The rope of beads wound around my grandmother’s wrinkled hand, while the cross swung with the gentle rocking of her chair. She worried each one between her fingers as she said each prayer, then moved on to the next. It seemed an endless chain of recitation to my childish mind, but I assumed it was another adult mystery that would be revealed in time. I didn’t know that there was no answer for this, no magic moment that suddenly made sense of faith and religion. Instead, I did my best to believe, even if the drudgery of saying an entire rosary was beyond my comprehension or capability.

The ritual seemed to calm her. Maybe that was how it worked. It was a form of meditation, and, when you get right down to it, what else is prayer at its most basic essence? The words eventually ran into one another, the meaning but gleaned, and by that point it was simply a matter of a mantra, a chant, a rhythm of speech, a cadence of sounds. The calm and soothing drone of a river of words ~ whispered prayers ~ and an outwardly peaceful disposition belying a raging heart.

No one’s ever going to believe that I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy, so I won’t even pretend to peddle that bullshit here. I’ll never be that guy. I’ll never be that simple, that casual, that easy-going – it’s just not in my make-up. There are too many facets and angles to this frustratingly-complex mess. But every now and then it’s good to strip it all down, so to speak, and indulge in the basics. There are far fewer components to worry about in an outfit like this – no worries of mismatched ties or faulty sock decisions, no striped suit patterns possibly clashing with checkered shirt options. It is the default uniform of the current generation – and given the growing propensity younger people seem to have for sweatpants and other atrocities, a good pair of denim jeans is indeed a dress-up outfit when paired with a smart sport coat, shirt, and tie.

As for its ubiquitous nature, there’s no getting around that. I could deal with a little more blending into mainstream society anyway, so this affords a nice change of pace. As the musical Norma Desmond once sang, “I can play any role.”

At the time of this writing, Boston is under threat of a winter storm walloping (it will likely have already arrived by the time this gets posted), so I must admit to being glad of not being there right now. Just a few short days ago I captured this promising bush in bud in the Boston Public Garden, where witch hazel was also on the verge of blooming, the willows were gaining in their chartreuse color, and the pond was being worked on for its near-future filling. It was a scene of possibility, the earliest peek at the spring to come, and it made me happy to see. There are good memories in that Garden.

As for our own gardens, they are still mostly buried in snow – lots and lots of dirty snow. I made the first pass through the backyard yesterday, when a pair of cardinals was calling out to me. Loads of bunny droppings were scattered generously throughout the space, a boon to the soil, I hope – but the ground remained frozen. Not one sign of snowdrops or Scilla, or even the tattered foliage of the Lenten rose. It’s late arriving, but spring is assuredly on the way. It has to be.

As the sun sets, and the afternoon advances, the bedroom changes. A stirring beneath the duvet, a flickering of dust in the slanting sunlight, a reluctant sigh. The luxury of an hour or so beneath the sun should not be so quickly dismissed. It can feed the soul, and match more complicated and costly methods of calm. Now that the days are growing longer, there are more opportunities to find such pockets of tranquility.

Having had a day job for most of my adult life, I never take such moments for granted. Beauty like this gets me through the day. The memory of it sustains until a new memory can be made. It is the promise of possibility.

Typically I post a recap in this time slot, something whereby those who had better things to do than check this site every day might have another chance to witness what has already passed. Given this gigantic winter recap from yesterday, it’s definitely too soon to do another. I will, however point out a couple of posts that weren’t quite done when that big recap was written.

The first is this epic Madonna Timeline: ‘Like A Prayer.’ I tried to take you there.

And the second is this review of the amazing production of ‘Gypsy, A Musical Fable’ currently showing off at the Capital Repertory Theatre.

Both are wordy and verbose enough to quell the man-candy complaints (not that there have ever been complaints against the men – just my exploitation of them.)

Seeing as how I spent the weekend in Boston, and a pretty quiet and peaceful one at that, I’m taking it easy this week, blog-wise. As the seasons turn, my attention will turn elsewhere as well, and that path leads outside, and away from the laptop. The winter has bound us long enough.

Maybe the world is blind, or just a little unkind – don’t know…

Seems you can’t be sure of anything anymore – although…

You may be lonely and then one day you’re smiling again

Every time I turn around….

