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Long-Range Weapons

March 10, 2016 //
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It is a very quiet morning. The keyboard ‘sounds loud’. I park my mechanical keyboard and opt to use the soft quiet keys of my laptop, typing with the most delicate touch I can manage. I am alert and a bit sound and light-sensitive today, and recognize it is something to be aware of as the day wears on. I don’t often get such a good opportunity to get ahead of my issues this way. I even have a good idea what the drivers are, this morning. Hello, PTSD-as-residual-of-domestic-violence. It can be a complicated experience.

I am not surprised that I am faced with managing my symptoms; my traveling partner is spending a great deal of time here, struggling with his own challenges, needing more than usual emotional support, frustrated, hurting, and understandably angry with the use of emotional weaponry in another relationship. It’s too easy to let his anger, the emotional experience itself, resonate with me; he does not ‘deserve’ this, I often find myself thinking. While that’s true (I mean, who does?), it’s counter-productive to providing emotional support. I practice listening deeply. I practice compassion. I work on finding a comfortable balance between soothing the hurts, and providing requested input without making it about me – this is sometimes complicated by my reliance on metaphor and comparison to similar experiences I’ve had to gain understanding or clarity. I keep practicing. I definitely need the practice. This isn’t mine to ‘fix’.

I began re-reading The Four Agreements. “Be Impeccable With Your Word” is most specifically the agreement I am reading, although… it’s the first one, and I’ll read the entire book. I am re-reading it for a refresher and deeper understanding of the first agreement, “Be Impeccable With Your Word”. I think of other experiences in life, other relationships, and of finding myself on the receiving end of some angry accusatory tirade in which some practice or way of thinking, recommended in the self-help aisle has been launched against me as a weapon. I remember also a tense, peculiarly cathartic sight of  young, angry, 20 -something, literally throwing a self-help book at the face of a partner in a public argument – a public moment of a human being lashing out directly at another human being physically – screaming “it’s a self help book, you asshole!” I had almost burst out laughing with understanding. We can only ever work on ourselves, really.

Being impeccable with my word, The Four Agreements makes clear, is not about ‘telling the truth’ precisely, or about ‘keeping promises’ either, well… not only those things. It’s vastly more complicated, subtle, and nuanced. It is a favorite practice of mine, and my own understanding of it is as a fundamental statement of mental and emotional purity, as in ‘don’t fuck with people’s reality, and especially don’t do that on purpose’. Lying counts, so does misleading someone with great care through choice of language or use of misdirection. Explicit expectation setting on which there is not intent to follow through is also a failure to be impeccable with one’s word. Then there is name calling, beratement, judgement – yes, even that; the things we say to people can cause them great pain. We all know it. Sowing discontent is another way to undermine the impeccability of our word. Mean jokes, too. Even just being irritable and cruel. Yeah…basically, the idea is that language is a powerful shared tool for human primates akin to actual magic. Being impeccable with my word is a practice intended to keep me on the path of treating myself and others well. (I may not say out loud the words I use to/about myself, but those count too.)

I breathe through my increasing irritation about how my traveling partner is treated in another relationship; I can’t fix it, and it’s not mine to fix. It’s hard to be on the sidelines watching someone use their words as weapons against someone so dear to me such that he is further hurt, further tested. I contemplate my own similar experiences, the choices required to take care of myself. I know there are verbs involved, and that it is a journey with many choices. It’s hard to watch, though. I find myself puzzled why more people don’t recognize that they are crafting their own hell-on-earth with the way they mistreat people they say they love – hell, the way they treat people generally. Sounds a little judgmental when I see the words hit the page. I return my thoughts to my own experience, my own actions – things I can affect directly through my choices. I am human. I can do better, myself. I observe in moment of cynicism, that this is one of the great challenges in a human life; I acknowledge I can grow, change and do better – a lot of people do – and then there are others, seeing that acknowledgement and replying through their own choices and actions ‘you go right ahead working on you, thanks, you owe me that and I’m not changing shit myself, so… yeah’.  It’s a thing. It’s frustrating – and more. Still… this is my own journey, my own path, and although there is immense power in the words used aggressively or wickedly by others, I don’t have to drink the poison. I can choose differently.

I hear the wail of the morning train not so far away. My cup is empty of even the last cold swallow of coffee. I feel the chill of the room sitting in a soft cotton camisole and wondering where I left the sweater I chose to wear to work. I feel a moment of gratitude that my traveling partner has such a good heart. It is a lovely quiet moment, this one, filled with opportunities to embrace the best qualities of my experience, and build my day on that foundation.

