One moment of many, and fairly insignificant. I’m at the midpoint on my morning walk, mind mostly empty, the flow of my thoughts kind of random. Definitely not any version of “productive”. Good grief, sometimes it’s hard to care about that, anyway. Too many details and too many demands on my time and attention… sometimes I just want to “pull back” from all of that and find a quiet corner somewhere alone. This walk will have to do, I guess. I’ve got the trail to myself. That’s something.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The morning is cool and mild, and the forecast suggests the temperature will be below 20C (68F). I happily decide to wear one of the sweaters my Traveling Partner has given me as a birthday gift. I feel wrapped in comfort and love.
“Baltimore Belle” blooming in the darkness.
I watered the lawn on my way out, which is my routine during the months when watering is needed now that the Anxious Adventurer has gone. With my walks and my work location both being very local and near home, this isn’t any sort of inconvenience. I enjoy the smell of petrichor as the water begins to soak into the soil. Noisy robins, also early risers, sing their noisy song at me, and I imagine that they are calling “you missed a spot” or “a little more over here, please!” or similar helpful instructions.
Overcast sky at dawn.
I get to the trail just after daybreak. There’s no one else here when I arrive. Pretty typical, it’s really early. I walk until I reach this spot, this moment. I don’t actually have much to say about it. I’m here. The moment is now. It’s pretty routine and ordinary and generally okay. Sprinkles of rain drops tap at some leaves, and a few land on my face. It doesn’t amount to rain. Like the scattered contents of my mind this morning, which reach me, but don’t amount to “thoughts”, really. They’re just snapshots and fragments. Scraps.
… Nice morning for meditation…
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I’m not complaining – there’s nothing to complain about, just now. I’m not really doing anything, just sitting here by the trail with my thoughts, just as they are. I feel as if I’m between moments, although this is moment enough on its own. I sigh to myself, “nothing to see here”, I think. I let my attention wander, as if seeking something from nothing.
I slept okay. I woke up okay. The morning seems a relatively ordinary one. The weekend was generally good, although I feel like I didn’t get much done due to swapping out a notable portion of the time I would have spent on housework for self-care, and I still somehow manage to feel uncomfortable with that.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I watched the moon setting as I watered the lawn.
It’s forecast to be hot today. I watered before I left for my walk. I ended up going back into the house for a warm cardigan. The forecast may say it’ll be a hot day, but it is quite chilly now. Funny how that sometimes happens.
It’s not important, just an observation on an ordinary Monday, for which I have no particular enthusiasm. That seems odd to me, but even that is pretty ordinary; people feeling some reluctance and lack of enthusiasm for the beginning of another work week is nothing new at all. We’ve probably all been there however much we may enjoy our work. I shrug to myself as I walk this familiar trail. There’s so much I’d rather be doing than working, but working is what pays the bills and unlocks the opportunities to do those other things, often. It’s unfortunate that we spend so much of our lives on this fucking hamster wheel.
Get off the hamster wheel now and then.
Yesterday’s hike was a lovely one. I enjoyed it enough to wonder if I could make it there and back on a workday… I’d be pushing my luck on the timing in a way likely to trigger my time hang-up, and cause me stress, undermining the value of the walk. Probably not a great idea. I’ll have to settle for weekends. This too, is ordinary. Most things are.
My allergies are vexing me, even this is nothing noteworthy. Human beings and spring allergies are a known thing. There’s an entire industry involved in dealing with allergies, and and whole field of medicine devoted to treating them. Mine are not bad relative to how bad they can be. I can enjoy flowers and walks among the trees, and petting cats… but there are a couple things that trigger my allergies, and they cluster in springtime. Tree pollen, mostly. Something about specific foods causes me to break out in sneezing and immediate sinus congestion and a runny nose. Wool against my bare skin can make me break out in hives. Bee stings are the most serious. Bee stings can cause anaphylaxis for me, and this time of year I carry a bee sting kit everywhere.
I’m grateful that I can enjoy the scents of flowers.
I sigh to myself at the halfway point on my rather ordinary walk on this ordinary Spring Monday. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful. Ordinary is okay, and for most values of ordinary, this is pretty good. My lack of enthusiasm isn’t nearly as important as this beautiful morning. I enjoy it for what it is. I enjoy it as I am. It’s enough.
