Archives for posts with tag: practicing the practices

I was on the trail just at daybreak. I was up an hour early. In the late Spring, and summer, months it hardly matters; I’ll have daylight for my walk, which beats walking in the dark. Why walk in the dark at all then? Because my morning walk is a practice, for me. It helps start my day gently, with some calm-building exercise and a bit of time for meditation before another work day begins. It works for me.

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

The difference between a “practice” and just some thing I happen to do or try is that a practice has some ongoing specific purpose (otherwise it might be better described as a “ritual”) and recurs with some fixed cadence in a “no end in sight” sort of way. “Practice” suggests continuation of effort, a progression, an active doing. I’m not generally going for “mastery”; the practice itself is the point, however skilled I may (or may not) become.

Meditation is a practice. Walking in the morning before work is a practice. Using a “panic checklist” to ground myself in the midst of a panic attack is a practice. Taking time for self-reflection and writing each day is a practice. A lot of things we do in life could potentially be a practice. In my own use of the term, I am explicitly referring to the things I reliably do to support good mental and emotional health (and to a lesser degree physical health). Most of my practices are things I do every day, with few exceptions. Some practices are things I do when specific conditions are met, or a particular need arises.

An activity of some kind is more likely to be a “practice”, to my own way of thinking, when it is done a specific way for a specific purpose. For example, my morning walk; it is a meditation practice as much as anything to do with fitness, so I walk with a relaxed comfortably brisk pace, and without distractions (no music, no companion, no talking) awake, alert, and aware of my surroundings. I walk, being present and mindful. Oh, sure, some days the pace is difficult, and perhaps I am slowed by disability. Human. Sometimes I walk distracted by my thoughts and rather “far away”, it happens. Very human. Some mornings pings from my Traveling Partner cause me to pause along the way, or perhaps I keep stopping to take pictures. That’s another reason it’s a practice; I’m always working at getting it right. Failure is not only an option, it’s pretty fucking common and very very human. (We learn more from our failures than from our successes.)

Walking as a practice is about steps – one after another after another down the trail, a metaphor for life and living. Meditation as a practice is about discipline, consistency, and creating resilience. Each practice has a point, a purpose, and generally a few fairly simple steps. The apparent simplicity is not an indication of how much effort may be required or whether the practice will be simple to adopt or maintain. I keep wanting to get a healthy strength training practice going. I seem quite good at failing to do so. 😆 Also very human.

Viewing various health supporting activities as practices lets me grow with my learning over time without feeling pressure to perform at some particular level or demonstrate some kind of mastery; I am free to be a student, a learner… a practitioner. Very freeing, and in that freedom I find ease, and value, and joy. Are there more efficient walkers logging more miles on more difficult trails? I don’t doubt there are, but that doesn’t matter and is not relevant to me. Are there individuals who reach advanced states of consciousness or divine revelation through meditation far beyond any achievement of my own? Probably, sure. What’s that to me? It’s not a competition, at all. It’s a practice. I do mine for me. What any other individual is doing or achieving isn’t part of my experience.

I breathe, exhale, and relax – and get on to my meditation practice, after taking a few minutes to write and reflect, from the vantage point of this bench alongside the trail I favor most mornings. Practicing the practices that have proven to be helpful for me. We become what we practice. I sigh and think about that again. Practice. I’ve got a nice set of dumbbells at home, a weight bench, and a very good yoga mat. I’ve even got the time in the evening… a fitness practice suited to my years, and my abilities, is only one step away; the doing of the thing. There are verbs involved.

I sit with my thoughts awhile longer, mostly reflecting on the “why” of really committing to a strength training fitness practice. The improved strength and muscle tone will feel better, and movement will become easier. I may be able to improve my walking speed, and go further, faster, or walk more challenging trails. Improved fitness will likely mean improvements in my breathing and lung capacity. Strength training will improve my caloric burn rate, which may shed some pounds and improve my physical form aesthetically (I like the look of a fit, strong, healthy body). Improvements in movement, fitness, and strength have a really good chance of improving my sexual health – and although I don’t talk much about sex explicitly, I’m still interested, and sexually active (when I can overcome my disabilities). Anything that makes that easier is worth doing! So… strength training? Yes?

