that's mrs. mediocrity to you

A week of too much that left me longing for balance. The scales are always tipping, on way or another, and we do this dance, don’t we, to keep ourselves in the game.

Too much work, too much rain, and a tiny tornado touch-down one road over… and yet, here I am, still standing, still hoping, still growing.

Resiliency is a beautiful thing. All the ups and downs are connected, somewhere.

The birds are still singing.

And here we are, in a brand new, fresh-washed now.

I look out my window and think: lush.

Too much is just abundance looked at crosswise. Or vice versa.

There.

I wrote my way to a smile.

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A sun-filled birdsong morning, windows open and purple flowers, light filtering into every shadow. June is such a busy-bee month, I have to remind myself to stop and smell the roses, literally. My first cup of tea in the garden at dawn is my meditation, my morning pages, my daily gratitude. I drink it down and always, wish for another.

I find myself in getting-stuff-done mode, as if finally my body and my mind have both come to life after winter’s lack of ambition. I am like a plant, a tree, a flower. I need the sun on my skin and the birds to sing me awake in order to grow.

I reach for the sky and it’s there, right there, at the tips of my fingers, day and night.

And it’s enough.

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and curtains of words

birds
pecking at windows
in hunger

and i need
sharper claws
stronger tools
dig
deeper

bony fingers
scrabble signal

red-bellied woodpecker
big-beaked bluejay
tiny chickadee

all surviving
huddled together

flutter waiting

still flying

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i never did find
those mittens

those blue knitted ones
that let my fingers peek out

i lost them in the coldest
of winters
the one that froze my heart
to a place now forgotten

but i still remember

those mittens

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years ago
i planted two poplar trees
side by side
out front
in the corner of the yard

and one grew taller than the other
larger
thicker
stronger

and i feel like that’s probably
a metaphor for something
or at least it should be

but all i see are trees
and words about trees
stamped across the sky
in a tangle
of branches

all the meaning i prescribe
comes from within
me
or the trees
and what i choose to name
the one on the left

my cat
can zoom straight up the trunk
leaving scratches
and cheshire grin
in a weathered trunk
time map

but i like to sit
beneath the canopy
and listen
to stories
told by dancing
flicker leaves
in the shade
of yesterday’s
summer

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the promise

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Five days in, and this has been February. And all the stories I tell myself, all the excuses and plans and promises refuse to rise to the surface. I tell myself that it’s okay. That it’s always this way in this month, that it’s lack of sunshine, or fresh air, or freedom.

Silence. I surround myself with silence and I listen.

I hear whispers and promises, but not the words I crave. Patience becomes the antidote, and I work and fill the air with other people’s stories: radio, television, novels. Always a backdrop of sentence and syllable, and I wonder if I’m learning something useful, or filling my mind with capricious clutter. Or if it even matters.

I walk outside at night and search the sky, which these days, is always falling.

I feel tiny and insignificant, endless and universal. A snowflake lands on my palm and disappears before I can taste it. My tongue is empty and my skin is burning. Some nights, I don’t even wear a coat.

The dog stands still and looks into the woods, wishing for something to be there.

Me, too, I say. Me too.

Inside there’s a fire to sit beside, always the primordial companion.

There are no wolves to howl, but the coyotes are always laughing. My skin crawls at their sound, even as my lips curl into smile.

Their cause is survival, their joke life’s refrain.

Me, too, I say. Me too.

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I feel the cold seeping into my bones
on a day too warm for that to be true.

But some days are like that,
filled with mysterious ache and ailment,
and I think, again,
how tied to the earth we all are,
and how often we forget to listen.

Everything feels frozen.
Time, my feet,
the calendar, this heart.

I find myself holding my breath,
watching the sky for a sign.

The crows will carry me home.

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I’ve spent the last several months wrestling with time, and of course, time keeps winning. And that is the way of things. I accept the truth of that, but keep fighting just the same, always looking to eke out those few extra minutes.

I wonder how long I can subsist on this low-level adrenaline, when I already know the answer. Even so, I keep pushing. Most mornings I wake up and work on my story, struggling to remember what I wrote the day before. I have packed my mind with white noise, and there is no room for remembering. Lists take care of that for me, at least most of the time.

What I need is a week of writing, what I need is a vacation, what I need is always something other than the circle I stand in. Except it isn’t, I know this, and so I plod on, marching in place and putting down words I hope are coherent.

I refuse to give anything up. Even though it would be easier and smarter and even better, perhaps. There is a sense of urgency coursing through my veins, and I’m not sure where it comes from. In the dead of night I find it frightening, but by light of day I take advantage of this feeling, allow it to push me one step further.

Projects I started last autumn are slowly being finished. And maybe that’s what’s behind all of this, making up for the lost time of last year when being sick kept me from doing anything. I have more energy these days, and I take advantage of that, too, forging on.

And it’s all okay. Winter is coming and I will hibernate and rest more than I care to before spring arrives, to save me once again from my own ennui.

Life is full of contradictions. Cute curlicues and sharp-edged points. My focus shifts between them, but always, my eye seeks the light.

And it’s words that lead me there, even when time tries to stand in my way, even as we circle each other in the dance of existence.

This year, I lead, next year, who knows? I just close my eyes and listen for music.

My mind keeps humming.

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evidence of yesterday’s kisses
spill over into the long season
of shedding

new skin lies smooth beneath
the crackle dry surface

of the dream you had at twenty
the one that stole your color
by breathing green into a night
bargaining for darkness

you held hands with the prince
of petulance and whisper gestured
your undying fealty
to the king of lacrimosa

but the birds
pick your bones clean
now
after every word’s been spoken

you feed their flight
with dried up chips and bits

of purple

offering up the life
that was singularly yours

food for folly and for freedom

as the sky rests its head
on your satisfied
shoulders

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