Sunshine and oak trees, and a path; the way ahead is obvious, if not exciting.
I’m just saying, I suppose, that there’s no reason to expect that a healing journey or a journey to become the person you most want to be will lead to an exciting, eventful life of adventure and wild delight. Sometimes – mostly, perhaps – the big win is the relative lack of excitement, and the increase in ordinary pleasures.
Yesterday in the evening, things went sideways for a short time. My Traveling Partner and I stepped all over each other’s trauma and baggage. While that was thoroughly unpleasant, I’m impressed by our ability to recover from it, bounce back, and enjoy the remainder of the evening together. He impresses me. I’m grateful for the work he puts into a relationship. I smile and swing my feet from this bench, kind of wishing I’d worn the new sweater he gave me yesterday (an early birthday gift). I feel very loved. Not just because of the sweater.
What will you find if you slow down to see more?
I breathe, exhale, and relax. Sure, it’s an ordinary Monday, and I’d rather spend it with my beloved than spend the day working. That’s real, and it’s nothing special or extraordinary, just very human. I’m okay with it. I sigh and look at the time. I’ve a few more minutes before I have to begin again. I’ll make a point to enjoy them.
Butterflies are a beautiful metaphor for change and growth. It is too early for butterflies on the meadow here. They come later. Interestingly, and perhaps in conflict with the whole “growth and change” metaphor in some way, butterflies have no choice. They will go through metamorphosis like it or not. We have a choice whether to learn, grow, and change or…not.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I am thinking about butterflies because I appreciate them as a metaphor, not because there are (or, as is the case presently, are not) any actually around. We can choose change. Can choose “metamorphosis”, we can choose being and becoming.
The last couple of days I’ve taken time to illuminate a couple pages in my notebook (it’s really not a “journal”) for future writing. The pages delight me. The theme is butterflies, and growth and change. I haven’t written anything on these pages, maybe I won’t, ever. I enjoy the prepared pages, regardless, they are a thing all their own.
Butterflies on a page.
An unexpected yawn interrupts my thoughts. Crazy, I almost feel as if I could just lay down and sleep. It’s fully daylight on a lovely Spring morning, and I’m sitting at a favorite stopping point along the marsh trail, as it turns to meander past the meadow and through a stretch of oak savannah and down to the river, where there is a lovely viewpoint at which I rarely stop (too crowded, very popular).
One version of beginning again.
I had started down the trail from “the low end”, heading west, clockwise if viewed from above. Most people will start from the upper parking area, and take the year-round trail in a counterclockwise direction, getting to all the marked viewpoints quickly, and turning back. A few photographers will venture further, to the blind setup in the meadow looking towards the ponds, or the viewpoint less favored by walkers, which looks out over the meadow at “nothing”. The birdwatching folks like that one a lot. The meadow and grassy places between the oaks is dotted with patches of flowers, yellow or white or some hue of pink. The lupines are done and going to seeds. It is time now for wild mustard, daisies, and dandelions, and wild roses.
The view when I arrived was gray and overcast.
Sunshine comes and goes. I think about change and growth and becoming the person I most want to be. I think about how fortunate and grateful I am to enjoy the partnership I have with my Traveling Partner. It feels good to be so well cared for. Like a friend on a road trip who remembers to bring their GPS, he reliably “knows a great place to stop”, and helps me find my way, if only by joking about the scenery, or encouraging me to continue. Instead of each day being a new moment of dread and anxiety, each day brings a new opportunity to begin again in good company.
… We’re still each having our own experience…
Same view, different moment.
Sunshine breaks through the clouds again. Self-care matters. We become what we practice. I stretch and squint into the sunshine. The meadow-fresh air smells of flowers and something spicy. The robins eye me between tasty morsels dug up from the leaf litter and soft soil beneath it. They sing bits of song at me, but I don’t speak robin. 😆 Perhaps they are reminding me that there is a whole day ahead? So many moments and opportunities to change! I remind myself I’ve got errands to run once I turn towards home on the other side of this walk.