Today is a good day to walk my own path, and use my words with care, kindness, compassion, and awareness. Today is a good day to listen more than I talk.

Today is a good day to walk my own path, and use my words with care, and compassion. Today is a good day to listen more than I talk.

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Categories Anxiety, Brain Injury, Free Will, Love, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5, women, Words

Scratching at Fleas

March 7, 2016 //
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It’s earlier than necessary. I’ve been awake since 3 am. Returning to sleep wasn’t successful this morning; I was too wrapped up in the discomfort of scratching at fleas. Oh, not actual real insect fleas one might encounter at home if the family dog, cat, or other pet potentially interesting to fleas brought them indoors. I mean metaphorical fleas of the sort that nag and irritate and bite at my consciousness in the background, until the background becomes the greater portion of my thinking, and rest is no longer easily within reach.

I enjoyed a pleasant weekend with my traveling partner, and a great deal of it was spent simply enjoying that time together in a positive connected way. Some of it was spent being a supportive partner, providing a listening ear, maintaining my individual perspective based on my own experiences, ensuring he felt heard and cared for nonetheless… I find myself thinking I spent a lot less time than usual on the things that generally fill my weekends these days: long walks, yoga, meditation, reading, writing, relaxing lost in thought over a hot coffee and gazing out at the clouds passing by over the park, painting, drawing, taking photographs, cooking, keeping my place orderly…only… I did those things. I think, actually, I did all those things this weekend…so…why this nagging feeling that something is missing, or didn’t get handled, or… and why the hell am I so cross this morning now that Monday has come?

I’m scratching at fleas, that’s why. It doesn’t need more thought or fancy language or additional analysis. Some of the things my partner is going through with his Other are just that fucking aggravating to even hear about. From afar, some human being I no longer have a direct connection with of any sort has managed – likely without any awareness or intent, let’s be rational – reached across time and distant through the magic of relationship drama and primate behavior to successfully get under my skin without even being here. Ick. As with real fleas, the temptation is to take immediate action – flea by flea initially, until it becomes clear there is ‘a real problem’. The larger mistake is allowing any such assumption that there is ‘a real problem’ to stand on its own merits; it’s mostly likely emotional bullshit and baggage, safe to let go of without further attention, the better choice being to continue to practice emotionally healthy practices moment by moment.

Some of life’s fleas come in the form of well-meaning loved ones suffering with the bad behavior of others slowly starting to demonstrate extreme reactivity to those sorts of things – or more unfortunate still, doing those actual very things that have hurt them so much, in interactions with other people. It’s very human, and pretty sad, and hard to endure, and very unpleasant. I am pretty sure it’s one of those so very human things that few are immune to it – I’ve been there myself, and I’m still scratching at a few that hang on so doggedly (lol) that I can point to the relationship they came from with certainty.

It was a bite from a metaphorical flea that messed with my sleep this morning. I woke in the wee hours, got up to pee and returned to bed. I noticed my throat was dry and my head was stuffy, and had a drink of water on the way back to bed. Just as I dozed off, I recalled a conversation the night before; my traveling partner expressed concern about my snoring, and my weight (they are related; I don’t snore much at all unless I am carry extra pounds). The conversation wasn’t an attack of any sort, and was clearly well-intended. It was practical, and also gentle. I don’t know that how the conversation was handled has anything at all to do with it holding my attention and keeping me from sleeping at 3 am… but I felt sufficiently self-conscious about the possibility I might snore that I couldn’t go back to sleep (even though no such thought prevented me from sleeping when I went to bed).  So, I am up early, writing, and wondering which of many practices for building perspective and finding balance are the ideal fit for flea bites… Because I do want my partner(s) to be easily able to come to me with their concerns, and I want to be comfortable hearing what they have to say, as well as able to sort out what matters most, and whether there is any need to take action, without that process being disruptive… or keeping me awake.

I managed to prevent my fleas from taking over my morning, which is nice, although I ended up missing out on 2 hours of sleep I might otherwise have enjoyed. My thoughts tried to get me to become invested in scratching those fleas on a whole other level. I found myself feeling cross about how much time was spent discussing his other relationship – I restored balance with gentle awareness of how much time he spent listening when I went through a bad break up, myself.

