Things occasionally get a little dense and packed here, and that will prove doubly true for tomorrow, when two very wordy posts are scheduled to land. To inject a bit of lightness into the proceedings, I give you the red hot poker. This variety of Kniphofia seems a bit more manageable, coming in at a shorter height and more compact form than the red hot pokers of my youth. And that is where we shall leave the heat on this Friday night.
I owe you an apology.
Yes, you – you who are reading this now and wondering if I’m actually talking to you because you might be someone I’ve never actually met in person.
This is for you.
I’m sorry, because I sometimes forget you are here.
This space – this blog – has become, over the last twenty years, my own diary of sorts. It’s been a place where I can explore and experiment with writing and images, where I can post anything and everything my heart desires without censorship or limits or worry. It’s my own little public playground where I can frolic and flail, but sometimes I forget that it is so public, that you are reading this, that it’s a diary open to all.
When I write a blog post, it is usually done in the quiet and silence of my home. While ideas and phrases and sentences come to me throughout the day and night (usually at the most inconvenient times such as right after I’ve stepped into a running shower) to put them onto proverbial paper, or laptop screen, is a task I undertake in solitude and stillness. It’s the spirit in which I’d like it to be read, and it’s only right that I should honor that by crafting posts in similar fashion. That sort of solitude, however, has fooled me into forgetting about you – the reader, that other side of the equation, with formulas likely worked out in a very different manner, no matter how similar we wind up in the end.
That doesn’t bother me – you are always welcome to share in this ongoing exercise of self-examination and self-analysis – yet it’s created a minor conundrum, because in addition to the isolated way in which these posts are crafted, it’s also given me complete and total control over how my story is told. There are blind spots and weaknesses and failings in that though, and navigating this treacherous journey can not fully be done on one’s own, no matter how I might try. That means when someone else tells my tale, it can be a terrifying new experience, one that recently wreaked great havoc, even if it was all in my mind. Even if I made it all up.
“I hadn’t quite made up my mind to admit it. Now I suddenly feel as if I’ve taken all of my clothes off.” ~ Margo Channing, All About Eve
If Margo Channing can feel such sabotaging self-doubt just after she turned 40, then surely my own own flailing as I approach the age of 48 can be forgiven, or at the very least understood. As for you, while my opening apology was heartfelt, it also rings a bit hollow, because if I think of you too much, if I allow you to occupy my head, then there isn’t as much room for me to run free. And while I’m good when I’m reined in a bit, I’m better when I’m wild.
IYKYK.
This is Jack Smith.
Jack is the Dazzler of the Day.
See Jack indict.
Thank you, Jack.
(Next installment: Mr. Smith goes to Washington.)
Catching sight of something out of place is one of my strengths, so when I walked into the living room to meditate I immediately noticed the screen on one of the windows, where a new addition hung like a little ornament. I wasn’t sure what it was at first, but I took a whimsical reading of it as a heart – the visual embodiment of love, or an on-screen love scene. Approaching it slowly, I liked holding the idea of love visiting our home. Up close, I saw it was a moth, hanging upside down, perhaps peering out at the Chinese dogwoods in full bloom, pixelated from my view thanks to the screen.
Sitting lotus-style on the floor and softening my gaze, I slowed my breathing – allowing a small smile to barely tug at the corners of my mouth as the breath deepened. The day had been one of those purgatorial days – mostly overcast with occasional peeks of sun in between cloud cover – neither one or the other, and leaving the spirit feeling restless, unsettled. Meditation calmed that. The day would be whatever the day was going to be, and after breathing deeply for a few minutes, I felt the worry begin to dissipate, the way it always did.
The moth kept me company for the entire meditation, resting there until it was dark, then carried on along its own journey. The love remained.
Hot off their recent Tony Award for their performance in ‘Shucked’ (which actually looked, and more importantly sounded, like a gleeful musical romp) Alex Newell may now add Dazzler of the Day to an already-impressive resume. Their work includes a celebrated turn on ‘Glee’, but I was more astounded by their talent when I got to see them in the glorious revival of ‘Once On This Island’ a few years ago. Now I’ve added ‘Shucked’ to my wish list in the hopes of witnessing Newell on stage again.
