Flying and Me

Reality is the latch in front of me. Who knew a latch could be so fascinating? I look at its shape, its simplicity, and feel content. It can swing left, or right, or stay exactly in the middle. It can rest at any of a hundred points along its 180 degree range of motion. So many possibilities.


My soothing latch

My brain is utterly content watching this unmoving latch. That’s how I know I am already tired. Overstimulated. Looking at the latch is restful, a simple place for my mind to dwell and recover. This is my first plane ride in more than five years, and my first flight after two mTBIs. The noise, the people, the unfamiliarity are already exhausting me, and I have so far yet to go.

My world has changed so much since my first concussion. Instead of a tolerably unpleasant, casually tiring trip across the country, I am now in the middle of an epic journey. I am the star in a great and brave adventure where I travel – on my own – across the country. Where I have spent weeks planning every accommodation I might need, and where I will spend weeks recovering from said epic adventure.

Flying across the U.S. is no small task. Going from a small airport and arriving at another small airport across the country means a minimum of two connections and three flights. I have a good schedule, but 13 hours on airplanes or in airports is still, well, 12 1/2 hours more energy than I can casually spare.

One thing keeps me safe – I have planned for this. Since I am prepared, it is all going to be okay. I follow my plan – it is a good plan, but sometimes rather embarrassing. For example, giant ear muffs (rated for rifle firing) over a set of earplugs brings the noise of the aircraft down to a dull hum.


The need for excellent ear protection cannot be overstated.

I look weird, but it is effective. My wide-brimmed hat I can finally remove because the overhead lights have been turned off. Ibuprofen and caffeine rush through my system, helping me deal with the discomfort and over-stimulation of my journey. My rolling “personal item” sized bag fits easily beneath my seat, saving me from the potential headache I might get from carrying it. I am prepared.

My first flight passes with me mostly looking at that lucky latch. A success.

Once we land, I use the wheelchair service for the first time. Awkward… so awkward. I don’t intend to make little old ladies wait while I am wheeled only a few gates away, but I do. I hadn’t anticipated this issue, have no mental resources to spare, so I say nothing. I avoid eye contact, climb into the wheelchair, and we are off. As I’m wheeled through the terminal, I close my eyes to decrease the visual stimulation of people, movement, businesses. I keep my ear plugs in to decrease noise. I feel awkward, but I get what I need – guidance to my next gate without having to think or make decisions.

Once I am at my next gate, I whip out my next accommodation – food. Security confiscated some very aggressive applesauce, but I have bbq chicken and rice to eat.  And I do eat. I’m not hungry, but I need to make sure I don’t ever get to the point of hunger during this trip. I am alone, and when my glucose level drops my ability to cope with stress, problem solve, and process the world around me is significantly impaired. So, I eat, even though I am not hungry.

Another flight, another airport. I’m surprised that I am as functional as I am. I’m foggy and have a headache, but I’m still able to think. My energy isn’t high, but it hasn’t bottomed out.

I decide to do something different. As I exit the plane, I walk past the line of wheelchairs. I ignore them. Actually, more, I pretend they have nothing to do with me. I stride slowly up the gangway and don’t look back. I can find my own way.

As I enter the airport proper, I am immediately overwhelmed by people, noise, visual stimulation. As I walk along, there are businesses everywhere, and people, and so much sunlight. In another life, I would have found it quite pretty and interesting. In this reality, it is simply another thing to bear.


Denver Terminal

I stop in the walkway and look at the signs. This way is gates 50+, that way are gates 50-. Which way to do I need to go? I look both ways, seeing no clues. I could text Mary and ask her my gate number, but I want to do this myself. I know I can do this myself.

First, I need to find one of the departures boards. They always have the gate information. Simple, right? But as I look around, I don’t see any. Where are they? I head toward the business area, figuring I’ll quickly find a departure board there. I walk past store after store and see nothing that fits the bill. Where is it?

Oh, a terminal map. Maybe that will tell me where a departures board is. Maps use to be one of my best friends. Post mTBI, they are an exercise in confusion – too much information, too difficult to sort through. I try; I give it several goes. I glance at the map to see if anything jumps out. Nothing. Then, I read carefully through the legend and figure out the symbols. No help there. Next, I slowly and painfully read through the list of businesses. Nope. Finally, I try to “scan” – to open my mind to any type of information I didn’t already examine closely. Nada. Sigh.

