that's mrs. mediocrity to you

I use a birds-tweeting sound on my phone as an alarm clock, and this morning, twice, the robins outside sang me awake well before the time it was set to go off. Both times, I tried to press the snooze button and both times, it made me laugh.

I’m learning to laugh at myself more often these days.

On Thursday, I left to go to the grocery store while my husband was mowing the lawn, and locked him out of the house.

I am lacking focus. Or concentration. Or both.

I am trying too accomplish too much in too little time, and the older I get, the harder it is to juggle. I used to be better at keeping all those balls in the air, spinning and dancing and turning around to catch each one at just the right time. These days, every so often, I miss completely and drop one.

What you learn, as you get older, is that you have to adjust. You have to slow down a little. You have to let your body and your brain rest sometimes. You have to, as they say, stop to smell the flowers.

It’s a new month, my favorite month, really, and I think I need to carve out some time to just sit with the sun and a book and nothing else. There is still so much to do, still so much to accomplish, but the hummingbirds have come home, the butterflies have arrived, and the robins will tell me when to get out of bed.

And when it comes right down to it, that’s all I need.

I just love my garden. It’s a lot of work, but the kind of work that is so worth all the effort.

In the spring and summer, it’s my part-time job, and for the weeks that fall between Memorial Day and Father’s Day, it could easily be a full-time position. Early June is when it all looks best, peonies, allium, geranium, lupines, roses, columbine, forget-me-nots and bachelor’s button all in full bloom. The view out my studio window is filled with flowers. And green that goes on forever.

We live in a tiny house with a big garden. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. From now until November, I will be outside as often as I can.

But even working isn’t so bad when I can sit here with this window open, listening to the birds, smelling the flowers, watching the sun crawl its way across the sky. I feel blessed, and grateful.

Tending this garden never ends. But neither does the joy it brings me. (Well, okay, except for the sore back.) I’ve learned so much about life out there with my hands in the dirt, lessons I don’t think I would have learned any other way. And there is always something new to see.

Just now, my eyes are wide open.

Waiting until the right moment to open, the right day to bloom, the right time to stand tall.

Then again, we don’t always get to choose, do we?

Sometimes, it all happens when we least expect it, the sun comes out, temperatures rise, flowers burst into blossom, petals age and wither.

And then the cycle begins again.

Tulips, like most other bulbs, can be forced. Give them a rest, a false winter, time and cold and then warmth and light, and they will believe their time has come.

This isn’t a bad thing, this is why I can have tulips in a vase on my kitchen table all winter long.

But tulips in the garden have to fight for their own survival, time it all just right, and hope that Mother Nature gives them a break.

They have to have the patience and the perseverance and the luck to make it through.

But then, when it happens, look how gorgeous.

We’ve had plenty of birds come down our chimney over the years, sparrows and starlings, mourning doves and mockingbirds, and once, a squirrel.

Rescuing the squirrel was a challenge, but with the help of my dad and a craftily formed cardboard and plastic tunnel, he eventually made his way outside. For the birds, I’ve developed a system that almost always goes off without a hitch, closing all the doors to all the rooms, (with the cats behind one of them) and opening the front door which is about 15 feet away from the fireplace. Then, I open the fireplace and wait. Almost always, after a few moments, the bird will fly directly out the open door.

When I woke up this morning, all three cats were sitting in front of the fireplace looking in, so I knew something was up. A few minutes later I heard the tell-tale scratching and saw a bird hopping around inside, but I thought it was a sparrow. It wasn’t until he flew out (in the wrong direction) and landed in the kitchen that I saw what kind of bird it was.

It’s not every day that you have a bluebird in your kitchen, and so, since my camera was handy and he seemed okay, I took a moment to snap his picture. I felt a little guilty, but who could resist?

What followed was a comical dance of him flying from window to window, (never quite figuring out which one was open), with me trying to scoot him towards the right one, both of us flapping and squawking, until finally I was able to trap him in a glass hurricane and lift him to the right spot.

And away he went.

He flew over and landed near the nest box and sang for mama bluebird, who eventually showed up. I’m fairly certain that their eggs are already damaged, the nest has definitely been tampered with, so I don’t think we will have babies this year. And this makes me sad.

But, I had a bluebird in my kitchen, and that made me smile.

Ordinary magic of the very best kind.

You gotta love life.

For as long as I have lived in my house, some 26 years now, this has been my view. Some years it is corn, others wheat, but always this old, broken down shed with its very own sentinel of tree. I have watched thousands of sunsets through this silhouette.

Until yesterday.

I was away all morning, and when I returned, both tree and shed were gone. I’m guessing that the farmer who owns the field needs the space to boost his crop, last year we had a terrible drought, and I know it was rough for him. I can’t blame him for doing what needs to be done.

But there was always something about that shed that spoke of days gone by, and that one lone tree in a field full of corn was always the first thing I could see coming up the hill, guiding me home.

Once again, and without warning, my view of the world has changed. And while I know that change is the only thing we can really count on, I will miss the comfort of this familiar sight.

I’m getting the feeling that 2013 is going to be filled with surprises. So I’m going to buckle my seatbelt and settle in for the ride, and see where it takes me.

Because you can’t fight change and the world keeps turning and the sinking sun will still be beautiful.

And I have lots of photos to remind me of the way things used to be.

Every so often, I will walk to end of the driveway with one in my hand and hold it up for just a moment, remembering.

And then I’ll go back inside and catch up to life, before it goes zooming by.

the sun is shining but
it’s far too windy
for the bluebird
to work on his nest

he sings with frustration
and i watch, helpless
for i know a storm is coming

(someone else said so)

i know that peace
is always temporary
and the wind
will blow me clean

(there is always a storm coming)

and there is always a bird
building a nest
who does not mind

i know, too, that the birdhouse
is cracked

(i don’t mention this)

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A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

ego is a fragile toy
and i’ve been thinking a lot about death lately

at first glance, these two things
might seem to be unrelated

but they are partners i tell you
(and don’t run away because i’ve mentioned their names)

you will dance with them both
one night

and i am never good at answers
but i do know this:

you get to write the music

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A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

i broke my arm when i was eleven
getting out of the bathtub (don’t laugh)
where i’d been reading
for hours i’m sure
and knowing me, i probably still had
my nose in my book when i stepped out
and caught my foot on the edge of the

faucet

went down hard and hit my upper arm
against the corner of a cabinet
cracking my humerus (it wasn’t funny)
and yeah, it hurt like hell
but nothing looked broken and
i was always falling
tripping, running into walls clumsy
my middle name

three days later i still hadn’t
seen a doctor
no one at fault i just didn’t act
the way a girl with a broken
arm would
and anyway pain is always a guessing

game

but eventually, my mom suspecting
an x-ray was ordered
and i remember
being just a little bit silently glad
because there would be
six weeks of no chores for me
(stupid dishes)
and i had a stack of books to

read

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A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

Also linking up with the fabulous dVerse poets with anecdotes for Poetics, join us!

every day starts the same
a twenty seven step shuffle
to the stove and a kettle
that will whistle me awake
before i burn the house down
and you can count my silence
in teabags and empty spoons
adding up the dreams i try to bury
before i pull my heart
from one last cup
and drag light into corners
with this pencil

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A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

at this time last year,
no, a week earlier,
this was my garden.
.
this year is different
and that is as it should be.
.
so i’ve swallowed my impatience
and it’s saturday
and there is sunshine and
pierogies to be made.
.
really, all i had to say was:
there is sunshine.
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