that's mrs. mediocrity to you

geese that fly over my house on their way to warmer places.

my mind on its way to someplace quiet, craving silence.

happy after days of socializing and selling, but drained, as well.

wishing i could fly because my feet hurt.

ready to hibernate at home, at least for a day or two.

i miss running, it has been too long, i have been grounded.

i want to be airborne.

glide through the clouds and look down on my house.

find my life, there, where it lives.

i get lost in the crowd sometimes, lost in the noise.

but i always make my way back to myself, to solitude,

to the place where i can hear myself think.

that’s me right there, last one on the left,

looking down, homing in, smiling.

Oh my. I made it. I am there. There as in ready for my last two jewelry shows of the year, but in a bigger and better sense, there without the usual nervous breakdown that comes with getting ready for a show, which in this case is two shows, back to back weekends, three days each.

I keep asking myself why I’m not freaking out more, why I’m not in tears they way I was for our last show, why I feel so calm, so centered.

Maybe it’s not such a good idea to ask too many questions. Maybe it would be better to just say thank you and smile and feel the serenity that is resting at my core. And I’m doing that, I am. Really.

But I can’t help but wonder. I’m curious, that has always been the case, I am always questioning this or that or trying to figure out the why or the how or the what if. I think that’s a good thing.

And I’m glad, so glad that there are no tears and no frenzied mind and no complaining. This time, it all feels okay.

And I’m just going to let my mind sit there in this okay place, because it’s a much better place than before.

I’m going to enjoy this feeling of balance, I’m going to linger here in this light, this calm.

I know it won’t last, don’t think I am silly. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, I will be hounded by my list and by overwhelm and by life.

But today, there is just this frost on a dry hydrangea blossom left on a bush in my garden.

Today that is all I need to make me smile.

That’s where I am right now.

I like that.

Shadows play on the walls of my living room as I sit here, tired after spending the day painting one small section of my house, autumn’s golden light playing games with me, telling me I also need to trim the rose bush that has grown across the window.

i know, i know.

Life is very needy just now, whining and begging for this and for that, most of all for my attention. Attention that I had placed elsewhere, here, perhaps, or in my heart, attention that I don’t have to give to house cleaning and house painting and trimming bushes and the multitude of other chores that appear while I’m not looking.

i know, i know.

I’ve gotten better at ignoring the needy parts of life, better at focusing my tunnel vision on the spot I want to live in. But sometimes you just have to stop and tend the things that need tending. Mend the things that need mending. Sometimes, even though there is just way too much to do, it all still needs to get done.

i know, i know.

Sleep does not come easily these days, crazy dreams, bad ones, violent ones, insane couldn’t possibly be happening ones. For a while, I blamed the cold medicine for that, and for the insomnia, lying there until one a.m., two a.m., three. The sleep, when it does come, just as my husband gets up to start his day, is filled with images and motion and offers no solace, no rest, no reprieve.

i know, i know.

When i get up in the morning, I look at sunlight and rain with exactly the same expression. When I move through the first hour of the afternoon, my thoughts lie like ripples on the surface of the evening. I see them there, proof of some liquid sentience, but I cannot pick them up, use them for anything, they slip through my fingers. When I go to bed at night I fill my pillows with decisions.

i know, i know.

I sound like a broken record these days, this too-busy time with its long to-do list dancing through my days like these shadows on the wall, not here for long, nothing to worry about, really. Just something to distract me from everything I’m doing.

i know, i know.

to find a word, that word, the one i want, the one that constantly eludes me.

the hole is several feet deep now, several more feet than that wide, and in the pile on the brink of this hole there is nothing but dirt.

i thought i found an e once for a second, but it turned out to be a penny.

and then there was a t, at least in my mind for one split second, but when i touched it, there was only a twig.

i keep hitting these rocks and they jar me, all the way up to my neck, my shoulders, my mind.

jar me into thinking this is all a mistake, this digging, it’s too much work, it hurts too much.

i don’t stop though, don’t give up, i almost never give up, i’m very stubborn. i want that word.

i dig with this small wooden shovel left by a grandfather i barely knew.

when i get tired, i use this spoon that i found by the side of the road.

my soil is not sandy, no, i am not so lucky, my soil is all clay, wet and heavy and filled with worm holes, coming up in big chunks that stick and smear, and never break apart.

and these rocks, there are so many, some bigger than my head, each one takes a day to excavate. and when that day is done, all i have left to show for it is a cold, hard rock.

but i have collected rocks since i was a child.

there is always that moment when i feel it give, that rock, and i know that one more tug and i will lift it, and that is when i pause, because who knows what might be slithering underneath.

but i hold my breath and i lift one edge, ever so gently, ready to drop it back down at the first sign of trouble, ready to fling it aside if i find that word.

but alas, not this time. no creepy, crawly, scary creatures, and no word, either.

just one more layer of cold smooth earth

begging to be cracked open.

When you live in the same house for 23 years, you get to know the way the light falls at different times of year.

The slight shift in August when the shadows grow longer, the blue tint of January daylight, the way the gold of the sun hits the top of my bedroom windows just before it sets in October.