Where the hell are the departure boards? I walk on. Looking. Looking. Another moving sidewalk, and more looking. I am sure I am not the only one who wants to find out their gate. Surely they are around here somewhere.

A stroke of luck – an information desk, staffed. In a previous life, I would have only asked for help in the direst of circumstances. Now, I consider asking for help one of my better coping mechanisms, one of the most reliable ways to find out what I need to know.

“Can I help you?” He says.

“Excuse me” I say. My ‘excuse me’ was planned before he spotted me and spoke, so it comes out of my mouth after his words even though no longer appropriate. A small social bump, but ignorable.

I continue, “I’m looking for the screens, the information.” Frustration. What would other people call the thing I’m looking for?

“The information structure with flights, with the gates.” I say with vague rectangular-shaped gestures. My mind still flails, trying to find the right words, but his expression changes and he knows what I mean.

Before he speaks, though, I spot it. “There it is!” I exclaim, pointing, and walk away. Damn, another social gaffe. To smooth that out, I holler “thank you” over my shoulder and wave vaguely. Some of the smoothness of my interactions are gone, true, but they are adequate. A real success in my world now, adequacy.

The rest of the day goes smoothly. In fact, my entire trip goes smoothly. No catastrophes, and nothing I can’t handle with my accommodations and preparation. It’s a day with a lot of firsts – first plane travel after mTBI, first week long trip by myself, first Airbnb solo, first Uber, first wheelchair assist, first having someone else haul my bag off the baggage carousel for me.

But the most important thing is this – I succeed. By arriving at my destination, I succeed. By staying functional enough to navigate the experience alone, I succeed. By being cautious and follow my accommodation strategies, I succeed. Thank you, Universe, for helping me succeed.

Blessed be.

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TBI Rockstars – Advice for Caregivers (VIDEO)

Well, my friends, I am traveling right now. When I set out on the trip to visit my family, I had the naive hope that I would still be able to write a blog post for today. Wrong! There simply isn’t enough of me to successfully travel alone, have a fulfilling visit and write a new blog post all at the same time. So, new plan.

Today, I am sharing a TBI Rockstar video. Yay! This time, Brie and I offer advice to caregivers. Navigating a brain injury is hard – confusing, painful, frustrating. Imagine trying to understand what a partner, a loved one, a friend is going through without ever having experienced brain injury symptoms yourself. Given that many of us don’t look any different on the outside after an mTBI or other brain injury, it can be hard for a caregiver to really understand how fundamentally our skills and abilities have changed.

Part of that is we, ourselves, don’t understand how our abilities have changed. It took me several years post mTBI to start to perceive how my abilities had diminished. Since I didn’t really know what was wrong and why things weren’t working how they use to, it was impossible for me to articulate to Mary what had changed and what I needed. Add that to my desperate need for nothing to be wrong, and it makes sense why Mary and I had a lot of bumps along the way.

I hope this video helps makes your path a bit smoother than mine was. Give it a watch – and share this video with your caregiver. It is a good starting place to having a conversation with your people about what has changed. Blessed be.

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Explaining Myself

I have to get this done.

“Come on Charlie, you can do this.” I say. I find talking to myself, out loud, helps me focus. It seems to catch my brain’s attention in a way that just thinking to myself doesn’t anymore.

“Just write it out. Get it done.”

But what do I want to say? What should I say? What needs to be shared, and what needs to be held back?

About a month ago, I bought a plane ticket to visit my mom (discussed here Tripping). It will be the first time we see each other in almost four years. More importantly, it will be the first time she will see me since my second mTBI – the one that pushed me off the cliff of almost-functioning into a deep canyon of barely functional that I’ve spent years trying to climb out of.

So, some preparation is necessary. A letter, to set realistic expectations about what I can or can’t do. Something to discuss my limitations and giving her a chance to get on board with what I’ll need when I visit. Even though we’ve talked about my fatigue, my over-stimulation, and the continuing limitations of my life on the phone… that’s different than dealing with it in person.

Gone are the days where I can just go with the flow, avoiding conflict, pleasing other people. Now, I have to be in control. Now, I have to plan and strategize and decide every move I make. That change in behavior, along with my changes in ability, are going to seem very abrupt for people who have known me for decades. So, I want to give them a chance to adjust to a different me, and ask them to help me make my trip successful.