Nature will always be the best painter. With a limitless canvass of possibility and an endless array of colors and shades, every little piece of natural wonder carries its own specific aspect of beauty. Occasionally the beauty is deep, dark and sunken – hidden caves of stalactites and stalagmites, sparkling with crystals and running with water, never to be seen by human eyes. Occasionally it is more subtle, hiding in plain sight, such as the patch of clover the almost-meticulous homeowner finds in their lawn that might at first feel like a blight on the pristine sameness of the grass but can, upon closer inspection, be a wayward bit of delight simply by being different. In the happiest of circumstances, beauty is glaringly apparent, as it often is in the garden.
One of my favorite plants is the Japanese painted fern (Athyrium niponicum). It’s been chronicled here a number of times, and is always worth a revisit, especially at this time of the year, when the bright chartreuse greens of spring begin ripening into something deeper, and the stifling hold of summer is almost upon us. These fronds bring a cooling and calming effect into what is usually an explosive season of color.
It addition to being one of the most beautiful ferns widely available, it adds an ease of care and culture to its merits, and such vigor has resulted in several groups of such beauty which have established themselves around our yard. Pretty paintings now abound in a number of shaded nooks, waiting to be discovered by the careful and observant wanderer.
The older I get, the more beauty I find in those gardens that whisper rather than shout – the cooling foliage and tranquil forms combine for an effect of serenity which speaks to me more than a riotous cacophony of bright flowers and fiery floral-technics.
His ‘Problemattic World Tour‘ is all but sold-out for the next year, including four shows at nearby Proctor’s Theater (to which I’d hoped to score tickets but arrived a few hours too late) and he is easily one of the hottest comedians storming stages today. I caught on to his magic a long time ago, when his Tik Tok drops would send me to sleep laughing my ass off thanks to several viral audience interactions and his talented way of working a crowd into a riotous frenzy. The fact that he is easy on the eyes makes the whole package seem too good to be true, and Matt Rife earns this Dazzler of the Day for making us all laugh without resorting to crude or cheap shots, and piercing through to the heart inherent in the best humor.
This is the time of the year when summer can begin to breeze in during the nights – they stay warmer a little longer each day, sometimes actually heating up a few degrees before it’s morning again. A happy reversal of atmospheric fortune, it’s the queasy opposite of what usually happens at night, and in the early days of the season I always thrill at it. (Check back for over-heated-bitterness come August.)
In the sticky early sweetness of summer’s approach, when the humidity is on the rise and the day leans long, a dip in the pool provides relief and release. ‘Tis the celebrated season of the speedo, and the northern hemisphere bulges with all the promise contained therein.
We’ve been having a rather rocky journey from spring to summer this year – a roller coaster of highs and lows that has not been conducive to the various seedlings I have been trying to grow in patio pots. This was an inauspicious year to do seedlings – so of course that’s what I did before knowing what it was going to be like. They sprouted later than anticipated thanks to the colder stretches of weather, then spurted rather too quickly when the heat hit for a few days, and now have been looking gangly and weak, thanks to the wet and cool soil that has them on the verge of rot. A lesson learned for next year: forget the seed thing and go with plants already off to a start from the nursery.
As for the speedo that may have brought you to this post, this one doesn’t quite fit me anymore, so I decided to give it the old Viking funeral (just kidding, Andy – I did not light this on fire in the pool – those days are done). I ended up just swimming without the suit because that’s the almost-summer mood we’re in right now…
Sara Bareilles wrote one of the best pop songs of the new millennium in the form of ‘Brave’, but to limit her bottomless reservoir of talent to a pop tune is to miss an incredible body of work, such as her song-writing and musical theater genius (she wrote the score for ‘Waitress’ and later appeared in the titular role). More recently, she could be seen and heard treading the boards in the revival of ‘Into the Woods’. She earns this Dazzler of the Day for a career of Grammy, Olivier, Tony, Emmy, Drama Desk, Outer Circle Desk Award nominations and wins.
