Archives for posts with tag: Vita Contemplativa

The sunrise was a bold assortment of hues of pink and magenta this morning, rays of color flaring from behind streaks of pink clouds edged with mauve. I watched as I drove to the trailhead.

A new day, a new perspective.

…I wish I’d slept in…

I yawned through the first half of my walk, feeling sleepy. I feel like I could easily enjoy a nap, though I slept well and deeply and woke rested this morning. Doesn’t matter, and I keep walking.

I reached my halfway point happy to pause, but wishing there were a hammock conveniently nearby. lol There is not.

I sit watching a small herd of deer crossing the meadow. They have two fawns with them. It’s that time of year, and I know I’ll be seeing the fawn that has been keeping the local doe coming back to my garden again and again. Soon they’ll move on for the summer, and my roses will get a break from being nibbled at.

4 of July. My Traveling Partner has some work he expects will keep him occupied for much of the day. I’ll busy myself with tidying up the deck for cooking, later. The groceries are on hand. No errands to run that can’t wait (none that I recall right now), just a pleasant holiday weekend ahead, available for relaxation, good food, and fun.

I sit awhile watching the new day begin, and thinking about summer times past. The things I miss most about childhood summers are fireflies, thunderstorms, and leisure time (which seemed so endless then, it is hard to imagine now). There are no fireflies in this part of the world, and thunderstorms are quite uncommon. I’m managing to get sufficient leisure time, generally, but it doesn’t feel like those endless days of summer from my childhood. I sigh to myself, grateful for the three day weekend.

A little yellow and black bird hops quite close to me and sings a little song before flying away. I don’t even try to get a picture. I already know he’s too quick for me.

I get to my feet. Another yawn. It’s already time to begin again.

I’m sipping my coffee in the office, thinking about things that have nothing whatsoever to do with work. I’ve got surgery tomorrow (minor), and a day off for recovering after that. The weekend is ahead, but I’ll likely be at least somewhat impaired (due to the specifics of the surgery). Doesn’t really matter, I’m just letting my mind wander, thoughts drifting by like clouds on a summer day. “Nothing to see here.” I’m just enjoying my coffee and a few minutes before the day begins in earnest.

…Clear liquids only for the next 24 hours (I say that like it really matters, but I don’t guess it does)…

I breathe, exhale, and relax. The steady wush of the ventiliation in the background does not blot out the whine of my tinnitus. I notice it, but I let that go – it’s not “important” or relevant to the moment (or to most moments), it’s just an irritant (if I focus on it for too long). Pleasant enough beginning to the day, I guess. There’s nothing wrong here. The sky is gray with heavy summer storm clouds – no colorful sunrise. My back aches. I put that out of my mind, too, as much as I am able. There’s nothing much to be done about it.

I sit with those thoughts that linger, making room for gratitude and thoughts of my garden. I feel fortunate to have gotten to see “Golden Opportunity” bloom (for the first time since she was planted in 2021!), before the deer ate those flowers and every bit of tender new growth from that rose bush. Oh, sure, I fuss about it and it’s aggravating, but like many of life’s most useful lessons, if I make room in my experience to understand a bigger picture, and develop a more nuanced perspective, I could learn something that has lasting value. I sit thinking about what drives the deer to my garden each Spring and early summer, and what they don’t eat. I contemplate what I could potentially do to discourage them from eating my roses and tender salad greens without wrecking the aesthetic of the garden with a lot of ugly fencing. I look at pictures of my roses. The specific thoughts I think in this quiet time are less important than that I do take this time for myself, to “hear myself think”, each day. It is a means of building resilience, and also of ensuring that I feel appreciated and heard by the one person who has to listen to all of my chatter (and internal dialogue) – the woman in the mirror. Self-care matters. This is part of that.

I sigh to myself when I glance at the clock and notice the time. Of course. It’s time to begin again.

