Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

Gazing directly into the eye of the phone camera, I pause for the cajillionth selfie of my life. Worn weary by decades of self-examination, the self finds new ways of renewing and reviewing its existence if we allow it room to grow. Humans get rootbound too, and so many of us are afraid of potting up (people often being averse to great change, particularly in their accustomed environments). I’ve usually welcomed the opportunity to grow and expand, to take the shoes and confining belt off at the end of the day, to spill messily into the next stage of life when we don’t know quite exactly where we’re headed. It’s taken me years to reach this state of relative ease, and countless days of meditation and practice to start being even slightly ok with it, but I’m much more accepting of this imperfect mess of life – a mess we should learn to love, especially with all our mistakes and missteps. 

There’s a certain freedom in being so open and honest about where we are and what we are feeling, especially when it’s an acknowledgment that things are less than perfect, that we have failed in some areas, that we didn’t rise to our best at a certain moment. That’s sometimes the key to moving forward – not getting hung up on the messiness of life. For so much of my existence I’ve wanted to avoid, prevent, or clean it up, when all that time getting into the muck might have been the best way of moving through the muck.

When I was a boy, my childhood room looked out over an enormous thorny Hawthorne tree. Its branches softened that corner of the house; its thorns deterred would-be climbers, not that there were any lower branches to gain such a climb. In late spring, it would be filled with white flowers, not unlike the pear tree blooms seen here. Those petals wouldn’t last very long, especially if the weather turned too warm. At those moments, and on those precious days, the petals would flutter to the ground like falling snow – a magical effect that never failed to enchant me. Sitting beneath a flowering tree just as it is giving up its show is always a brush with the sublime.

Spring’s enchantments are usually fleeting – that’s an integral part of their charm. We chase them for their elusive nature. When caught, they are always worth the work, even when we know they won’t last, because beauty makes this world bearable.

Electric yellow sends a forcefield of energy through the spring air from the sun-reflecting Forsythia blooms. Indelible harbinger of the season, Forsythia doesn’t bother with subtlety or softness. Like its angles and sprawling form, its flowers are almost brutally glorious, shining like a hundred little suns, seen from even great distances, especially at this somewhat barren time of the year.

The palette of spring is not always pastels, and sometimes the most electric yellow combines with the powerful punch of violet, as in the pansy below. That’s when things really get lit.

Not to place any validity on astrology, but here’s something that came over my Virgo algorithm:

“The planners can’t plan, the fixers aren’t fixing, they stopped over explaining themselves, so if a Virgo in your life seems unhinged, honestly they’re not. They just realized they’ve been doing everybody else’s job this whole time and quit without notice.”

Astrological mayhem aside, these past few weeks have been a rollercoaster to match the fluctuating weather. Rather than rising to take the bait of getting riled, I’ve mostly managed to stay steady, staying true to the direction the universe has been nudging, and relying on comfort reading and daily meditation. The gardens have done their part too – my time spent in amending the soil and tidying up the backyard has been a type of meditation too.

I see the lilacs are finally in bud – the promise of beauty and perfume in the near future, while all the peonies have grown inches within days – more perfumed beauty in store. The ferns are already fast unfurling – once that first spell of warm days hits, followed by some rainwater, they quickly become unstoppable. This is how spring unfolds, very similarly from year to year, give or take a few days, and I’m reminded that there is no need to overthink everything.

Ahh, clickbait. It works every time on me, mostly on retail items I absolutely do not need. Maybe it worked on you if you saw the hint of a jockstrap and wondered if there was more (because there’s always more). In the early days of this blog – and the mid-days too to be honest – hell, to this very day – I relied on semi-clothed posts to get people to visit, and hopefully read, certain posts. The days of counting hits and clicks have long since passed, so I haven’t cared as much of late, but there is still some good stuff to be read here, so before I turn and face the wall, a list of curated links that should be more widely seen:

Revisiting the moon and a lost friendship.

A cup of tea with Oscar.

Haunted by a boy lost.

A heart of sequins via a Winnie-the-Pooh costume.

Missing my Dad.

That time Madonna saved my life.

A jury summons memories.

I wanted his sex.

I had his sex.

Revisiting the burn to find a way to exile.

A home in Boston, past and future.

Saddle shoes and shame.

Summer adventures showing off my ass.

When the rain arrived at the end, or very beginning of the week, I found solace and escape at the local greenhouse, where this strikingly-shaded Mandevilla straddled that scintillating section between purple and pink, not quite committing to either, an teasing both out depending on the light and one’s angle. Before the rain, there were a few days of summer teasing – on with the weekly recap of that rollercoaster…

Still falling for these ads.

London cowboy.

Hot banana pepper take.

Condiments, Rose!!!

A countenance of calm beneath a sky of blue.

The next F.A.F.O. Award: Viktor Orban.

Grape escape.

The ravaging before the rainbow.

Bashful beginnings.

A queen poised for the dance.

A lilac cup of herbal tea.

A mellower version of dick.

Purple pansy pulchritude.

Revisiting an old friend.

Which is more exciting for you?

Nervous, but in a happy way.

A favorite stage of a fern’s unfurling.

Rain tea blues.

Sunday night scaries, at ease.