Donald Trump, in his own words, posited the idea of injecting disinfectants into the body to help combat the coronavirus. He did this quite earnestly in a live press conference that was shown to the world (I was watching it as it unfolded). A short while later, Dr. Birx (the woman who seems to be hiding more than her neck in that endless supply of scarves) defended Trump by saying he likes to talk things out first. Unfortunately, she didn’t get the talking points that Trump had tried floating at around the same time, saying that he was only being sarcastic. Oops.
Anyway, the new MAGA challenge seems to be disinfecting the body with poisons found in most households. And since Trump is such a fan of sarcasm, I challenge everyone who still supports him to the MAGA Challenge! Find your prettiest bottle of Clorox or Pine Sol or Ammonia and set up your cocktail. (Ratio of cleaning product to mixer is entirely up to taste.) Bottoms up! And don’t forget to post your video to Twitter and tag @realdonaldtrump to win this challenge!
PS – Remember to toast to sarcasm. Trump loves it.
Then I thought it would be impossible to get through the holidays without drinking, but it wasn’t that difficult.
In the last few weeks I thought it would be impossible to get through all this isolation without drinking, but it wasn’t that difficult.
Today marks a full six months of not drinking alcohol, and guess what? It hasn’t been that difficult. I feel healthier, happier, and slightly more present. I’ve lost some weight, kicked up other healthy habits, and have more time and money for better pursuits. I’m not saying everyone should curb their drinking habits (it seems to be the one thing that’s getting a lot of people through this isolation/social distancing spell) it just doesn’t appeal to me as much anymore. In truth, there are actually times where I feel a genuine distaste for the stuff now, which is strange.
Not to say I don’t have moments when I think how nice it would be to sit at a bar and have a Manhattan on a cold, rainy night, or sip at a sparkling glass of something near the pool, but those desires are more about atmosphere and setting, and easily conjured with mocktails or food.
Such as in the featured photo, which was crafted on one of the first sunny and warm days we’ve had this year. It’s a simple hard squeeze – the juice of a single lime, in a tumbler of ice, topped with some grapefruit seltzer and garnished with a thin lime wheel. It was a reward for a bit of work done in the service of future bamboo plants. I sat down by the pool – still closed, but void of ice and snow – and sipped on the cool, refreshing tartness. If summer might be spent in such beautiful spirits, perhaps it won’t be so bad.
And in the midst of this claustrophobic darkness, I needed such a promise. If you do too, and you find a balm in beauty and flowers, seek out similar posts in the archives. The lazy isolationist side of me is winning today, so finding the links will be up to you.
The great and all-powerful RuPaul once proclaimed, “We’re all born naked and the rest is drag.’
When we are children, we don’t think anything of nudity, and society generally doesn’t bat an eye at a naked child either. When I was a kid I used to proverbially swing my dick around all the time as far as running around naked went. My parents, usually so clinical and scientific in their words and analyses could somehow only bring themselves to call a penis a ‘thing’, so for a couple of years my brother and I referred to our dicks as our ‘things’. Probably a good idea, as we no doubt would have run around screaming ‘penis’ at the top of our lungs. (Not gonna say it didn’t eventually happen anyway.)
As a child, I remember being without pants a lot. I don’t know if I specifically enjoyed being naked as much as I simply enjoyed being free and unfettered by the bonds of clothing. It sometimes felt like such a Herculean task to simply get dressed with all the socks and belts and tucked-in-shirts. Too much bother when all I wanted to do was run around the yard in my underwear. So I often did.
I still don’t know when exactly the shame crept into being naked. It happened prior to the onset of adolescence, because I remember knowing that showing off your body was not something we were supposed to do, and it was around that time that I suddenly became very shy. It wasn’t just about the naked body either – it was a shyness I can now see as the initial onset of the social anxiety that would haunt me for my entire life. Intertwined was the shame and guilt of the Garden of Eden and a bunch of other religious dogma that fucked me up in ways I’m still trying to fix.
