Far from the serenity of mindful meditation, a recent shower reminded me that not every moment can be mindful and not every morning allows for meditative moments. It was an average weekday, and I had to get into work a little early, so I basically bounded out of bed and into the shower. Any notion of a mindful shower, had it even crossed my mind, would have proved an impossibility. As it was, I didn’t have much time for anything besides wetting my hair and dampening down the bed-head. Some mornings are like that, and you realize almost too late that you missed an opportunity for beauty and appreciation and simple gratitude for existence.
I’ve been more guilty than most of missing the grandiosity of the smallest, most mundane efforts of an average day. I don’t chronicle the ride to work, or the fleeting lunch break, or even the triumphant scheduling of a dinner out. I miss the inherent beauty of the simple tasks of a person’s life. Lately, I’ve been opening my eyes to the beauty of these things, mostly because I feel the fleetingness of time, its incessant ticking, its ongoing tocking. Someone told me recently that many men go through a freak-out between 57 and 60 years old. I’m not quite there yet, and quite frankly I was hoping to have averted another mid-life crisis, but it seems I have yet another thing to which I can look forward and dread.
As I turned the shower off, it dawned on me that I hadn’t been mindful. I hadn’t appreciated or honored the moment, mostly because it was impossible. Well, not impossible, just not practical, and it would have disrupted the schedule of the day. Some disruptions are unavoidable, some aren’t. I promised to do better the next time, which would simply involve getting up a few minutes earlier to allow for a mindful start to the day. That makes a difference.
One of the main reasons I’ve been obsessed and enthralled with cologne has been its power of summoning remembered experiences. It’s long been believed that scent is the most powerful memory trigger, and in my experience that is most certainly the case. There are certain basic colognes from long ago that bring me back to my youth. Calvin Klein’s ‘Eternity’ provided the background to my late high school days. It was the springboard to a college career of ‘Cool Water’ and ‘Curve’ and ‘Safari’ and ‘Polo Sport’ – and I’m not proud of any of those choices, but to get a whiff of them now brings me back to very specific moments as I crossed from the teen years into my twenties.
For the past decade or two, I like to think that my taste has refined and evolved, thanks to a richer understanding of life events, as well as a bigger pocketbook. My tastes now are dominated by Tom Ford’s Private Blend collection, which have happily provided memory triggers that is actually worth more than their exorbitant price point. There is no price that can be placed on some of these memories. What price could you put on happiness?
The classic ‘Oud Wood’ is where my TF collection began. It was a gift from Andy, who gifted me many TF objects over the years, but not all. As we prepared for a family vacation in Cape Cod with a Boston stopover, I popped into the Neiman Marcus at Copley Square and purchased ‘Mandarino di Amalfi’ on my own because I loved it so much and could not wait. To this day, whenever I spray some on I think back to that wonderful vacation – our first with the twins – and an image of Andy and Emi lounging on the beach comes immediately to mind. The amber-hued August days in Boston are conjured with a spritz of ‘Rive d’Ambre’ from his line of Asian-inspired fragrances. That was another one that I loved so much I had to have it as soon as I tried it, and after letting it settle on my skin for a couple of hours I went right back in and got it.
More summer memories were provided with ‘Costa Azzurra‘ which formed the spicy-sweet backdrop to our trip to Rehoboth Beach. The sun was deliciously hot, the waves were thrillingly immense, and the whole vacation – which coincided with another birthday – was an unexpectedly happy surprise. Along those lines was a rare summer visit to Ogunquit, when we knew we would be on the beach, where salt water met sand, smooth rocks glistened in the sun, and the scent of the ocean drifted on the strong breeze. Andy gave me an early anniversary gift of ‘Oud Minerale’ and worked with the salesperson at Bergdorf’s to insure that it reached us by the time we left for Maine. It worked out marvelously – the mineral elements matching the oceanic setting in a glorious bit of alchemy.
Finally, the coconut-tinged ‘Soleil Blanc’ provides one last dose of summer day memories, and this was another purchase I made on my own. The bottle was a steal (for TF prices at least) thanks to my Sephora VIP discount. (Tom Ford Private Blends never go on sale at other places; Sephora is now stocking more of them, and the VIP sales can usually be applied – a helpful hint hidden for those who stuck with this long-winded post until now.) ‘Soleil Blanc’ is summer incarnate – bright in its pure white bottle and golden seal – with the unmistakable nod to sun-tan lotion raised to an elegant echelon and drying down to powdery gorgeousness.
