Breathe. Feel it? Lifeforce. Breathe in. Exhale fully. Feel the moment. Where are you now? What do you see when you look? What sounds fill the environment? Who even are you, when no one is with you, and no one is watching? Another moment comes and goes. Breathe, exhale, relax. Step onto the path that leads away, into the distance.
… Where does your path lead? You will decide. Choose wisely, and begin…
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
Spring is lush and green here, and the path past the vineyard and around the bend into the trees is strewn with soggy flower petals, blown to the ground and forming drifts at the edges of the path. I started walking at daybreak, quite possibly my favorite time to begin walking. No glorious golden sunrise this morning, instead heavy gray storm clouds fill the sky. Will it rain? Probably, but it isn’t raining now – and now is what matters when it comes to walking and the chance of rain.
Green and gray, and a path to follow.
I get to my halfway point and take a seat on a big landscaping rock that got dropped or placed in this spot some time long ago. I don’t always stop in this spot, but I usually consider whatever spot I do stop at to be “halfway”. 😆 It isn’t any sort of measured halfway point, it’s only the midpoint in my morning journey in the most approximate way. I stop, I write and meditate awhile, and I walk on. It’s the midpoint of the experience more than anything to do with miles.
…Your mileage may vary. 😆…
Your results, too, will vary. We’re each having our own experience. Each of us is walking our own path. We make our own choices. Experience the consequences of our own actions. We become what we practice. To a large degree, we really do “get out of it what we put into it”, as far as life goes. You’ll see so much more with your eyes open. Feel so much more if you heal from trauma and care for your heart with tenderness and consideration. Where does your path lead? What matters most toyou?
… How much of the menu have you even considered sampling?
I am sitting quietly with my thoughts when a small brown bunny hops from the brush, hesitating when he sees me. He watches me warily, nibbling a bit of something or other with small purple flowers. Vetch, maybe? He seems to be enjoying it enough to disregard my presence. I sit quiet and still, watching him. I slowly (so slowly) switch from writing tools to camera. Just as I have the shot setup, he quickly hops away. Oh well, he was too quick for me. I guess you had to be here, in this moment.
I sigh to myself. Present. Awake. Alive. I’m grateful for the rather obvious lack of bombs or drones. It’s beginning to seem as of most other places in the world are dealing with some kind of violence. Nothing like that here, now. Just green grass and brown bunnies, and the occasional noisy robin. I sit contentedly for some little while. Soon enough it will be time to begin again. For now, I’ll just breathe, exhale, and relax.
First, I’m fine. I’m okay, and there’s nothing amiss in this moment. That is an important detail.
I woke abruptly to a loud noise and a sense that something was seriously wrong. I woke fully triggered and in “overdrive”, ready to react to danger – of whatever unknown type there might be. There was nothing going on of the sort I could do anything about, it was only a loud noise. A door slamming somewhere, but it could have been anything or nothing at all; along with the PTSD, I am sometimes afflicted with “exploding head” nightmares. So… suddenly waking up in a panic, fully triggered, is not an unknown sensation for me.
I’m okay. My Traveling Partner is also okay for most values of okay, though he didn’t sleep through the night. I’m grateful that he isn’t hurt. When I woke that was my first (only) concern.
I dressed and headed to the trailhead. It’s raining. Today I don’t care at all, and I’ll feel better after I burn off this adrenaline fueled energy in a healthy way. My heart is still pounding and I was trembling for awhile. In every practical sense, though, I’m okay. Years of practice have given me more resilience. Totally worth the effort, though at the time, in the moment, the discipline of practicing practices often feels a little pointless. There’s no obvious immediate return on the effort… Well… It’s subtle and not obvious. The gains are there.
…I pull on my poncho and find my headlamp…
This is my path and I’m walking it. 😄 A little rain isn’t going to stop me. I definitely need to begin again.
Seems to be very effective so far… probably doesn’t hurt that the path is mine, and that I choose it myself.
…
…
I get back to the car a bit damp but not drenched. The rain is still falling steadily. I couldn’t stop at my usual halfway point due to that bit of the trail being flooded, and the place I often sit being surrounded by a large muddy stretch and water. Nope. I just walked on. By the time I reached that point I was feeling relaxed and merry. Ready for a new day. It’s enough.
The path ahead isn’t always smooth and well lit. There are going to be rainy days. There will be obstacles along the way, and detours. Being prepared for those is sometimes a matter of acceptance and a willingness to adapt to circumstances. PTSD screams that something is an emergency, though nothing is “wrong” in that kind of way at all. Sometimes a noise is just a noise. Being able to bounce back once I’m triggered is a pretty notable win for me.
