that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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.

Today I am over at Inspiration Studio,

making friends with my empty.

Won’t you join me?

that being an artist

doesn’t make you special, or extraordinary, or different.

it makes you human.

::

Bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to…
(lines from an R.E.M. song)

This is a story about my mom. My mom and my dad, really, two people who are bigger, in all the best possible of ways. The lengths that they will go to astound me. They are givers, my parents.

Recently, a friend of my mom’s died after a long battle with cancer. She was young, too young to go, only in her late 50s, but she went all the same. To tell the truth, I don’t really know all that much about this friend, E., I know that she and my mom used to work together, and after they went their separate ways career-wise, they stayed in touch and would occasionally go to the movies or have a girls night out.

Last week my mom told me that this friend was nearing the end, that it was just a matter of time. And she told me that she was going to go to the hospital and sit with her. And then the next time I talked to her, the next day, or two days later, she told my that E. had passed on, while my mom was there, at the hospital.

But she didn’t tell me this part of the story until last night, another day in which she gave up eight hours of her time to help me and my sister with a jewelry show.

Apparently, on the day before she died, my mom and E.’s husband were sitting in the room with her and my mom was wishing out loud that there was something she could do to ease E.’s discomfort and continued on to tease that maybe a glass of beer would help.

And let me just add here that my mom does not drink, I have only seen her have a drink once in my entire life.

E.’s husband mentioned that she didn’t like beer, but that she really loved strawberry dacquiri wine coolers.

That was all my mom needed to hear. She went out to the desk and asked the nurse if it would be okay to bring one in for E. The nurse checked into the matter and basically gave permission in an “I didn’t see anything” kind of way.

So my mom, who does not drive, went down to find my father who was waiting in the lobby with a book, and asked him to take her to the liquor store. The liquor store because my mom, who does not drink, didn’t realize that they sell wine coolers in the grocery store. And of course, the clerk at the liquor store set her straight, and then my father drove her to the grocery store, and mission accomplished, they returned to the hospital with a strawberry dacquiri wine cooler poured into a soft drink bottle. Just in case.

And so E. had her wine cooler, or a few sips of it, and it put a tiny smile on her face.

The next day, E. left this world. Afterward, her family passed that same bottle around the room and each one took a sip, as a toast to this woman they loved.

That’s my mom. And her bigger-than-anything heart.

She just kills me.

shadows dance around corners
to sing their own version of blues

morning frost leaves patterns on windows
unique as the day that will melt them

hope jumps through hoops in the garden
as a chickadee searches for seed

and i sit in this chair in my kitchen
watching life through a smile
and a curtain

::     ::     ::

::     ::

this post is part of one word wednesday over at jillsy girl
and one shot wednesday at one stop poetry

Because she loves blue flowers, I emailed this picture to a friend earlier this year, it was May I think, back when there was blue in my garden and not so much orange and rust and gold.

You know how sometimes in life you meet a person and you feel that instant connection, you become friends immediately, and it feels like you have been friends forever? Well, for me, Debi is one of those people. And truth be told, I’ve never actually met her in person, we met through our blogs.

And today, a whole bunch of us are celebrating Debi, whose blog, emma tree, is featured in this month’s issue of Artful Blogging.

And we are also celebrating celebration itself a little bit, because Debi reminded us a while back that we should all celebrate ourselves, and each other, just a little more often.

So here’s to you, Debi. To the way you write that takes my breath away, sometimes. To the way you love blue and aqua and lace skirts and graffiti and rain on sideview mirrors. To heart shapes and word shapes and signs and needs and tears for a cat that was loved.

And here’s to your friendship and your encouragement and your bravery. And to those aqua-colored Chuck Taylors.

I told you this already a while back, but now I’m going to say it here, right out loud. When I was thirteen and I pictured in my mind what I thought I would be like when I grew up, well, it was pretty darn close to you.

Congratulations, my friend, on Somerset Life and Artful Blogging and for making signs and for having needs and for making it through a tough year and for celebrating.

I am so very glad that you are you. I’m so very glad to have bumped into you. I’m so very glad for your friendship.

Here’s to you, Debi.

::    ::     ::

Go and visit Amy at Winged Paths to see the full guest list!

and p.s., I’m doing my own tiny dance of celebration because one of my pictures is in the same issue of Artful Blogging, and I am honored.

when in

doubt,

head for the light.

::

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.

Today I am over at Inspiration Studio

with an invitation from your muse.

Don’t forget to RSVP!

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.