Reciprocity isn’t a ‘tit for tat’ thing like a tennis game where moment by moment everyone gets a ‘turn’; reciprocity trends over time with day-to-day shared consideration, deep listening, participation in shared activities – like folding the laundry together and talking, playing a video game together, figuring out dinner together and sharing the cooking and clean up. Reciprocity isn’t “I made this coffee, now you make that one” as much as it is a commonplace exchange that results in coffee reliably being made – by someone – and cleaned up – by someone – and everyone involved satisfied that the arrangement is comfortable, perhaps because even if I am generally the one making coffee, you are the one generally making tea; and we share both experiences. That very loose and easy notion of reciprocity only works in practice, as it turns out, when all participants are equally investing in equanimity, balance, and mutual support. It breaks down quickly if anyone involved feels entitled, deserving, superior, or ‘in charge’; reciprocity requires a lot of boundary setting, compromise, and ground rules in relationships that are not between (among?) adult equals. People who are in crisis, emotionally injured, or suffering great pain or grief are sometimes not easily able to reciprocate emotional support moment-to-moment; like a marathon runner with a broken leg, they may be very skilled at what’s needed, in principle, in training, in experience – but in that moment that they are working to heal a broken leg, they are not running any marathons, and it may be some time before the reciprocal nature of the relationship is fully restored live-in-real-time. It’s a reciprocal relationship, if everyone can count on each other ‘down the road’ as much as right now – that marathon running is a recurring or ongoing experience, and one day I may be the one with the broken leg, myself. Is this metaphor played out? Probably – I’m still scratching at fleas this morning.

Begin again? I think I shall.

Begin again? I think I shall.

I hear my partner up early, too; we are sensitive to each other’s moods beyond what seems common (or necessary, frankly). It may be that my wakefulness has messed with his sleep in turn. We’re very fancy primates, emotionally complicated, very responsive to our environment and our tribe. I hear him make coffee, and find myself distracted from my writing. I feel it as eagerness to share his company, and a subtle concern in the background. I remind myself to continue my best practices, regardless of his considerable charm; if I don’t take care of the woman in the mirror, and this fragile vessel, I am not so easily able to provide him with support and care when he needs it, too. Balance, perspective, and love – a good salve for flea bites.  🙂

Still… today is a nice day to begin the morning with love. 🙂

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Categories Brain Injury, Free Will, Healthy Living, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, Spring, The Big 5, Words

Finishing Touches

February 24, 2016 //
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I arrived home last night quite exhausted. I made it a gentle evening, and crashed out quite early. I slept well and deeply, and woke comfortably to the alarm. In all regards, quite a nice way to finish off a challenging work day and move on. I woke this morning having forgotten about the closet doors. When I moved in, there were no closet doors at all. They were still on order and not yet installed. They arrived, and were installed yesterday (with the exception of the closet door in my bedroom, at my request). I had inspected the work when I arrived home, and not given it another thought. This morning I awoke without having closet doors in mind, and was a bit startled when I stepped into the studio to write… closet door. Big broad, vast, visually impressive, white sliding closet door… across the entire end of the room, where previously the shelves with my art gear, and the top shelf with not-yet-unpacked breakables sit safely, had been ‘part of the view’ since I moved in. It was a bit odd. Different. More… ‘finished’.

I find myself thinking about ‘finishing touches’ generally, you know – those items, tasks, elements, and moments that really round out an event or experience in a way that feels ‘complete’ and satisfying, or fulfills some specific aesthetic. Love, too, has some opportunities for ‘finishing touches’ – and that could be quite a literal thing, as with tender contact, touches, and afterplay following sex, or something deeper – like the unexpected love note days later, found tucked away somewhere undiscovered, found in passing during a difficult moment, filling a tense emotional space with love and recognition. Finishing touches seem to be more about an awareness, a perception, than about the thing themselves… and I continue to contemplate finishing touches as I sip my coffee.

Reflecting on a turn of phrase or a metaphor provides new perspective.

Reflecting on a turn of phrase or a metaphor provides new perspective.

