that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?

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Mostly, I let go of fear.

Fear that I’m not good enough.

Fear that I am good enough.

Fear that this is all there is. That there might be something more.
That life will be pass me by and when I reach the end of the road
I will still be saying, someday.

Fear that when I look in the mirror I won’t recognize
the eyes staring back at me.
Or the wrinkles.

Fear that I can’t handle loss, fear of what I might find.

Fear that I am who I am.
And that everyone else is who they are.

Fear that so much of the time, it is too late.

I opened my hand and my heart
and let all the fear fly out,
like starlings.

They’re all up in the sky now, those fears.

Swooping and soaring

in a symphony

of not afraid.

{reverb10} check it out here

my word was going to be growth. really, it was.

see? i even had a picture to go with it.

but today was a crazy day. crazy as in, i spent the whole day running around like a chicken with its head cut off, which is a visual i hate, but it gets the job done.

and i realized that if i am going to be honest, the one word that describes this year best for me is: crazy.

oh, there were other words that mattered.

growth. hope. writing.

words in general, they mattered. a lot.

i learned a lot, i grew a lot, i traveled in circles that i never knew existed.

i spent most of this year feeling like i couldn’t catch up, couldn’t catch my breath, would never have time to relax and do all the things i want to do. yet i accomplished more in this past year than in the three years before that.

most importantly, i started writing again. really writing, every day.

my one word could be writing.

my one word could be words.

but i am one of those people that tends to be blunt and honest, to a fault.

so my word is crazy.

and i am.

crazy.

crazy about life, crazy about writing, crazy about cats and books and art and jewelry and love and hope and each new morning.

yup, that’s it.

crazy.

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i’m also supposed to write about what i want for next year, what i envision.

i could lie and say a whole bunch of stuff about goals and dreams and how next year will finally be the year that i get my shit together.

but in truth, i know it will just be more of the same.

more words. more hope. more learning. more growth.

and most definitely,

more crazy.

but there had better not be any more cats.

{reverb10} check it out here

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

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

breathing flowers in, after dawn.

simple words that get stuck in my throat, for days.

moments in mid-afternoon that bring tears to my eyes.

sunsets waiting on the horizon, always with a promise.

a mirror that refuses to show what lies beneath the surface.

seasons that rattle through my chest, calling me to remember.

blisters that heal and become callouses, rough evidence of pain.

a heart that breaks in its own small way each time you turn a page.

the constant digging for my soul that wears my fingers to the quick.

a silver necklace that says hope, left broken on the dresser.

making molds of the moon to keep in a glass jar.

standing in the dark, listening for sunrise.

a song that whispers even as i sleep.

threading words on needles and pricking my finger.

that one drop of blood, there, on the corner

of the page.

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This post is part of One Shot Wednesday

Yesterday I had lunch with one of my best friends. We talked for two hours straight, about life and change and patterns and life. I gave advice and got advice and on the way home, I thought about that, about how wonderful it is to have friends to share what we’ve experienced along our path. And then I thought, but what have I learned?  Do I have any insight to offer?

Because the more I learn, the less I know.

I feel like that in itself is just the right amount of wisdom. To understand that there is so much I don’t know, can’t know, will never know.

I am totally okay with the not knowing. Actually I am more than okay with it, I love that I have figured this out, relatively early in my life. It feels a little zen, that phrase, and is one of my mantras, along with this one: the only person whose behavior I can control is my own.

It all sounds so simple, until you think about it, apply it, live it.
I guess that is the whole concept behind a zen phrase, right?

And perhaps I am just really stupid and should have figured both things out a long time ago. But I didn’t, I only just figured them out in the last five years. But these two phrases have, in so many ways, changed my life. For the better, and better late than never.

Why doesn’t life come with a manual? They don’t teach you this stuff in school, they teach you math and science and grammar (well, they used to teach you grammar) and maybe even how to make a pizza, or build a bird house. But they don’t teach you how much you don’t know about life. They don’t even hint at it, they just send you out in the world to be blindsided. No one tells you how many times, in how many ways, your heart will be broken. How many moments of joy you will witness. How many people will mark your days. No one teaches you to appreciate the beauty that is life.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have listened, back then. When you are young, you think you already know everything. I wonder what happens when you are old, really, really old? Do you understand at the end, that you know nothing? And is that a relief? I feel like it would be.
I feel like that is where I want to end up.

