Archives for posts with tag: self-care

I’m sitting quietly, waiting for the sun. It’s a Monday. It is also 10 days until my upcoming coastal getaway. I’m not really counting down the days, although I am eager to enjoy the time painting and savoring my own company. I’m here, now. This isn’t a bad place or time to be. I even got some painting done yesterday. Amusingly, one of the two pieces is a recollection of a foggy sort of misty morning at the very location I plan to stay.

I had originally planned to camp and even try a new spot, but I needed to change the dates to fit my Traveling Partner’s care needs and PT schedule, and the new timeframe has less pleasant weather in the forecast, and I’m not even actually up to the amount of manual labor solo tent camping would require – and it would be a huge struggle to paint outdoors on rainy days. With all that in mind I finally yielded to the obvious and booked a room with an ocean view. Good enough. Better than that, actually, and I am excited.

..I’m also here, now…

My getaway is coming up. I’m pretty much always ready. I’m not emotionally attached to the outcome, because it could be that my partner won’t be enough recovered to really get by adequately without my care. If that’s the case, I’ll cancel with regret, get over my moment of disappointment, and move on. Priorities.

This morning I briefly went over all that in my head, again, and moved on. Again.

My dreams the last several days have been full of war and images of the planet burning. Grim. I avoid taking them personally, or blowing them up into more than what they are – only dreams. Almost unavoidably, the images turn up in my art anyway. My dreams sometimes fuel my inspiration. Modern warfare (any warfare, really) is pretty fucking terrifying. The cost is high. The price of victory excessive in a reality where there are no real “winners”. War makes everyone a loser. Death and destruction and chaos and trauma…no good outcomes in war. The other painting I painted over the weekend comes directly from my nightmares.

Drone warfare and it’s far reaching consequences, reaching even into my art, and my dreams.

Still, painting feels good, and it helps to paint. There was nothing on fire in my dreams last night, although my sleep was restless and interrupted. It’s been pretty bad lately, actually, and I’m not certain why. Maybe physical pain? Background anxiety over distant world events I can’t control? Concern over the upcoming election? (Did you also feel it as a direct threat to your personhood when you read or heard that Trump said “women won’t have to think about abortion anymore” if he is reelected?) It’s a scary world sometimes. I’m glad painting gives me a voice for things I don’t know how to say with words.

Huh. This morning started out fairly cheerful. I find myself wondering if that was a bit forced, or whether I’ve simply managed to make a “wrong turn” somewhere along the way. I give myself time with my thoughts. I’ve got shit on my mind, clearly, and the way out is, reliably, through. I feel that aching need to be heard. To be “visible”. To be understood and validated. Tears well up and spill over. I miss my Dear Friend who died shortly before Spring. There are very few people I feel emotionally safe unburdening myself to, specifically regarding war and trauma and misogyny, and the lingering wounds of ancient personal horrors that follow me still. She was one. Gone now. My Traveling Partner has long been another (but for now I’m in the role of caregiver and must be sparing and deeply considerate about burdening him while he heals). I guess practical wisdom suggests I make an appointment with my damned therapist. That’d be pretty grown up of me.

For now, I breathe, exhale, and relax – and let the tears fall. It’ll pass. That’s predictable and reliable, and there is no shame in honest tears, and there’s rather a lot going on in the world worth crying over.

I look to the sky for any hint of daybreak. Soon. I’ll get a lovely walk in, along a favorite trail, then head home to begin an ordinary enough Monday. My tears will dry, and I’ll begin again.

I’m waiting for another sunrise. It’s quite early, and I am at the trailhead ahead of daybreak. Again. It’s the first day of autumn – the equinox. There’s a thin mist clinging to the ground, rising up from the river. I sit quietly with my thoughts awhile before turning to writing.

Street light dispursed through the mist.

