It is a new day. My birthday is behind me, and a new year waits ahead of me.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
A robin greets the day as I water the garden.
I get to the more distant trailhead for the marsh trail that travels past the Tualatin River. Yesterday was the trail at Spring Valley. Tomorrow the trail at Basket Slough. After that, a couple days of painting on the coast. What an extraordinary birthday celebration. I love how much it has been more about presence and experiences than presents. I didn’t go without gifts, happily, and I’ve got quite a delightful stack of new books to read.
Software upgrades for a human primate.
63 was a good year, generally speaking. I wonder what awaits me in the year ahead?
Finally learning to play chess.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s a beautiful morning. The clock is ticking. It’s time to begin again.
I woke from a strange dream to the light of my morning alarm. In my dream, I was standing in the morning sunshine in front of a favorite cafe from many years ago and very far from where I live now (I didn’t notice that, it was a dream after all). A sport car pulled up next to me, convertible top down, and it was full of old friends. “We’re seeking enlightenment,” someone called to me, “get in!”
I stepped towards the car and as I did, it became a bus, and I stepped on board. The door snapped closed and I realized I hadn’t had time to get my coffee… and I woke.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
…Seeking enlightenment…
Enlightenment isn’t likely to be found on a road trip with ones friends… but it could be, maybe. That’s the thing, isn’t it? One can endlessly seek enlightenment and never ever find it; it isn’t an external point on a map, or available as a option on a luxury getaway. People who say they’ve found it, generally haven’t. It’s not available as a course, although it’s often packaged and sold as though it could be purchased. Read all the books – it may not be enough. Follow any holy seeming teacher – it may not result in the knowledge you think you’re seeking. As with happiness, it doesn’t do to chase enlightenment, because that just isn’t the way to achieve it.
… I didn’t say (and don’t claim) that I know the way, nor that I have become enlightened. I’m not here for that. I’m just thinking about a strange dream.
As I walk down the trail this morning, I think about the friends I saw on the “bus to enlightenment” in my dream. No one from my childhood at all. A couple of soldiers who deployed with me during the war, seated in the back of the bus, neither of whom exist in this mortal life now. Up front, dear friends from my Fresno days, and a friend or two I made later on, in other places. The thing they all shared in common was that I consider them all to have been very close and dear friends, but it’s been many years since I’ve been in touch at all. I think about that as I walk. History. Proximity. Perspective. I keep walking.
Morning light
… I may never find enlightenment, but I’ve enjoyed the company of some extraordinary travelers along the way…
I feel fortunate to have enjoyed so many good friendships, and occasional moments of epiphany that felt very much as though I had been “illuminated from within”, however briefly. It has been enough. More than enough, I’ve been very fortunate.
I watch the sunrise illuminate the oaks. I sit at my halfway point on my walk, and perhaps in life (if I’m lucky), reflecting on enlightenment, and wondering how many of the travelers on the “bus to enlightenment” are now deceased? At least two, maybe more, I haven’t stayed in touch, and it’s possible I would not have been told. A grim shiver runs up my spine. I’m glad I woke. I’m not ready to ride that bus. Not yet.
I breathe, exhale, and relax, and remind myself to reach out to old friends while I can. The clock is ticking. I look down the trail. It curves away into an unknown moment ahead, just around that bend… and it’s time to begin again.
Feeling stuck? It happens. Been there… not lately, but once upon a time it was pretty common, even chronic. I’m sitting at a different trailhead this morning. Almost wilderness, but not really. It’s simply unfamiliar, and the novelty feels wilder and more remote than this little green space really is.
A well trodden trail leading to an unknown destination.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I passed through the gate, which just stands there not attached to anything, preventing vehicular traffic passing through, into the big clover meadow encircled by trees, bounded on one side by the silent broad Willamette River, and on the other a forest that extends to a quiet rural state highway. This early on a chilly Sunday morning there is no traffic, nor are there other visitors.
Care for a swim? 😆
Available data suggests that the river is relatively shallow here, between 7″ and 10″ deep, but it’s deceptively calm surface manages to suggest caution, and anyway it’s much too cold for swimming, at 41F (7C) this morning (air temperature that is, I expect the water is maybe a bit warmer, based on the mist hanging above the river, but it wouldn’t be enough to coax the average person into it).
A meadow of clover, a moment of joy.
I start down the trail. Even this hard-packed dirt trail is much easier on my ankle and my foot than pavement ever is. I still have my cane, but my stride feels easy and natural. It’s a nice change and I ask myself why I don’t come here more often? It’s a lovely spot, and only 17 miles from home. The view of the sunrise over the river is quite splendid. I sigh contentedly as I walk. The air smells of Spring flowers, clover, blackberries, wild cucumber, and spicy scents of various wildflowers less familiar to me. In rainier seasons most of this trail is too muddy to walk safely. I enjoy being able to reach the far side of the meadow and circle back around.
Wild cucumber blooming among the thimbleberries.
I get some great pictures as I make the loop around the meadow. There’s something vaguely nostalgic about the scent here. Something that hints at childhood visits to my grandparents’ house in summertime, or weekends working in the garden. I breathe, exhale, and relax, pausing now and then to soak in the scene and the scent.
I find a spot to stop a moment, to write and watch the river flow past. It is so quiet here, it’s hard to imagine I am close to a city at all, but Salem is only 7 miles away. Doesn’t matter at all how close it is in miles. Measured by the experience of this moment, it may as well not exist at all.
