It isn’t a sudden realization that fell from the sky like an unexpected deluge of rain – that she’s alone without him. But the insight flashes on every wall in the house like a persistent advertisement on television. Dodging its audacity staring her in the face is impossible. Its reflection glowers back at her in each mirror. And yet, don’t misconstrue, this share of vulnerability isn’t about loneliness. Her ‘me’ time is welcomed at the right time, but when he’s gone, there’s no pretending. Too many miles stretch in between her address and loved ones. Friendships reside in the past. Staring at the silent cell phone lying on the table, she wishes it to buzz and shimmy closer to her. The doorbell longs to chime in days of old. No one to laugh with, no one for idle conversation, no one to care. The only noise is the reassurance that she is alone, and it booms through her aching heart like a relentless bass beat.
life partner brings joy ‘me time’ brings satisfaction friends faded with time
Backpacking never entered my mind. When I was a young girl, summers and winters were spent at our cabin in Big Bear, CA. It wasn’t fancy, but cute and cozy nestled among sugar pines on a huge, corner lot. In the summer, we spent time swimming in the lake, but right in our backyard we played badminton, watching those birdies fly over the net. When snow blanketed the ground, we pulled the toboggan out and slid down the hills. Squeals of joy whirled around the trees!
I didn’t learn about pitching a tent until Matt and I met and married in our late twenties (almost 36 years ago). He had already embarked on several backpacking adventures. But the idea never appealed to me, and yet, after he started taking me camping, my love for the outdoors blossomed. I didn’t mind getting dirty or sleeping in a tent. One of my rules, though, was ensuring the tent stayed zipped up so that bugs of all species (especially, spiders) remained outside where they belonged. And of course, Matt didn’t want to sleep with bugs either!
When our daughter and son each turned one year old, they became our little campers. Was it easy? Not in the least with packing a highchair, port-o-crib, diapers, etc., but looking back at those precious photos makes the hassle worthwhile. Their imaginations ran wild as they played around the campsites, and it was special to witness. Matt felt they were old enough to backpack when our daughter was seven and our son was four. At the very mention of the idea to them, their excitement bounced off the walls! They were eager to get a pack on their back and hike on the trail like daddy!
“Young Campers”
They amble through the African savannah, eyes alert, keeping watch for big animals seeking out their next meal. But their excitement soars because they want to see the beautiful creatures. Suddenly, a thunder-booming growl echoes throughout the grassland! Their feet become blocks of cement, stopping in their tracks, as fear creeps up their necks! Terror escalates as they hold their breath! Legs shake like trees from an angry gust of wind. Any sound could be the end!
Then Mom yells, “Lunch is ready!” Fear subsides, and their adventure halts.
Until tomorrow … when their imaginations come alive again.
(From my book, Ever So Gently)
So, the tradition began and continued for several years, taking them to the Sierra mountains, and locally, Point Reyes National Seashore. During these times when my family was away, I’d get together with some girlfriends for a ‘girl’ weekend. It was a win-win! Now as adults, they thank their dad for showing them the beauty of the wilderness and for those wonderful memories.
Then one morning in my mid-fifties, I woke up with an epiphany! I was ready to backpack! I wanted to write stories from my own experiences. I loved listening to Matt’s tales with the kids, but the desire escalated to get a pack on my back. Matt was elated that his wife would join him on the trail! We soon headed for the Sierra Mountains, several years in a row. Up and down hills, carrying that pack, wearing the sunhat, using walking sticks when needed. There was always a lake to fall into once we had discarded the pack and set up our wilderness home. And there is something surreal and profound about carrying all you need on your back. What an experience! The shimmering lakes, trails, nature surrounding us with her critters and sounds, vivid sunsets, and oh, the memories made!
Our first trip to Shealor Lake– one of my favorite photos!
Heading to Spider Lake, 5 miles up hill, and no spiders were seen on this trip.
Matt in the moment with all the gear!
One of many miracles we witnessed!
