that's mrs. mediocrity to you

The bows get harder to tie each year, wrapping life up into neat little packages is a gift of the young. But no matter, the new year comes just the same, wrapped or not, prettied up or painted over, parceled out or held close in hidden pockets.

We like our second chances, though. New year, new month, new week, new day. The chance to begin again, be better, live more, love more, give more.

We bring our scars and broken bits to the party, and after a while, no one notices. Because what matters is that we are there, standing testament to each other’s existence. My paint is peeling and your paper is torn. My corners are crooked and your ribbon is creased. Packaging, no matter how perfect or pretty, ruined or wrinkled, is not what we offer.

The gift is always inside.

And the bits that poke through, refusing to fit neatly into boxes or hide beneath brightly colored paper, those are always the very best parts.

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Here’s to another year of gifts and smiles, tears and scars, sunshine and puddles.

Here’s to you and to me and to us.

All of us.

Here’s to being here.

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xoxo

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there are always hurdles

hurts and
mountains

sharp edges

jagged rock

there is always sky
to fall into

caves to cower in

roads that lead
in the opposite direction

but
only one route
is yours

to follow

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peace

and joy

and light

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now

and in

the coming

year

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xoxo

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december’s sun

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It’s raining in December and another year has flown by. A year of sad things and joyful things, hard things and soft things, big things and little things. A year like most years, I suppose.

It was also a year of learning. Of grieving and forgiving and standing up straight, even so. A year of making more room for love. A year of shifting.

The world makes me sad and I withdraw. Love gives me hope and draws me out. Life gives me breath and what more is there, really? The gift of dawn, the gift of December, the gift of another year.

It’s not my job to stop time from passing. It’s not my job to fight the truth of existence. It’s not my job to rail against the frailties of humanity.

My job is to soar, with grace and curiosity. Or at least to promise to try. Wonder-wander and observe. Listen. Absorb. Sit with the birds and sing. Embrace the miracle of sky.

My job is to keep my heart open, even as it grows heavy.

I have these wings. I have this light. I have this rubicon to bury.

I mark each month on a trunk filled with feathers, the weight of a nest to come home to.

The ballast of living.

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and you are the miracle

every day

each breath

crystallized

into sky

and

molten

remembrance

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can be a good thing

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On a warm December morning filled with birdsong and loud blue sky, I find myself quiet. Standing in my pajamas and listening to a world that always carries on, no matter how many times we think it will stop.

Each time I go in the door, or out, these old harness jingle bells I’ve tied around a wreath ring their pretty song, reminding me that silence is the mirror of stillness. And life is always moving.

I wish for snow to hide the mess of leaves and grey. I wish for sparkling trees and crisp fresh air. I wish to be right where I am and everywhere else all at once.

There’s no wind today, and yesterday five robins set down in my garden to forage in the litter of berries and seed.

My words hide in corners too far away, and I look up as a crow, my crow, flies by.

We say good morning without sound.

The day begins.

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rising high from a red bed of thorns
on a morning dressed in grey before dawn

and this is all there is

i stand to one side
worn and torn and still exuberant

breathing in the chill of tomorrow
as today twines up bare ankles

remembering to live

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on the quiet colors
of a cold grey sad day morning
.
the scent of winter
crisp and silent
creeping up behind me

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