Christmas cookies make for an acceptable breakfast for the entire week in which Christmas falls. I said what I said. (Holiday shout-out to Marline who has been graciously filling a ‘Cookies for Santa‘ tray with delicious treats for kitty for almost two decades.)
Coming off a weekend filled with my family of friends, I’ll keep this brief as I need to sleep (this is being written late on Sunday night after a glorious Boston visit – well, almost glorious, but that story is coming in a bit). Here’s our weekly recap as we begin the week of the big show…
You’re not going to get sweetness if you squeeze me.
We can’t all be Elphaba or Glinda.
The holly has been enjoying a banner year, much like the hydrangeas did this past summer. I’ve captured sumptuous berry displays like this both in Boston and Albany (these are from the Boston show during last weekend’s holiday stroll). Its pointed foliage is pretty with or without its scarlet accents. ‘Tis the season for these berries. Life’s little delights… little, poisonous, deadly delights…
Don’t eat the holly.
Singer, actor, author, producer, model and songwriter Terrell Carter is the sort of multi-hyphenate Renaissance man we so adore on this blog. Check out his music here, his book here, and his hot stuff here. A native of Buffalo, NY, Carter earns his first Dazzler of the Day for all the talent he has put on display over the past few years. His book ‘Problem Child’ is a riveting walk along his journey – one that continues to surprise and impress.
Somewhere along our Holiday Stroll last weekend, both Kira and I remarked that this year didn’t feel very Christmas-like, so it was reassuring to know that I’m not alone in not feeling the holiday spirit. We’re not very upset or sad about it, and we had a fun weekend together – it simply didn’t feel very much like the festive celebration our holiday strolls have taken on in previous years. Some strolls are like that – maybe we need an itinerary again… or maybe not.
To be honest, I don’t even recall what our stroll actually consisted of – often I’ll have an idea and we’ll proclaim it as we’re walking – this year we just did our usual routine like any other weekend visit. Friday night we ate in, while an emerging full moon swelled in the sky. Dinner was a pomegranate rosemary mocktail paired with a tamarind fish curry.
The next day we started with some shopping and walking downtown, including our customary winter treat of a bowl of pho in Chinatown. Pho Pasteur opens early, so a little after 11 we had a hearty lunch, fueling ourselves for the shopping madness.
The weather was clear, if a bit windy. We agreed that we’d take a bit of wind if the sky remained blue, and after a several rainy holiday strolls, this one at least had the weather on our side.
An unfortunate incident at the Newbury Boston put a damper on our spirits, but only for a moment. Kira and I are resilient to many of the ills of the world because we’ve had to be. Still no word from the hotel on any sort of amends for an episode that reeked of racial profiling.
On our way back to the condo for our afternoon siesta, we paused for fries at Saltie Girl, because a batch of French fries is always a welcome bit of sustenance to see us through to dinner.
Back at the condo, the afternoon light was just beginning to dim, but there was still some sun being reflected through the front windows from the former John Hancock Tower. It’s a magical time of day when sunlight pours in from the front and back windows at the same time.
The evening before a full moon found the heavenly body herself preparing for full splendor, seen here on the right, peering over the row of houses across the street. Instead of some fancy, dress-up holiday dinner at an elegant restaurant, Kira and I went out for a few slices of pizza just around the corner. It was delightful.
On Sunday morning, we were walking back from breakfast and about to say our goodbyes when I asked Kira what the most fun part of this year’s holiday stroll weekend had been. She immediately returned her answer: “Your craziness, I guess.”
One of my favorite plants may be in outside bloom in some parts of the world. The winter rose, usually referred to as the Lenten rose or Christmas rose in these posts, has been seen blooming in Boston in milder Decembers. I’m not sure this has been one of those Decembers, as I have’t seen it on recent city explorations, and the blooms seen here are from a display in Trader Joe’s. It matters not – beauty is beauty, whether natural or forced – each has its charms.
Right now, the bulk of our flowers will be found in forced form, unnaturally in bloom at this mostly inhospitable time of the year. In some respects they are more precious and important now than when they come into bloom outside when spring first arrives. That’s what I mean by beauty is beauty.
If you find yourself asking, “Is it me? Am I the problem?” more than once or twice, the answers are likely yes and yes.
At approximately 4:21 AM, we officially entered the realm of winter. Marking the shortest day of light and longest night of the year, from here on out our daylight time will elongate, gradually unfurling second by second, minute by minute, until we max out at the summer solstice. This is it – the bottom of the valley – and it feels very still, very dark, very quiet. Here is where we move in hushed tones and gentle whispers. Here is where we look up from the lowest levels of light, seeking out any pinprick or spark of illumination in the sky. Here, then, is winter.
