that's mrs. mediocrity to you

light on dark, old on new, shiny on dull. we’re married to the magic of remembrance, made bold by possibility, held aloft on a nail in the wall of existence.

a new calendar cracks open, full of empty days, blank spaces, blocks of time.

i want to leave it, the entire book, unmarred.

i know i won’t. i know there will be appointments to schedule, birthdays to remember, plans to be reminded of, just as i know i’ll forget to look sometimes, when i get caught up in the vortex of living.

it’s winter again, it’s new years again, it’s thursday again. we march like soldiers through a forest of seasons and wish to be the one in command.

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i bought a new small frying pan in december, to replace the old one i’d burned peppers in one too many times. but i don’t use it much. the old cast iron one discarded by my 89-year-old friend as she moved from home to apartment sits on my stove now, always at the ready. it turns my eggs just a little dark, but i love flavor of the stories it adds to my food.

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i don’t have a word or a resolution or even an intention pointing my way on 2016’s compass. i have this pan made of borrowed promises, i have these same four walls to hold me in, i have this sky that is forever creeping in my window.

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i have everything i need.

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The bows get harder to tie each year, wrapping life up into neat little packages is a gift of the young. But no matter, the new year comes just the same, wrapped or not, prettied up or painted over, parceled out or held close in hidden pockets.

We like our second chances, though. New year, new month, new week, new day. The chance to begin again, be better, live more, love more, give more.

We bring our scars and broken bits to the party, and after a while, no one notices. Because what matters is that we are there, standing testament to each other’s existence. My paint is peeling and your paper is torn. My corners are crooked and your ribbon is creased. Packaging, no matter how perfect or pretty, ruined or wrinkled, is not what we offer.

The gift is always inside.

And the bits that poke through, refusing to fit neatly into boxes or hide beneath brightly colored paper, those are always the very best parts.

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Here’s to another year of gifts and smiles, tears and scars, sunshine and puddles.

Here’s to you and to me and to us.

All of us.

Here’s to being here.

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xoxo

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and trying to keep it that way

in the midst of memory

and detritus

reaching

always reaching

for illumination

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and all the other places
i’ve never been

never seen
never learned
to love the light of

that’s bad grammar
i know
but i’m talking about life
and loss and nevers

and there are no rules
no platitudes
no built-in panaceas
to make my knees
stop creaking
or my hands
look any less
gnarled

don’t get me wrong

i wear my wrinkles
like jewelry
cherished accessories
of sentimental
value

and i smile
when i drive and they remind me
i’ve forgotten to apply
lotion

again

dry skin cracking

me up

and five times a day
i get surprised
by my own reflection

remembering i’ve aged
only when i see proof
or try to get out of bed

time
hides in patterns
paisley pretty and
just as intricate
as the web
i’ve spun
into my
crinkle crackle
carapace

but my shadow
retains the shape
of youth

or at least
remains smooth
and unmarked

by the scars
of regret

and i sip
slowly
from the cup
of forgiveness

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backlit by storm
and the magic of timing

there is never a moment of silence
something somewhere
is always rumbling

and i learn to take peace
in the pauses

there is never a pillow
of sweet dreams
everafter

but rather

this reality
of storm and sunshine

creeping in
on stealthy paws

and we sit
together

stare each other
down

from the comfortable
distance

between us

.

.

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and freshly fallen rain

passing through on its way
to far-off places

leaving sparkling bits of fractured light
and splashed up drops
of holy water

to reflect a laundered sky
gone back to blue

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A sun-filled birdsong morning, windows open and purple flowers, light filtering into every shadow. June is such a busy-bee month, I have to remind myself to stop and smell the roses, literally. My first cup of tea in the garden at dawn is my meditation, my morning pages, my daily gratitude. I drink it down and always, wish for another.

I find myself in getting-stuff-done mode, as if finally my body and my mind have both come to life after winter’s lack of ambition. I am like a plant, a tree, a flower. I need the sun on my skin and the birds to sing me awake in order to grow.

I reach for the sky and it’s there, right there, at the tips of my fingers, day and night.

And it’s enough.

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in the style

of me

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My back door opens onto a little sort-of-sunken alcove (which is a bad thing when it rains a lot) and in spring it’s my favorite place to sit with my first cup of tea and watch the golden light wake up the flowers. This is my view this morning, daffodils and euphorbia and sunshine bright enough to be blinding. The birds are singing out in a concert of joy, and it’s hard to believe that just over a month ago, this very spot I’m looking at was buried beneath a five-foot mound of snow.

These are the days when it’s hardest to stay inside and work, my garden teasing me with new green, fresh promise, and the relief of sun on my skin. But there is work to be done, and that is life. Naughty kitten keeps coming to my window, asking me to come out and play, and I laugh and tell him no, even as I wish I could be him.

Already, I feel behind in my garden. Mother Nature always runs faster than I can and there is never a day when I don’t see ten things that need to be done. But no matter. The windows are open, the robins are busy, and the daffodils nod hello each time I walk by.

Good morning, I say. To all of it. The distractions and the worries and the work and all the broken bits of life that need fixing.

Good morning, here we are again.

It’s a beautiful thing.

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listen

to the mockingbird

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