I chose this path, and I like the direction I am headed in.

I know that much.

And just now, that is enough.

When I run, I break everything into thirds. If I am planning to go six miles, I focus only on the first two. Once I have made it that far, I focus on the next two. I know that once I cover those, I will be two-thirds of the way to my destination, I will have already gone twice as far as I have left to go, and then the last two seem easy.

On days when I struggle, I split just the segment of path directly before me into thirds. If I make it to that first tree, then I can make it to the next one, and then the distance to the last tree will feel like nothing. I have covered more miles than I ever thought possible by breaking them into thirds.

And if my life ends up covering a fairly standard number of years,
I am now in my middle third.

The first third was a bit of a struggle, there was so much to learn, to figure out, so many mistakes to make that caused sore muscles, injuries, time waiting to repair. Sometimes I just wanted to stop. Sit down. Give up. I hadn’t learned discipline. Or tenacity. Or patience. I hadn’t settled in for the long haul.

I am past that phase now, and glad of it. I am warmed up, I have my stride, there is a rhythm to my days and I move along at an even pace most of the time. I am on the straightaway and can take time to gaze around me. I am no longer worried about whether I can make it. I’m moving close to the halfway point.

And as I move on, further down this path, this path we call life
that we live and breathe and burn through so quickly, I wonder if the last third will be the easiest one, not downhill because that hurts my knees worse than anything, but leisurely, graceful, steady. The one where I feel that I could go on forever.

Well, okay, maybe not quite forever.

But at least just to that next tree.

A weed is only a weed because somebody else says so.

A weed is a flower with a bad reputation.

A weed has a remarkable ability to adapt.

A weed has very strong roots.

A weed is not afraid to be scattered by the wind.

A weed has great tolerance for adverse conditions.

A weed will flower at all cost.

A weed is doing its best to survive.

I’m pretty sure I could be a weed.

Sunbeams make the best mattresses.

Being top dog isn’t all that.

Claws come in really handy sometimes.

You can make a toy out of almost anything.

There is nothing like a fireplace in winter.

Curiosity doesn’t usually kill you,
but it will get you in trouble sometimes.

Speed is underrated.

It is better to be the cat than the mouse.

A warm lap is a worthwhile quest.

A nice bath right before bed helps you sleep.

It’s better to eat small meals throughout the day.

Sometimes you have to share, and sometimes
you can get away with taking what you want.

Emotions can be understood in any language.

It’s okay to expose your belly to those you trust.

When you are happy, sing, when you are mad, grumble.

Life is one long series of meals and naps.

A little catnip every now and then never hurt anyone.

When you are scared and you want to look tough,
give yourself big hair.

:::

P.S. Doesn’t he look like he is posing for a school portait?

My hair is a mess. I see myself in the reflection of my monitor and I laugh. You think I don’t, but I do, I laugh out loud because I am always forgetting what I look like, somehow I expect to see the 20-year-old me when I look in the mirror, but that girl is gone, out galavanting somewhere, she has better things to do.

It isn’t a matter of time, the years have passed, I remember them. It is a matter of mirrors. I have always wondered if you feel the same on the inside when you are eighty. I feel the same, in the core, the kernel of my being, as I always have, but I look in the mirror and someone older stands before me. I know I am in there, I know that if I strip away the mercury that lies beneath the glass, I will see all the way to my center.

I am not inert, I change each day, time moves through me, and I am not afraid. I am not chained to the notion of youth, I understand, I accept, but I do not cheer time’s passing. I don’t regret it, either. Minutes tick away on the clock whether we watch them or not. They pass us by or embrace us. We get to choose.

I can think of time as the enemy, it is easy to make time the bad guy. But time has no emotion, it cannot be cruel. It just stands there, a pillar of salt. It is just time.

It forgives but never forgets and moves forward but never returns and we stand on the sidelines and cheer or watch or turn our backs, but it keeps on playing. It is just time.

We are on time, we are out of time, we need more time, we take the time, we take a time out, time is on our side, time waits for no man, we try to put time in a bottle.

It is just time.

Time bursts all our bubbles, time stops us short,
time thinks a mirror is envy.

It is all that there is and all that there isn’t.

It is just time.

* title from Bob Dylan’s album