that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Because it felt like the right tree at the time. But then, one day, you find out that it wasn’t, that you were supposed to be barking up an entirely different tree, the one with the cat really stuck high up there in the branches.

And that changes everything.

So you look around, find another tree. A tree that definitely has a cat in it. And you bark and you bark and you bark, and still, nothing happens.

You change your strategy.

First you stop barking and just stare. Then you pretend to look away, at other things. Later, you sit, glancing up every so often to make certain the cat is still there. Later still, you lie down, fall asleep, forget to watch for the cat at all.

Or maybe you don’t forget, but instead, you multi-task. You keep one eye open, just a crack, in case the cat makes a break for it. But then you don’t get any good sleep and that makes you cranky.
Plus, you’re getting hungry. Really hungry.

And that makes you stand up and start barking all over again.

It’s an endless, vicious cycle.

The cat, of course,

just smiles.

Lately I am having the hardest time buckling down, getting things done, accomplishing anything. I blame it on the weather, but it’s a lame excuse. And then I start to wonder why I need to blame it on anything at all, is it a flaw, this lack of drive, or is it just a temporary state, a time to refill and recharge and allow whatever happens, or does not happen, to be?

In fact, I gave myself permission to do just this, to do whatever I wanted in January, or not, as I so desired. Of course there is work, and that is not optional, but beyond that, I told myself it would be okay if I did nothing, at least for this one month.

And here I am feeling guilty about it, constantly feeling like I should be doing this thing or that thing, or accomplishing something, or getting this, this and this ready for the year ahead. Silly me.

Or crazy, workaholic me, whichever comes first, and these days, I’m just not sure.

I gave myself permission and that was not enough. I planned for this break, and now I second-guess myself. Every evening, I walk around in circles trying to choose what to do, when all I really want to do is read.

So much for balance.

I am completely off-kilter and it’s only the middle of January. I have forgotten how to relax, and now I am stuck in this limbo between running around like crazy and enjoying some down time, not really doing either one. And so, not reaping the benefits of either.

I keep thinking I must be doing something wrong. I know my life is good, I do. I just need to figure out a way to make the days less of a jumble. Is that even possible? It looks like other people do it, but I have never figured out the secret.

I don’t have an organized brain. I accept this about myself. I work around it, but I always end up back in the same chaotic place. I think it’s who I am. Are creative and organized mutually exclusive? Maybe, I have no way of knowing.

Or maybe I just wasn’t meant to be buckled down. But we’re all buckled down to this life in one way or another, aren’t we? Even Peter Pan had to have his shadow sewn back onto his foot.

Still, my mind keeps rebelling and flying off to other places, declining to go where I direct it, refusing to stay where I set it down.

How does that saying go, “If you love something, set it free?”

I’m thinking it might just be time to give that one a try…

this post is part of  one word wednesday over at jillsy girl

late last year i felt the sudden urge to read hemingway again.

he has always been my favorite writer, which is somewhat odd, because none of his books are on my list of favorite books. i have issues with some of his subject matter, issues with his treatment of women, issues with his views on love.

still, i adore the way he writes, his ability to condense entire stories into one paragraph, to make me not only see it, but feel it, to make everything he wrote seem like it was not fiction, but an autobiographical account of his life.

in fact, some people think that is the case. he has said it was not, and i believe him. but that is why i think he is such a great writer, i never feel like i am reading a story, i am immersed in a tale, a recounting, a snapshot of someone’s life. he knew how to make it seem real.

so i gathered all his books together and waited until the week after christmas to begin. and now here i am, wading my way through his body of work, in chronological order. and all i want to do is read.

in the past week i have been to spain and italy, france and michigan, to horse races and bull fights. i’ve gone fishing and to war. i haven’t yet been to africa, that will come later, and i will fall in love with that place all over again.

i will love the heat and the dust and the wine and even the machismo. when i was young, i hated that part. i won’t love the scenes with the animals, that has always been the hardest for me.

but i can read him now with one eye on the story, and one eye on the craft. i can appreciate the gift he left to the world, flawed as he may have been as a person.