I breathe, exhale and relax. I take a few minutes for meditation in the car. It’s already time to begin again.
The details don’t much matter, and the decision to have the Anxious Adventurer move out was already made (planned for April, after winter weather is not a serious risk). I had hoped we’d all coexist relatively peacefully in the meantime. Yesterday evening was revealing, and unfortunately nonnegotiable boundaries were violated (and had been for some time, although I was not explicitly aware of it, yet). I’m disappointed, and honestly still rather angry. The plan is still locked in, that hasn’t changed. How I feel about this third human being under my roof has changed – a lot. I sigh to myself, annoyed to be sitting here dealing with that bullshit at all.
Well shit. I really wanted to make things work comfortably well with the Anxious Adventurer coming to move in with us. There are a lot of potential advantages to shared living, and our society places value on family.
I am disappointed that this won’t work long-term, and my Traveling Partner admitted that the downsides and inconveniences outweigh the value for him, too. I know the additional emotional labor, for me, has outpaced the day-to-day advantages to having an additional family member in the household. This shit is hard. I keep asking myself if I’ve done my best, and wondering if I have failed to be… something. If we were each different people dealing with different issues, this totally could work. I keep thinking about that, too. Am I depriving my beloved Traveling Partner of the opportunity to be close to his son? I think I’ve been persistently encouraging and supportive, coaching where I could…
I’ve struggled with having less privacy, with being required to do too much emotional labor, with the lack of personal space, and the frustration of trying to cohabitate with someone who showed up wholly ignorant of some commonplace life skills, and basic manners, but I am not looking forward to the practical requirements of the changes ahead; more g’damned work. I’m simultaneously very much not sorry this will soon be over, and also deeply regretful and disappointed that it didn’t work out.
…If you invite a feral animal into your home, you mustn’t be surprised when it shits on the carpet, but you also don’t have to let it stay if it won’t learn new ways…
I breathe, exhale, and relax. Human beings being human. Communication is complicated. Moving into a strange household in a faraway place where the manners and expectations are new is challenging. I knew going into this that it would present some variety of difficulties, but figured we’d work them out together, as families do. Like an orchestra with musicians looking at different sheet music than the players alongside them, there was little harmony and a lot of wrong notes. I’m fucking over it. I’m annoyed with myself for being as angry as I am. It’s not reasonable to blame a feral animal for not being well brought up. I just also don’t want to deal with the associated bullshit.
We each make choices. The Anxious Adventurer made his. He chose poorly, in my opinion, and in spite of steady support, encouragement, coaching and guidance. I sigh in frustration and disappointment. I don’t wish him ill, but I do wish I weren’t dealing with these circumstances at all. I remind myself how close April really is. I lived in a tent for almost a year with 15 guys, most of whom i barely knew, a couple of whom I actively disliked, and it was…fine. I can endure 60 days more of this crap, too. It will pass.
Once he’s gone, I have no doubt there will be things I miss. He’s my Traveling Partner’s son, and I hope he visits in the future – I just don’t want to live with him, at least not right now, and I don’t think I can persuade myself to trust him again. If nothing else, he needs to take some time and work on the man he wishes to become, and I really can’t help him with that (and he does not know how to accept help yet). Sitting here this morning, listening to the rain falling, and waiting for the sun, I don’t even want to try to help him further than I have. It’s not a useful way to spend my time.
A new day dawns, full of promise and opportunities, but we’ve each got to make our own choices, and do our own work.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I feel settled with myself and my decision making. I feel comfortable in my skin, and accepting of the person I have grown to be over time. The journey is the destination. There is further to go on this path. We each walk our own mile, each having our own experience. I do hope the Anxious Adventurer finds his way.
I turn my attention to this moment here, now. The rain falls steadily. I watch the predawn twilight become the dawn of a new day, and in spite of the dreary gray of this rainy morning, I’m filled with eagerness. I am having brunch with the Chaotic Comic this morning. She shares some of the communication challenges of the Anxious Adventurer (as do many others in their general age group). There is a key difference that limits my irritation with those challenges in our friendship; I’m not having to live with them. My friend is also more receptive to discussion, and more open to considering suggestions for potentially useful changes and able to speak up to explicitly reject suggestions she does not favor. It feels like a conversation – because it is. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised; she’s a comedian and “yes, and…” is an important part of improvisation, a learned skill.
We become what we practice.