Over the years, I’ve come to realize that my getting naked here on this blog is a way of reclaiming that childlike innocence, when I felt absolutely no shame whatsoever about the human body. It’s not easy getting rid of that kind of shame, particularly when society heaps on its antiquated enforcement of such tenets. America is hypocritically prudent when it comes to nudity, and when there’s any aspect of sexuality imbued in the mix it proves doubly resistant.
Fuck all that. We’re all naked under our clothes. Our bodies are the maps of where we’ve been – physically and mentally – they are marked with scars and flaws unique and special to each and every individual. No two are alike, but our basic make-up is remarkably similar. Underneath it all, it’s very hard to tell who is who. We should celebrate our bodies, and our differences. Every wrinkle and gray hair, every ounce of weight, every hidden muscle, every line that could tell innumerable tales of happy laughter, sorrowful tears, or righteous anger. These bodies are our shells, and no matter how gaily or extravagantly we dress them up, in the end they will return to the earth, becoming part of the universe in some form. We will fold back into this universal womb, no longer skin, flesh and bone, but only the eternally-fading remnants of such stuff. In some ways, life is but one long series of degradations of our physical form. How much of my newborn self still remains? I can’t say I remember much of my soul in those days. We change so much.
Here, then, is a marker of where I am right now.
You can go back several years on this site to see where I was back when.
And when I’m gone, and my body is nothing but ash or dirt, maybe these photos will survive, existing in the technological cloud we’ve created, living on as proof that I was here, that this body once existed, that it once laughed and wept and breathed, that it once ran and played and danced, that it was an element of matter that, to a few select and magnificent people, actually mattered.
While meditation has proven to be a grounding and quite possibly life-sustaining practice for me at this peculiarly-trying time in our history, I know that it isn’t the instant solution for those looking for immediate peace and inner-happiness. Honestly, I don’t believe there’s an instant fix for conjuring those things or we’d all have them by now. I was talking, well texting, with Suzie and my Mom, actively encouraging them to try it out, and following up to see how they were doing, and it turns out neither has taken to it like I have. I was sorry to hear that, though I completely understood.
Meditation is not easy at first. It feels hokey, or silly, or simply a waste of time. And our lives are busy and full and there are so many other things we could be doing. But studies have shown that when done consistently, meditation actually increases the gray matter of the brain (the good stuff I’m assuming) and helps us focus and follow our thoughts better even (and ore importantly) at the times when were not meditating. (As much as I adore both Suzie and my mother, both could use a little more focus now and then – and really we all could. Myself most definitely included.)
That said, the reality of knowing this and actually putting a meditation plan into practice are two very different things, one of which doesn’t necessarily create an impetus for the other. And so I’m giving one more push for everyone to try it out and give it a whirl, and offering a few hopefully-helpful hints on how to start it out.
First, start small, start short, and start with a set plan. This is both the easiest and hardest thing to do. There will be many reasons not to begin. Dinner needs to be cooked, the kids need to be schooled, it’s already time for bed, it’s too soon to settle down for the evening – I know how difficult it is just to make a moment for yourself. But if you can’t take care of yourself, you can’t effectively take care of anyone else. Begin there.
It need not be a long commitment. Start with five minutes a day. By all means do more if you’d like, but you’ll find that sitting in silence is probably going to be uncomfortable, and five minutes will feel like five hours the first few times you do it. The important thing is to find a quiet space where you won’t be interrupted for five minutes.
Next, it is vital to set your phone or an alarm for exactly five minutes, and don’t start it until you are in a comfortable position on the floor or a chair and you’ve calmed your breathing. Don’t rely on a clock or other method of keeping track of time because that will be all that occupies you and will derail the entire point of meditation. Set the timer and then focus on your breathing. The last thing you want to do is be looking at a clock or wondering how much time has passed. Give yourself the full five minutes and then forget about time.
