.
here, there, and everywhere
stretched too thin
and running in circles
.
i may be here less
or, as often happens when i need a refuge,
i may be here more
.
i hope to be sitting
out there
as often as possible
.
listening
wondering
dreaming
.
there’s always
a pencil
in my pocket
.
.
.
.
i stood in the sun
and watched a storm
circle north
around me
pulling clouds in directions
impossible to follow
thunder rolled beneath my feet
as i stood
still
planted in a world
refusing to acknowledge
bolts of lightning
ripping through the grey blue steel
of sky’s lost eye
there was no rainbow
but off in the distance
rain reached down
in gauzy
worn-through sheets
someone else’s
dirty laundry
left hung out
to rinse
dry
and petrify
.
.
.
The tiny town I grew up in was home to a fairly large Veteran’s Hospital. We harbored these broken men, gave them nicknames and a wide berth when they passed us on the sidewalk, and, once, when I was 10 or 12, ran away in terror because one of them asked me and my best friend if we wanted to “see something,” and then proceeded to show us without waiting for an answer.
The cops were called and that’s all I know about what happened to the perpetrator.
The “patients” were a part of the fabric of our town, woven in with the rest of us, that All-American cloth worn ever-so-always proudly.
I don’t see those men very often these days, though the hospital is still there, still open, still serving those who have served. Most likely, the majority of them have since escaped the hell of their minds along with the traps of their bodies. Their stories got lost in the shuffle.
These days, we keep our wars more hidden. We take men and women to far off places and change them behind the scenes. They come home quietly if they come home at all, and we melt them back into society with a hush and some pills and a whisper.
We ask them to fit, neatly, back into a puzzle without any pieces.
We forget all the words that are simply too hard to recall.
We wear poppies and beer and barbecue sauce on an apron from yesterday’s pattern.
All this just to say: I remember.
I forget. Remember. Forget again.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
everywhere i go i pick up rocks
fist sized and pocket pretty
glitter bombed and sand scoured
mud coated and water polished
if you come to my house
you’ll find one in every corner
scattered on shelves
ringing the chimney
posing as tchocke and
serving as doorstop
lift the one at your feet and
you’ll feel the mountains
touch the three to your right
and you’ll wear the forest
graze the one on that shelf
and hear whispers of german
all the best ones are hidden
in places i’ve forgotten
the chunk of white granite
i found when i walked out
a dog-bone shaped fossil
holding place for a friend
the almost heart i dug up
from my always garden
hard bits of ancient life
compressed into monument
words and footprint
howls and monsoon
captured in cages
beyond the season
of deciduous silence
and decay
.
.
And February is always the longest month, no matter what the calendar says.
But this morning the sun is shining and the snow is sparkling and it’s hard to be mad at her, this second-month girl, as she flirts with dawn and begs to be scolded.
When there is nothing to be done, the path of least resistance is acceptance.
And so, I accept.
I’m about to don my winter gear to go out and rake snow off the roof in the one spot that will always leak after a snowstorm no matter how many times we have it repaired.
While I’m out there, I will feed the birds, because seriously, would you want to be a bird if this was your playground? I’m sure that by now, the tall grasses have been stripped of all their seed, the black-eyed susan’s little brown heads have been picked clean, and the berries on the holly bush are just a memory.
But the sun is shining.
From my window I can see bits of snow glittering from the tops of those tall grasses, like diamonds.
Everything out there is dressed in black and white or gray, so apparently, this party is a formal affair. I’m almost afraid to crash it in my barn coat and purple wellies.
But, after all, I am just the gardener, and Mother Nature is the queen.
She would hardly expect me to show up in a dress.
All the same, I suppose I’ll have to bow and curtsy and comment on the decorations.
And if I’m lucky, later, I’ll be invited to stay for dessert.
It’s snowing again and I have to get dressed up for a wedding, since, I suppose, pajamas would not be acceptable?
This week was a whirlwind of work, a week in which “normal” came back into my life with a vengeance, despite the fact that my body is not quite there yet.
But I am making progress, the same way that January is creeping across the calendar. One day at a time. Some days are warmer than others, some are calm, some are stormy.
Some days you have to wear a dress and high heels, and some days you get to stay in your jammies.
Either way, a smile is always the best accessory.
And some pretty lighting never hurts either.
I can’t stop reading. Yesterday I finished one book, read another in its entirety, and began a third. (I also did all my work and cooked dinner, in case you were wondering.)
But, back to reading. I’m sure I’m not good company for my husband these days, with my nose always stuck in a book, er, kindle… but I can’t help myself. It’s all I want to do right now.
