I’ve noticed the same enchanting perfume from the blooms as the last time it put on a show; at varying times in the day it releases this sweetness, as if it selectively choosing when to emit such beauty, teasing and hiding when it feels like it, pulling back when the world feels too thirsty. As someone who’s been accused, quite accurately, of being a coquettish tease, I admire such silliness.
More than admiration, I have an appreciation for an orchid that sees fit to come into bloom at the very bottom of our winter doldrums. There’s a certain grace in that, a gift in these dark days – something to keep us going until the first hints of spring arrive.
Close readers of this blog (hugs to all three of you) may have noticed that posts have begun to tend toward the nostalgic, evoking the past, as I forewarned as we started the year. As this year will mark my 50th here on earth, I’ve allowed the indulgences for the next twelve months, as I navigate the midsection of my life, God-willing, and the start of my final act (assuming we’re each allotted two).
Coincidentally, the long-overdue clean-up of our guest room (which at this point is more of a storage room) revealed a stack of old photographs, including this Christmas shot of me excitedly holding a bag of… wait for it… potting soil. Happily, I never considered my passion for gardening an odd thing, even as a young child. Back then, my intuition understood somehow that ‘Comparison is the thief of joy’, and so I simply minded my own business, gleefully asking Santa for houseplant paraphernalia the way other boys wished for plastic toys of war and fighting.
Looking back at the child I was, it does strike me as strange, or at least slightly off the beaten path. It set me apart from other children, and I was lucky enough to know that feeling early on – to know it, accept it, embrace it, and allow it to empower me. When you have the self-fortitude and security to stand apart from the pack, you’re probably stronger than most of the people who are too afraid to leave the pack. Remember: life is a mystery. Everyone must stand alone. The earlier you learn how to do that, the better.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt Dad near me. I still think of him every day, not as intensely or as all-encompassing a way as a year ago, but he’s still here. Lately he’s felt somewhat distant, or maybe I’m just focusing on other things and giving grief a break. The past few weeks I’ve missed him a little more than usual, and I hadn’t received any signs or signals that he was near.
Yesterday I woke late and was puttering about the living room when the familiar tune of ‘Lara’s Theme’ from one of his favorite movies ‘Dr. Zhivago’ came over the radio. Immediately I felt Dad near me, and I stopped to listen. I would play this song right after he died as I drove through the backroads near Amsterdam where he must have driven half a century ago. So far from his homeland, it was my homeland, and it’s always signified my father to me.
Later in the day, I was making motions to clean up the guestroom. Sorting through old letters and playbills and photos, I found an unopened letter addressed to ‘Allen’, which I recognized at once as the writing of one of Dad’s caretakers. She would occasionally write out a card with whatever he had said that day, and sometimes he would do his best to sign it – the handwriting a touching work of child-like scrawling, but glimmers of Dad’s penmanship would show through, even to the end when it was mostly abstract squiggles.
The letter I found hadn’t been opened – it was sealed with a sticker of a blue jay, and as I ripped it open I realized it was a message from my father even though he was gone. It tugged at my heart and I cried a little, going back to the time when it would have been written – in the sunny and warm days of his final spring. On the front was a painted beach scene of summer. Inside, in his caretaker’s handwriting, his words rang clear, if confused: “Where are you? Can you turn off the sun? It’s too sunny! It’s too hot to write any more.”
Maybe it was dementia-addled gibberish, or maybe it was clarity and wisdom from an expert – for the last couple of years Dad could go either way. On this day, when I had been missing him so, it was a glimpse of warmth and comfort in a snowy winter. I was still somewhere between smarting at the memory and being grateful to have it.
Going through more photos, I stumbled across one of us at the beach. I am now almost the same age as my father was in this picture, and my godson is almost the age that I must have been here. There are echoes of him in the little boy I used to be.
The tears come a bit more, and I let them fall, strangely welcoming their testament to how much I miss him. When I find a tissue and collect myself, I check my phone and there’s a message from Andy – a video of a cardinal chirping in sunlight. He hadn’t known I was crying and missing Dad, but he somehow got the idea to send it to me at that moment.
It was the winter of 1996 when I discovered this musical gem from George Michael’s catalog, years after it had originally been released. I had just started living in Boston, and the snow had arrived earlier in the month, after my Uncle and cousins had painted the condo for the first time. We’d spent a frigid few days there, in a haze of my Uncle’s smoke and the gentle clicking and dribble of the coffee maker.
I’d say love was a magical thing I’d say love would keep us from pain Had I been there Had I been there I would promise you all of my life But to lose you would cut like a knife So I don’t dare No, I don’t dare
When they left, and I was alone in the condo that first winter, I felt the first twinges of loneliness, and there was such terror and horror in that I immediately pushed it from my mind. Knowing myself, I understood I might not survive if I gave in to that, and so I willed myself to be ok with being alone. You can do that. We like to pretend that we can’t, but it is possible. We can train ourselves to endure. I won’t, and can’t, say whether that’s right or wrong; so many things aren’t simple binary choices. And you can will yourself to be something better than you are today.
