaces here and there in the maintenance truck I loaded for transport to our destination. I filled my own footlocker with books (and my cribbage board, a monopoly set, and assorted sundries – which turned out to have been an excellent idea, later). I took quite a few books, and they passed through many hands over those many weeks and months of deployment, once the other people in my unit were aware of them. Even people who might otherwise not ever pick up a book, found themselves purusing my wee “library” after some time spent well and truly bored. War may be hell (it definitely is) – but it can also be quite boring between the moments of chaos, destruction, violence, or terror.

After I’d left the military, and while I was leaving my first marriage, I hurriedly boxed up the books I had, and put them on the truck, discovering only later (as my Granny helped me unpack into my new apartment) that quite a few of my precious books were missing – and all of my Heinlein books (a complete set of first editions) were among those missing books. Later my ex bragged about grabbing boxes from the truck while my Granny and I were loading it, and burning my books (and my high-heeled shoes – wth?) out of anger and spite, knowing they were precious to me. The books mattered to me more than his senseless destructive bullshit, and I cried – and replaced what I could, over time. I had very little furniture, and here and there stacks of books served as “side tables”, nightstands, or a place upon which to put a small lamp, for quite a while, until after the construction season picked up again, and I could afford some second hand furniture. Life lived, achievements unlocked. Hopefully I learned some things from it.

I like books. Real bound books. Before the Anxious Adventurer moved in, I had a small library here at home – a room set up specifically as a place to read, shelves and books lining the walls. I miss it. I don’t grudge him the space – and I’d rather not have him bedding down in some temporary arrangement in the livingroom or garage; those spaces have their purposes, here, already. Instead, we added the hutch and bookshelves in the dining room, and now my lovely breakables have a place where they can be seen (even used), and more space for books. It’s beautiful. It’s hard to be bothered by any of that, at all. Eventually, the Anxious Adventurer will make his own way in the world, and get his own place (sooner than later, at this point), and I’ll have that room back, and even gain additional space for books thereby. Neat. 😀

Do I sound “too excited” about a book or two? I probably am. But if we lost the internet completely for one reason or another, these bound books in my hands will still be as they are – and worth reading, even if only as a happy means of whiling away an hour or two of boredom. Read a book! There are so many. 😀

I breathe, exhale, and relax. My Traveling Partner looks in on me. We exchange a handful of words. I look at the time. It’s already time to get on with the morning. I smile to myself, feeling relaxed and loved, and ready to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, joy, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, War and News of War, winter, women, Words

Paths and Choices

December 20, 2025 //
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I’m at this morning’s chosen trailhead, waiting for the sun, listening to scattered raindrops, and – between coughs – thinking my thoughts. I’m definitely feeling better, not 100%, but definitely much improved. This morning I’ll walk at least some portion of this trail.

Stars twinkle overhead in the gaps between clouds. The morning is a mild one, although the rain could catch up to me at any time and potentially stop me from walking. The seasonal marsh trail is closed for the year, and with good reason; the entire marsh and adjacent meadows flood with the autumn and winter rain, and portions of the trail are now submerged. The year-round trail is on higher ground, and remains quite walkable without regard to the season. It’s no less lovely, as walks go, just commonly more crowded, though I often walk at a time of day few other people choose to for a casual walk.

…As if called into being by my thoughts, another car pulls into the trailhead parking lot…

Winter levels of arthritis pain have now set in, which means winter levels of effort to manage it, treat it, or disregard it through an effort of will. Vexing, but it is a real detail of this human experience. Pain, I mean. We’ve all got some, if only occasionally. I persist in trying not to let it define my experience. My results vary. My thoughts wander to the holiday ahead. There are gifts yet to wrap. I check online orders and confirm that everything I ordered has now arrived. It will be a modest cozy holiday spent with my Traveling Partner and his son, at home.

