I’m okay, for most values of “okay”. It’ll have to do. It’s honestly not worth the effort to bitch about anything going on with me. Mundane stuff. How are you? I care and I’m curious. (Comment if you wish.)
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I’m sitting at the halfway point on this hike, and probably life as well (if I’m lucky enough to be around to see 120-ish). I have felt as though I’ve been living life “at the halfway point” for awhile now, 15-20 years maybe. It has been a time of struggle, change, healing, and growth. I’ve made some good friends in this time, I’ve probably lost more.
…There’s never a guarantee that life’s scale would balance for me as an unremarkable individual human primate, one of many…
I breathe, exhale, and relax. The cycle is a simple one. My day begins. I do my best. I survive the experience. I sleep, wake, and begin again. And again. And again. Eventually, the sands of time will run out on this one mortal experience. I’ve no idea what’s after that – no one has come back to say. I sit with that thought awhile. Uncertainty. Impermanence. Change. Big ideas that seem smaller under the black night sky. Doesn’t matter. My time. My thoughts.
I meditate. Enjoy the mild autumn morning. Watch for daybreak. Write a few words. I’d rather be setting up my easel for another piece, but it’s a work day. I think ahead to the weekend. Soon.
This is one of those mornings that feels almost like a throwaway moment, “nothing to see here”, as if it were a rerun, and not because I have a routine. It’s more that the moment is unremarkable, which is true in all but one way; the very ordinariness itself. The gentle mundanity is so spectacularly strange feeling to me sometimes, I find it remarkable. Very little of my life has been gently ordinary. I don’t really know whether (or quite how) to enjoy it. I wonder how many such moments I have undermined with unnecessary drama or emotional bullshit in the past simply because I didn’t know how to deal with the ordinary?
I sigh to myself and notice the trees seem more obvious, silhouetted against the sky, than they did moments ago. Daybreak soon, I suppose. Another sigh. I get to my feet and stretch, looking down the path. It’s only a moment. I begin again.
It’s a strange world we live in. AI recruiters interviewing fake job applicants while real people struggle to find work adequate to pay the bills. A government that doesn’t get anything useful done for the people being governed, because grifters and criminals own the Whitehouse. Healthcare that sick people can’t afford. I could go on…it actually does get worse.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I take a deep breath of the strangely warm mild autumn air. The morning is peaceful out on this trail. Quiet. As though all is well and right with the world (it isn’t). I walk on, pulling myself back to this moment, here, now, each time my mind wanders to troubling news reports. (How about the one where the US president explicitly threatens nuclear genocide against a foreign nation?) I think about work and haul my mind back from that, too. Now is not the time for any of that. Now is a time for peace and contentment.
… How much more wonderful would this world be if each global citizen faced each moment from the position that “now is a time for peace”? Something to consider. Where do you stand on peace..?
You may be inclined to say I am being naive, but I gotta say, I didn’t kill anyone yesterday. Did you? I bet not. So, clearly it is possible not to kill. Good start on peace is not killing people. Clearly it can be done. I’m annoyed by how persistently people refuse peace and the ridiculous excuses they make to justify their hate and violence.
I sit watching the night sky. It’ll be dark awhile longer. I reflect on the lovely connected peaceful evening I shared with my Traveling Partner yesterday. He bought dinner. We hung out watching miscellaneous funny shit together and laughed. We needed some good laughs. Laughter gets people through a lot of tough times.
… So does love…
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I take in the peacefulness of this quiet morning. I’m grateful for another day. For the moment, shrugging off chronic pain seems almost effortless (it isn’t really, I simply took appropriate medication soon enough to get ahead of it a bit). Meditation. Write a few words. Sit with this peaceful now. Enjoying the darkness before dawn. Gathering my resolve to face the challenges of a new day. Wondering for a moment what the day might hold…
Hints of daybreak lighten the sky slowly. I think about beginning again.
Sometimes it happens. A sound. A weird shadow. A scent. Something “brings it all back”, and I find myself triggered. Again. This is always unpleasant. When I’m at work, and my time is not my own, it’s beyond unpleasant, and worse than “not ideal”, by far. It has career limiting potential.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
…When a colleague leaves work abruptly for no obvious reason, dropping everything to make haste for the exit, it’s the kind and compassionate option to assume positive intent, and to understand that we all go through some shit…
Well, I haven’t left work (abruptly or otherwise), I guess maybe that’s a win? But I’m sitting here shaking uncontrollably, as if shivering from the cold (it’s not cold in this library, and I have a fleece on). Back to back messages from my Traveling Partner, followed by a phone call (while I was already on a work call) – an emergency? I mean, for some values of “emergency” I guess. No one was bleeding. No one was at risk of imminent death. Nothing was on fire. Being triggered does not ask those kinds of questions or set those kind of limits. My beloved brought his stress to the person he felt could most likely resolve it – totally makes sense. Unfortunately, the details, and the emotional load, were such that I also became triggered.