I think I’ve got myself talked into it, but practicing a practice isn’t about thinking about it. There are verbs involved. I’ll need to begin again. I get to my feet and look down the trail. It’s a beautiful Spring morning, very promising. I inhale the scents of Spring and exhale feeling content and encouraged. Where this path leads may not be certain – but the journey is the destination. That’s enough for an excellent beginning.

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.

My tinnitus is shrieking in my ears this morning. (Well, okay, more of a high pitched static in the background, if static were made up of tiny chimes vibrating aggressively, with a touch of morse code in the background that I can almost but not quite make out.) It is a beautiful Spring morning in spite of that.

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

In the sunrise, all the promise of a new day.

I slept well and deeply. I woke gently. I dressed, watered the lawn, and headed to the local walking path to get a mile or two on my boots. So far an ordinary enough day. It is a Sunday, and Mother’s Day, but there’s not much to do about that around our house. I’m not a mother. My maternal figures have all passed. I sent my sister a Mother’s Day greeting and let it go. I suppose my Traveling Partner will phone his mother at some point today.

I think about yesterday as I walk. I think about today. Yesterday had some beautiful high points and some frustrating low points, too. I made a batch of excellent brownies. It was all very human. Today will no doubt also have highs and lows, beautiful moments and aggravating mistakes, failed communication and delightful moments of connection. Fucking hell, I’d like to get everything right all of the time, but I don’t see living perfection among the options on life’s menu. I guess I’m grateful that the brownies turned out well, if nothing else. I sigh to myself and keep walking.

Order, and chaos, and beginning again.

Yesterday was spent creating order from chaos. My Traveling Partner continues to move things around in his spaces, preparing for the work ahead, this week. Exciting to see. I help where I can, when I’m asked, and try my damnedest not to break shit, forget something, or misunderstand something obvious – with mixed success. I had expected to spend the weekend relaxing and focusing on my own needs, and my own spaces, and taking care of myself, but it didn’t play out that way; my partner asked for my help. Today, I have less to give. I’m not in as much pain, but my mobility is more limited. Today it takes longer to get to the halfway point on this walk. I’m actually fatigued when I get here. (I’d take a nap right this moment if that were convenient. It isn’t.)

I take a seat on the bench that is next to the trail, under the trees. My legs ache. My back, too. My head spins for a moment with unexpected vertigo and I half wonder if walking was a terrible idea, after all, but I’m here and the Spring air is sweet with the scent of flowers. I breathe it in deeply. The soft scent of joy is in the Spring breeze, it seems to me. I stretch and groan from the sensation of muscles protesting, and stretch again. In each movement, I feel yesterday’s effort.

I make a point of letting all my yesterdays go. This is a new day, and a new moment, all its own, to be lived and savored and enjoyed. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I commit silently to reviewing my to-do list and tackling the tasks that most directly support self-care in some way, and hope that my Traveling Partner doesn’t need much from me. I feel pretty drained and have little to give, but I don’t find denying him easy; I want to help. (Sometimes even at the potential cost of my health, safety, or sanity, and that’s not healthy.)

… Brain damage is hard to live with, and also hard to live around…

A small herd of deer steps from the trees, one by one. Probably the same little herd I see here now and then. Two of the does are obviously pregnant, the other two seem younger. I don’t see a buck anywhere around,  just the four does. They watch me with calm eyes and munch their way along the grassy edge of the trail, nibbling at the grasses and shrubbery. There is blue sky overhead, streaked with clouds, and the tops of the oaks are dark green against the sky. I could sit here for hours just watching the clouds and the wildlife.

Be present.

I meditate awhile. The deer move on. The clock keeps ticking. I wonder if my beloved got the rest he needs for the day ahead? I sigh to myself and get to my feet. It’s already time to begin again.

Ordinary day. Ordinary Spring morning. Overcast skies, mild temperature, still air heavy with the scent of flowers, grass, and tilled soil. The tall oaks along the start of the trail are green now. The visible patches of snow on the distant hills are dwindling.

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

I enjoy this bit of solitude in the mornings, rain or clear skies, fog or a brilliant sunrise, winter, summer, Spring, or fall. This is beautiful quiet time well spent. Vita contemplativa – maybe not achievable for every moment of every day in every lifetime; we don’t all have it like that. I’m grateful for the precious moments I can devote to solitary contemplation, or art, or just daydreaming as the minutes tick past.