That’s an important point. Asking for help. It is difficult to be so vulnerable, but I do need the help of the people I’m visiting – in this case my family. Asking for help in my letter gives them an opportunity to be my teammates, for us to work together to make the visit a success. I’ve never done that before, and it feels awkward and scary. But necessary. If I have learned anything from this injury, it is that I cannot do it alone.

I manage to write one draft. A little bit of time, then I write a second draft that is completely different. Another few days, help from my friends, and the third draft seems to do the trick. It hits all my points, crosses all my Ts, does what I need it to do.

My counselor gave me the key to my success – keep it simple. Focus on a few main points, the most important things they need to know, and let the rest fall by the wayside. People can only take in so much information at a time.

Being the scientist that I am, it makes the most sense to me to present the information using a cause and effect model. Here is my symptom/limitation (immutable fact), and these are the best ways for us to manage it (strategy).

For example, my #1 is:

I need a lot of down time to rest my brain.

My corresponding solution?

Throughout the day, I’ll need to take breaks and rest either in a darkened room, or by returning to my rental apartment. This rest allows my brain to reset, and helps me be as functional as possible when we spend time together.

Brilliant, right? First the thing that is always true – I need to rest my brain – and then what that’s going to mean for our visit.

Here’s my other ones:

Second, too much stimulation makes me confused and foggy.

I’ll need your help decreasing the stimulation in my environment. While I’m visiting, I’ll need us to keep the television and radio off. Multiple people talking at once also makes it hard for me to follow the conversation. Loud noises tire my brain, so I need to avoid them. Electronics like the computer or cell phones can quickly overstimulate my brain, so I need to limit my exposure.

Third, public places are often overwhelming

I will need to limit my time in public places. I can do a few things out of the house when I visit, but I’ll need to plan those excursions carefully. Places like stores, restaurants, or large crowds can exhaust me quickly. After being in such a loud or busy environment, I will need to rest alone in my apartment. Daytime activities are easier than nighttime activities.

Fourth, I do best with routine and a schedule

Making decisions in the moment is hard for me, so it works best when I plan ahead. Here is a tentative plan for my visit: I will come over to your house in the late morning and visit for a few hours. Once I start to tire, I’ll return to my rental to rest. Then, I will come over again in the late afternoon or early evening for several more hours, then return home. We can adapt these plans to fit your regular schedule, and for any special event or activity. I want to make sure you both still do the daily activities you love, like swimming.

Those are my four main points. My letter starts with a request for help and an expression of excitement for the visit, and ends with a thank you for being willing to help and I’m excited to visit. Below is a copy of the whole thing – feel free to use it for your own personal situation. If you share it with a group or post it online, please be sure to give me and my blog credit.

My next blog post will actually happen while I’m out in Oregon. Wish me luck, my friends!


Not the actual letter I sent Mom, but the content is the same. Letters to my parents always are in 14 point font or larger, and generously spaced to make them easier to read.

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TBI Rockstars – Caregiver Love (VIDEO)

The TBI Rockstars strike again! This time, Brie and I take a moment and share some caregiver love. Thank you caregivers!

Most of us recovering from mTBIs don’t realize all our caregivers do for us. The very nature of brain injury – and the memory loss, decreased perception, and pain that often go with it – make it difficult to really know what is going on. In retrospect, I know I didn’t realize all that Mary did for me on a day-in, day-out basis. Not on purpose, of course. Simply because my mental world was foggy for a long, long time… and the memory loss didn’t help either.

I would like all of us to take a moment and appreciate our caregivers. Say thank you. Feel gratitude in your heart when someone does something for you. They aren’t being paid. They’re doing it because they love you. So, please, be sure to love them back.

And now the video:



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“Not that one. You aren’t someone who will be okay with a porta-potty for a week.” Mary states definitively.

“But it’s half the price of all the others.” I protest weakly. “And there’s a shower inside, so it has running water.”


“Okay.” I say with a shrug. Not a big deal. I’ve already eliminated the repulsive options, so any of the other airbnb rentals are fine for my week trip.

It’s comforting to have Mary help me. It feels safer to have her functioning and decisive brain check over my plans before I spend hundreds of dollars on anything. I know, post mTBI, that my chronically fatigued brain misses things, sometimes important things.

We look through the other options and Mary gives the green light on either of the two remaining apartments.