I feel fortunate that I am not burdened by FOMO, a competitive nature, or some weird need to keep up with what other people have or want. I’m grateful that I don’t feel forced to define my success on any terms but my own, and that I am able to leave others to do the same. Holidays are surely more stressful if there’s a lot of keeping up with other people going on in one’s head. I’m content to walk my own path and celebrate my own way – and I hope you are, too; it’s very freeing. I choose the holiday details with care. An example? This year I didn’t send holiday cards to a long list of people. I didn’t really have the energy for it, the will to do it with care, nor the money to splash around on elegant commercially made cards. Instead, this year I’ll write handwritten responses to the cards we receive, and send emails and texts to those dearest to me who didn’t send cards. It’s enough. I don’t think I keep company with folks rude enough to be demanding about receiving a holiday card. 😆

Most of my holiday efforts and resources are going into a small cozy holiday at home. Changing tastes force me to rethink some things. I can’t easily fill stockings with exotic sweets from far away places, for example, because everyone in the house has cut way back on sweets, and don’t want a lot of chocolate this year for various individual reasons. So… fewer sweets, more small, interesting, fun, or unusual things of other sorts. I didn’t have the time or energy to make a plum pudding this year, either (and being frank, I’m the only person in the house who enjoys plum pudding, mincemeat pie, marzipan, or fruitcake anyway). Change is.

I sigh quietly, feeling unexpected tears welling up. I think of elaborate family holidays of the distant past, and long gone friends with whom I might have shared some moment or bit of holiday fun. By far the worst thing about aging – worse even than pain – is that we lose people we love along the way. We are mortal creatures. Each holiday is a unique moment all its own, unrepeatable. We are fortunate indeed when we share them with those dear to us. I breathe, exhale, and relax. The rain taps gently on the roof of the car in the predawn darkness. I’m alone right now because I choose to be, and this solitude is precious – but I’m not made of stone, and I miss some of the people I’ve lost over the years more than I can say. I let grief “take a seat at the table”. There’s no shame in these heartfelt tears dripping onto my sweater. Emotions are also part of the human experience.

I’ve heard it said that the intensity of our grief is also a measure of our capacity for joy. I sit with that thought, feeling grateful. I must be capable of the greatest of joy to feel this poignant moment of sorrow so deeply. I smile at the thought. I know I am capable of great joy and love and deep delight, and get to feel those feelings often, in part because I do not stifle these moments of sorrow. The way out is through. The way to diminish the intensity of unexpected emotion is to feel it fully, honestly, and give myself a moment to “feel heard” by the woman in the mirror. The sorrow passes quickly, leaving behind other emotions and other memories.

…I remind myself to send well wishes and holiday greetings to my sister and my dear friends…

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I meditate. I look over my writing for obvious mistakes and correct those. I think about far away friends and household chores that need doing. More cars arrive at this trailhead, which seems strange, and I find myself wondering if there’s some event bringing people here (turns out it’s time for the annual winter bird count). I grab my cane and headlamp, hoping to avoid a crowd on the trail so early. I decide to get started. I decide to begin again, now.

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Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, grief, health, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, winter, women, Words

Thanks

November 27, 2025 //
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It is Thanksgiving morning, before sunrise. Thank you for taking a moment to read this, and I hope you enjoy the holiday, if you celebrate it. Regardless, I greatly appreciate you; you give my writing direction and purpose beyond me simply talking to myself. I hope you get something more out of it than the passage of time.

I stepped out of the house into warmish spring-like air, everything rain-fresh and damp, this morning, the scent of petrichor still lingering. The street gleaming with reflected twinkle lights of newly added holiday displays delights me as I step to the car and as I drive to the trailhead.

This little town I call home is quiet this morning. No commuter traffic; it’s one of the few holidays that very nearly every American celebrates, and most folks will even be off work. Personally, I wholly disapprove of making people work on Thanksgiving, at all. You’ve got legit volunteers? Great. But… this is a day working people really should get to be at home with their dear ones. I often make my shopping decisions for the entire holiday season (and sometimes beyond) based on how businesses treat their work force with regard to Thanksgiving.