Several years ago I made my peace with the season of slumber, embracing its elements and using its storms as opportunities to slow down and be mindful. That is once again the intent this year. Patience comes into prominence and importance here. I find it best to focus on the days as they come rather than be impatiently annoyed and antsy at the prospect of spring’s far-off arrival. Life should not be spent in waiting but in little actions that can be done in the moment.
While last summer began in frilly bombast (hello Coquette!) this winter begins in quiet and calm. Simply and grandly. Still waters, especially when covered in winter ice, churn with seismic shifts, making them more dangerous. Their danger is often in the unstoppable force of their immensity once set in motion. It renders the little things we may try to halt their movement relatively ineffective.
Within every shell of the promise of peace is a jagged bit of potential for the opposite. Without that kernel of knowledge, that possibility of contrast, peace might be entirely meaningless. And maybe it is. At this point, I just don’t know.
These roses glow differently at night, when the cold light of the almost-winter day gives way to the warm hues of candles and human-crafted light. There is only a slight difference from the pictures seen here, probably only discernible to the Virgos among us, of which I am begrudgingly one. Either way, and in whatever light they are shone, these roses are here for the final day of our Fade-To-Black fall, and stand gaily defiant upon the doorstep of winter.
There was much I wanted – and needed – to get out on this blog, years of family secrets and a suddenly-clearer understanding of patterns of family behavior – and I barely scratched the surface. That only means it will come out in the winter, which always makes for good clickbait during those colder months. Stay tuned, and stay warm…
A simple bouquet of spray roses – pink, as Andy prefers his flowers – is a bright spot as we approach the longest night of the year. These photos were taken in the early morning light – later I’ll post their dramatically different hue at night.
I’ve found that one way to ensure that roses open up is to cut them immediately before plopping them into water so there is no time for the stem to seal up and hinder water flow later – as well as using the hottest water that comes out of the faucet (and no hotter, so you don’t need to boil anything on the stove).
Andy used to grow magnificent roses at his former house, where he had sun and good circulation and the summers were kinder than they’ve been of late. As we get older, there is less interest in sustaining such high-maintenance performers for a few flowers, though from time to time we try out a rose just to see if the climate has improved. Thus far it’s only gotten worse, with the blackspot and humidity and aphid infestations.
For now, these bouquet will have to do – and the bonus is that they’re available year-round whenever we need a little lift of spirits, even in the month of Christmas.
“The story is told in so many ways, depending on who is doing the telling, and what needs to be heard at the time.” –
We can’t all be Elphaba or Glinda, as if life could ever be a strictly binary choice.
Some of us have to be Fiyero, if only because dust is what we come to…
Having seen ‘Wicked’ three times now, I am still haunted by this exchange, and it comes from Elphaba talking to Fiyero when they are in the enchanted forest:
Elphaba: No matter how shallow and self-absorbed you pretend to be…
Fiyero: Excuse me, there is no pretense here. I happen to be genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow…
Elphaba: Oh please. No you’re not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so unhappy.
She renders him speechless then, and it’s a silence I know too well.
When faced with the option of being honest and hurting someone, or simply not speaking and saving someone some heartache, I haven’t always made the noble choice. Especially when pressed.
I’m not an orange. You’re not going to get sweetness if you squeeze me.
One blog post.
Just the one.
I usually have three scheduled:
Yesterday I only had one in me.
It wasn’t for any particular reason. I didn’t get around to pre-populating anything, and didn’t feel like doing it after work. So you got one – and a rather piss-poor one at that. Tuesdays often suck and yesterday was no exception – if anything, it was a Tuesdayer Tuesday than usual, making for a pretty shitty day that ended in rain and a sky that couldn’t decide whether to turn off the light at 3 or 4 o’clock.
Suzie and I mutually cancelled our planned holiday excursion, which means it won’t happen before Christmas; she didn’t feel well, and I didn’t feel like doing it at all. And I don’t think either of us is very bothered by it. That’s somewhat new for me. Slightly worrisome, slightly a relief, mostly a shrug.
The same way I feel about this blog. And this month. And this year.
Just the one.
Sorrowful confession: I haven’t felt the Christmas spirit yet this year. While not outright or immediate cause for alarm, I did have a twinge of concern as I closed out this year’s holiday stroll weekend with nary a particular moment of holiday spirit. Perhaps it was this damper at the Newbury Boston, or maybe the second Christmas without my Dad is hitting more keenly than the first since it’s finally settling in – whatever the reason, the traditional comfort and warmth of the season has thus far eluded me.
Sometimes it happens this way – and sometimes it shows up right before the big event. Even if it doesn’t, I’ve made my peace with not feeling the same joy we once did as kids. In addition to doing my own growing up, the world has changed in the past few years, leveling traditions that once felt like they would, and should, last a lifetime. And honestly, I simply don’t care. It’s ok to change, and it’s ok to step back and away from customs that exist simply for the sake of custom. There is power in such history, and sentiment in such traditions; there is also power in letting them go when the time is right.