I feel a tug of fatigue from this interaction and my computer use. My mentally clear time is ticking down, so I refocus us. “Now, will you look at my flight with me?” I ask. My flight is the most important thing we need to discuss; it’s the first step to making my trip a reality.

I open up the website, and I show her my chosen flight. Brilliant, I think. All flights from where I am to where I’m going have two layovers. There is no way around that. This one, however, is great because the short layover is after the first short flight, and the longer layover is after the second longer flight. A longer flight means a bigger chance of being late, so – hey – won’t that help to make sure I make my connection? Plus it leaves in the early afternoon, so I’ll be able to sneak in an HBOT session before I go.

Mary’s brows furrow as she looks at it. “I don’t think you should have any short layovers, especially not at JFK. It’s a big place, and you’ll have to change terminals.”

“No, it will be fine.” I say. I’ve spent hours over the last several weeks looking for the right flight, and I like this one.

“I’m really concerned about you having any short layovers.” She insists.

I sigh. “I guess you’re right. I have to remember I can’t run for a plane like I use to.” I sigh again. I hate all the stupid shit I can’t do anymore because of my limited energy.

“Why don’t you change the settings on the search. Make it so there is at least a 1 ½ hour layover for all your connections.”

I grumble, loudly, but I do it. This is why she is here, to help me. To help me implement strategies that fit within my new paradigm. I reset the search criteria and new options pop up.

“How about that one.” she points.

I click on it. Two hour layovers at each airport. Ugh. “But that’s going to make the trip take forever.” I whine. When I check my original flight choice, though, I grimace. The one Mary is suggesting is actually shorter. And cheaper.

Mary smiles. “And that way you’ll be getting in at 5 instead of 10. I feel much better about that.” She says.

“Yes, that’s good. I’ll book it now.” I say. Mary’s work here is done. She goes off to take care of her own stuff, and I settle in to book my flight.

Easier said then done. The flight is chosen, but still so many choices.

Yes, I’ll pay an extra $60 round trip to choose my own seats. Better to choose than to end up in the middle seat somewhere. Plus I’m so sensitive to noise, I need to avoid both over the wing and the back.

I’m an aisle person, now, rather than a window person. I’ve been sitting in the window seats for decades – I love the view. But now, I can’t imagine the extra cramped space nor the (likely) possibility of hitting my head getting in and out. Thankfully, most of my flights have aisle seats available halfway between the wing and the back. I hope that helps with the noise.

Trip insurance? Yes, please. Another change. I never thought trip insurance was necessary, but post mTBI, I am aware how easily something can shift from possible to not possible. So it’s a good $30 investment.

What’s this? Special travel needs? Hmmm… that’s probably me these days. And it is.


How convenient. I can tell them I need accommodations right up front, and then they’ll contact me to follow up. I don’t have to initiate contact. Excellent.

That’s another accommodation Mary and I agreed upon. Someone from the airline to escort me between gates. I might be okay alone. Then again, I might not. I haven’t flown since I was injured, so I don’t know how I’m going to handle the noise and the crowds and the stimulation. An able-bodied, able-minded person to make sure I get from point A to point B? Yes, please.

I enter my credit card information, click the final button, and I buy my ticket. Done. Only one thousand seven hundred forty three steps to go. Or something like that.

The concrete purchases are challenging in and of themselves – the flight, a place to stay, the rental car. The real challenge of this trip, though, is in the details. In all of the hundreds of little accommodations, the specifics that have to be pre-thought, pre-figured out to make my trip a reality.

For example, my personal item for the flight. United has a very strange size limit of 17”x10”x9”. Normally (pre-mTBI), I’d just take my backpack and not give it another thought. However, for a 12 hour circus of flights and layovers, I’m going to need a computer and probably a book to entertain me. For whatever reason, carrying my computer (all 5 lbs) in my backpack feels heavy to me these days. If I’m in a stressful situation (like a loud airport), that one bit of extra weight can push me over the edge from functional to not functional. I can’t risk that out in the world by myself. So. I’ll have to find some little piece of luggage on wheels to take with me.

Then there is the fact that once I arrive at my destination, I won’t be able to drive. I’ll be lucky if I’m able to speak without stuttering heavily. So, Mary and I have agreed, I’ll take a Lyft to my airbnb rental that day, then take a Lyft back the next day and pick up my car then. That means I need to download the Lyft app, create an account, add my $$ information, and familiarize myself with how it works before I go. I won’t have the mental clarity needed to figure it out then, in the moment. So I have to figure it out beforehand.