I get to the trail. Everything is soggy and very still and quiet. Daybreak is still almost half an hour away, but the sky overhead, cloudy, is peculiarly bright, illuminated from below. A soft sprinkling of rain begins to fall as I park, but a glance at the weather on my cell phone tells me it’s likely to pass shortly, and I decide to wait and write, and walk after the rain stops. I’m thankful for the technology that makes the decision practical and easy. I sit with my thoughts, listening to the patter of raindrops on the car. I’m grateful for the pleasantly mild morning.

I enjoy this holiday. This year it is a small gathering, family, three familiar faces around the table. Without the performance pressure of guests in attendance to ensure “best behavior”, family holidays can sometimes erupt in stress unexpectedly. I hope we don’t have to deal with that kind of emotional bullshit today. I honestly just don’t have any will to spend time soothing hurt feelings, particularly my own. 😂 It’s tempting to pull a page from my own mother’s handbook on family management and proactively state with some firmness that “there is to be no g’damned yelling or argumentative bullshit today – you will behave yourself or you will excuse yourself to pull yourself together and come back when you can be pleasant”. I chuckle to myself at the recollection, and wonder if that ever really worked? I suppose it may have. The only yelling or argumentative bullshit I recall at childhood Thanksgivings was between menfolk over politics, under the influence of alcohol, and the man who chose to start shit with my Grandfather could generally count on losing his place at the table, to eat alone in the kitchen, or at the children’s table. It was quite rare as a result.

I’ll spend most of today in or near the kitchen. There is no resentment, I enjoy the outcome as much as anyone, and I take pride in setting a good holiday table. It’s generally easier to do most of the cooking for such a small group than to work around other people also cooking. The kitchen is small. I’m not complaining, just pointing it out as a detail. This is a joyful celebration and a chance to recalibrate our focus on the things that are going well, and for which we’re grateful. It matters to be appreciative, and gratitude is a more rewarding and uplifting experience than anger, frustration, or resentment. Pettiness and emotional bullshit have no place at my Thanksgiving table.

This time, here, now, though? This is mine, and that’s important, too. This is a good moment for private gratitude and quiet thoughts. I listen to the rain, and the ringing and chiming, buzzing, hissing, of my tinnitus, and the HVAC on the roof of a building nearby. The morning still seems so very quiet and undisturbed. The thought crosses my mind that elsewhere in the world there is suffering, chaos, violence, and war… I allow myself to acknowledge that without being consumed by it. I’m grateful that there are no bombs dropping here, although ICE thugs have been snatching teenaged citizens from the streets, proving again that none of us is safe from encroaching authoritarianism. Scary. I breathe, exhale, and relax. Today is not the day.

Turkey roasted with carrots from the garden, stuffing, mashed potatoes and mushroom gravy, corn, some sort of green vegetable (green bean casserole? steamed broccolini?), homemade cranberry sauce, cocktails, pumpkin pie and whipped cream… This won’t be the fanciest Thanksgiving menu, and I’m not serving the biggest group I’ve ever hosted. It’s more elaborate than an evening meal generally is at our house, though, and definitely a celebration. I smile thinking about the meal and the merriment (and all I can say about that is that if I’m going to put all this work into the meal, the very least everyone else can do is be fucking merry, damn it).

The rain stops. I’m grateful for the break in the rain and the mild morning. I’m grateful for the well maintained local trail and the time, freedom, and safety to walk it at dawn. I’m grateful to have family to enjoy the holiday with, and help with things, and to feel so accepted. I’m grateful for my Traveling Partner, and all the things he does to improve our quality of life. I’m grateful to have the Anxious Adventurer’s help when he has it to give. I look down the trail, heart full of contentment and joy, and ready to begin, again.

I take a breath and stretch as I step out of the car. I wish you and yours a delightful Thanksgiving holiday, if you celebrate it, and hope the holiday season ahead unfolds with minimal stress and maximum joy – and no violence (nor any yelling). Be helpful when you can, and be kind and understanding even if you can’t be helpful.