Yes, it’s still just spring, though it feels like we’ve been through a spring, summer and fall in the last week alone, and that’s only referencing the weather. That sort of atmospheric rollercoaster doesn’t always bode well for those of us whose moods are sometimes dictated by the surroundings, but I’ve been steadying myself through daily meditations, walks along the shore and in the garden (when time and location allow), and the general happiness that always comes with the spending arrival of summer. On with the weekly blog recap…
It began with the promise of something vulgar, a promise that would be delivered by the end of the week.
There was also the promise of a peony in bud.
Was this Chris Hemsworth’s actual naked butt or just clickbait? (Both of these things can be true.)
A climb that’s taken over twenty years.
A birthday lands amid the buzz of bees and sweet memories.
Our spring visit to Ogunquit was an enchanting adventure that began with a couple of summer-like days before ripening all too quickly into a fall-like throwback, and all of it was pretty wonderful.
The lone Dazzler of the Day was Andrew Christian, and he was more than worthy to carry the entire week.
A vulgar jockstrap post closed the week out with a bulge of sparkle and pizzazz.
If you’re on the hunty hunt for a banging and blessedly-brief Pride anthem, look no further than our reigning pop royalty pairing of Madonna and Sam Smith in their new collaboration ‘Vulgar’. This is arguably Madonna’s best release since some of the cuts on her 2015 ‘Rebel Heart’ album, and comes at a time when we need new Madonna music after the lackluster reception of 2019’s ‘Madame X’. It’s not even a full song, or what most of us would consider a full pop song (“Don’t need a chorus!”), but it is just enough – a tantalizing tease from two of the most brilliantly provocative and controversial artists who continually refuse to be cowered by the haters.
When the world attacks and criticizes, when you begin to doubt and wonder at your worth or value, and when they call you names like Vulgar, it’s sometimes wise to quietly assess and consider what they’re really saying. It’s easy to retreat in order to regroup, to hide and hunker down out of sight and out of mind. It might also make sense to go away for a bit, slinking into the shadows when the heat gets to be too much. That’s certainly my initial instinct when faced with adversity or disagreement.
And then I remember who I really am, and all the things I’ve already been through to get here. The things I’ve done to myself will never be surpassed by what someone else might say about or do to me, and there is defiance and freedom and pride in that. This song embodies that fighting spirit, exemplified by two pop stars who have been through the public ringer.
“They didn’t always get the life they wanted, but they knew how to dream… And maybe that’s the true definition of an eccentric – someone who can’t be slain by what lesser people might say.” ~ Andrew O’Hagan
My tea is strong, and though I may recklessly spill it from time to time, it’s always authentic. Far too often we try to be the person we think the world wants us to be, without indulging in who we genuinely are. The older I get, the less time I have for that sort of pretend, and there is something very liberating about that. People will believe what they want to believe about you, so maintaining a strong sense of self is one of the universal challenges we all face. Sam Smith and Madonna know that better than most, and I’m taking inspiration from this banger.
It makes me want to slip on a bejeweled jockstrap and dance my ass off…
A waltz that works as a meditation and references a dying poet is my kind of music. It’s the sort of piece that embodies this meandering post of late spring, when the world about us burns, the sky has turned deadly, and the tenuous hold we each think we have on the universe has been knocked out of our desperate grasp. At such a dizzying moment, I find it best to regroup and find peace through mindfulness and beauty, which is also a good way to head into summer – that time of the year when we begin to unwind and relax… so let us waltz.
The Flower Clock ticks its pretty time away but a waltz takes its 3/4 time signature and molds it into whatever the mood demands. For now, that is a meditative pause while we wait, some of us literally, for the air to clear. What might this portend for a summer? Something hot? Something cruel? Something #hotgirl?
These almost-summer days remind me of practicing the oboe – the sound of scales and endless arpeggios marking rhythmic magic in hypnotizing fashion. As the school years neared their end, there was always some recital or concert to form the final anxiety-inducing hurdle, some last-stage test we had to overcome if we were to make it through to summer vacation. I practiced to ease the worry that being unprepared supposedly conjured, even when the worry was so much more than that.
