that's mrs. mediocrity to you

I have a lot of somedays floating around in my head, I always have.

There is the house I will live in, the perfect weight I will be at, the marathon I will complete, the garden I will tend, the book I will write. The world will be at peace. Someday.

And though I remind myself, often, that someday never comes, that there is only just today, this day, the one I am in, those somedays always come creeping back in. I suppose it’s human nature, to dream, to look to the future, to wonder what it might hold.

But then I wonder how much of my life I am missing or wasting by spending time on someday when I could be, should be, spending it in this day, in this hour, in this moment.

I go back and forth between the two, trying to find the balance. Living in the moment is so much more difficult than it sounds. My body can do it, my physical self has no choice but to be where it is when it is there. But my mind, it wanders.

And yes, I can rein it in, pull it back, sit it down in this chair and say, listen.

But is that always the best thing to do? Aren’t those dreams just as important as the smell of the flowers in the vase before me? Aren’t the possibilities as valuable as the present? Most days, I can’t decide. I try to do both, appreciate where I am, while also contemplating where I might end up.

In a perfect zen moment I am only here, in the now, in the sun I sit in, the leaves I rake, the floor I sweep. When I have those moments, I revel in them, breathe them in, embrace their importance.

But my mind has its own set of wings and often takes flight before I can stop it. And when it soars high above me looking towards some other time and place, I have to wonder if it’s fair to keep it tethered to my ankle.

I don’t have the answer to which way is best. I know it’s important to enjoy what I have when I have it, where I am. I know this. I see beauty in the tiniest of places, in the green daffodil shoots there, at my feet, in the steaming cup of tea that starts my day, in that kitten cleaning his paws in the corner. I recognize the value of immersing myself in these things.

But then my mind will hear the echo of a promise and take off in search of the source.

Sometimes, I just sit back and let it wander.

My body can holds its place ’til it returns.

Someday.

We’ve all got the fever at my house, everyone is restless, even the animals. Yesterday was a gorgeous day, especially for March, sunny and almost 60 degrees. Every bone in my body wanted to go running, except for my right knee which has staged an all-out revolt and is no longer my ally.

And so, no running. I raked a little, as much as a girl who can’t bend much, or squat at all, could do. I sat in the sun and listened to the red-winged blackbirds chirp about how much they wished I would go back inside so they could eat in private. I took 323 pictures, and I smiled, on the inside, all day.

I found my happy place, apparently it has been hiding outside, in my garden. I felt my heart stretch after months of cringing, my body relaxed, my mind wandered, little pieces of my soul danced on the breeze. And I wasn’t even out there for very long.

It was just long enough to restore my faith in progress, the moving forward, the changing scene. Long enough to allow myself to stand still and breathe in the scent of earth, the call of bird, the blanket of sky. I wrapped myself in its warmth and carried it back inside.

I feel it still, cradling me, as I whisper these thoughts to the moon.
I will keep it close by my side for a while longer, as surely there will be more snow, more cold, more rain, more grey.

But it’s March and there are birds singing and buds on trees and tiny green shoots poking tiny green heads up through the ground.

Soon it will be time to shake out that blanket, fold it ever-so-gently, and pack it away.

For now, I’ll take these days as the gifts they are, and hold them carefully in hands dry and brittle from a too-long, too dark winter.

Grateful for the prettiness of promise, the reassurance of renewal,

fine wrappings for the platitudes of life.

an ocean of hope

sinks into my heart

and washes it clean

of bitterness.

yes,

only temporarily,

but,

that is

life.

::

i send those

tiny boats of optimism

back out

with the tide.

yes,

an exercise in futility,

but,

that is

hope.

::

always,

it rolls

back in.

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this post is part of one shot wednesday

crows, in groups of three.

a tree that stands, alone, in a field.

yellow daffodils whose smell is louder than their color.

a never-ending winter that i have made my peace with.

the promises that life has whispered in my ear.

this silence that pours into me like honey.

unopened buds singing songs of tomorrow.

a branch, extended like a hand,

to land on.

we lose it like keys, knowing, always, that it must be here, somewhere, but we have a way of putting it down in strange places, mindlessly tossing it onto counters or in drawers, the bottom of a purse, the pocket of that jacket we hardly ever wear.

and we might not even know that we’ve lost it, its hiddenness will be hidden by our failure to notice that it’s missing. until there is something to lock or to start or to open, and then we search frantically for a long time and after that, not at all, thinking it will turn up, it has to be around here somewhere. we give up, a little.

and then suddenly one day, there it is. a whole bunch of perspective dangling from that little ring.