There are ‘finishing touches’ along the far reaches of the negative spectrum of my emotional experience, although I generally don’t call them ‘finishing touches’ so much as ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’ or ‘the deal breakers’. The ‘finishing touch’ on my first marriage was how my spouse treated his son, and his mother (in both cases, badly). The finishing touch on the long-term relationship that followed was a complex singularity – an evening of trampled boundaries, disregard, unexpected violence, inconsiderate nastiness, and intimidation; it was a hell of a finish, no doubt, and quite a sudden cascade of deal breakers in one seemingly endless evening. The finishing touch on a relationship that followed – a ‘long term’ relationship characterized after-the-fact by its brevity (less than 3 years), was the development of a peculiarly chronic neglect, disregard, and emotional weaponry launched by a mentally ill partner; I was in no shape to provide the support she needed, and I needed day-to-day simple decency from a disordered partner unable to provide that to anyone, in any relationship (at that time). When I think of those events in the positive terms of ‘finishing touches’ rather than the negative terms of ‘deal breakers’ and ‘last straws’, I find myself feeling more settled and content with the way things turned out; it makes sense that those relationships ended, and the events that finished them off do settle things, in a fairly ‘completed’ and ‘finished’ way, providing a ‘why it makes sense’ that they ended. I find myself aware that a ‘finishing touch’ is a form of closure – and it is found within, requiring no assistance from another party, no ‘last words’, no ‘parting gift’, no give and take; it belongs to me, and exists as part of my own understanding of myself, and the context of my life in which I exist. The ‘finish’ of a finishing touch is a perception, and as such, also beyond the realm of argument, requiring no validation. 🙂

The closet doors do result in a more finished look here, generally. The paintings hanging in the hallway provide a similar sense of things being ‘complete’ and ‘finished’. It feels comfortably grown up, and properly a residence, in a way that differs slightly from #27, which I so recently adored, and moved from. It is a similar feeling to moving from the barracks as a young soldier, into housing ‘on the economy’, or moving from a college dorm, into a ‘real apartment’. My previous apartment was set up for artistic live/work…but so small and compact that it was very nearly a studio apartment, and felt rather like a spacious bedroom sometimes. This new space feels very like a house, from the inside, and having separated my studio and creative work space from the rest of the residential spaces, also very comfortable… and sometimes strange. It seems more… finished. I’m still getting used to it, and sometimes find myself simultaneously delighted and vaguely uncomfortable with the spaciousness, or feeling both relieved and uneasy to have it generally all to myself. I remember as I write those words that growth itself often feels very uncomfortable indeed. I smile. I am okay with where I am in life; that feels really good.

Begin again; the finishing touch in one moment becomes a cherished reminder of the beginning for another.

Begin again; the finishing touch in one moment becomes a cherished reminder of the beginning for another.

The leisure morning at home nears its end. I notice when I check the clock. Finishing touches are possible here, too; there is time for some housekeeping, and those are the finishing touches on my morning that become my beautiful welcome home at the end of a long work day. 🙂 It’s a very good day to treat the woman in the mirror well, and to live my values authentically. It’s a very nice day for finishing touches.

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Categories Brain Injury, Free Will, Healthy Living, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, The Art of Being, The Big 5

Thankful

February 22, 2016 //
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It’s a Monday morning. It’s a slow, somewhat sluggish, rather disorganized Monday morning. I’ve been up for nearly an hour and only now sitting down with coffee in hand, and somehow having managed to show and meditate, and even get the dishes started, but… my consciousness is foggy, and I am not at my best. I woke during the night more than once with a stuffy head and dry throat. The dry throat from snoring, which is likely what actually woke me, but also probably worsened by the stuffy head. It doesn’t feel like a head-cold, yet, and I muddle through the morning.

I’m okay with the slow morning; I have all the time I need to appreciate the excellent weekend that just finished. End to end it was just an exceptional weekend of extraordinary contentment and joy. More than enough, and built on basics like ‘perspective’, ’emotional self-sufficiency’, ‘good self-care’, ‘awareness’, ‘listening deeply’ – and all the verbs that each of those implies.

I had not been here before, but it was not an uncommon experience to have.

I had not been here before, but it was not an uncommon experience to have.

My walk yesterday lead me through the neighborhood down unfamiliar streets, past houses and yards and families. I found it interesting to see differences in the qualities of order and chaos from home to home. There were homes with untidy winter gardens awaiting spring, the elaborate trellises, supports, and remains of summer past telling a tale of sunshine, labor, and good food. Other homes had only a fierce green expanse of utterly perfect lawn from curb to stoop – artificial lawn. Still others with the disordered arrangement of various unfinished projects communicating lost momentum, despair, lack of funds, lack of will, lack of hope… It isn’t always easy to finish what we begin. Beginnings often come in a moment of hope, embraced change, or good fortune; impermanence quickly ends them unfinished without commitment – and verbs. We seem to have taught ourselves too well how ‘hard’ things can be, and it has become an easy excuse to move on from one project to another, without completion. Me, too. Still human.

