“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape -the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.” ~ Andrew Wyeth
A collection of Tibetan singing bowls sounds its choir, each voice adding another layer of peace until the morning is consumed with singing. Vibrations of sound pierce the heart in a way that no other sensory motion can. The deeper the breath goes, the more expansive the plain of calm grows. In my mind, it begins as a small swath of light that slowly enlarges. With closed eyes, I see and sense this light as it grows, obliterating the encroaching shadows, dispelling the surrounding darkness, until there is nothing but light and calm and stillness.
Even in the midst of winter, there is all this peace and quiet. Even in the middle of a raging snowstorm, there is comfort and solace. Maybe such calm can only come in the middle of winter.
In my earliest days of meditating, well over a year ago, I would often begin a session at the end of the afternoon, closer to bedtime. The living room would be dark, except for maybe a candle, and in the hushed light and reverential silence it was also cool, that space being the closest to the largest window of the house. Winter nights left the floor a cool expanse, broken only by a small area rug on which I sat and began my meditation.
Every time I wondered if I should put on a pair of socks, or grab a robe for around my shoulders, but something told me I wouldn’t need such comforts. And every time that turned out to be true. By the end of my meditation – be it five minutes or 29 minutes – my body would have generated its own heat, and my mind would be so occupied with its own empty consciousness that I wouldn’t be able to give such thought to the temperature of the room. Something about the steady deep breathing and the focused lack of focus would emanate heat and warmth from within, and often I would have broken a sweat without even realizing it.
I don’t have an explanation to such a physical manifestation of meditation, and I’m not going to probe very deeply into online research that may or may not be grounded in reality. All I know is that when I meditate, I have no need for socks or warm clothes – not even in the darkest nights of winter. My mind goes to a place that conjures its own comfortable warmth for my body, and I find it best not to question such wonders.
“I remember during Easter one year, I was to get a pair of black patent shoes but you could only get them from the white stores, so my mother drew the outline of my feet on a brown paper bag in order to get the closest size, because we weren’t allowed to go in the store to try them on.” – Claudette Colvin
“Back then, as a teenager, I kept thinking, why don’t the adults around here just say something? Say it so they know we don’t accept segregation? I knew then and I know now that, when it comes to justice, there’s no easy way to get it. You can’t sugarcoat it. You have to take a stand and say, ‘This is not right.'” – Claudette Colvin
“As long as white people put people of color, African Americans and Latinos, in the same dispensable bag, and look at our children of color as insignificant and treat women of color as not as deserving of protection as white women, we will never achieve true equality.” – Claudette Colvin
“When our founding fathers drafted the Constitution and Bill of Rights, black people weren’t even considered human.” – Claudette Colvin
Watching the wind swirl the snow outside the window, through the boughs of a Norfolk Island Pine and the billowing water vapor of a bubbling humidifier, I sit ensconced on the cozy conversation couch, having the kind of conversation that a person can only have with themselves. Nina Simone sings this gorgeously plaintive song, and while it once represented spring to me, and all things to me, this morning it takes on a different glow.
The quivering desperation. The feral want. The essence of survival, hanging on the human whims of the heart. A middle-aged man who feels like he is already in the winter of his life, who has felt that way since his childhood. And winter never rests for long.
LOVE ME, LOVE ME, LOVE ME, SAY YOU DO
LET ME FLY AWAY WITH YOU
FOR MY LOVE IS LIKE THE WIND
AND WILD IS THE WIND
GIVE ME MORE THAN ONE CARESS
SATISFY THIS HUNGRINESS
LET THE WIND BLOW THROUGH YOUR HEART
FOR WILD IS THE WIND
The Japanese Umbrella Pine holds heavy clumps of snow in its branches. I haven’t had a chance to remove the Christmas fairy lights from its hold – every time I feel the least bit of ambition to do so, a storm seems to come and make it impossible. Perhaps the universe isn’t quite ready to let go of Christmas yet. Seems a bit unfair. The rest of us are ready to move on, to rush into spring. And so I work to embrace winter a little while longer.
YOU TOUCH ME
I HEAR THE SOUND OF MANDOLINS
YOU KISS ME
WITH YOUR KISS MY LIFE BEGINS
YOU’RE SPRING TO ME
ALL THINGS TO ME
DON’T YOU KNOW YOU’RE LIFE ITSELF
LIKE A LEAF CLINGS TO A TREE
OH MY DARLING, CLING TO ME
FOR WE’RE CREATURES OF THE WIND
AND WILD IS THE WIND
SO WILD IS THE WIND
There are tight little buds on the Chinese dogwood trees. They wait for the slightest nod from the wind that things are warming. Such a nod will not happen today or tomorrow. It’s best that they not begin to open just yet. Starting spring too quickly can be dangerous. Anyone who has watched the petals of a jonquil torn apart by ice and snow would share such dire concern. And still we want for it, still we long for it, still we eagerly anticipate its arrival, like a child waiting for the arrival of a favorite relative.
