that's mrs. mediocrity to you

::

you stand there
in a dream
with all the right words
held up on cards like
Dylan’s Subterranean
Homesick Blues

::

and i smile
at the ones
you throw away

::

Last night, I stayed up until two a.m., reading. I had the remnants of a migraine, and though I know that seems counter-intuitive, one of the few things I can do when I have a migraine is read.

I went to buy groceries in the early evening, which was a bit of a struggle, but while I was there, I suddenly knew that I needed a book. One that I could read all in one night, one that would transport me.

And so, The Language of Flowers jumped right off the shelf in my direction, sounding right up my alley with its main theme of flowers and their Victorian-era meanings. And love.

And in the end, forgiveness.

I came home and arranged myself on the couch with a plate of fruit and cheese for dinner, and let myself be drawn into the story. My husband came home from golf and I said hello, but not much else.

I had, as my mom always used to say, my “nose in a book.” Really, it was usually more like, “Get your nose out of that book and set the table.” Sigh. Just one more page…

My husband turned a baseball game on, I never even looked up to see who was playing or ask who was winning, and a few minutes later, he was asleep in his chair. This is the way of things in our house, he gets up everyday at 2:30 a.m., so by 8:30, he is usually snoring.

I only moved to lower the volume on the game, choosing not to turn it off, it seemed just right as background music. And then a bit later, I stopped reading to let the dog out and smile at the fireflies dancing in the yard.

At midnight, I got myself ready for bed, with 100 pages left to go. And then it was time to decide if I would keep reading. I knew that if I continued on, I would read through to the end. I knew that I probably shouldn’t, that I had to get up early and get work done, that I’m not a teenager anymore, that summers can’t be spent as if I have nothing to do.

Harrumph.

At around 2:00 a.m., I finished the book. It made me cry.

I turned out the light and watched fireflies out the window for a bit.

And now this morning, of course, I am exhausted. But it was worth it. A good book is always worth it, and feeling, just for a night, that it is summer and I can stay up late and do whatever I want, even if that includes dancing with fireflies in my dreams…. that was just what I needed.

My life is changing this summer, as it does every season, but this year, it is different. I gave myself the gift of time, giving up our summer jewelry shows because I missed my garden, missed my reading, missed having time to notice the fireflies.

It was a hard decision, a risky decision, an “I’m not at all sure this is the right thing to do” decision. But last night, I was very, very sure.

Sometimes you have to give up the things that aren’t working.

Sometimes you have to pull the weeds that have crept into your life to make room for the flowers.

And sometimes, you have to stop everything and just sit for a moment, enjoying the view.

i don’t have to walk far
to get to perfect
and by this i mean
perfectly imperfect

because the other kind
(impossibly perfect)
exists only on paper
and in the smiles of children

and it is only
in the learning to admire
the imperfections
those tiny bits of life
with scratch and bruise

the rose half eaten
by a japanese beetle

the lines
on your face
that spell
time

the chip
in the polka dot bowl
you bought me

the tan lines
caused
by my
flip flops

the skin i settle into
a little further each year

that i can stand here
hands cupped
trying to hold
the fluidity
of life

and of course
(imperfectly)
it slips through
my fingers

drips

bits of hope
and sadness, tears
you caught with kisses
and a gallon or two
of little girl
giggles

and

i don’t even try
to catch them all

just
the three left
resting in my palm
like shiny
mercurial marbles

washed clean
on the shores
of today

.

.

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there’s a crack in the wall
just above the staircase
that returns no matter
how many times i

patch it up

fill

sand

repaint

a few months later
there it is
again

.

before
i moved here
some 26 years ago
this house was moved from
two roads over
rooms
uprooted
and balanced
on a flat bed truck

then hauled across fields of corn
and set down here
in this new spot
to grow
a new history
and
settle into
this land this view
this corner

but that crack

that scar

is always there
just to remind me

of the many
definitions

of

impermanence

.

.

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Perspective is a tricky player. And there are days when you are blinded by the hand you are dealt, full of jokers and and clubs and spades. Days when you can’t see past the black humor of life.

Days when the good hides in the bottom of the deck and the bad, that ugly jack, gets turned face up.

And you know it’s all a game, that soon it will be over and life will go on the way it always does and next time you play you will get a hand full of diamonds. Or hearts.

And you know that in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that bad anyway, everyone loses sometimes, everyone gets beat, or drops a card on the floor, or gets stuck playing 52 pick-up. My brother used to love pulling that one on me.

This has been a week like that.

A week that will pass whether I win or I lose, and some weeks, that’s just the way it goes.

I keep trying to focus on the good. I’m usually much better at that than I have been this week. This week that started out just fine and then turned into one small calamity after another. All small, all survivable, all just tiny blips on the big screen of life.

And now I’m mixing metaphors.

That’s okay, life is like that, too.

And I have this photo of this bird that came to visit me on Monday. And that was very, very good.

And every so often, if you stare at it for a long enough time, the ugly can start to look beautiful.

Any second now, I just know I’m going to draw the queen of hearts.

