that's mrs. mediocrity to you

This past weekend, in the Adirondacks, this is what I saw when I woke up every morning.

I slept with the window open, all three nights, even though it was chilly and even though on the first night, apparently I stole all the covers and my husband was freezing.

But I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help wanting to hear the wind whispering through the trees. Couldn’t help wanting to smell the scent of trees and forest and the nearby lake. Couldn’t help wishing that I was sleeping right out there, under the trees and the stars.

The stars that were visible, so visible, up there away from city lights and pollution, the Milky Way clear as day. Well, okay not clear as day, but very clearly swirling its way across the universe.

The air smells different there, clean and crisp. At home, where I live, it is the country and the air here is very fresh and clean, but, still, you can smell the difference, there in the mountains.

I lay there each night, after everyone else was asleep, lay there for hours actually, because I couldn’t sleep, and looked out this same window, in the dark, thinking and listening.

I used to be afraid of windows at night. When I was a very young teenager I saw a movie about witches and there was a scene involving a window at night that took me years to get over. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. For years, afterwards, well before dark I made sure that every blind and curtain was closed.

Silly me.

Look what I missed.

looking in, again, though not wanting to, exactly, having spent some time these past few months thinking the glass was reversed, thinking i was safe in that warm, cozy room with the lamp, the glowing fire, the purring kitten.

yet here i stand, cold feet, alone, in the dark.

i failed to notice my own reflection as the sun set behind my back, failed to compensate for my silhouette, my shadow, the mirror image that smiled, even though she knew the truth.

i never have quite made it, there… to the inside.

oh, i’ve had tickets a few times, given to me by friends, loves, even chance. pretty tickets with golden edges that promised more than could ever be delivered. tickets that were bigger than the event. tickets that looked like the real thing, though as it turned out, were counterfeit.

and now i stand here, watching this woman who sits by the fire of her own contentment, the warmth of complacency spread through her limbs, its glow apparent on her face. there is a book, and tea, and she wears warm socks.

but she is a destination that cannot be reached. she is a mirage.

or a vision.

if i snapped her photograph, right this second, you might see a shadow, or an indentation where she’d been sitting, but you would never be certain she had actually been there. you would question her existence.

i don’t cry as i stand here, watching her. i don’t yearn, or covet, or hope to be there, next to her, on that couch. i simply watch, silently. intent only on the sorrow in her eyes.

she isn’t me.

she’s simply someone else’s yesterday.

some lost soul i followed home who looked happy, from a distance.

from the outside, looking in.

she is not me.

she just

is.

every day i write words on a page. type them on a keyboard.
string them together like beads.

i have a lot of jewelry.

so are all these words just adornment? if i pull out a paragraph
and wear it for the day, does it make me look better? does it change my appearance? does it enhance my life?

does it make me into something other than the person i am when
i roll out of bed in the morning, looking much the worse for wear?

i feel different when i write, i feel like the real me, but that sounds so silly because, of course, i am always the real me, i can’t be anything different.

but all of the censors that are in place when i am face to face with people disappear when i write.

all of the doubts, the insecurities, the nerves.

gone, when i write.

it feels more like my natural language than speaking does.

it feels like the voice of my soul.

i can only hear that voice when i write.

is that weird?

i am sitting in my garden, and two seagulls just flew over my head.
i don’t live near the water. well, okay, i live near a swamp, but since when do seagulls hang out in swamps?

it is late september and it is 89 degrees. the flowers left in my garden look sad and wilted. well, they’ve looked sad all year, neglected, battling weeds. but 89 on Sept. 24th?

i played hooky today, but i didn’t do the things i most wanted to do, run, and work in said garden. i did a whole lot of nothing that led to more nothing and then the day was gone and i was here, sitting in my garden watching seagulls fly over my head.

a monarch butterfly is playing hide and seek in the anemones, flying lazy and happy in this heat. that’s kind of how i feel.

tomorrow it is supposed to be 59 degrees. thirty degrees cooler in
24 hours. that has happened several times this summer. 30 degrees of separation from one day to the next.

the air is very still just now, no breeze, but no humidity either, so
89 degrees feels pretty nice.

tonight i’m going to sit out here by the outside fire and drink wine and eat homemade pizza, much like every other friday night. i never work on friday nights, even if i work around the clock the rest of the week.

and then i might go inside to watch a movie, though that depends on too many things to be a certainty.

but that’s okay, because, just now,

i’m not looking for certainty.