My cologne shelf is a treasure-trove of such fragrances and, more than mere scent, it’s a collection of memories lovely and dear, markers of the paths we have taken over the years, signifiers of all that we’ve gone through. It is a shelf that exists simultaneously in past and present and, if we’re lucky, future – for all that is to come. Every new day is the opportunity for a new memory, coupled with a new scent, waiting to be revisited on cold winter nights when loneliness creeps in through the cracks.
“To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.” ~ Alexander Pope
We are so quick to anger. And we are so quick to argue. Simple inquisition is too quickly taken as an attack, and no matter how misguided or misdirected it is taken, if one thinks it’s an attack, it feels like an attack. Too often we live in defensive mode, and maybe that’s safer. I don’t know. It feels like I’ve been doing things the wrong way and am just waking up to my worth and value, while realizing I have more work to do. Much more work, and the thought is daunting and invigorating. Humbling too.
“Sit in the full or half lotus. Begin to follow your breath. Choose the situation of a person, family, or society which is suffering the most of any you know. This will be the object of your contemplation.
In the case of a person, try to see every suffering which that person is undergoing. Begin with the suffering of bodily form (sickness, poverty, physical pain) and then proceed to the suffering caused by feelings (internal conflicts, fear, hatred, jealousy, a tortured conscience). Consider next the suffering caused by perceptions (pessimism, dwelling on his problems with a dark and narrow viewpoint). See whether his mind functionings are motivated by fear, discouragement, despair, or hatred. See whether or not his consciousness is shut off because of his situation, because of his suffering, because of the people around him, his education, propaganda, or a lack of control of his own self. Meditate on all these sufferings until your heart fills with compassion like a well of fresh water, and you are able to see that the person suffers because of circumstances and ignorance. Resolve to help that person get out of his present situation through the most silent and unpretentious means possible.” ~ ‘The Miracle of Mindfulness’
Of course it requires the two things I’m least likely to successfully become: silent and unpretentious, but I’ll do my best. If all else fails, at least I’ll be on the road to becoming a better person. There is nothing to be lost in that.
You don’t always understand when things are going out of focus until it’s too late. At first you think it’s just a passing cloud, or a floating bit of fuzz that momentarily gets lodged in the corner of your eyes. You blink a few times to correct it, then move onto something else because life demands it. The world doesn’t slow for your own failings or faltering. It won’t slow for mine either. Instead, you work through it, carrying the bit of haze with you, assuming or hoping or stupidly ignoring, waiting for it to lift, waiting for it to correct itself. And sometimes it does.
Things become clear again, like a dirty mirror you didn’t realize was dirty until it starts to obscure. You wipe it off, see everything in focus, and things seem brighter, cleaner, better. Then, as if some insidious steam seeped into the room, the mirror clouds again. You lose a bit more sight of yourself, and you wonder at the mirror, and your own vision.
A little fuzziness in life is good. There is no such thing as perfect focus. The human experience is too shaded with various textures and filters to ever perfectly reveal anything. And a little blur to things can be artfully executed, lending movement and the idea that we are, indeed, alive and in constant motion.
Yet there is a limit to how much distortion and distraction may be good. Swerving too far out of focus can feel exciting and daring for a bit, but a lifetime in haze and confusion is a life lost. And things born out of darkness of obfuscation are doomed to fail. It feels like I’m coming out of such a haze, and with it all the requisite tumult is hitting just as Mercury moves into retrograde.
After holding onto my iPhone 6S for as long as possible (since I foolishly paid in full when I got it) I finally had to succumb to the five-minute battery life I was getting and upgrade to the iPhone 11, in this beautiful seafoam color. We are all at the mercy of the phone companies, so I’ve reached the point where I’ve stopped fighting and just give them my monthly allowance. The older I get, the easier it is to throw money at problems and not mind it.
This upgrade is already worth it, if not for the battery that lasts longer than a day, then for the camera, and the ‘Contour lighting’ that makes my facial moisturizing scramble look positively ludicrous. Who needs Tom Ford‘s $75 Anti-fatigue eye cream when you have filters that make everyone look prettier? It’s time I stop fighting the aging process and give in to the technology at hand.
I’ve only just begun to look into the other camera features, but I’m sure there are ways to get into more trouble on FaceBook and Instagram with this puppy. And if you ever find me banned there, you can always come back here, where it all happens no matter what corporate entities try to stifle. Try it on me!
