I’m sitting at the “halfway point” of this walk on a familiar trail, chuckling to myself over my lack of precision. It’s not actually halfway. Depending on whether I complete the loop, or turn back the way I came, it’s more or notably less than halfway. lol It’s a convenient stopping point sort of halfway-ish, with a pleasant spot to sit for a few minutes, that’s all. I routinely refer to this as halfway, in much the same way I might cut a sandwich in two pieces, and call each piece “half” of the sandwich without regard to how evenly split it actually is. Just saying… I’m not measuring these things for accuracy.
… I’m living my life…
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The morning feels strangely compressed. Shorter. As though the minutes are somehow going faster. I know it’s not an accurate perception of time. Firstly, I slept past my sunrise alarm, and woke some minutes later to the lights on full brightness. Now, I’ve been sitting here listening to birds chirping and singing alongside this trail for who-knows-how-long – I definitely don’t. I didn’t check the time when I stopped. It’s been… some time. Honestly, it’s already time to head back to the car. Here I sit. Quietly. Contentedly. Enjoying this moment. It’s enough. I’d linger in this feeling for much longer, were that an option. All day maybe, as I might choose to do while camping. I sigh to myself and think my thoughts awhile longer.
… It’s time to plan some sort of camping trip, maybe…
Pause for a moment. Breathe.
Vita contemplativa. Ichi-go ichi-e. Each time for the first time, each moment the only moment. What a deliciously luxurious feeling it is to slow down. I stretch and enjoy the sunrise.
I know, I know, moments are fleeting. The clock is ticking. It’s time to begin again. I will…soon. For now, I’m enjoying this lovely moment.
I am thinking about the work still ahead to bring my studio back to a work ready state. There’s vacuuming to do, clutter to remove and sort through, and basic housekeeping. I’ll be able to move the cabinets that are both flat storage of small canvases and also work surfaces back into the studio after those other details are handled. There are art supplies in storage that can come home. I thoughtfully examine a long glittery fingernail while wondering how much storage may have degraded some paint over time? It’s back to shorter nails, too; easier to hold a brush with a steady hand, or quickly touch something up with the edge of a fingertip. I know what matters most to me.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
No AI used in the pictures, either, just a cell phone camera, no touch ups. No filters.
It was just the start of sunrise when I reached the trailhead this morning. Chilly. A mist clinging to low places. Pretty morning, and I stepped out of the car delighted to see the clouds disappearing toward the horizon, infused with pink.
I watched the moon set as I walked. I listened to flocks of geese passing overhead, and little birds in the trees as I passed by. What a lovely morning!
Steps on a path.
I get to my halfway point, and sit in the morning sunshine for a little while, feeling it warm on my back. I fill my senses with Spring sights and scents and sounds. I’m eager to be back at my easel, painting. I feel energized and inspired.
It feels good to have my studio back. It also feels a little weird. I’ve spent two years being accommodating, and now I am able to stretch and fill my space with inspiration and purpose. I’m grateful for this opportunity to really appreciate how fortunate I am. It was 35 years of painting before I ever had a dedicated studio space, and that first one only lasted a year – but I learned a lot about what I need artistically, and what matters most. We bought our little house in small town America, my Traveling Partner and I, in part because this little house has enough room for a small art studio for me (a bit of design and shop space for him was something that developed later, and our wee house is a little small for all of everything, but it’s generally enough).
I sit swinging my feet as I sit on this fence rail thinking about the weekend. There’s plenty to do. I try sorting things in my head, first by priority, then by level of enthusiasm, then by difficulty. None of that works; there is a necessary and rather practical order of operations to most of it. Nested tasks that only make sense in one sequence, mostly, and a few other tasks that will create pleasant breaks.
… And then there’s the garden; it’s s lovely sunny day and the garden wants attention…
I breathe, exhale, and relax. The path unfolds ahead, and I need only walk it. The destination? A work ready studio, a cozy, tidy library, and a lovely garden; isn’t that enough? I sigh contentedly, enjoying this moment just as it is. It too is enough. I hop down from the fence rail, startling s bunny in the grass I hadn’t seen approaching, and get ready to walk on. It’s time to begin again.
The moment begins with a coffee. Ethiopian beans, a medium roast, ground medium fine, to make a lovely pour-over to which I’ve added a bit of powdered vanilla and dried rose petals, before I begin the pour. I take my coffee to the garden.