Okay, I have a confession to make: I am in love.

With windmills.

And yes, I know that technically these are wind turbines, and technically a lot of people strongly dislike them. But love isn’t technical, it knows no boundaries, it isn’t rational or logical or afraid to be itself just because some other people don’t like it. So there you have it. I am in love. I want one. In my backyard. And yes, I am aware that my neighbors may not go along with that.

I live in the Finger Lakes Region of New York, a beautiful, hilly area dotted with small lakes and fabulous vistas and acres and acres of farmland.

And recently, along the route to our cabin that just happens to be nestled up in those hills, a new crop has popped up. A crop of giant sentinels. And the very first time I saw them there, perched along the horizon, I was hooked. It was love at first sight. I drove over the crest of hill and there they were, spinning slowly, towering over the small town that up until then had been known for its grape pies. Now, at least for me, there is a much bigger attraction.

I have been to our cabin several times since that day, and each time have had the sudden urge to veer off the road and head towards these turning towers, wanting to stand beneath one and see just how tall it really is, what kind of sound it makes, to just be near it. You know, that love thing.

So over Labor Day Weekend, I had a ton of work to do. I know, you’re supposed to relax on Labor Day, but that wasn’t going to be possible for me. My family made a plan to go to our cabin that Sunday night, and I agreed to take a few hours off and meet them there for dinner. And then I made a plan to leave an hour early and go on a quest, to finally find the road that the windmills were on. To meet them, face to face.

Easier said than done.

I tried to look up the information beforehand, but I couldn’t really pinpoint the location. The area they are in is very rural, dirt roads, some labeled, some not, and I had no idea what the name of the road they are on is called, but I figured, how hard could it be? They’re tall, right? I’ll just follow them.

And of course I got lost because these are small mountains after all, and there aren’t that many roads that cut directly across and I had to wind up and down and down and around and backtrack and traverse seasonal-use-only, very bumpy, dirt roads, and they look a lot closer than they actually are because, oh my, they ARE huge, and an hour and a half later, I was finally on the right road, which I only knew because I could see one at the top of the hill just before me. At this point I was already half an hour late for dinner with my family, and not sure how far out of my way I had traveled, but I had my eye on the prize and no way was I turning back now.

I passed these on the way up that hill:

And I discovered, later, that none of these photos give you a sense of the scale, the majestic quality, the space and height and mystery, or the tears that were in my eyes. Silly to mist up over windmills, I know. Just call me sentimental. Or weird. Either one works for me.

That is corn growing there, just beneath them, corn that stood higher than my head.

And when I reached the top of that hill, they were spread out before me for miles, dotting fields of corn and meadows filled with clover and perched at the crests of hills. 20 or 30 or 40 all told. And the one I had seen from the bottom of the hill had a little dirt road leading right up to it. So I parked my car and I rolled down the windows and I listened, because I had expected them to be loud. But I could barely hear them at all.

And then I got out of my car and stood there, and I felt peace. That’s what it is, that is the draw. They make me feel peaceful. I walked my way closer and closer and I’m sure that my mouth was hanging wide open just then, although I was lucky and no flies flew in.

And then I was there right at the base of the one I had been chasing for miles and I could walk right up and touch it, and I could take all the pictures I wanted, although still, none of them convey how tall it really is.

And then, of course, just when I was having a moment, standing there staring up at the sky, my phone rang and it was my family saying, “where are you? we are waiting on you for dinner,” and I had to say goodbye my new friends, I had to walk away and leave them there to guard the valley, alone.

But one day soon I’m going back, and next time I’m bringing a picnic and I’m not going to answer my phone and I’m going to sit there on a blanket and listen as the wind whispers down through those blades.