Subtle evidence of time’s passing, these changing shifts in pattern. Things I might not notice if I wasn’t paying attention, if I didn’t remind myself to lift my head and look around me. To breathe life in, to mark each day as something other than mundane.

Of course, there are many days when I don’t notice anything beautiful, days when my head is buried in work or stress or accomplishing. Those are the days when I fail to notice the beauty of being alive, fail to notice the color of sunrise, the mist hovering over the field outside my door, the sound of a bird singing the world awake.

But on this day, I noticed this light on these curtains as I walked past my green and blue bedroom for the fifth time after something I had forgotten, or to let the kittens in, or back out, in between making supper and doing laundry.

This light reached through the doorway and caught my eye
and I stopped in my tracks, enchanted by its beauty.

Just an ordinary moment on an ordinary day

that suddenly became quite golden.

see more gold for one word wednesday over at jillsy girl

It mocks me, this list, taunting and teasing, growing exponentially while I sleep.

Much of this list I wrote myself, although there are things on it not added by me, things like a house that needs painting, a faucet that needs fixing, a dog that needs a bath.

Others things are self-imposed, opening an etsy shop for my images, making jewelry for two shows in November, losing ten pounds, cleaning up my garden. All projects I chose to start, all now inscribed on my list of things to do.

And I’ve had this crazy cold for over a week now, it has not kept me in bed, but rather half-functioning, feeling like my head is underwater, making me cranky and sleepy all day long, and I think it’s feeding on my words.

I sit here in my studio while outside the sun is shining, just outside my window the monkshood are blooming, one of my favorite flowers mainly because they bloom in autumn, but also because they are purple, the truest most beautiful purple. Just now they are surrounded by pink and white anemones, all backed by the golden tones of an autumn hydrangea.

I feel like this photo, just now. A bit hazy and out of focus, a riot of thoughts and ideas, with quite a few things that need weeding out.

There is too much to do, always, and I wonder if it is me, if I am too much a workaholic, too much the over-achiever. It doesn’t feel that way, it feels like it’s all necessary, this scrambling to make a living as an artist, this life I love that I lead.

For there is beauty in my life, there are flowers and love and many blessings. There is joy and passion, art and writing, and all this living, full and round and bursting at the seams.

And there is this list that mocks me.

But it is just a list, a flimsy piece of paper filled with words of my own design. It threatens to overwhelm me, this list, beat me down with its jabbering demands. Some days its wins, a little.

Other days, it cowers in the corner.

Because it knows, this list, that when all is said and done,

it might very well be bigger than me,

but I can still take it.

Today is the day to pack up summer clothes, the skirts and tank tops, capris and shorts, and those dozens and dozens of golf shirts.

It is time to pull boots from their place ‘neath the bed, the ones I have missed and the ones I’d forgotten, and replace them with sandals, all except for that one pair of flip flops because, well, you just never know. Time for flannel pajamas and warm fuzzy sweaters, long sleeves, wool socks and turtlenecks.

It is time for winter coats, hats and mittens, sorting and searching for all the lost mates, time for scarves to be washed and hung on their pegs, time for that spring green raincoat to hide itself back in the closet.

It is time for the fans to be stored in the basement, time for storm windows to be closed, all except for the window right next to my bed, because hot flashes happen, even in winter.

It is time to split wood and stack it all neatly, four face cords across the driveway, a place for mice to hide and kittens to play, a place we will visit all winter. Time for the wood ring to be set just outside the back door, easy access when snow drifts take over the landscape.

It is time to empty flower pots long past their prime, time for garden furniture to be stacked and put into storage, time for cutting back perennials, the clearing of leaves, and for pulling those last tenacious weeds.

It is time for cozy nights in front of the fire, crisp frosty mornings and dark shorter days, oatmeal for breakfast and tea after lunch.

Time already to start dreaming of spring, begin missing summer,

and waiting, waiting for winter.

looking in, again, though not wanting to, exactly, having spent some time these past few months thinking the glass was reversed, thinking i was safe in that warm, cozy room with the lamp, the glowing fire, the purring kitten.

yet here i stand, cold feet, alone, in the dark.

i failed to notice my own reflection as the sun set behind my back, failed to compensate for my silhouette, my shadow, the mirror image that smiled, even though she knew the truth.

i never have quite made it, there… to the inside.

oh, i’ve had tickets a few times, given to me by friends, loves, even chance. pretty tickets with golden edges that promised more than could ever be delivered. tickets that were bigger than the event. tickets that looked like the real thing, though as it turned out, were counterfeit.

and now i stand here, watching this woman who sits by the fire of her own contentment, the warmth of complacency spread through her limbs, its glow apparent on her face. there is a book, and tea, and she wears warm socks.

but she is a destination that cannot be reached. she is a mirage.

or a vision.

if i snapped her photograph, right this second, you might see a shadow, or an indentation where she’d been sitting, but you would never be certain she had actually been there. you would question her existence.

i don’t cry as i stand here, watching her. i don’t yearn, or covet, or hope to be there, next to her, on that couch. i simply watch, silently. intent only on the sorrow in her eyes.