I’ve got a handful of drafts, work in progress. None of them hold my attention this morning. My thoughts are not there. I often “work on” a new bit of writing as I drive to the trail, but this morning I was lost in pleasant daydreams instead. So, this morning my writing is impromptu, raw, unfiltered thoughts-in-the-moment lacking any sort of plan or editing. This is, perhaps, my preferred approach, generally. Certainly, it is the most authentic, spelling mistakes and all.

The first hint of daybreak in the darkness.

This morning I am mostly thinking about love, and hoping my Traveling Partner is getting the rest he needs. He continues to make slow progress towards recovery (from his injury and subsequent surgery). He continues to worry (and so do I) that something got overlooked or misdiagnosed. It’s a reasonable concern. We are concerned, together. As with many things (most things?), we’re in this together… while each having our own experience. Individual perspective. Shared experience. This very human journey is a strange one. I feel fortunate and grateful to share it with him.

My thoughts drift from love (and gratitude) to art. I am looking forward to my October coastal getaway. I’m eager to devote a handful of beautiful autumn days to my pastels. I have so much inspiration welling up from within. I need to take the time for myself. Funny – as soon as the thought forms, it is followed by a question; “can my Traveling Partner make coffee for himself, now?” This seems an important (if very specific and practical) detail, even though the Anxious Adventurer is on hand to help out. Would I even feel comfortable going, if my partner were unable to make a cup of coffee for himself? I think about that for awhile. We are so intertwined, so interdependent. We rely on each other. We’ve “been there” for each other for so long now… In May, it’ll be more than 15 years. My longest romantic relationship. What a beautiful complicated journey. I am fortunate to be so loved.

The gate to the park opens with a slow screech and a dull clang. It’s still too dark to safely walk the trail along the edge of the marsh. It’s the equinox and the sun is sleeping in this morning. lol

Faint hints of the sunrise to come, and the end of a starry night.

I sit quietly with my thoughts of love and a heart full of joy and contentment. This is a truly pleasant and satisfying moment, though in most regards the facts upon which it is built are very like many other quiet moments on other mornings before sun rise. Funny how that is. I sit with my smile and my thoughts, content to be happy, now, without any promises or expectations of future moments feeling similarly. Feelings are feelings. It’s enough to savor the moment and preserve it for future recollections.

A smudge of orange along the eastern horizon hints at the imminent sunrise. I’m glad to see another one. Grateful. How many more? No way to know. I’m okay with the uncertainty. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I swap my shoes for my sturdy boots. I can see the ground, now. Looks like a good time to begin again.

Peculiarly foggy morning, now that the sun is up. The mist crept up from the river bed slowly as the sun rose. The morning, before dawn, was crystal clear and chilly. Summer is already becoming fall.

My Traveling Partner pinged me an early greeting that became a 30 minute conversation, before I set out for my walk. No point trying to walk and text chat at the same time; it renders the experience little more than distracted mindless exercise, which I don’t particularly enjoy. I like to be where I am as I walk, taking in the sights, the changing light, and breathing the fresh air. The exercise is a bonus.

He pings me several times more after my walk begins, but explicitly says “read after your walk” and I mute my ringer happily and walk on. I’m in pain this morning and I definitely need this self-care time. He’s in pain, too, and cheating myself of good self-care doesn’t serve either of us well. I walk on.

The trail is noisy and crowded this morning. I’m in no mood for cheery greetings and human voices, but I set off on my walk much later than usual, choosing conversation over walking, and love over solitude. Choices. I’m okay with it. I just keep walking. The leaves of the oaks take on a golden glow high up, even as the mist swirls around their bases, covering the meadow grass. The horizon is obscured. When I look towards the sunrise, the mist is a golden wash of color, trees and distant buildings silhouetted but not revealed. It’s an interesting effect.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I walk, wondering what the day will hold. What do I want out of it? What needs to get done? What can wait? What might bring me joy? My thoughts are imprecise and vague, not unlike this misty morning, details lost in the fog that has gathered. I don’t make any effort to force things one way or another. It’s a Saturday. I just let my thoughts come and go, like an autumn mist in the morning, trusting that it’ll clear up later. It’s enough to enjoy this moment, walking with my thoughts.