For now I’ll just enjoy this moment. I can begin again later. Right now it is enough to breathe the Spring air and listen to birdsong, and think about metamorphosis – and practice. We become what we practice.
It’s early. A Spring morning on the edge of summer. The air is mild and the weather report confirms what my sinus headache already told me; the pollen counts are notable, and tree pollen, it suggests, is mostly oak. Well okay then, it could be worse. In the twilight of dawn just after daybreak, I can see that the meadow around the vineyard has been mowed. That’s probably not helping with this headache. I sigh to myself as I grab my cane and a spare pack of tissues, and step out of the car.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Oaks trees line the trail under a cloudy sky.
I reach my halfway point feeling fairly certain I’d meant to be thinking other thoughts this morning. I may have had a clear topic or theme in mind. Doesn’t seem so now. I give in to the moment, set my device aside and meditate, instead.
My reverie is broken some time later by farm workers arriving to begin work in the vineyard nearest to the trail. This is followed a bit of a breeze, and a sneezing fit. The oaks stand tall and steady, unmoved by the hint of a breeze – or my sneezing.
I find myself wondering what this stand of old oaks has seen over the years. The oaks live long lives (or at least have that potential, though it’s likely very few reach truly advanced years these days), longer lives than ours. What might it be like to stand unmoved for hundreds of years as events unfold around me, quietly observing as changes come and go? That’s a whole lot of calm presence, and a reminder that mostly the upheaval or chaos of a given moment isn’t all that significant in the context of decades of time passing. Let time pass. Let small stuff stay small. I can choose the steady presence and long perspective of the oak to guide me down my path.
I smile to myself, thinking about the oaks that line the trail here, and the roses blooming in my garden. The deer nibble my roses, and this years blossoms are smaller, a timid second try after the large plump rose buds that came first were eaten by hungry does heavy with unborn fawns. The roses face that challenge with impressive resilience, putting out new shoots, branches, and buds, again and again after each visit.
The newest rose in the garden (Orange Honey) finally blooms.
I haven’t figured out how to discourage the deer without some sort of sturdy fence, but I’m barely trying, really. I have mixed feelings about it. I enjoy my roses. I enjoy seeing the deer. We’ve achieved an unsteady balance; they eat my roses in the early Spring each year, I enjoy the deer sightings, and by summer the roses are free to enjoy growing and blooming because the deer have moved on, to wherever they go.
I sit awhile reflecting on the resilience of the roses in my garden.
Nozomi blooming among the weeds.
There is a rose in my garden the deer don’t touch. “Nozomi” grows quite low to the ground and her long rambling canes reach out into the flower bed, and across the stepping stone on the short path between the front garden and lawn, and the side yard heading to the back deck. Her long canes are covered in hard sharply pointed thorns that easily tear flesh. She is the last rose I weed every time I get around to that task. 😆 The deer don’t bother with her tiny buds, pearl pink in the undergrowth, protected by thorns.
… Roses may seem fancy, but really they’re just sticker bushes with lovely flowers…
I fell in love with roses reluctantly, while living in Texas. The house we had moved into had three monstrously overgrown red roses that obscured the big front window, and a row of red miniature roses along the back fence. Knowing little and caring less, we cut the front roses down to size as if they were hedge shrubs. The minis in the back? My then-husband just mowed over them, cutting them to the ground. It seemed likely that would be the end of them, they were not thriving as it was. Within weeks, the front roses were covered in new buds and the minis in the back became a row of healthy new canes protruding from the lawn.
I didn’t expect such resilience from the roses… I thought they were some kind of fancy fussy thing, too much work to bother with. I was wrong. I was captivated.
Military life doesn’t lend itself reliably well to the permanence required for a rose to thrive. It would be years before I lived somewhere that I could plant roses. It would in fact be 1995 before I began planting roses in my yard, only to face having to move again too soon to see the outcome. I began keeping potted roses, miniatures mostly, and they moved with me from place to place over years until my beloved Traveling Partner and I bought our little house in 2020. Nozomi was one of the potted roses I’d had the longest (24 years). It was a joyful moment to plant her in the ground at long last.