Breathe into your belly, expanding your diaphragm slowly and gradually, then pulling it back in. Let whatever thoughts that cross your mind present themselves, then let them drift on. Let another thought come and go. In the beginning these thoughts will likely be of what you have to do after you meditate, or what you have planned for the day or week ahead, or maybe something that bothered or upset you previously. Acknowledge them as they arrive, then let them pass. If one returns, do the same thing – acknowledge and let it go, and eventually it will stop presenting itself. Five minutes will pass soon enough.
The next day, try it again for five minutes. See if you can do it with less thoughts presenting themselves, or if it’s helpful to focus on something, go through your day and what you felt at each moment. If you were frustrated by something, acknowledge that you felt frustrated, breathe in on that frustration, breathe out on the frustration, then let it go. Another feeling presents itself – worry and stress over a situation. Acknowledge your worry and stress, breathe in on them, then breathe out on them, and let them go. You’re not focusing on the situations or issues, but rather on your feelings toward them, because that’s all we really control. It’s ok to feel these things, and when we don’t that’s when things get bottled up and present problems later on.
If you do this every day for a week, try increasing the timer to seven minutes and staying with that for the following week or so. If you’re anything like my Mom or Suzie, you do a ton of stuff for other people, but don’t take nearly as much time for yourself and your own well-being. Meditation is a healthy way of feeding your own soul so you can be even better at everything you already do.
As for my own meditative journey, I’ve only just begun. It felt strange and uncomfortable at first, but I’m up to nineteen minutes a day, and it’s an integral part of what is keeping me sane during these troubled times. I’m aiming to increase minute by minute until I’m up to half an hour by the fall. It’s not the length of time that matters, however, it’s the practice. Start with five and see how it goes.
It is late spring, and there hasn’t been any significant heat to make this bedroom bay-window difficult. In another month summer will have arrived, and it will be decidedly less fun to stay here in the afternoon sun. For now, it is the perfect place to be.
I sit in a silly Pier One papasan, back when they used to sell me merchandise, and idly flip through the pages of a book. Over the previous winter, I’d gotten into the habit of reading in the bedroom after a work shift when I found myself lost for something to do. It eased the nights of solitude, and while solitude proved bothersome a few short months before, now it was something I almost embraced. I was learning to be ok on my own. Better than ok, I was verging on happiness.
WE WERE AS ONE BABE
FOR A MOMENT IN TIME
AND IT SEEMED EVERLASTING
THAT YOU WOULD ALWAYS BE MINE
NOW YOU WANNA BE FREE
SO I’M LETTING YOU FLY
‘CAUSE I KNOW IN MY HEART BABE
OUR LOVE WILL NEVER DIE, NO
It was basically my first summer alone in Boston. I’d usually have headed back to my parents’ home to take advantage of the central air conditioning and refreshing pool. For most of this summer I’d stay in Boston. I spent the days working at Structure, which was almost a full-time gig, given that they scheduled me for 35 hours a week. I could pretty much choose my shifts though, and it was a social outlet which was good since I didn’t yet have many friends in Boston – certainly not in the summer when most of my friends went home. Not quite 21 years old, I still didn’t go out much, and that was fine. It forced me to make the most of nightly solitude in other ways.
Mariah Carey was continuing her mid-90’s domination of the pop scene, and back when MTV was still playing videos her sweet ode to innocent love was playing all the time. Its summer camp lake scene was something I didn’t recognize from my own youth, but romance was something equally unrecognizable for me. The idea of it held much appeal and allure, but the reality proved elusive, probably because my idea of it was far from reality. Still, it was nice to fantasize about a gentleman with whom I might share a spring or summer, or at the very least a shower.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME?
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
When my work-day was done, I’d find my way back to the condo and station myself in the bedroom window, reading and pausing for a brief siesta before getting running gear and stepping into the dinner-time air. Neighbors sat on their front steps eating off their summer plates and clinking glasses of wine. I’d wave and rush by in a jog. It felt good to be outside. The long winter of commuting to Brandeis still felt chilly in my memory. It was nice just to be free from that, and to pass the flowering trees and their perfume. Everyone was outside, it seemed. And they were all going to dinner or socializing, while I rushed by, ever on the outskirts, ever hurrying away from such interactions.
