I’m watching the sun rise from my halfway point on my morning walk. It’s not exactly chilly, and today will likely be another hot one, but I am grateful to have worn this fleecy long-sleeved top. I’m comfortable as I sit here.
I made a point to have an expectation-setting conversation with the Anxious Adventurer yesterday evening. It went decently well, although I am certain I’ll be needing to reinforce a lot of very basic stuff with my well-intentioned (but sometimes surprisingly ignorant) stepson. It’s a process. Growth happens over time with persistence, patience, and practice.
It was clear some of what I had to say was hard for the Anxious Adventurer to hear in the moment. I felt for him; it’s a lot to learn and grow into when we uproot ourselves from what we know to embrace something entirely new. I’m sitting and thinking about two important things he communicated to me during our conversation. Firstly, he is suffering from a ton of self-loathing, which is sad to hear (a lot of us have had to deal with it, ourselves). He’s a rather human assortment of good intentions and poor decision making that seems pretty ordinary, really. Nothing especially hateful or disappointing. He added the second point, which is that he doesn’t have a sense of who he would ideally like to be, and that he lacks a clear picture of what that could look like (or what it would require to achieve). Rough. How does a person go from “here” to “there” without a sense of some sort of general direction to go?
I breathe, exhale, and relax. I take a moment to feel grateful for my sense of self, and my sense of purpose.
I sit with my thoughts and consider what tools and practices brought me face to face with the woman in the mirror, and allowed me to begin building a clearer picture of the person I most wanted to be. I think about the conversations and self-reflection involved in eventually learning to be my own best friend, to be the first one to really listen to myself, reliably, and to embrace the person I am as actually worthy. It’s been years of practice, of self-care and self-reflection, and of therapy… I can (and do) encourage the Anxious Adventurer to seek therapy, definitely. There’s so much of this fairly mundane shit that he could so easily work through himself, it’s hard to know where to begin with a suggestion… (I’m no therapist). I do dislike seeing my stepson suffer, but realistically he’s the one who has to do the verbs here. No map. No user’s manual. Life is messy and sometimes complicated. Being human can be so difficult to do well.
What matters most?
How did I get from there to here?
What practices are most likely to produce quick encouraging results?
How can I most helpfully foster growth and appropriate behavior without undermining the Anxious Adventurer’s agency or taking on work he needs to do for himself?
What exercises in meditation and self-reflection can I recommend that will help him understand his lived values, select the values he wants to live with real care, and sort out who he most wants to be?
I sit awhile longer with my thoughts and my questions. Soon enough it’ll be time to head back to the car and start a whole new week. My Traveling Partner’s surgery is now only a week away. There’s a lot going on in life. It’s a bit chaotic and rather demanding to adult at the required level. S’ok, I’ve got practices for this. It’s just a peculiarly busy time.
Most of the time, things are pretty ordinary.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. This morning’s sunrise wasn’t much to talk about, but it’s a new day nonetheless. There are practices to practice, and it’s time to begin again. I get to my feet with a sigh, straightening my stiff legs, and hit “upload” before I walk on…
I’m sitting with my first coffee of the morning. I came prepared, and although it is instant, it’s a good quality instant, and a good cup of coffee. It’s hot, clean tasting on my tongue, and satisfying.
A rainy coastal Monday.
My first sight upon waking, was the rainy day beyond the balcony of my “ocean view” hotel room (which lacks any hint of ocean view, by virtue of being on the first floor, but offers a lovely view of Siletz Bay). The second thing I noticed was a couple of young… sea otters? Seals? They were relaxing on this side of the bay, quite nearby. I went to grab my camera to get a shot of this not-all-that-common sight (usually they’re on the other side of the bay, too far away to get a good picture with my lens). Returning to the balcony, I see that a man walking his dog has also spotted them. Does he stay well back to let them be? Oh, hell no, he’s American; he quickly moves forward to take his fucking dog closer. Jackass. The sea otters (I think, based on how they moved) slipped back into the water as he closed in on them with his (thankfully leashed) dog. I got a couple of truly pointless shots of the larger pod they are clearly part of, as individuals bobbed above the water, and the pod moved on down the bay. Still – what a fun sight. I take a moment to enjoy that, and I forget about the man and his dog.
