Yearly Archives:

2015

One of the very first trips I remember taking as a child was a bus excursion to Boston. Suzie was there, as were our mothers, and we toured the New England aquarium, which is probably part of the reason I became so enamored of sea life and aquariums. (And Chinese paper yo-yos, which were on sale in one of the bull markets outside of the aquarium.)

For my 40^th birthday, I returned to the aquarium, as much for nostalgia as for my continued interest in everything under the sea. From sea turtles to sea horses, porcupine fish to penguins, it was exactly as I remembered it. True, it hasn’t changed much over the years, but there’s something comforting in that too.

The smell alone reminds me of childhood, the sound of squawking sea birds rekindling the awe and wonder upon the realization of how varied and interesting the life on this earth can be. Since that first visit the ocean has called to me, and in various ways I’ve tried to answer her – in saltwater and reef aquariums, in visits to the coastal terrain of Maine and Florida, in documentaries on whales and sharks and sea life.

Some primal mystery has kept me intrigued by that boundless expanse of salt water that touches all land in some way. A deep undulating rhythm of tides, a hypnotic pull of currents, conspire to confuse in dizzying, rapturous sensation. If you’ve ever stood on the edge of the ocean and felt the sand slowly pull you deeper, in conjunction with the spinning tug of the tide, you know this delicious wooziness.

It reminds me that everything is connected. Water and sand, light and air, humans and animals.

And always, always, the penguins.

Upon the occasion of turning 40, society dictates that a big hubbub is to be made. Hype and hoopla, usually my stock in trade, are expected, and the grandest of events are to be scheduled and set into motion when one reaches that vaunted age. As mentioned, this is largely the predicament imposed by a society that increasingly fears its aging as much as it wants to celebrate its wisdom. I’m for the latter and unaffected by the former, so when my 40^th rolled around it actually took some internal persuading to make the day into something more substantial.

As for the way I honored the occasion, things were kept remarkably simple, with an indulgence in the form of a very sweet suite at the Lenox Hotel. It provided a home base (out of necessity, as my brother had told me he was going to be in the condo on my birthday) and so I reserved the Judy Garland Suite ~ a very generous gift from my parents. (Ms. Garland stayed in the hotel for an extended period, and they subsequently created a suite in her honor.)

Stepping back into a world of elegance, a world that seems to have gone by, but a world where exceptional customer service and personal touches still matter and make all the difference, we entered the suite and found this happy confluence of gifts ~ some chocolates, a card, a bottle of prosecco, and our very own stuffed Lenox lion. The beauty of a boutique hotel, and its personal charms, was in gorgeous effect.

When looking for birthday ideas, and being quite familiar with the city, I was on the hunt for something unique, and distinctly Bostonian. When the description of the Judy Garland Suite crossed my radar, I was instantly sold. It’s an expansive jewel-box of a space, wondrously appointed (with whimsical touches like a ruby red slipper on one shelf) and elegantly assigned with built-in bookshelves, and couches and tufted headboards of velvet.

Golden sconces and sumptuous drapery lent a timeless elegance to the scene, while two television sets (one in each living space) added the modern amenities that were mostly lost on me. (Who needs TV with so much beauty around?)

A little bit of upstate New York found its way into our accommodations, in the form of the Beekman Boys, whose Beekman 1802 bath products were newly acquired by the Lenox in a perfect alchemy of good products and good people.

The ‘Fresh Air’ products aligned fittingly with the environmental policies that the Lenox was one of the first to institute. (Yes, I will re-use my towel!)

We spent the afternoon settling in, and as with most gorgeous rooms we’ve had the privilege of borrowing over the years, it was enough just being there and soaking up the atmosphere. The complimentary bottle of sparkling wine added to the air of enjoyment, and we clinked to the eve of my 40^th birthday.

We would take an Uber to the Liberty Hotel, where we would dine at Scampo for my last meal as a 39-year-old, but for the moment we paused, alone in our quiet suite, and contemplated the stillness, the beauty, and the happiness of a late afternoon in the heart of Boston.

