Let us have beauty! Unattainable, unreliable, unrelenting beauty!
For the start of December, we demand it. In the month when winter arrives after much hemming and hawing and hinting, we will need beauty and light and warmth more than ever. The holidays can falsely keep hopes lifted for only a short duration – soon that tree will lose its needles, those ornaments will lose their luster, and we will lose the spirit of cheer and joy that has only ever been temporary. Then we will be left scrambling to find the next fix, the next balm upon our hearts while the long trek of winter unfurls its endless wonder. That’s when beauty comes into play.
In the false heat and humidity of a greenhouse, these orchids bloom entirely unaware of the winter about to surround them. That winter will lay siege to all of our surroundings, but in the artificial environment of the greenhouse, these orchids will go about their business, happily blooming and growing and putting on a show. They will have no idea how helpful it will be for those of us just trying to make it through another day. Beauty does that.
And so, let us have beauty for the beginning of December, and let it ring throughout the coming winter.
On this last day of November, let’s just look back at the week before and save everyone a monthly recap because there is only just so much recapping one can take. I’ve reached my limit, that is for sure. And the year-end summation is up next month. We’ll see if I muster that one. I don’t know anyone who wants to relive 2020 in any way, shape or fashion. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. On with the last week – it’s all I can handle at the moment.
A sunny Sunday morning dawns, and I steal into the backyard for a quick shot of the fountain grass, brilliantly lit against a blue sky. Looks lovely enough, though a far cry from the sumptuous green straps of summer. The sun deceptively doesn’t betray the cutting wind or chilly temperature. That’s what these words are for. In the background of my screen, a Sunday morning coffee jam by Karel Barnowski plays – the perfect accompaniment for some casual writing.
It’s not a bad way to begin a Sunday on the verge of December. Certainly the sun helps, along with the sky – the sort of blue brilliance that doesn’t often happen at the end of November. Maybe Mother Nature knows there is just so much more we can take in 2020. Doubtful, that. There’s always another level below. Better to be cautious.
But on this particular morning, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I allow myself a brief moment of relief and release. I take a deep breath and appreciate the fluffy seed-heads of the fountain grass, and the way they move in the wind. We don’t get that kind of show in summer. It only comes after a full season of growth, and after the killing frosts of fall have turned the grass into a sun-bleached beacon of tan wonder.
At first there was the idea: a home away from home.
A place where spring might be found in February, and in my mind that’s all I could envision.
It was November, which always felt like the darkest month of the year. Thoughts of the coming spring, even if we hadn’t even entered winter, kept me going. As did the idea of a place in Boston, away from the campus of Brandeis. Having persuaded my parents of the wisdom of purchasing a condo in the South End of Boston, where real estate was just beginning to take off, I’d wasted no time in starting the search. This song led my heart, and I remember hearing it for the first time in the music store on the second floor of the Copley Place Mall, back when such garish haunts still had a home in Copley.
IT FELT LIKE SPRING TIME
ON THIS FEBRUARY MORNING
IN THE COURTYARD BIRDS WERE SINGING YOUR PRAISE
I’M STILL RECALLING THINGS YOU SAID
TO MAKE ME FEEL ALRIGHT
I CARRIED THEM WITH ME TODAY
The fall day on which I started the hunt for our Boston condo began in rainy form. Living on campus at Brandeis at the time, in a castle from whose balcony the city of Boston appeared like some little glowing visage of Oz far in the distance, I longed to be in the middle of the city, longed to find a place there as I’d dreamed all those years ago on one of our first visits to Quincy Market. Somewhere in my head, amid the magical little bull markets and twinkling trees, beside the wavy cobblestone walkways, and the centuries of history, I felt my own history being built.
The year was 1995, and I’d taken my father’s offer to start looking for a place in Boston at face value, hopping on the commuter rail into the city, and walking into the South End to the first real estate place I saw on Tremont. Expecting some introductory small talk, some vague promise of a meeting in a week or two, I suddenly found myself walking out of the office and onto Clarendon with the handsome real estate agent, beneath a suddenly-blue sky and the late afternoon sunlight.