Colin Harrison is a writer who has captured the dangers of mid-life manhood better than almost anyone else I’ve read, illuminating where we so often take the wrong turn if given a chance, and where we might go completely off the rails if we’re not careful. More than the mid-life crisis, this is a perilous time fraught with the temptation to do the wrong things, coupled with a valiant often-delusional belief in doing what feels right while under some curse or spell. It’s a recipe for disaster, the end results of which can be reached from any number of ill-advised paths.
“Such men believe in luck, they watch for signs, and they conduct private rituals that structure their despair and mark their waiting. They are relatively easy to recognize but hard to know, especially during the years when a man is most dangerous to himself, which begins at about age thirty-five, when he starts to tally his losses as well as his wins, and ends at about fifty, when, if he has not destroyed himself, he has learned that the force of time is better caught softly, and in small pieces. Between those points, however, he’d better watch out, better guard against the dangerous journey that beckons to him – the siege, the quest, the grandiosity, the dream.†~ Colin Harrison
In these past few weeks, and perhaps the weeks to come, when full moons and Mercury in Retrograde have made (and will make) life tumultuous and emotions intense, it has been important to remain calm in the face of calamity. One of the tricks I’ve come to learn in this life is that sometimes it is better to stay the course and not make rash decisions. That is much easier said than done, particularly in the heat of anger or righteousness. I will do my best, but I’m not making any promises.
The post says all I will say about the buffoon occupying and disgracing the Oval Office right now. I’m too busy painting bathrooms and figuring out a new iPhone to make much sense of anything else anyway. It’s also the first day of a new cycle of Mercury in retrograde – so get ready for some insanity to see us all the way to March 10. I am so not ready for that jelly. God save the queen. On with the recap…
The idea of a shampoo bar never much appealed to me. I assumed it was like a bar of soap – drying and harsh and having no business anywhere near something that should be soft as hair. I also didn’t think it would lather up as much as typical shampoo, and I adore a powerful lather on my head. Enter the Beekman Boys and their goat milk shampoo bar, and color my world instantly changed.
Trying out their Activated Charcoal version, I followed the instructions and rubbed it on my head as I began my shower. Immediately it began forming a nice lather, and even better a cooling and calming sensation with its elements of menthol and essential oils. It was actually lathering up better than certain shampoos I’ve used of late. While lather is one thing, the true test comes after the shower, and after my hair has dried.
In this case, the end result was happiness indeed. Far from dry and brittle, my hair felt nourished and soft. Maybe it was the argan oil or the charcoal, but whatever alchemy was at work, it worked wonders. Bonus perks include the fact that it’s a solid bar that doesn’t make any use of plastic or bottles for packaging. If you’re looking for environmental soundness, this is it. There’s also a lot of shampoos in a single bar of soap – one will last as long as a decent bottle. Trading in the drinking bar for a shampoo bar is indeed a very good thing.
As a novice to the whole meditation scene, I’ve begun slowly and in small, short, and easily-accomplished sessions, starting out with a few minutes of deep breathing and gradually increasing the time I sit in silence. I’ve been setting the timer phone feature for 13 minutes, as that’s a good number for me – long enough to reach a genuine state of calm within the limited parameters of a busy day, but not long enough to cause discomfort. Sitting in the lotus position for an extended period takes some acclimatization.
The hybrid practice I’ve adopted is to turn off all the music and noise, lower the lights, light a candle and some Palo Santo incense, then hold a smooth piece of rose quartz in my hands as I gently allow my gaze to ease and focus on the intake and exhalation of breath. In the beginning I simply count – one breath slowly in, one breath slowly out – and repeat the process until any shallow breathing has deepened and slowed.
Then, with each breath going in, I’ll focus on whatever feeling or emotion or thought comes up, and let it pass by as I breath out. It works best when these things are acknowledged and recognized, honored and respected no matter what form they take. That means things like sadness and sorrow and loss and envy and anger and impatience all get a breath in and out. Each has its moment of recognition. By this point, the length of a breath is of decent duration, and every pleasant and unpleasant visage that rises receives its due. Then it floats away. As I’m told is the trick with ghosts, simple but genuine acknowledgement is enough to allow even the most uncomfortable thoughts to pass. The goal here isn’t to solve any problems, only to recognize their presence, spiritually nod to them, and let them continue on their way. It’s ok if they come back – sadness and sorrow visited me more than once in recent days, and I had to sit with them a little longer.
