Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Another Beekman Breakthrough

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.

Continue reading ...

Losing Myself in Meditation

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.

Continue reading ...

Words Are Useless, Especially Sentences

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.

Continue reading ...

Afternoon Cup of Tea at the Red Lion Inn

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. 

Continue reading ...

A Little Love Song Called Wonderland

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…
Continue reading ...

A Messy Valentine’s Day Visage

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.

Some Valentine’s Days are like that.

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.

Continue reading ...

A Tale of Two Foxes, Or Maybe a Coyote

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.

Continue reading ...

This Speaks to, and for, Me

There are no words needed. 

 

Continue reading ...

Naked But for a Pillow and Spectacles

Stripped of every stitch of clothing and bereft of any sartorial armor save for a set of spectacles and strategically placed pillow, it is not the nakedness of the body that challenges me, but the nudity of the soul, laid bare for all to see, laid vulnerable and prone and impossibly open when once it was impenetrable. I do not hide behind suit and tie, I do not mask my unruly madness with pomades or product. No cloud of cologne transports me to safe distance, no flash of beaded embellishment distracts enough to allow for exit or escape. The veneer of perfection is like a mirror that cuts both ways: a tale I tell myself, a tale I tell the world.

“If you’re going to reveal yourself, reveal yourself!”

Snappy headlines, snippy attitude, and confrontational gaze.

The biggest risk in life is making oneself vulnerable, and it takes more strength and power to do that than I can usually muster. It’s been easier to shed clothing, to make an exhibitionist statement and bluster my way out of things. The image charges into the crowded room and disarms before I even have to step a foot inside. It’s worked surprisingly well, outwardly. And maybe even a bit inwardly as well. There’s something to be said for faking it until you make it.

Now it’s time to turn inside and see if we can’t renovate some of the interior as well. The bones are there. The foundation is sound. A few wrinkles and cracks are the signs of a life well-lived. There is still work to be done.

Continue reading ...

Essence of Palo Santo

Scent and smoke are ways of connecting the spirit to the body, and the body to the atmosphere. From smudging a home to spritzing on some Tom Ford Private Blends, we have continually used fragrance to enhance our surroundings, and sometimes it becomes something deeper. This is Palo Santo (Bursera Graveolens) – a South American tree that translates as ‘Holy Wood’ and has been used as spiritual incense for healing all sorts of ailments. 

I tried it for the first time a few days ago, and to be completely honest it wasn’t an instant favorite. It wasn’t entirely off-putting, it just had a thread of something I didn’t immediately love, an element of the faintly medicinal, not unlike the first time I smelled the creosote bush after a rainfall in the desert (which I eventually came to love). I switched back to my favored Tibetan cedar wood incense sticks for a week of mindful moments, wherein I worked on mindfulness and meditation. Maybe that changed something in me, because when I returned to try the Palo Santo again, I found its fragrance pleasant and calming. Its purported benefits are certainly worth a second sniff, so I’m glad I didn’t give up on it. Some things deserve a second chance. 

Continue reading ...

A Brief Speedo Interlude

The summer Olympics are coming up in July, and to whet your appetite I fill this space with some Speedo bulges filled out by several gentlemen who have made splashes here and in Olympic pools the world over. The tallest, and the guy in every single one of these photos is Yona Knight-Wisdom who appeared here as Hunk of the Day, anchoring this hunky collection and played a part in this hunk break

There’s also some Speedo shots of Daniel Goodfellow in his post as Hunk of the Day, this follow-up in more Speedo glory, and closed out this shirtless collection

Jack Laugher is represented in posts too numerous to mention, but a few merit special consideration, such as this double-Speedo-sighting, a Hunk of the Day crowning, this Speedo trio, a rear view for a snowy day, and this post that barely contains all of his assets

Finally, James Heatly brings heat in his Hunk of the Day feature, and also appeared in this yearly round-up in case you want links to last the rest of the week. 

Continue reading ...

The Show-Stopping African Violet

One of my Mom’s friends – the woman who taught me how to force paper white narcissus – had a small collection of African violets that she grew on her kitchen windsill, where they enjoyed the humidity from the nearby kitchen sink. I’ve never gotten into these beautiful little plants, despite the success that some have rightly proclaimed over the years (I’ve seen FaceBook evidence of their recurring blooms). They have sensitive leaves and stems that do not like touching the rim of a clay pot, or the feel of cold water, which will leave spots on their furry leaves. (As a general rule, most fuzzy leaves don’t enjoy water on them. Think cats.) 

While I don’t have time for that kind of temperamental care, I do enjoy seeing these at greenhouses and other homes. They offer cheery bursts of color, set off by darkly gorgeous, velvet-like foliage, giving off a very welcome tropical vibe at this icy time of the year. 

Continue reading ...

