My Mom was just lamenting the gray state this January has mostly provided – with none of the bright blue skies against sparkling snow that we sometimes get to make it bearably beautiful. On this morning, the snow continues – dropping blankets of white banked by a gray sky. A muted scene of beauty, silent and secret.
Tea and candles may seem like a small buffer against a raging snowstorm, but they make all the difference. In winter, it’s the little things that get us through, and there’s something quite cozy about riding out a storm safely ensconced on a couch with a book and a blanket.
We haven’t had that much snow this year, and the gardens are clamoring for some insulation from the heaving border of the thaw/freeze see-saw. For that reason alone, this snow is cause for celebration, even if it has been taking down tree limbs and causing other pesky events. This is nature’s way of pruning. It’s also a way to quiet and calm the world – telling us to slow down and take it all in, to pause and reflect and wonder.
Celebrated openly-gay Olympic bobsledder Simon Dunn was found dead in his home at the heartbreakingly-young age of 35. Without speculating on the cause, I knew that Dunn had been open about his struggles with anxiety and depression of late (see his powerful words in this post), and regardless of cause, the early expiration of anyone is a sad thing to witness. In Dunn’s case, he leaves a legacy of pioneering efforts of the acceptance and celebration LGBTQ people in sports. His last Instagram post is the featured photo here – it went up four days ago and he wrote, “I think it’s time for another photoshoot?!” Haunting words that serve to remind everyone that you never know what anyone else is going through at any given time. Even the most seemingly-perfect people have their troubles.
At times like this I wonder if we are looking out for each other enough. I hope Simon has found some sort of peace, and I’m grateful for all the work he did to push for acceptance and equality, and for all the people he touched in his short time here.
My niece Emi Lu will be fronting this post, in a coat of mine that she helped pick out the last time we were in Boston. “But it’s so over-the-top and ridiculous…” I protested as I hurriedly slipped it on before admiring the nonsense staring back at me from the mirror.
“It’s totally you,” she said. And so it was.
Reactions have been decidedly mixed – a co-worker said I looked like Winnie-the-Pooh, bestowing an unintended compliment on me, while at the supermarket the other night a pair of girls broke into loud and long laughter as I walked by them, while another woman said she loved it and asked me where I found it. Such is the life of an unappreciated fashionista in upstate NY. On with the weekly blog recap…
Outside the window, a pine tree holds a heavy bouquet of ice and snow and sleet – the same awful mix that coats the driveway, which I will shovel up one single stroke at a time, as that is all I can lift. This, of course, is winter in Albany, New York – the season that makes us all question our sanity for staying here, but that makes the spring and summer so much the sweeter. And so the mind wanders… back a few months, or forward a few… whichever brings us closer to summer weather… and into this Calvin Harris vibe.
Perfect for poolside lounging – nothing too heavy on the ears or the mind – the music shuffles a little languidly, the way the water sometimes feels lazy, like it can barely exert itself to make any waves. All those little summer moments that seemed so insignificant and so precious now that they are behind us… and will we do anything next summer to embrace them any more? We promise we will, but I won’t count on it. Summer spoils us that way.
Perhaps we make it up in the winter – perhaps we can only show our love and appreciation when the object of our affection is far away and removed. The insufferable conundrum of being such flawed creatures – we totally miss loving summer when it’s with us.
The light at this time of the year isn’t always magical or wondrous. Mostly it is gray and dull and muted – the sky mirroring the salty, sanded streets, and the blush off the rose of snow. Some days, though, it reveals a golden glow that only shows itself just before the sun goes down, on the needles of evergreens, and the bare branches of distant oaks and maples. It is a reminder that there is still life going on during these long and arduous weeks of winter.
Here is where I find the way through the rest of January – in the glimpses of sunlight that grow a little longer with each passing day. We move a little closer to spring – sometimes I can sense it in the air of a minor thaw, or the disappearance of holiday items from the stores. Soon, there will be a box of Cadbury creme eggs heralding the impending drama of Easter. Rather than going stir-crazy, I will embrace the slow roll, and do my best to find the beauty in every day, no matter how gray.