I woke early enough that the beach was empty (on a rainy morning), and slept in (for real) late enough to wake well past daybreak, dawn, or even sunrise (although there is no sunrise to see on this gray rainy morning, only a homogenous gray sky). I feel rested. I leave the balcony door wide open to let in the sea breeze and the cool fresh air. I sip my coffee, contentedly. I’m here with my pastels, and I can paint as easily from reference photos and from my imagination, as I can from the actual view, so the rain is nothing to me, and doesn’t change my plans, or upset me in any way. It was lovely to sleep so deeply, and to wake so rested. If that were all I got from this trip away, it would be very much worth it.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. My back aches ferociously. The damp climate of a cool rainy summer day on the coast is hard on my arthritis pain, and for a moment I am “feeling my years”, until I think to recall that I’ve had this arthritis since I was 24 or 25 years old – so for almost 40 years – and it’s nothing at all to do with age or aging. I shrug it off as an annoyance of no consequence, and get on with things anyway. It still amounts to an irritating distraction, but little more than that, so far. My tinnitus is not quite silenced by the wind and the waves – it’s a combination of sounds that sort of “drowns it out” when I’m on the coast, close enough to hear the ocean. It’s a nice break from the aggravation of my tinnitus at full volume. I take a minute to enjoy it with my full attention.
It’s not yet late enough for the hotel breakfast, but I rarely find their strange grab-and-go assorted things for “breakfast” to be satisfying, nourishing, or even particularly “breakfast-y”. Just a cheap convenience, and this trip I am more prepared to take care of this fragile vessel. I’ve got salad greens, blueberries, cashews, and hard-boiled eggs in the room fridge, and I make a simple breakfast salad. My stomach isn’t yet particularly interested in food (it’s a bit soon after waking), but it’ll be lovely to have a “real breakfast” once I’m ready to eat something.
These are such mundane details of such an ordinary life – why bother writing any of this down? I dunno, because maybe someone, somewhere, reading this hasn’t sorted it all out yet? Hasn’t “solved for X” in some of life’s math, perhaps, and simply reflecting on the things that work – or don’t – and what matters most (at least now, to me) may be helpful perspective in some way? In 2013, for example, I don’t think it would have occurred to me how much my own choices in life – simple practical decision-making – were responsible for the vast majority of my personal misery. I don’t know that simply saying “you’re doing this to yourself” would have gotten through to me, but perhaps someone simply reflecting on the things that are working well – small, sustainable, simple choices – might have guided me (or at least made me think)? Besides… I just write. It’s a thing I do. (I’m grateful that you are reading. Thank you.) It’s also “for me”; I often go back and read my writing from other days, other circumstances, with new eyes, or seeking new inspiration, or a reminder that “this too will pass”, or that I’ve “been here before”. (One of the lasting consequences of my TBI is simply that I have some memory-related challenges, and some oddities about how I perceive (or don’t) novelty – sometimes I just don’t recognize that I’ve “been through this before”. Helps to have a reminder.)
…I sit awhile, reflecting on how far this journey has taken me over the past 11 years, from being deeply negative, traumatized, mired in despair, and looking for “an exit strategy”, to where I am now – mostly pretty positive, generally contented, often joyful, enjoying life and love (and even enjoying work), and feeling a deep sense of… joie de vivre. It’s lovely. Each sunrise is worth seeing. Each day has something new to offer. Not only is the journey the actual destination…it’s a journey I find worth taking. That’s a long way to come from those dark days standing on the precipice, ready to decide whether to make a permanent end to my pain. I’m grateful that I made the appointment with the therapist who helped me find my way to a better path. (If you’re in despair, please reach out to someone for help. You matter.)