After reading the book, Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, and then watching the movie starring Reese Witherspoon, a dream of hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail wiggled its way into my mind. This dream has been diligent in holding its place until I make it a reality. We haven’t hiked the PCT, yet, because returning to our favorite lake each year seemed to have had a magnetic effect. But now in our early sixties, the dream still wiggles! Are we too old? From what I’ve read, people of all ages hike in general, let alone, hike the PCT, so we’re not old at all. But in spring of last year, my health took a turn…
I wasn’t able to walk two houses down our block without pain. It’s been a challenging year, but the reader’s digest version is that I’m doing much better! Since the spring, I’ve been able to hike again pain-free. Thus, my recovery and learning how to manage an incurable but treatable diagnosis has woken up my dream from a long repose. One caveat from my doctor is that bearing weight on my back as in wearing a backpack isn’t advisable. However, to remedy this, Matt would carry more, but we’d both really pare down to go lighter than in past years. And a side-note…I don’t care about the distance I hike on the PCT, whether it’s one, two, or twenty miles – I just want to be able to say, “I hiked the PCT!” Consequently, we’re gearing up for 2026! I only pray that good health sustains for both of us to bring this dream to fruition.
From the web. It’s good to keep a visual for perspective and motivation.
“If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.” ~ Henry David Thoreau
Have you backpacked? What’s on your bucket list?
CHEERS TO DREAMS, BUCKET LISTS, AND TO GETTING ON THE TRAIL! 🥾❤️😁
I’m pleased to announce that my poem “Let Man Lay Down Rifles to be Ally” is published on Gobblers by Masticadores today! I am very grateful to Manuela Timofte and her staff for publishing this special piece. I hope you all enjoy!
Let Man Lay Down Rifles to be Ally
If only humans could absorb lessons From the largest mammals walking the earth. Their big hearts bursting with kind expressions, A principle understanding golden worth.
If only humans would shed their black greed, Knives and guns stealing an innocent life. Torturing for the sale of ivory Beneath a darkened sky, spine-chilling cries...
To read the rest of the poem, please click on the link below. And if you don’t already follow Gobblers, please do. You’ll discover amazing talent and thought-provoking writing. Thanks for stopping by!
Sunset would soon reveal itself On this day not quite the thirty-first. Late afternoon brought warm temps, He shifted the car into reverse.
Looking in the rear-view mirror Ready to part from the stall, His eyes blinked several times, What he saw took disturbing gall.
A clown from a horror film With head bent to the right – He thought, “What the hell?” Celebrating defense of daylight!
Mind and body didn’t easily scare, Toughened by the screen. But trepidation began to build, Though not in the least to be seen.
However, he swiftly chose to ignore Since the dashboard clock continued to tick. No weapon glistened in light of day, Time did not allow for a lunatic.
The right move was decided To turn the other cheek. Pointless to provoke, yet, he wasn’t acting weak.
The sedan attempted to roll back As the clown surprisingly stepped aside. Avoiding contact with those eyes, the accelerator was applied.
A form of frightening entertainment, Ages ago, clowns, fun and comical. Their smiles joyful, but now creepy. An event surely psychological.
Nevertheless, a happy ending for this tale – Altercation dodged, he thankfully stayed safe. But fun appears in interesting forms – This afternoon, dreadfully, eerily displayed.
(The inspiration for this poem came from my son’s unsettling experience in college years ago. It turned into a timely post for the spooky event approaching at the end of this month.)
I was finally able to take some photos of these wonderful elephants that I pass by every day. They’re on the side of the building for Johnny Doughnuts. And I always think of my good friend, Resa, because she is the discoverer of fabulous murals that she shares on her blog, graffitiluxandmurals.com. After reading The Elephant Whisperer by Lawrence Anthony and An Elephant in My Kitchen by Francois Malby-Anthony, I fell head over heals with these magnificent animals. But as we all know, poaching is rampant for elephants. I can’t even wrap my head around this horrific deed and the heartless humans behind it. Anyway, a poem began to brew and a sonnet began to form. The iambic pentameter isn’t perfect, but so be it. Thus, I offer you my ‘somewhat sonnet.’
Let Man Lay Down Rifles to be Ally
If only humans could absorb lessons From the largest mammals walking the earth. Their big hearts bursting with kind expressions, A principle comprising golden worth.
If only humans would shed their black greed, Knives and guns stealing an innocent life. Torturing for the sale of ivory Beneath a darkened sky, spine-chilling cries.
Allowing these creatures to play their part Would aid ecosystems they occupy. No bullets tearing through a gentle heart… Let man lay down rifles to be ally.
But greed, a power tough to relinquish – Is this a pipe dream best to extinguish?
(I end with a question to ponder, but a rhetorical question because good-hearted man will always fight the greedy heartless to protect these amazing mammals that are vital to the ecosystems they inhabit.)