Soon enough I’ll begin again. Until then, I’ve got this moment. I take a few minutes to relax at the edge of the marsh, on a convenient bench at my not-quite-halfway point. I write a few words. Watch the Canada geese drift across the water of the pond nearby. Watch the sun rise. Breathe. Nice morning for it…

… Isn’t this enough..?

I’m sitting quietly, waiting for the sun. I’m sipping an iced coffee, feeling mostly grateful, and mostly in love. Life (and love) has its ups and downs. Aging has the benefit of bringing a bit of perspective, maybe some wisdom, but…it also kinda sucks, fairly often. This mortal sack of flesh feels like a trap as often as it behaves as a useful tool. Maybe that’s my headache talking?

I’m feeling vaguely nostalgic this morning, yearning for a “simpler” time that frankly doesn’t actually exist for me. Those recollections of bygone simplicity are bullshit – fragments of experiences that were far less simple than memory suggests, and far more complicated. Memory, in my experience, is much less nuanced than the lived experience in the moment.

I think about walking the cobbled streets of old Augsburg in the 1980’s… My memory lies to me about what a time it was. The reality? Mental illness was overtaking me, I lived in terror due to domestic violence, and I was fraught with constant anxiety (both personally and professionally). The shopping in Augsburg was great. The people were friendly. The climate was delightful. The holiday market was splendid and the cafes were amazing. So… what is “really true” about my time there? Was it grand or terrible? It’s hard to say. Sometimes I miss Augsburg.

My mind wanders to Fresno. What a very different time in my life. I worked my ass off in construction – but only half of the year, generally. The money was good while the work lasted, each season, but I was trading my health for those dollars one brutal hour at a time and struggling to make ends meet between jobs. I was wracked with constant anxiety and being stalked by my ex. I was living a life of unsustainable extremes – the delights were too delightful, the lows were dangerously low. My self-care… wasn’t care-ful. I was “using myself up” without really understanding the consequences of my choices. I cultivated some amazing (lasting) friendships. Because of those friends, many of whom are no longer in Fresno, I still sometimes miss Fresno in spite of, well… Fresno. lol

My mind wanders to “the woods” at the end of the street where we lived when I turned the corner on childhood and began the painful journey through adolescence. I ran the paths through those woods so many times. Walked them on quiet days seeking peace and solitude. I sat among the trees in the summer heat, listening to the trickle of the creek that flowed through the woods and the buzzing of insects. …I was sexually assaulted there. Somehow, I still remember those woods with great fondness (and, to be fair, the trees themselves were in no way responsible for me being raped).

Funny how nostalgia tries to “tidy things up”. Life – reality – is more complicated than that. Understanding (and accepting) the complexities of life is useful for healing. I can choose to hold on to, and savor, all the beauty and splendor of this mortal lifetime, and set aside the pain (mostly), and learn to bounce back, to let go, and to learn what lessons I can. I can savor the precious memories. I can experience gratitude for the wonders I’ve seen and the love I have experienced. I can reject the darkness and refuse to let it own me.

Nostalgia is weird and complicated. I sit with the good feelings, occasionally stumbling on some painful recollection that finds its way into the mix – like stubbing my toe on a pleasant walk. It’s weird, unexpected, and momentarily distressing. I breathe through the painful memories when they come; they’re part of my life, and I am the woman I am today because life is so much more complicated than a beautiful memory. There’s more to my story, more to my journey, than beautiful sunrises.

I sigh and sip my coffee. Daybreak comes with a hint of orange low on the horizon. I breathe, exhale, and relax. This? This is a lovely pleasant moment, and I am enjoying it. Quiet time well-spent on self-reflection and a bit of nostalgia. I don’t read too much into it. This too shall pass. Moments are brief. Change is. It feels like time to begin again.

