that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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you are here.

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What are your simplest pleasures?
Go beyond description and into showing the experience of each indulgence.

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The sun beats down on my back.

Birdsong fills the air with anything but silence, yet it feels quiet.

Bees buzz and hover, always, always in search of nectar.

Joni Mitchell sings Blue in the background,
which somehow never makes me blue.

Usually, I sing along, loud and without caring how I sound.

Sometimes I just listen.

Sweat pours down my spine, off my brow.

My hands are dirty, I have leaves and seedpods in my hair.

The wide open expanse of sky lifts me up, opens me,
my mind soars.

Tiny bits of life, all cradled in their own little microcosm,
become my focus.

A seedling that finds a way to root in the most unlikely of places.

The ant hill that has destroyed my thyme.

Life, bursting forth without fear or politeness.

An ache begins to spread up my legs. Knees creak and quiver.

But I never stop until my soul has had enough.

Until I am restored.

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this post is part of the scintilla project. see more here.

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List the tribes you belong to: cultural, personal, literary, etc.

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If you had asked me this question when I was a teenager, the answer would have been: none.

I never fit into any of the available slots, too smart to hang out with the cool kids, too cool to hang out with the smart kids, too shy to hang out with the popular kids. I was not into sports, not into parties, not into chess, or designer clothes or smoking cigarettes out by the fence. I was the proverbial square peg. My senior year, when everyone else was wearing Calvin Klein jeans and high heels and curly, permed hair, I dressed like a hippie in torn jeans, gauzy shirts, Jesus sandals, hair long and straight and parted down the middle. I had learned just enough by then to allow myself that much.

I belonged to the tribe of angst as a teenager, this is when I started writing poetry. This is when I learned to enjoy being alone. This is when my heart was broken for the first time.

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If you had asked me this question when I was in my early 20s, the answer would have been: I AM WOMAN, and yes, I would have roared.

These were my feminist years, learning what it meant to be a woman in the world, the unfairness, the injustice, the constant thread of sexuality that ran through every interaction I had with men. I spent months, years, reading sociological studies, learning more and resenting everything I read. Resenting men, resenting the fact that I was not one. I never learned to be coy or charming, never used my gender in my favor, never stopped fighting the unfairness of it all.

Until.

In my mid-twenties I joined the tribe of mother. And then I understood the true difference between men and women. And yes, I’d love to be able to say that parenting is the same for men as it is for women. But it isn’t. And I’m not saying that men don’t make fabulous parents, or that they are inferior as parents. My own father was the best one a girl could ever have. It’s just different. As a mother, you become protector. Teacher. Moderator. And more, so much more.

But when it comes right down to it, you are a she-bear. And then you will REALLY roar.

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If you had asked me this question when I was in my 30s, the answer would have been: artist, mother, wife, reader, business owner.

This was the decade of doing, too busy to have much angst, too tired to complain. I accomplished. Whatever needed to be done, this is what I did. I was happy with who I was, happy with where I was, and there was always something that needed to be done. These were the years of too-little sleep and not enough time. There was always someplace to be, a deadline on my forehead, a child that needed tending, a house that needed care, a husband that needed time, a life that needed living. I wrote very little in these years. I put all of that on the back burner and let it simmer.

I belonged to the tribe of family in my 30s, and this is when I started to be comfortable with myself.

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If you had asked me this question when I was in my 40s, the answer would have been: invalid, daughter, seeker, and finally, writer.

In my early 40s I was sick for a year. And though it all worked out in the end, turning out to be something fixable, it was a lost year. I learned what it’s like to be invisible, that there are two pronunciations to the word invalid. But this year taught me a simple, valuable lesson: to appreciate the fact that I am alive.

My parents started aging in these years, and I came full-circle as a daughter. I spent time care-taking and appreciating everything they gave to their children.

I stretched beyond what do I want to do with my life into it’s time to start doing something. I started writing again, unfolding those pages one layer at a time, testing, exposing, learning. I brought along all the tribes I have ever belonged to and we had a big party. One that went on for years and made a big mess, and in the end, only the strong were left standing.

I belonged to the tribe of hope in my 40s, I came home to a place I hadn’t known I missed, and words became my companion.

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Now, as I am ready to enter my 50s, I have come to understand that the tribe I truly belong to is that of humanity.

No matter how we try to section ourselves off into groups, we can’t escape this simple fact.

We are all here, in this one tribe, together.

The tribe of grace.

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this post is part of the scintilla project. see more here.

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Talk about an experience with faith, your own or someone else’s.

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i have faith in

a sun that rises,

a love that grows,

a heart that repairs,

and a life that

takes and gives and

keeps coming back

for more.

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this post is part of the scintilla project. see more here.

spring comes
on the day
when i rise
to the surface
of the pool
that was winter

gasping for air.

the sun
warms my face
as i pull
myself up
hand over hand
clinging to vine

and veracity.

the grey ghost
regrets his decision
to give up
the reins
a week early,
but in the forest

the vulture

smiles.

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.

.

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this post is part of:

the scintilla project. see more here.

Today’s prompt: Show a part of {your} nature that you feel you’ve lost.
Can you get it back? Would it be worth it?.

and

 dVerse poets Open Link Night, join us!