Mercury has moved out of retrograde motion, perhaps allowing a bit of peace and quiet after its torturous tumult of the past few weeks. The time has come for winter calm – and winter light.
Twenty years ago, this website was having its soft-opening, which means that this March will mark the official 20th anniversary of ALANILAGAN.com. For a personal website, that’s a long-ass run – hell, for any kind of website that’s a long-ass run, and while I may seem to celebrate myself here on the daily, this one is worthy of note. To that end, I’ll be working on some 20th anniversary celebrations leading up and into March.
A lot happens in 20 years. Look at my hair here – not a wisp of gray on the horizon. Not a wrinkle or laugh line or furrowed brow. And not a clue about that ridiculous goatee. The glory and ignorance of youth! I wouldn’t trade or alter any of it, nor would I want to go through it all again.
My niece asked me that the other day – whether I’d go back and change anything. I answered that for the most part, no, as that might change any number of possible outcomes that led me to where I am today. Most people would give that stock answer, and while allowing for some caveats, it’s mostly true for me as well. The one thing I did add was that I don’t think I’d want to go through it all again. Not because I didn’t have moments of elation and enjoyment, but because at this particular moment I feel the weight and the work and the drudgery of those years, as much as I feel the accomplishments and happiness that have come along with it. She may have caught me at a moment of weakness and exhaustion.
For now, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, determined to carry on with this website in its 20th year, determined to keep it as a diary and repository of creative work, determined to move forward and find a way closer to truth and beauty – and determined to make it through another winter. Do join me – it’s so much friendlier with two.
Arriving at the midway point of January, we have made the first noticeable chunk of progress through winter. I spent this past weekend in Boston with the twins, and will get into our adventures later this week. For now, a look back at what came before (and a sneak peek of the twins at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum)…
The ‘AI Portrait’ filter is all the rage on various social media sites, and while I typically abhor a filter, this one has proven especially ridiculous in all the ways it distorts and translates a photo into a completely different image. It sent me down a rabbit hole of possibilities – is this how the world views us? Is this more in line with how we appear to others than how we appear in the mirror? Is this how I should have been wearing my hair when it wasn’t so gray? Lots of questions, lots of musings… and speaking of musing, my new musical muse Mia just sent over a few songs of inspiration, including this one entitled ‘One More Hour’ which posits themes of time and love and all the good stuff that goes along with a properly-examined life.
Just a moment, right before all the song and dance Wasn’t brave enough to tell you But there ain’t gonna be another chance It’s not long until all that I have and everything’s still The minutes are racin’
Whatever I’ve done, I did it for love I did it for fun – couldn’t get enough I did it for fame but never for money Not for houses, Not for her Not for my future children
The music is a challenge – as much as the images are – as much as any piece of art can be. The ideas of time and love, and hurt and pain, and how many times we get up and do it all over again – it all mashes together as the cacophony of this song winds its way along a wavy trajectory.
How could I love again? How could I ever ask for more? And to the road ahead Into a life I can’t ignore, how could I love again? (Move on) how can I walk this path for sure? (Lose her) with no more time to spend (Move on) I know the answer more and more
As long as I can, Long as I can Spend some time alone As long as I can, Long as I can Be the man I am
The funk of the past few months is something I have acknowledged. A little rut, a sunken stretch when the distance of friends suddenly aligned, as if someone simply switched off my light and no one saw me anymore. I didn’t fight it, didn’t rage against the quiet onslaught of being left to my own devices, with just Andy by my side. Part of me actively encouraged it, reveling in this alone time, daring to hint at the sort of friendship drama not seen since ‘The Banshees of Inisherin’ (without all the bloody appendages).