Yesterday evening I looked around the house with some amazement. In the short time since the Anxious Adventurer returned to his familiar life and routine in Ohio, we’ve moved things around a lot, reclaimed a lot of space, done some spring cleaning, and generally gotten things more organized. It’s nice to see my Traveling Partner so capable once again, and improving every day. It’s hard to keep up with, though, and I had worn myself down a lot during the most demanding 16 months or so of caregiving. I’m still recovering. This morning I’m feeling the efforts of recent days in the form of an aggravated rotator cuff injury, aching knees and hips, and simple fatigue. (It still beats the hell out of the headache I had yesterday!)

My beloved suggested to me that I take off for a couple days the weekend after payday. (He’d go himself, and give me some alone time at home, but he’s in the middle of a job, and can’t just wander off for a weekend.) The idea is appealing. Would I go to some usual place? Somewhere new? I think it over without coming to any conclusions. It’s an appealing “maybe”.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I repeat as needed. It’s an ordinary work day. I have limited time for daydreaming. (It nearly always feels that way, and I always find it time well spent in spite of that.)

I remind myself gently that there is no pressure, no urgency, and that most seemingly stressful things are likely blown way out of proportion by my aggressively concerned primate mind. I imagine an ape with a laptop frowning at a calendar and chuckle to myself. Yeah, that seems pretty apt. A robin hops past my feet, more attentive to whatever is in the grass than to anything to do with me. I’m reminded that my thinking will be informed by whatever I put my attention on. Choices. I can guide the quality of my experience by choosing what I put my attention on. Useful.

Another breath, another moment, and a new day filled with new experiences. A chance to begin again. What will I do with it?

I sipped my first coffee, feet up, sitting by a cozy fire, watching the light change with the gray coastal dawn. The view to the west is layers of gray and soft blue. For me, this place is more than a delightful destination to get away for a little while; the ocean symbolizes a relentless force of reality that compels self-reflection and forces me to face myself as I watch the waves roll in. There’s no arguing with the ocean. It represents a resilient nature indifferent to external storms, even in the midst of them. Obstacles are washed away, or, like driftwood, piled on the shore, visible, removable, and easy to avoid. The ocean is unyielding about her boundaries, and for me she provokes deep thought, and a presence that I find I must linger with.

…The views from this hotel are spectacular…

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

I pour a second coffee. The coffee machine here is quite clean, and the coffee must be fresher than usual (for a hotel); it’s quite good. I sit watching the waves. The tide is going out. I am surprised by a deer ambling up the steep slope just beyond the window.

It’s worth it to slow down and observe what’s going on, even when nothing seems to be going on.

She looks at me through the window, pauses to nibble some tasty plant, and ambles on.

Two of the women most dear to me (and most significant in my own life as a woman), loved the sea and seaside places. My Dear Friend and my Granny have ended their mortal lives some time ago, but when I am at the seashore, I feel them with me. It doesn’t matter whether it is the rocky coastal beaches of the Pacific Northwest, or the marshy edges of the Chesapeake Bay, or the kitschy seaside towns that tourists flock to each summer. I love being by the shore, too, if only because it connects me so deeply to these two women, who are so much a part of who I am myself. Sometimes when I most need to be alone, I am taking that time to “talk with my ancestors” in a way I find difficult to describe. It sometimes seems funny that I never feel my Dad’s presence in such places; his are the forests and meadows. The ocean seems to me to be a very feminine sort of energy. I find myself wondering if sailors feel that way, too? Theirs is a very different relationship with the sea…

Fisherman early in the morning.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I feel well and whole, and capable. I feel comfortable in my skin and grounded in the goodness of my life. I’ll head home eagerly to see what my Traveling Partner has done while I’ve been gone. He is, himself, a force to be reckoned with, and as his abilities return he is capable of moving mountains (and definitely furniture). Certainly, he moves me.

For now, it’s me and this beautiful expanse of beach, and this gray ocean under a cloudy sky – and another cup of coffee. I’ve got plenty of time to begin again, a little later.