that's mrs. mediocrity to you

The light is changing and the days run a few minutes longer and I tell myself this will be the year I get over February. (Though I say that every year and it has yet to actually happen.)

Last night I finished the afghan I started 6 or 8 years ago (so along ago that I can’t remember which) and I thought that perhaps this will be the year of finishing. Or maybe rather than thought, I hoped.

Listening and finishing. The map of 2016.

Of course, like all maps, there is a certain margin for error and I have factored in lots of room to get lost. And I know there will be times when I choose not to use that map at all, because I don’t always like to know where I’m going, I’d rather drift and explore.

I read this article and suddenly felt right at home in my mind. Vindicated in some small way. Okay, it may have been a big way. Whatever.

It was an answer. An answer to why I always, always, always prefer the questions. Which is a funny concept all on its own.

The other day I wondered why we’re all so obsessed with happiness. I wondered if that’s even true. I wondered if I want to be happy, and decided yes, but not all the time. I’d prefer to be okay with being sad or angry or bored or irritated or content or confused, too. I’d prefer to experience all of it.

I walked out to get the mail and the sun was shining and the sky was clear and not-so-winter blue and for a second, I felt pure joy. At simply being alive and outside with the sun on my face. I remembered then how much I need to be out of doors. Winter always makes me forget.

Doors. An endless source for metaphors.

I miss color. Even my face is white and pale. I miss my freckles. (Okay maybe they are age spots, but I’m choosing to call them freckles.) I miss the daily drama of my garden.

Everything is shifting, all the time. And then resettling. Shifting again. There is no solid ground.

In spring I will trim away the dead wood. Toss it in a big pile and start a fire.

Which will remind me of winter.

And so it goes.

.

.

.

but don’t ask me
what
i believe in

because my answer
will always
be nothing

i’m too busy

growing

.

.

.

A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.

Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.

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the importance of numbers is self-prescribed

time

weight

date

expiration

days add up to life

lives add up to minutes

the flower

knows

when to bloom

.

.

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Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Poetics, where we are
playing with macro photography/micro poetry. Join us!

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shadow shard and hollow reflection
dripping sweet song pattern and
endless playback

locked in a house of mirrors
where the laughter
bouncing
from room to room
belongs to no one

and dawn reveals the skeleton
inside the jar of syrup

all the pieces are there
and you can spend three months
striving to fit them back together

or you can leave them
dancing in the light of day

as long as you remember
to watch your step each night

because fool’s gold
puddles in your footprints

leading the way
to the door

your mark has left me wandering for days
solid stare and frozen poultice
broken skin and grey bone bruises

you refuse to reveal what you clock
and i refuse to ask questions

even so, you block my vision
hem me in
and i resent
your cut glass cloak

watching waiting listening

you’ve never been so temporary

my heat fills the room with black fire
because you refuse to hold color

and i have never been seen

.

.

(.p.s. jack frost really did paint this picture on my window)

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from both sides now

.

it’s all beautiful

.

And they never fail to make me smile, these ultra-smooth birds that somehow seem a bit more sophisticated than all our other feathered friends.

It took time to get them here, first I planted mulberries, and then the elderberry patch. These days, they are regulars.

If you had told me thirty years ago that I would be a gardener and a bird watcher, I’m sure I would have laughed. If you’d told me I would plant trees and bushes to try to lure cedar waxwings to my yard, I probably would have snorted (right after I asked what a cedar waxwing is).

But both birds and my garden have become part of my daily life, offering joy and rhythm and and a presence I am constantly learning from.

Life lessons.

Patience. Acceptance. Being present.

And how to fall in love with the sky.

My own small way to fly.

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why are we so afraid of empty?

we fill our homes with too much stuff

our bellies with too much food

our minds with too much information

{stop}

give me a clean sheet

an unfilled bowl

a barren cave to sleep in

.

i want space

wide  •  open  •  hollow

.

nothing

absolutely nothing

to distract me

.

from life

.

dawn is the ritual of future
pink promise potential
to bury beneath
the quilt of day

in the silence
your eyes are silhouettes
the deep of between
with a hint of purple

vines become shackles
as you scramble to the top
turning twisting twining
green ropes to hold you

up to the sun as you sing
your blues to an audience
of arbitrary fascination
spinning false tales

in the spotlight

of sound

.

.

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Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!

The best thing I did this week was the run I didn’t have time for.

Some weeks are like that, so filled with work and responsibilities, that you forget to look up, enjoy life. You forget to breathe.

I did have a few hours with my husband and my windmills on Tuesday, and in many ways, THAT was the best part of the week, but then the next thing I knew, it was Friday afternoon and my body just started screaming at me: run. I haven’t been in several weeks, all this gardening has been tough on my knees, but I haven’t done that this week either and my knees were feeling fine. My carpal tunnel on the other hand… oh my. My body needed to move.

And so, despite the fact that it would mean working later on a Friday than I wanted to, I got my gear on and headed to the trail. Before I even started running, as I was walking for my warm-up, I spotted a pair of cedar waxwings just above my head, doing the sweetest little courtship dance. The were snuggling and chirping, bobbing and dancing, ruffling up the crests on their heads. Acting like love birds. And just like that, there was a big smile on my face.

It was a good run, 4.5 miles, which these days, for me, is quite a feat. The weather was just perfect, not too hot, clear and sunny, and I felt myself breathing again, taking in the green and the trees and sun. Feeling alive.

On my way back down the trail, as I was walking to cool off, a Baltimore oriole landed in a bush right next to me and started eating berries. Another bird I rarely see, and he stayed for several minutes, not at all concerned about my presence as he ate his fill.

It was the day of beautiful birds. And I was happy.

I went home and finished the work I had left to do, and finally, much later than I would have liked, made it outside to sit in the garden with a glass of wine and Ben Webster in the background. As I sat there with a purring kitten in my lap, exhausted and content, I spotted a dragonfly in the stones a few feet away.

At first I thought it was just resting, it fluttered its wings every so often, but after some time had passed and it didn’t move, I went to investigate. I saw no visible damage, and picked it up on a stick and placed it on a hydrangea bush with big, soft, green leaves, but clearly, the end was near. I sprinkled some water on the leaf it rested on, and knew that I was witnessing the death of a dragonfly.

A small death in the grand scheme of things, very small, really. And yet, I was filled with sadness.

So much in this life we take for granted. Some days, some weeks, just the simple fact that we are here, alive.

Just one tiny afternoon filled with tiny miracles and tiny tragedies.

And big, big lessons.