And that doesn’t even address the visit itself. My family hasn’t seen me since my first mTBI. My mom hasn’t seen me since my second mTBI, the one that really impaired my functioning and made it necessary to quit my job. Sure, we talk regularly on the phone, but that isn’t the same as understanding what is going on. It’s not the same type of knowing that Mary has, from living with me and my limitations day in and day out. How can I make them understand, so I don’t have to explain endlessly when I’m there, and so they are prepared for my limitations?

Current plan – write a letter. I’m not sure exactly what I’ll say. List my symptoms and limitations? Say what they should do if x, y, or z happens? Outline my expected level of availability and where I can spend time with them (e.g. not at the mall)? Or all of that? Or something else entirely? I’m not really sure yet what I’ll do. I will do something.

So many accommodations, so little time.

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Adjusting My Speed

I eye the pile of papers. It has been over two weeks, now, and I haven’t touched them. There sits opportunity, waiting for my energy and attention. There sits the next step along my writing path. There sits all the feedback from eleven talented, thoughtful writers from my writer’s group.

Now, to be fair, I’ve been busy. It was a little over two weeks ago that I had my work reviewed. It took me three days to recover. Not because they jumped me and beat me up – they were very positive and supportive. Rather, simply the exhaustion of attending, participating, and lunching afterwards, combined with the deep currents of fear and excitement I felt for days prior to and at the actual meeting.

Emotions take energy.

By Friday of that week, I was feeling better. Then, it was time to prepare for our Maine vacation. Exciting, yes, but also requiring energy and focus. The vacation was fabulous, but there wasn’t mental space for me to review the feedback there. Then, three days to recover from vacation. Recovering gets so tedious, sometimes. Then there was writing group again. And then there was this blog post to write.

And I still haven’t touched the damn papers.


Papers waiting for my attention.

Experience tells me, if I don’t do something different, I’ll never get to that feedback. There isn’t the extra – extra energy, extra mental clarity – for me to just happen upon being able to read and integrate the new ideas and perspectives offered in that pile of papers. Before this gets too far out of hand, before too much time has passed, I have to acknowledge the truth – I don’t have it in me. There just isn’t enough of me to make it happen, doing all that I’m doing now.

This blog post marks my twenty sixth weekly blog post in a row. It has been half a year of writing weekly, and the successful implementation of my dream and plan since I started writing in 2014. In truth, writing weekly has been a serious challenge. Basically, each and every week revolves around me writing a blog post. I have had the will for it and, mostly, the energy for it, too.

What I didn’t realize is creativity is a limited resource. Did you know that? Because I didn’t. I imagine creativity now as a deep well that recharges at a set rate. Perhaps my creativity well is shallower than others, or simply is shallow because of my limited energy, but… well… writing something new every single week strains that resource. At times, I have been taking out more than naturally recharges; I have been depleting myself… and that is exactly what I don’t want to do.

Through many epic fails, I have learned that depleting myself is simply something I cannot afford. Perhaps I will never be able to afford it, again. My life is about creating space for all my resources – particularly my energy, and now also my creativity – to recharge. I want to refill every corner of my soul with energy, energy I depleted so recklessly trying to keep my job post mTBI.

I want to thrive.

New plan. I will write a new blog post every other week. That will still give me 26 blog posts a year. That’s quite a few, really. Enough to feel good about myself, and enough to keep sharing my journey. Alternate weeks, I will work on moving the next phase of my writing forward.

So do you know what I’m going to be doing next week? I won’t be writing a blog post. You won’t be hearing from me. Instead, I’m going to sit down and focus on integrating the feedback I received several weeks ago. After that, I’m going to revise some of my existing blogs and submit them for publication in the real world. Perhaps they’ll be accepted. Perhaps they won’t. Regardless, I will be taking that next step along my writing path, another step closer to writing and publishing a book about my experience.

And if I find that doing both is a drain on my creativity… well, I’ll adjust again. What is most important is staying in my sweet spot, that place where I am functional while also nurturing myself to greater health. That is vital. That is what my life is now. Pushing myself, “trying” is counterproductive. It will take me more than a week or a month to reach my goals; it is going to take years. I choose for those years to be full of healing, not full of depletion. Slow and steady will make sure this tortoise wins her race.

