Dash Point Trail

DASH POINT STATE PARK, FEDERAL WAY, WA:

This morning, I found myself at Dash Point, sticking to urban trails as floods continue to impact much of Western Washington. It was just before sunrise, and the woods were quiet during the rush of the holidays. The air was cool with the smell of damp leaves, and the overcast sky threatened rain. Crossing the parking lot, memories of past outings came back. Today’s walk was for reflection, where the trail mirrored the complications of the last few weeks. With every fallen tree, I felt a sense of belonging, ready to consider what the landscape had to show me. As I walked, I carried a thought to ponder, letting the quiet sharpen my connection to the present and to old memories.

Driving through the early morning darkness, I felt quiet gratitude, particularly for my grandson, Ronin, who turns two soon. His smile brings light to the grayest mornings. Moments with him remind me of simple things, showing that connection matters more than perfection. In his laughter, I find acceptance, a gift that allows me to be myself. Moving along the path, I reflected on love, vulnerability, and being present. The weight of daily worries quieted as I thought about how Ronin’s unfiltered joy invites me to leave the past behind. Today’s hike felt grounded in thankfulness, the trail providing space for these thoughts.

As I walked further into the woods, rain began to fall softly, matching the tears I have recently allowed myself to feel. Each drop felt like a reminder of vulnerability, an invitation to examine the stories that shape my life. The absence of Kelly leaves a void, magnified by the holiday traditions we shared, forcing me to reconstruct what love and connection mean now. Heartfelt films have provided a quiet refuge lately, acting as a mirror for grief and hope. Navigating the trail, I wondered whether leaning on these stories stalls my growth or offers insight. The paradox of love—how it expands rather than contracts—made me pause. Amidst the sorrow, love remains in many forms, reminding me that while the path ahead is lonely right now, it holds a quiet promise.

The Journey…

I arrived at Dash Point just before sunrise, the air cool and thick with the scent of wet earth. The sky was gray, but a soft dawn showed through as I walked down to the beach. I felt the anticipation of the six to seven mile hike ahead. The familiar path wound through the trees, branches creating a canopy overhead. I could see the remnants of winter, bare branches waiting for spring. Crossing to the trailhead, I felt the nostalgia of past hikes. It was going to be a wet morning, but I welcomed the steady rhythm of rain against the leaves, ready for whatever the trail had ahead.

The trail felt familiar, its contours bringing a sense of belonging. I noticed the aftermath of the recent storms; fallen trees lay across the path. Yet, amidst the clutter, the sound of rushing water filled the forest from the recent heavy rain. It was a calming sound, a reminder of what emerges from a storm. Memories mixed with the present as I passed a hollowed log that once served as a slide for youth soccer teams I coached years ago. I smiled thinking of their shouting, and how those distant moments still stay with me. This hike felt like a quiet conversation with the past.

Moving deeper into the forest, the dirt gave way to patches of green. The air smelled of damp moss, and the clouds grew darker. Near the old Bistro side of the woods, I thought of past adventures with friends, the laughter, and the old road trips with Gino and Kelly—the concerts, the Walla Walla bed and breakfast, and a specific incident with a pumpkin pie in the Escalade. Despite the gray sky, the memories brought warmth. Today’s journey was different, filled with a balance of nostalgia and quiet discovery.

Gratitude…

Driving through the early darkness, the road had its own twists as I detoured around the high water, waiting for dawn to color the gray sky. This week, I am grateful for Ronin, who turns two in February. His genuine smile brightens the morning. He reminds me of the beauty in simple things, a steady presence in the solitude. Time with him is a gift of being fully present, showing that love is quiet and uncomplicated. In his eyes, there is no judgment, just a rare acceptance that lets me be myself, without the weight of expectations.

Ronin’s joy is quiet but steady. He does not carry history; he simply lives in the moment, reminding me to do the same. With him, life is about connection, not perfection. He only asks for a laugh or a silly face, the simplest exchange. Hearing him say “Papa” stays with me long after I leave. His presence accepts my flaws, and the more imperfect I am, the more he seems content. In these early hours, reflecting on the journey, his innocence keeps me grounded.

Reflections…

This morning’s walk was an exploration of both the trail and the thoughts that came with it. The sky was an overcast gray, the rain muffled by the branches above. Walking under the tall trees, I reflected on something that has been on my mind: the comfort I find in heartfelt movies. This trail-thought follows what I noticed before about sad songs. I have been curious whether this comfort helps or simply pauses my growth. It felt like a winding road, uncertain of the destination, but trusting the direction.

For a long time, tears did not come easily to me. It was not a conscious choice; it just was not how I operated. Lately, I have learned to allow those tears, especially in quiet moments—through music, movies, or memory. This vulnerability is new, like finding a part of myself that had been set aside. As the rain hit my gear, it felt safe to let those emotions exist, like the water moving through the trees. Each tear was a release, a way to understand my own heart.

Losing Kelly has altered my story. Her absence leaves a large gap, forcing me to rebuild the meaning of my life without her. Some call this narrative disruption, and it fits. The shared history that defined us has changed, leaving me with quiet questions about what it means to love deeply, and what connection looks like when the person you relied on is gone. With each step, the weight of these questions felt as heavy as the saturated ground. Yet, in the solitude, I am beginning to find the shape of a new path.

Heartfelt films have become a quiet space for me. They look at human connection—the capacity to understand and to share moments beyond ourselves. In those stories, grief and hope exist together. Watching them is not about distraction; it is a space for reflection. I can feel the sadness, feel connected, and find a temporary medicine for the soul. Moving along the path, I realized these stories offer a brief step back from grief, balancing vulnerability with the need to heal.

I wondered why this felt different than listening to sad songs, which bring up similar feelings. It comes down to my tolerance for sadness. A sad song lasts three to four minutes, which is manageable. Two hours of sadness in a movie feels like too much, so the films I choose usually lead toward hope and connection rather than just loss. The trail reminded me of how love expands. I learned that when my second and third children were born—how love does not divide; it changes and grows. These stories remind me that love is not finite. It has many forms. Each step forward shows me that while I grieve, the capacity to love deeply remains when the time is right. The path continues.

-Ken