A Drawing for Two Uncles

The last time our niece Emi came over to dinner she left Andy and I a surprise gift. It was this note, written to her uncles, which included a drawing. Its title will be somewhat of a mystery until we get to ask her about it. Our best guess is something along the lines of ‘The Star Spark’ or ‘The Star Ship’ – and we are leaning toward the latter given the clear illustration of a boat on the sea. I love the drama of it all – see that tumultuous sky! Watch for those rising rocks! Be careful of all that hair! 

Many thanks to Emi Lu for the little gift – it was a lovely surprise after a family dinner

Continue reading ...

Back in the Driver’s Seat

With the exception of the well-worn path along the Massachusetts Turnpike to Boston I don’t usually do much driving. Andy has been the driver of the family. He’s better at it, he enjoys it, and I’ve been lucky in that respect. On a recent Saturday morning, however, I got in the car and spent the day mostly driving – partly in the service of ferreting out a new phone and provider, and partly for the sake of the drive itself. “Washing the dishes to wash the dishes” so to speak.

February is not the prettiest month for a car ride, but it’s certainly better than November. There was a fresh coating of snow and ice lending winter enchantment to the surroundings, and though it was cold outside the heated seat of the Mini Cooper kept me toasty. I drove all over Colonie and Latham, stopping at every cel phone provider along the way, skirted through Niskayuna and Schenectady after spending a moment in Faddegon’s, and eventually found my way to Amsterdam to see if their Michael’s had any special beads for a coat I’m working on. I’m at my best when working on something, no matter how frivolous or silly it may seem to you.

Filling the car at a Market Street gas station, I felt the early chill of the waning afternoon and knew the sun was about to descend. I drove over the Mohawk River and got back on the Thruway, but instead of heading home, I got off a few exits early and found myself following the way to where Andy lived when I first met him.

I barely remembered which roads and turns to take but instinct guided me, and things looked thrillingly familiar. Something compelled me to take this old route, back from a time when we were first getting to know each other. Maybe it was a rare brush with nostalgia. Maybe it was just a wish to return to a happier place and a simpler time. Maybe I was in the mood to look back over the past two decades.

I passed a place that used to be a deli, but the cow was no longer on the roof. I passed the church where we said goodbye to Andy’s Mom. When I reached Carman Plaza and saw the corner ice cream store, I knew I had reached Nathaniel Drive. The sign for Nathaniel Place, once so prominent and unmissable, had been dwarfed by the vegetation and landscaping that had grown up around it. Yes, it made sense. Certain things looked smaller, and many years had passed since I was last here

I pulled the car over and paused in the afternoon sun as it was going down. This was the home where I first met Andy. It was in the dark of a late summer night in July, and we had no idea the adventures on which we were about to embark. I remember snowy days, holiday parties, cherry blossoms hovering over the back deck, and little vases that Andy would fill with fragrant roses from the garden.

The house stands quietly, not even winking at me despite how long we’ve known each other, and it’s time to go. I turn back onto Liberty then onto the main road, past the Pizza Gram where the jalapeno poppers remain the best I’ve ever had, past the candy store where they sold white fluffy teddy bears with hearts on their paws at this very time of the year, then past Willow Street where he grew up, and the fire station where they blew the horn as his dad drove by for the final time.

Tears fill my eyes as Prospect Hill Cemetery rises to my left. The steep road is covered in snow and looks treacherous. I’m too distracted to notice whether the magnificent house at Rose Hill, one of Andy’s favorites, is still there, and soon I’m passing the restaurant where we first heard that Andy’s Mom had passed away. Maybe this is why I’m crying. So much of Andy’s history has happened here, so much heartache and so much love.

I keep driving as a moon that looks like it might be full rises ahead of me. Pulling over in a parking lot, I take a picture of it, wondering if it will watch over us or if it will wreak havoc. Part of it is destiny. Part of it is will.

When I finally get back home it is dark. The days have begun to stay lighter for longer, but we are not there yet.

Continue reading ...

February Gold Recap

In the aftermath of the Oscars, we have our usual Monday recap, and while it will be relatively Oscar-free, there is some gold in the featured photos here. In certain sections of the world, some narcissus, aptly named ‘February Gold’ begin their blooming season now. That means spring is around the corner, and though the corridor getting there may seem dark, I’m finding my way. On with the briefest of recaps in the briefest of weeks, and then into the future, unflinching and undaunted. 

Prick of the Rose

Back to the bamboo in the backyard.

A naked Pietro Boselli.

The frivolity of love

Making mistakes in my underwear.

And taking my underwear off.

Check out these shower shots because they’re hot. Mindfully hot. 

Hunks of the Day included James LovellRadzi Chinyanganya, Cameron Dallas, Sebastian StanLeif Erik Offerdahl, Keegan Hirst, and Christian Siriano

Continue reading ...