It came on, if faltering memory serves, early on a Sunday night – 7 PM I believe – that dreaded do-or-die time for homework left all weekend (and who didn’t leave homework all weekend?) My brother and I would sit in the family room and watch it, pretending that we didn’t like it, but glued to the set week after week. Maybe we only watched it for the theme song – so many television shows of my childhood only mattered for their theme songs – or maybe we did it for something more. The point is, we sat there watching ‘Punky Brewster’ and witnessing Soleil Moon-Frye strut herself before she went and grew big boobs, trying to draw out the last bit of Sunday for as long as we could, holding onto the weekend in an always-losing effort.

Sometimes I still feel that way, remembering the sad moping that accompanied Sunday nights during the school year. The dull dread of another Monday, the mental tussle of whether it would be better to go to sleep and forget about it, or try to stay up because once you went to sleep it would be Monday the next waking moment. The little worries of a kid don’t always dissipate as an adult; they usually get a lot worse.

But for this Sunday night, I’m relatively calm, bemused by this song, tickled by this video, and made happy by this memory.

(PS – Did you know that Punky’s real name was ‘Penelope’? I just found that out tonight. It changes everything. I once had an octopus named Penelope… She was a gift.)

What’s gonna be?

Just we’ll just wait and see.

A few days ago we turned the seasonal page to spring, something most of us in the Northeast have been impatiently awaiting since, well, winter began. It’s been a tough and frigid one, and I’m sure we’ll get a few more lashes of winter’s whip before the bastard returns to hell, so I write this with that caveat in mind.

It was a winter of unsettled discontent, at least until the kitchen was completed.

It was a winter of our eleventh anniversary. (And I mean you and me.) Oh, and a tenth anniversary as well.

It was a winter of Madonna mini-moments, like her appearance at the Grammys, and some notable Madonna Timeline entries like ‘Impressive Instant‘ and ‘Dress You Up.’

It was a winter of Boston memories, here and here.

It was a winter in which we got a whiff of Matthew Camp.

It was a winter of stupid idiocy.

It was a winter of Mary Poppins.

It was a winter of Ben Cohen’s balls.

It was a winter of shirtless selfies.

It was a winter of the Missing Finger.

It was a winter of stunning Hunks like Trevor Adams, Derek Allen Watson, Grady Sizemore, David Agbodji, Stuart Reardon, Mark Wright, and a naked Jake Gyllenhaal.

It was a winter to be brave, can we be brave?

It was a winter to bare my butt. (More than once.) Even if these butts were better.

It was a winter of Chris Salvatore’s underwear. Not to be outdone, Todd Sanfield’s underwear too.

It was a winter to put the new kitchen to the test, for comfort, for smoothies, for chicken.

It was a winter of The Gay Soiree (and this flashy/trashy outfit.)

It was a winter of even more naked male celebrities and models, like the ones in this gratuitous post, and more specifically Alex Pettyfer, Lucien Laviscount, Greg Rutherford, Ryan Carnes, Henry Cavill, (Greg Rutherford again because once is never enough) and, drum roll please, Tom Daley’s naked ass. (But not David Beckham.)

It was a winter of Dan & Tom.

It was a winter of family fun.

It was a winter of Olympic shirtless glory.

It was a winter in which the curtain went up on this fantastic production of ‘Gypsy.’

It was a winter of Erotica.

It was a winter of red-hot gingers.

It was a winter of Buttery scones.

It was a winter of rose quartz.

Finally, it was a winter in which the haze started to lift.

And yes, even more nude male celebrities, like Marco Dapper,  Nigel Barker, Daniel Radcliffe, another butt-baring set by Jake Gyllenhaal, and a naked Dan Osborne. And again.

The night is not quite ready to give way to the break of day. A purgatorial holding pattern of a stubborn yet dying winter leaves me restless in the bed. I want to get out, but it’s still so warm and cozy here. There is not yet enough incentive to rouse myself to shower. I’ll pull a bathrobe over myself soon, and trudge wearily out to start a pot of tea, but for now I linger in the soft folds of Marimekko.

I may stay here all day.