Hot off the blades of his 6th US Figure Skating Championship title, Nathan Chen kicks off this year’s Winter Olympic extravaganza with his first Dazzler of the Day crowning. He leads the hopes for US Gold at this winter’s Olympic Games. There’s a lot of pressure riding on that, yet he has the champion’s focus to deal with it in a way that I cannot even begin to fathom.
The idea of ice has always captivated me. Equally enthralled by its danger as much as its beauty, I’ve always been seduced by its off-putting allure. The way it forms simply from water and air has been a source of wonder and amazement, rivaling the most beautiful blooms of the garden at the height of summer, challenging the most exquisite perfume from a flower at the onset of dusk. Ice makes the gardens of winter sparkle and shine – the balm of something beautiful in the face of danger and darkness.
Such visions deserve their own song, here in a piece by Andrew Souter. Entitled ‘Melting Icicles’, may it portend the spring to come, even if that feels far away, even if the winter has only just started.
One relies on hope at this time of the year, because one cannot rely on beauty, especially the beauty of ice. The briefest thaw will decimate the pretty scene here, as will a relentless drying wind. Ice isn’t all-powerful – it’s probably one of the most fleeting of nature’s beauties.
And so when I see it, and it’s safe to be out and about, I will pause to appreciate it, like a rare bloom gone by the end of a hot summer day. Winter holds its enchantments differently than summer in some ways, and remarkably the same in others.
Artists make the most impressive dazzlers, and so this Dazzler of the Day was an obvious and much-deserved choice. Here is Michael Breyette – one of my favorite living artists – and what a thrill and joy it is to be alive when someone so talented is working and producing art that will surely endure long into the future. We don’t appreciate people when we should.
Breyette has been featured here in a few previous posts, such as this artist profile and a cheeky Hunk of the Day crowning. He was also gracious and kind enough to capture me back when I could fit snugly into a Speedo.
He recently posted the following on his lovely website, offering an inside look into the process of an artist in winter:
It’s great to have a busy holiday season, but it seems like forever since I was at the drawing board. I also have this ‘dream’ of coming up with a whole bunch of ideas and outlines now to carry me through the whole year. The hope would be that I’d be more proficient and could quickly finish up one work and move right on to the next, without waiting for inspiration or taking time to develop an idea. Knowing how I usually work though, I don’t think I’ll make it happen. In the past when I’ve planned out several pieces at once, I’ve only managed to complete a few of them. Maybe I lose interest, my head is just not in the same place it was when I was creating the concept.
How wonderful it is to have him in this world, making it more beautiful, making it more resonant, making it more bearable. Visit his website here for more magic and enjoy the seasonal selections of his work below.
We have arrived at the coldest day of the year thus far, and the only thing to do is light a candle, do a flame dance, and pray that it all keeps you warm. This is the time for frozen pipes and frozen ears and noses, and suddenly a mask mandate doesn’t feel so awful when you’re outside making your world today takes everything you’ve got… a run-on sentence that segues into the ‘Cheers’ theme is not quite I had in mind when crafting this post, but the blog will take us where it wants to go. (Insert incorrect sitcom theme song link here.) Back on the hygge track, as hygge is what I’m hoping sees us through these brittle days, even if I’m due in the office and all I will have is a chunky cardigan and Tibetan wool blanket between me and a drafty window. My my my… I just wrote ‘My, my, my’ as if I’m someone’s grandmother… whoopsie daisy!
Refocusing on the original intent of this post, which is to provide a little flame of warmth on this brutally frigid morning, and a sliver of hope in the idea of hygge. If you can hunker down in a nest of cozy blankets and pillows, by all means do that. If you can’t, try to slip into something warm and fuzzy, like a sweater or chunky knit scarf. Failing that, perhaps you can find solace and comfort in a cup of hot chocolate or steaming tea. And if that isn’t possible, maybe you can find the spirit of hygge and hold it in your head and heart, taking a few deep breaths no matter where you might find yourself.