[It feels far away, not only because it was almost a quarter of a century ago, but because in just a few short weeks I’ve already grown dangerously accustomed to being without human contact. The notion of pausing and speaking with people I know, just on the street, feels suddenly, and yet forever, foreign.]
I AIN’T GONNA CRY NO
AND I WON’T BEG YOU TO STAY
IF YOU’RE DETERMINED TO LEAVE BOY
I WILL NOT STAND IN YOUR WAY
BUT INEVITABLY
YOU’LL BE BACK AGAIN
‘CAUSE YOU KNOW IN YOUR HEART BABE
OUR LOVE WILL NEVER END, NO
As much as I shy away from people, part of me seeks them out. I cross Columbus and head to Tremont, where all the restaurants and cafes are. The South End is just beginning to turn into an unaffordable place, but it’s not quite there yet. Vestiges of the large gay population remain, centered around Geoffrey’s and Francesca’s, but I keep myself on the outskirts, literally running past the people even as I crave to be near them.
If part of me wanted to meet someone special, I didn’t think the whole running thing through. How exactly did I intend to meet anyone while jogging? If someone gave me the once-over, did I really expect to stop in my sweaty state and strike up a conversation, out of breath and flustered? No, I didn’t think it through, but that made no difference. The point is the run. It occupies my time and keeps me in shape.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
I run up and down Tremont, passing the places where the people gather, peeking in on their evening expositions, watching their laughter and the way they bring food and cocktails to their lips. As fast as I rushed by, I could still see. The sun slowly goes down and still the light remains. Sweat runs down my face and it is time to head back. There was nothing special waiting for me at the condo, but there is just so far one guy can run in an evening.
Back in the bedroom, there is no longer the direct sunlight of afternoon streaming in. It’s a little sadder, though I’m not sad. On the television, Mariah is back on, singing this happy song, as I step into the shower. Dousing myself in the Dewberry line from the Body Shop, I make an unintentional memory. There is nothing special happening in my life, I’m simply existing – working and running and reading and sleeping and eating bagels from Finagle. I’d dated men and women by that point, I had my moments of not being alone. This was something different: I had to know that I’d be ok on my own if I needed to be. I fell asleep with a book on my chest, the bathroom light still annoyingly bright.
I KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE BACK BOY
WHEN YOUR DAYS AND YOUR NIGHTS GET A LITTLE BIT COLDER
I KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE RIGHT BACK BABY
OH BABY BELIEVE ME IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME, TIME…
In the morning the light from outside is back, pouring in the front windows of the condo now. There is orange juice in the fridge, and a brown paper bag of bagels on the counter. If I’m feeling especially decadent, and planned ahead, I would indulge in a container of cream cheese. On the fanciest days I will go so far as to toast the bagel. For the most part, I eat them plain, tearing their doughy forms into bite size pieces and popping them into my mouth as I stand near the windows looking out onto Braddock Park. I am a typical single guy in Boston, just more accustomed and comfortable in being on my own. I’m also only twenty years old. The friends I make at work can go out to bars, which limits my participation. Secretly, I thrill at being off the hook for attending those gatherings just because of my young age. And so I run.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
Looking back, I recognize in my actions a number of the things I’ve been practicing lately, specifically within the realm of being more mindful and present. I couldn’t realize it then, because it often felt like I was always way too much in my head, but in retrospect I was also remarkably in the moment. I worried for my future, but not to an extent that it stalled or crippled me. I remember being in that moment, inhabiting that specific time, those particular spring days that bled into summer. And some part of me knew that was important, because I still remember it, and the Dewberry fragrance brings it all back, as does this song.
