Archives for posts with tag: Vita Contemplativa
« Older Entries

We’re Choosing

February 16, 2026 //
0

I started down the trail just as my Traveling Partner pinged me a good morning greeting. I slept in this morning (third day in a row) and it was daylight when I left the house. I definitely prefer walking in daylight.

One perspective on a new day.

It is a gray mild morning that barely looks like winter and feels more like Spring. The grass between the vineyard rows is quite green. The distant hills are shades of blue and gray-green, fluffy white clouds nestled in valleys, obscuring the horizon. There are little birds flitting here and there in the grass beside the trail and among the bare tree branches. The adjacent construction site is busy and noisy; I’m unlikely to see deer this morning.

I walked with my thoughts to my halfway point and took a seat. Here I sit with my thoughts, and this sweet solitary moment. Damn, I wish I weren’t in so much pain, though! I sigh to myself. It’s “just” my arthritis this morning, so far. Manageable, for the moment.

I contemplate two clinicians in my life presently. One, my GP, the other my therapist. I am thinking over their very different points of view on digital tools and what that means to me. My GP regularly promotes one app or another for tracking this or that health concern, sometimes dismissing my ability or willingness to track those details without an invasive digital crutch. My therapist, on the other hand, relatively consistently emphasizes the importance of real-world interactions, presence, and analog tools – like pen and paper. (CBT practices definitely have to be practiced in the real world to be effective.)

In a recent conversation, my therapist asked me about creative and contemplative outlets, and when I referenced this writing, he gently reminded me that however authentic and true to my experience, it hardly serves as an outlet for my most private thoughts. He’s not wrong about that. When I later mentioned it to my Traveling Partner he nodded in that affirming way that suggests “well, obviously…” For a woman who once wrote perhaps three times as much, daily, putting personal reflections on page after page, filling blank book after blank book, it is perhaps not enough to limit my writing to this blog and…work.

Choices

I got some really cool stickers at Giftmas time, and for Valentine’s Day my beloved got me more delightful stickers of favorite characters (Bubu and Dudu). I carefully shopped for a blank book with specific characteristics I like for writing: size B5, bound so that it opens flat without breaking the binding, a cover that appeals to a certain something within me that feels relevant to the journey, and a type of paper that feels good to write on. No compromises; I shopped for many weeks until I found what I was looking for. Even the ballpoint pens were carefully chosen to meet my needs and suit my preferences and writing style.

… Stickers and penmanship…

It’s been rather a long while since I wrote my thoughts on actual paper. Doing so serves a different function and meets different needs. I fussed silently over matters of perfection when I contemplated the first page, and of course I immediately made a small mistake (messy handwriting) and crossed it out. Then placed a sticker ever so slightly crooked on the page, enough to annoy me, simultaneously confirming the quality of the adhesive – I can’t remove it to place it straight on the page. I laughed when I saw it this morning. I hope I always laugh when I see it. I’m very human. It is an unimportant detail in the grander scheme of things, and a good lesson.

I didn’t actually write anything yesterday evening, just put a few words on the title page with some meaningful stickers. That was enough.

I think about AI slop and platform decay. I think about how easily practical skills (like handwriting) erode when we don’t use them regularly. AI isn’t helpful for most people; it undermines their cognitive abilities while giving a false sense of achievement. Sure, it’s definitely going to take longer to learn to draw, paint, and animate images using analog tools in the real world, but once we have, we’ve really learned something. Practical real-world skills using actual tools and materials with our own hands is powerful.

Read a real book. Make something real, in the real world. Plant a garden (or a pot of herbs). Sing a song. Walk a trail. Cook a meal. Advance human knowledge. Do something. It’s not about working productively or “gainful employment”, or shareholder profits. It is about living life. An LLM can’t do that for you.

… Your results may vary…

I sigh to myself. Lovely morning. I think about the day ahead. I think about the blank pages of this blank book. It’s a useful metaphor. What will I write on these pages? It is my journey, my story, and I will write each word by hand, myself. There’s a lot of potential and a lot of freedom in that… What will I do with it?

