that's mrs. mediocrity to you

::

to yours…

wishing you peace

and joy

and light.

::

for a manifesto, of sorts

.. ..   .. ..   .. ..

i want to be the old laughing lady.

i want to notice the things that really matter, always.
the sweet smile, the embrace,
the first daffodil poking its head through the snow.

.. ..   .. ..   .. ..

i live in the world i have made for myself.

i survive in the world at large.

my heart spit out its bitter years ago,
making room for more love.

and more questions.

.. ..   .. ..   .. ..

i run through life at top speed
because i want to fit everything in.

there is too much of everything.

there is not enough of anything.

.. ..   .. ..   .. ..

words are my window to existence.

i am words.

i have always been words, even before i could speak them.

.. ..   .. ..   .. ..

i believe that being alive is a gift.

i believe that being grateful for every breath you take
is the only way to say thank you.

i believe in so much and so little, all at once.

.. ..   .. ..   .. ..

i am a heart that beats out a pattern
like a far-off drum in the night.

i am a soul.

an old soul, a new soul, a wise soul.

a soul that knows nothing.

.. ..   .. ..   .. ..

i am open.

.. ..

….

….

I am participating in Madelyn Mulvaney’s persisting souls photography e-course.
I was so hesitant to do a self-portrait, so hesitant to do a manifesto.
But here I am. This is me, being brave.

lately I’ve been:

searching my soul

caretaking

shifting

skeptical

catty

grateful

aware of my mortality

aware of my limitations

aware of my humanity

furious

full of joy

impatient

calm

forgetful

nostalgic

open

closed

and everything

in between

::

What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how
did it play out?

::

I ran it out.

I flew.

I became twice my son’s age.

I was grateful.

I danced.

I got lost in the crowd.

I watched life through a smile and a curtain.

I hoped.

I celebrated.

I dug down deep and found a word.

I fell and got back up.

I watched shadows dance across the floor.

I wrestled my to-do list, and I won.

I stared out of windows late at night.

I stood in the dark and listened for sunrise.

I forgave.

I wore purple rain boots that made me happy.

I wrote.

I sat there and looked pretty.

I asked questions, the right ones, and the wrong ones.

I stood on the outside looking in.

I sat beneath a windmill and I cried.

I listened.

I enjoyed a breeze of silence.

I took one more step.

I made pickles.

I became a crazy cat lady.

I drew a heart using the moon as my pencil.

I loved.

I worried.

I began.

I let my hair blow wildly in the wind.

I ran six miles on a 90 degree day,
bought a dip top ice cream cone and
let it drip down my arms as I ate it.

I sat on the floor and I wept.

I pulled weeds.

I was a weed.

I ate chocolate.

I watched minutes tick away on the clock.

I saw a lifetime of fabulous views.

I wore rose colored glasses.

I stole hours of quiet and held them in
until they came back out as smiles.

I giggled.

I reached for the sky.

In other words,

I lived.

::

These are all ideas or excerpts taken from my posts this past year.

{reverb10} check it out here

::

What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?

::

Mostly, I let go of fear.

Fear that I’m not good enough.

Fear that I am good enough.

Fear that this is all there is. That there might be something more.
That life will be pass me by and when I reach the end of the road
I will still be saying, someday.

Fear that when I look in the mirror I won’t recognize
the eyes staring back at me.
Or the wrinkles.

Fear that I can’t handle loss, fear of what I might find.

Fear that I am who I am.
And that everyone else is who they are.

Fear that so much of the time, it is too late.

I opened my hand and my heart
and let all the fear fly out,
like starlings.

They’re all up in the sky now, those fears.

Swooping and soaring

in a symphony

of not afraid.

{reverb10} check it out here

Bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to…
(lines from an R.E.M. song)

This is a story about my mom. My mom and my dad, really, two people who are bigger, in all the best possible of ways. The lengths that they will go to astound me. They are givers, my parents.

Recently, a friend of my mom’s died after a long battle with cancer. She was young, too young to go, only in her late 50s, but she went all the same. To tell the truth, I don’t really know all that much about this friend, E., I know that she and my mom used to work together, and after they went their separate ways career-wise, they stayed in touch and would occasionally go to the movies or have a girls night out.

Last week my mom told me that this friend was nearing the end, that it was just a matter of time. And she told me that she was going to go to the hospital and sit with her. And then the next time I talked to her, the next day, or two days later, she told my that E. had passed on, while my mom was there, at the hospital.

But she didn’t tell me this part of the story until last night, another day in which she gave up eight hours of her time to help me and my sister with a jewelry show.

Apparently, on the day before she died, my mom and E.’s husband were sitting in the room with her and my mom was wishing out loud that there was something she could do to ease E.’s discomfort and continued on to tease that maybe a glass of beer would help.

And let me just add here that my mom does not drink, I have only seen her have a drink once in my entire life.

E.’s husband mentioned that she didn’t like beer, but that she really loved strawberry dacquiri wine coolers.

That was all my mom needed to hear. She went out to the desk and asked the nurse if it would be okay to bring one in for E. The nurse checked into the matter and basically gave permission in an “I didn’t see anything” kind of way.

So my mom, who does not drive, went down to find my father who was waiting in the lobby with a book, and asked him to take her to the liquor store. The liquor store because my mom, who does not drink, didn’t realize that they sell wine coolers in the grocery store. And of course, the clerk at the liquor store set her straight, and then my father drove her to the grocery store, and mission accomplished, they returned to the hospital with a strawberry dacquiri wine cooler poured into a soft drink bottle. Just in case.

And so E. had her wine cooler, or a few sips of it, and it put a tiny smile on her face.

The next day, E. left this world. Afterward, her family passed that same bottle around the room and each one took a sip, as a toast to this woman they loved.

That’s my mom. And her bigger-than-anything heart.

She just kills me.

getting up,

scraped,

but laughing.

::

it all started with the word hope from debi’s post. i couldn’t stop thinking about that word, hope, and about her words, there.

then came graciel’s and debi’s challenge based on these words:

“life is just overwhelming at times, and we are all
standing on a corner with a sign in our hands
needing something.”

and so we are.

so what do i need?

it was so hard to narrow it down,
hope was the one i kept coming back to,
but i knew it wasn’t enough, just hope.
there had to be something more.
something i can’t live without.

words.

love.

hope.

that’s it. mostly.
around the border are other things i think i need,
or wish for, or like or want or cherish.

but if i was standing on a corner,
and you just happened to be driving by on a rainy morning,
you’d see words first, and maybe even love,
but unless you slowed down to really look,

you’d miss the hope.

::     ::     ::

visit debi at emma tree and graciel at evenstar art for more signs

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?

when you cannot find

the answers,

perhaps it’s time

to change the questions.

::