you jangle it in your hand, wanting to hear it to be certain, check the shapes to make sure it is your perspective and not someone else’s.

and of course, because you found it in such a ridiculous place, you feel foolish for ever having lost it at all. and so you make sure to hang it on the hook by your back door, right in plain sight which is where it is supposed to hang always except, of course, when you are using it. you chose that spot so you won’t forget, you walk by it a million times a day, it’s such an obvious place.

and then one day you go out for a run and you lock the door by mistake and now you know just exactly where those keys are but you cannot make any use of them because, once again, they are not where you need them to be at just the time that you need them.

but then as you sit there waiting, wondering, pondering whether it’s best to break a window and climb in or just hope that soon someone will come home and let you in, maybe even feeling sorry for yourself a little, you start to realize that it’s not the keys, themselves, that are all that important. it’s not the unlocking and the locking and the starting that matters, it’s that you have something to unlock and something to start and a hook on a wall to hang those keys on in the first place.

and then suddenly, you have a whole new set of keys, right there in your pocket, and a whole new row of doors to unlock.

and you realize how lucky and how blessed

and how alive you are.

I thought these were red-winged blackbirds, but they’re not. I thought winter would be over by now, but it’s not. I thought I would be finished with my Hemingway project by now, but I’m not.

I have made it to A Moveable Feast, which is actually one of my favorites. And I laughed out loud last night when I read this sentence: “In those days, though, the spring always came finally
but it was frightening that it had nearly failed.”

This from a book that was written before I was born, printed when I was two.  Some things really are universal, seemingly endless winters being one of them. I heard the other day that we have had 118 inches of snow this year. But it would take four more feet to break the record. Clearly, it could be worse.

And so life goes on, those birds will come, this winter will end, my brain fog will lift. I will stop whining (I promise) and things will be fine. Things are fine, I know that, really. I have little to complain about and much to be grateful for. I haven’t forgotten that, not completely, it is just something that keeps hiding in the dusty grey corners of my mind.

But with spring comes spring cleaning,that deep down get the cobwebs out and the sparkle on kind of cleaning, and I intend to apply this to my brain as well as my house. What’s good for one can’t hurt the other.

In the meantime, I’m planning on faking it, plastering a big giant smile on my face, even if I have to hold it on with tape. Because sometimes, when you fake something like a smile, you actually start to feel happy. It’s true, you should try it. Go ahead, giggle a little.

I’m going to find things to laugh about, play music I can dance to, skip around my house like a little girl. If anyone sees me they will think I’m crazy, but it’s just me and all these cats, and well, okay, I am a little crazy. Stir crazy at the very least.

And then I’m going to close my eyes and pretend there are flowers in my garden and crickets chirping beneath my window and warm breezes fluttering fingertips over my skin. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little pretending every now and then, right?

I just have to exercise my imagination a little, it’s been dormant for a while, it’s out of shape and a little logey (which I find to be the funniest of words). I might even imagine myself climbing that tree and tickling those birds who turned out to be starlings, or perhaps, since this is my imagination, I’ll  turn them into blue birds and goldfinches and even a hummingbird or two.

Okay let’s not get carried away.

Maybe just robins.

Today I am over at Vision & Verb

breaking up with winter, and hopefully,

getting my sense of humor back.

Join us, won’t you? One of us might need a hug…

::

painting pictures in a world without color.

i crawl into this hole that nature has provided,

sing myself to sleep.

when i awaken,

clamber out of my cave

to see sun

glinting off leaves

and green mirrors,

i will have grown.

yesterday, driving home in late afternoon

ten deer made brazen by late winter hunger

dotted a snow-filled field.

ears pricked up as i passed,

but they were too hungry to stop eating,

too hungry to be wary.

::

i did not stop to take a picture,

did not want to disturb their forage.

but if i had, i would have told them

that i understand their hunger,

for i am just that hungry for the sun.

you write
when there are words,
and when there are none,
you wait.

it’s the silence that drives you mad,
despite its claim to necessary.

you run
when you are able,
and when your muscles fail,
you sit.

it is inertia that holds you hostage,
the resting that reclaims you.

you sob
when there are tears,
and when they’ve run their course,
you inhale.

it is the cleansing that keeps you whole,
a release to fix your broken.

you laugh
when there is joy,
and as the world reveals its soul,
you smile.

it is the hug you offer humanity
that gives you back your own.

you live
when there is life,
and with each breath,
you appreciate.

it is dawn that keeps you wondering,
as you watch the night unfold.

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this post is part of one shot wednesday