…the new year is a blank page…

The clock is ticking. I have another opportunity to begin again. What about you? What will you write on your blank page? (It’s a metaphor.)

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, Anxiety, art and the artist, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, The Art of Being, The Big 5, thoughts on AI, winter, Words

Paths and Choices

December 20, 2025 //
0

I’m at this morning’s chosen trailhead, waiting for the sun, listening to scattered raindrops, and – between coughs – thinking my thoughts. I’m definitely feeling better, not 100%, but definitely much improved. This morning I’ll walk at least some portion of this trail.

Stars twinkle overhead in the gaps between clouds. The morning is a mild one, although the rain could catch up to me at any time and potentially stop me from walking. The seasonal marsh trail is closed for the year, and with good reason; the entire marsh and adjacent meadows flood with the autumn and winter rain, and portions of the trail are now submerged. The year-round trail is on higher ground, and remains quite walkable without regard to the season. It’s no less lovely, as walks go, just commonly more crowded, though I often walk at a time of day few other people choose to for a casual walk.

…As if called into being by my thoughts, another car pulls into the trailhead parking lot…

Winter levels of arthritis pain have now set in, which means winter levels of effort to manage it, treat it, or disregard it through an effort of will. Vexing, but it is a real detail of this human experience. Pain, I mean. We’ve all got some, if only occasionally. I persist in trying not to let it define my experience. My results vary. My thoughts wander to the holiday ahead. There are gifts yet to wrap. I check online orders and confirm that everything I ordered has now arrived. It will be a modest cozy holiday spent with my Traveling Partner and his son, at home.

I feel fortunate that I am not burdened by FOMO, a competitive nature, or some weird need to keep up with what other people have or want. I’m grateful that I don’t feel forced to define my success on any terms but my own, and that I am able to leave others to do the same. Holidays are surely more stressful if there’s a lot of keeping up with other people going on in one’s head. I’m content to walk my own path and celebrate my own way – and I hope you are, too; it’s very freeing. I choose the holiday details with care. An example? This year I didn’t send holiday cards to a long list of people. I didn’t really have the energy for it, the will to do it with care, nor the money to splash around on elegant commercially made cards. Instead, this year I’ll write handwritten responses to the cards we receive, and send emails and texts to those dearest to me who didn’t send cards. It’s enough. I don’t think I keep company with folks rude enough to be demanding about receiving a holiday card. 😆

Most of my holiday efforts and resources are going into a small cozy holiday at home. Changing tastes force me to rethink some things. I can’t easily fill stockings with exotic sweets from far away places, for example, because everyone in the house has cut way back on sweets, and don’t want a lot of chocolate this year for various individual reasons. So… fewer sweets, more small, interesting, fun, or unusual things of other sorts. I didn’t have the time or energy to make a plum pudding this year, either (and being frank, I’m the only person in the house who enjoys plum pudding, mincemeat pie, marzipan, or fruitcake anyway). Change is.

I sigh quietly, feeling unexpected tears welling up. I think of elaborate family holidays of the distant past, and long gone friends with whom I might have shared some moment or bit of holiday fun. By far the worst thing about aging – worse even than pain – is that we lose people we love along the way. We are mortal creatures. Each holiday is a unique moment all its own, unrepeatable. We are fortunate indeed when we share them with those dear to us. I breathe, exhale, and relax. The rain taps gently on the roof of the car in the predawn darkness. I’m alone right now because I choose to be, and this solitude is precious – but I’m not made of stone, and I miss some of the people I’ve lost over the years more than I can say. I let grief “take a seat at the table”. There’s no shame in these heartfelt tears dripping onto my sweater. Emotions are also part of the human experience.

I’ve heard it said that the intensity of our grief is also a measure of our capacity for joy. I sit with that thought, feeling grateful. I must be capable of the greatest of joy to feel this poignant moment of sorrow so deeply. I smile at the thought. I know I am capable of great joy and love and deep delight, and get to feel those feelings often, in part because I do not stifle these moments of sorrow. The way out is through. The way to diminish the intensity of unexpected emotion is to feel it fully, honestly, and give myself a moment to “feel heard” by the woman in the mirror. The sorrow passes quickly, leaving behind other emotions and other memories.