It’s time to begin again. For this, too, I am grateful.

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Categories Allegories, autumn, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, joy, meditation, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, The Big 5, War and News of War, Words

Slow Living

November 16, 2025 //
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“Slow down”, I reminded myself. It is a very foggy morning. Visibility is poor on the highway, and in the darkness it would be far too easy to overlook a deer or a person attempting to cross the road. There was no traffic at all, only fog, and darkness interrupted periodically by streetlights.

The phrase “slow down” resonates in my thoughts as I drive up the highway to this morning’s trail of choice. It becomes a song in my head. It’s an old old hit song, full of optimism. I sing out loud as I drive, surprised to remember the lyrics.

The reminder to slow down continues to resonate in my thoughts, rippling beyond the obvious practical meaning and through other thoughts, washing over the recollections of other experiences. Sometimes I “go too fast” and get swallowed up by imagined urgency, or distracted from enjoying life by self-inflicted busy-ness. I reflect on that as I drive.

I get to the trailhead before daybreak. It’s very early, and very quiet. The fog on the marsh obscures my visibility even more than the darkness, and my “view” is limited to the bobbing circle of light cast ahead of me by my headlamp. Headlights of passing cars on the highway adjacent to the edge of the meadow and marsh sweep past casting strange shadows in the fog. Several times I think there is someone else on the trail ahead. There isn’t. I’ve got the trail to myself this morning.

I get to my halfway point, still wrapped in darkness and fog. I sit quietly, enjoying the stillness and solitude. I meditate. I wait for daybreak. I’m not in any hurry at all, and that feels good. Restful. Luxurious. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and contemplate how best to communicate the practical value of slowing down. I’m not suggesting do less, it’s a more subtle consideration. It’s more about presence, awareness, and deliberate mindful action, and refraining from “filling space” with motion and task handling just to stay busy, or to overcome boredom.

…Go ahead and be bored now and then, it’s probably good for you…

… Better than doom scrolling the news, by far.

Daybreak comes. The sky shifts slowly from the undefined foggy darkness to a hint of a paler bluer gray in the sky, the oaks on the hillside on the other side of the trail are silhouetted, a feathered dark edge where the sky begins. I breathe the fresh chilly autumn air. The marsh has a very specific scent of its own. I don’t have words to describe it, and I enjoy it wordlessly. I hear a noise and look down.

Near my feet a young raccoon has approached me unnoticed. I manage to avoid being startled, but hear my own voice call softly, seeming unnecessarily loud in the gloom, “Oh, hey there! Don’t have rabies, okay? You should go back to your mama, Kiddo.” The youngster stands briefly on hind legs, looking me over curiously, before dropping back to all fours, turning and waddling quickly away, into the taller grass between this bit of fence I’m sitting on, and the marsh pond beyond.

I sit awhile longer, grateful for this quiet contemplative time to myself. Vita activa may fulfill a sense of purpose (or one’s bank account), but it is vita contemplativa that I personally find most valuable for finding that sense of purpose in the first place. Our mortal lives are finite and our moments precious and few, but trying to stay busy and occupy that time every moment with purposeful action risks missing out on so much creative potential and pure joy in living some moment, just as it is. I can’t explain myself adequately well, on the value in daydreaming, in boredom, in stillness and in slowing down. I can only do my humble best with the words I have. Instead, I share some other words, more skillfully crafted. (Do you ever click the links? Are you ever surprised by what you discover?)

Ichi-go Ichi-e. Be here now. Breathe, exhale, relax. Live the life you have, while it lasts – we are mortal creatures. Be present in the moment, awake and aware. This too shall pass… it’s all quite temporary.

We become what we practice. What are you practicing? Are you taking time to really live? Put down the device. Go outside. Read a book. Spend time with a friend. Daydream awhile. Slow down. Enjoy the journey.

An autumn morning, a trail, a journey.