Watching the sun rise from a new vantage point.
… I’ll definitely be coming back to this trail more often…
I sit quietly enjoying my time in this place. The light through the trees changes as the sun continues to climb higher in the sky. I reflect on conversations with my beloved Traveling Partner over recent days. He’s been helping me quite a lot with putting more explicit focus on my self-care and it has been making a difference.
Bunnies!
Motion catches my eye; a rabbit with baby bunnies has ventured out into the grass near the trail. She’s far enough from this rock I’m sitting on to be fearless about my presence. I watch the bunnies hop into the open space of the trail, then dart away, when a shadow passes overhead, returning to continue munching and playing. I watch them for a long while, contemplating consciousness and intelligence, and the arrogance of human primates and our delusions of our special place in the world. We know so little of everything there is to know, and even less about the vastness of what we don’t even know we don’t know. Are bunnies self-aware? Do they reason? Do they feel and experience emotions? (Why would we think they don’t, other than to make ourselves feel better when we kill them?)
As I watch, one rabbit with bunnies becomes several, all hopping and playing at the edge of the meadow in the sunshine of a new day. Some of the bunnies roll in the dust of the dry packed trail. A variety of songbirds flit about. I feel fortunate and delighted to see all of this. I fill up on the feeling of wonder and joy.
I sit with my thoughts awhile, then walk a trail that heads the other direction from the trailhead. There’s more to see. The morning is mine to enjoy as I will. I think happily to my Traveling Partner encouraging me to make something of the day for myself. “Do something for you,” he said. This is me, doing that. I breathe the scented Spring air deeply and walk on. It’s a lovely moment for it.
Strange fruit. What might you see if you slow down and really look?
There’s nothing in the news more worth my attention than these quiet moments in the real world. There is no app on any device that offers me more than I’ll find on this trail, in this moment, here, now. Look up from your scrolling long enough to see that there is a real reality in which you exist, with much to see and do and choose from. Your choices matter. There’s a reason all these apps want your attention, and more and more businesses have such apps; your attention has real value. Spend that on you – choose where you put your attention with care.
…Be here, now… Be present. Moments are fleeting, and our mortal lifetimes are brief.
I smile to myself like I know something. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. My results definitely vary. I’m having my own experience – and it’s real. I get back to the parking lot, which is filling with people and dogs. This is not my idea of a great time, so I wrap up my notes and my put my gear back in the car. Coffee would be good right about now, and it feels like a good opportunity to begin again.
Travelers on the same path are nonetheless each having their own experience.
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.
It’s definitely Spring here now. Everything is so green and getting greener each day. The combination of warm sunny afternoons, rainy nights, and cool misty mornings here is so lovely! There are so many hues of green!
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I started down the trail quite a bit later than I do on most mornings. My Traveling Partner was already up this morning, and invited me to linger over coffee. I’m glad I did. We laughed and shared a few humorous moments of lighthearted conversation, a delightful start to the day.
So many hues of green..
The trail is damp and the puddles are plentiful. The oaks are wearing a bright green haze. Mixed among the evergreens along the creek bank, the deciduous trees are becoming hues of lush green and the grassy rows between the vines in the vineyard are bright green and fresh looking (appealing to bunnies, apparently; I see several as I pass by). A sneezing fit stops me briefly, and I am grateful for the packs of travel tissues my beloved gave me from his truck, yesterday. Well-timed generosity. I feel loved.
I find the bench at my halfway point occupied this morning. A rather fat raccoon sitting there tearing open a soggy fast food bag to get at whatever was left in it. She sees me, and before I can snap a picture, she grabs her prize and hops down into the weeds and quickly disappears into the trees and down the creek bank. The bench is damp, but the morning is mild. I put my hoodie down and take a seat.
I sit reflecting on happy outcomes of clear communication and truly having the support of my Traveling Partner. I spent most of yesterday in the studio, and enjoyed “playing in the colors” again. I really needed it. The chance to work creatively in media that feels comfortable, the opportunity to express things I struggle to put into words, and sure, also the satisfaction of creating was long overdue. Cooking doesn’t do the same thing for me. I’m a painter (as many pictures as I do take with my camera, I don’t really consider myself a photographer). It’s not even about “good” work versus “bad” work. I’m not sure art really works that way. A piece that I think was completely flubbed, not worth saving, is just as likely to move someone else as any piece I personally look upon as “a real masterpiece”. Art is very personal. I painted two pieces yesterday, and one of those thoroughly delights me. It’s enough.
“Road’s End”
I sigh contentedly, followed by a poignant pang of sorrow; my Dear Friend will never see this piece. I think she would have loved it. A large plump robin stops in front of me and sings his song directly to me, quite loudly. “What are you trying to tell me, my dude?” I ask softly, though I don’t expect his reply, a further bit of cheerful song, possibly a little demanding in tone. I’m not sure; I don’t speak robin. He cocks his head and looks at me as if waiting for something, before flying away.
I meditate and think about the day ahead. I remind myself to do some laundry. I’d rather paint, but there are other things that also need my attention. I’m okay with that. It feels like balance and normalcy may be returning to the flow of my days. I like that thought.
The gray morning gives no hint at the passage of time. I know the clock is ticking. It’s probably time to begin again.
Evening Light 