…I remind myself to send well wishes and holiday greetings to my sister and my dear friends…

I breathe, exhale, and relax. I meditate. I look over my writing for obvious mistakes and correct those. I think about far away friends and household chores that need doing. More cars arrive at this trailhead, which seems strange, and I find myself wondering if there’s some event bringing people here (turns out it’s time for the annual winter bird count). I grab my cane and headlamp, hoping to avoid a crowd on the trail so early. I decide to get started. I decide to begin again, now.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, grief, health, Healthy Living, Love, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, pain, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, winter, women, Words

Walking in Fog

November 21, 2025 //
0

A new day, a new perspective, and for the moment, less anxiety, which is a pleasant change from recent days.

I woke up pretty close to when the lights would have begun gradually brightening to wake me. My Traveling Partner was already awake. We exchange pleasantries and I kiss him on my way out. A lovely beginning to a Friday.

Artificial lighting shining through the fog before dawn.

It is a cold morning, just 35°F (1.6°C). I’m grateful to have my cozy cardigan on, over a warm fluffy sweater, and that my gear bin in the back of my SUV has a warm scarf, knitted cap, and gloves conveniently ready for me. ‘Tis the season, I guess. I could give up my outdoor walk in favor of the elliptical machine at home… I have that option. I prefer the real walking on an actual trail or path through some park or wild space. I’m fortunate to have the elliptical available, and grateful too; it really is handy any time I’m injured, or if the weather is too bad for safe walking, like icy mornings, or drenching downpours. Part of what I get from my morning walk, though, is the solitude. I am alone with my thoughts, uninterrupted by others. It is quite possibly my favorite luxury. (One of the benefits of walking at this admittedly ludicrous hour of the day is that I generally don’t see, hear, or even pass by anyone else, at all.)

… I start down the trail in the fog and darkness…

I get to my halfway point and sit awhile, on a favorite bench. I think about change. Last year a small conference center was built on the acreage here, where this trail happens to be. The construction didn’t change the trail at all. Now a small resort-style hotel is also being added, but on the other side of the parking lot. The construction looks like it may impair the trail at some point, making it an out-and-back walk instead of a loop, for at least awhile. I sit contemplating the many such changes I’ve seen over a lifetime. Empty lots that fueled daydreams of gardens became apartment buildings or condos. Friendly country lanes that I walked down became busy commuter byways. Empty houses I fantasized about owning were torn down for office buildings. Countryside became suburban communities adjacent to cities that have continued to sprawl. Change is.

Twenty years ago, I was a different woman, in a different relationship, with a different job, living a very different life than I do now. Funny how much things can change over time. I sit reflecting on change and gratitude; I am living a healthier life now, and I am no longer deeply unhappy. Progress. It wasn’t done with the flip of a switch, and there was no single eye-opening “a-ha! moment”. The changes I chose to make were choices made over time. Back then it seemed very likely impossible to ever be where I find myself now… but here I sit.

This is an incomplete journey. Ongoing. I sit quietly in the fog. I wonder where this path leads? In another twenty years, when I look back on this time in my life, what will I think of this woman I have become? Will I appreciate her efforts and celebrate her successes? Will I grieve something lost along the way, or feel a moment of relief to have let go of some bit of baggage? It’s a big menu and there are a lot of choices. I think about that for awhile. We don’t know what is on the path ahead, and we’re each having our own experience.

My mind wanders to friendships lost over time. Some were deliberately ended. Some seemed to fade away on their own. Some I mourn with some moment of sorrow now and then. Others only bring a feeling of relief that they are behind me now. Human primates are complicated, sometimes we travel together on this strange journey, for a little while at least, other times we just pass each other along the way, exchanging information or enjoying a brief shared experience. No wrong answers, the human experience has a lot of options. (Okay, a few wrong answers, probably, so choose your actions and your friendships with care, eh? Try to avoid creating regrets.)

Daybreak, fog, and unmade choices; a good opportunity to begin again.

