that's mrs. mediocrity to you

I stand in my driveway, shivering, camera in hand, trying to capture ever-elusive birds. This is not at all the photo I was trying to record, wings too fast for my cold fingers, but there it is: morning.

I was not standing here to see the sun rise with all its pretty promises, not here to watch midnight blue change to purple and pink, and yet somehow, my camera found its way to dawn just the same.

The most beautiful things are always the ones that find you first, and all you really have to do is be there.

Morning is becoming my favorite time of day. For me, this is a huge shift, having always been a night owl, staying up well past the time that makes sense, always having a hard time letting go of another day. And even now, my bedtime is midnight, I like to be there to watch another day slip through the keyhole and become tomorrow. Which of course, in that split second, becomes today.

A clean slate to dream on, a beginning that is tangled up in the bedsheets of an end. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, all just words that melt together in the space between 12:00 and 12:00:01.

Blink, and a new day is born.

And by sunrise, the hunger sets in, the possibility, the curiosity.

The promise of anything that is everything.

Perhaps it is possible to be a night owl and a morning person all at the same time.

Perhaps I am a midnight to noon person.

There’s a moon in there, somewhere.

Whispering.

::

Take today to jot down five memories that
you would like to never forget about 2011

::

one.

two days after george died, i walked outside looking for his naughty kitten brother, late, in the dark. i picked a pink flower from the cosmo plant standing tall in the night and made my way down the driveway to the spot where we found him. i found it easily, although i could see nothing. the stone we placed as his marker somehow reflected just enough light to guide me to it. i stood there, crying in the black warmth that is a july night and bent down to place a single bloom on the darkest spot, the stain of his blood. i stood there and let the breeze play over my bare legs, listening.  holding my breath. hoping. of course, he was not there, and i do not believe in ghosts. when i turned to go back inside, there were fireflies everywhere, dancing in the darkness like stars.

two.

i ran the uphill half of my path and it was a good run, i felt strong and sated, alive and oh so happy to be running again. it was a warm day, warmer than it should have been in autumn, but those have always been my favorite running conditions, and this day was almost perfect. no one else was on the path, it was me and the trees and the sun and the rhythmic sound of my own breath filled my head with a meditative calm. dappled shade, bright light, dappled shade, the pattern of my steps, the counting off of miles, the sweat that glistened as it washed away the stress. when i stopped to cool down and walk the last half mile, i heard a bird call that i recognized somewhere in the recesses of my mind, but at first, could not exactly place. And then i saw one, and then another, and then a flock. cedar waxwings, perched on branches like so many leaves. i kept walking quietly, smiling loudly.

three.

an august afternoon in which i played hooky, sneaking out to sit in the sun with a book and a glass of wine, a journal and a pencil, words flying off my fingers like sparks. then sitting quietly, the sun on my face, birds chirping in the background, red-winged blackbirds especially, complaining of my presence. hot, hot sun, flowers everywhere, bugs and beetles and dragonflies buzzing all around, bare feet and the trickle of sweat. time hung in the air with nowhere to go, no place to be but there, in that moment, absorbing light and sound and heat and just a tiny bit of memory from carefree childhood summers.

four.

a winter that would not end, hibernation becoming stir-crazy, cabin fever becoming nothing but the desire to feel the sun upon my skin. darkness that became too dark, all promises of light, broken. snow that piled on top of snow, no longer pretty and glittery and wondrous, just heavy and grey. grey on grey on grey. endless days of grey. days that turned to weeks and then months. the lack of contrast is what drives you mad.

five.

an almost invisible shift in the night. hours spent with eyes wide open, the moon rap-tapping on dirty panes, a signal to the loneliness that is driven by insomnia. sighs and repositioning, sighs and thoughts of getting out of bed to do something, anything, at least write. imaginary whispers that say nothing, but keep me straining to hear. words that walk their way down empty hallways, peeking through keyholes, checking for just the right fit. this room is filled with sounds of love. this room is filled with heartbeats and the echoes of sobs. this room has stories of its own to tell. this room is more awake than i am.

