that's mrs. mediocrity to you

It is only when I understand how much there is to learn that I am able to learn anything at all. A statement that may or may not prove to be true.

But lately, it just seems that the world is filled with craziness. Crazy weather, crazy tragedy, crazy politics. Some days it just makes me want to crawl back into bed and hide my head under the covers.

Which, of course, I don’t do, I am too busy to stay in bed and besides, I would get claustrophobic. Some days, I don’t watch or listen to the news at all. And I have mixed feelings about this. It definitely makes it easier to feel happy if I don’t hear about all the sad or crazy things going on, but then I feel guilty, like I am hiding out, taking the easy way out.

Except when I do listen, I usually end up feeling helpless, and sometimes even hopeless, and I don’t like feeling that way, either.

It probably all comes down to balance, staying aware but not driving myself crazy. But some days I just want to scream at this country to get their priorities straight.

Should we allow a very rich, supercilious celebrity to question the legitimacy of our President? We do. Should we continue to ignore the changing global climate and hope that it will just go away, or fix itself? We do. Should we keep fighting change, in our medical system, our fiscal structure, our energy policy, because we fear it? We do.

I don’t claim to have the answers. But I am starting to understand this: we need to stop letting crazy rule. The extreme ends of the spectrum keep getting all the attention, and the voice of the middle, the average jo, keeps getting drowned out.

I want to stand up and be counted.

Before it’s too late.

it finally happened. i caught up with myself.

and before you get too excited and start congratulating me, let me explain that i am not caught up, it’s just that I am so far behind that i turned the corner and ran smack dab into myself.

running in circles never gets you anywhere, does it?

and believe me, it wasn’t pretty. i look a mess, all disheveled and distracted and harried. and i’m not even going to mention my hair.

i keep trying to force myself to slow down, but there just isn’t anyplace to do it. right now, my life is a scramble. some of it is self-imposed, but when it comes right down to it, most of it is not. so i keep scrambling and scurrying and squeaking by.

but, oh my.

now that i’ve gotten a good look at myself from behind, i can see that some things just have to change.

i need to, um, pare things down a bit.

i’m not yet sure where to start, where the give and take will happen.

but this rubberband is about to snap me back into place.

here’s hoping i land on my feet.

from a distance

there is

beauty.

::

up close

this ability to soar

always remains

hidden.

::

One of my favorite songs of all time is Springsteen’s Candy’s Room.

“In Candy’s room, there are pictures of heroes on the wall.”

I sit here in my living room looking around me, and I see pictures of heroes everywhere. My children, my parents, my grandmother, my husband’s father whom I never met, pets from both past and present.

In a row of six, along one wall, there is my grandfather working on a tractor, his face hidden, probably completely unaware that his photo was being taken. And there, in another shot, he stands with his brother and an uncle or a cousin, and next, there is a woman that I don’t even know, just that she was someone’s wife or mother or sister, someone related or someone that knew someone related.

In those days, pictures did not come as easily as they do now, nothing quick or instant or easy. They were records, of time and people and life.

Hardworking people stand before me in these pictures, people who worked themselves to the bone and then some, just to survive. People who struggled through the Great Depression, the World Wars, poverty, hardship, strife.

This is where I come from.

No one famous, no one rich, no one that stood out in any crowd. Average people that lived average lives and made the best of it all, and could still manage to crack a smile for the camera. My grandfather, stricken with polio at a young age and permanently disabled, was one of the hardest working people I have ever known. I wonder what he was like when he was young, if he was ever carefree and silly, if he ever had time to sit in his backyard and ponder life.

Down further on this same wall is my drawing of our dog, Coby, the dog that made his way into my heart, a gift to my husband on his 40th birthday. And around the room are our children’s senior portraits, reminders of a time that seems like just yesterday and long ago all at once.

On the bookshelves, there is the old frau who befriended my husband as a young soldier in Germany, my grandmother in her nurse’s uniform, a woman who worked as a nurse to support nine children, mostly on her own. And my parents, whose smiles have been a constant in my life.

These are my heroes.

They’re all over the place, right here in my living room.

I am honored to stand among them.

I have a lot of somedays floating around in my head, I always have.

There is the house I will live in, the perfect weight I will be at, the marathon I will complete, the garden I will tend, the book I will write. The world will be at peace. Someday.