And I might even sing to myself, a little.

But this time, I’ll try not to cry.

It’s Friday night and I am watching The Big Chill, a blast from my past, 1983. Three years before my son was born. Forever ago.

My son who just got his first “real” job, graduated from college in May, and is now on to a new stage in life.

The Big Chill. A movie about the death of a friend amongst friends, friends my age, or slightly younger. A movie from the time when I worked at a movie theater, and all the movies I played during that time, over and over, are imprinted on my brain in indelible ink.

E.T. Eight weeks, four shows a day. Back To The Future. Risky Business Hated that one, every night having to kick beer-drinking teenagers out of the theater, though some really funny stories come from that. Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan, the one where Spock dies. I used to go to the door of the theater every night at that exact moment and pull it open, to hear the sound of sobs and sniffles. For some reason, it always made me smile.

Flash Dance. Terms of Endearment. Noticing the fact that Shirley Maclaine’s dress changes as she walks across the airport. Same scene, different dress. Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. A whole bunch of senior citizens coming out to the desk demanding their money back. They thought it really was about the meaning of life. Boy, were they surprised.

Oh the memories. The lifting of 30 pound reels of film up over my head, the frantic splicing each time the film broke, the smell of popcorn and coke, the perpetual stickiness of the floor.

Tootsie. Sixteen Candles. Purple Rain. The Breakfast Club. Two movies I have watched many times since then. An Officer and A Gentleman. Ghostbusters. Who you gonna call? Indiana Jones. The Karate Kid. Amadeus. Still one of my favorite all-time movies.

Out of Africa. The movie that never ends. And by that I don’t mean it was long and boring, I mean you never forget it. Footloose. Rambo. A movie that I wish I could forget. The Color Purple. Trading Places. Octopussy. Gremlins. Bright light!

The Outsiders. A Christmas Story. A movie I still watch every Christmas Eve. People were so offended back then, when it came out, portraying Santa in such a bad light. I think there were protests. Harrumph. Dad gummit, flob!

A Passage to India. Silkwood. The Natural. Some classics.

Revenge of the Nerds. Porky’s. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I didn’t need to see any of that, and we won’t even go there.

Never Cry Wolf. Cocoon. Two favorites. Prizzi’s Honor. “Want a cookie, little girl?” I love Anjelica Huston.

Scarface. A movie that scarred me, for life.

Just a little walk down memory lane triggered by an old movie, kept in my back pocket all these years…

There is something about this day that keeps calling me outside.

I have been in and out all morning, inside working, then, feeling this magnetic pull, back out.

A cup of tea, some photos, playing with the crazy kittens that spend their days outside, hunting. Back in for more work. Accomplishing what must be accomplished. And when that is done, the must-do part of my day, I shall start on the should-do portion. Should pull these weeds, should paint that door, should make more jewelry, should do paperwork, or laundry, or vacuum, or dust. I don’t know where to start, which direction to point my feet in.

Except, there must be something to this, this not knowing where I’m going, this walking along a path with no a compass, because I am not afraid. Not lost.

Just here, navigating my way by feel and instinct and some inner sense of who I am, or want to be.

Just here, witnessing each day as it unfolds before me, not judging or wishing for a better one. Not dreaming or pretending or lamenting a life I do not have. But living this one. Sitting in my garden in the room I have built from flowers and earth and sky.

A giant room in my tiny world. I can see everything from here.

Just here.

It took me such a long time to arrive. I stumbled a lot and ran in circles and backtracked and trudged through rain and desert, wind and forest, sun and swamp. You can’t follow in my footsteps, even I can’t retrace them, couldn’t tell you where I started, or when I turned left rather than right, or even who I was on the day this journey began. I walked at night by the light of the moon, sometimes, and often, I walked all day. I trusted my heart to guide my feet. I carried my fear in a pack on my back, always behind me.

I am just here.

With this feeling that my entire life led me to this exact place and this feeling that it really was all for a reason and this feeling that I am about to be somewhere else.