i can appreciate the magic of a phrase like true at first light.

or a story that draws me in and won’t let me go until the last page has been turned, and even then, leaves me wishing for more.

a story that can transport me to another time and another place, even as i sit in a noisy room filled with people.

a story that is written so well that not one word could be altered or removed without compromising its integrity.

the kind of stories that have always made me want to read.

what more can you ask of a writer?

my word was going to be growth. really, it was.

see? i even had a picture to go with it.

but today was a crazy day. crazy as in, i spent the whole day running around like a chicken with its head cut off, which is a visual i hate, but it gets the job done.

and i realized that if i am going to be honest, the one word that describes this year best for me is: crazy.

oh, there were other words that mattered.

growth. hope. writing.

words in general, they mattered. a lot.

i learned a lot, i grew a lot, i traveled in circles that i never knew existed.

i spent most of this year feeling like i couldn’t catch up, couldn’t catch my breath, would never have time to relax and do all the things i want to do. yet i accomplished more in this past year than in the three years before that.

most importantly, i started writing again. really writing, every day.

my one word could be writing.

my one word could be words.

but i am one of those people that tends to be blunt and honest, to a fault.

so my word is crazy.

and i am.

crazy.

crazy about life, crazy about writing, crazy about cats and books and art and jewelry and love and hope and each new morning.

yup, that’s it.

crazy.

::     ::     ::

i’m also supposed to write about what i want for next year, what i envision.

i could lie and say a whole bunch of stuff about goals and dreams and how next year will finally be the year that i get my shit together.

but in truth, i know it will just be more of the same.

more words. more hope. more learning. more growth.

and most definitely,

more crazy.

but there had better not be any more cats.

{reverb10} check it out here

on a good day it’s easy to be grateful. for everything.
on a bad day, it’s hard to be grateful for anything.

i’m working hard at on staying on the good side.

of course it doesn’t always work, some days, no matter what, i grouse and complain and cry woe is me. and some days i even have good reason to.

some nights i sit on the couch just before i go to bed and feel like crying, because i’m tired and i’m worried about my business and about money and about my kids and my parents and usually a whole long list of other things that i really shouldn’t be worried about.

some nights.

other nights i sit on my couch just before i go to bed and i add up all the things i have to be grateful for. i start with the fact that i have a couch, i have a house, i have a fire to sit in front of, food in my cupboard, a roof over my head. i have a soft bed to get into, a husband lying there next to me, three wonderful children.

one dog. six cats. (here i waiver between gratitude and disbelief).

for now, i still get to work from home. i have a garden. birds at my feeders. tea every morning. books to read. seasons to monitor. good shoes. flowers in a vase. words in my pocket. chocolate. warm quilts. wool socks. love.

yes, i whine when there is too much work and not enough money. there are days when i feel like i am running in place on a treadmill of my own design. i cry when i am hurt, i fume when i am angry, i pout when i am depressed.

but really, i have nothing to complain about. it isn’t perfect, my life. it isn’t easy.

but it’s my life.

life.

that in itself is enough to be grateful for when you think about it. and i think about it. a lot.

i’ve learned a lot this year. about myself, about the world, about life. i’ve relearned things i had forgotten, i’ve discovered things i never knew. i’ve made more friends than i can count, i’ve expanded my horizons. through it all, i found the gratitude. i said my thanks. i embraced so many moments.

life is hard. life is good. life is life.

nothing is perfect. nobody’s perfect. life is life.

i sit here on my couch in front of my fire and i think about all these things and when there are tears i let them fall and when there are smiles i let them shine and when i remember to be grateful to be alive and it all starts to make sense again and the shadows on the wall make me stop what i am doing just to stare them, well, then i know just exactly where i am.

i am there.

five degrees south of hope.

two degrees north of thankful.

in this place called life.

Oh my. I made it. I am there. There as in ready for my last two jewelry shows of the year, but in a bigger and better sense, there without the usual nervous breakdown that comes with getting ready for a show, which in this case is two shows, back to back weekends, three days each.