I sip and I think, and I watch a blue jay, watching me. He is, I think, a blue jay who was born quite nearby, a couple years ago, and he returns to my garden each Spring, often following me around as I work in various flower beds and raised beds. When I walk away from one bit of work, he inspects it with interest, before following me to the next spot. I call him “Bob”, but he doesn’t answer to that name. Neither does he fly away startled. He often seems interested in what I have to say. lol Today he left me an acorn while I watched, and flew to a nearby branch to watch me. I pocketed his gift (and said “thank you” lol) and it is still in my pocket, now.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
… Later, my Traveling Partner will point out that the blue jay I saw is probably not the same blue jay, and that their lives are rather short. I consider that, and wonder how much memory they might pass on, reminded of a video we recently watched, about butterflies. I call them all “Bob” anyway, so in some sense it hardly matters, and the jays have never objected.
The primroses are blooming.
I spent a beautiful morning in the garden, pulling weeds from the veggie bed and putting down compost. The work is unfinished, though I got quite a lot done, and that is the way of big projects, isn’t it? We work to a plan, overcome challenges, use available resources, notice some lack in the available materials… Well shit.
I ran out of compost at about the same time that I ran out of energy, and limped out of the garden reluctantly, boots muddy, muscles sore. What a lovely way to celebrate the Equinox, hands in the fertile earth – a favorite Rite of Spring. The entire time I worked in the garden, my beloved Traveling Partner was working in his shop. I could hear the music of the machines while I worked. I found particular joy and comfort to hear the sounds of my partner working.
A new day dawns. What will you do with the opportunities?
This morning I woke ahead of my alarm, and rose expecting to feel stiff from yesterday’s effort. I feel okay. Capable. Strong. All things considered, I’m not as strong as I’d like to be and have more limitations than I prefer, but I feel good today and for all observable values of “good”, I feel pretty splendid, actually. I smile as I drive to the trailhead. It’s a lovely morning to put some miles on my boots before returning home. I’ll stop for a bag of compost on my way home and go back to the garden. It is my way of celebrating the coming of Spring. Tomorrow is soon enough for laundry and whatnot.
As I cross the marsh, I listen to the robins singing their noisy morning song, and geese calling to each other overhead. Lovely morning for walking, and I have the trail alone, too. The solitude feels like a gift. I grin and think of my Traveling Partner, sleeping at home. I’m glad he’s getting the rest he needs. He’s in the middle of a job and needs to be rested in order to be focused, relaxed, and able to work with the full measure of his skills.
I smile, feeling incredibly loved as I recall that he’s made reservations for us to celebrate our anniversary at a Michelin starred restaurant that recently appeared on a list of “best in the nation” eateries. I’m excited to go, and even more tickled that the whole thing is his idea. I feel very loved and filled with gratitude for my partner’s recovery from injury.
I walk with my thoughts all the way to far side of the marsh, past my usual halfway point. I take a side trail I usually skip, just for fun, to the top of a hill, expecting a view out over the marsh… No such view has been preserved here, and I find myself in a grove of oaks surrounded by a dense thicket of brush and shrubbery. I’m not disappointed, just reminded how often our expectations have no direct connection to reality. It’s a pleasant spot to write and meditate, so I do that, taking a seat on a fallen tree trunk. It’s a beautiful quiet place.
I finish my writing, and my meditation, and find myself in daylight, sun up, and blue sky overhead. The garden is waiting. It’s a good time to begin again. I get to my feet and get started. The clock is ticking and this trail isn’t going to walk itself. 😁 Later, I’ll make coffee… perhaps with a hint of rose and vanilla.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I sit quietly along this trail, appreciating a new day, a good mood, and having enjoyed a good night of rest. Small things, and still worth appreciating. A lot of small things have joy and wonder and plenty of value worth appreciating.
One moment, and the dawn of a new day.
The western sky is taking on some lovely pink hues along the edges of the clouds. I hear voices coming up the trail, rather loud for so early. “…use this trail almost around the clock, so we….” They come into view as they round the bend. I call out a cheery “Good morning!”, hoping to avoid startling them. “Morning, Young Lady!”, one replies. “We’re going down to put up caution tape and cut off a section of this trail for safety,” says the other. I ask if I’ll still be able to walk the loop all the way around with a detour, and they reply that I will. They walk on. I wave as they depart and they return the gesture. Human beings, being human.
Our words matter. Our gestures matter. Our ability and willingness to include others and to communicate matter. We have so much to offer each other and the world. Good things. We choose, and act on our choices. The consequences of our choices are our own to endure, and to be responsible and accountable is not something we can dodge or defer indefinitely. The bills will always come due. Worth thinking about.