I stand, stretch, and begin to dress. I haven’t yet gone for a walk on the beach (or taken any walk at all yet, this morning). Seems a pleasant morning for it. The rain has stopped, the sand is firm, and although the tide is coming in, it won’t be a very high tide – plenty of beach to walk. The morning feels oddly “out of order”, with coffee and breakfast ahead of my walk. I chuckle to myself. This is the sort of healthy variation from a routine that serves to keep my brain flexible and young. I go with it. No complaints. Rigidity of thinking does not serve a human primate well. I breathe in the fresh ocean air deeply, and exhale, imaging blowing my pain out with my exhaled breath. I’m not sure it’s an effective strategy, but doing so amuses me and diminishes the power my pain has over my mind. I stand in the open doorway, watching the gulls and crows down on the beach. Somewhere nearby I hear a woodpecker. Now dressed, the day feels that it has more truly begun. I nibble at my salad, and finish my first coffee. There’s more hot water ready, so making a second cup is an obvious next step; there’s no hurry. This is my life. This is my time. This is my experience. Every step on this path is my “next step” – mine to choose, mine to walk, mine to reflect upon at the end of the day. Although our lives are intertwined and we are interdependent social creatures, we’re also each having our own experience. It matters to be and to choose – and to experience this life that I have chosen. I breathe, exhale, and relax.
…The day stretches ahead of me, unplanned, unconstrained, not yet filled with my choices and the verbs required by those choices. I am my own cartographer. The journey is the destination. It’s time to begin again.
Another chilly morning, as I hit the trail to walk, think, and watch the sun rise. There’s a mist clinging in the low places along the marsh, almost as dense as fog this morning.
Flowers, trees, mist, and morning.
My tinnitus is ridiculously loud in my ears. My neck aches ferociously. I am grateful that my next stop will be an appointment for some myofascial release work that reliably helps…at least for a little while.
It’s a busy day ahead. Errands. Housekeeping tasks intended to keep life easy for my Traveling Partner and the Anxious Adventurer while I am away for a few days. I’m no expert on caregiving (at all), but the Anxious Adventurer has still less experience, and anything I can do to set him up for success while I am away is a win for me (and for my Traveling Partner, his father). So I’ve got a list of things to get done before I go, and a plan to leave early tomorrow – maybe even do my morning walk along the beach, or in the forest, on a trail I’ve never walked, somewhere along the way to the coast. I’m eager to have a break, with a real reduction in stress (because my Traveling Partner won’t be home alone trying to do things for himself he presently struggles to do).
I face the day calmly and with a sense of purpose. There’s quite a lot to do, but I did some of it yesterday, and I’ve made a point not to leave it all for the last minute. Helpful. Practical.
The sun rises golden against a shell-pink sky streaked with delicate lavender clouds. Pretty. The air smells of summer flowers. A doe with two fawns stands very still and quiet as I walk past (so still I didn’t see her there until I was almost next to her). Around the next bend in the trail, the buck stood watching me intently, before walking slowly back up the trail towards his mate. At the edge of the river, nutria enjoy a playful moment. I walk on. Every now and then my thoughts stray in the direction of more stressful concerns. I observe the thoughts and let them go. This is not the time for any of that. I bring my attention back to this moment, here, now. I watch the delicate lacy flowers that stand above the tops of the meadow grass. They wave just a bit in a breeze I don’t really feel.
Breathe. Exhale. Relax. Walk on.
I love these quiet solitary moments. I fill my soul on this feeling of peace and contentment, savoring small joys and wonder for later moments. My residual anger and frustrations with life and circumstances melts away and I feel a sense of being “my best self”. Pain doesn’t matter so much in this timeless now.
Breathe. Exhale. Relax. Walk on.
Like a lot of things, building emotional resilience is a practice. Creating an implicit sense of living life that is skewed towards the positive requires practice. One step at a time. One walk at a time. One moment of gratitude at a time. Savoring small joys and deliberately bringing my focus to what is working, what is pleasant, all of life’s little successes…it adds up. Incremental change over time works; we become what we practice. Practice is ongoing. It’s not a competition, there is no “finish line”, and the journey is the destination.
I breathe deeply, and keep on walking. It’s a lovely morning to begin again.
