that's mrs. mediocrity to you

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

to find a word, that word, the one i want, the one that constantly eludes me.

the hole is several feet deep now, several more feet than that wide, and in the pile on the brink of this hole there is nothing but dirt.

i thought i found an e once for a second, but it turned out to be a penny.

and then there was a t, at least in my mind for one split second, but when i touched it, there was only a twig.

i keep hitting these rocks and they jar me, all the way up to my neck, my shoulders, my mind.

jar me into thinking this is all a mistake, this digging, it’s too much work, it hurts too much.

i don’t stop though, don’t give up, i almost never give up, i’m very stubborn. i want that word.

i dig with this small wooden shovel left by a grandfather i barely knew.

when i get tired, i use this spoon that i found by the side of the road.

my soil is not sandy, no, i am not so lucky, my soil is all clay, wet and heavy and filled with worm holes, coming up in big chunks that stick and smear, and never break apart.

and these rocks, there are so many, some bigger than my head, each one takes a day to excavate. and when that day is done, all i have left to show for it is a cold, hard rock.

but i have collected rocks since i was a child.

there is always that moment when i feel it give, that rock, and i know that one more tug and i will lift it, and that is when i pause, because who knows what might be slithering underneath.

but i hold my breath and i lift one edge, ever so gently, ready to drop it back down at the first sign of trouble, ready to fling it aside if i find that word.

but alas, not this time. no creepy, crawly, scary creatures, and no word, either.

just one more layer of cold smooth earth

begging to be cracked open.

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?

You offered, I accepted.

Just a tiny piece, I said, and as is so often the case when you mutter that phrase, you get much more than you actually wanted.

So here I am, dark room, eyes wide open. No that’s not true, eyes closed, mind wide open.

Mindful, no, mind full, off to the races, thoughts circling around the perimeter of my brain, intermingled with worry, frustration, fatigue. Thoughts of sleep you only have when you cannot.

The clock is ticking, no not ticking, it is digital, but the numbers, they keep changing one minute at a time, and that is much, much slower than my thoughts.

The moon peeks through the cracks in the blinds, at this hour brighter than the sun, in my eyes, in my face, and the blinds may be closed, but still, she finds her way in.

I am awake, so very awake, digesting this slice, much larger than what I requested, staring by turns at the ceiling and the inside of my eyelids. Eyes open, I see black. Eyes closed, I see plaid, blue daisies, a bokeh of red and blue dots.

Yes, I am awake and everyone else in the world, my world, is asleep, animals at rest, birds quiet, there may be crickets but the windows are closed, it is silent. I accepted this slice not knowing how it would grow throughout the night. It is 3:30, then 4:00.

And still, I am awake and dawn is tap tap tapping at the corner of my eye and it is no longer night, the moon has run past my window, laughing, and there is the sun who I am not ready for and should be welcoming, entertaining. I hide my head beneath the covers and pretend I can’t hear that knock upon my door.

And then perhaps, one hour, maybe two, of sleep that is not sleep, but eyes closed with mind running, and then eyes open with mind foggy, and day is here, bellyaching, asking why I didn’t let it in. And sitting up, too quickly, I conk my head on the edge of morning because it is here whether I like it or not.

Ready or not.

Here I come.