Perhaps it was all part of his master plan, but the first offer was a smaller place right around the block on Clarendon Street. I remember a brick wall in the kitchen area, where a single small batch of dried, almost desiccated flowers, hung in a sad sort of way. It wasn’t ideal, and there wasn’t a T stop nearby, but the notion of waking up in white sheets, when the sun poured in and illuminated every crack and crevice of brick, was rustically appealing in its simple way. The idea of sharing that small space with someone suddenly imprinted itself upon my mind, an idea of making a home, and of finding love there.
The second home we saw was deeper into the South End. Even further from any T stop, it offered the most space, but was unfortunately divided into several smaller rooms lending it a claustrophobic feel, where no light reached some of the inner-rooms. That old real-estate adage about location, location, location ran through my head, and as we walked the long way back to the real estate office, I felt a little despair that we were down to one more option.
NOW, AS I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP
THIS I PRAY
THAT YOU WILL HOLD ME DEAR
THOUGH I’M FAR AWAY
I’LL WHISPER YOUR NAME INTO THE SKY
AND I WILL WAKE UP HAPPY
It was dark when we visited the condo at Braddock Park. Located on the border between Copley and the South End, it was in a brick building along the Southwest Corridor Park. Steps from the orange line, and a few more steps to the green line, it was the closest to just about everything. In the night, I could locate where we were based on the twin hotels of the Marriott and Westin nearby, and the John Hancock Tower slightly beyond them. Their lights broke the blackness around us. It felt like we were on the doorstep of Boston. More than that, I somehow felt like I was home.
The condo was on the second floor, which rose even higher than a typical second story based on the fact that the first floor actually started about a dozen steps above the sidewalk. Coupled with high ceilings, we were indeed at the doorstep of Boston, and somehow looking down over it. Even without being there during the day, I could sense there would be good light. It was a floor-through unit with bay windows in the front and the back. A bit foolish to make such an investment without seeing it at both day and night, but something just felt right about it. There, in the darkness of a Boston evening, it felt right. Just me, and the city, and the night.
When November arrived, and the cold days settled in, it was time to close on the condo. My Boston dorm had taken on a decidedly dreary aspect ~ both in its suffocating communal shower, where a house centipede was lurking around every corner, and in the coldness of its painted cinder block walls, the sad little sink and mirror by the tiny window.
I WONDER WHY I FEEL SO HIGH
THOUGH I AM NOT ABOVE THE SORROW
HEAVY-HEARTED TIL YOU CALL MY NAME
AND IT SOUNDS LIKE CHURCH BELLS
OR THE WHISTLE OF A TRAIN
ON A SUMMER EVENING
I’LL RUN TO MEET YOU BAREFOOT
BARELY BREATHING
On the day we closed on it, the wind was strong and the air was chilled. It was November, and we’d turned past the point where warm and sunny days could still heat the earth. For such a transformational event, it felt oddly uneventful, and as my parents signed all the papers, and the condo became our second home, the little set of keys hardly seemed like they could open the portal to the next part of our lives.
It would be a couple of weeks before I moved in, and in those weeks I steeled myself for a life alone. Now that the deal was done, there was no reason for the real estate agent to hang around, and I was left by myself, with all the trappings of an exciting single life in Boston, but none of the happiness or excitement or hope. Gradually, by little and insubstantial bits of furniture old and new, I furnished the condo, in minimalist fashion by necessity, and sparsely by tentativeness. In those first few days, I wanted to take it all in in its most simple and basic form ~ the warm, newly-refinished hardwood floors, the bit of exposed brick wall in the bathroom, the little counter that separated our small kitchen area from the rest of the front room, the marble mantle around the fireplace from who knew how many long years ago.
While the main room had lovely recessed lighting in its ceiling, the bedroom was bereft of such luxury. A little fringed lamp was all I had to illuminate the space at night, and I slept on the thin almost-mattress of a cot we brought in until a bed could be ordered and delivered. There wasn’t a television or a stereo in the place, and I didn’t need or want for any. In that stillness and quietude, I forged a love for time spent alone. Somehow I knew it would be the singular love affair we all need to find to be ok with whatever ways our journeys wound.
AS I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP
THIS I PRAY
THAT YOU WILL HOLD ME DEAR
THOUGH I’M FAR AWAY
I’LL WHISPER YOUR NAME INTO THE SKY
AND I WILL WAKE UP HAPPY
The idea of sharing this space with someone, or sharing a life with someone, was the way I romanticized in those days. And especially those nights. I played this song over and over, longing for such a scene, longing for companionship, longing for the fix that would heal my heart. I wasn’t quite sure how it had been broken, there simply came a day when, upon examining it, I realized that yes, there were cracks, there were fissures even as I didn’t recall the jolts that did it.