I don’t know – I am out of practical suggestions so maybe this post is a bit of a failure.
As for me, though I have a full day in the office ahead, I will eventually return home, and while it will be dark when I make my way into the warm comfort of our house, there will be the chance to light a few candles, put on a kettle of tea, and unwind in a moment of decompression. Andy will be watching the news in the den, the comforting drone of muted noise and the occasional ruffling of a grocery list will be its own form of music. I may meditate then, to ease the transition of the day, or I may save it for right before bed, as I’ve done of late, to set a peaceful tone for sleep.
This is winter. We make our way in shuffling steps, guarding against the cold outside by making things cozier inside. This is hygge.
There are about 70 days left of winter, so the vast bulk of it is yet to come, but rather than view it that way, I’m focusing on the subtle joys of the season, doing what I can to embrace or at least accept the present moment, one day at a time. That means finding happiness in the simple act of sitting down to savor a cup of tea.
If taken slowly and mindfully, the mere act of making tea can be a therapeutic and almost meditative experience. One begins with a kettle on the stove-top, and the life-nourishing addition of clean, pure water. As the water heats, a mug is chosen, along with the tea. I find mint or ginger or lemongrass works well for me at this time of the year. For something slightly more floral I’ll go with an Earl Grey and occasionally a chamomile or lavender for evening enjoyment.
Once the water is near boiling, I’ll let the tea steep for the recommended time (and timing is important with tea, as various teas want differing steeping periods to avoid bitterness). Then there is the minor and all-too-under-rated moment of waiting for the tea to cool slightly. This is a moment ripe for meditative contemplation, a built-in check of the universe to force us to slow down, lest we burn ourselves on scalding tea. Most people fill it with something else – scrolling through their phone or computer, reading the mail or a magazine, rushing to complete some other task that can wait – instead of simply sitting with themselves, their thoughts and their tea. But this is precisely the most magical part of the tea tradition – the moment just before one actually takes the first sip. All hope and promise and possibility are in that pregnant moment of time, and we all too often rush right by it, letting it go.
So let this be a reminder, as much, if not more, for myself than anyone else who may read these words. Slow down. Savor the moments before, during, and after a cup of tea. Give your mind a break from the rush of the world and the rage of the winter. We deserve to be more mindful of ourselves.
Moving into winter proper means it’s time to embrace the notion of hygge as a way of making it through the season of slumber. It’s been a bit of a rollercoaster week, so 2022 looks to just pick up the terrible ferocity that was 2021 and aren’t we all the lovelier for it? Anyway, have fun navigating this minefield of posts as we hope for some more calm and tranquil fields in the near future.
Losing my mind in a song of comfort.
Entering one year and exiting another in a state of mindfulness.
This is the Lodge. (As opposed to the Dodge. Or the Rodge.)
Morning matcha with a side of Tchaikovsky.
Crying by the Christmas tree: a holiday sob story that Hallmark will likely pass on.
Picking up the pieces and getting on with it again. What choice have we?
For anyone trying a Dry January, or something more lasting, a reminder that it’s ok not to drink.
Like a prince. A naked prince. Many, many years ago…
Lawrence Welk, chiffon and Geritol – what life is like nowadays. (And when the word ‘nowadays’ is employed earnestly, you know I’m old – though I still don’t know what Geritol does.)
The Dazzlers of the Day were Katy Perry and Amy Schneider.
She’s that rare Jeopardy champion who becomes an absolute joy to watch as she racks up wins into and beyond the million dollar mark. This is Amy Schneider, who earns her first Dazzler of the Day honor thanks to the way she’s captured the heart of the gameshow-watching world. I don’t know how one person can know so many things – it’s a success if I get one question correct per round, and I’d be that one person who wages $0 on a Daily Double just to be safe. Congrats to Ms. Schneider on this win.
Amy Schneider – Jeopardy! Contestant
https://app.asana.com/0/1135954362417873/1201448923918845/f
Credit: Courtesy Jeopardy Productions, Inc.