I will go through the events of the day, allowing the emotions that surfaced their time in the light of awareness, and it’s amazing the power such light carries. It doesn’t change or alter what it touches, but it somehow works to ease the mind of the burden of keeping them all in darkness, shadow and silence. In that respect, it’s part mysticism and magic, and the only thing I know is that at the end of a meditation period I feel calmer and more relaxed. Part of it is due to the physical act of focusing on deep breathing, part of it is the clarity and cleansing of thoughts, and part of it is something I can’t quite explain just yet. I just know it works.
As I mentioned, this is only the start of my meditation journey. I don’t know how long it will last or how far I will go, but I’m hopeful, and it’s already helped. The last time I meditated, I started the stopwatch and went into my method. Midway through, I felt the discomfort of sitting, but worked by breathing through it and letting the thoughts of pain rise and fall. Eventually the breathing won out and the discomfort passed. I could feel myself moving deeper into a meditative state, and I kept up honoring whatever feelings or thoughts of images came up, until time and clock and time again came up in my mind, at which point I snuck a look at the phone and saw that I had pressed stopwatch instead of timer, and I had clocked in at 17 minutes. It wasn’t very long at all, but it was longer than 13, and felt like the natural time my body and mind needed. Maybe this is how a greater sense of peace begins. I’m going to need it when the earth shifts into Mercury in retrograde on the 17th. We’re all going to need it.
One of my favorite classes at Brandeis was a spring semester course on Buddhist Art. In truth, I had no business taking this course – it had nothing to do with my English degree, and wasn’t even of particular interest to me. Despite this, the description made it sound like a peaceful and almost spiritual experience, and that called to me more than anything else. It was also a time in my life when I was seeking calm. Still entwined in a romantic relationship with a woman, and just starting to question and make sense of my sexuality, it was a tumultuous time for the heart and the head. I was desperately seeking serenity.
A spring semester takes place largely in the winter. At least, that’s where it begins, and the beginning – in those first weeks of snowstorms and weather battles – is what remains most salient. Much of this course involved looking at slides in a darkened amphitheater and listening to our instructor explain the various meanings of the motifs in what we were seeing. One assignment involved going to the Museum of Fine Arts and perusing their collection of Buddhist art, which was not an arduous assignment in the least. I soon learned that connecting the historical aspects of a work of art, and bringing my own personal take to what the scene was conveying, earned me the best grades. Such flowery prose was well within my wheelhouse, and turning art into words was a challenge I embraced. That makes this post somewhat problematic, as it’s a testament to a world beyond words.
As someone who has loved and lived for reading and writing since I was a little boy, it pains me a bit to write this post. I used to think that all things could be solved or least understood when put into words, when analyzed and reconstructed through language and communication. That’s not always the case. Sometimes you simply have to feel.
As human constructs, words and language were always going to be limited in the end. There would always come a point when they didn’t matter. The hard underlying truth could only be fathomed through our five senses, and sometimes it could only be felt on an emotional level that was somewhat spiritual, somewhat emotional, and somewhat mystical. There is room for magic in this world, and magic cannot be contained by words. Neither can enlightenment or meditation.
I’m slowly learning that the best and most effective forms of meditation are not accomplished with a background of Tibetan flute music or the ringing of a prayer bell or even the intoned om of a chant – they are done in complete silence, when the only thing heard is the breath. That is in stark contrast to the bombardment of sounds and sights in our current world. For as long as I can remember I’ve tried to distill that chaotic bombardment into words to make it palatable and easier to digest and understand. I’ve tried to take the confusion of my own mind and flesh it out here and there – online or on paper – to make some sort of sense out of things, to write it down as a form of therapeutic exercise, and it has indeed helped. It simply isn’t everything, and that’s why I’m learning to turn to silence to find a greater peace, and a better understanding.
That said, and that written, I still believe that when used properly and genuinely, a few well-chosen words can change the world. We just need a little something extra to change our hearts.
After driving into Great Barrington and happening upon a magical brush with wildlife, I returned to Stockbridge and wound up at the Red Lion Hotel. While perusing the gift shop I asked if there was a place to get a cup of tea and the woman said they would be happy to set me up with one just down the hall. Passing red velvet curtains and antique furniture, I inquired about tea at the host stand and the gentleman offered to bring one to me. I chose a peppermint herbal variety then tried out several seats in the cozy lobby area. The places nearest the fire were already taken, and a cat occupied the table nearest the host stand. I moved about twice before settling near the window at the Lincoln Table, where Dickens, Thackeray and Lincoln once reportedly sat.