she isn’t me.

she’s simply someone else’s yesterday.

some lost soul i followed home who looked happy, from a distance.

from the outside, looking in.

she is not me.

she just

is.

i am sitting in my garden, and two seagulls just flew over my head.
i don’t live near the water. well, okay, i live near a swamp, but since when do seagulls hang out in swamps?

it is late september and it is 89 degrees. the flowers left in my garden look sad and wilted. well, they’ve looked sad all year, neglected, battling weeds. but 89 on Sept. 24th?

i played hooky today, but i didn’t do the things i most wanted to do, run, and work in said garden. i did a whole lot of nothing that led to more nothing and then the day was gone and i was here, sitting in my garden watching seagulls fly over my head.

a monarch butterfly is playing hide and seek in the anemones, flying lazy and happy in this heat. that’s kind of how i feel.

tomorrow it is supposed to be 59 degrees. thirty degrees cooler in
24 hours. that has happened several times this summer. 30 degrees of separation from one day to the next.

the air is very still just now, no breeze, but no humidity either, so
89 degrees feels pretty nice.

tonight i’m going to sit out here by the outside fire and drink wine and eat homemade pizza, much like every other friday night. i never work on friday nights, even if i work around the clock the rest of the week.

and then i might go inside to watch a movie, though that depends on too many things to be a certainty.

but that’s okay, because, just now,

i’m not looking for certainty.

Okay, I have a confession to make: I am in love.

With windmills.

And yes, I know that technically these are wind turbines, and technically a lot of people strongly dislike them. But love isn’t technical, it knows no boundaries, it isn’t rational or logical or afraid to be itself just because some other people don’t like it. So there you have it. I am in love. I want one. In my backyard. And yes, I am aware that my neighbors may not go along with that.

I live in the Finger Lakes Region of New York, a beautiful, hilly area dotted with small lakes and fabulous vistas and acres and acres of farmland.

And recently, along the route to our cabin that just happens to be nestled up in those hills, a new crop has popped up. A crop of giant sentinels. And the very first time I saw them there, perched along the horizon, I was hooked. It was love at first sight. I drove over the crest of hill and there they were, spinning slowly, towering over the small town that up until then had been known for its grape pies. Now, at least for me, there is a much bigger attraction.

I have been to our cabin several times since that day, and each time have had the sudden urge to veer off the road and head towards these turning towers, wanting to stand beneath one and see just how tall it really is, what kind of sound it makes, to just be near it. You know, that love thing.

So over Labor Day Weekend, I had a ton of work to do. I know, you’re supposed to relax on Labor Day, but that wasn’t going to be possible for me. My family made a plan to go to our cabin that Sunday night, and I agreed to take a few hours off and meet them there for dinner. And then I made a plan to leave an hour early and go on a quest, to finally find the road that the windmills were on. To meet them, face to face.

Easier said than done.

I tried to look up the information beforehand, but I couldn’t really pinpoint the location. The area they are in is very rural, dirt roads, some labeled, some not, and I had no idea what the name of the road they are on is called, but I figured, how hard could it be? They’re tall, right? I’ll just follow them.

And of course I got lost because these are small mountains after all, and there aren’t that many roads that cut directly across and I had to wind up and down and down and around and backtrack and traverse seasonal-use-only, very bumpy, dirt roads, and they look a lot closer than they actually are because, oh my, they ARE huge, and an hour and a half later, I was finally on the right road, which I only knew because I could see one at the top of the hill just before me. At this point I was already half an hour late for dinner with my family, and not sure how far out of my way I had traveled, but I had my eye on the prize and no way was I turning back now.

I passed these on the way up that hill:

And I discovered, later, that none of these photos give you a sense of the scale, the majestic quality, the space and height and mystery, or the tears that were in my eyes. Silly to mist up over windmills, I know. Just call me sentimental. Or weird. Either one works for me.

That is corn growing there, just beneath them, corn that stood higher than my head.

And when I reached the top of that hill, they were spread out before me for miles, dotting fields of corn and meadows filled with clover and perched at the crests of hills. 20 or 30 or 40 all told. And the one I had seen from the bottom of the hill had a little dirt road leading right up to it. So I parked my car and I rolled down the windows and I listened, because I had expected them to be loud. But I could barely hear them at all.

And then I got out of my car and stood there, and I felt peace. That’s what it is, that is the draw. They make me feel peaceful. I walked my way closer and closer and I’m sure that my mouth was hanging wide open just then, although I was lucky and no flies flew in.

And then I was there right at the base of the one I had been chasing for miles and I could walk right up and touch it, and I could take all the pictures I wanted, although still, none of them convey how tall it really is.

And then, of course, just when I was having a moment, standing there staring up at the sky, my phone rang and it was my family saying, “where are you? we are waiting on you for dinner,” and I had to say goodbye my new friends, I had to walk away and leave them there to guard the valley, alone.

But one day soon I’m going back, and next time I’m bringing a picnic and I’m not going to answer my phone and I’m going to sit there on a blanket and listen as the wind whispers down through those blades.

And I might even sing to myself, a little.

But this time, I’ll try not to cry.