These are a few of my favorite things? Continuing the idea of an afternoon cocktail hour as posited in this post, I’m putting up the New Year’s episode of ‘The Lawrence Welk Show’ as brought to you by Geritol. (Should I be looking into whether I need Geritol? Seems like something that should be part of my pill program at this age…)
My family used to watch this every week when I was a wee one, and I still recall some of the songs (especially the classic good-night closing theme). It’s ideal background fodder for passing a winter evening, recalling a time that feels very innocent and easy when compared to today’s world. Nostalgia never held much appeal for me, but I’m slowly coming around to it. Any other time feels better than the present.
It’s easy to poke fun at old Mr. Welk and this earnest show that teeters into cheesy territory, but then something like ‘Try to Remember’ comes along and I’m reminded of the way things used to be. A wistful, faded memory, packed away in crinkled tissue paper with the faintest scent of lavender that is probably more imagined than actually present, it brings me back to an era I didn’t even experience firsthand, yet somehow I remember…
With its kitschy living room sets, lacquered sky-high hair, and divine dresses beaded with beauty and shrouded in chiffon, the setting and style may seem crazy to modern audiences, but I absolutely adore it. It appeals to an idea of our champagne dreams – once so pure and simple – when dressing up and having a conversation was enough.
For anyone who needs a bit of escapism, and almost everyone I know is in that boat, this one’s for you. I’m going to put on some ridiculous caftan, make a mocktail in some nonsensical cocktail glass, find a sparkly necklace, and luxuriate the afternoon away. (Helpful hint: if you want to just fast-forward to the best part, hit 33:51 and watch that lady go!)
“During the long, dark winters when Danes retreat inside their homes, hygge is what brings them a great sense of comfort and joy.” — Mary Holland“I believe now—in the midst of this pandemic—is the perfect time for people to embody hygge by focusing on the present moment, spending quality time with people who make them happy, and ultimately finding peace,” [Christine] Christensen said in an email.— Courtney Kueppers
Embracing the idea of hygge was an integral part of what got me through last winter, and it made the season, dare I say it, almost enjoyable. I’ve long maintained that without the slumber of winter, the gardens in spring and summer would not bloom as brilliantly. Yet even with that sobering concept in mind, it’s difficult to find enjoyment when the wind is as cutting as it’s been these past few days. The weather looks only to intensify as far as cold temperatures go, so to brace ourselves for the seasonally-appropriate dip, this is a post to make things as hyggelig as possible.
Our attic loft space is lit by a number of lamps and candles, and one of Andy’s Christmas gifts to me was a space heater that is gentle but effective, creating a cozy nook in our home that lends itself to hygge. There are plenty of thick blankets, a chaise lounge, an antique bed in the center of it all, and I’ve left the pair of little Christmas trees up with their white fairy lights twinkling. In keeping with the Danish origin of hygge, here’s some music with the Danish String Quartet.
One needn’t have a Scandinavian retreat or attic loft to indulge and enjoy the idea of hygge. A cozy sweater and pair of plush socks is enough. A favorite blanket and comfy chair will do. A cup of hot tea or a mug of hot chocolate will work as well. It’s about finding that place of warmth and coziness, tucking yourself safely against the brutal weather raging outdoors, and slipping into a mindset of serenity and comfort. In a sense, and if done with a bit of mindfulness, it can be a method of meditation.