The world has changed quite a bit since then. Boston has changed quite a bit. I’ve changed quite a bit. But that part of me that could simply enjoy an almost-summer night, running and chasing the sun down, still exists – time really can’t erase a feeling this strong – and the promise of Boston holds a place in my heart – in the past, and in the future.
YOU AND I WILL ALWAYS BE
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
Arriving in the midst of one of the dreariest days we’ve had in a while, the beautiful spring bounty box from the Beekman Boys was like a breath of fresh air for my house-bound self. The timing couldn’t have been better. The day was weighted with a heavy blanket of clouds, and a steady rain had been falling since I got up. The winds were just about to arrive, adding to the horrid mess, and all I really wanted to do was go back to sleep. Working from home doesn’t allow such extravagances, at least I don’t allow such extravagance when I’m working from home. And all those unanswered emails wouldn’t do my probationary period any favors either.
I did allow myself a quick peek at the box and the new Spring Blossom fragrance, and immediately the mood lifted. A little bit of light crept into the room, with the sumptuous packaging and soft pink wrapping. Spring Blossom brought scenes of flowering trees to mind, and those evenings when the fragrance carried on a breeze, signaling the coming of summer, the return of the sun, the promise of ease.
Forget about ‘fetch’ – the only thing not ever going to happen is me making pancakes from scratch that aren’t disasters. I’m not going to pretend false humility or modesty at this moment: I’m pretty fucking awesome at a pretty extensive number of things. The one thing I remain unable to consistently accomplish is making a simple fucking pancake. (I have come close in the past, but just this once.)
Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the ingredients, maybe it’s the pan, maybe it’s just my fucking ineptitude to operate when a runny batter rears its wet head – whatever the case, I can’t do it. And it’s not just the first pancake either, though I appreciate the condolences. That’s ok. I mean, I’m ok with it now. And I’m sure I could work and work and practice and perfect – but I’d rather accept this defeat, especially as it means someone else will have the opportunity to make them.
Now, if you want your pancake burnt on the outside and raw in the middle – not such an easy thing to do, by the way – you’ve come to the right guy. I’ll give you that charred-semi-semolina magic anytime. If you want it profanity-free, that’s gonna cost you fucking extra.
FYI – I’m completely aware that the protective seal from the fancy-ass syrup bottle is on the plate. It fell there when I was trying to be fucking fancy and it just felt right to leave it there.
And if we’re all gonna bow out soon, I’ll be damned if I do it before showing the world my authentic, genuine, rumpled-in-the-morning self.
Also, if it turns out we make it through these weeks somehow unscathed, this will go a great way toward helping me get over my perfectionism. My head knows there is no such thing as perfection, but the heart wants what it wants.
So here, on a Monday morning in which I woke up late (well, later than I’d like) and realized I didn’t even program a proper recap post (my posts are typically written and programmed three or four days in advance) I decided to give you a peek at what I look like first thing in the morning, before taking a shower or fixing my hair or brushing my teeth. I think I took these even before I peed. As Kelly LeBrock once remarked, “This is my hair in the morning.” Unfiltered. Imperfect. Non-‘Portrait: Studio Lighting’-style. On with the recap…
“There is yet another illusion, that it is important to be respectable, to be loved and appreciated, to be important. Many say we have a natural urge to be loved and appreciated, to belong. That’s false. Drop this illusion and you will find happiness. We have a natural urge to be free, a natural urge to love, but not to be loved…” ~ Anthony de Mello
May our recent Sunday afternoon/evening moment of calm and tranquility find furtherance in this post. Here are more words from Anthony de Mello and his book/talk on awareness, and these are pretty important ones. They shift a fundamental dynamic that has driven the way I viewed and interacted with the world, and especially with the people around me. Had I realized and understood this a bit better when I was younger, many years of heartbreak, heartache, and general heart wariness could have been avoided. Luckily, it’s never too late to learn, and it’s never to late to find freedom. Sometimes, finding it at this late stage of the game is even sweeter. There is an extra aspect of joy in unexpected delight.
