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.

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.

There are no words needed. 

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.

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. 

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 Lovell, Radzi Chinyanganya, Cameron Dallas, Sebastian Stan, Leif Erik Offerdahl, Keegan Hirst, and Christian Siriano. 

What decade this scene depicts is anyone’s guess. If I had to place the influence and surroundings, I’d go with somewhere between the 70’s and 80’s – right in that neat niche in which I was born and raised. There wasn’t much to be said for taste or elegance, yet there was a raw, wooden-paneling kind of incandescent warmth that seems to be missing from the memories made today.

I feel old now.

At least, older.

The passing of time is a palpable thing.

The space between the ticks and tocks feels smaller.

There is no longer the expanse of a year or a month or even a week – it all rushes by so quickly. Where once a season seemed to last a lifetime, now it’s the quick turning of a calendar page. Sometimes I forget to flip the month until we are a week or more in, and then it feels like I’ve lost the bulk of it anyway.

Pockets of timelessness are still to be found, often in the night and in the relative solitude of a stay in Boston. Loneliness doesn’t usually reach me there, even if I find myself missing Andy and the comfort of our bed. One grows accustomed to company after almost twenty years. The company of oneself doesn’t count.

You don’t always see the movement of years in the mirror. We give too many looks in a given day to sense the change. Only in photos and timehops do we notice the ravages of time. Oddly enough, I’ve never much minded getting older. I was an old soul from the day I was born. 

That’s not to say that my vanity hasn’t fought against it, in fittingly vain fashion. There’s no point in fighting the inevitable – the best you can do is delay. At this point I’d rather face these things head-on. Charge into the future with the wisdom we’ve gained, the gray hairs we’ve grown, and every wrinkle we’ve earned.

Shedding the vile traits of perfectionism is no easy feat. It takes work and energy and repetition to undo years of self-inflicted damage, and mental gymnastics to switch up a train of thought that long ago left the station. Yet that’s precisely what I’ve been learning to do, and a major part of that is owning up to mistakes, learning from them, accepting they will happen, and not letting them completely derail the day.

“I am glad that I paid so little attention to good advice; had I abided by it I might have been saved from some of my most valuable mistakes.” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

To err is human, and before I even get to forgiveness, I have to learn to be a better human. One thing at a time. This is challenging enough on its own. To sit with your missteps, and to be ok with what you have done takes time and practice. I’ve only been working on this stuff for a couple of months, but I’ve felt a change already. It’s not always comfortable, and some days I think I’ve tried to do too much, but still I keep going, still I hang on and do my best. I fail a little, and then I try to do better. The overall arc is upward.

“It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link of the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.” ~ Winston Churchill

No one is right all of the time. No one is perfect. Humans are messy creatures – mentally, emotionally, physically – we stumble through our lives barely keeping our shit together. Even the most seemingly flawless person has their faults and imperfections. Usually we love them more for it, as it’s difficult to relate to someone who comes close to perfect.

“It is always a mistake to be plain-spoken.” ~ Gertrude Stein

So let this post be a reminder, mostly to myself, that we are all no more than human. We will not achieve the perfection that is unattainable based on our inherent natures. We were not designed to be without flaws. They make us who we are – and they make us better.

“Some of the worst mistakes in my life were haircuts.” ~ Jim Morrison

Pink and purple tissue paper lines the floral-festooned box. Buffeted by feathers and deconstructed silk flowers, with perhaps the faintest wisp of Tom Ford’s ‘Lavender Palm’ Private Blend (and just the slightest dash of ‘Beau de Jour‘) it makes a formidably frivolous collection of little gifts and letters. A few books line the bottom of the box – including one on ‘Peaceful Places in Boston‘ – which actually includes a pretty comprehensive list of some wonderful spots.

This is a collection of frivolity assembled for Alissa’s daughter, in the hopes of sending some cheer in the midst of this desolate winter. Mostly it’s empty prettiness, but there’s a value in being pretty if you know not to take any of it too seriously.

I realize this is small and meaningless recompense for the loss of a parent, but it’s all I have to give. That and the promise that she has one more person watching out for her, wherever her adventures may lead.