Of course, some of it I blame on the weather. It’s too cold to go outside, and a fire is a requirement on nights like these. But still, there are things I need to be doing, like finishing the massive reorganization of all my Christmas decorations for one. And continuing with the painting of all the woodwork in the house that I started last October for another. Plus an entire list of other projects and accomplishment that need ticking off.
But I can’t stop reading.
I’ve become a chain-reader. I’m addicted. I’m helpless. Ha.
I even read a non-fiction book yesterday, and I almost never do that. Which I am almost embarrassed to admit, but hey, it’s the truth–I love fiction. And chocolate.
If words were food, I’d weigh a thousand pounds. And keep right on eating.
But words are calorie-free, and these days, they don’t even take up that much space. And I can begin another at the press of a button (which is part of the problem). And it’s January, the month meant for reading.
Right?
I’ll stop one day soon. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.
Or at least I’ll go back to my habit of an hour or so before bedtime.
Then again, my tree may still be up for Valentine’s Day. It has a heart, and lots of red, so that works, doesn’t it?
Doesn’t it?
Say yes.
Please.
I ended 2013 with a whimper. Quite literally.
The day after Christmas, I had my gallbladder out, ending a three-month period of trying to figure out the return of symptoms I first had nine years ago. Symptoms that, back then, I thought were the result of a problem with my kidney. Now I wonder if I had something going on with my gall bladder all along, and the kidney issue truly was an incidental finding. A lucky one anyway, as that problem truly had needed to be fixed, and sooner rather than later.
Then, on New year’s Eve, I went to the cupboard to get some champagne flutes, the special crystal ones my sister gave me almost 30 years ago, and on the way back across the room, I slipped on a dog bone and fell right on my behind, smashing all three glasses and cutting my right hand in five places in one fell swoop. (Fortunately, no stitches were necessary).
So perhaps I ended 2013 with a bit of a bang, after all.
Either way, it was a year I let go of gladly. Not that it was all bad, certainly it wasn’t. But I am ready to get on with life, to move forward, to heal and work and get busy again. Ready to stop worrying about my health and fighting a medical system that seems to get worse by the day. I yelled a lot in the last three month. I refused to sit by and wait. I refused to have tests and get sent to specialists that I believed had nothing to do with my symptoms. I fought for antibiotics and consultations. I was angry and bitter and frustrated and disgusted. And mostly, I was tired of being ill.
So I’m ready to let it all go, with the turning of a calendar page.
I’m ready to see what happens next in the book of my life, ready to write a new chapter.
It’s cold today, snowing and blowing in classic January-in-Western-New-York style. But I’m ready to get back to work.
And fortunately for me, I don’t even have to go out into that weather to do it.
I’ve already made the commute from my bedroom to studio (though of course, I’m still in my pajamas). I can drink as much tea as I like once again (though I’ll try not to get too carried away). I can get back to normal (at least my normal, which we all know is slightly off-center).
I’ll still be a klutz. I’ll still be 51 and getting older by the minute. I’ll still be a hermit who spends much of life in pajamas, working away in a tiny studio.
But I’ll be smiling, and that will make all the difference.
2013, I hardly knew ye. Yet you were mine, just the same.
I’ll remember you, always.
It seemed like a big year (it was definitely a big number). It seemed like something momentous should happen, something grand accomplished, some milestone achieved that would mark time’s passing in a less than usual way.
And it was, and it wasn’t. It did, and it didn’t.
In truth, it was another year very much like all the years before it, and for that, I am grateful. I didn’t achieve the goals I set for myself, although I did make progress towards them. And I am okay with that. Because the truth is, life happens. The truth is that today is one more day on my life calendar, and the truth is, this is the day that matters most. The one I’m in, right now.
I’m waiting for the results of more medical tests today, and hoping for good news.
I’m looking out the window of my studio just now and it’s a gorgeous winter wonderland, made even better by the fact that I don’t have to drive anywhere.
My son is already home for the holiday, and we had a nice evening together last night, just chatting and being together.
I am re-reading The Book Thief, because something told me it was just the right time to do so.
I’m looking at my snow-covered life and making snow angels in my mind. I’m rolling around in the ordinary magic that makes up this very ordinary day in a very ordinary year in a very ordinary life.
And trust me, I mean that in all the best possible of ways.
I’m reveling in the ordinary. This moment right now with the house so quiet and snow still falling and a cup of tea in my hands to warm them.
I’m going to make oatmeal for breakfast.
And savor the simple truth of this moment.
I’m going to say goodbye to 50 and hello to 51. I always have liked odd numbers best.
I’m going to give this new year a big hug and ask it to join me.
I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends.
