The last weekend of January has arrived. Limping through it, I admit I’m a bit tired, and having difficulty finding motivation and inspiration to be excited over much. I’ve found myself going through the motions rather than being present and mindful – never a good thing, but understandable at this early point in winter. 

To make a small motion to turn things around, or gently feel the whispers of happiness and excitement, if only that means being open to the smallest glimpse of beauty in a day, I listen to a classic Madonna track or two (the exuberant ‘Open Your Heart‘ or the rollicking ‘Ray of Light‘), I clutch a bottle of Tom Ford’s ‘Fucking Fabulous’ before spraying some of that exquisite Private Blend onto my skin, and I go back out into the world, no matter the mood or weather. The day can be what you make it. Sometimes. 

A crescent moon winks at the dawn of dusk, if you can make much sense of that. It doesn’t come across clearly in these amateurish photos I attempted to take, but the idea is there, and during the winter an idea sometimes has to be enough. The idea that something could be cradled in the curve of a crescent moon is merely that – an idea. There is no empty space there – it’s filled with moon. We just can’t see it. Somewhere there’s an allegory to an iceberg in this, but it’s cold to delve into, and I’m not interested in following that path right now.

It’s Saturday night, I guess that makes it all right. (And anything is better than a full moon.)

Like many days since my Dad died, I spent the last few weeks in a bit of a haze, dazedly going about life’s daily routine on a sort of auto-pilot. After 48 years of living, sometimes you coast like that. It’s not my favored status. I’m not one for phoning things in (and not just because I hate talking in the phone). If I’m not wholly invested in something, I usually don’t do it. That’s not always possible with a job and mortgage and the basic responsibility of surviving.

And so I daze off, lost in a kind of soft focus, not totally or completely present. I can’t tell if anyone notices, and I’m not sure if that’s because I don’t want to know. The power of wishful thinking is a real thing. Rather than go too hard on myself, I’m accepting this, and waiting until I feel the stir of motivation. If it doesn’t come, it doesn’t come. The big chill is a real middle-aged issue, and there are good and bad things that come from it. A certain dulling and deadness to the world as it now stands isn’t entirely unwelcome. 

Andy had seen a fox in the backyard, spending a meaningful moment with it as it sat on the patio surrounding itself with its furry tail. Paths in the snow revealed a series of visits throughout our backyard, mostly nocturnal, and not only of foxes. Squirrels and rabbits make regular visits, often during the day. But the fox holds a special place in my heart, having been a totem animal for me at various times. (And ‘Foxy Lady’ is the song that Andy assigned to me when we first met, because there are no accidents in the universe.) 

Our front yard provides easier access for a wider variety of animals – everything from pheasants (our street’s namesake) to turkeys to deer – and whatever these paw prints might be. A neighbor’s cat, perhaps, or maybe something more interesting. Regardless, the mystery of visitors in the night remains to be solved, and I’m content if it stays a mystery, lost to the wilds of the weather. Footprints in the snow won’t last forever.