Was it the man who scraped my face so viciously with his stubble, the first man who ever kissed me, the man who took that special moment and in his alcoholic madness in turn took my innocence? I honestly didn’t think he had broken it ~ even when we saw each other randomly a year prior to that, when he told me it just wasn’t working out before I even realized we were actually dating. I was so young and naive, I didn’t even know that.
Was it my favorite Uncle who laughed at me when I was a kid, when in a rare moment of excitement I showed him a flower arrangement I had made and he asked with a smirk if I was gay? I couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve, and still I remember the sting of it, the way I hid in my room and cried until my Mom asked me what was wrong as I was avoiding my favorite Uncle and I just blurted it out in pain and anguish.
Was it when one of my only friends in college jokingly and derisively said he hoped I wasn’t going fag on him when I innocently pointed out the moon on our way back from dinner one night?
I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t any single event, maybe it was the gradual erosion of our lives, the mean stuff and tough stuff of life that eats away at all of us, some more than others, some much more harshly than others, until we reach a point where our hearts are so delicate and worn that they break at the silliest and most trifling of things. A culmination of continual little heartaches resulting in a break that is, at that point, almost a tender sort of relief.
IT’S NOT TOO NEAR FOR ME
LIKE A FLOWER I NEED THE RAIN
THOUGH IT’S NOT CLEAR TO ME
EVERY SEASON HAS ITS CHANGE
AND I WILL SEE YOU
WHEN THE SUN COMES OUT AGAIN
Then, at the not-so-ripe age of twenty, in that rather lovely year of 1995 ~ a loveliness I would come to appreciate more and more as the other years went by ~ those little breaks and cracks had forced me to rebuild a stronger fortress, a defiant set of armor that would steel me against future heartbreak. I needed that whenever I descended and entered the city. Only within the brick walls and the lofty vantage point over Braddock Park did I feel safe enough to let down my guard, to be myself and to be ok all by myself. It was in that way that I shaped a new sense of home.
My adult life was forged there, for better or worse, and it prepared me for hardships and celebrations and love and loss and loneliness and betrayal and redemption and survival. All those facets of living the fullest life, when we are brave enough not to shy away from those feelings.
AS I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP
THIS I PRAY
THAT YOU WILL HOLD ME DEAR
THOUGH I’M FAR AWAY
I’LL WHISPER YOUR NAME INTO THE SKY
AND I WILL WAKE UP HAPPY
Home is a habit, and sometimes you have to make it up as you go.
Home is stability and safety, even when your own heart invites in all sorts of dangers.
Home is a quiet place of refuge when the wind whirls in wicked ferocity, when the rest of the world deserts you, when you have to face the demons all by yourself.
Home doesn’t have to be a physical space bound by wood and clay and windows, but when that place forms the background and base for those moments when you realize what home is, it can’t help but take on some of that history, to become imbued with some of that spiritual matter that we shed as we grow.
There, in that Boston wilderness of a heart tamed by a solitude and stillness, protected from another brutal winter by centuries of brick and mortar, buffeted by the history of a city defined by its singularly American story, of revolution and rebellion, of defiance and devastation, I made a home a quarter of a century ago.
I WONDER WHY
WHEN THE SUN COMES OUT AGAIN
I WILL WAKE UP HAPPY
With cross ventilation, social distancing, and separate eating areas, we managed to have as safe a Thanksgiving as possible in this pandemic era, and still spend time with family. It took some planning, but there was joy and fun in that process too, hours spent in the Ilagan garage, where we staged a dinner with some creative lighting and curtains, and a floral ladder hung over the main table.
This year our bounty wasn’t in the delicious meal, or the extravagant flowers over our head, it was in the simple company of family. Andy’s parents haven’t been with us for a number of years, and every Thanksgiving we are reminded of their absence, as happens with most holidays. I was especially glad to have Mom and Dad still with us – something we appreciate more and more with each passing year.
That’s why this was so important for us to do, and I’m grateful we were able to make it work. Company is good for Dad – and this year it was good for all of us.
It doesn’t always, but this time Thanksgiving lived up to its name.
Oh, and I got to wear a hat with a bird in it! (I’ll get better pics of that another day.)