Impermanence - a blackberry hedge that will be removed when the road goes through.

Impermanence – a blackberry hedge that will be removed when the road goes through.

I arrived home from my walk feeling uplifted (fresh air, sunshine, and arriving home ahead of the rain) and the first thing my eyes landed on was the assortment of paintings yet to hang. My errands Saturday afternoon included getting the remaining pieces I plan to hang in the dining space framed. I had been on the edge of allowing the desire to see more of the work I love best well-framed stop me from hanging unframed work ‘in the meantime’ (‘meantimes’ can grow very long left unattended, speaking from experience). I reconsidered and hung work in my bedroom that is not intended to be framed; the two canvases I’d selected for either side of the bed were just waiting to be hung, and no reason to delay. My comfort and delight at the more finished feel of the space encouraged me further, and I hung work in the hallway for consideration, enjoying some leisurely minutes swapping this for that, moving one here, or there, until the hallway also felt ‘finished’ – although these works will need to come down one-by-one over the course of the year for their own turn at the framer’s. I thought no more of it, yesterday, once I’d done with it.

I woke this morning, sluggish to be sure, and when I stepped from my bedroom into the hallway my smile tore across my face unexpectedly in a moment of unreserved childlike joy – “home!” is what the smile says, without words. It matters that much to see my work hanging in my space. I listen to the rain fall, sip my coffee, and feel wrapped in comfort and contentment – and some portion of that is built on these small choices to make this space visually comfortable, based on what I enjoy myself. “Home” and comfort go so far beyond a thermostat setting. Self-knowledge and awareness are important character qualities to cultivate; tubes of paint willy-nilly in apparent disorder on the drop cloth at the foot of my easel don’t disturb or distress me, and there’s no reason to fuss with them. A tissue carelessly dropped next to a trash can is a very different thing; I pick it up in passing and return order. Dishes in the sink are annoying to wake up to, and I generally load the dishwasher before bed to ensure I don’t wake up to dirty dishes; good self-care suggests I start the dishwasher in the morning before I leave for work, to avoid having to listen to the machine run (which can aggravate my tinnitus and make me more noise sensitive). Small details that ‘don’t matter’ are often the details that matter most [to me].

One peculiar thing about being a human primate is how difficult it is to share ‘what works’ – because there’s no reason, really, to suppose it will work universally, at all. We are each having our own experience. On the other hand… we’re the same species, living on just this one planet (so far, and as far as we know), and we have so much in common that we have a word for it: ‘common’. Funny how commonly we feel so all alone in our experience, isn’t it? Reason suggests it is rarely the ‘true truth’ about our circumstances – or even how those circumstances feel to us as an individual in the moment. Odd that. I am learning the value of listening deeply for closing that gap in mutual understanding, and it is currently the most important relatively new practice I am practicing. I find the best simple descriptions for practices associated with listening deeply in Thich Nhat Hanh’s “How to Love” and in “The Happiness Trap” by Russ Harris – they’re both linked on my reading list. 🙂 It often seems as though the heart and soul of much of the strife in the world is a lack of real listening to one another, with a lack of compassion for our fellows nipping at it’s heels for first place in the race to be the most insensitive human being possible. We could so easily choose to care, instead. I wonder what that would be like for the world – to be cared for, I mean.

The morning moves on, so do I. Monday. A rainy Monday, and one on which I will come home to a space that has had strangers in it, making changes; I moved into the unit before the new closet doors were hung, and those have arrived and will be installed today while I am at work. I feel a little queasy thinking about stray humans without supervision moving through my space with paintings on the walls, and stacked here and there, and breakables out… where they could so easily be broken. I take a deep breath and let the fear fall away. It’s not always easy to trust. Another breath, and a reminder to myself how careful the landlady has been with such, thus far. Another breath, and I recall how many more times – seriously – someone living with me, meaning well, and knowing the value of the things around us, has broken something, damaged something, or very nearly so; it is far far more often than any workman has ever put my breakables or art at risk. and sometimes actually done willfully in anger. I feel myself relax; workers on the premises are not a legitimate cause for concern, they are being paid, and can be relied upon to behave as paid professionals in my space.

Today is a good day to be present in this moment, doing what I am doing right now – whatever that is. Today is a good day to be appreciative for what works, and taking advantage of the learning opportunity when something doesn’t work as well. Today is a good day to take care of me, with the tenderness and compassion with which I would care for anyone dear to me. Today is a good day to listen deeply.