::

:

{reverb11} check it out here {resound11} check it out here

::

What scared you this year more than anything else?
Did you learn anything new about yourself?

::

loss.

::

of youth.

of life.

of running.

of comfort.

::

it’s a

good thing

i had hope

to balance

it out.

::

:

:

{reverb11} check it out here

::

What are 12 things your life doesn’t need in 2012?
How are you making out on your 11 things from last year?

::

all i really need to do is add one word to last year’s list.

::

i can pick at least eleven twelve things
the whole world could do without:

war. poverty. hunger.

intolerance. abuse. disease.

hatred. cruelty. disaster.

violence. indifference.

inertia.

::

after that,

all the things i don’t need,

well, they’re just

things.

::

still.

::

:

:

{reverb11} check it out here

A lazy day in bed while the sun tickles over my toes.

Five good books and time enough to read them.

A week of perfect temperature sunny days
with nothing to do but garden.

Peace. For me and the world.

A world where doing the right thing is more important
than doing the easy thing.

Enough food for everyone that is hungry.

A house that magically cleans itself every time it gets dirty.

For the moon to hang in that same spot
above Jupiter for just a while longer.

A body that stays in healthy shape.

A world where we all look out for the children.

A life in which hope is not an outdated word.

A world that is kind to animals.

A night outside to sleep beneath a deep blue blanket of stars.

All the people I love, together in one room.

Great wine paired with great conversation.
And dark chocolate.

More kindness. More tolerance. More compassion.

Less illness, both physical and mental.

Responsibility. From everyone, for their actions.

For all the magic and wonder and possibility
that is life to be appreciated.

To be able to appreciate.

::

It’s too much to ask, I know.

All of it.

But I want it just the same.

we lose it like keys, knowing, always, that it must be here, somewhere, but we have a way of putting it down in strange places, mindlessly tossing it onto counters or in drawers, the bottom of a purse, the pocket of that jacket we hardly ever wear.

and we might not even know that we’ve lost it, its hiddenness will be hidden by our failure to notice that it’s missing. until there is something to lock or to start or to open, and then we search frantically for a long time and after that, not at all, thinking it will turn up, it has to be around here somewhere. we give up, a little.

and then suddenly one day, there it is. a whole bunch of perspective dangling from that little ring.

you jangle it in your hand, wanting to hear it to be certain, check the shapes to make sure it is your perspective and not someone else’s.

and of course, because you found it in such a ridiculous place, you feel foolish for ever having lost it at all. and so you make sure to hang it on the hook by your back door, right in plain sight which is where it is supposed to hang always except, of course, when you are using it. you chose that spot so you won’t forget, you walk by it a million times a day, it’s such an obvious place.

and then one day you go out for a run and you lock the door by mistake and now you know just exactly where those keys are but you cannot make any use of them because, once again, they are not where you need them to be at just the time that you need them.

but then as you sit there waiting, wondering, pondering whether it’s best to break a window and climb in or just hope that soon someone will come home and let you in, maybe even feeling sorry for yourself a little, you start to realize that it’s not the keys, themselves, that are all that important. it’s not the unlocking and the locking and the starting that matters, it’s that you have something to unlock and something to start and a hook on a wall to hang those keys on in the first place.

and then suddenly, you have a whole new set of keys, right there in your pocket, and a whole new row of doors to unlock.

and you realize how lucky and how blessed

and how alive you are.

a clock that ticks in my ear, mocking.

a bell that echoes down an empty hall.

a mirror that stands propped against a curtain.

a velvet dress that has yet to be worn.

:

a smile on a face that dreams of silence.

a bird that sings to the almost dawn.

a wind that howls though no one listens.

a tear that falls from an eye, half-open.

:

and this moon that taps on my window.

beckoning,

or seeking warmth.

Okay, so clearly, I am in a rut.

And if I keep walking in it, I will only make it deeper.

I need to gather myself and jump up and out, up over that edge I can barely reach.

The thing is, I’m very clumsy and I’m probably going to slide back in, several times.