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I pull away from home at 9:40 am, I am impressed. Everything is packed, the house and cats are ready for a long absence, and we are only 10 minutes late. Our summer vacation is starting with a big success!

Another significant success happens as we drive. It takes us a solid six hours to make a four hour drive. Yah, baby. Keep the fun rolling!

Why is that a success? Well, traveling long distances is hard on both of us. Me, because I now get nauseous, overstimulated and fatigued by long car trips after my first mTBI. Mary, because she has chronic back pain and can’t sit for very long without making it worse. A trip to Maine is the perfect opportunity for both of us to implement appropriate and necessary accommodations to allow us to arrive at our destination functional and ready to have fun.

The plan? Stop every hour. Every single hour. Yes, I said every hour. And walk around. Not just stand and stretch, as I would be inclined to do. Rather, Mary needs to walk a minimum of ten minutes to get her hips and back to relax.

It seems simple enough. I mean, anyone can in fact stop their car on an hourly basis and take a break. But actually finding the will to do it, the desire to do it… actually doing it is the hard thing. I don’t know about you, but I grew up with long car trips that went from point A to point B with maybe one quick stop along their entire length. A break every hour!? How do you ever get to your destination!?

The answer is, slowly. And that’s all right, because we planned for it. We knew it was going to take a while. We have no deadline, nowhere to be at any particular time, so we can just putt along at the speed that is appropriate for us.

And we do. It’s hard at first, especially since Mary insisted she was “feeling fine”. And I’m sure she is feeling fine. But as all of us in the mTBI world know, the time to start implementing your accommodation strategies is when you’re feeling fine. Take that break from socializing every 30 minutes, even though you don’t feel like it. In the long run, you’ll be able to do more because you allowed yourself that rest. The same thing here, take that break every hour. It’s a long drive, a long trip, and we both need to be functional at the end.

Eventually, though, time passes and we do arrive. And the best thing is – we’re functional. Mary’s tired of driving (she insisted on doing most of it, because the driver’s seat is more comfortable). I’ve shifted into cranky-ville, because I’ve only had snacks and no lunch. But both of us, physically and mentally, are okay. And that is the best outcome we could have hoped.

A big win for our physical and mental health. And a good way to start our vacation.

The rest of our vacation? It has been fun. I’d say it has been our best vacation yet. The right place, the right distance from home, and the right length of time away. Not to big, not too small. Not too short, not too long. Not too far, not too close. Plus, we have shared our lives for enough years that we know how to manage each other, when things aren’t ideal. We have had to learn, to get through my mTBI and Mary’s job stresses.

It’s been wonderful to seeing new things. Every day. Every single day. That just doesn’t happen for me anymore. I walk a bit further every morning, and see a few new bits of land, a few more houses. Mary and I check out a new place or two together every day. Yesterday, it was Centennial Beach, where I had the honor of seeing hermit crabs for the first time (Love!) in their native environment.


Hermit crab in Maine

The day before that, we visited the best low-tide swimming place. The day before that, we had the excellent luck of finding a beautiful, sandy, and unpopulated high-tide swimming site. I’d tell you where, but… well, I like that no one is there.

In my real life, new is threatening. How much energy will an activity or location consume? How do I get there? What is expected of me, and can I be that person? What unforeseen issues will pop up and can I handle them? What will this new thing take from me, and can I afford it? But in this case, during vacation, new is nice. I can do as much or as little as I want. This semi-populated island off the coast of Maine, whose loudest noises are a distant warning buoy dinging and ships honking, is very non-threatening. It’s relaxing. It’s peaceful. Exactly what I wanted from a vacation.

I forget how worn into patterns my life is. Part of that is self-defense, a way to conserve my energy for things that really mean something to me. Part of that is brain injury, my brain doesn’t shift gears gracefully, and I rarely have a new idea. Part of that is circumstance – I don’t work, I live 30 minutes outside of town with only one other adult – I need my routines to give shape to my day.

But vacation is an excellent time to let routines go. Most of them. I am still posting this Thursday, today. It probably doesn’t matter to other people, but it matters to me. I set myself a goal, and I plan to keep to it. Every Thursday, publishing a blog post. Until it’s time for something new.

And just for fun, here’s a video of two hermit crabs I took yesterday /:-D

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