that's mrs. mediocrity to you

This past week was the first week-long vacation I have taken in the summer in years.

It felt like I would never get everything done in time to get there, to “time-off,” to the choice of doing nothing and everything.

But I made it, and there it was, a week spread out before me waiting to be filled with family and laughter and gypsy living.

And free time.

Which of course, is never really free. But there is something to be said for having no agenda, for simply rolling along with the hours, come what may.

Reading in the shade of tall, tall pines for most of an afternoon. Morning tea before a campfire. Using the moon as your night light.

Filling time with less than instead of too much.

While I was away, this tiny cucumber grew large enough to be harvested. Life went on without me here to watch its progress.

Just like always.

I haven’t picked it yet, but I still have two days to bask alongside it in the glow of the sun.

Most likely, I will spend them with a book in hand.

And lazy, leisurely dinners filled with the fruits of my labor.

It’s always, always, good to be home.

in a forest

of susans

sipping nectar

at dusk

and dancing

in the memory

of moonlight’s

shadow

.

of course,

you’re

invited

.

when what i want
is the chaos of doubt

and you

you hide behind
that smokescreen
of birdsong
and pretty sky

where blue
is the color
of everything

but purple

is my favorite

and

three
small planes
crisscross clouds
like geese heading
to triumvirate ponds

while two
grasshoppers vie
for one green leaf

and black eyed susans
force canned laughter
onto the stage

but

the catbird

its very name
an oxymoron

perches high

and watches
a storm roll in

grey squared
in one blind

eye

::

contains the sky

::

This morning the world is fresh and green and sparkling in the way that only comes after an all-night rain. I can practically hear the flowers and trees sighing in relief. The birds are singing extra loudly, the colors all look more vibrant, the breeze is especially soft.

I sat outside last evening and watched the clouds fill the sky. They did not come rolling in, these clouds, but rather they crept, inch by inch, slowly, quietly, and without anger.

I sat and listened to the stillness, a sleeping cat in the chair next to me, a notebook in my lap, and there was nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, no one needing my attention.

The golden hour, when daylight shifts and shadows lengthen.

Another day ending, another night beginning, life cycling its way through the hours that always refuse to be counted. Tallied up by things accomplished, things to be done, lists and goals and wants and needs and never enough.

Except, it was enough. In that hour, there was an eternity.

I watched a grey lace curtain draw itself across the sun. I watched those shadows pale and disappear. Chiaroscuro became blur and faded into dusk.

I watched everything, and nothing.

A green heron flapped its wings through my line of sight, silently heading back to its nest for the night.

A dragonfly landed on the table near my arm.

Two grasshoppers spun past in a mysterious dance.

Barn swallows swooped through the air like bats.

Everything. Nothing.

Everything.

The shape of time.

but there are birds and streaky clouds

(cirrus, i suppose, they look like streaks to me)

butterflies that flutter

and this robin singing for his supper

soft white flowers to become purple berries

food for bluebird, mockingbird and jay

bees and bees and bees

and grasshoppers by the dozen

(if you listen carefully, you can hear them munch)

roses always vying for the center of attention

a lazy cat sleeping in the best patch of sun

a swallow peeping as he swirls and twirls

no, there are no words

only life.

but what if the rains never come
she said

and of course, i had no answer

wanting to say
i promise

but instead
changed the subject
to ice cream
and good books

as the hard scorched earth
burned up through
the soles of my flip-flops

tomato plants wilted

we talked of dinner
and sucked on ice cubes
from empty glasses
of lemonade

and there was not one cloud
in the sky

On Monday, my daughter was driving home from our camp and found a kitten on the side of the road. A tiny kitten. An injured kitten, one leg splayed off at an oh-so-wrong angle. A scared kitten.

She called to ask for advice, and I told her to go to all the nearby houses to see if it belonged to anyone, and if not, to bring it here.

Mind you, I have five cats. Mind you, I can’t afford another one. But still, it was the right thing to do.

She brought it home and I made some calls, and was advised to take it to the Humane Society, where most likely, it would be euthanized.

It was a very young black kitten, long-haired, with a face like a cute little bat. I almost took a picture, but then decided not to. I tried not to look at its sweet little face as we drove to the shelter. I tried to think about how we were doing what was best for everyone involved, I tried to think that maybe they would fix it, save it, put it up for adoption.

In truth, I don’t know what they ended up doing. And, in truth, I don’t want to know. I want to leave the possibility open that it survived. In truth, I wish I had taken it to the vet and paid a giant bill that I can’t afford and brought it home to become one step crazier on the crazy cat lady scale.

Oh, I know, I did the best I could. But I can’t stop thinking about that little face, so vulnerable, so sweet, so small. I can’t help wishing I had been able to save one more tiny kitten, or for that matter, the world.

Yesterday, I came across this quote by May Sarton: “The hardest thing we are asked to do in this world is to remain aware of suffering, suffering about which we can do nothing.”

Of course, I know this is about far more than tiny kittens. So much of the world needs saving. So much of the world cannot be saved.

But why is it that doing what seems like the right thing feels oh-so-wrong?

How is it that the person that actually hit the cat was able to just keep on going, and I can’t stop thinking about the poor little thing? I can’t stop seeing that little bat face.

Perhaps it is simply too much a reminder of the fragility of life. Perhaps I am projecting some inner sense of vulnerability. Or the kitten was just a dark, fuzzy metaphor for all the things I want to save in this world, but cannot. Perhaps I just have a soft spot for kittens.

Or, perhaps, I am just plain crazy.

Either way, sometimes the world is a cold, hard place. More than likely, I should leave the word sometimes out of that sentence.

I have to put that knowledge in my back pocket for a while and walk around with it.

I don’t know what else to do with it just yet.

.

.

.

From the book by Gabriel García Márquez

::

whispering promises
that always come true
because if nothing else,
we’re always changing

and i stand in the
star-shaped shadow
of everything you’ve
ever given me

trust and hope
filtering down through
to my roots

blushing pink
and smiling
at the sky

::

“For the joys a garden brings are already going as they come.” ~ May Sarton

that keeps you
pokes and prods
pricks and feeds
from the marrow
of your soul

blood and toil
aren’t that hard
to come by

we know this

there’s always
someone willing
to work for less

more to come
hurry up and wait

tread that mill
like you mean it

mean it

fill the empty spaces
places
faces

with
traces

of heart

that will later

be erased

.

.

.

Linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets for Open Link Night, join us!