I arrive at the trailhead in darkness. In one direction, fog in the low places, a bright waning moon overhead. In the opposite direction, a clear starry sky, a “Starlink train” of (probably) recently launched satellites still very much visible to the naked eye. I count seven, and watch them wink out of sight as they pass into the Earth’s shadow one by one.

[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]

I make my way down the trail in the moonlight. If it weren’t for this fog, the moonlight would be enough to light the way. The fog obscures my vision and I’m grateful for my headlamp. The air is crisp and cool, and the scents of Spring are gone. Already, the scents of summer have begun to yield to those of autumn. A smattering of scattered leaves on the trail (clearly not left from last year) tell me that the change of seasons is coming. I walk on. I’m okay with the seasons. Change is.

Yesterday was a pleasant day. Uneventful. Simple. Uncomplicated. I enjoyed that. I savor the recollection as I walk, and give those pleasant moments as much attention as I might give some stressful moment. It is a practice that gently improves my implicit experience of my life and reinforces the good in it. This is an important practice for anyone trapped in feelings that life is “always” miserable in some fashion. Life is not “always” anything at all. Nor is life “never” something, aside from death itself, I suppose. There’s simply too much variety of experience.

Subjectively, my experience of chronic pain tempts me into thinking I am “always” hurting at the maximum possible amount of pain I ever experience, when I look back during some especially pain filled day. It’s not accurate. My pain level varies, some moments worse than others, and some rare days almost pain free. Failing to really pause and appreciate moments and days with less pain slowly results in my implicit recollection of pain becoming “always”, and leaving no room to enjoy other experiences.

I get to my halfway point shortly after daybreak. As my view of the meadow and oak savannah become clearer, I see other people on the trail at distant points. Even from here, I see the cameras. Photographers, probably birdwatchers hoping for a great shot of some particular bird. It’s a good time for migratory shore birds and song birds, and the herons that visit look grand and mysterious standing in a shallow pond wreathed in mist. I’m still reliably surprised when there’s anyone here this early besides me. 😆

Later this morning, I’ll make the drive to enjoy coffee with the Chaotic Comic. She’s been struggling with some health difficulties and it has kept us from meeting up. It will be good to catch up, although it also serves to remind me of other friendships I have neglected that are deserving of my attention. I miss the Author, the Writer, and the Elephant Keeper, and other friends around whom my days revolved in the 90s. It seems a long while ago, and a lifetime away from here and now. I miss those friendships and the sweltering summer nights in the Tower District, prowling the local cafes for entertaining conversation until closing time.

I sigh and pull myself back to this moment betwixt meadow and hillside, looking out over the marsh ponds, quite small in the dry summer months. The sky is a pale autumn blue, dotted with cottony gray clouds. It’s a pleasant moment, uncomplicated and quietly joyful. I sit with it, grateful for the peace and solitude for some little while, and still managing to miss my Traveling Partner.

I take my GMRS radio out of the pocket of my fleece and request a radio check for the hell of it. I get a reply from someone in Dayton, between here and home. Not bad. I feel somehow safer from encroaching chaos and disorder, though it may be an illusion. I shrug and put my radio back into my pocket. Cellular service is not reliable here, and that’s true of many places I walk. It’s nice knowing I could get an emergency communication to someone with my radio, if I fell and were injured.

… I breathe, exhale, and relax…

I watch the sunrise. For no clear reason, I hear “Vincent” by Don McLean in my head. I softly sing the words out loud to myself, surprised that I remember them. Unexpected tears slide down my face. I don’t do anything about that. I sit with my feelings. They aren’t my enemy, they are telling me something, and I pause to listen.

… And then I begin again.