…Now I’m dealing with my shit. At work. No one needs this. I definitely don’t need this. (I’m sure he didn’t either.) So… now what? My personal demons are taking great delight with the circumstances as I sit here shaking. My headache tears through the left side of my face as the tension causes whatever causes my occipital neuralgia to flare up. I feel my clenched jaw being… clenched. Fucking hell.
No seriously – now what? Now-fucking-what, b1tches?! (Inappropriate. I can do better.)
I take a breath, and exhale slowly. I take another. I keep breathing. Exhaling. Relaxing – or at least trying to. I pull my posture more upright. I stand and stretch – still taking those deep cleansing breaths. I let work fall by the wayside for a moment – well, for 10 minutes, with a timer. I don’t think about it piling up. I don’t think about who may be waiting for a question they need an answer to. I just breath. Stretch. Let my mind wander a bit.
…Type a few words…
It’s not a perfect solution. It doesn’t always resolve the panic of being triggered – but it beats nothing at all. I dig around in my purse; this calls for prescription strength anxiety relief. I take a moment to appreciate how rare that really is these days…
One very useful thing about yesterday is that it is reliably in the past. We can let that go, when we’re ready to.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I look down the path, back the way I came. The trees along the path, a strip that runs along a creek bank, are tossing about wildly. My choice of “halfway point” seems potentially regrettable, given the violent winds. I look down the path in the other direction, and contemplate the rainy hours in the forecast, ahead. I’m not wearing, nor did I bring, my rain poncho – another potentially poor choice. I sigh to myself, wondering what will come of it.
There’s a weather alert this morning; high winds. Yep. I see that with my limited human eyesight. The wind is definitely blowing quite ferociously. The trees near me are swaying. From somewhere nearby I hear the kind of cracking noises that suggest one or more of these trees may be felled by the wind. The sound makes me uneasy. This seems reasonable.
… I somehow manage to doze off briefly, sitting here, upright, wind-buffeted, phone in hand. I wake with a start when my head begins to pull me forward as I nod off. Am I tired? I’m not certain of that, but my sleep has been interrupted and of poor quality for a few nights now. The lack of deep restful sleep since I returned home from the coast is already wearing me down. I’ll feel better after some coffee, I reassure myself. The wind keeps blowing, without comment.
“Seeing Red”, 2026
I sit awhile listening to the trees creaking and groaning as they sway in the wind. The work day yesterday was …fine. Predictably busy. The evening after work was mostly a whirlwind of errands, followed by a serious failure to connect with my beloved Traveling Partner in a meaningful way. The evening fell apart in a cascade of misunderstood remarks, hurt feelings, and not feeling heard. I went to bed early with minimal attention to self-care. At that point I just wanted to be alone with my pain and irritation, feeling peculiarly invisible, and having nothing leftover to deal with any of that.
Detail from “Emotion and Reason” 2012
…At some point my beloved stepped quietly to the side of the bed in the darkness, and touched me softly. He tenderly stroked my cheek with a favorite soft plush toy, a tiny kitten, and placed it near me.
Sometimes this can feel a very lonely journey; we are not alone. ❤
Detail of “Communion” 24″ x 36″ acrylic on canvas w/ceramic, 2011
Later, when he woke me because it sounded like maybe I wasn’t breathing comfortably, the little stuffed kitten was still in my hand. He said something about my fist being clenched around the hose of my CPAP mask. I mumbled something and got up to pee without ever really waking up, and taking an allergy pill as I went back to bed. It wasn’t surprising that I might have been struggling with breathing easily (and it wasn’t allergies); my clenched fist had covered all the little holes that help with exhalation. I do wonder a bit what I might have been dreaming about.
This morning I feel okay. Yesterday is in the past. I linger on the memory of my Traveling Partner’s tenderness.
The rain begins to fall. I wrap my fleece tightly around me, zipped up, and pull the hood over my hair. It’s no rain poncho, though.
…I get to my feet and head back to the car, quickly, taking a shortcut through the vineyard, by way of the agricultural road, to the parking lot…
I am not quite soaked when I reach the car, and I’m grateful for the towel in my gear bin, and my other hoodie, clean and dry. I towel my hair dry in the car, and change into the dry hoodie. I’m glad it’s Friday. I’m glad I was prepared for the rain, in spite of being too stupid this morning to wear (or bring along) my rain poncho. I’ve managed to avoid most discomfort. My jeans are wet, but not so much that I’m in misery, and they should dry pretty quickly. I blot them with dry sections of towel, rather ineffectively, and without concern. I listen to the wind and rain, feeling the car rock, as I warm up. I’m okay for nearly all values of okay. It’s enough.
Weather changes. Storms blow in, and blow over. Very little in life is permanent – or personal. The world can be a callous and indifferent place. We have these few precious mortal moments, and each other. I listen to the rain awhile longer, reflecting on life and love, and feeling grateful that nightmares fade so quickly..
Every moment of growth is as a rainbow in a stormy sky; a promise of better things.