And though I remind myself, often, that someday never comes, that there is only just today, this day, the one I am in, those somedays always come creeping back in. I suppose it’s human nature, to dream, to look to the future, to wonder what it might hold.

But then I wonder how much of my life I am missing or wasting by spending time on someday when I could be, should be, spending it in this day, in this hour, in this moment.

I go back and forth between the two, trying to find the balance. Living in the moment is so much more difficult than it sounds. My body can do it, my physical self has no choice but to be where it is when it is there. But my mind, it wanders.

And yes, I can rein it in, pull it back, sit it down in this chair and say, listen.

But is that always the best thing to do? Aren’t those dreams just as important as the smell of the flowers in the vase before me? Aren’t the possibilities as valuable as the present? Most days, I can’t decide. I try to do both, appreciate where I am, while also contemplating where I might end up.

In a perfect zen moment I am only here, in the now, in the sun I sit in, the leaves I rake, the floor I sweep. When I have those moments, I revel in them, breathe them in, embrace their importance.

But my mind has its own set of wings and often takes flight before I can stop it. And when it soars high above me looking towards some other time and place, I have to wonder if it’s fair to keep it tethered to my ankle.

I don’t have the answer to which way is best. I know it’s important to enjoy what I have when I have it, where I am. I know this. I see beauty in the tiniest of places, in the green daffodil shoots there, at my feet, in the steaming cup of tea that starts my day, in that kitten cleaning his paws in the corner. I recognize the value of immersing myself in these things.

But then my mind will hear the echo of a promise and take off in search of the source.

Sometimes, I just sit back and let it wander.

My body can holds its place ’til it returns.

Someday.

we lose it like keys, knowing, always, that it must be here, somewhere, but we have a way of putting it down in strange places, mindlessly tossing it onto counters or in drawers, the bottom of a purse, the pocket of that jacket we hardly ever wear.

and we might not even know that we’ve lost it, its hiddenness will be hidden by our failure to notice that it’s missing. until there is something to lock or to start or to open, and then we search frantically for a long time and after that, not at all, thinking it will turn up, it has to be around here somewhere. we give up, a little.

and then suddenly one day, there it is. a whole bunch of perspective dangling from that little ring.

you jangle it in your hand, wanting to hear it to be certain, check the shapes to make sure it is your perspective and not someone else’s.

and of course, because you found it in such a ridiculous place, you feel foolish for ever having lost it at all. and so you make sure to hang it on the hook by your back door, right in plain sight which is where it is supposed to hang always except, of course, when you are using it. you chose that spot so you won’t forget, you walk by it a million times a day, it’s such an obvious place.

and then one day you go out for a run and you lock the door by mistake and now you know just exactly where those keys are but you cannot make any use of them because, once again, they are not where you need them to be at just the time that you need them.

but then as you sit there waiting, wondering, pondering whether it’s best to break a window and climb in or just hope that soon someone will come home and let you in, maybe even feeling sorry for yourself a little, you start to realize that it’s not the keys, themselves, that are all that important. it’s not the unlocking and the locking and the starting that matters, it’s that you have something to unlock and something to start and a hook on a wall to hang those keys on in the first place.

and then suddenly, you have a whole new set of keys, right there in your pocket, and a whole new row of doors to unlock.

and you realize how lucky and how blessed

and how alive you are.

I thought these were red-winged blackbirds, but they’re not. I thought winter would be over by now, but it’s not. I thought I would be finished with my Hemingway project by now, but I’m not.

I have made it to A Moveable Feast, which is actually one of my favorites. And I laughed out loud last night when I read this sentence: “In those days, though, the spring always came finally
but it was frightening that it had nearly failed.”

This from a book that was written before I was born, printed when I was two.  Some things really are universal, seemingly endless winters being one of them. I heard the other day that we have had 118 inches of snow this year. But it would take four more feet to break the record. Clearly, it could be worse.

And so life goes on, those birds will come, this winter will end, my brain fog will lift. I will stop whining (I promise) and things will be fine. Things are fine, I know that, really. I have little to complain about and much to be grateful for. I haven’t forgotten that, not completely, it is just something that keeps hiding in the dusty grey corners of my mind.