I’m honestly not even a “morning person”, in the sense people generally seem to mean by the phrase. I’m just an early riser by habit. I would sleep in if I could. I am not at peak energy in the early morning. I don’t prefer to interact with people in the morning until I’ve been up a good long while and had some coffee and quiet time to myself. I’m often quite irritable first thing. See? Not a “morning person”, but I most definitely appreciate seeing the sun rise again.
This one is hues of orange.
…We are mortal creatures, and there is no guarantee we’ll see the next sunrise…
I’ve grown to truly love seeing the sun rise each morning. I’m often on some trail when the sun rises, or on the road headed to a trailhead for a walk in the morning. It’s a pleasant way to begin a day. I walk with my thoughts. I take a few pictures. I reach some likely spot for meditation, a bit of writing, maybe some yoga. Over the past four years this morning walk has grown from an occasionally expedient use of my time that happens to be pleasant, to become a firm and reliable self-care practice. I often feel out of sorts and unprepared for the day without my walk – and the chance to see the sun rise again.
… How many more sunrises will I have to enjoy? I have no way to know…
…We are mortal creatures…
I walk the trail, happy with the start to my day. Content with my thoughts and my experience. Satisfied with being in this moment. I don’t need anything different than what I have now. I keep walking. The morning is mild. The air is scented by wildflowers. I am alone. I hear traffic in the distance and an airplane overhead; it’s far too rare to truly avoid the sound of humankind busily going about the business of being human. We’re noisy creatures. I shrug it off and keep walking.
Breathe, exhale, relax…and walk on. Life is a journey. The path ahead is built on my choices. When I falter, I can begin again. I am my own cartographer. This is my journey. These are my choices. I walk on, one step at a time.
… My Traveling Partner wakes at home and pings me a greeting. I stop for a moment to reply, and to reflect and write…
Another sunrise. Another new day. Another chance to begin again. It’s enough.
I woke up quite early, ahead of my alarm. My Traveling Partner was already awake (woke me inadvertently), and in pain. We hung out for a little while before I left for work and for my morning walk. I almost left without my laptop, and did entirely overlook grabbing a fleece, sweater, or hoodie. Did I mention it’s chilly this morning?
I hate seeing my partner in pain. He hates being in the pain he’s in, and even more than that, he hates the limits pain places on his activities and cognitive abilities. There’s so little either of us can do about it. We wait together for his surgery, angry about a medical system that places so many limitations on doctors and patients and the medical care available to people in need. It’s inhumane and ineffective, inefficient and frankly terrible. We endure. Surgery soon, then the painful and annoying recovery journey can begin.
…We travel together…
Sometimes shit is hard. Sometimes less so. Life is complicated. I feel fortunate to have my Traveling Partner on life’s messy and painful journey. We’re in this together.
The morning chill caught me by surprise and I hustled down the path briskly to warm myself. There’s a mist clinging to the low places along the marsh. I walk on with my thoughts.
Misty morning.
This mortal life has limitations imposed by circumstances and events or enterprises beyond our individual control. We often place additional, unnecessary, limits on what we do, don’t do, can or can’t do, or have, or be, or experience. It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? I walk thinking about self-imposed limits. I remember a much younger me, talking myself out of trying pastels, when I was first “developing my voice” as an artist. Why? I judged myself (in advance of practical experience) to be “too messy” for pastels. I never gave them a chance, in spite of being fascinated by the luminous purity of the pigments. Life would later place other limits on my artistic endeavors, but truly? I got there first with my own. (Why?! Dunno. It’s very human, I suppose.)
I walked along thinking about the journey that life has taken me on. The journey I share with my partner. The limitations of the paths we’re on, individually and together. Sometimes it’s not at all clear where the path leads, or why we face the limits we do.
… Next weekend, some solo time on the coast, with my pastels, my tinnitus, and my thoughts. I don’t know what will come of it, and I find myself wondering if I am being a dick to go, with my Traveling Partner suffering as he is. The Anxious Adventurer will be home, and providing caregiving… But is that even reasonable to ask, really? I’m suddenly overcome with self doubt, even though I know how much I need the downtime.
… It’s an endurance race, not a sprint…
… Self-care really matters…
… I turn back up the trail to head to the car. It’s time to begin again, again… already…
Evening Light 