There’s no place like home, and home is where the heart is.

While waiting for my birthday massage, I walked into a South End community garden, where long rows of plots were bursting at the seams with flowers and foliage and vegetables. It was an escape to paradise in the middle of Boston, and my heart has always thrilled at the prospect of discovering these lesser-known spots filled with nature. Like some secret garden, they are made more precious from their very secretiveness, as if the whimsy of the world whispered only to you this enchanting confidence. A silly notion, perhaps, but no less lovely because of that.

Those stalwart summer annuals – zinnias and cosmos – which I’ve unfairly dismissed over the years, reminded me of why they were so popular in the first place. Their vibrant colors, coupled with their blooming power even at this late stage of the gardening game, have put them on my list of things to grow next year. As we head into the final stages of summer, it’s a comfort to think that there’s another one coming.

I was also pleasantly surprised by the beauty of the vegetables on hand – the bright cheery squash blossoms and their resulting bulbous gourds hanging perilously heavy (the largest ones safeguarded by a tenderly-placed net beneath their growing carriage).

Vines trailed over fences and overhead, creating nooks and alcoves of hidden delight, small spaces away from the prying eyes of the city, where treasures like these cherry tomatoes could grow and ripen for the enjoyment of their caretakers.

An Asian woman in a floppy hat – one of the only people I encountered here – beckoned me over to a cage covered in leaves and tendrils. She didn’t speak English, but she pointed excitedly to the pendulous squash hanging like fairy tale lanterns. With a smile and some laughter, she was just as thrilled as I was at discovering this secret stash.

There’s a certain child-like innocence that a garden brings out in most of us, a sense of wonder and magic that adults seem to find more and more difficult to access. It’s one of the joys that gardening has maintained in my life, no matter what else might be going on.

Beauty is a balm for the soul, and for the battered heart that feels so much in such a cold world.

The dahlias were beginning their show, as the phlox was finishing up. Fall was on the edges of this garden too, and soon it would be everywhere. For now, though, a suspension of summer in the heat and humidity on hand.

And it seems I was wrong: we weren’t the only ones in the garden that day.

This rascal made the most racket, but no one seemed to mind.

My over-riding feeling on turning 40 was that it was just another day, so arrangements for the moments leading up to and including my birthday were low-key and casual (even if there was an itinerary). We drove to Boston for a long weekend, and arrived at the condo, where we set up camp for a couple of days. A quick and easy dinner at Cinquecento (to which we arrived courtesy of Andy’s new Uber skills) was followed by an early night. I needed to rest up for all the relaxation and fun that the next day would bring.

For my 40’s, I want to be more relaxed, more playful, less worried and concerned about things that don’t really matter. I want to let go of certain things, and hold onto what was always most important to me – friends and family and love and beauty. I want freedom from the constricting binds of jealousy, envy, unfairness, injustice, and hatred. I want redemption from the past – from the hurt and pain and heartache that accompany most of our journeys to 40. Mostly, though, I just want to have more fun. I don’t ever really allow myself to do that. Something is always holding me back.

For the last weekend of my 30’s, I relaxed into a few days of celebratory ease, and it began with a wonderful visit to Etant Spa in the South End. I’ve gone there for a massage before, and it is always a luxurious treat. A massage is more than mere self-indulgence: it provides a bit of nourishment for the soul, a blissfully tranquil state of perfect relaxation. That has always done more for my health and well-being than exercise or healthy eating ever could.

Having a massage early on in this long weekend provided the best point of entry for the proceedings. Everything that followed was tinged with the sweet shadings of a lighter touch, the removal of daily work concerns or home tasks, and a reinvigorated state of being. The eyes opened up to play then, and everything felt more alive. An art installation I might otherwise have overlooked, and certainly not have jumped on, called to me.

Entitled ‘InMotion: Memories of Invented Play’ by Amy Archambault, it was a fitting embodiment of what I wanted to do as I entered my 40’s.

A dinner at Douzo was next. The last days of my life as a thirtysomething were coming to a close. Quietly. Happily. Contentedly.