…A few more quiet minutes listening to the rain, then I’ll begin again…
I dance around the room on stiff legs, feeling the sore muscles of a good weekend of painting, and starting the packing. It’s a different playlist this morning, different songs, and a different path – back to life, back to reality. Four new paintings – not a bad weekend of painting. I’m pleased with the work. The coffee in the room isn’t terrible this morning, either – it’s almost good. It’s definitely coffee.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Home this morning, later. Each time I pass the new work as I move between tasks, I feel “lifted”. I feel restored and recharged and satisfied. It’s not the satisfaction of cheesecake, or even of good coffee. It isn’t the satisfaction of good sex. It seems very much it’s own thing, most closely similar to the satisfaction of “coming up for air” after reading a really great book… only… I “wrote the book”, too. I only achieve this feeling from painting, and occasionally from writing (poetry, generally, when that happens). Is it about creating – or expressing? I’m not sure. Maybe answering that riddle will “break the spell”?
One measure of satisfaction.
I sigh to myself happily. Oh definitely actually happy; it is a wonderful feeling, however fleeting. It is no wonder people chase this emotion (although that’s no way to achieve it). I sip my coffee and reflect on the weekend. It has had some lovely high points.
Serendipity and timing; getting that lucky shot isn’t something to plan.
I still can’t quite believe I slept in so effortlessly, every morning, waking to the sound of gulls and morning sunshine, or the alarm for my morning medication, or some other “not early” event. It was delightful. I was unsurprised and did not resist when I woke at my usual time this morning, well ahead of the sun. I got up, showered, dressed, and got a walk in, down on the beach in the darkness (with my headlamp on). The tide was out, and the broad expanse of firm beach let me get a good mile or so of walking before my coffee. The resumed routines click into place like dominoes made of comfort and familiarity.
I’m out of coffee, and don’t feel like upsetting my tummy with black tea. I decide to walk down to the closest cafe, which makes an excellent cup of coffee, and maybe a breakfast sandwich? I give that some thought, staring out the open balcony door at the misty foggy morning beyond the hotel. A good day to return home, I think to myself, lacing up my boots. I gather a couple packed items already ready for loading into the car; if I take them down with me now, it’ll feel less like hustling later.
Foggy misty morning. Time to go home.
Back with coffee, and a small fresh almond croissant – I don’t think I’d have believed these were made in-house if I hadn’t seen her rolling out layers of pastry dough yesterday afternoon, and seen them pulled from the oven this morning. The pleasing, somewhat grainy coarseness of the marzipan suggests that, too, was made right there. It’s a treat, and I savor it with my coffee and watch sea gulls on invisible air currents watching me, in case I might decide to share.
It is clear this pigeon considers this balcony “theirs”.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. A wee bite of breakfast and a good cup of coffee help get me going for the day, for real. There’s packing yet to do, and maybe I have time to paint just one more piece… I think about it and sip my coffee. I remind myself that I don’t need to be here, to paint; my studio is well-equipped for it. I didn’t even come here for inspiration – I brought an ample supply with me. I simply needed a bit of a break, and some solo time. I could have come here for inspiration – and surely would have found it – but that was not the need being addressed this time. I needed time in my own head, uninterrupted, focused, creative time spent immersed in the processes to do with painting. One challenge my Traveling Partner and I share is my apnea; I’m as prone to sometimes just not breathing when I’m awake, as I am when I sleep. It’s been that way for some unknown measure of time, and while the CPAP machine is a great solution for sleepapnea, it’s not particularly well-suited to daytime hours. The result is that I sometimes stop breathing while I’m deeply engaged in painting (or thinking, or reading), and as my SpO2 level drops and my body begins to do what bodies do when someone isn’t breathing, the signs of physical stress (unnoticed by me, often), get to my Traveling Partner and cause him stress, too. We are social mammals. We’re made to detect stress in “the herd”.
[Note: I’m not a doctor, nor am I a biologist, nor scientist armed with rigorous research, just a human being, being human, and noticing some things – don’t make important life decisions based on what some blogger said!]
The result of me not breathing goes beyond the eventual stress it will also cause to my beloved, himself; he will seek me out, interrupt whatever I am doing, and remind me to breathe. He’s not being mean or undermining my focus deliberately for some ill purpose, he’s taking care of me (and himself). It is also an interruption, and it does mess with my creative headspace, and that can make it hard to paint and enjoy the experience. (So, um, breathe, bitch, jeez.) Staying “too aware” of my breathing can also undermine my creative focus. It is a difficult path to follow. …But this fragile vessel does need oxygen. That’s pretty much non-negotiable. I smile to myself, grateful to have a partner who really does care whether I live or die. It’s a nice feeling to be loved.
I look over the new work again, before gently packing it for the trip home. This is always a process I face with a hint of concern, working in pastels. The work is relatively fragile, especially compared to the highly durable nature of acrylic work. I worried it will become smudged or scraped, or bent, or damaged in some way before I can place it somewhere carefully until it is framed. Oh, not worried enough to wreck a lovely morning, but there in the back of my mind is always that bit of concern. I know to work with care, when I pack them.
I sip my coffee contentedly. Gratefully. It’s been a splendid break. I think I found some shards and lost bits of myself over the course of these few days. Handy, and also worth further reflection. A stripe of blue sky tears the dense gray clouds with a bit of color. Pretty. A good time to begin again, I suppose…