… Still… I do wish I could have made things work, for my Traveling Partner and his son. I’d have liked to provide a firm foundation for them to deepen and build on their relationship, and I’m disappointed to have failed. I sit listening to the rain and considering what I could have done differently, myself, but it mostly isn’t about that. I can’t do that work for someone else, only for me. I’m walking my own path.
I sigh to myself and make room for gratitude. I have much to be grateful for, even within the context of this disappointing and aggravating shared living experience. I’ve learned some things about myself. Having some help was… helpful. I truly needed it, so many times. I breathe, exhale, and let my anger go. It has served its purpose and only gets in the way, now. Brunch soon, and a chance to begin again.
I woke abruptly from a deep sleep. Someone had cried out, loud. My Traveling Partner! I got up before I was fully awake, and headed quickly to the sound I had heard. Pain has a specific sound, and I am still “tuned” to be alert for his voice in the night, since his injury a couple years ago (has it been so long already?). This morning? Broken toe. Ouch. Painful, but maybe not an emergency. After some conversation, he assures me he’d rather I went to the library to work, than have me stay home. He’s been trying to get some time to himself for a few days. I’m sure not going to mess that up for him.
…I am alert for him to reach out to me, anyway, my phone turned up louder than usual, and next to me on the table where I can see it if it lights up with a notification…
For almost an hour, I’ve been sitting with my coffee. Just sitting. Not writing. Not drinking coffee. Just sitting. I’m not complaining, just taking note. Weird morning. I feel a purposeful frown on my face. I am “triggered”, not so much my anxiety though, this is a different “feature” of the PTSD – this feeling of purpose on the edge of action; readiness. A left over of domestic violence bug-outs and military deployments, mostly, I guess. I tend to feel more comfortable day-to-day if this particular need to be “ready to go on a moment’s notice” is gently supported (the gear bin my SUV, water, emergency rations, and my backpack, too, are elements of supporting this need, as much as they are simply useful for camping or emergencies). Other than that, I don’t give it much thought. Fighting it definitely does not help. This morning, I have no action to take right now, but I am “on alert” nonetheless. It may last awhile. I could do without the acid reflux though. lol
I take a deliberate willful sip of my coffee. It’s just the right drinking temperature. I take a longer drink of it. I definitely appreciate it this morning. Rough way to wake up from a rare deep sound sleep. I’m not exactly groggy. I’m not quite entirely awake. I feel fired up by a sense of urgency that has no outlet, and not grounded in this moment, here, now. I feel connected to each of the many past versions of this woman that I am, who has waited on the edge of urgency, so many times, for the action yet to come. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I offer myself a silent assurance that this too will pass, and sit with the experience, waiting for that. I’m grateful for the good cup of coffee this morning. I’m grateful that I will see the sunrise a little later, as I make my way from this cafe to the university library to finish the work week, instead of from the ER waiting room.
A broken toe is not “nothing” – hell, even a stubbed toe is crazy painful (and the pain lingers). The titular “nothing” in the subject line this morning is to do with the “nothing” in my head, sitting here triggered, waiting for action that is not necessary, and is not now. I consider the sensation – it is an uncomfortable one mingled with unease this morning, which puzzles me. It’s a bit like picking up a mug I know to be white, and perceiving it as some other color entirely in spite of that knowledge. I solve it when I remember I am driving my Traveling Partner’s pickup; my car is at the body shop. My gear and preparedness are not conveniently at hand – and a sick feeling of panic surges and I feel a chill of tension sweep over me. Well, shit. Okay, so that’s not necessary. I chuckle to myself, feeling entirely too human, but appreciative to have picked up on the subtle signals from within that something didn’t feel right. Much harder to deal with a feeling that is not clearly identified, I find. I breathe, exhale, and relax; my Traveling Partner is as well prepared as I am (maybe better, considering the differences in our vehicles). I don’t have my backpack – but his is in the truck, and equally well-equipped with basics. I don’t have my gear bin, but his is there, and there’s quite an assortment of useful stuff tucked here and there. I’m less than 2 miles from home. Less than two miles from the storage unit into which I put my gear while the car is in the body shop. The panic subsides.
I sigh to myself. I feel worn down and tired. I feel more than a little “anti social”. I’d like to hop in my car and drive to the horizon just to see what might await me there. I’d very much like to… something. I don’t know. I feel a certain yearning, but it’s not clear why, and I find myself wondering if it is simply nothing more than the shifting sands of my emotions as the biochemistry of emotional experience has its way with me? I breathe, exhale, and breathe again, letting the breaths come and go, without much else going on. This is the moment I am having, now. That’s fine. “Nothing to see here.”