I sit awhile longer, still, like the oaks trees nearby. I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s another day. I contemplate the garden of my heart and consider the resilience of the rose and the steadfast calm of the oak. We become what we practice. We can choose the practices that create the person we most wish to become. As with any garden, there is weeding and watering to be done. I sigh contentedly to myself. Another work day ahead, but that time is not now, and this moment is mine.
… Where does wisdom come from? I find myself distracted by the question. It isn’t found in book learning. It isn’t an easily teachable thing, is it? Any real wisdom we gain as individuals, we develop within ourselves, from our experiences over time, self-reflection, and contemplation of our mistakes and successes, and consideration of the outcomes of each (which aren’t reliably good in any case). We choose a path and walk it. Gaining wisdom isn’t a given. I wonder where this path leads? What wisdom may develop along the way? I don’t look for the answer and let my thoughts wander on…
I watch the dawn become this new day. The oaks watch with me. We are each having our own experience. I breathe the Spring air, grateful that my allergy medication has eased my headache, and get to my feet. The clock is ticking and it’s time to begin again.
Seems to be very effective so far… probably doesn’t hurt that the path is mine, and that I choose it myself.
My beloved wakes me early. He can’t sleep. He needs to sleep; he’s got work. I’m keeping him awake? My mind is still numb with sleep, and I don’t fully process what he’s saying. Have I overslept? I get up, dress, and head out, still not quite awake. Nothing is open yet, which seems odd. I get gas and begin to head up the highway “to work”.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I get a couple miles up the highway and finally process what time it is (04:00), what day it is (Tuesday, after a Monday holiday), and where I’ll actually be working, later this morning. I sigh to myself and double back towards my usual preferred walking trail for a weekday morning. Too early for anything but terrible gas station coffee, doesn’t matter anyway (I generally get coffee after my walk not before).
…Damn, though, coffee would be good right now…
I’m so tired.
I’m halfway down the trail when a gray dreary dawn emerges from the darkness. Looks like maybe more rain? My bones ache, muscles too. I’m not really complaining, just noticing. Different tasks and chores over the weekend means different muscles are sore, but I still managed some good self-care and sore muscles from effort mean lasting gains in strength. I’m okay with that. More sleep to recover would have been nice. Meh. I shrug it off and check the report on my CPAP machine app; only five hours. Not really enough (for me, personally, I do best with at least 7.5 hours, minimum), but I’ll get by, and I get another shot at healthy restful sleep tonight.
We rarely deal with ideal circumstances, as human beings. We overcome obstacles every day that we walk life’s path. I breathe, exhale, and relax. The cool Spring air is a little humid, damp, and smells of earth and green growing things. The morning is still and quiet. I spot a toad at the edge of the trail – an unusual sighting, and he’s sort of out in the open. I walk over and gently nudge him, encouraging him to hop into the wet grass, hoping he finds cover and safety there. He continues toward the creek a bit farther on. I find my favorite bench empty, no surprise at this hour. Bits of pale blue sky peak through breaks in the dense stormy clouds.
… Nice enough morning for it, I guess…
I sit quietly, mind mostly empty, still feeling groggy, but awake and unperturbed by the early hour. I’m often on the trail quite early. I watch the clouds moving past overhead. The clock ticks on. I could do more or behave differently, but the moment is fine as it is, and I embrace it with a feeling of contentment. This is pleasant solitary time, and I’m grateful to have the moment. I let my mind wander. Last night was special. I reflect happily on the recollection of shared intimacy and pleasure. I feel loved. (I grin to myself; it’s a very physical feeling.)
I sigh. The HVAC on a building nearby sounds a bit like distant ocean waves. My tinnitus sounds a bit like the buzzing of insects in the background that I remember from the humid southern summers of my childhood. I yawn and observe the dark gray storm clouds developing to the northwest; definitely looks like rain. A farm vehicle traveling too fast down the uneven farm trail that cuts through the vineyard sounds a bit like thunder. I wonder to myself again what reality is even made of?
Beyond the vineyard, storm clouds.
… Mornings like this, the structure of habit and practice is nice to count on; we become what we practice…
I glance at the time. No pressure, I got an early start. Coffee sounds really good though. I decide to get started back toward the car, and coffee. I shrug. Sure. My thoughts can come, too. 😆 It’s as good a time as any to begin again.
Evening Light 