I keep asking myself why I’m not freaking out more, why I’m not in tears they way I was for our last show, why I feel so calm, so centered.

Maybe it’s not such a good idea to ask too many questions. Maybe it would be better to just say thank you and smile and feel the serenity that is resting at my core. And I’m doing that, I am. Really.

But I can’t help but wonder. I’m curious, that has always been the case, I am always questioning this or that or trying to figure out the why or the how or the what if. I think that’s a good thing.

And I’m glad, so glad that there are no tears and no frenzied mind and no complaining. This time, it all feels okay.

And I’m just going to let my mind sit there in this okay place, because it’s a much better place than before.

I’m going to enjoy this feeling of balance, I’m going to linger here in this light, this calm.

I know it won’t last, don’t think I am silly. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, I will be hounded by my list and by overwhelm and by life.

But today, there is just this frost on a dry hydrangea blossom left on a bush in my garden.

Today that is all I need to make me smile.

That’s where I am right now.

I like that.

that being an artist

doesn’t make you special, or extraordinary, or different.

it makes you human.

::

getting up,

scraped,

but laughing.

::

It mocks me, this list, taunting and teasing, growing exponentially while I sleep.

Much of this list I wrote myself, although there are things on it not added by me, things like a house that needs painting, a faucet that needs fixing, a dog that needs a bath.

Others things are self-imposed, opening an etsy shop for my images, making jewelry for two shows in November, losing ten pounds, cleaning up my garden. All projects I chose to start, all now inscribed on my list of things to do.

And I’ve had this crazy cold for over a week now, it has not kept me in bed, but rather half-functioning, feeling like my head is underwater, making me cranky and sleepy all day long, and I think it’s feeding on my words.

I sit here in my studio while outside the sun is shining, just outside my window the monkshood are blooming, one of my favorite flowers mainly because they bloom in autumn, but also because they are purple, the truest most beautiful purple. Just now they are surrounded by pink and white anemones, all backed by the golden tones of an autumn hydrangea.

I feel like this photo, just now. A bit hazy and out of focus, a riot of thoughts and ideas, with quite a few things that need weeding out.

There is too much to do, always, and I wonder if it is me, if I am too much a workaholic, too much the over-achiever. It doesn’t feel that way, it feels like it’s all necessary, this scrambling to make a living as an artist, this life I love that I lead.

For there is beauty in my life, there are flowers and love and many blessings. There is joy and passion, art and writing, and all this living, full and round and bursting at the seams.

And there is this list that mocks me.

But it is just a list, a flimsy piece of paper filled with words of my own design. It threatens to overwhelm me, this list, beat me down with its jabbering demands. Some days its wins, a little.

Other days, it cowers in the corner.

Because it knows, this list, that when all is said and done,

it might very well be bigger than me,

but I can still take it.

Today is the day to pack up summer clothes, the skirts and tank tops, capris and shorts, and those dozens and dozens of golf shirts.

It is time to pull boots from their place ‘neath the bed, the ones I have missed and the ones I’d forgotten, and replace them with sandals, all except for that one pair of flip flops because, well, you just never know. Time for flannel pajamas and warm fuzzy sweaters, long sleeves, wool socks and turtlenecks.

It is time for winter coats, hats and mittens, sorting and searching for all the lost mates, time for scarves to be washed and hung on their pegs, time for that spring green raincoat to hide itself back in the closet.

It is time for the fans to be stored in the basement, time for storm windows to be closed, all except for the window right next to my bed, because hot flashes happen, even in winter.

It is time to split wood and stack it all neatly, four face cords across the driveway, a place for mice to hide and kittens to play, a place we will visit all winter. Time for the wood ring to be set just outside the back door, easy access when snow drifts take over the landscape.

It is time to empty flower pots long past their prime, time for garden furniture to be stacked and put into storage, time for cutting back perennials, the clearing of leaves, and for pulling those last tenacious weeds.

It is time for cozy nights in front of the fire, crisp frosty mornings and dark shorter days, oatmeal for breakfast and tea after lunch.

Time already to start dreaming of spring, begin missing summer,

and waiting, waiting for winter.