Have you ever thought about how few people leave any sort of lasting mark on the world, or the lives of others in an individual mortal lifetime? Humanity’s impact on the planet, other life forms, and each other, generally, is pretty obvious (and pretty reliably negative, which is unfortunate), but as individual human beings, by far the vast majority of us will pass through these mortal lives almost unnoticed, and leave no lasting legacy of the life we lived. Maybe, if we’ve worked hard and been quite fortunate, we’ll leave something of value behind, in cash or assets, that our heirs may or may not appreciate in the way that we hoped. Most of us will live, die, and be forgotten.

… That’s a huge downer, isn’t it? My own experiences of “existential dread” most commonly center on this awareness that it’s quite likely I’ll be forgotten once I’m gone…

The closest thing we human beings have that approximates immortality is to have some sort of lasting legacy that endures beyond our limited, all too brief, human lifetime. The written works of writers, philosophers, historians, and storytellers of all sorts may survive thousands of years. The paintings, drawings, and sculptures of visual artists working in durable media may survive many lifetimes beyond the death of the artist who made them. More modern art forms have yet to prove themselves, but recorded music, and film, endures – as long as the means to view them survives. Architects design buildings and crews of builders, engineers, and tradespeople work to bring them into being – where these survive, a name may survive with them, but only one (or few) of many.

I fret about what my own legacy may be, when this brief mortal life ends. Will my art survive? Will it be known, even to some few, or lost over time due to lack of appeal or discarded as lacking value? Will my small but thoughtfully selected porcelain collection become treasured by someone else, or be sold piecemeal as part of clearing out the clutter I left behind? What about my books? My written work? The contents of my email? Will the things that were important to me have lasting importance for anyone else? Will I be remembered? If I am, what will I be remembered for? That seems like an important question, although considering the likelihood that I’ll simply be among the vast forgotten multitudes as soon as I’m gone, the seeming importance of the question may be an illusion.

A sunny summer day, an oak grove, a meadow.

I walked down the trail this morning thinking about legacy and mortality, and meaning and purpose, and wondering again “what we’re here for”. How long after I’m gone will my beloved say my name with longing and love, before his memory begins to fade? Once he’s gone, what then? Who will continue to “say my name” and cling to their memories of me?

I’m not thinking about these things in a sorrowful way, just contemplating what it takes to leave behind an enduring legacy of love and high regard? I am asking myself what I hope to be remembered for? I have come to understand that it isn’t enough simply to be remembered. Some pretty terrible human beings are remembered through history, and I have no interest in being one of those. It’s more complicated than simply being remembered, isn’t it? Hitler is remembered. Andrew Jackson is remembered. Jack the Ripper is remembered. Saddam Hussein is remembered. No doubt Trump will be remembered. These people are not remembered for anything good they did. Their legacy is of trauma and crime, and how terrible human beings can treat other human beings. Their names evoke cautionary admonishments and document terrible deeds. There are worthier things to be known for.

What do you want to be known for? Are you even doing the things that have that potential?

One hot air balloon drifting across a blue summer sky.

I walked and thought. Later I’ll have coffee with a friend, run a couple errands, get the oil changed in my car, and return home to my Traveling Partner’s love. None of that holds any particular potential to leave a lasting “legacy”. These are moments in one human life. Perhaps it is enough to simply live authentically, and to love well, and treat people with kindness and consideration?

I watch the leaves of trees quaking gently in the morning breeze, and enjoy the feeling of sunshine on my back. It’s a lovely morning, and perhaps the best possible choice is to embrace this moment, savor it, and live my life as it is? Maybe it isn’t for us to decide what our legacy could, or may, be at all? I suppose it is eventually in the hands (minds) of others, regardless what we may do to influence or guide that outcome. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I keep walking. I can wonder, but I can’t know – funny to recognize and acknowledge that with such ease. The question of “legacy” now seems potentially an obstacle. A bit of misdirection. Perhaps it is far more important simply to become the person I most want to be, living well, loving deeply, and present, here, now?

