that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Day, night. Inhale, exhale. Simple, complicated. Beautiful, ugly.

Rose, thorn.

Life is filled with opposites that cannot exist one without the other. We tend to reach for the bright spots, the highs, the pretty. But we would never recognize these things if not for the shadows, the lows, the unattractive.

Some days I try to rest in the middle. Pause and embrace both sides. Some days, it takes long arms and a big reach. And after awhile, I am exhausted.

Some days, I choose a side. There are times when it cannot be helped. And those are the days when I feel most alive.

Darkness is not the same as evil. Beauty is not the same as good. Answers are not the same as wisdom.

I want to be the wanderer, moving in and out of light and shadow, reaching for the sun as I grow deep roots.

I want to be pulled in all directions, up, down, in, out, left, right.

I want to scramble up a trellis like a vine gone wild and throw rose-scented light to the world.

Here, catch.

::

her exterior

gave no indication

of the astounding

beauty within.

::

and finally warming up again, warm enough for a three mile run in shorts and no jacket, warm enough for flip flops and windows open, warm enough for sitting in the garden at dusk listening to birds and tree frogs and the conversations of neighbors as they pass on their walk down the road. they never know i can hear their voices, sitting in the back and hidden from view–sound travels when you live in the country.

it feels like the year is just beginning. winter is finally through with us (knock wood), and like the flowers in my garden, i feel my spirit beginning to bloom. there is energy for more than curling up before the fire, and late nights in bare feet padding through rooms that are my oldest friends become a habit. i will stay up later and get up early, following the pattern of the sun.

if i could live outside just now, i would, in these months between the too cold of winter and the too hot of summer. temperamental though she may be, spring has her moments of sweetness and smiles, though one must always be careful not to cross her. soon, i will dig my hands into this patch of earth i live my life on, planting and weeding, rooting and moving, mulching and clearing. there is much to be done and never enough time to do it.

but these are the days i look forward to all winter, locked inside by walls of gray and shadow, the only echoes from my own voice and the creakings of my house. winter’s sound of snow and silence will slowly give way to the symphony of spring, music, music to my ears. many a late night i will walk outside, just to hear the peepers serenade. i always wonder what it is they sing for, although i’m fairly certain they are happy just to be here, alive.

and i find myself singing my own songs, in my mind or humming just under my breath, feeling more alive than i have in months. grey becomes green and i become young again, at least for awhile. morning tea in the garden is enough to make me smile.

just now, this very second, the first hummingbird of the year has come to sip nectar from a flower.

today i will hang their feeder on my window, this window i spend so much time gazing out, and they will tease kitties that line up on the sill to watch them feed.

it feels like the year is just beginning.

::

even when

we’re not watching.

don’t forget

to inhale.

::

::

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

::

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.

::

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

Last year’s growth still clings to its supports, having yet to be cleared away for the fresh new shoots this year has promised to bring.

Soon it will be time to start seeds indoors, the waiting and the watching and then the nursing of baby plants along towards Spring.

This isn’t my garden, it’s a garden I pass on the trail where I run, a huge vegetable garden that someone tends very lovingly. It’s a garden I covet. Or quite possibly, what I actually covet is the time it takes to tend such a garden.

When I am old I shall grow flowers.

Okay, I already grow flowers. And I’m creeping up on old, but you know what I mean.

Some days, weeks, months, years, it feels like I’m running out of time. Time to do the things I always wanted to do, said I would do, planned to do. So what to do?

I feel my priorities shifting. I suppose everyone does as they creep towards another milestone birthday, marking the passing of another decade.

I’m going to be 50 this year, and it feels a bit like a rite of passage. It will be time to draw the slanted line through the other four hash marks, and these five decades will stand together as a unit. The next decade starts a whole new set of hash marks, and only if I’m very lucky will I complete the set.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with it, no regrets and all that, and every day I breathe in the air of gratitude that I am here to even contemplate such things.

But I feel like this year, this well-rounded marker, means it’s time to clear away those old, clingy vines, time to pull up all the weeds, time to focus on standing with my face to the sun.

Mature growth. The bits of bark that have been weathered by time. The base of the tree that supports all the fresh, green leaves.

Old growth.

Yes, that’s it. Exactly.

Already, I feel new roots taking hold.

::

in living color.

::

::

If you could quit your day job and your quality of life
wouldn’t change, what would you do?

::

write.

grow.

blossom.

:::

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{reverb11} check it out here

::

reach

for the sky.

::

::

she had

good bone

structure.

::