With the wind and the snow, a winter garden has sprung into bloom. With its little drifts and crests, the front yard has produced a lawn of crystalline wonder. The rhododendron across the street carries blossoms of snowspray, and the brown umbrels of the Sedum in the backyard are topped by snowy caps. The wind will scatter them soon enough, capable of creation as much as destruction.
WILD IS THE WIND
WILD IS THE WIND
WILD IS THE WIND
The gray and coral tip of a Japanese incense stick glows as baroque designs of smoke curl into the morning air. Through the window, a scene of snow reveals the falling of the night. Winter is sparse in many ways, simplicity and elegance working together like smoke and flute music.
“Winter solitude- in a world of one colour the sound of the wind.†― Basho Matsuo
Every year around this time, I think back to my brief stint in the Empire State Youth Orchestra, and every year I get a little bit closer to appreciating and reconciling myself to that difficult time in my life. Not that anything so very terrible happened then – it was more a confluence of angsty adolescence, growing uncomfortably into myself, figuring out a growing sense of not belonging, and the general malaise of the average 15-year-old. Such a precarious place to perch. Not all my classmates would make it.
You lower your hand, clarinet will play
Raise it back up and it flies away
When you smile violins will soar
When you move your legs timpani will roar
I can hear it, I can hear it, I can hear it, I swear
All the music you’re provoking, filling up the air
It’s getting louder
This is the sound of an orchestra
I can hear it playing everywhere that you are
There is a sound for everything you do
This is the sound of my love for you
Listen to the sound of my lust for you
I didn’t belong in the Empire State Youth Orchestra either. It was the rarity of my instrument – the oboe – that got me in the door. Once there I realized too late that my talent and skill level was on the lower end of things. After excelling at so many other things with relative ease, this shook me and my already-faltering confidence to the core. It was the worst possible time for such an ego-blow, but we don’t usually have control over that kind of timing, and if the possibility of a perfect storm exists, I’ve learned to batten down the hatches.
It’s getting louder
It’s getting louder
It’s getting louder
There is a sound for everything you do
Listen to the sound of my love for you
You don’t even know everything I hear
Every move every nod, every time you’re near
If I close my eyes, promise I can see
A hundred people playing and it’s just for me
Being the weakest link in a chain of excellence and talent is the definition of hell for a perfectionist. It wears away at the soul in almost diabolical fashion. I wish I could have learned then to let go of such silliness at that age. I wish I could have embraced the freedom that should have come with being the last, with nothing to lose. I simply couldn’t. It would take decades to understand this, decades of difficulty and foolishness. Failing to see that then, I did the only thing I could: practiced and worked and pulled myself up from the bottom of the talent pool, to a few rungs above it. I improved enough to move up a chair by the end of a few months, but by that time the damage had been done, and the fear and terror I felt at failing had instilled the drive to be perfect at all costs. A lesson was there; I only learned half of it.
This is the sound of an orchestra
I can hear it playing everywhere that you are
There is a sound for everything you do
This is the sound of my love for you
Listen to the sound of my lust for you
It’s getting louder
It’s getting louder
It’s getting louder
There is a sound for everything you do
Listen to the sound of my love for you
Before you even say what I know you’re gonna say
That all the sounds I hear are only in my head
Come stand really close, hold me like you do
Then all the music in my head you’ll hear
If you’re truly smart, you assemble your life so that you’re rarely the smartest person in the room. I wish I’d seen that then, and appreciated the wonderful talent and reservoir of musical prodigies that surrounded me. Instead, I felt only the competition, the threat, the shame of not knowing what it seemed everyone else did. In hindsight, extreme hindsight, only a rare few were true prodigies. The rest of us were mostly just kids who displayed some form of musical aptitude – some had natural talent, others like myself had to work all that much harder to reach what came easy to them. For the most part, though, we were remarkably similar, even if we did not see it. Maybe it was better that we didn’t see it.
This is the sound of an orchestra
I can hear it playing everywhere that you are
There is a sound for everything you do
This is the sound of my love for you
Listen to the sound of my lust for you
As we grow up, we take on many instruments, mostly in the figurative sense, trying out different sounds, varying tempos, and playing our way through life from pianissimo to fortissimo. If we allow ourselves to grow, and learn all the different things this world has to show and teach us, we become the conductors of our lives. We speak several languages, we master several jobs, and we orchestrate all the little facets that comprise the simple and expansive skills of getting through the day.
It’s getting louder
It’s getting louder
It’s getting louder
There is a sound for everything you do
Listen to the sound of my love for you.