Choose wisely. Speak gently. Act with intention.
The clouds roll past overhead, and it’s a gray sort of dawn. For a moment I catch a glimpse of a luminous fat full moon peaking through clouds and tangled bare branches. Pretty. It doesn’t last. Moments are brief. Impermanent. There’s something to be learned from that. I sigh quietly. I am wrapped in contentment and not eager to move from this place or this moment. The clock is ticking, though, and moments don’t last, even when we linger.
I stand and brush some damp leaves off my jeans and look down the path. New day. New moments. Time to begin again. I smile to myself and set off down the path.
“Slow down”, I reminded myself. It is a very foggy morning. Visibility is poor on the highway, and in the darkness it would be far too easy to overlook a deer or a person attempting to cross the road. There was no traffic at all, only fog, and darkness interrupted periodically by streetlights.
The phrase “slow down” resonates in my thoughts as I drive up the highway to this morning’s trail of choice. It becomes a song in my head. It’s an old old hit song, full of optimism. I sing out loud as I drive, surprised to remember the lyrics.
The reminder to slow down continues to resonate in my thoughts, rippling beyond the obvious practical meaning and through other thoughts, washing over the recollections of other experiences. Sometimes I “go too fast” and get swallowed up by imagined urgency, or distracted from enjoying life by self-inflicted busy-ness. I reflect on that as I drive.
I get to the trailhead before daybreak. It’s very early, and very quiet. The fog on the marsh obscures my visibility even more than the darkness, and my “view” is limited to the bobbing circle of light cast ahead of me by my headlamp. Headlights of passing cars on the highway adjacent to the edge of the meadow and marsh sweep past casting strange shadows in the fog. Several times I think there is someone else on the trail ahead. There isn’t. I’ve got the trail to myself this morning.
I get to my halfway point, still wrapped in darkness and fog. I sit quietly, enjoying the stillness and solitude. I meditate. I wait for daybreak. I’m not in any hurry at all, and that feels good. Restful. Luxurious. I breathe, exhale, and relax, and contemplate how best to communicate the practical value of slowing down. I’m not suggesting do less, it’s a more subtle consideration. It’s more about presence, awareness, and deliberate mindful action, and refraining from “filling space” with motion and task handling just to stay busy, or to overcome boredom.
…Go ahead and bebored now and then, it’s probably good for you…
Daybreak comes. The sky shifts slowly from the undefined foggy darkness to a hint of a paler bluer gray in the sky, the oaks on the hillside on the other side of the trail are silhouetted, a feathered dark edge where the sky begins. I breathe the fresh chilly autumn air. The marsh has a very specific scent of its own. I don’t have words to describe it, and I enjoy it wordlessly. I hear a noise and look down.
Near my feet a young raccoon has approached me unnoticed. I manage to avoid being startled, but hear my own voice call softly, seeming unnecessarily loud in the gloom, “Oh, hey there! Don’t have rabies, okay? You should go back to your mama, Kiddo.” The youngster stands briefly on hind legs, looking me over curiously, before dropping back to all fours, turning and waddling quickly away, into the taller grass between this bit of fence I’m sitting on, and the marsh pond beyond.
I sit awhile longer, grateful for this quiet contemplative time to myself. Vita activa may fulfill a sense of purpose (or one’s bank account), but it is vita contemplativa that I personally find most valuable for finding that sense of purpose in the first place. Our mortal lives are finite and our moments precious and few, but trying to stay busy and occupy that time every moment with purposeful action risks missing out on so much creative potential and pure joy in living some moment, just as it is. I can’t explain myself adequately well, on the value in daydreaming, in boredom, in stillness and in slowing down. I can only do my humble best with the words I have. Instead, I share some other words, more skillfully crafted. (Do you ever click the links? Are you ever surprised by what you discover?)
Ichi-go Ichi-e. Be here now. Breathe, exhale, relax. Live the life you have, while it lasts – we are mortal creatures. Be present in the moment, awake and aware. This too shall pass… it’s all quite temporary.
We become what we practice. What are you practicing? Are you taking time to really live? Put down the device. Go outside. Read a book. Spend time with a friend. Daydream awhile. Slow down. Enjoy the journey.
An autumn morning, a trail, a journey.
I grin to myself as dawn becomes a new day. A misty rain falls on the foggy marsh. I am wrapped in contentment and a soft merry joy fills my heart. It’s a good starting point to begin again.
Evening Light 