Just like every other day, I suppose.

Just here.

I sit here, needing something, but I am speechless.

I have spent another day running around in circles. Some of them were good circles, some of them were too constraining. Some of them weren’t circles at all, they were spirals. I have so much to do that I can’t concentrate on anything, and for some reason,  I am exhausted. I have a show this weekend, I have to work, have to make ready, have to do this, have to do that.

But I sit here. Hoping that if I get the words out, something will change. Hoping it is the words, all jumbled up inside, causing this inability to focus. Hoping.

I am outside, it is almost dusk, the air is still. My mind is not.
My mind is like these mosquitoes that are about to drive me inside. Pesky, buzzing, flittering, fluttering. Annoying.

If I sit here long enough, I wonder if my mind will become as calm as the air. I hear birds. Crickets. Peeping frogs. No grasshoppers just now, perhaps they are already asleep. The fading sunlight filters through the long row of bushes that hides me from my neighbors, my far-away neighbors that I still wish to be hidden from.

At the end of that row is the elderberry bush, bent low to the ground with the weight of its fruit, full and ripe. I feel like that too, just now. Heavy with my own potential.

I should get up and get my camera so I can take a picture of this abstract watercolor sky. But I feel too tired. I don’t have the energy. If I go inside to get my camera, I don’t think I’ll come back out.

Inside, the fans are still going. Outside, the air is perfectly still.

It has been like that since this morning.

I think I just need to sit here for a bit
and enjoy this breeze of silence.

:

p.s. I came back out.

flashing light, blinding flare, this glare that burns. migraine.

pounding, pounding, peck peck pecking away at my sanity.

pain that will not stop, does not cower, will not leave.

pain uninvited, not wanted, not welcome, yet here.

my head in a vice grip. won’t let go.

pain that leaves me wasted, limp, sore,

run over. paralyzed.

i lay on the couch, afraid to move.

i watch from a tiny pinhole of awareness.

i am still, so still, any movement excruciating.

quiet light burns holes in my retina.

tiny sounds detonate bombs in my brain.

i wait and i wait and i think and i think. and i wait.

there is nothing else to do.

it is minutiae, amplified, one million times.

it is crushing fever, knife pain, white hot.

it is brutality, unleashed in my skull.

and then it is gone.

an ugly memory.

.

visit imperfect prose on thursdays, here

Yesterday I had lunch with one of my best friends. We talked for two hours straight, about life and change and patterns and life. I gave advice and got advice and on the way home, I thought about that, about how wonderful it is to have friends to share what we’ve experienced along our path. And then I thought, but what have I learned?  Do I have any insight to offer?

Because the more I learn, the less I know.

I feel like that in itself is just the right amount of wisdom. To understand that there is so much I don’t know, can’t know, will never know.

I am totally okay with the not knowing. Actually I am more than okay with it, I love that I have figured this out, relatively early in my life. It feels a little zen, that phrase, and is one of my mantras, along with this one: the only person whose behavior I can control is my own.

It all sounds so simple, until you think about it, apply it, live it.
I guess that is the whole concept behind a zen phrase, right?

And perhaps I am just really stupid and should have figured both things out a long time ago. But I didn’t, I only just figured them out in the last five years. But these two phrases have, in so many ways, changed my life. For the better, and better late than never.

Why doesn’t life come with a manual? They don’t teach you this stuff in school, they teach you math and science and grammar (well, they used to teach you grammar) and maybe even how to make a pizza, or build a bird house. But they don’t teach you how much you don’t know about life. They don’t even hint at it, they just send you out in the world to be blindsided. No one tells you how many times, in how many ways, your heart will be broken. How many moments of joy you will witness. How many people will mark your days. No one teaches you to appreciate the beauty that is life.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have listened, back then. When you are young, you think you already know everything. I wonder what happens when you are old, really, really old? Do you understand at the end, that you know nothing? And is that a relief? I feel like it would be.
I feel like that is where I want to end up.

I chose this path, and I like the direction I am headed in.

I know that much.

And just now, that is enough.