Don't box me in...

I think more nuanced than I speak
Words are often hard to come by
Words that convey the nuance

So instead of finding the words
Or admitting I can't find them
I bypass or short cut
And words come out that don't authentically convey
What I think or feel

Is it because of fear?
Fear of how the other will judge me?
Perhaps as being too ambivalent?
Too milquetoast?

Or is it because of the other's labels of me?
Of the box they put me in?
Due to the human trait of projection?
Due to assumptions made on those projections?
Due to lenses through which the other views and interprets?
Do I not care enough to correct the assumption?
Is the energy expenditure to yet once again explain myself to draining?

Am I projecting in this "other" analysis?

Or does it mostly boil down to symptoms of my disability?
The physical and cognitive and emotional toll?
To carry out what should be simple functions?
Due to nerve damage?
Due to long-term steroid side effects?

Perhaps I don't speak up and explain
Because it takes more words to convey gray
Between and within the gray is where the nuance exists
Like the silver streaks within the hoary head
When the wind blows, the hair rearranges, exposing the shades
Or depending on the angle at which the sunlight shines, tones differ slightly
And may even display colors other than silver, white, and gray
It takes more words, more thought, more feeling
To convey nuance

My favorite conversations, the few I engage, are not about
politics or relationships or analysis or philosophy or academia
My favorite conversations are about peoples' stories
Listening to what an individual has lived
Without trying to analyze or judge or appraise
Analyzing, appraising, judging the other
Tires my soul

Sometimes
Often
I am the other

Timestamp

The New River
8/25/20, 4:01 PM

She sings her songs
Of ancient lore
Millennia after millennia
With 10,000s more to come

I stand witness
In this moment of time

Aye, the River, the Rocks
Their chorus of yore
Their chorus of now
In this moment, I am...

~*~

 Video link of that moment: 8/25/20, 4:01 PM

I am the tree

As I ride my bike on the
Blue Ridge Parkway
comfort and peace
embrace me

This isn't new
this cradling
I've felt it before
multiple times

But this time
I'm cycling the Parkway
something I've done
only one other time

Must have been 2015
I had hopes I was improving
and I was
but then it plateaued
symptoms spread
and my body said
That's all I've got

Until now
this last day of July, 2020
me, here, again
cycling this tiny sliver
of the BRP

Dreaming of one day
being well enough maybe
to bike-pack
the whole grueling, joyful
four-hundred plus miles
camping along the way
meeting others who thrive
in this love
of the journey
a love for which words are
inadequate
sharing the night sky
the sunshine
the wind
the rain
sunsets, sunrises

And maybe
it's only a dream
and that's okay

As I pedal
tears of joy
grace my cheeks

Awe
Gratitude
Perfect harmony

I whisper aloud to the trees

I love you

And they whisper back to me
the same

Gosh, people would think I'm crazy
That I feel you talking to me
But John Muir would understand
He listened to the plants

Together
the trees and I
chuckle

And the wild flowers
and beautiful weeds
and grasses swaying in
the breeze

All
a part of me
Me
a part of them

I am a weed
I am the grasses
I am a flower
I am the tree

Field of wonders

View from Groundhog Mtn., Buffalo in the distance

Looking north, somewhere between Groundhog & Mayberry Ck.

Looking south, somewhere between Groundhog & Mayberry Ck.