But with spring comes spring cleaning,that deep down get the cobwebs out and the sparkle on kind of cleaning, and I intend to apply this to my brain as well as my house. What’s good for one can’t hurt the other.

In the meantime, I’m planning on faking it, plastering a big giant smile on my face, even if I have to hold it on with tape. Because sometimes, when you fake something like a smile, you actually start to feel happy. It’s true, you should try it. Go ahead, giggle a little.

I’m going to find things to laugh about, play music I can dance to, skip around my house like a little girl. If anyone sees me they will think I’m crazy, but it’s just me and all these cats, and well, okay, I am a little crazy. Stir crazy at the very least.

And then I’m going to close my eyes and pretend there are flowers in my garden and crickets chirping beneath my window and warm breezes fluttering fingertips over my skin. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little pretending every now and then, right?

I just have to exercise my imagination a little, it’s been dormant for a while, it’s out of shape and a little logey (which I find to be the funniest of words). I might even imagine myself climbing that tree and tickling those birds who turned out to be starlings, or perhaps, since this is my imagination, I’ll  turn them into blue birds and goldfinches and even a hummingbird or two.

Okay let’s not get carried away.

Maybe just robins.

some moments in life change everything.

of course, the big ones do, first jobs, graduations, marriages, children, promotions, death. these moments are events, we expect them to take over, to change us, to get our attention.

but what about the small ones? the simple smile that opens your heart, or the first bud opening on the crab apple tree. what of the shimmer of moonlight through the curtains on the night you cannot sleep, or the sound of your husband’s snoring? what of the first sip of tea each morning, the one you have been taking so long it has almost become the same as breathing?

and what of the moments that pass by, unnoticed? the ones filled with repetitive motion?

there are the dishes i wash daily, again and again, and the bed that i make and this floor that i sweep. there is my hand passing back and forth as it sweeps the dust from a picture.

there is ritual in these tiny bits of life that make up the patterns of our days.

these are the things that keep us grounded, keep us grinding away. they may wear us down, but they keep us going.

creating order out of chaos is what keeps us sane. holding together the bits of our lives on our postage stamp of universe, giving us purpose, potential, comfort.

i am rich because i have a floor to sweep, a mirror to dust, a bed
to make.

this tea to drink.

and savor.

:

this post is part of prompt me at jillsy girl’s place.
click here for more my cup of tea entries.

look before you leap

or

dive right in?

Maybe it’s because I have a blog now, this journal that chronicles my days, and maybe it’s because I’ve been doing this for a full year, but I am beginning to see the patterns of my life, ups and downs, hills and valleys, joy and discontent. Things I don’t think I ever noticed before.

I suppose having a blog forces you to become the journalist of your life, reporting on the world as you see it. It has a way of placing you under a microscope, and you start to focus on all the details.

I see the way I do things, or don’t do them, I see that the basement that was a mess last year is a mess again, that my desk is always messy, that my studio collects things no matter how many times I clear it out. There is the chair in my bedroom that grows clothes, the stacks of books that migrate to different rooms, the bench in the kitchen that is always cluttered.

I see the things I do over and over again, every year, every season, every day. I see the hours as they pass by, but I also see the sum total of their passing. Some days add up to much more than others.

I see cycles of whining and complaining, stress and calm, being sick and being healthy. I see the joy at the beginning of each season that wears out its welcome just as the next one shows its face. I see myself noticing the subtle way sunlight shifts with each month as it falls across the yard… did I ever notice that before?

I see myself as in a book, and I thumb back and forth through the pages finding phrases and sentences again and again. Sometimes I like what I read, other times, I cringe. Sometimes I am surprised to find myself there. It’s like looking in the mirror.

So am I noticing these things because of this blog, or simply because I’m getting older? Or both…?

Mostly, I’m thinking it’s a good thing, that I am building some sort of manual for my life. Perhaps it will instruct me on how to fix the things that are broken, how to avoid making the same mistakes over and over again. Perhaps it will teach me a thing or two about myself and this world, and one day, I will find that all my bad habits have been broken, eradicated, overcome.

Okay, fine, we all know that’s not going to happen.

But perhaps as I write my way through another year, I’ll find a word or a sentence that alters the pattern, ever so slightly, so that next year I can look back and see myself wearing a different dress.

One that feels comfortable and makes me smile each time I put it on

to go out and chase those shadows through the garden.