The unexamined life is not worth living, or so some say. At this point, for those of us who may have lived out at least half of our lives, we might feel as if we’ve examined things enough. There comes a time when one must take a chance and simply live – in and for the moment, without consideration of danger or risk or worry. A moment of pause, in a sense, without planning or plotting or considering every possible outcome. There are certainly situations when those actions are vital, but not all the time. I’m looking into letting things go and existing in the moment, something that never came easy for my Virgo nature. Some of us are simply more comfortable with a schedule and a plan, but there are things we miss in the minute-to-minute planning, and these last few years I’ve been working on finding the magic missed.

It coincides with allowing imperfection and the idea of ‘good-enough’ into my mode of living, and letting go of the need to seek perfection and the unattainable goal of ‘just right’. To those ends, some progress has been made. The terror and discomfort I felt at first has been supplanted by an ease and joy that has helped make up for the wretched awfulness that real life has thrown at all of us in these last couple of years. Aging parents, a worldwide pandemic, and the financial strains we’re all facing have conspired to challenge many of us. Maybe it’s just the typical move into crotchety-old-man territory, but I don’t remember when I’ve felt so disheartened or disappointed with the world as a whole. Thankfully, my friends and family lift and buoy my spirits whenever I veer too cynical or pessimistic. I also assume this is what getting older does to everyone – it reveals the ugly truth about things that we could afford to ignore or pretend away in our youth. If we were very lucky, and I believe I have been, we may not have even had to ignore it – it simply was, in our ignorant appraisal, a better and easier time. Still, I wouldn’t trade what little I know now for all my ignorant bliss before.

And so I work to embrace the downward slope that cresting over the hump of middle-age is bringing into accelerated view. Taking breaks from the intensive self-analysis and reflection that has typically populated this site should make for more interesting posts and varied content. After twenty years, it’s about damn time.

If ever the weather cried out for a moment of hygge, this is that ever. While I was at the office yesterday, I watched the temperature slowly tick down through the single digits. Outside the sun was strong, but I wasn’t falling for it; you could hear the wind rushing by the windows. As the afternoon progressed, the wind chill temperature tumbled further. This, at long last, was the proper upstate NY winter we’d not yet had. No one asked for it, no one wanted it, but I can’t complain if it chose to wait until February to arrive. So long as it doesn’t linger…

It puts me in the mind for hygge – so I have stayed close to home today, lighting candles and cooking some kimchi fried rice for tomorrow. Writing blog posts like this, and doing some reading (currently I’m enjoying ‘Braiding Sweetgrass’ by Robin Wall Kimmerer, comprised the bulk of the day, in between cups of hot tea and a meditation at some point. This is winter – harsh outside, soft inside. 

…or a ‘Winter Song’ to see us through the season. 

This is my winter song to you.
The storm is coming soon,
It rolls in from the sea

My voice; a beacon in the night.
My words will be your light,
To carry you to me.

This is a cute one, with a cute video. As much as I’ve been trying to make a certain peace with winter, there are still days, when the morning is especially dim and frigid, that it gets to me, and brings me down a bit. Shivering in our attic loft, I look out the window and down into our little side-yard. It is my secret space in summer – hidden from the main backyard patio and pool area by an archway of coral-bark maple and the papery, peeling trunks of the seven sons’ flower tree, and blocked off from the front yard by a wooden fence and arbor covered in a climbing hydrangea. 

I remember that scene now, as I look onto the top of our grill covered in snow, and a pair of chairs equally obscured. It is only slightly sad, because I know what’s underneath it all; I remember. In a few months, the spikes of the fountain bamboo will slowly appear, and if we’re lucky, and the rabbits haven’t eaten them again, the stems that carried over from last year will leaf out and begin their graceful arching. The fiddleheads of the Dixie fern will unravel their hairy coils, joined soon by the more delicate unfurling of the Japanese painted ferns. A lilac tree – offspring of a plant that Andy’s Mom left him over twenty years ago – will lift up its branches and offer bouquets of heavy and fragrant blooms, bringing them almost to the window of the attic, from which I lean out and breathe in, hoping to catch some of the perfume on the wind. All of this will come again, I remind myself.

I still believe in summer days.
The seasons always change
And life will find a way.

I’ll be your harvester of light
And send it out tonight
So we can start again.