“Happiness consists more in small conveniences or pleasures that occur every day, than in great pieces of good fortune that happen but seldom.” – Benjamin Franklin
“I realized I could live a moral life, that I should, as an adult, live a life dictated by duty. If I chose I could find beauty by living in the real world; I could probably find beauty by working day after day at meaningful drudge. I often had that anxious, desolate feeling that I was wasting my time, that I was wasting an afternoon, a weekend, a whole life, by not choosing to do the right thing – the work that would simultaneously wear me out and sustain me. I was striving for the, ah, mature life. Here, I said to myself, I’ve been waylaid by the most sinful temptations, and if I don’t change now I might wander around forever wadded up with stupidity of my own making. I’d gotten distracted by laziness, by narcissism, and I’d also become clever in a despicable way, clever like a mild version of Milton’s Satan, Satan-lite, if you will. I could think rationally, but without any sort of spirituality. I was disconnected from anything moral, or from a sense of awe.” ~ from ‘The Short History of a Prince‘ by Jane Hamilton
One retro-tradition that I love to employ, particularly in the winter months, is the afternoon cocktail hour. There’s something comforting about coming home after a work-day and having this cozy little decompression period before dinner to unwind and relax. And just because I’m not drinking the hard stuff anymore doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the ritual. In fact, being creative about not incorporating alcohol can make things even more delicious.
Case in point: the shrimp cocktail – easily my favorite cocktail right now. When presented in a martini glass of ice and lettuce, it makes an appetizer as pretty to look at as it is satisfying to eat. Andy will often order one of these when we are dining out in Boston or on vacation, and so it comes with many happy connotations – an added element of joy for the cocktail hour break in the day.
{Bonus points if you can find an old episode of ‘The Lawrence Welk Show’ on the telly while enjoying the process. If not, just put on something in chiffon and call it a day.}
After two years of not drinking any alcohol, I don’t really think about it that much anymore, until it comes up and someone says, sometimes sheepishly, that they have cut back on their drinking too. It’s almost like a secret that, once revealed, everyone starts talking about as if it was the standard all this time.
Thanks to mocktails and a desire to broaden the customer base, bartenders and restaurants have wizened up to offer much more of a selection of non-alcoholic drinks. I’m not one of those people who demands that the world bend and bow to my lifestyle, so if a bar or restaurant doesn’t offer specific non-alcoholic choices on the menu, it’s not a big deal. Same thing with being around people who drink – I’m not the sort who requires everyone or anyone around me to abstain, and I’m perfectly comfortable being the only person in a sea of hundreds who’s not drinking. That’s getting further and further from the norm, however, and every day it seems I hear from someone else who has stopped drinking.
There are more of us out here than we may realize, and while such numbers don’t always make a difference, sometimes they do. It may be that the people you’re with are waiting for someone else not to partake in imbibing. I didn’t realize how strong social pressure could be for others, as that is, unlikely as it may seem, not something that ever influenced my drinking. As a grown adult, I’ve always made my own decisions and have rarely been swayed by public opinion. The only pressure I felt to drink was doled out by myself, and once I took that out, stopping wasn’t such a big deal.
For others, though, who find comfort in having a drink in hand and the social-inhibition blunting of a stiff cocktail running through their blood, drinking may be a comfortable way of blending in and not standing out. In certain situations it’s just easier to take the damn shot than make a scene, even the most minor of scenes, of switching it out. When you become known as a non-drinker, it’s less of an issue.
For all those who are cutting back, or doing a Dry January, or simply saying no to one drink at a time, this is a friendly reminder that you’re not alone.
Blood orange season is at hand, and the fruit is a welcome and bright spot of sunshine and rich ruby shading. I find them slightly less sweet than a typical orange, which makes them perfect fodder for a cocktail, when the usual supporting ingredients take center stage in the absence of alcohol. In the simple drink pictured here, I squeezed the juice from one blood orange and simply added some blood orange seltzer. One layer of flavor upon another, garnished with a blood orange wheel.
The beauty of such a mocktail is in its simplicity, as well as its potent natural goodness. Forget store-bought manufactured juices for mocktails – get fresh citrus because that’s what’s going to make a drink worth drinking. Get a proper and pretty cocktail glass. Get a fitting and elegant garnish. And above all else, get an over-the-top tablescape for the background. The latter need not be extravagant – a few candles, a table runner, and some greens from the outside will more than suffice. Winter is made for these simple joys.