My mind wanders to summer camping, spring flowers, and new trails. Maybe tomorrow I’ll drive out to Chehalem Ridge, or Miller Woods? I sit with my coffee and my thoughts. Brunch with the Chaotic Comic on Sunday – unless one of us flakes on that. We often do. We don’t take it personally; we’re having our own experiences, and sometimes we need to change our plans. The friendship is worth accommodating our quirks in an understanding way. I’ve got the truck, and mild weather – maybe a drive to the coast and a visit to Fogarty Creek and the private cove beach there? The thought of a taking a different direction, tomorrow, appeals to me. I sit with my thoughts awhile longer.
It is a strange gray morning, and a little cooler out at the trailhead than it has been. I’ve got my headlamp handy but I’m much earlier than I’d planned and I decide to wait for a bit of light before I hit the trail. Daybreak is imminent.
I sigh quietly and drink water. It’ll be another hot day, in spite of the deceptively cool morning, and staying hydrated is the healthy self-care choice. After my walk, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment, planned months ago. I’m grateful it occurs before my employer-provided insurance runs out. No work today. It is the first day following being laid off. I breathe, exhale, relax, and wait for the sun.
It feels a little strange, at least for now, to have this time to myself, without a work day constraining my time. I sit with my thoughts watching the sky begin to lighten, alert for the trail to become sufficiently visible to walk safely in the dim light between daybreak and the busy-ness of a new day. There are things to do, and I feel calm and purposeful, but also… strangely displaced. We put way too much emphasis on our professional experiences as adults, I think, and are easily mislead into seeing those as somehow more important than who we are, how we feel, and all the many experiences that make up a human lifetime. Work is just work. We do it to exchange enough of our precious limited mortal time for the cash to be able to afford all the truly important things. Home. Family. Friends. Enjoying a walk on a quiet summer morning.
… But I do feel the absence of work, this morning, and I have a sense of the ticking clock in the background…
I lace up my boots, grab my cane, and step out onto the trail. This feels like a pause in the routine I’ve come to know. I observe the inclination to cling to the routine, and make a point to let that go. I walk on. There will be a new routine. It will develop naturally out of my actions each day and become comfortable over time. Until then, of course, there’s some uncertainty and discomfort – which means there is also an opportunity to grow, and become more the woman that I want most to be than I am now.
Dawn on the trail.
A soft rain begins to fall as I reach my halfway point. The overhang of oak branches at the edge of the trail is enough to shelter me, but it’s really only a sprinkle anyway, and I don’t mind a few raindrops on my face as I walk. I take a few minutes for meditation and to write. I think about my now-former colleagues and wonder if they miss my cheery “good morning” in the team Slack channel today?
…Am I remembered? Such a human concern, to wonder if we are missed once we’re gone. I wonder what my legacy will be, and how quickly I will become just a name on some policy document or customer record? I already miss professional friendships formed over shared work. The people matter most, and I am not surprised that the only details I linger over now are the memories of jokes and deep conversations, shared photos, and tales of vacation and travel swapped among friends. That seems appropriate.
I smile to myself and look down the trail, listening to the rain on the leaves over head. I’m okay. Sure, I feel a little displaced and strange, but it will pass. Dwelling on vague feelings of disappointment, or letting myself become mired in fear or doubt isn’t helpful (not at all). It’s enough to feel the feelings, acknowledge their fundamental humanity, and let them go. We make choices, even about our emotions. Making the wisest choices we can is a good practice.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I am fine, for most values of “fine”, and there’s nothing especially “wrong” right now at all. For now it is a waiting game. I’ve got something promising identified that looks likely to become the next job. It’s tempting to coast and just enjoy the waiting for some time, but that’s a poor strategy in an uncertain world. I focus on planned tasks, activities, and necessary milestones and set aside optimistic wishful thinking. It is a good time for practical thinking and careful consideration.
Stray raindrops spatter my bare arms as I sit perched on a fallen trunk under this big oak. Hints of something like a sunrise peek through gray clouds, revealing distant hues of pink and pale blue far above the rain clouds. I’m grateful for the rain. The air smells fresh and clean, the scent of petrichor rising from the ground fills my senses, and my heart feels lifted and light.
… I think about my former teammates beginning the day, and facing their own uncertainties, and silently wish them well. We’re each walking our own path, having our own experience. It’s sometimes difficult to see down the path ahead while we walk it. The way isn’t always clear. The choices are not always obvious. We do our best, based on what we know, and most of the people around us do too. I remind myself to be kind – we rarely know what other people are going through.
I sigh again and peer into the sky. Still raining, but it’s already time to begin again.
Evening Light 