that's mrs. mediocrity to you

with a little help from my friends….

Not much time for writing this past week or so, my graphics work has been extremely busy, which is a good thing and I am grateful.

But today you can find out a little bit more about me over at Marcie Scudder’s place…

Image by Marcie Scudder

Marcie is one of those people who is good at everything, a real renaissance woman. Her photography amazes me every time I visit her site, and she is an absolute master at choosing titles for them!

Like me, she shares a desire to live in the moment and seek out the beauty in the everyday. Her nature photography is so unique and sublime, I am sure she must have infinite amounts of patience!

I am honored to be featured in an interview today on
her blog: www.marciescudderphotography.com.

Would so love it if you stopped over to say hello!

::

sometimes,

it’s simply better

not to ask.

::

we live our life in these little pockets, sets of hours when time seems to stop, or slow down long enough to let us take notice.

stolen hours, a bath, a book, a warm, late summer afternoon, the only sound is the constant whirring of grasshopper’s wings outside my window.

this was not the day i had planned, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. this was supposed to be a crazy busy catching up on work sort of day, that is what it needed to be, that is how i had expected it to be.

a migraine stopped that day in its tracks, and despite my best efforts to fight it, demanded that i give in to the horizontal.

and now it feels like i’m hiding out from the world, here on the couch, curled up in a ball with ice on my neck and nothing to do but lie here. well, actually, there’s plenty that needs doing, and my to-do list keeps popping its head around the corner just to make sure i have not forgotten that it exists.

i wave to it weakly, attempt a smile, but really, we both know there is nothing to be done. nothing that can be done until this vice lets loose its grip on my skull, this nausea passes, this fourth dimension recedes back into its proper place.

i cannot find my mind inside the pain, they have joined together to become one and the same. it’s like being held hostage by your own body.

this isn’t where i want to be, but this is where i am.

if it didn’t hurt so much, i would enjoy these imposed bits of quiet. but then again, if it didn’t hurt so much, i would never take them.

it feels like the world has stopped turning. of course, i know it hasn’t. that everywhere but here, inside my pounding head, the world goes on about its business, carries on just the way it always has, the way it always will.

but for now, i must lie here,

still.

::

a neglected garden

offers

strange beauty.

::

Summer wound itself down faster than I expected, tomatoes still on the vine, house trim still needing to be painted, books on the shelf still waiting to be read.

Autumn didn’t spend much time trying to disguise its arrival, but rather stood up and shouted, “I am here!” For the most part, this is fine with me, autumn being my favorite season and all, but a bit more transition might be nice.

Time marches forward, step by step, and I smile and wave from my seat in the bleachers. Sometimes, when the parade goes on too long, I bury my head in a book, wrap the blanket around my knees a bit tighter, and settle in to wait for the next band, the next song, the next season.

I’m not quite ready for this one to end. Not quite ready for socks and sweaters, cider and apple crisp, pumpkins and the scent of fallen leaves. I will be ready very soon, I will snuggle into my favorite season as it wraps its cozy arms around my life.

But for now, I’m going to finish these last few pages of summer, because it is still summer, even if the temperature says otherwise. I will still be barefoot, even if my toes are a bit too chilly. I will drive to the store without thinking to bring a jacket. I will watch butterflies and hummingbirds flit through my garden. I will sleep with the windows open and the sound of crickets in my dreams.

Soon enough it will be time for Friday nights by the fire, blue jeans, flannel pajamas.

Soon enough.

But I think there is at least one more chapter filled with fresh vegetables, pretty skirts, and bird song at dusk.

And I’m going to savor every last word.

::

another

snapshot of my life

as taken by

my camera.

::

::

have you

opened yours

lately?

::

(Thanks to Mr. M. for pointing this one out to me.)

{august break no. 27}

is different than

summer’s sun,

spring’s sparkle,

winter’s wonder.

autumn’s light

is filled with

longer longing,

deeper gold,

shadows that are less

shadow

and more

purple.

::

{august break no. 20}

i am sitting in my back entryway, which is the closest thing i have to a porch, and all i can see is blue sky. yet i hear thunder and it is raining, no, actually, it’s pouring.

apparently, there is a big black cloud hanging over my back, in that blind spot i cannot see no matter how far i turn my head.

and i think i kind of like it. in fact, i think

i’ll just keep right on sitting here

and wait for the rainbow.

{august break no. 18}

the one that was brought to me as a gift, an offering from a puffed-up proud kitten, never mind that i never asked for such a thing, never mind that it makes me cringe, never mind that it breaks my heart.

i read once that cats don’t bring you their kill as gifts, they bring them because they think you are also a cat, the head cat, the big cheese, and so, they are trying to impress you.

i get that, and part of me thinks it is kind of cool, them thinking of me as a cat, but i just wish they would bring these gifts to me too-late-already-dead instead of i-wonder-if-i-wrestle-the-poor-thing-free-if-it-could-survive?

and then i wrestle with myself.

if i were a stronger person, a bigger person, a more courageous person, i would kill this frog the size of my hand and put it out of its misery, wouldn’t i?

wouldn’t that be better than dying like this, upside-down on a cold hard sidewalk, injured and gasping for air?

or maybe that is too much like playing god. maybe it’s not any of my business. maybe that frog can’t feel anything and i am projecting my own thoughts and fears and emotions onto a creature that was never meant to have them. and is it wrong that the waiting bothers me more than the death?

maybe this is all a metaphor for something else… life, love, mortality.

maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.

and so, i wait.

and later, much later, when i am certain the poor frog is dead, i go out and give it a proper burial. by which i mean that i pick it up with a shovel and toss it into the field out back. but i do say a few words of apology before i send it flying.

and then later, not very much later after that, there is another gift. a small bird i cannot bear to look at long enough to see if it is still alive.

i turn away and go back inside.

i have never been very good at waiting.