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What does your everyday look like?
Describe the scene of your happiest moment of every day.

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every day starts with this cup.

the reflection is always different,

some days there are flowers,

some days nothing more than grey skies.

but always, there is something

to see.

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this post is part of the scintilla project. see more here.

Yesterday I heard that some journalists (okay, maybe just one) are saying things like this about The Lorax: “The President’s liberal friends in Hollywood [are] targeting a younger demographic using animated movies to sell their agenda to children.”

Really?

I know Dr. Seuss did have some political leanings and statements in his work and all, but, really?

And then I went to the grocery store and bought myself some tulips. They didn’t have pink, which was what I wanted, so I picked these instead.

The woman checking me out said, “We call these Fighting Irish tulips, because of the colors.”

Really?

Silly me.

I just thought they were pretty.

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Talk about a memory triggered by a particular song.

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I never promised you a rose garden. Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometimes….

It’s winter and I am on the couch reading. I don’t remember the name of the book, one of the countless number I devoured as a child, possibly one by Laura Ingalls Wilder, or Carolyn Haywood, or Louisa May Alcott.

I have no idea where my brothers and my sister were at this moment, perhaps I was home sick from school. It’s just me and my book and my mom and her dust cloth. Lynn Anderson serenades us and my mom sings along. She has a pretty voice, my mom, and she sings as if no one is listening.

The smell of Lemon Pledge drifts through the air.

I feel safe and warm and cozy.

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My mom cleaned our house from top to bottom every single day when I was a child. Dusting, vacuuming, mopping. Every. Single. Day. She also made our beds, given that none of us could ever achieve the “you could bounce quarters off that” requirement with our bedspreads. I look back now, and I don’t know how she did it, how she kept up with it all. I don’t know why she did it. Well, that’s not entirely true, I know she did it because she loved us.

We all had our own little chores to do, but they were small things, taking out the garbage, drying dinner dishes. My mom did all the rest, cooking dinners, ironing (everything, including sheets and underwear), and all that cleaning.

My dad worked hard, too. Trick shifts they called it, rotating his schedule between A, B, and C shift every three weeks. One week 7 to 3; the next 3 to 11; the next 11 to 7. He never caught up on his sleep, never had time to adjust to staying up all night and sleeping during the day, because the very next week it would all be reversed again. There were many nights when he fell asleep at the kitchen table, which, of course, we all thought was hilarious.

My parents both came from not-so-perfect childhoods. Truth be told, that’s quite the understatement. But they both worked hard to give me and my siblings a better one. Writing this now, it all sounds a little bit Leave it to Beaver-ish. And in reality, it wasn’t. As we all got older, things changed, times changed. Like all families, we had our ups and downs. But just the fact that this was the goal says a lot. And I’m certain that it was far, far better than the childhood that either one of them experienced.

They each gave everything they could to their children, always. And that is still the case today.

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All it takes now is a Lynn Anderson or Loretta Lynn song, and I am back in a clean, cozy, lemon-scented world, my mom’s voice playing over me like a blanket. And that’s a pretty good place to be.

So smile for a while and let’s be jolly…

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When did you realize you were a grownup?
What did this mean for you?

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This prompt made me smile, because my first thought was, “Never.”

I’m still waiting to feel like a grownup, still waiting, at almost-50, to feel differently inside than I did when I was 18, or 12, or 6. And don’t get me wrong, I act like a grownup, I do all the things that grownups are supposed to do, I’ve raised children, run my own business, bought a house, contributed to society.

I’m quite responsible, other than for the occasional forgetfulness that plagues my family, as in, “I went to the store for bread and milk and forgot the bread.” I’ve always been responsible, even as a child. Always worked for straight A’s, never skipped school or even homework, got my first job when I was 12 and worked hard ever since, I take care of my health for the most part, I take care of other people when they need it, all in all, I am a very grownup grownup.

But I’ve never stopped being amazed at life, I’ve never stopped being hopeful, I’ve never stopped looking at the world around me in wonder. Never stopped with the rose-colored glasses.

Okay, I have missed a few days. Maybe even months.

But I always go back to that place, the same place that will find you lying on your stomach in the grass watching an ant try to move a potato chip, the place that lets you believe in the magic of Santa Claus, the place that lets you see how fragile and wonderful and beautiful life is, believe in the goodness of others, be certain that the sun will rise another day.

I have always been a Caretaker of Wonder.* And inside this body that seems to be aging without my permission, this keeps me young. Yes, young at heart is the best I can hope for at this point in my life, but that’s not so bad.

My goal has long been to never become a bitter old woman. It is (and I have mentioned this several times before) to be the old laughing lady. If that means that I will never really truly feel like a grownup, well, then I am okay with that. I may not be able to get back up once I lie down to watch ants crawl through the grass, but I am okay with that, too.

I can always roll over and see what shapes I can find in the clouds up in the sky.

I think I see an angel, don’t you?

*From one of my favorite children’s books by Cooper Edens.

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Who are you?
Come out from behind that curtain and show yourself.

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i am growth that spirals,

hope that grows,

life that reaches

for the sun.

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this post is part of the scintilla project. see more here.