This morning an enormous full moon hung overhead as I left the house. I tried to get a good picture of it, which is to say a picture that looked like what I was seeing. This proved quite difficult. The camera “wasn’t seeing it right” – or at least it wasn’t capturing my perspective well, at all. Funny thing is, the camera only sees what’s there. It’s my perspective that’s giving me the beautiful view I’ve got. My brain changes what I see, providing undetected foreshortening, changing the scale based on what seems important to a human primate, things like that. I see a fantastically luminous full moon, very large overhead. The camera shows me what was actually there. I think this is worth thinking about. We create a lot of our experience and what we see and understand about the world. Our perspective may not reliably reflect what reality actually presents.

… Perspective is very personal. We’re each having our own experience…

So, I find myself thinking about the lens through which I view the world. It’s probably worth thinking about.

In the darkness, a man approaches my parked car unexpectedly. This is a first at this trailhead. He appears to be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which seems strange for the chill of the morning. He begins asking, breathlessly, if I would give him a ride home, and says he’s run six miles, which also seems very strange – running at this hour? Along the highway? I firmly reject the request without opening my window and direct his attention to a nearby bus stop. I double check that my car door is locked, though I know it is. The lens through which I view the world tells me this individual is more likely to be dangerous than not.

Daybreak comes soon, but I’ve become reluctant to walk the trail in the early morning twilight. I examine the feeling more closely, as one might examine a watch under a jeweler’s loupe. Am I overreacting? Being ridiculous? Responding to a non-existent threat? Relying too heavily on past experiences with dangerous strangers? Perhaps, perhaps not. Sometimes we only get one chance to be wrong about something like that.

I sit with my thoughts awhile. I think, too, of my Traveling Partner, and the way our experiences with other lovers, in other relationships, informs our responses to each other in some moment of stress or conflict. We’re each having our own experience. Always have been, whether the experience is shared or not. We see the world through a different lens. Our perspective is our own. Even taking a much closer look may not reveal additional commonality so much as blow up our fears or doubts way beyond what they deserve… but it’s quite difficult to remain aware of it in the moment.

Between daylight and darkness.

I see the silhouette of the stranger in the darkness, lingering between the nearby bus stop and the trailhead parking lot. Why? I feel grateful for the techniques I learned for seeing things in the darkness that I learned as a soldier. So many things I have learned in a lifetime have had lasting utility. Unable to ascertain the stranger’s intentions and uncomfortable with his proximity, I move the car into the more distant parking lot as soon as the gate opens. I wait for daylight. I wait for the sunrise. I wait for a different perspective and more information. It’s nothing personal or even directly to do with that stranger; I’m choosing to silence the alarm bells clanging away along my nerves by reducing the potential threat. Feels like the safer choice.

Strange morning. Nothing really wrong, exactly. Good morning to think about perspective and the lenses through which we view the world. How accurate are those, really? I suppose only as accurate as our experiences hone and polish them to be. Probably not very accurate at all – how could they be, if we’re each having our own experience?

I think about conversations with my Traveling Partner yesterday. Some of those went incredibly poorly. Some were contentious, others loving. There were numerous miscommunications and misunderstandings. We don’t reliably see the world (or our shared experience) through the same lens. We’re different people, having our own experience, lived through our own perspective. It’s complicated by my brain damage. It’s complicated by the medication he’s presently on. It’s complicated simply because being human can be so complicated all by itself.

I breathe, exhale, and relax. Today is a new day.  I am fortunate to love so deeply and to be loved deeply in return. I have an opportunity to do better, to be kinder, to listen more deeply and to practice non-attachment. Perspective does matter, and so does giving people the freedom to have their own (and to have that respected). Another breath. Daylight comes. There’s no sign of the stranger who approached me in the darkness earlier. I feel a sense of relief.

It’s time to begin again.