Unhurried and unrushed, a relatively unknown state to me up until now, I sunk into my coat on a leather upholstered chair. The fire crackled a short distance away, even if the door to the outside was between us. Sometimes the coziest situation is only attained when in proximity and juxtaposed against a frigid space.
The cup of tea arrived, with instructions by the host that peppermint tea usually steeps for seven to ten minutes. (Tea steeping time is a serious business. Over or under too many seconds may result in weak or, worse, bitter results.) He apologized for not asking if I wanted the cup to go and I explained I was taking my time. A Sunday afternoon ensconced in the fireside lobby of a historic hotel, sipping on tea and soaking in the weight of centuries – it was a reprieve from worry and sorrow.
Taking more cues from ‘The Miracle of Mindfulness’ I felt the cup of tea in my hand. I listened for the musical clink as I set it back upon its saucer. I savored the delicate mint flavor and its accompanying aroma. The fragrant remnants of a slice of lemon lingered on my fingers. Outside the picaresque falling of a thin veil of snow lent its New England charm and enchantment to the moment. There was still beauty in solitude, and in the slow taking of a Sunday cup of tea. I read a bit of my book as more hotel guests arrived and departed, enjoying the minor thrill of the proximity to travel and movement and the possibility of vacations going on around me.
Next to and behind the library was a reading garden. It was one of those secret little nooks that looked to have a surprisingly large collection of plants as judged by the name plates which remained. Most of it was hidden by the snow and the crumpled branches and leaves of the previous season, but even in slumbering gardens one can sense promise and potential. There were winter treats as well, such as in the papery bark of a birch that unfurled like unruly Christmas wrapping paper, or the berries set in the fall, some of which still retained their form and steel navy color.
My Sunday tea time in Stockbridge had come to a close. It was just far enough to give me some distance and perspective – somewhere between Albany and Boston, which is precisely where my head had been, back where it used to be. In the end, I returned home, to my heart. It never left in the first place.
ON A BLUSTERY WINTER DAY
ON A CROWDED UNDERGROUND TRAIN
WE HAD THE NUMBERS
HOLDING THE CARDS CLOSER THAN EVER
YOU COULD AVOID THOSE EYES FOREVER
IF YOU JUST TRY IT
LOST TO THE CITY
WILL I EVER SEE YOUR FACE AGAIN?
LOST TO THE PARTY
IT’S A WONDERLAND WE’RE LIVIN IN
AND I’M NOT SAYIN’ I’M WAITING FOR A STAR SIGN
BUT YOU ARE ON YOUR WAY TO BEING LEFT BEHIND… LEFT BEHIND… LEFT BEHIND
Not because it’s Valentine’s Day, not because of any trite or silly romantic notion of the emotion, and not for any contrived message of mucky emotional import, but only because every day is a day worthy of celebrating love, in all its forms. And I happen to love this song. It’s a lovely reminder that sometimes going through life is much better when shared along the way. It doesn’t have to be about extreme passion or die-hard loyalty or the perfectly idealized soul-mate. It’s about going through life with the person who may or may not be the man or woman or non-binary person of your dreams but who might be compatible and caring and kind. We may never understand how the world works, but everything is easier when there’s someone to hold your hand during the difficult times, or simply sit beside you. Especially in the winter.
FEBRUARY RAIN IS WASHING ALL OUR DAYS AWAY AND YOU FEEL TIRED
AND THE PUDDLES AT YOUR FEET SHINE THE TRAFFIC LIGHT
WISHES THAT YOU KEEP AND YOU FEEL LUCKY
WE COULD BE LIONS AND I’D PROTECT YOU IN OUR DEN
WE COULD BE POLAR BEARS AND I WOULD HUNT YOU ‘TIL THE END
AND I’M NOT SAYIN’ I’M WAITING FOR A STAR SIGN
BUT YOU ARE ON YOUR WAY TO BEING LEFT BEHIND… LEFT BEHIND… LEFT BEHIND
FEEL LIKE THE WORLD IS ENDING AND I’M WITH YOU AND I DON’T CARE…
In the rush of exhilaration following this dramatic dessert of Cathedral windows, I must admit to going a little Jello crazy. What a marvel this gelatin was! Surely there was a place for it at the adult table. Setting about to experiment on some heart-shaped endeavors, I found some raspberry Jello and decided on layering it with a white chocolate pudding. Andy makes some superb white chocolate and raspberry muffins in the summer season, and my heart was longing for sunnier times so this was my way of approximating it in heart-shaped form. As with a few of my cooking endeavors, I failed pretty miserably.
