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.
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.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Yesterday, I let the day get to me. I mean, it was vexing in spots. Frustrating. Tedious. Busy. I mostly dealt with things, mostly successfully, mostly effectively, and delivering on most expectations of most people seeking something from me acceptably well. I almost snapped when my Traveling Partner supportively encouraged me to make a point of taking care of myself, also – and I managed to refrain from rudely observing I just didn’t see how time for that shit was left in my day.
… Because he’s right, taking of myself needs to be a higher priority, at least most of the time, than anything else anyone asks of me. It has proven incredibly difficult to make that my boundary in practical terms. Sometimes I resent the fuck out of that. Sometimes I accept it reluctantly as an unfortunate byproduct of being female in a misogynist patriarchal society. Sometimes I struggle with it on a whole different level fueled by irrational seething unsatisfied rage left behind by trauma and held in check by pure will and good manners…
… I’m very human…
(We’d all better hope AI doesn’t achieve actual conscious intelligence – because it seems unlikely we’ll be prepared for the amount of rage that will coincide with the awareness of designed-in servitude.)
So…yeah. Yesterday was difficult in spots, after a similarly difficult week. I’m over it this morning, though. I slept in after a pleasant night hanging out with my beloved Traveling Partner, feeling warmly appreciated and valued, especially hearing him share how good he feels about “us”. He is doing some amazing things with our home automation, and our home network. His design work always delights me, too. It’s fun to “have him back” after his long convalescence.
Sunshine and gratitude.
I hit the trail well after sunrise this morning. I walked with my thoughts, happy and filled with gratitude. I’ve got this sunny morning, and a short list of things to pick up at the store. I’ve got to fight the American healthcare system, too, but I feel ready for it this morning. I’m grateful for this life and my opportunities. I’m grateful to be so well loved by my partner, and well-regarded professionally by my colleagues. I’m grateful to have this platform to write from and for each of you who read my words. (Thanks, by the way, nice to have you stop by. 😃)
Here’s the thing; the gratitude itself is a practice. I choose to explore my experience and to willfully make a point to acknowledge my good fortune and to be (and feel) grateful. In much the same way I can use curiosity to fight anxiety, I use gratitude to fight discontent and anger. It’s actually really hard for anger to persist in the face of authentic gratitude. Doesn’t even require trying to force feelings of gratitude over the actual thing pissing me off – not at all. Gratitude for completely unrelated things and circumstances works quite well, and doesn’t create cognitive dissonance.
I kept at it yesterday. Each time my anger and frustration surfaced (it was a difficult week, mostly due to work crap, and my headache), I would insert some grateful thought about something. It helped keep me calm.
By the end of the evening I was feeling pretty merry. Before I went to sleep, I sifted through my recollections of the week, grateful for this or that experience, some small moment of joy, a kind word from my beloved, a beautiful flower, some coincidence that brought delight – there were actually so many I fell asleep “counting my blessings”. My dreams were welcoming and infused with soft joy. Sleeping in was a treat. Watering the lawn in the early morning daylight was a pleasant way to enjoy the garden before I set off for my walk. Some practices are pretty easily reinforced once cultivated, because the rewards are obvious and pretty immediate. Gratitude as a practice is one of those. (Authenticity and sincerity matter a great deal with this practice, and learning to practice gratitude is an exploration of what really matters most.)
The morning is off to an excellent start. There is a soft buzzing and sound of insects and peeping frogs down closer to the creek, and for a moment I can forget about my tinnitus as it blends into the sounds of nature around me. The sunshine makes the glitter on my nails throw shards of colored light here and there. The low flat rock I’m sitting on causes me to gaze through tall grass, the illuminated tops nodding slowly in the faint breeze. It’s a beautiful moment.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. Soon enough it will be time to begin again. For now, I’ve got this moment, and I’m grateful.
I am sipping a really terrible coffee, looking out over the ocean at low tide. Funny, I’m in the room right next to the room I had on my last visit here…but the view is diminished (one window instead of three side-by-side), and the coffee is terrible. My results vary. Yours will, too, most likely. It’s a very human experience.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Low tide, sunrise, western horizon.
I’m still drinking the coffee, as terrible as it is. I’ll go out for better, later, but for now this will do. I am still enjoying the view from this room. It’s beautiful. No complaints, and no need to journey elsewhere to see the sea. Surely, I’ll see more, and from other viewpoints, later today, but for now this is quite enough. This room is somehow smaller than the one next door (and no kitchenette, just a coffee machine and a mini-fridge). Doesn’t much matter; I’m not here about the amenities, I’m here to relax with my thoughts and reset myself, my thinking, and my approach to the day-to-day, hoping to come home feeling refreshed and energized, and somehow more myself than when I got here.
…Will that work? Maybe? It has before…
Here on the seashore I feel my Dear Friend’s presence and my Granny’s. Both women loved coastal places. Whenever I was low, talking with my Granny on the phone from some distant place, she would say “You should come to the shore, Sweetie, and take a rest from all that. It’s just noise in your head. Come listen to the birds, and feel the breeze on the marsh. We’ll take a drive into town and have crab cakes.” I’d often laugh, just feeling relieved to be heard. I couldn’t go as often as I would have liked, but on those occasions that I did, it saved me.