Shortly after I entered Massachusetts, I saw it swoop right over the turnpike, soaring through the cold air. Its front and back blurred into the bright sky, giving me a certain glimmer of hope and excitement which was soon confirmed as I watched it alight in a tree: a bald eagle. A fortuitous sign for the day ahead, in which I was scheduled to check on the condo and do a quick walk through Boston. The car sped by the eagle’s raw magnificence.
The forest teetered on the edge of holiday celebration. It was always slightly more interesting when the threat of snow was in the air. Maybe it lacked the obvious mystery that full canopy of leaves would provide in the depths of summer, but the woods held a different sort of allure now.
I finished my quick visit to Boston and found myself back on the turnpike driving through the Berkshires. The day was coming to its early close, and as I closed in on New York State a sudden series of squalls came upon us as such squalls in such places often do. Deciding to wait for a bit, I pulled off at the nearest exit in Lee, where the outlets had begun their holiday sales. The snow was coming down heavily, but there was light in the distance so I knew it wouldn’t last. Instead, the effect was thoroughly enjoyable. Some gift-buying seemed a festive way to pass the squall, and as I climbed the large hill where the outlets were nestled, it felt like one of those surreal holiday moments that’s part magic and part make-believe.
The snow soon lifted, the clouds parted, and the sky lightened again. I caught these photos of a little crescent moon. A day that begins with a bald eagle and ends with a crescent moon is a magical day indeed.
The House of Creed provides the fragrance that kicks off this year’s holiday season. A birthday gift from this past summer, I’ve held onto it, keeping patient and calm as much as I wanted to break this bad boy open and spritz away ~ it is such a delicious scent. But don’t take my fumbling words for it ~ read what the official literature says about ‘Royal Oud’, from the House of Creed:
Wood, leather, marble, and gold. These luxurious elements of a Persian palace are the inspiration behind the architecture of Royal Oud. Precious, sweet oud is carefully extracted from agarwood trees, a carefully-guarded resource that grows only in certain parts of India. Oud’s rarity lends to the expense of the fragrance’s coveted raw materials, prized by both the men and women who wear it. A fashionable favorite amongst today’s royals and heads of state, Royal Oud’s universal blend bottles the splendor of palace life across continents.
Oddly enough, it’s not the oud that hits hardest with this one. It opens a bit dirty for me, in as elegant and royal a way as dirty can sometimes be, and for that reason alone I was instantly in love with it. In a year when we remain stuck at home for the most part, this is the time to wear something polarizing, to try and experiment, to challenge one’s olfactory comfort zone in an environment not bound by office courtesy or public decorum.
‘Royal Oud’ is a big banging bomb of a scent in the best possible way, and it’s absolutely sublime for the start of the holidays. With its woody and musky heart, which I get from the opening blast as well, this is a glorious doozy. The beginning is sparked and softened by a warm spicy element with some lovely pink pepper brightened in jewel-like splendor with lemon and Sicilian bergamot.
Sumptuous and refined, with that sparkling kernel of underlying dirtiness lending it a little wink, ‘Royal Oud’ is a warmer offering from Creed, which often veers a little cold and clinical for my liking. This one smolders in dramatic fashion, a little messy and a little opulent ~ royalty reborn.
I am such a sucker for online ads these days. I’ve been toying with a colorful Saks Fifth Avenue kimono for the past few weeks, watching it dip below $500 then $319 before wisely giving up on such nonsense when I’m on display for all of two people. (One of whom is myself.)
But when I saw this sweet little plaid holiday mantle, and at a very reasonable $165 from Ralph Lauren, I quickly clicked and looked for the button to plop it in my cart. I hit the size option and then something odd happened, it just said 2-6x. Now, figuring this was a woman’s item, I was going to try a 2XL if that was the smallest they had – besides, in a poncho, bigger is always better.
Turns out this was a girl’s item. I guess 2-6x is a kid’s size thing.
Living in upstate New York has one very important perk: the proximity to the Beekman 1802 Mercantile. From our very first visit to the satisfyingly-sleepy village of Sharon Springs to visit the American Hotel almost ten years ago, we’ve been fans of the Beekman Boys and their goat milk soap. In all that time, their goat milk empire has expanded to encompass quite a few more items, such as body lotion, lip balm, shampoo, conditioner, and an entire arsenal of skin care products. That’s only the start – check out their edible artisanal items as well, including my absolute obsession – Goat Poop. Trust me, just put it in your mouth and prepare for divinity on your tongue.