When I think back to previous relationships I’ve had – not only romantic ones but friendships and family connections as well, not to mention long-ago iterations of marriage too – I marvel at how so much of what felt or seemed wrong was in my own perception of various situations. We want to attribute our own failings and strengths to those around us, perpetuating a cycle of reflection and warped refraction that doesn’t truly aid in connecting to anyone. And it certainly never helped to find and discover an un-obscured view of oneself. But that was then. I did the best I could do. Embracing illusions and delusions, I didn’t set out to hurt anyone, though the weirdly indulgent masochistic part of me may have welcomed some degree of hurt to myself. I thought suffering in some way made people better. Stronger. More vulnerable and therefore more appealing. I lived inside my head to kill it dead.
These days I can look at that mindset and its subsequent behavior with a bit of a chuckle. It’s best to laugh at one’s mistakes, after you have learned from them. It’s another part in breaking down a perfectionist’s need to be perfect. A laugh or a chuckle doesn’t always indicate judgment or derision – in fact, I can genuinely report that my laughter is usually not derisive, even though everyone gleans it as such. I laugh for joy – the enjoyment of all our imperfections, the enjoyment of the ridiculousness that I might not like your outfit or hair, the enjoyment of the insanity and inanity of me thinking I have any right to impress my taste on anyone else – I was, I am, and I shall remain an ass for my time on this earth! (And really, when are you going to do something about that hideous blouse?)
“When you finally awake, you don’t try to make good things happen; they just happen. You understand suddenly that everything that happens to you is good. Think of some people you’re living with whom you want to change. You find them moody, inconsiderate, unreliable, treacherous, or whatever. But when you are different, they’ll be different. That’s an infallible and miraculous cure. The day you are different, they will become different. And you will see them differently, too. Someone who seemed terrifying will now seem frightened. Someone who seemed rude will seem frightened. All of a sudden, no one has the power to hurt you anymore.” ~ Anthony de Mello
Sundays are usually melancholy days. We spend our lives making them such – from school dread to work dread to church dread – and even if Sundays are better than Mondays, the impending end of the weekend has always imbued them with a sadness I’ve never quite been able to shake. In switching trains of thought recently, I’ve come to see things differently, and have worked to embrace Sunday as much as Saturday. In essence, they are the same – if anything, Sunday comes with added options for rest, as most places have reduced hours on that day. Well, when they’re operating in usual fashion. That’s no longer the case. And so we have this timely song.
TRUDGING SLOWLY OVER WET SAND
BACK TO THE BENCH WHERE YOUR CLOTHES WERE STOLEN
THIS IS A COASTAL TOWN
THAT THEY FORGOT TO CLOSE DOWN
ARMAGEDDON – COME ARMAGEDDON COME ARMAGEDDON COME
EVERY DAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
EVERY DAY IS SILENT AND GREY
We had snow just a few days ago, meaning that while it’s technically spring, it’s not necessarily in the air yet. While spreading mulch, however, I did catch a bit of magnolia on the chilly wind, a hint of perfume that may last a little longer in the cooler temperatures. The one saving grace of the weather is that flowers hang around as if they were being coddled in the florist’s fridge. These simple thoughts float across the mind as I contemplate a Sunday.
HIDE ON A PROMENADE
ETCH ON A POST CARD:
HOW I DEARLY WISH I WAS NOT HERE
IN THE SEASIDE TOWN
THAT THEY FORGOT TO BOMB
COME, COME NUCLEAR BOMB! EVERY DAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
EVERY DAY IS SILENT AND GREY
Sundays carry a certain inherent sorrow too, something that has imbued all our lives in the last few years. I’ve discovered that it’s vital to acknowledge and occasionally embrace that sorrow, because it won’t go away or subside if you simply ignore it. The world is troubled. I feel it more on Sundays.