Oh, life is strange For one more hour, I can rage For one more hour
As long as I can (lose her) As long as I can (move on) Spend some time alone As long as I can (lose her) As long as I can (move on) Remember who I am
And then the dangers of losing oneself in the solitude showed themselves – in the way I would start talking to strangers, as much to repel them as to engage. The interior battle of deciding whether to find fault with the wayward cashier at Target, who seemed like she might be giving me sass, but whose sass reminded me of my own teenage rampage. The decision to not challenge the woman vacuuming the hallway on my way out of the office, who was upset I used the door closest to her and snarled that there was another door I could have used, like she owned the place. My confused smile because I didn’t quite get what she was saying at first seemed to disarm her a bit, but then her scowl returned in more cutting form. The next day, I saw her again, and I watched as another person went out the door I had gone out, right near her, and she paused again, looking up and giving the person the dirtiest look I’ve seen outside of my own mirror. They didn’t even notice. I went out the door furthest from her, grateful that my work day was done, and grateful that I hadn’t been a dick about her the day before, because her work day was just beginning.
As long as I can (lose her) As long as I can (move on) Spend some time alone As long as I can As long as I can (how could I love again?) Be the man I am
At the end of the day, setting the alarm on my phone for three separate times, ten minutes apart, I curl up in bed, a pillow between my knees to bring sleep as soon as possible. My mother once told me that was a trick the hospitals used for overnight patients who couldn’t get to sleep. When the days are filled with quiet rumination, it sometimes makes for nights that begin in sleepless fashion. I stare at these silly AI creations and lose myself in characters I never was but perhaps wanted to be, in days that I thought I spent well, even if they were mostly filled with the wasteful abandon of youth. I listen to this song, suggested by the daughter of two good friends, and I think of how she is just beginning her journey, on the verge of entering those years where we become who we are going to become. Those years, and that person I was, feel as intimate and foreign to me as these photos. It’s like seeing myself in a strange new light, as when someone captures an angle of you in a photo that you didn’t realize was being taken, and you see what others see for the first time, and it’s jarring and disturbing and wondrous – it shifts perspective, it alters the interior image.
Just a minute, fella, right before you go out there All your voices said you wouldn’t last a minute bare One more hour and you’ll know your life is one to share Just a minute, baby, right before we go from here All those people said we wouldn’t last a minute near I’m with you and I could roll into another year
These orchids seemed to wink at me as I made my weekly pilgrimage to the nearby greenhouse – a reminder of the sort of paradise that feels far away in mid-January. They provided a bit of escapism, like this Shirley Horn song that is so gorgeously transportive. Close your eyes, give it a listen, and let your own ideas of paradise parade before the mind’s eye. We can fly…
It’s not a bad song to see us through a Saturday in winter.
Andy always waits at least until the Epiphany (or as he puts it ‘Little Christmas’) before taking our Christmas tree down, and it’s a tradition I’ve come to appreciate and embrace. As long as it’s out before all the needles drop, and as long as I don’t have to take part in its sad deconstruction, I’m fine with this timetable. It extends the light of the season, which this year I needed a bit as I was not feeling particularly Christmas-like until it was practically over. At that point I paused beneath the tree as I began my daily meditation, inhaling its delicious pine scent, and marveling at the way the lights and ornaments cast their enchanting spell. Anyone can get excited about the tree when it first goes up, when the season is fresh and new – it takes a different kind of person to embrace it during its last days. And it takes a very special kind of person to take it down with the honor and care that Andy uses every year. I sense that it’s a ritual for him.
He removes each fragile ornament, wrapping every single one with a single tissue, and carefully places them back in their container. Then he unwinds the lights from the branches, before adroitly rolling them back up so they can be unfurled with ease the next year. He goes about the process slowly, with purpose and deliberation, and I see how it is how own meditative practice – a way of putting another year to bed, a way to remember his own childhood and youth, a way to bring back memories of those he has loved and lost.
