the blue muse

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Every Monday feels just like that, does it not?

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What a lovely weekend, filled with family and sunshine
and quite simply, love.

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What more is there to ask for?

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A tree frog has taken up residence in the old cracked birdhouse out back. Because it’s cracked, the birds no longer use it, and I could replace it (I have a new one in the basement) but it seems wrong to entice birds to nest in the Land of Naughty Kitten.

And so, this frog has his own castle. And the way he sat there all day yesterday, guarding the place, made me laugh.

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Later, after running around doing errands, I got home just in time to sit outside at dusk and enjoy the beautiful weather. And there was another tree frog, a green one, sitting on the arm of the chair right next to me. He didn’t move when I sat down, and only moved a little when Naughty Kitten rubbed my calves on his way by.

Apparently it’s the year of the frog.

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The weather has changed finally, it feels like for good, and my beautiful mess is starting to offer more beauty than mess.

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Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, and to all of us—because we are all mothers in one way or another—and to Mother Nature herself.

Let’s take good care of each other.

xoxo

A single fritillaria, the survivor of a too harsh winter, a dog who makes his own path, a spot just outside the back door that my boys tread upon too often.

Another gift from Mother Nature, another reminder that I need to plant more bulbs, another short-lived sculpture of a bloom.

I heard someone on another blog call this flower a frog-cup, and I just love that.

I feel my body coming alive, right alongside my garden.

I want to run.

But also, I want to shrink myself down and sit beneath this flower, stare up at the sun, daydream, a little.

I want to live outside.

I want to inhale the sky.

I’m starting to fall in love with May, a little.

She brought me this flower.

Life begins again in the garden, lenten roses blooming next to singing daffodil, green shoots inching higher every day.

It’s been chilly, but spring has sprung and plants and flowers and birds and critters all forge ahead, no time for waiting.

The rhythms of life will change again, soon. Tea in the garden, evenings outside, bare feet padding off to bed, windows open.

Change is at the heart of everything, beat, beat, beating through every moment.

I stand in the sun this morning, robins singing, cardinals chirping, the world a bed of green.

It’s impossible not to spread my arms wide open.

Gratitude’s embrace always leaves me with a smile on my face.

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(the title of this post is from Dylan’s “Visions of Johanna”)

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beneath a fairy umbrella

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Some days go out in a blaze of glory.

Glorious glory, don’t you think?.

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::

with your heart on your sleeve

and your trill shrill call

that echoes

off glass reflecting

water walls

your piercing stare

that holds no secrets

your chitter chatter

that says nothing at all

you

carry the seasons

on your shiny

black back

as one heavy load

that you never

acknowledge

::

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a poem from 05/18/11

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Because I keep getting lost in the Land of Busy, and this place, this space, keeps waiting, ever so patiently, for me to offer it a bit of attention. And each day I tell myself that this will be the day I get caught up, or get that thing accomplished, or this other thing started. And then it is bedtime and reading is my solace, and even that can’t keep my eyes open as long as I would hope.

The lawn (read: weeds) is slowly turning green and I feel myself slipping into spring clothes and bare feet, even though it’s still too early. Naughty kitten is in the same mode: deceived by the sunshine, he steps outside, but wants back in just minutes later when he realizes it’s not as warm as it looks.

A robin lands on the hydrangea bush outside my window that’s still dry and bare and brittle, and we stare at each other for a moment before she flies off with a bit of stem or grass for her nest, and I want to fly with her.

My gypsy spirit is tired of being shackled to a desk, a room, a ceiling. I want to run, to dance, catch fireflies at dusk. And then I remind myself to be grateful for the roof over my head, the nest I have, the garden I’ve grown. And of course, I am. Grateful.

But a gypsy spirit cares nothing for the rules of reputation, social graces, polite custom. She cares only for her freedom, and she fights me for it, daily. Mostly, I prevail. Only because necessity makes me stronger. But some days, no matter how hard I try, she wrestles my arm down until my wrist hits the table.

And then she dances, already on her way out the door.

I never tell her that every so often, I let her win.

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it’s hard not to see snow falling through sunshine as pretty,

even if you are completely over winter.

77° one day, 28° the next

and this is the world we live in.

change change change

and beautiful

even as we cringe

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friday daze

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