‘Cause I’ve never come close in all of these years You are the only one to stop my tears And I’m so scared I’m so scared
At the time, I didn’t entirely realize what I was doing. I understood that I was forcing myself to grow up, but it all felt like another guise, another image, another facet of a personality I hadn’t quite figured out how to reconcile. There were minutes when I seemed to watch myself go through the motions of life – stepping out of a shower into the cold air and shivering as I watched a mottled city through the steam-clouded window. Standing in the kitchen and swigging a carton of orange juice after ravenously tearing into an untoasted and undressed bagel – as I didn’t have toaster or glass or chair. So many things seemed to be missing, and somehow I felt more complete and whole at that time than in recent years. Maybe we are the most full in our youth, and with every passing year we simply lose a little bit more of ourselves.
Take me back in time, maybe I can forget Turn a different corner and we never would have met Would you care?
I don’t understand it, for you it’s a breeze Little by little, you’ve brought me to my knees Don’t you care?
I knew that I craved companionship, and for a socially-anxious introvert (try as I might to outwardly dispel it by donning the role of flamboyant extrovert) I realized my quest would prove quite difficult. That was the restlessness I felt, that was the longing. That was also the unsettling sense of confusion that piled question upon question up in my head. Rooms filled with wonder, not the kind tinged with marvel, but the sort bound with worry, and when I look back at my prior selves I grow weary with the nonsense I put us all through.
With each day, however, I learned to be a better companion to myself. I remembered when I used to walk in the woods as a boy, perfectly content to make the journey on my own. Solitude was something I once craved too. In a foreshadowing of mindfulness, I inhabited the moment, taking each hour as it came rather than planning out weeks and months and years in advance, as had been my overly-organized wont. I studied the way the sun moved through the space, the way the light ebbed and flowed during a day. I made myself the occasional dinner, realizing at an embarrassing evening with a close friend (thank God it was Alissa), and at an embarrassingly-late stage in life for such things, that I should put the pasta into the water after it started boiling, not before. It may have felt like I was merely going through the motions, but in doing so I was simultaneously living.
We lead so many lives in a single lifetime. It’s exhausting to look back at them all. Satisfying too.
No, I’ve never come close in all of these years You are the only one to stop my tears I’m so scared of this love
And if all that there is Is this fear of being used I should go back to being lonely and confused If I could, I would, I swear
Winter… and we’re very much in it. Lunch-time scrambles to nearby food places prove a dire battle against icy winds ever since our office building cafe went out of business. A Tibetan blanket of soft wool makes for a heavy and oversized scarf; wrapped around my head and neck, it provides a portable cocoon that allows for a cozy walk.
The soup and stew days are upon us, so I made this chicken soup for a friend whose family has been stricken with the nasty cold/flu thing that is going around. Simmering chicken and vegetables and a few bay leaves fills the house with the scent of comfort and coziness, turning plain water into a rich stock in just a few hours of patient heat. Making soup is like making tea – a ritual tailor-made for winter, for rumination, for survival.
We don’t want to say goodbye to this year’s Christmas tree, which in Andy’s opinion (and I share it) was one of our most beautiful. It still smells lovely – a fresh, lush, balsam beauty that rivals any cologne I could ever wear. Taking off its accessories and sending it back into the cold is always a sad exercise for Andy – and I share in that sadness as well. So let us have some music to lift and buoy the Friday night spirits – a suite for flute and jazz piano trio by Claude Bolling.
This has been on every winter’s playlist for as long as I can remember, coming when the post-holiday blues are beginning to settle in, when the days are dark and the nights are long, and that wind is cruel and cutting. The time when summer feels as distant as it can be, because it actually is, and instead of being even cautiously optimistic, you give in to despair and try to sleep it all away.
Before you set yourself to slumber, take a moment to listen to this fun rollercoaster ride of effervescent and occasionally melancholy music – idea for a winter’s night.
A summer speedo shot from about twenty years ago brings back giddy memories, a slender version of myself, and sunny days of carefree lounging by the pool. The world feels so much different now, in ways good and awful, and while I never usually wish to go back, there are certain things I miss. That’s just another way of saying we were young once, and it’s ok to occasionally stroll down that lane of memory and revisit such happy moments. On an icy day like today, when the wind is so brutally whipping around the house, I found these old photos and was transported to a summer when the world felt entirely full of hope and pleasure.
A brief list of summer links for escapist entertainment, per no one’s request:
Just kidding – I’m not about to answer that question in any in-depth way today. It’s far too cold and there are far too many awful things happening in the world to offer much more than distraction and respite. We won’t be getting that serious.