I grin to myself as dawn becomes a new day. A misty rain falls on the foggy marsh. I am wrapped in contentment and a soft merry joy fills my heart. It’s a good starting point to begin again.

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Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, Words

Those Howling Winds

November 1, 2025 //
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Here it is, the morning of All Saints Day, the Day of the Dead in some traditions. The wind blows fiercely, wuthering and howling past the car, and rocking it as it blows past. Autumn leaves fall, blown sideways they gather in drifts against curbs and embankments. The sturdy oaks sway stiffly in the wind. Even in the predawn darkness, I see their shapes tossing to and fro against the backdrop of the pale stormy sky illuminated from below.

I stepped out of the car at the trailhead, and was almost knocked off my feet by the wind. The everyday challenges of life seem far away and insignificant right now; there’s this wind to deal with first. My hair is lifted, tossed, and tangled by the wind. It pushes me to the side of the trail, as if each new gust seeks to push me into the marsh, or off the edge of the bank into the lake. The wind howls through the trees, insistent. Then it begins to rain. First a sprinkle, then a downpour.

I’m nearer to the photographer’s blind than I am to my usual halfway point. I’m grateful to find it unlocked. The trailhead parking is farther on, and I’d have been soaked to the skin trying to make it back up the trail, blinded by the wind-driven rain. Inside the blind I’m sheltered. It’s quite noisy. The blind is a small box-shape constructed of wood. Some effort to camouflage it has also served to make it mostly safe from the rain. There’s no floor, but a small crate serves as a seat. The view of the marsh and the small lake and ponds that dot it is very good, with views of east and west. No windows, really, just openings covered by hinged drop down panels that can be propped open, for a photographer’s convenience. With the wind blowing the rain about so wildly, I open only one, and only about halfway, letting the rain drip off of it. Very little rain makes it into the blind, although the dirt floor manages to be soft and a little muddy, anyway.

I sigh contentedly. I enjoy the sound of the rain on the wood roof of the photographer’s blind. Daybreak soon. I listen for a break in the rain, without being stressed over time or progress. It’s quite early and I have no reason to hurry. After my walk, my Saturday routine will take me to the grocery store, and I’ll run any other errands on the way home, after that. Very ordinary, “nothing to see here”, and I smile to myself. I have lived through some exciting times. I’ll take ordinary, and embrace and enjoy it. There is plenty of joy and satisfaction to be found in life’s ordinary moments. I’m not chasing adventure. It’s not any lack of enthusiasm for new experiences or fear of the unknown, I just personally think excitement, generally, is overvalued. I’m rarely bored as an individual, and any time I might seem to be facing boredom, I quickly move on to… something. There’s always something. It’s a big world and the menu in The Strange Diner is vast and full of options.

Daybreak comes. The rain falls as a dense misty curtain, obscuring the view of the marsh. I see the trees more clearly, tossing wildly in the wind. Stormy morning. I sigh, resigned to a very rainy walk back to the trailhead. Not yet, though.

A fluffy mass tucked against the corner of a narrow “shelf”, created by the exposed interior 2 x 4s which the blind is built from, shifts as if alive, and I see that I’m not alone here. Some small mammal has built its nest inside the blind. Field mice maybe? I scooch back a bit and watch without making any move to disturb the nest. The sky outside is now a dirty looking gray. “Sunrise” has come, colorless and subtle, revealed only by the view taking on more detail. It barely counts as “daylight”.

… Stormy weather…

The rain slows to a sprinkle. I’m not expecting that to last and quickly plan my exit and the shortest route to the parking, and get to my feet as I exit the blind. It’s clearly time to get out of the marsh. The path is partly covered in rainwater – or is this the lake beginning to rise beyond the bank? In either case, it’s time to begin again.

As I cross the marsh, I think I see someone else on the trail, in spite of the rain… but I quickly lose sight of them, and find myself wondering if they were ever even there… It is, after all, the Day of the Dead, and life is full of mysteries.

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Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, The Art of Being
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