I shared a poem about The Natchez Trace Parkway here after visiting our daughter and son-in-law a couple of weeks ago. So today, I’m sharing about the famous Natchez Trace Parkway Bridge located in Williamson County, Tennessee. I’m including one of the photos I took, along with a gorgeous photo found on the National Park Service website during autumn. I’d love to visit during this season, but we’re home now so maybe next year!Of course, inspiration stirred some poetic thoughts, but I was in the mood for a challenge. So, I wrote a septet for the first time, and I hope I wrote it correctly. I could only read it so many times before the words began to blur. So, go easy on me, please. 😁
Anyway, bridges are always special, holding some kind of significance, so we were literally in awe. I hope you enjoy!
Arches curve with honor and elegance as we gaze in awe beneath sun of gold enticed by crimson autumn elements. A phenomenal vision to behold, motorcyclist’s freedom to unfold. Praised for design and historic facets – homelands of the Chickasaw, Choctaw, and Natchez.
Note: The rhyme scheme of a septet poem: A 7-line poem that is also known as a Rhyme Royal. Traditionally, Rhyme Royals have the following rhyming sequence: ababbcc.
Dear Family and Friends, I am thrilled to share that my poem, “An Invitation” is published on Spillwords Press today as a Featured Post! Thank you to Dagmara and her team for accepting my submission. It is always a great honor to have my writing featured on this wonderful platform, and to be in the company of many talented authors.
An Invitation
Smooth granite invites contemplation and reflection. Please, take a seat, relax, watch the lake’s ripples perform their water dance. Does the shimmering surface remind you of stars presenting a ballet in a brilliant night sky?
Note the tall pines swaying in the breeze, you can gently sway, too, if you feel the need. Let the depth of your soul bathe in the beauty...
You can read the full poem here, and please don’t leave without giving it a ❤️. You only need to log in if you’d like to leave a comment, and I’d love to read your thoughts. But either way,I’d appreciate your support! 🤗
Thank you again to Dagmara K. and her team! I am truly grateful! ❤️🌷
I have returned to the land of the living, feeling much better from a week of Covid, about 90% so. I’m still taking it easy because Covid isn’t meant to be taken lightly. But I’m grateful to feel human again. I’m sharing a poem I wrote from one of our day trips with our daughter in Tennessee. We visited The Natchez Trace Bridge, which I will share photos and a piece of writing (in progress) a little later. But the poem today is about our drive along The Natchez Trace Parkway. A brief history is also included. I hope you enjoy the journey…
Photo taken at one of the stops on the parkway.
The Old Natchez Trace – pulled from the National Park Service
The Old Natchez Trace is one of the oldest transportation routes in North America; its human use dates back 10,000 years. The Old Trace consisted of a network of trails. For centuries, American Indians traveled and traded along this corridor, which traverses the homelands of the Natchez, Chickasaw, and Choctaw nations. The parkway is a 444-mile scenic drive that connects Nashville, Tennessee to Natchez, Mississippi. It’s a National Scenic Byway and All-American Road that’s open to motorists, hikers, and bikers year-round.
The Natchez Trace Parkway
The tires roll on the graceful parkway flanked with thicket of forest on both sides. My imagination turns whimsical where fairies, gnomes, and unicorns coexist within the density of the woodland. I exit my tenacious thoughts stirred from world events, and I revel in wide-open spaces and a vast valley that continues forever.
Hemlocks, maples, and pines dot small sections, and I delight in leaves skipping across the road, letting the grass catch them in soft embraces.
Our car leapfrogs with a lone cyclist, but you wouldn’t label our journey a race. It is a gift to savor where the clock does not personify a dictator.
My eyes watch butterflies ride the gentle breeze and crickets hop among the myriad of greenery. A smile finds its way, and I am lost in the wonder of every living creature and how each feels about our presence in their homeland.
Autumn ensures her presence to come with hints of golds and crimsons. I can almost smell the cinnamon. I can almost taste the pumpkin. What a delicious season to welcome!
When we reach the end, I direct my mindset to remain in such a magical state because not only am I in the best company of two loved ones, but my mind and soul feel exhilarated to release heavy cargo.
Instead, after leaving the heavenly national park, I find it meditative to observe a man with silver hair contained beneath a ball cap, sitting in his chair on his massive, mowed lawn, simply watching the grass grow.
Let us all immerse into the tranquility of stillness where time is nothing but irrelevant.
Baydreamer Writes ~ Lauren Scott, Author & Poet 