Last week I took a vacation day and made the quick drive to Sharon Springs early in the morning, when I officially gave in to the start of the holiday shopping season. As I took the first turn onto Main Street, the Mercantile was the first thing I saw, resplendent in neon twinkles and dripping with starlight in the form of mirrors that covered the entire building. Holiday magic was in full effect, and I gave in to the glory.
For the mountains. magnificent weathered beacons of topographical wonder.
Tengo gracias that I can speak my mind y no hay consecuencias graves when I do so.
I won’t lie, I struggled with this question With all the fighting, hate and violence it has been difficult to remember to be thankful. However, when I read stories of people who stand up and speak out for justice and truth I become immensely grateful and proud of America.
Freedom to whisper against kings My grandmother who carried her green card in the broken tattoos on her back
I am thankful that other people are still trying to come here. I am thankful for the vastness of our borders and the beauty of our natural lands.
Sunshine streaming softly while we sip our morning coffee. But across the oceans our troops fight ensuring that we keep our rights, to give us a land of the free. For the first responders For hope
I am thankful for America’s history, warts and all. Our past, full of light and dark, Read the history of heroes and villains See our country for what it is.
Free Press and Free speech to speak out against injustices in our country,
For family For places to walk safely places to paddle arcades of trees varied, inexpensive food tools and workplaces longtime friends who listen tennis courts
Indoor plumbing,
to worship whoever we want, to say whatever we want, to go wherever we want.
for the public libraries. They raise up voices whom others attempt to silence.
for diversity. For differences My son is transgender and I am grateful for those who treat HER with respect and kindness.
for Cape May; for parties on the Fourth of July; for anarchist coffee shops; for church-run thrift stores; hole-in-the-wall BBQ joints; Lake Michigan; Vinny’s Pizzeria in the 90s; beer delivery in a snow storm;
for second, third and fourth chances. For forgiveness. I am thankful that my hybrid existence, hinted by my brown skin and slanted eyes, can make sense in America.
For many spectacular parks in our nation–from the huge and awe-inspiring Grand Canyon to the tiny neighborhood park with the small playground and the pretty benches painted by local artists.
I am grateful that America can change, too. for the millions who take to the streets, challenge authority, insist on change, demand justice, resist evil, tell their stories,
Wrought through division Sustained by freedom’s hope Seeking reunion I am thankful for America, most of the time. AMERICA LETS ME CONNECT AND PLAY VIDEOS WITH THE WORLD AMERICA ALLOWS ME TO PLAY BASKETBALL AMERICA GIVES ME A GOOD EDUCATION
Thank you, America, For the mom and pop shops and rest stops. For the back roads and the beaten paths. For the love that greets me when I come home.
For the dream to become, the dream to make better or different, the dream to inspire, the dream of something on the other side of whatever is facing us in the moment
These are the two people in the world for whom I am most thankful, not just for today, but for all the days I will be here. Mom and Dad. Two little words that universally mean love and adoration, and I am no exception to such sentiments. This year, I’m a little more thankful than I usually convey, maybe because we have all seen the way the world can turn. In the darkest times, when everything feels a little uncertain and unsure, I turn to my family for comfort and safety. In the topsy-turvy way this year has gone, we’ve had to be there for each other.
Back in September, Dad turned 90 years old, and a couple weeks after took a nasty spill on the back patio, breaking a couple of ribs and landing himself in the hospital. A tough healing process for anyone, it’s made especially so for someone in their 90’s, with all sorts of other concerns heaped upon the pain. I made daily trips to Amsterdam to spend time with him and Mom, at a safe distance in the garage, or in a mask and even further apart in the living room. In those first few days, it was frightening to see how a fall could so badly ravage a 90-year-old man. Dad didn’t have a taste for anything and wasn’t eating much. His nights were restless and disorienting, making sleep and recuperation doubly difficult, which is probably what he needed more than anything. To stimulate his appetite, I made all sorts of his favorite Filipino dishes, starting with lumpia and pancit, which he gamely tried and began to eat.