For my part, I will miss the greenery, and the soft light that the tree provided to our living room. To make up for it, I will seek out greenery – such as this bouquet of eucalyptus branches, or a vase of silvery-green junipers from the yard – to take the place of the missing tree. It’s a little effort that makes a difference in these dim days of January, when so much of what the heart yearns for now – green, verdant warmth – is in such short supply.
When the doldrums of January stretch out before us, when we are knee-deep in the weeds of winter, I find solace in any greenhouse within reach. That means weekly trips to Faddegon’s or some place similar where I can get lost in the lush, tropical environment of a greenhouse, surrounded by plants and flowers and beauty as a balm for the winter-ravaged heart. Last weekend I brought the twins here, and though they seemed quizzical as to what we were doing, they merrily went with the flow as if they had a choice.
If I teach them anything, I hope it will be an appreciation and love for nature and plants, and the peace found from immersing yourself in their presence, even in the endless landscape of a winter that finds us all bundled up and itching to get out.
When it doesn’t rock us too much, winter makes a good moment for reflection. Keeping that lesson in mind, I sit at the dining room table before the night of day arrive and type out these words. The light from the computer screen and a dim overhead lamp guide me, and I add the light of a candle for something soft and flickering. Before COVID alerted the world to the fact that most of us could successfully work at home, these early morning hours used to be the only time I was alone in the house. There was always a sort of solace I found in solitude, provided I could hear Andy’s occasional rustling in the bedroom. Present but distant, the way I’ve operated, the only way I knew.
The click and gentle hum of the heater as it kicks on alerts me to the wakening of the world, and soon it will be time to shower and face the day. For now, however, there is only darkness, and the endless expansive possibilities of a winter’s day.
My feet are in piss-poor shape. Rough and chapped, the heels cry out for moisture and care that I just don’t have to give. The toenails are even worse – ragged and shredded, because instead of properly clipping them I tend to just tear off the ends in idle moments of barefoot daydreaming. Even in the summer, when sandals and poolside lounging might put them on semi-public display, they don’t get much more pampering than that, and it shows.
Last year, however, with the happy advent of my first manicure, I was also told to concentrate on my feet as well, and while I’m not quite ready for my first pedicure, it’s on the distant horizon, so I need to get my soles in order. To that end, I’m starting with the heels and moving outward, beginning with some basic moisturizing lotion before sliding into my socks. It’s a little moment of self-care and indulgence that I’m simply going to embrace in my middle-age. Life affords a few more comforts in consolation for growing older and dealing with other discomforts.
As for the foot fetishists out there, I see you, I hear you, and I honor your prayer. Bottoms up for the unabashedly kinky: to thy own sole be true. (And if your hidden proclivity is getting off on feet, I’d say that’s one of the more harmless kinks in this day and age; I will not be volunteering more extreme examples..)
{This blog post has been brought to you by Shameless Clickbait, FeetFinder, and Thirst-Trap (Feet-Don’t-Fail-Me-Now remix).} Now everybody cut footloose!
Winter has hit these ornamental fruit trees like a shot to the nuts, taking the smooth youthful blush of their hanging balls and shriveling it up with the advance of the season. Everyone knows Mother Nature doesn’t mess around, and when it’s time, it’s time. In this case, these berries had an extended season – usually their perfect form has shriveled long ago. The past few months have found a gentler rush of weather in these parts, though the rest of the country may beg to differ.
This is the sort of winter scene that goes mostly unheralded and unnoticed in our hurry to get through the darker season. It’s also the sort of beauty that I find most arresting, perhaps because it comes at such a bleak time, when we are starved for color or excitement, when the barren land is mostly bereft of this bravado.
With the full moon last Friday, and both Mars and Mercury in retrograde motion, the universe is rocking us all for a loop these past few days. At such tumultuous times, I tend to lay low, keep to myself, and stay as quiet as possible. There’s even a hushed tone to these posts, in the hope of making it through this with some bit of tranquility. On with the weekly recap…