These days, worries come in different forms, more serious and troubling forms, and rather than playing the oboe to calm down (a highly questionable practice in the quest for calm) I’ve continued my daily meditation, pausing for twenty minutes each day to focus on deep breathing and clearing the mind. Mindfulness is the one true solution to lessening worry and anxiety. If you are truly present and occupied by what is immediately around you – each glimpse of prettiness, each peek at simplicity – it pushes more silly concerns to the side.
At this time of the year, there is always something beautiful to be found. A stroll in the yard, no matter how small, can always yield a picture of joy if one slows down enough to notice everything. June is abundant in such beauty, so I’m going to end this post and enjoy the garden on a quiet Sunday morning.
For the first decade or so of our spring visits to Ogunquit, it invariably rained and produced dismal weather for the unofficial start of the summer season, yet for all of those rainy times we never once let it get us down. Maybe it was the giddiness of being on vacation, or the beauty that surfaced even in the subdued grays and wet leaves all around us, or the delicious food that tasted even better when it was the highlight of the day – whatever the reason, we always embraced our time in Ogunquit.
When the downturn in weather happened three days into this year’s summer kick-off, we simply pulled out a couple of umbrellas, slipped on an extra jacket, and went about the business of relaxing. On the cozy porch of the Scotch Hill Inn, we began with a glorious breakfast, setting the deliciously-languid tone for a lazy couple of days.
Rainy weather does not make for a comfortable walk along the Marginal Way, so the only way to get to Perkins Cove for a lunch was by car. At our ever-advancing ages, the two-mile hike wasn’t missed. We found a place that looked over the cranky ocean, tumultuously throwing one of its spring tantrums and rocking several groups of water birds and their little offspring dangerously close to the shore. When faced with such a chill and a possible dampening of spirits, a platter of fried whole belly clams is an ideal antidote. Comfort food at its most simple and sublime.
In the way that the universe will occasionally throw us a bone, the skies lightened a little by the time we finished lunch. After driving back to the Inn, I went for a walk while Andy napped, finding this little pocket of beauty and solitude following the rain.
Rain does lend its own beauty to things, such as these forget-me-nots cradled among some rose-hued pansies. If I wasn’t on vacation, I’d likely be too preoccupied cursing the gray skies or cruel temperatures to notice them, but here I pause at each patch of flowers along my path, culminating at a stand of beach roses beside the outlet of the Ogunquit River.
The sun was still valiantly attempting to show itself before we departed (it always does so on our last morning in town – always) but on this afternoon it didn’t make much progress, and that evening’s dinner at Walker’s looked to be a fall-like affair. A June night that recalls the air of October is not something to be celebrated, yet our first experience at this restaurant was one of those happy twists of fate that worked out perfectly.
A roaring fire heated the main dining room, while a line of wood-fired ovens emanated more lovely heat. It was the coziest restaurant we’d been in for quite some time, and its warmth was the ideal setting for a chilly night. The food was as lovely as the atmosphere, and the service was even lovelier. (I’d remarked how much I liked the soap they used in the bathroom and our server managed to sneak a container of it to us at the end of the meal). We wished they had been open the next day as we would have made an unprecedented return to try them again (the menu was filled with too many options to test in a single sitting).
It was a new restaurant for us, a happy surprise that rescued a rainy day, and the perfect ending to a spring trip that felt more like a tease than a promise fulfilled. That might be what fall is for, when Walker’s may be the newest jewel in Ogunquit’s culinary crown. That is how we will close this pair of vacation posts – with the idea of a fall return – ending on a note of cozy warmth to greet the summer yet to come.
Andy and I have been visiting Ogunquit, Maine regularly since 2000. It was the first place to which we traveled together, and will always hold special significance for me because of that. It has also provided the bookends of our summers – with the first trip usually taking place over Memorial Day weekend and the last closing things out in October. This year we were off by a week, which worked out in that we avoided most of the crowds, even if it was Pride Weekend. I overheard one of the servers telling their table that the best time to visit if you wanted something quiet was in the weekend following a holiday weekend, so our timing was fortuitous, and something to keep in mind going forward.