Gradually, he ate more and more. I brought over pans of babinka, and pots of adobo, along with a steady supply of more lumpia while our deep fryer was fully operational. The weather outside turned colder and crueler, but within the garage a safe cocoon of warmth and sustenance came into existence. The scent of freshly cut wood and piles of sawdust lent the space a cozy atmosphere, while candles burned and gave off little flickers of heat and light. Even, and perhaps especially, in a pandemic, family finds a way.
The Ilagans will celebrate Thanksgiving and the rest of the holidays a different way to be as safe as possible this year, and that’s ok. I think we all realize what’s really important, and for these two people I remain most thankful. Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and your families as well – enjoy them in whatever capacity you can!
The perfectly imperfect simplicity of a pink macaron.
Skip says it must be pronounced a certain fancy way, so as not to mistake it for a macaroon.
At times, Skip is fancier than me.
I’m less fancy than I pretend to be.
But I digress from the simple macaron at hand.
This little jewel was a rose tea variety I found on my last day-trip to Boston. More on that in a bit – for now let’s just enjoy the sight of this tiny treasure, so temptingly perched on a plate procured from Chinatown many moons ago. A brief moment of happy whimsy before the holiday madness ensues.
It was the voice that brought me my first brush with sublime pop joy and exuberance, and it was a voice that guided me through my childhood, adolescence, and adult years – covering three decades of rich and varied life, modulating and adjusting to every twist and turn in the op culture world, as well as the intimate corkscrews of my own personal life.
So when she so disastrously posted a supportive Instagram pic of some Trump-advocated loon of a doctor who was making dangerous claims abut COVID, it hit some of her fans, myself included, in an almost-fatal way. The question was how to forgive someone who didn’t want, need, or request forgiveness in any form. She deleted it, remained mum about it, and moved on. Maybe she knew how wrong she was. Maybe she was ashamed and embarrassed by such a sad and sorry misstep. Maybe she just didn’t give a fuck. And so I took some time away from Madonna, for the first time ever.
I never thought the break would be as long or as serious as it was, but I’m in a different place in my life now. In my twenties, when my passions burned hard and bright and unforgivably hot, I’d have taken it a lot harder. Now it passed like news of the brutal belly-flop of her ‘Living For Love’ single. Stung a bit, left a residual ache, and then went away, without so much as a bruise.
More problematic was how to reconcile my disappointment with the questionable judgment of an idol. To that end, I focused on the joy Madonna always brought me. I could enter through that portal with the ‘Vogue’ MTV Awards performance from 1990, in which she flounced about in ‘Dangerous Liaisons’ garb a la Marie Antoinette. That was the easy access route, but it left me feeling hollow, and slightly dirty. Normally that’s a good thing when Madonna is involved, but this wasn’t a good kind of dirty. This felt emotionally icky, and so I had to find another way back.
At her best moments, and in her best music, Madonna has admitted her faults and failings, owning up to mistakes, to narcissism, to ego, to failing prey to the weakness and temptations we all yield to at some point. Yet she never stopped searching, never stopped seeking ways to improve, to become something better than she was today…
I am also most decidedly not a believer in a take-no-prisoners, burn-it-all-to-the-ground kind of cancellation that would erase almost forty wonderful years of music and inspiration. Madonna has done far more good in the world than I can ever hope to accomplish. Her work for AIDS when it first came on the scene and ravaged so many of her friends, her intrinsic and integral support of the gay community, her championing of feminism using her own life as the prime example, and her own quirky way of fighting against ageism have all been inspiring facets of her life journey. In so many ways she fought for the underdogs and the very populations who needed it when the world turned against them. You can’t undo all of that with a misguided Instagram post.
If Madonna has taught me anything over the years it’s that we all should have the chance and opportunity to reinvent ourselves, to become better versions of ourselves when we learn things and grow. Has my love affair with Madonna completely shriveled up and died? Not a chance. But I can’t and won’t pretend the once pristine shine and sparkle hasn’t dulled, that fissures and cracks haven’t appeared in the once impenetrable fortress of my love for her.
A true hero is never perfect all the time. A true hero has flaws to reveal that they are human. It makes them relatable. It makes them real. It gives their accomplishments a sheen of possibility, and us the idea of entertaining a dream. And so I’m finding my way back to appreciating my hero’s grace and magic, mistakes and all. In the ache of honesty that accompanied a photo of some recent surgery. In the thrill of a pink hair renovation. In the hint of some musical history in the making. In a world bereft of pop idols, I still need Madonna, and I haven’t given up just yet.
