that's mrs. mediocrity to you

yesterday, i found this along the trail i run on.

it made me think of fairy houses, elves, & woodland sprites.

i want to live there.

::

this post is part of one word wednesday over at jillsy girl

every day i write words on a page. type them on a keyboard.
string them together like beads.

i have a lot of jewelry.

so are all these words just adornment? if i pull out a paragraph
and wear it for the day, does it make me look better? does it change my appearance? does it enhance my life?

does it make me into something other than the person i am when
i roll out of bed in the morning, looking much the worse for wear?

i feel different when i write, i feel like the real me, but that sounds so silly because, of course, i am always the real me, i can’t be anything different.

but all of the censors that are in place when i am face to face with people disappear when i write.

all of the doubts, the insecurities, the nerves.

gone, when i write.

it feels more like my natural language than speaking does.

it feels like the voice of my soul.

i can only hear that voice when i write.

is that weird?

i am sitting in my garden, and two seagulls just flew over my head.
i don’t live near the water. well, okay, i live near a swamp, but since when do seagulls hang out in swamps?

it is late september and it is 89 degrees. the flowers left in my garden look sad and wilted. well, they’ve looked sad all year, neglected, battling weeds. but 89 on Sept. 24th?

i played hooky today, but i didn’t do the things i most wanted to do, run, and work in said garden. i did a whole lot of nothing that led to more nothing and then the day was gone and i was here, sitting in my garden watching seagulls fly over my head.

a monarch butterfly is playing hide and seek in the anemones, flying lazy and happy in this heat. that’s kind of how i feel.

tomorrow it is supposed to be 59 degrees. thirty degrees cooler in
24 hours. that has happened several times this summer. 30 degrees of separation from one day to the next.

the air is very still just now, no breeze, but no humidity either, so
89 degrees feels pretty nice.

tonight i’m going to sit out here by the outside fire and drink wine and eat homemade pizza, much like every other friday night. i never work on friday nights, even if i work around the clock the rest of the week.

and then i might go inside to watch a movie, though that depends on too many things to be a certainty.

but that’s okay, because, just now,

i’m not looking for certainty.

a moonlit night

forsaken on a bed
of wilt and roses

ophelia
we loved you all
dancing in the pale
silver spotlight

singing in the breeze
of your reflection

seeking love’s own touch
beneath the darkness

::     ::     ::

A poem I wrote 25 years ago,
25 years of life and love and living
and the words still ring true,
still fit, perfectly.

So I wear them this day, this day to

Just sit there and look pretty

having never felt pretty, never thought of myself like that
never just sat there either, always got up
always was the butterfly, no, the bee
head down, gathering bits of honey

working hard to add some sweet
to a slightly bitter world.

:

::     ::     ::

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this post is part of the just sit there and look pretty challenge.

go here to see all the pretties…

Today I am over at Vision & Verb

with some highlights from Saturday night’s game…

when you cannot find

the answers,

perhaps it’s time

to change the questions.

::

Okay, I have a confession to make: I am in love.

With windmills.

And yes, I know that technically these are wind turbines, and technically a lot of people strongly dislike them. But love isn’t technical, it knows no boundaries, it isn’t rational or logical or afraid to be itself just because some other people don’t like it. So there you have it. I am in love. I want one. In my backyard. And yes, I am aware that my neighbors may not go along with that.

I live in the Finger Lakes Region of New York, a beautiful, hilly area dotted with small lakes and fabulous vistas and acres and acres of farmland.

And recently, along the route to our cabin that just happens to be nestled up in those hills, a new crop has popped up. A crop of giant sentinels. And the very first time I saw them there, perched along the horizon, I was hooked. It was love at first sight. I drove over the crest of hill and there they were, spinning slowly, towering over the small town that up until then had been known for its grape pies. Now, at least for me, there is a much bigger attraction.

I have been to our cabin several times since that day, and each time have had the sudden urge to veer off the road and head towards these turning towers, wanting to stand beneath one and see just how tall it really is, what kind of sound it makes, to just be near it. You know, that love thing.

So over Labor Day Weekend, I had a ton of work to do. I know, you’re supposed to relax on Labor Day, but that wasn’t going to be possible for me. My family made a plan to go to our cabin that Sunday night, and I agreed to take a few hours off and meet them there for dinner. And then I made a plan to leave an hour early and go on a quest, to finally find the road that the windmills were on. To meet them, face to face.

Easier said than done.

I tried to look up the information beforehand, but I couldn’t really pinpoint the location. The area they are in is very rural, dirt roads, some labeled, some not, and I had no idea what the name of the road they are on is called, but I figured, how hard could it be? They’re tall, right? I’ll just follow them.

And of course I got lost because these are small mountains after all, and there aren’t that many roads that cut directly across and I had to wind up and down and down and around and backtrack and traverse seasonal-use-only, very bumpy, dirt roads, and they look a lot closer than they actually are because, oh my, they ARE huge, and an hour and a half later, I was finally on the right road, which I only knew because I could see one at the top of the hill just before me. At this point I was already half an hour late for dinner with my family, and not sure how far out of my way I had traveled, but I had my eye on the prize and no way was I turning back now.

I passed these on the way up that hill:

And I discovered, later, that none of these photos give you a sense of the scale, the majestic quality, the space and height and mystery, or the tears that were in my eyes. Silly to mist up over windmills, I know. Just call me sentimental. Or weird. Either one works for me.

That is corn growing there, just beneath them, corn that stood higher than my head.

And when I reached the top of that hill, they were spread out before me for miles, dotting fields of corn and meadows filled with clover and perched at the crests of hills. 20 or 30 or 40 all told. And the one I had seen from the bottom of the hill had a little dirt road leading right up to it. So I parked my car and I rolled down the windows and I listened, because I had expected them to be loud. But I could barely hear them at all.

And then I got out of my car and stood there, and I felt peace. That’s what it is, that is the draw. They make me feel peaceful. I walked my way closer and closer and I’m sure that my mouth was hanging wide open just then, although I was lucky and no flies flew in.

And then I was there right at the base of the one I had been chasing for miles and I could walk right up and touch it, and I could take all the pictures I wanted, although still, none of them convey how tall it really is.

And then, of course, just when I was having a moment, standing there staring up at the sky, my phone rang and it was my family saying, “where are you? we are waiting on you for dinner,” and I had to say goodbye my new friends, I had to walk away and leave them there to guard the valley, alone.

But one day soon I’m going back, and next time I’m bringing a picnic and I’m not going to answer my phone and I’m going to sit there on a blanket and listen as the wind whispers down through those blades.

And I might even sing to myself, a little.

But this time, I’ll try not to cry.

listening.

::     ::     ::

today I am over at the Inspiration Studio
listening to my heart

won’t you join me?

there are days when i whine

and days when i cry

and days when the world tastes bitter.

but the thing i love best

about this mad life

is that just after one of those days

you might just wake up

to one of these days.

lights out, time for sleep, sitting here
in the dark
in the quiet

the only sound the baseball game
still playing in the bedroom as my husband sleeps
there is always a game on somewhere in the house
i don’t mind, it has become the background music of my life

sometimes i turn baseball on when i am here alone
just because it feels normal, soothing

it is late, very late, i should be asleep

but i sit here
fingers itching to write
not sure what they want to say, these fingers

but i let them talk anyway

i wish i could sit here in the dark, in the night, in the quiet

not so tired, and listen to the night
or that game or just the sound of my own breath

i wish it was that night, but instead it is a night
when i am too exhausted to go to bed

another time i will sit here

in the dark
in the quiet
in the night

i will listen