TRUDGING BACK OVER PEBBLES AND SAND
AND A STRANGE DUST LANDS ON YOUR HANDS
(AND ON YOUR FACE)
EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
“WIN YOURSELF A CHEAP TRAY”
SHARE SOME GREASED TEA WITH ME
EVERYDAY IS SILENT AND GREY
How long can a ZZ plant truly survive without water? We are about to find out, as I haven’t been in Boston for over a month and it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to water the ZZ plant I have there anytime soon. I thought of it for the first time a couple of days ago. Up until that point, I hadn’t missed it. I mean, I hadn’t missed Boston. I missed Kira, and I missed the escape it provided, but I didn’t really miss being there until recently, and that’s when I thought of the little ZZ plant in the bedroom window.
That particular window has seen a few plants over the years. It started with a ficus tree. I’d always wanted one, but never had enough light for one while at college. In the bedroom, light poured in for the entire afternoon. It did relatively well, but eventually succumbed to mealybugs and too many vacations.
Following that, a more amenable and less temperamental umbrella plant took its place, rising to half my height with its beautifully variegated foliage. It was doing quite well, basking in its sunny window, when I moved to Chicago. By the time I returned, it had wilted and almost expired, much like my heart. It made a bit of a comeback but gave up entirely a few weeks after I was back (to be completely honest, I may have given up on it too). It was better that way, as I was spending more time in Albany than in Boston, and soon enough Boston became my second home, visited once a month – sometimes less.
I didn’t think that schedule would support a plant (I didn’t want to go the cactus or succulent route) but when I discovered the ZZ plant and its water-holding rhizomes, along with tales of its indestructibility, I thought I’d give it a whirl. At Niche, I found a lovely specimen, which did so well the first few months, it soon needed a new pot. I brought some potting soil from Albany (so much easier than lugging a fresh bag on the subway) and found a pretty pot at Crate & Barrel, and it settled in happily. A monthly watering schedule actually worked much better for this kind of plant, and since then it’s provided a lovely bit of greenery, particularly in the winter months.
Now, I’m praying for its well-being in these crazy and dark times.
{Stay tuned for a more uplifting Boston post soon, even if it’s a fantasy piece.}
{Some “friends” have wondered how I didn’t break my hip or back in this pose, and all I can say is that I was much more flexible and fabulous in my youth. Step & repeat.}
The first time I ever ordered bulk mulch delivered to our home was a number of years ago. After speaking with the person in charge of the delivery, we decided that two cubic yards would more than suffice. We don’t have a huge yard, but much of it is landscaped with gardens and various patches of shrubs and trees. That first year, when the truck arrived and dumped it in our driveway, I was happy to think of all the trips to Lowes I’d otherwise have had to make, bringing four or five bags of mulch home at a time, sometimes having to make a few trips in a single day. As glad as that made me, I was also somewhat daunted by the enormity of two cubic yards of mulch. I was also surprised by how quickly it went, and how much more I actually needed.
A number of years passed since that happened. I’ve been amending the gardens gradually since then, buying a bag or two here and there as necessary, but this year the ground was bare enough to merit another delivery. Unfortunately, the memory is fallible, especially mine of late, and the one thing that I recalled more than anything else was not the enormous amount that two cubic yards was, but rather how we didn’t have nearly enough. So I ordered six this time.
If you’ve ever ordered mulch or know how much that is, you are probably laughing at me right now. I would be too. It’s absolutely laughable, as was my horrified look as the truck dumped out an amount of mulch that would fill the entire inside of our house about three times over. Now, I rarely get overwhelmed. Even when I should be, I usually don’t feel it. But as I walked outside and was greeted with a wall of mulch that went up to my head, I felt it. Overwhelmed.
The first thing I did was to consult the weather calendar, because if it was going to rain anytime in the near future, I’d be screwed, and I needed to know if I was going to have to find some make-do tarp to cover it from water. Luckily, the skies showed clear for at least three days. I could do it in three days, I thought. Turned out I could do it in two afternoons, but I’m paying a bit of a price.