Thoughts of summer days are good, especially if one can merge them with an appreciation of winter as it unfolds around us. I’m working on enjoying the moment, while holding the sunny thoughts in my head. Somewhere far ahead a sense of Zen barely looms – happily, elusively, tantalizingly out of reach – ever out of reach, and may it remain that way so the journey never ends. 

This is my winter song to you.
The storm is coming soon
It rolls in from the sea.

My love a beacon in the night.
My words will be your light
To carry you to me.

Is love alive?
Is love alive?
Is love alive?

When good co-workers become good friends, it makes work, and socializing after work, that much more fun. I’ve been lucky enough to have known Lorie, Sue, and Doris for years, and in that time they have become friends outside of work. That bodes well for me, since they are all retired and I’m still going to the office. Last night we had one of our regular dinners, since we missed out on getting together over the holidays. 

As the temperatures outside plummeted, I lit candles and Andy helped me set the table for a pasta dinner (with some chicken, thank you Doris), a beautiful salad (thank you Lorie) and a delicious tres leches dessert (thank you Sue). Andy assembled his meatballs and sausage and sauce, and we sat down to a winter tablescape courtesy of the junipers and yews from the yard. 

Rather than plop some incongruous bouquet of hothouse flowers on the table, I decided to use small vases of ever-greenery only – giving the table a rustic but cozy feel, which was the intention of the evening. The joy and success of a dinner party is entirely dependent upon the goodness of the guests, and when you are lucky enough to have the wonderful people we call friends with us, every dinner is a pre-destined good time. 

We will try to do one more of these before winter ends – and what a lovely thought to think we are racing against the end of winter. 

The tweens and teens in my world have successfully indoctrinated me into the unexpectedly-vast world of nail polish, and as everyone expected would happen sooner or later (my first manicure was my first dip in this pretty pond), I am now officially obsessed. Well, as obsessed as I get about things these days, which is markedly more reserved than it has ever been. Age mellows all of us in some way. Still, it’s nice to feel that exuberance and excitement about something silly and frivolous again – such a little thing yet how much happiness those little things can bring us if we allow it. I am allowing all of it because we need joy more than ever. 

And so I’ve been practicing my nail polish skills (which are already more advanced than certain nieces who shall remain nameless) for certain outfits and gatherings, such as this lavender-hued spectrum that went with a lavender coat and pants for Landrie’s birthday dinner. 

Andy already loves it – at least, that’s how I’m taking his “What’s wrong with your nails?” comment. Thankfully I know how to translate. 

Fast-forwarding through February goes back to my childhood in the 80’s, when I’d hurry through whatever filler was on the latest Madonna cassette tape to get to the good stuff, much like how we raced through this month to get to spring leaping in like a lion. That’s still a way off, but not a far way – and a land faraway comes into view when one least expects it. February fucks with the mind like this. Winter does too.

This random assortment of fruit was rather awkwardly contained (just barely) in a bowl, and made for a colorful still-life – the sort of random thing that February demands. When the snow keeps dumping and the hits keep coming, one tends to lose their mind in winter madness. This year hasn’t been that bad, but it’s far from over. Hoods and guards up, scarves and gloves at the ready, and button that coat! Full-steam ahead, we charge into February – the final full month of winter for 2023. Here’s a dip into some former Februarys that we survived. 

• February 2011 ~ Madonna timelines mostly, but worth a peek as it includes her timely ‘Sooner or Later’ Oscars performance. 
• February 2012 ~ David Beckham’s bulging briefs and the secret I kept for 20 years.
• February 2013 ~ Daffodils, jonquils and Narcissus, oh my! 
• February 2014 ~ Shirtless male models and gratuitous male nudity – our stock in trade.
• February 2015 ~ Tom Daley’s Speedo and some other floral and fashion moments.
• February 2016 ~ Oscar glory, for real pho, and floral ruins.
• February 2017 ~ Delectable chocolates, icy beauty, and brotherly love.
• February 2018 ~ Olympic butts, naked social media synergy, and taking stock of day and night.
• February 2019 ~ Petting the pussy, a Japanese hot-pot, and several insignificant tiny threads.
• February 2020 ~ Winter contemplation, Madonna’s Dark Ballet, and Maluma in his Calvins.
• February 2021 ~Cake from Burma, full moon madness, and a parade of Dazzlers. 
• February 2022 ~More dazzlers, sweet heat, and signs of spring.