I sigh and smile. I hear the clock ticking. I keep on walking. Regardless whether I am remembered or forgotten, I am enjoying this life, and savoring the many little joys in it. Each moment is uniquely its own experience, whether anyone else remembers or not; I’m here, now, living these moments. It’s enough, isn’t it? I think about it awhile longer. Soon, I’ll begin again, grateful for the chance, and the moments.

It was still drizzling when I got to the trailhead, but it didn’t last. I decided to take the “back trail” from the trailhead tucked away on the far side of the nature park. It misses the marsh and crosses a creek and a meadow before winding through the trees along the bank of the Tualatin river. It’s a lovely walk for a gray Spring morning in May.

Another point of view on familiar circumstances.

I dodged a passing shower under the cover of the trees, listening to the rain hitting the leaves and the relatively calm surface of the river. It didn’t last. My halfway point was rain-soaked and muddy, not suitable for sitting, and I walked on, pausing when my Traveling Partner pinged me a greeting and checked on me; he could see from my location on the map that I wasn’t in my usual place. He wishes me well and hopes I enjoy my walk. Yes, we share our location with each other.

In this relationship having my location shared with my partner never feels like a violation of privacy or at like I’m “being watched”; it’s a safety thing. I like hiking and camping alone, and it’s nice to know he knows where I am if something were to “go wrong”. It also serves to put his mind at ease to know I am safe. The reciprocity is connected and loving. I don’t have to worry when he’s out on the road somewhere, I can just check Maps and see that he’s okay without pinging him while he’s driving. It’s not for everyone, I get it (and this is the only relationship I’ve been in where it has felt safe to be so connected in this way).

I finished my walk as the sky grew grayer and darker. My back continuing to ache fiercely with arthritis. I make it to the car just as the rain begins falling hard. A drenching down pour barely catches the arm of my sweater as I pull the car door closed, grateful for my good timing. I sit listening to the rain fall, content to sit with my thoughts and write a few words while it rains.

Whatever. Let it rain.

It’s a pleasant Saturday, full of moments for joy and opportunities to choose. I look over my “to-do list” and consider the day ahead. I think about beginning again, and where my path may lead. I think about my garden and wonder if I’ll have a break in the rain to get some work done there? It may rain all day. If it does, there’s nothing to do about that but let it rain. lol That’s okay; the garden likes the rain. I like it, too.

I sit awhile with my thoughts, letting the rain fall, and breathing the scent of Spring. Breathe. Exhale. Relax. Begin again.

My ears are ringing like crazy this morning. I focus my attention on the sound around me, and the songs of early morning birds (mostly robins). I listen to my steps as I walk the paved section of trail near home. I am walking westward. The sky is gray, densely cloudy, and the air smells of recent rain.

I squint at the newly planted section of vineyard alongside the trail, as I approach it. Something red is blooming at ground level, and I can’t quite make out the grape vines in the gloomy early light. Red clover? Vetch? Last year this was meadow (or fallow fields), and I reflect on the feeling I had the first day I came to this trail after the meadow had been plowed under and replaced by vineyard.

One perspective of many possible perspectives.

Here and there wild blackberries encroach on the edges of the vineyard. They aren’t the native sort, they’re an invasive non-native. The blackberries themselves are tasty nonetheless, but it will be many weeks before blackberries dangle ripe from the thorny canes. I walk past some wildflower blooming – or is it a weed? So close to the planted vineyard, I guess it’s very much a matter of perspective. I walk past reflecting on that.

Wildflower or weed?

Breathe, exhale, relax, and keep walking. I am having my own experience, walking my own path, and quietly enjoying this gray rainy morning.

… The clock is ticking…

I pause at my halfway point and sit for a few minutes, listening to the sound of geese overhead and distant traffic. Breathe, exhale, relax. My tinnitus is still pretty bad, but it’s no longer dominating my attention. There is forest around me and I can hear the nearby creek bubbling past. A small brown bird stops near me, hopping here and there in the grass at the edge of a the trail.

This is a lovely quiet morning, suitable for walking. I get to my feet and begin again.