After revealing this day of defeat, which ended in a tiny pool of tears, the next morning began in questionable form, as I brought a mostly-empty cup of hot chocolate down from the attic and promptly spilled it to begin what I assumed would be another shit-show, only to have that be the only minor blip in the day Proof that just because things begin in messy fashion doesn’t mean they have to continue or end that way.
I lit a lavender candle – a candle which I’ve coddled and carried around for about two decades, and I’m not even sure why. Perhaps I wanted to save it as a decorative piece – a service which it performed admirably all this time. A couple of months ago, when I was shifting my hang-out space into the attic, I marked the moment by lighting this candle and enjoying its light and soft lavender scent. It brought the attic through the summer, though as fall neared I lit it less and less, to make it last through this very winter.
While we all remember and recall the days of defeat, it’s the days that follow that make up the bulk of our lives – the days when we simply get up and unremarkably lead our lives to the best, and sometimes the worst, of our abilities – trying to be good, trying to be right, trying to be ok with whatever the day turns out to hold. It is not the nature of humans to be perfect, but to perfectly inhabit the moment – and to try – always to try.
It’s a phenomenon no child should have to experience, though with the excitement and tantrums and rollercoasters of Christmas, I suppose most of us have at one point or another: the phenomenon of how Christmas tree lights look when viewed through tears. They become something more magical, and in some ways more beautiful – one of the rare recompenses of sorrow transforming into solace. I’d almost forgotten what that was like until the world defeated me the other day.
I’d gone into work already feeling shaky and unsure of myself. My planned outfit didn’t work as well in the light of day as it had in my mind the night before, but it would have to do. A wave of fatigue from not sleeping well insisted on it. And just when I took one last look in the mirror while Andy was heading out to start the car, I noticed a hole in the crotch, to the right of the zipper, which made it look like the zipper was down. Maybe that’s when I gave up on the day, because I didn’t have the care or concern or energy to put on a new pair of pants.
After a day of insanity, because in a world of Covid and madness all work days are insane, a day without taking a lunch break outside, and a day of non-stop business, I stumbled back into the car and was too shell-shocked and exhausted to speak. Andy may have wondered what was wrong but I didn’t have the strength or ability to put it into words then. When I got home and walked into the living room, I sat down and realized: I felt defeated. The day had licked me. The world had knocked it out of me.
Later in the afternoon news came of more loved ones with Covid, and the slightly bothersome and troubling way my Mom now has of saying she wasn’t too worried about it, which kicked off the memory of a recurring nightmare I’ve had since childhood of some monster chasing her, or some terrible fate befalling her, and I’m yelling and trying to explain it to her but she doesn’t listen and it ends up catching her, and I’m screaming and crying, “I told you!! Why didn’t you listen to me?!?” and then I wake up in a mess of sweat and tears.
When the evening had descended, I found my way to the Christmas tree. Still decorated and lit, it provided the only illumination in the room. I sat down beneath it, looking up into the branches, and I started to cry. Not because I’m going through anything particularly difficult, not because my life is any more stressful or despondent than anyone else’s – I simply let out the average weight of the world on any adult’s shoulders right now.
The tears came quietly, and it wasn’t a terribly awful cry – it was mostly from sheer exhaustion and years of worry. When I looked at the Christmas tree though my tears, the sensation was bracingly familiar, and suddenly I was a kid beneath the tree again, hiding from some act of shame or ostracization, something that made it clear that I was very different and very alone, and that not even my family could keep me company. I felt the same loneliness and isolation that I had in my childhood, and in a way that no one else seemed to share or understand.
Part of me understood that I was probably just tired. Tired of worrying all the time without any breaks of hope or relief. Tired of being afraid and trying to find solutions and only finding blame. Tired of canceling trips and plans and simple dinners with family and friends. Tired of trying to find some semblance of peace and beauty and warmth in this amazingly fucked-up world. Tired of attempting to make any sort of sense of it all.
There, in the tear-stained glassy visage of Christmas lights and ornaments, where branches blurred with bulbs, I sat in silent wonder and condemnation, unable to see a way out, letting this day of defeat wash over and then through me.