So I keep waiting. First I say I will try it after I do this thing, and then I think I will wait and do it after that thing, or when I am here, or after I’m done with this.

This is how the days keep getting past me.

See? I’m actually starting to figure a couple of things out. I have to stop waiting. For anything. Waiting just adds to the problem. I need to be climbing, scrambling, building a ladder, planting trees, or digging steps in the sides of this cave.

Something.

And I need to look up. I keep forgetting that part. Well, hey, it’s slippery in winter, you need to watch where you are going so you don’t fall down.

But what if I do fall down?

Is that the question?

Lately I am having the hardest time buckling down, getting things done, accomplishing anything. I blame it on the weather, but it’s a lame excuse. And then I start to wonder why I need to blame it on anything at all, is it a flaw, this lack of drive, or is it just a temporary state, a time to refill and recharge and allow whatever happens, or does not happen, to be?

In fact, I gave myself permission to do just this, to do whatever I wanted in January, or not, as I so desired. Of course there is work, and that is not optional, but beyond that, I told myself it would be okay if I did nothing, at least for this one month.

And here I am feeling guilty about it, constantly feeling like I should be doing this thing or that thing, or accomplishing something, or getting this, this and this ready for the year ahead. Silly me.

Or crazy, workaholic me, whichever comes first, and these days, I’m just not sure.

I gave myself permission and that was not enough. I planned for this break, and now I second-guess myself. Every evening, I walk around in circles trying to choose what to do, when all I really want to do is read.

So much for balance.

I am completely off-kilter and it’s only the middle of January. I have forgotten how to relax, and now I am stuck in this limbo between running around like crazy and enjoying some down time, not really doing either one. And so, not reaping the benefits of either.

I keep thinking I must be doing something wrong. I know my life is good, I do. I just need to figure out a way to make the days less of a jumble. Is that even possible? It looks like other people do it, but I have never figured out the secret.

I don’t have an organized brain. I accept this about myself. I work around it, but I always end up back in the same chaotic place. I think it’s who I am. Are creative and organized mutually exclusive? Maybe, I have no way of knowing.

Or maybe I just wasn’t meant to be buckled down. But we’re all buckled down to this life in one way or another, aren’t we? Even Peter Pan had to have his shadow sewn back onto his foot.

Still, my mind keeps rebelling and flying off to other places, declining to go where I direct it, refusing to stay where I set it down.

How does that saying go, “If you love something, set it free?”

I’m thinking it might just be time to give that one a try…

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

Shadows play on the walls of my living room as I sit here, tired after spending the day painting one small section of my house, autumn’s golden light playing games with me, telling me I also need to trim the rose bush that has grown across the window.

i know, i know.

Life is very needy just now, whining and begging for this and for that, most of all for my attention. Attention that I had placed elsewhere, here, perhaps, or in my heart, attention that I don’t have to give to house cleaning and house painting and trimming bushes and the multitude of other chores that appear while I’m not looking.

i know, i know.

I’ve gotten better at ignoring the needy parts of life, better at focusing my tunnel vision on the spot I want to live in. But sometimes you just have to stop and tend the things that need tending. Mend the things that need mending. Sometimes, even though there is just way too much to do, it all still needs to get done.

i know, i know.

Sleep does not come easily these days, crazy dreams, bad ones, violent ones, insane couldn’t possibly be happening ones. For a while, I blamed the cold medicine for that, and for the insomnia, lying there until one a.m., two a.m., three. The sleep, when it does come, just as my husband gets up to start his day, is filled with images and motion and offers no solace, no rest, no reprieve.

i know, i know.

When i get up in the morning, I look at sunlight and rain with exactly the same expression. When I move through the first hour of the afternoon, my thoughts lie like ripples on the surface of the evening. I see them there, proof of some liquid sentience, but I cannot pick them up, use them for anything, they slip through my fingers. When I go to bed at night I fill my pillows with decisions.

i know, i know.

I sound like a broken record these days, this too-busy time with its long to-do list dancing through my days like these shadows on the wall, not here for long, nothing to worry about, really. Just something to distract me from everything I’m doing.

i know, i know.