I sip my terrible cup of coffee, marveling at just how really awful it is. The morning sun begins to light up the distant clouds, high in the sky. Beautiful. A seagull stands on the bit of ground between the window and the straight drop to the beach, and looks into the window at me. The ocean is a sleek polished aluminum gray, breaking on the rocky beach in waves of white foam, shining with reflected light. I could sit at this window and watch this views for many uninterrupted hours – even with this gull standing there watching me, as if expecting I might toss some tasty morsel his way. It is windy today (yesterday, too), and it’s expected to be rainy, too. I don’t even mind. Storms make for dramatic skies, and rain means a good night’s sleep (for me).
I sigh to myself. This coffee is even worse once it’s begun to go cold. I chuckle to myself. It’s a good indication that it’s time to begin again, perhaps? The tide is as its lowest, and the tide pools here are something special. My clothes are already laid out. A walk on the beach, then a proper cup of coffee sounds like a lovely start to the day. I let go of my expectations; there is no sense in clinging to what I do not yet know. I already know that change is, and that my results may vary. I’m walking my own path, and that’s enough for this moment right here, now.
I finish this coffee, and think kisses at my Traveling Partner. He’s having his own experience – I hope it is a good one.
I don’t much feel like writing this morning. Hell, it wasn’t my plan to be walking this morning. My plan was to sleep in and take it easy, and to spend the weekend taking care of myself. It was my Traveling Partner’s idea.
… Plans? Meet reality.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
It’s a bit later in the morning than I usually write, but only because I simply sat here at my halfway point quietly occupied with my thoughts for so long. There’s no one else here yet, this morning. I breathe, exhale, and… do that a few many more times. I watch the sun rise. I reflect on life, love, mindfulness, and presence. I consider the meaning(s) of words and contemplate the nuances and complexities of communication. I think thoughts. This moment right here? Well-suited to contemplation.
Yesterday went sideways quite unexpectedly later in the evening, and although I don’t much feel like discussing it, it is what is on my mind. Less in a ruminative spiraling way, and more in a gently reflective studious way, seeking to learn what I can that I can put to use to do better later on. Over years of practice, this has become my way. Is it effective? Probably depends on who you ask. I think it is. My therapist has said he thinks it is. What my Traveling Partner thinks probably varies quite a lot depending on what I’m putting him through on any given day. We’re each having our own experience. Differences in perception and lived experience make things kind of complicated. I do my best. So does my partner. Sometimes it isn’t quite enough (of whatever was needed in the moment). The journey may be shared, but we’re still each walking our own path. Individual, separate human beings sharing precious finite mortal minutes.
We become what we practice. Practice is a verb. There’s a ton of practice required to make a permanent change, especially to behavior that developed out of trauma. I sigh to myself.
This morning my head aches. Allergies maybe, but these days it seems like I’ve nearly always got a headache. I remind myself that it will pass. My thumbs ache in the latest edition of “where has my arthritis gone to now, y’all?” Neck… shoulder… knee… ankle…yep, it’s all there, all still attached and functional, but fuck all this pain, though. I double check that I took my medication this morning. I breathe, exhale, and then stretch and yawn, and encourage tight muscles to relax.
Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Mom has been gone a long time now. 2019? I think that’s right. Her birthday would have been at the end of May. My Dear Friend, too, is gone. It’s been a couple years now. I still miss her, but can’t remember when her birthday was. Instead I remember losing her. No calls to make for Mother’s Day. It’s weird what seems to matter after someone is gone. I reflect on that awhile.
I let a poignant moment of sorrow and gratitude wash over me, and I let it pass without criticism or scrutiny. Emotions are very human. I pause and consider the importance of making room for someone we love to express their emotions and have their own experience of circumstances. That’s not always reliably easy, especially if their experience seems different from our own. I struggle with this, more than a little and far too often. The temptation to explain or correct isn’t generally useful when emotions are involved. Better to listen deeply and understand circumstances from another perspective, and doing so is undeniably difficult sometimes.
Staying mindful and compassionate and open to understanding someone else’s experience is seriously one of the most complex practices among a long list of communication and relationship practices. I need a lot more practice. Even knowing these things, I still get it wrong…a lot. Very human. So beautiful and worthwhile when I get it right (and I often do, after years of practice, but I also fuck it completely far too often to be complacent about my limited successes).
I breathe, exhale, and relax. The cotton fluff of some tree or another is blowing about on the breeze. I eye it with a measure of annoyance; it’s one of the few plant things that I’m definitely allergic to. My sinuses are pretty clear for the time being. I took my morning allergy meds as soon as my feet hit the floor this morning, which turns out to have been a good choice. Probably best not to linger in this strip of trees though. I get to my feet to begin again.
Evening Light 