that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Well, if I were February, it would be. Instead, I find color where I can, strewn about the house in bits of glass and fabric. Tulips from the grocery store. Eggs with a rainbow of peppers for breakfast.

Magic is the word I chose for 2013, reading is the word that’s chosen me. And everywhere I go, it’s quiet.

Our oldest cat is fading away and I watch her fighting. I think about life, and death, and everything in between. We make her a fire every night, and feed her all the tuna she wants, and give her lots of extra love.

The other night I broke out the afghan I’ve been working on for something like three years now… I only have a few rows to go, and it feels like it’s time to finally finish it.

Sometimes, endings come when you’re least expecting them. Sometimes, even though you know they are coming, it’s hard to look them in the eye.

The book I’m reading now is going to be hard to let go of. Fremont by Elizabeth Reeder. It’s filled with beginnings and magic and the trials of life. And, of course, endings.

And I’m in love with it.

This book. This grey sky, this grey cat, this life.

Every small, silent moment.

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Apparently, Jack Frost does have a heart.

Several, actually.

He left me an early Valentine’s gift and well, I melted.

I love you, too, Jack.

Your magic is one of Nature’s best tricks.

xoxo

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Join Debi, Graciel and I for a year of ordinary magic… details here

It was a month of snow angels and outdoor picnics, getting things done and doing absolutely nothing, taking care of business and escaping into books. Red was the flavor, and quiet was the color. It was a month of letting life flow at its own pace, I didn’t fight any of it, never once did I swim against the current, I just let it carry me wherever it was headed. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, and it was good.

January was a month of settling in, to life at 50, to life in 2013, to life in a world we have yet to catch up with.

Soon, I suppose, busy will be stopping by for a visit, she never likes to stay away for long. I’ll make her some tea and we’ll sit for a chat and she’ll mention that she’s planning to stay for a spell. I won’t be surprised or upset, I will simply say yes and turn away to bake her some cookies. Snickerdoodles, in fact. Because you can’t say snickerdoodles without smiling, and besides, they are delicious.

But I can’t help but wish that January could stay just a little bit longer, so I could sit here and stare out this window at the birds, at all the wonder, at the dancing snowflakes that have just started to fall from the sky, despite the fact that just yesterday, the temperature peaked at 65.

I hear February tapping on the glass, too short to be seen, but just tall enough to reach a bony finger up and make her presence known. She likes to be all dark in her grey robes and bitter nights, but it’s hard to take someone so small very seriously. Still, I will sit with her tomorrow, build her a fire and bring her some flowers, just because she is here.

And I won’t tell her how much I miss January, for it would never do to make her jealous.

She has quite the temper, that one, don’t be fooled by the hearts and the chocolates.

But don’t worry, either, for she is no match for March and its promises of flowers.

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being in the right place

at the right time

to capture

a perfect landing

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It just keeps snowing.

We shovel and plow, dig out the woodpile, the mailbox, the bird feeders, paths for the dog and the naughty kitten.

And then we do it all again.

We rake the roof because the spot that always leaks, the spot we had fixed again last year, is leaking again, onto the new kitchen floor that I fixed because I thought we’d finally solved the problem.

We snuggle up under this blanket of white, enjoying the hush that only comes from snow. The birds are hungry, the feeders busy hubs of red and blue, gray and gold, black and white. Yesterday, a red-bellied woodpecker joined the gang, I haven’t seen him in a while.

Life is January simple. A cycle that repeats itself over and over, driven by Mother Nature and Old Man Winter. I see them out there, working together, trying to clean things up, set things right, add some beauty to this battle-scarred world.

Never mind that one day it will all melt into sludge and mud. Never mind that your back gets sore from clearing it all away. Never mind the water dripping in the kitchen.

Put your boots on and step outside and listen.

Inhale.

You can hear a snowflake land. You can smell the clean of this comforter.

A red cardinal lands on a branch and you can see the heart of winter.

It just keeps snowing.

2013 has declared itself to be The Year of Ordinary Magic.

Because you don’t have to be a child to see the world through the eyes of one.

All you have to do is remember.

I hadn’t really chosen a word for this year, though I had thought about declaring it the Year of Simply Being. You know, no agenda, no plans to lose this or gain that, just being.

But then, just as last year declared itself the Year of Discarding, 2013 quite suddenly decided to be The Year of Ordinary Magic. Which is not just any kind of magic, but rather the simple, everyday kind. The magic in the firefly that dances outside your window. The shape of a shadow that does not reveal its source. The flower that only opens in the moonlight. The joy of falling backwards in the snow, not caring if you get some down your neck, up your sleeves, in your hair.

There is wonder all around us. But sometimes, we forget to remember to look.

It all started with a a post my friend Graciel did, about letting go and rolling in the grass, to which my response was: “It’s too cold to roll in the grass just now, but if we get enough snow, I promise to make a snow angel.”

She held me to that promise, and we made a plan to make snow angels and then post the results. And then we had to wait for the right weather, and then for me to get over the flu. And then we invited another friend, debi, who lives a magical life in Texas, to join us by making her own kind of angel, because, well, snow isn’t easy to come by in Texas.

And there it was: “We should do this periodically throughout the year.”

So yesterday morning I donned my husband’s big old gold and purple hooded puffy Vikings coat and a pair of red and black ski pants and my purple rain boots (yes, I looked like a dork) and I went out to the front lawn, (yes, the front, where everyone could see) and made a snow angel.

I can’t remember the last time I did that. Perhaps when my son was a child, twenty-some-odd years ago.

And it was fun. It was snowing big, fluffy snow-globe flakes. The snow is so deep that it caught me gently as I fell backwards, and I lay there looking up at the grey January sky, and giggled. And it was magic. One tiny moment of ordinary magic.

So here’s the thing: we want you to join us. Look for the magic, all year long. And then share it with the world.

It doesn’t matter how you choose to participate. With a photo, a blog post, a tweet or a status. It doesn’t matter how often. Once a week, once a month, regularly, sporadically, or only just once.

Because it’s magic, remember? And there are no rules in magic.

All you have to do is keep your eyes open.

And every so often, let it catch you, looking.

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Here is an image you may download to display as a button if you so desire…
(I will try to work on making it a functional button, for now, it is just the image)

We have also started a group Pinterest board as a place to record the magic we find. If you’d like to be added, just let me know, either here in the comments or via email at mrsmediocrity{at}gmail{dot}com