Come on, hit me.

is always the one
no one’s expecting
always tiny
and full of
…….other
…….possibilities
…….and the burden
…….of its own dead weight

…….i pretend my back
…….is stronger than
…….this mess you’ve left
…….in the kitchen

…….dirty dishes,
…….muddy tracks,
…….a trail
…….of crumbs

…….leading to
…….the places you’ve
…….always
…….kept secret

…….and i could follow
…….if i wanted
…….solve the puzzle
…….work my way up
…….to the big
…………reveal

…………but instead
…………i gather up sponge
…………and broom and
…………this tired old
…………dustpan

…………and whistle
…………as i work

…….and when
…….the job is finished
…………and my floor is
…………clean
…………but my hands
…………are dirty

…………then
……………..and only then

……………..i call your name

.

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The best thing I did this week was the run I didn’t have time for.

Some weeks are like that, so filled with work and responsibilities, that you forget to look up, enjoy life. You forget to breathe.

I did have a few hours with my husband and my windmills on Tuesday, and in many ways, THAT was the best part of the week, but then the next thing I knew, it was Friday afternoon and my body just started screaming at me: run. I haven’t been in several weeks, all this gardening has been tough on my knees, but I haven’t done that this week either and my knees were feeling fine. My carpal tunnel on the other hand… oh my. My body needed to move.

And so, despite the fact that it would mean working later on a Friday than I wanted to, I got my gear on and headed to the trail. Before I even started running, as I was walking for my warm-up, I spotted a pair of cedar waxwings just above my head, doing the sweetest little courtship dance. The were snuggling and chirping, bobbing and dancing, ruffling up the crests on their heads. Acting like love birds. And just like that, there was a big smile on my face.

It was a good run, 4.5 miles, which these days, for me, is quite a feat. The weather was just perfect, not too hot, clear and sunny, and I felt myself breathing again, taking in the green and the trees and sun. Feeling alive.

On my way back down the trail, as I was walking to cool off, a Baltimore oriole landed in a bush right next to me and started eating berries. Another bird I rarely see, and he stayed for several minutes, not at all concerned about my presence as he ate his fill.

It was the day of beautiful birds. And I was happy.

I went home and finished the work I had left to do, and finally, much later than I would have liked, made it outside to sit in the garden with a glass of wine and Ben Webster in the background. As I sat there with a purring kitten in my lap, exhausted and content, I spotted a dragonfly in the stones a few feet away.

At first I thought it was just resting, it fluttered its wings every so often, but after some time had passed and it didn’t move, I went to investigate. I saw no visible damage, and picked it up on a stick and placed it on a hydrangea bush with big, soft, green leaves, but clearly, the end was near. I sprinkled some water on the leaf it rested on, and knew that I was witnessing the death of a dragonfly.

A small death in the grand scheme of things, very small, really. And yet, I was filled with sadness.

So much in this life we take for granted. Some days, some weeks, just the simple fact that we are here, alive.

Just one tiny afternoon filled with tiny miracles and tiny tragedies.

And big, big lessons.

::

and live in this spot

with this view

with the man that drives me here

and stops for ten million photos

and thinks i’m a little bit crazy

but never says so out loud

::

instead,

he buys me dip-tops

::

.

.

(a dip-top is my favorite kind of ice cream cone, chocolate ice cream
dipped in chocolate coating, and hard to come by where we live)

This is my favorite tree. Actually, I think of it as my tree, though it is nowhere near to being mine, it being some 30 miles away and all.

Still, I have claimed it, at least in my heart. It stands in the middle of a farm field. I’ve always wondered how that comes to be, one lone tree left guarding all those seedlings, offering the best perch for miles around.

I’ve never gone to sit beneath this tree, though I would like to. I’m fairly certain the farmer wouldn’t appreciate me trampling his crop, and so I resist.

But I sit there in my mind, enjoying its shade and wondering how it came to have that finger pointing straight for the sky. Secretly, I’m glad I don’t know. Secretly, I know it means my tree is a survivor. It’s much larger than it appears to be in this picture, and I want to know the stories of the years that formed this anchored, ancient witness. Stories of hope and disaster, good years and bad years, floods and drought. I get the sense that if ever there was a tree that needed hugging, it is this tree.

I bet it remembers every Spring.

Scarred but not broken. Standing tall while bending with the wind. Rooted in one place as time marches on.

Yes, this is my tree.

I’ve got this quilt and this basket and this book, and if you squint a little, you can see me there, whiling away the afternoon.

i’ve never been in the ocean
oh, i’ve been to it, i’ve seen it,
marveled at the vast expanse of
nothingness that equals everything

but i’ve never dipped my toes.

chances are, i never will,
me being a fire sign and all
hot, hot, always burning myself out
before anyone can douse my flame

content to sit with the embers.

i’ve never been to the moon
either and i’m okay with that,
who wants to travel all that distance
and besides, i’m fairly certain

she looks better from afar.

i spend my days in my backyard
which makes me small and rather
boring, but i don’t need to swim (or
drown) in a salty vat of bitter sorrow

i’ve got this puddle at my feet,

this reflection that paints blue sky
as well as any maxfield parrish and
every so often a water bug stops by
to skim the surface, creating

ripples the size of tsunamis.

.

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