that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and coming away with a handful of air.

Isn’t that they way of things, always? But we never let it stop us, and that is the magic, the miracle, of living.

To be human is to struggle, and it’s an ongoing battle, this existence, even when skies are blue. And that’s what keeps us going, that’s what makes us whole, the dark and the light, night and day, sun and moon, babe and crone.

It’s so easy to forget that we need all of it, the shade and the shadow, the hunger and the hurt, the fear and the frustration, all the parts we’d rather hide or ignore or bury, because nature, human or otherwise, will always strive for balance.

And we, as humans, would like to think ourselves out of the equation, we want to rise above, to banish the things that weigh us down, without accepting the fact that these are the very things that keep us grounded. Without them, we would simply float away.

The size and the beauty of the bloom are determined underground, in the darkness of the soil that anchors us.

Roots, air, water, light, earth, growth. It’s a package deal.

And just look how beautifully it’s wrapped.

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days when i do nothing
but listen

moving my body in the rhythm
of nurture

i care for you and
together we grow

remembering the mirror
i’ve forgotten

wisdom matters less
than sun on skin

i break a bloom off
with one brown shoulder

a mistake to remind me
of gentle

and whisper my apology
to wind

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in the style

of me

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“You can’t ‘just’ be a poet—which when rent is due is absolutely true—therefore we get pretend titles like Ambassador and Legislator and Seer. The upside is that we are free (or, downside, forced) to find or invent roles for ourselves (and our poems) that engage differently with the material demands of our culture.”~Mark Bibbins

I came across this quote yesterday, after a conversation the evening before with my husband about the paths we take and why we take them, and whether or not we regret them, or at the very least, wish we’d done things differently.

This is something I’ve thought about a lot recently, as I find myself aging, as I lose friends and loved ones, as I traverse the territory of middle-age that stands between now and crone. And I find myself, quite often, wishing I had done just that. Except then I realize that I did do everything differently, without thought, without choice even, because my path was never the one paved with asphalt and fancy construction, my path was always just a break in the trees somewhere in the woods, and I was always the barefoot girl staring wide-eyed at the moon.

So, okay, no regrets, but there are still things that haunt me. And the older I get, the more security becomes one of them, the more struggling looks less romantic and simply hard. The more I wonder if I should have put some high heels on all those years ago and walked down a different road, wearing a suit that might confine, but would also protect. I was a straight-A student my whole life. I could have done anything. (At least that’s what the little voice whispers.)

But the voice that always answers back, the one that’s stronger and sing-song and slightly rose-colored, tells a different story. That I could only ever have done exactly what I did. I could only ever be who I am. And that is my solace.

Will it be enough to see me through?

Only time will tell, and besides, the sun is shining down on these roses about to bloom and a few years back, this whole bush was crushed to the ground. I see no regret in these buds that turn themselves boldly towards the sun, and the thorns and the scars are all hidden just now, in the darkest shadows of growth.

I’ll sit here and watch them open and listen to the birds and inhale all the yesterdays that brought me to this moment.

And all I’ll breathe out is today.

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i stood in the sun for three days once
singular and proud of my peacock pretty ordinance
and refused to marry the sky

growth was always my pattern
and bending
my habit

coy and shy
cut and displayed
thirsty and forgotten

i was always
about color

and you
stole my green
stripped my purple
and stomped my chartreuse back
into black and white
grey-lipped
soil

until i became
an abstract painting of perhaps

washed proud and stood clean
in the summer
of the river
of change

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I placed this Solomon’s Seal in an entirely different spot in my garden, years ago. For most of those years, it struggled, sending up two or three shoots and then quickly fading as spring turned to summer.

Now, here it is, moving itself around the landscape, seeking the perfect light-shade-soil combination on its own. An independent learner, self-motivated, a survivor. One that apparently loves long, hard, extremely cold winters.

As my garden ages, it makes its own plans, completely ignoring the best-laid of mine and filling in the blanks as it so chooses. I’ve become less keeper than companion, and most of the time, I resist the urge to fight for control. I let the wanderers wander. It’s better that way, for both of us.

It took me fifty-two years to begin to understand. And I still slip, there are still times when I make every attempt to wrestle my way to the top. Sometimes, I even manage to win. But mostly, I just get tired of the struggle. And giving in has its own rewards, too.

Another lesson learned in the classroom of garden.

I sit here with my tea. I pay attention.

I watch and I listen and I sit.

And the world washes over me.

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mirror-made and tender-footed

all this opening

takes the courage

of forgetting

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It feels like summer already, high heat, lazy naps (for him, at least), flip flops and outdoor fires, all beneath the only ceiling that doesn’t close me in.

Gypsy days and windows-open nights.

The perfect lullabye of peepers and crickets.

Sun on my skin.

Last night I sat outside until midnight. It was 88° when I walked inside.

This morning, everything is green.

Game on.

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because shedding your skin
is just as necessary
as gathering hips
for the tea
you sip
from the cup
of yesterday’s
parody

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My back door opens onto a little sort-of-sunken alcove (which is a bad thing when it rains a lot) and in spring it’s my favorite place to sit with my first cup of tea and watch the golden light wake up the flowers. This is my view this morning, daffodils and euphorbia and sunshine bright enough to be blinding. The birds are singing out in a concert of joy, and it’s hard to believe that just over a month ago, this very spot I’m looking at was buried beneath a five-foot mound of snow.

These are the days when it’s hardest to stay inside and work, my garden teasing me with new green, fresh promise, and the relief of sun on my skin. But there is work to be done, and that is life. Naughty kitten keeps coming to my window, asking me to come out and play, and I laugh and tell him no, even as I wish I could be him.

Already, I feel behind in my garden. Mother Nature always runs faster than I can and there is never a day when I don’t see ten things that need to be done. But no matter. The windows are open, the robins are busy, and the daffodils nod hello each time I walk by.

Good morning, I say. To all of it. The distractions and the worries and the work and all the broken bits of life that need fixing.

Good morning, here we are again.

It’s a beautiful thing.