And now I am here
When there’s so much happening moment to moment.
When every moment feels different, new, and unfamiliar. And there are many. From moment to moment, in what seem like snapshots.
I started saying “And now I am here.” Perhaps to catch my breath for a moment, or to slow down and take in where I was. To acknowledge at least that “now” and “here” grounded me to our suddenly nomadic days on the road through PA, NY, and VT for two weeks of hiking, camping, and biking.
How I thought I couldn’t quite take in everything, and how I thought I needed to process along the way. Yet in some ways maybe I already was, just not in my usual ways like writing, or making connections, or playing with meaning. Even photographing usually helps me focus and see deeply, and I sometimes just couldn’t.
And yet maybe as my world expanded, perhaps so did my capacity to take in. That there was nothing to “process” really, just these moments that came and went, leaving an imprint but not getting stuck or edgy.
My sweetie and I had the intention to be somewhat spontaneous for our trip. This meant to be light in our planning, and feel our way to what might be next, or what we wanted. Sometimes it worked out – especially after we released our tendency to plan ahead, or let go of the worry of missing out or choosing the wrong thing. It really didn’t work out when we did that. But by the end of the first week it was working out much better.
And now I am here…
Walking with crowds through a watery crevice in the earth at Watkins Glen State Park, mesmerized by the stone and waterfalls and moss and ferns:
Canoeing on the lake of my childhood, with my grand niece and nephews:
Walking with crowds through a watery crevice in the earth at Ausable Chasm, taken by the intense rush and roar of water :
Brushing my teeth awkwardly in a state park bathroom, next to a mom gently brushing her daughter’s wet hair.
Deciding to drive home a day early, our camping and hiking gear soaked and more thunderstorms coming.
We were also seeking time for contemplation – like sitting, walking, or hiking meditation. We did that several times. Once in a hotel room, another at a retreat center, and twice in urban parks. It was not as much as we had hoped, though. But there were other times – when the rain poured, when the water rushed, when the sky opened up – that my breath slowed, and my senses heightened, and a quiet peace was felt. And it was enough. Always enough.
And now I am here…
Walking through a rain sodden meadow by myself, and feeling my grandmother’s spirit near:
Curled up in front of the calming waves of Seneca Lake with a weeping willow tree overhead, both nurturing me back to health:
On top of the mountain where my parents’ ashes were released, feeling a vast openness and how time passes:
Meditating, slow walking, and qigong in an out-of-the-way urban park, among tall conifer trees:
Looking up, in awe of magnificent trees and all the secrets and stories they must hold:
Sleeping in our tent and hearing the intense downpour of rain, as if music was playing on my face.
Mesmerized in front of our campfire, watching crazy hot flames turn wood to ash.
We were seeking adventure. The kind where I feel myself in a different way, of doing something that challenges me in a good way, and gets me out of my comfort zone, too. This has usually been in the outdoors, and typically in nature. Though not always.
And now I am here…
In a motorboat in the Adirondacks, with my sister driving us across the lake of our childhood to her cabin:
Cycling along the Champlain Bikeway, out the Causeway to Grand Isle, so free and happy:
Camping in the Green Mountains, dispersed in a far away place, away from anyone, and wildly idyllic:
Hiking up and then down the very steep Killington Peak Mountain, slow and steady all day, without my knee brace and my knees not hurting at all:
Scrambling downhill on another forested trail for over a mile in a heavy downpour, dodging mud and slippery rocks and getting soaked to the core.
Cycling with my sweetie on our tandem bike early one morning in Lake Placid.
There was this word that came up in an essay I came across recently: Wandertility (noun): “A state of exploration that remains meaningful, regardless of a determined end point.” The author, Morgan Harper Nichols made up this fictional word “for the very real hope of needing space to just be.”
I think that’s it, that’s what we did. It’s what we needed.
And now I am here. Home, writing this post, for you to soon read.
This is the first post where I didn’t create any art in advance to write about or reflect upon. I didn’t make anything. Even my photography wasn’t intentional for a post. I just needed to write this time.
And now I am here. Back in my studio, with creative ideas stirring.
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Here...
LouLou
“And now I am nere” was originally published as an exclusive post to my Ko-fi supporters in August 2023. Now it is public to you, too!
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