We arrived on a sunny day, the kind that has often proved elusive on our Ogunquit visits. Home-base was once again the Scotch Hill Inn, which provides the best breakfast in town (and is reason alone to book this place, if the accompanying hospitality and comfort isn’t already more than enough).
Our host Anthony graciously let us settle in, and after a quick unpacking we immediately headed to the beach and it seemed like there might only be two decent beach days. If there is one lesson we have learned over the decades of visiting Ogunquit, it is to make the most of the sun when it’s out.
The ocean water was as cold as Maine ocean water usually is, but Andy reveled in it, planting his feet solidly on the shore and letting it surround him for the first time since last year; a year is a long time to be away from the healing power of the sea.
Around dinner time, we walked a bit of the Marginal Way, which was resplendent with beach roses in pink and white (Rosa rugosa), sprinkling their perfumed magic along our path. I have yet to find a Tom Ford Private Blend that is as glorious as the scent of beach roses mingled with the ocean.
The bench where I officially proposed to Andy was happily free, so we took a moment to pause and enjoy the view and the company. After twenty-three years of visiting this place, our gratitude took an easier and more relaxed form. Thinking back over all those years, it was both a marvel and exactly what I’d hoped for and envisioned when we first started coming here. The constancy of all that was before us was a comfort, as was the idea of all that was behind us. (And on cue Andy posed for just a couple of shots before tickling me and making it impossible to capture a non-blurry picture of us together.)
The next day was even warmer, the sun was shining in splendid glory, and we made it to the beach to make the most of it. Standing at the crux of land and water, I felt the frigid water roll past my feet, watching the reflection of the sun on the rippling little waves, sparkling like hundreds of white cranes fluttering back toward the sea. The beach has been casting the same spell over me since I was a child, and here I was at 47 years of age feeling its magic all over again.
Joining Andy on a towel in a dry section of sand, I sat down and closed my eyes to do my daily meditation. To do so in such a location was a luxury and a treat, one that allowed for a deeper mindfulness and appreciation of where we were. One of the best things about mediation is that you can bring it with you wherever you go.
As the tide began to roll in, we rolled our towels up and walked back to dress for dinner. Something about being at the beach always makes me extra-hungry. It had been a good two days of sun and fun, but the weather was about to turn, as it tends to do when we are in town…
Encroaching ever closer upon our half-century mark, Suzie celebrates her birthday today, and I’ll honor her standing as a proper lady by not revealing her exact age. (I will state for the record that she is almost three months older than me, so I’ll always be the younger one. Obvs.) The birthday parties she had in our childhood were outdoor affairs, which usually found us on the shaded side yard of their statuesque Victorian home, involved in three-legged sack races or other such childish games.
At some point during those parties, I would find a way to sneak off to the gardens on the other side of the house, where I could follow a rickety set of stone steps that led into a secluded little section of the yard blocked off by trees and a white fence. I was more interested in the gardens than participating in any reindeer games, I don’t care if I could blow a gum bubble faster than anyone else after eating a saltine cracker.
At the edge of the driveway, and all along the stone steps leading down into the garden, vast swaths of these perennial cornflowers (Centaurea montana) bloomed. They were irresistible to bees, who buzzed and danced among their blooms, lending a bit of danger to the path into the garden. One had to cross the busy byways of these buzzing sentinels and risk their stings in order to access the garden. It was always worth it to me, and to this day the sight of a cornflower in bloom brings me instantly back to Suzie’s birthdays, the way peonies bring me back to that very same garden.
After all these years, Suzie still embodies the warmth and safety and comfort of that garden, the same place she shared her grape taffy beneath a grape arbor dangling with unripe fruit and flanked by beds or irises and hosta. Suzie and summer will always be happily entwined in my memory, and on this day I wish her a very Happy Birthday as she embarks upon another year’s journey around the sun.
