When I was studying the oboe, I had a very good teacher. In our first lesson I don’t think I played a note – she had me feel and understand my breathing in a way that would inform my entire life. She taught me the importance of breathing into my stomach and making full use of my lungs, as well as how to relax into that breathing (it look most of that lesson because my entire body and mind were so decidedly and determinedly NOT relaxed). She also taught me all aspects of oboe-playing, including that infamous task that only the truest players dare to attempt: reed-making.

Unlike the clarinet or saxophone, the oboe is a double-reed instrument, meaning it uses two pieces of reed bound together through which the vibrations are made to produce the slightly nasal-like and unmistakable voice of the oboe. Making the oboe reed is an exercise in patience, determination, skill and a bit of luck. As a teenager, I didn’t come naturally by these traits, and so it was that reed-making became one very important lesson for me.

As I stood beside my teacher at the first few lessons, we worked on the basics, which were more or less getting me out of the infantile training I’d received in 5th grade band class at McNulty school. The plastic oboe and pre-manufactured reeds I’d been using there were a joke at every other place where remotely-decent music was being learned and played, and as I realized how unprepared for the rest of the world I was, she began guiding me and showing me how to improve. 

On the high-backed knob of one of her chairs, a mass of colorful strings was tied, and it caught my eye before anything else. I would come to understand that those were reed strings – each one a sign that a reed had been made, or attempted – each one a testament to time and trial and occasional triumph. Reed-making was an infuriating process that took much to merely approximate mastery of the craft, but I did my best. 

My teacher taught me how to soak and cut the raw cane pieces (ordered from France, where the best cane originated apparently), then how to coat the thread in beeswax before binding the cane together and attaching it to the cork-bottomed ‘staple’, and finally carving it into playable form with a carefully-sharpened knife. If it sounds like there is much room for error, there absolutely is, and for a once-perfectionist like myself, failing at over half of my attempts was soul-crushing at first. 

Eventually, I got the hang of it, and could pound out a few reeds in a single sitting. My collection of thread grew, so that soon I had my own mass of colorful strings tied to a chair, pointing to the lessons I was learning. Later, I would discover that perfectly decent and passable reeds could be purchased already-made, but by then I’d come to appreciate the work and time and effort that went into making your own. It was an appreciation of craft that my teacher instilled in me early on, and it’s something that has stayed with me. It formed a way of acknowledging and savoring those moments when so much work and so many details went into a work of art, such as an oboe concerto, and made me pause in gratitude. 

What was once a Thanksgiving cactus, then a Christmas cactus, and once a Halloween cactus, is now an Easter cactus, as the pictured plant has decided to grace us with these blooms starting over Easter weekend. Not mad about it, as we need the charm and color when everything outside is still not yet awake from its winter slumber. Plus, I needed a picture to accompany this weekly blog recap, so let’s get on with the show…

A great quote by Helena Bonham Carter kicked off the week.

A fantastic LGBTQ+ fellowship opportunity.

Pink daisies for the soul.

Ilagan family fun spanning the generations.

A Barbie moment.

A surprise crocus.

My, my my… death by a thousand cuts.

April showers, March flowers.

The night I went cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.

The hushed interim of a Holy Saturday.

A quick and unremarkable Madonna Timeline.

The classic Easter photo, for everyone who loves to see me being tortured (and my God there are so many of you). 

A double decade of butt-baring revelations. 

Dazzlers of the Day included Oliver Holecek, Alex Testere, Andreas Wijk, Kelsea Ballerini, and John Robert Bowers.

Happy Easter!!

Everybody’s favorite photo of me (especially adored by Suzie) is traditionally brought out for this day, and what you see here is a very memorable visit with an Easter Bunny that can charitably be described as terrifying. It’s a testament to the power of taste that purple tulle hasn’t become as traumatizing as it clearly should have been in my life. Happily, I’ve long since tamed these Easter Bunny traumas in my own ways, most notably at this unexpected run-in with the creature at a brunch in Boston. We have made our peace, and the world has been righted for a day. 

Enjoy your Easter Sunday!

There is a hushed solemnity to this sacred pocket of time between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, as if much of the world waits with bated breath for something miraculous to happen. Not to mix religious metaphors, but it’s a purgatorial sort of place, located somewhere between sorrow and hope –  a common and fertile space where humans reveal whether they’re on the side of cynicism or optimism. 

For someone who has traditionally reveled in the anticipation of everything, I never found much solace or joy in the Saturday before Easter. Maybe all the anxiety and stress of serving so many masses during Holy Week had my mind too wound up to lower its guard and relax, especially when the biggest Holy Day of the year was yet to come. Church was always fraught with that discomfort and strain. I tried to focus on God and what constituted the true lessons and meanings of all that scripture, all those stories, but in the end it was just me and my social anxiety trying to get through being part of that black-and-white-clad parade of altar boys and priests. 

A pause, then, in this spring of 2023 – a pause before Easter, a pause before resurrection, a pause before any miracle. A pause to determine whether we will stay in the dark or move toward the light. There is always that choice. I want to believe we would all try to be better, but I’ve seen the hurt and harm humans can do to one another. No amount of faith or believing can counter the utter lack of humanity with which some people have been left.  

It’s been a while since I’ve returned to the church in my memory bank. There are no great or horrid secrets lurking there – whatever tragic fate befell so many other altar boys never touched me. Whispers of it remained elusively on the periphery of my experience, and maybe the danger lurked closer than I knew, but no abusive horrors informed my altar boy years. Instead, it was the dogged and consistent strain of anxiety of facing a church filled with staring faces that wreaked its havoc. Every Sunday I would dread the mistake or mis-step that would lead to the ringing of the bells at the wrong time, or a missed cue to bring the priest the gospel, resulting in frantic snaps of his fingers beneath his flowing robes. I wanted to please the priest, I wanted to please my parents, I wanted to please every person in the pews, and I wanted to please God. That’s a lot of emotional pressure on a kid whose baseline nature was not naturally pleasant.