The very first sundial I ever encountered was in the semi-secret side garden of the Ko house. In the center of a circular stand of hosta, which itself was in the middle of a formal stone-lined section of the garden, near an enormous elm tree and not far from a grape arbor, it stood and marked the path of the sun, or so Suzie and I assumed. Neither of us could read it, even if the dial itself was still intact (that part remains fuzzy in my memory bank). I remembered what was in the surrounding garden quite more vividly: the beds of floppy peonies, heavy and wet from a previous eve’s rainfall – the dirty, leaf-filled basin of a small cement pool that was mostly dry all summer – and the bearded iris that insisted we sniff their beautiful fuzzy heads every time we passed. Only I obliged; Suzie was supremely uninterested in them, no matter how I extolled their virtues.

That sundial stood in the center of the space, yet it didn’t occupy the center of our thoughts. Children don’t often succumb to the intended focus of a place and we were no different. The bees buzzing in dangerous numbers among the Centaurea by the stone walkway demanded our notice, as did the perfume of that summer place, which I didn’t know then but subsequently discovered to be either the fringe tree nearer the street, or a hidden hedge of mockorange dividing the garden from the house next door. And grape taffy – Suzie shared some beneath the grape arbor, from which small green grapes were just starting to form – grapes that would never come to ripeness no matter how many times the sundial marked the day. Or maybe they did and we just weren’t there to witness them. Summer never lasted long enough when you were a kid.

The sundial seen in these winter photos was a gift from a few years ago, and I only just noticed the rather macabre grim reaper on it to indicate the passage of time, and its only slightly-more-hopeful message. Yikes. I’m going to take that as a sign of the passing winter, as it stands there in the snow, marking the march of the sun, and the passing season of a garden waiting to begin again.

Ok, so technically maybe the Prudential Center is not exactly a mall – but it’s close enough in these times when malls are no longer the rage. This stand of ferns was planted beneath a spreading banyan tree, whose roots reached down from the air in tropical wonder, while a few feet outside the glass windows the winter wind raged. We will take our bits of beauty and balm where we can find them. If there’s some greenery involved in the middle of February, that’s a bonus. These are the little tricks that see us through the crueler months, and just because you find yourself walking through somewhere as common as the Pru doesn’t mean there aren’t quieter enchantments for the finding. This little stretch is always a happy trail – bright with all the windows and openness of the space – and it’s filled with a seasonally-updated collection of plants beneath the steadfast trees lining the walkway.

It leads to a bookstore – they once could be found around every corner, now they are an endangered species – and then to the entrance/exit closest to the condo, so I find myself here often, especially in the extreme-temperature months. It’s an oasis of sorts, and during lonelier times I would come here and sit, soaking in the light and the plants, calming the turbulent heart, waiting for the winter to pass.

The less said about the current state of political affairs, the better. I’ll just leave you with the hashtag everyone seemed to be using when Trump went golfing during a self-declared National Emergency: #MarALardAss. Now, let’s take a quick look back at the week that came before, then move quickly on to the week – and months, ahead. Spring shall return. Easter is around the corner. We are on the right track.

Things started off in promising fashion with Zac Efron shirtless and bulging in this hot post. 

This larch wept beauty in the winter. 

Force it until it pops. 

The platonic Valentine.

Broken Valentine wings. 

Open your heart to Madonna’s Valentine music.

Miso soup for winter. 

Before I even realized he was going to drop trou officially, this gratuitous Shawn Mendes shirtless post went up. 

Another winter weekend in Boston, under the sea.

Shawn Mendes debuted his bulge and became the new face and body of Calvin Klein. 

A beautiful Valentine’s Day gift from Andy: ‘Beau de Jour’ by Tom Ford. 

Additional undersea antics from Boston. 

Follow these #TinyThreads for some light-hearted thoughtless fun. 

Ahh, the aquarium.

It’s my favorite section of ‘The Carnival of Animals’ by Camille Saint-Saens ~ it manages to evoke the undulating flow of water and magic beneath the surface, along with evoking so much more ~ mystery, tension, wonder, beauty, tranquility, and the unknown. I’ve always felt a powerful peace when in the presence of an aquarium. Life is quieter under the water. It’s slower and more languid. There is violence there too, I suppose, but danger is everywhere when you think about it. It hints, rather terrifyingly, at the immensity of the world’s bodies of water. Lake or sea, river or ocean ~ each can overwhelm and astound with their vastness, their variety, their untamed wilderness.

Maybe we feel better when we take a few drops and encase it in glass where it can be controlled, where we might have a modicum of power. Maybe an aquarium is our way of mastering a natural element that would otherwise drown us. Or maybe we just like to capture and covet pretty things. The flower power of the sea anemone. The ribbon-like sinewy grace of a moray eel. This boxy little creature with the doe-like eyes and mottled skin. We want our beauty close and contained.