Whenever the world threatens to overwhelm, when it bears down just a bit too hard to carry on, I tend to pause and take stock of the things over which I have any semblance of control. That immediately removes an enormous amount of mental clutter, because too much space is consumed with dwelling on what-ifs and could-haves and should-haves. Even the been-theres and done-thats can be boxed up and shipped out. Decluttering the mind is as important as decluttering the dwelling space (if you’re a Virgo like me that means a great deal).
And so I stop and sit very still while an icy wind menacingly surrounds the house.
I notice how shallow my breathing is, and slow and relax it. Narrowing the windpipe and elongating the breaths, there is instant relief. My shoulders relax, my gaze softens, and the years of practicing meditation immediately set my countenance to calm.
Now I can go about tending to the simple task at hand: selecting cufflinks (a gift from a friend – thank you Paula!), a timepiece (a gift to myself after a promotion), and a vibrant silk scarf for a possible office outfit (a dash of color for a week of gray). This is what I can control, and these little things will bring me simple joys.
Trifling worries, and more substantial concerns, are pushed out of my headspace for the moment, and in the relief that ensues I’ll be better able to handle them at a later time. Some will fall away by then because they never really mattered in the first place. This is how mindfulness works its magic.
A year ago tonight I saw Madonna’s Celebration Tour in Boston, and it remains a highlight in the Madonna concert canon. In so many ways it was a spectacular greatest-hits show (more-so than Reinvention) and one that felt surprisingly-moving on many levels. It also reminded me of my lifelong love for an entertainer who has never given less than her best, even on her most trying days. That sort of dedication and work ethic seems in short supply these days.
Like all of us, Madonna is getting older, but I have a feeling there are a few more magical music tricks up her sleeves (should she choose to wear any), and maybe a classic return to something as renowned and beloved as her ‘Confessions on a Dance Floor‘ opus. Words has it that she’s working with the person who helmed that seminal work (Stuart Price) for an upcoming album. If anyone can catch lightning twice, it’s Madonna.
The immaculately-talented singer Linda Eder first cast her spell on me when I saw her in ‘Jekyll & Hyde’ on Broadway. Since then I’ve been a fan, catching her live on occasion and thrilling at how she performs a song. This one has changed and come to mean different things over the years. I won’t bore you with what it means to me now – take it in and make it your own story.
Even now…I remember all the empty spaces You filled with love Even now…Every corner of the world we shared Is still filled with love Even now…not a day goes by When I don’t ache for you Through my tears I still hear your laughter even now
Even now…you are in my dreams and in my dreams You always will be Even now…You’re the one true thing that brings my heart Back home to me When I’m scared…I can close my eyes You are there…Ever young And somehow, I can always find you even now
Even now…you are in my dreams and in my dreams You always will be Even now…You’re the one true thing that brings my heart Back home here to me Even now…in my darkest night Still you shine silver light So I fall through forever with you even now
Sliding on a pair of readers to see the teleprompter during the recent Golden Globes ceremony, Andrew Garfield made the world swoon with a daringly unbuttoned shirt and one slickly suave gesture. Backed by an arsenal of impressive performances going back to the fractured heart of ‘The Social Network’ and including a powerhouse turn in ‘Tick Tick… Boom!’ As promised in this shirtless post, Garfield earns his log overdue Dazzler of the Day crowning right now. (Also hinted at in this almost-naked post.)
A blue line between flame and fuel distinguishes the twin flames of this candle – a dinner party gift from an old friend. Glowing in the dimming afternoon light, it crackles slightly, providing illumination and sound and delicate scent, along with a gentle source of warmth – touching on all the senses and setting a soothing scene for a daily meditation.
In these icy winter days, meditation has become a necessary custom, one in which I indulge gratefully. It usually marks the moments between the work day and the afternoon if I’m working from home, or the wind-down time after a day in the office, or sometimes the dim period right before retiring to bed. In all circumstances, it provides a literal grounding, as I sink onto the floor, assume the lotus position, and slow my breathing, narrowing the windpipe until I approximate the sound of a distant ocean.
And shame on everyone who knew about the glory that is the chocolate orange and just sat on that knowledge without so much as whispering its magic and wonder to me. (Not to be confused with the chocolate starfish or a starfruit.)
This is Terry’s Chocolate Orange, and apparently much of the world was aware of its awesomeness and yet no one bothered to introduce it to me until Andy gave me one for Christmas. At first I assumed it was some lovely trifle of candy, which I piled in with the rest of the treats I received.
Then I tried it.
Is this the best chocolate I have ever tasted?
Quite possibly. At the very least, it was a revelation.
The instructions to ‘Tap and Unwrap’ are no joke – you do need to give this a fun tap, and not the shy kind, at which point it will open up its inner orange form and fall into bite-size slices easier than a real orange would. Such whimsy! I was instantly obsessed, but Andy says they only come out around the holidays, and of course we are no longer in the holiday times, so shame on all of you who kept this secret all these years.
If you happen to find any hanging around on clearance, you know where to send them.