 

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Categories Anxiety, art and the artist, Brain Injury, Free Will, Healthy Living, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, solo hiking, The Art of Being, winter, Words

One Moment, Here

February 21, 2016 //
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I really wanted to sleep in this morning. For the past several evenings I have been up later than is my general practice, not for any specific purpose just not sleepy enough earlier to make trying to sleep worthwhile. I don’t mind, there’s always another chapter in another excellent book, or some quiet something-or-other than can be done before retiring for the evening. But…it’s helpful if I can also comfortably sleep later the next day. Hasn’t been working out this weekend, I am awake with the dawn at the latest, and that has been a compromise, attempting to return to sleep after waking seriously too damned early to want to be up.

It may have felt too early, but this morning I woke to a beautiful sunrise just beyond the window. Worth it.

It may have felt too early, but this morning I woke to a beautiful sunrise just beyond the window. Worth it.

It’s been the sort of weekend that each deviation from plan, desire, or intent, has proven to be an outcome just beyond ‘enough’, and often splendidly beautiful, unexpectedly positive, delightful, or noteworthy in some pleasant way. It has been helpful that I’ve been open to each change as it has developed, finding myself moments of wonder and joy along a path I didn’t expect to tread.

Another unexpected outcome of the weekend’s peculiarly unscripted unfolding has been that I wake on a Sunday without plans or planning. The Friday evening I’d intended to spend with my traveling partner ended up spent on laundry, meditation, study, and art. The Saturday morning I’d planned to do laundry was spent on art, writing, and yoga. My Saturday evening date canceled for his own reasons, without animus, and I ended up spending Saturday evening with my traveling partner. Now here it is Sunday…and somehow the usual housekeeping got done between other things. I like a tidy home, particularly if I might be entertaining, but I so dislike ‘project housekeeping’ of the sort that is frenetic activity immediately prior to guests arriving that I just won’t do that. I ‘clean as I go’ generally, and on Sunday often put in a routine 2-3 hours of really detailed cleaning. Today it just isn’t necessary, and the laundry is done. The errands I ran yesterday, between the morning and evening, knocked out much of the miscellany that had been on my mind since I moved. So… now what?

...And birdsong included.

…And birdsong included.

I watch the sunrise develop beyond the window of my studio, sipping my coffee. I contemplate change, choice, and perspective. These are among my favorite themes to consider, and how lovely a metaphor is a sunrise? 🙂

…But what to do with the day? I feel a yearning for… something. Something new, but not complicated. Something beautiful, but not remote. Something precious and perhaps limited – rare? Commonplace beauty that is rare doesn’t sound easy to find, and actually it sounds more like a Zen riddle.

I could really benefit from a good hike, out in the trees. I see runners passing by on Fanno Creek Trail, which runs between the sunrise and my studio window. I recall a recent article about a neighborhood park or trails or something to be soon lost with a road expansion… looking it up I read that an uncompleted road became, over time, a neighborhood park along a corridor between back fences, where the road had been planned to be, but never finished. Apparently, the funding and approvals are now a done deal, after so many years, and the plan is to begin construction very soon – when things dry out after the spring rains, most likely. I read quotes from community members irked to lose their greenspace after so long, which seems reasonable; there are no quotes from community members who want the road completed, only civic planners; the traffic in this neighborhood is quite horrific during commuter hours. It’s not a fancy or grand destination, but it is nearby and I’ve never walked those trails – and they may not be there to be walked sometime very soon. Regrets suck, particularly when they are the result of my own choices; today I will take time to walk this mysterious soon-to-disappear trail, because it is there, now. 🙂

A pleasant hike along a local trail isn’t going to take an entire Sunday, and the day remains leisurely, unscripted, and quite delightfully rich with possibilities. Today is a good day to enjoy the day, without expectations, without demands, without insistence on or adherence to an agenda. Today is a good day to listen deeply, to be gentle with myself and the world, and to let the day unfold as it will. Isn’t that enough?

Sometimes finding a happy place is surprisingly close to home.

Sometimes finding a happy place is surprisingly close to home.

 

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Categories Brain Injury, Free Will, Healthy Living, Love, Metaphors, Mindfulness, Oregon Trails, Perspective, Post Traumatic Stress, Relationships, solo hiking, The Art of Being, The Big 5, Words
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