The first hint of daybreak touches the sky. The foggy morning seems to change color, now a little bluer. The darkness begins to lift. I sigh as I get to my feet to begin again. I look down the path and wonder what might be around the next bend, and prepare to begin again.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, forgiveness, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being

Slow Living

November 16, 2025 //
0

“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 be bored now and then, it’s probably good for you…

… Better than doom scrolling the news, by far.

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.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, Healthy Living, inspiration, joy, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, Words

Self-awareness, Self-reflection, Self-care

November 15, 2025 //
0

Daybreak beat me to the trailhead this morning. I slept in. My Traveling Partner was up and going back to bed, as I was leaving for my walk. We exchange brief pleasantries and a kiss, and I was on my way.

Stepping lightly down the trail merrily, tinnitus loud in my ears, highway traffic a quieter shhhh-shhhh in the background, I breathe the rain-fresh autumn air, grateful for the moment. This is a lovely one! The morning is gray, and everything is a bit soggy from rain during the night. Aside from a few puddles, the trail is sufficiently well drained to be a comfortable walk. It feels like luxury to walk in daylight. I walk on feeling light-hearted, thinking about the things that make this moment so good, and savoring the experience.

I get to my halfway point thinking “selfish” thoughts. Meaning to say, thinking about the specifically self-focused practices that have served so well on this journey. Accepting that “it isn’t always about me” forces me to also accept that sometimes it very much is about me. How best to care for the person in the mirror without undermining how I treat others? Who am i? Who do I most want to be? What path must I follow to get from here to there? I see the questions as closely connected to each other, interwoven, threads in the vast tapestry of a lifetime, and unfortunately easy to be distracted from.

Self-awareness is about more than “I statements”. It is key to growth and progress (and healing). It encompasses practices like body scans (bringing oneself more in touch with the physical experience of the moment), and mindful presence. “Be here, now” is about self-awareness. Being present in the moment is a more full and complete experience with self-awareness added. Answering the question “who are you?” requires a measure of self-awareness, and can be used (with self-reflection) to push oneself further down the path to becoming who we most want to be.

Self-care is built on many practices. Meditation. Mindfulness. Non-attachment. Eating a nutritious healthy diet. Getting enough exercise. Taking appropriate medication on time. Setting and managing boundaries. CBT. ACT. Mental health care generally. Even things like solving puzzles and coloring can be self-care. Ending toxic relationships and leaving unhealthy professional environments is self-care. When we don’t practice good self-care, however well-intentioned the choice may have been, we suffer needlessly, and are likely to inflict suffering on others.

Self-reflection and contemplative practices of many sorts improve our self-awareness and have the potential to enable better self-care, better decision-making, and more joy in life. Like a quiz in school, self-reflection helps us gauge where we are on life’s journey – like pausing to check a map when orienteering. Asking the questions, reflecting on our answers in that moment and context, considering those answers over time is a way of “lighting our way”.

I guess I’m saying the value of “selfishness” is related to what we mean by “selfish”, and what we do with that.

It took me a long time to learn to put myself on my list of priorities. (Are you on yours?) I still struggle with it, tending to put other people’s needs ahead of my own, often. There’s a healthy balance to strike. It isn’t all about me – but some of it definitely is, and that’s… normal. Utterly unremarkable. Taking care of myself is “selfish” only because it is focused on me, and being someone I do care about (at long last) it only makes sense to care for the woman in the mirror the best I can.

I sit looking out over the autumn marsh. The time I spend in quiet contemplation is not wasted time. Far from it – it has proven to be some of the most well-spent time in a day, helping me along my path, and building resilience I may need in the future to face some sort of unanticipated stress. I am grateful for these solitary moments of contemplation, and for the will to practice these “selfish” practices. I am grateful to have come so far.

I sigh contentedly. Breathe, exhale, relax; I take time for meditation. The dawn comes and goes, and the sky settles on a soft dove gray blanket of layered fluffy clouds. A soft rain begins to fall. I get to my feet and gaze across the meadow. It’s time to begin again.

Tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Categories Allegories, Anxiety, autumn, Brain Injury, breathe, Free Will, gratitude, health, Healthy Living, inspiration, meditation, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Moments, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Practices, solo hiking, The Art of Being, Words
« Older Entries