The layers set well in their Valentine form, but as I flopped the thing onto a plate, I realized that a layer of pudding in between might not stick or hold very well, and indeed, as soon as it began wobbling, the top layer promptly slid off. Not disastrously so, but enough to make a mess of my heart.
Luckily, the taste remained intact, and though it was but a faint echo of Andy’s summer muffins, it made for an enjoyable-enough dessert. When you’re no longer striving for perfection, perfectly-acceptable things suddenly seem quite sweet.
Rediscovering the emancipation of driving that began in this journey back into the past, I took a Sunday morning to head to the Berkshires as a soft fall of flurries sparkled in the sky. Doing my best to practice mindfulness, I made it a relatively quiet drive. No loud music, no singing, no road rage – a simple Sunday drive, letting the other drivers pass by in their haste, allowing the mind to let go of its worries, or doing my best to let go. I’m still new to all of this.
Not quite ready to entirely be free of past indulgences, I stop at the Lee Outlets to see if any winter sales are going on. It’s possible to be mindful and exercise a little retail therapy at the same time.
The pickings were slim, and I mostly avoided purchasing much. A sweater called to me, but I remembered I had a similar one already, so I put it down. A soft long-sleeved T-shirt felt cozy, but wasn’t marked down enough to justify my intended use for it as a night shirt. I did find a pair of work pants and a button-down work shirt, as well as a warm sweatshirt on a big sale. For whatever reason, shopping didn’t hold as much allure and joy as it once did. Maybe I’m growing up and different things mean more.
It was almost noon at this point, and a few snowflakes were falling slowly from the sky. Without wind, it was the charming kind of snowfall that looked beautiful but left no marks on the ground. I drove into Lenox, thinking of getting a cup of tea at the Red Lion Inn (I’ll get to that portion of the journey in a later post). For now, I bypassed the inn and kept going into Great Barrington. I don’t know why I headed that way – there didn’t seem to be much out there, but I followed the pull of the day.
The Berkshires were putting on a pretty, if muted, show. The somber shades of winter required closer inspection to fully appreciate. I pulled over a couple of times to take it all in and get a few crappy cel-phone photos.
Near a sign for a nature preserve, I turned off and took a side road. Something impelled me to go off the beaten path. Slowing the car, I looked over the snowy terrain to the mountains in the distance. To my right the preserve stretched out with patches of frozen ice and snow interspersed with brush and some smaller trees. There in the middle of a snowy little clearing was what I thought was a grey fox. It was magnificent. Its coat was dark gray with ends of silver. I sensed a kindred spirit in the animal (and not just in our silver hair). The fox has always been one of my totem animals, ever since I was a little kid.
I expected the creature to bolt away as soon as I scuttled out of the car to get a picture but it took its time turning around, then paused and looked back at me, deliberately and intently, and I could see, just for a sliver of time, a future, and it was ok. Its lush tail swung behind it as it disappeared silently into the brush. As I watched it walk, it looked less fox-like and more like a wolf, and I realized later it may have been a coyote. I’ve felt a kinship with the wolf as well. A bird gave call. A sprinkling of snow fell quietly from the sky.
It was one of those magical, meaningful moments that comes along when the universe is trying to tell you something. After some time, I got back into the car and headed into a nearby town for some tea. When I finally made it back to Loudonville, I saw a black car ahead of me, stopped for no apparent reason on Albany-Shaker Road. I was about to beep when suddenly a thin red fox jogged slowly in front of the car, traveling weakly across someone’s front yard. It looked slightly haggard. Its tail was a wet and raggedy thing that dropped limply behind it, darker and more depressing than the rest of its ginger fur. I wondered if it had just been attacked by some other animal. It had a downtrodden look to it and my heart jumped. I drove on and ended the journey.
Seeing these two animals meant something. The last time I’d seen so many foxes was in the dunes of Ogunquit, where a young fox family was peeking out as Andy and I walked by.
Later on I learned it happened on the day of a full moon. A warning from the universe… or a promise that everything was going to be all right. Only time will tell.