“In the end anti-black, anti-female, and all forms of discrimination are equivalent to the same thing: anti-humanism.†― Shirley Chisholm
“Women in this country must become revolutionaries. We must refuse to accept the old, the traditional roles and stereotypes…We must replace the old, negative thoughts about our femininity with positive thoughts and positive action affirming it, and more. But we must also remember that we will be breaking with tradition, and so we must prepare ourselves educationally, economically, and psychologically in order that we will be able to accept and bear with the sanctions that society will immediately impose upon us.†― Shirley Chisholm
“Unless we start to fight and defeat the enemies in our own country, poverty and racism, and make our talk of equality and opportunity ring true, we are exposed in the eyes of the world as hypocrites when we talk about making people free.†― Shirley Chisholm
“Racism is so universal in this country, so widespread, and deep-seated, that it is invisible because it is so normal.†― Shirley Chisholm
“If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.†― Shirley Chisholm
“My God, what do we want? What does any human being want? Take away an accident of pigmentation of a thin layer of our outer skin and there is no difference between me and anyone else. All we want is for that trivial difference to make no difference. What can I say to a man who asks that? All I can do is try to explain to him why he asks the question. You have looked at us for years as different from you that you may never see us really. You don’t understand because you think of us as second-class humans. We have been passive and accommodating through so many years of your insults and delays that you think the way things used to be is normal. When the good-natured, spiritual-singing boys and girls rise up against the white man and demand to be treated like he is, you are bewildered. All we want is what you want, no less and no more.†― Shirley Chisholm
The sweet spot: that space on a chocolate chip cookie where there are no chips so you can safely hold it without melting anything on your fingers. And then hanging onto the thing for dear life because you don’t want to put it down and risk losing that spot.
“One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned: and the pleasure of coming in upon one’s friends before the look-out begins is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs.” ~ Jane Austen
On this day, when folklore has it the groundhog will reveal how much winter remains, I’m left wanting a note of hope, a chance for an early reprieve, but if the rodent happens to catch its shadow and retreats to its underground lair, even the six weeks such an act portends is at least a light at the end of the tunnel. Hence the happy Jane Austen quote that opens this post, and the happy anthurium spath that smiles in its featured photo.
If life is measured in holidays – and what happy life isn’t? – then the next up is Valentine’s Day. (I know I’m ignoring those Presidents, but I’m all Presidented out at the moment.) While Valentine’s Day holds its own cheesy allure (and the chance for something exquisite to happen) it soon leads into St. Patrick’s Day, which is practically the verge of spring, so let’s have a happy moment no matter what the groundhog says.
As much as I’ve been trying to embrace the winter this year, and as generally successful as I’ve been in doing so, I’m still greatly looking forward to spring, and the requisite relief it will bring after a winter of cooped-up social isolation. Last spring and summer, I don’t think we made enough of the ability to gather outside and at a distance, perhaps thinking (wishfully) that this pandemic would not last, having faith that our fellow Americans would each do their part instead of acting like a bunch of spoiled and entitled babies who won’t wear a ask or get a simple vaccine to stop the spread of a fatal disease. Clearly, some Americans aren’t getting that message, so while other countries like New Zealand can open up completely and go the movies and sporting events and theater, we are stuck in this muck of stupidity and slowness. Oh well, land of the free and brave and moronic…
Sorry, a bit of bitterness remains even after a year of daily meditation and mindfulness, because I’m only human after all. As I work on that, I’ll focus on these beautiful grape hyacinths, seen at Faddegon’s on my weekly pilgrimage, and a pleasant reminder of the glory that is spring. Less than two months remain of winter, no matter what that pesky rodent tells us or doesn’t tell us tomorrow…
The final full month of winter begins, and it is blessedly the shortest month of the year. February comes in like a lion and stays in such ferocious form throughout its entire interim, but there will be days of crystalline glory, and sun-drenched moments that will melt things, even if temporarily, to remind that hope is on the horizon. For now, we embrace the winter, just as these leggings embrace my ass. On with the booty-ful recap of the last week of January…
Rather than wallow in winter, this year I’ve made motions to celebrate and embrace it, to find its wonder and enchantment, and largely it’s worked: this season has been a boon to my mood despite the perceived (and sometimes actual) darkness at work in the world. Attribute it partly to meditation, partly to hygge, and partly to an appreciation of each and every day, even the gray ones. The alternative is not worth giving up the mental space. Besides, winter holds its exquisite magic close to its icy vest, and will only reveal it when you bow a bit in humility. I have no problem subjugating myself to wind and ice and snow, marveling and appreciating its strength and might, and admitting my powerlessness in the face of raw ruthlessness.
On my way home from my parents on a recent afternoon, I took the long route back, winding along the Mohawk River on the back roads rather than the Thruway, and on one such side road I pulled over as the sun started its daily descent. The wind was harsh and unrelenting, swirling snowdrifts on the field before me. I was in awe of the way it felt calm, even in the midst of its brutal force, the way beauty had of quelling the freezing temperature and wind-chill, of making me forget the cold, and in that moment a new appreciation was forged.
No field of green grass, even at its most fresh and dotted with dew, could ever reflect the blue sky the way a windswept field of snow can do. There is great recompense in that beauty. It erases any frigid discomfort, easing the oncoming darkness, lending a brilliance that is not present at any other time of the year.
It is said that the Buddha meditated for 49 days beneath one of these trees, the Ficus benghalensis ‘Audrey’ after which He first attained enlightenment. Native to India, these trees grow to immense sizes in their natural habitat, sending down aerial roots and expanding their canopy into a veritable forest, providing much-needed shade, and apparently a perfect place for the Buddha to dwell and meditate. To this day, temples are built beneath many of these banyan trees – space which is viewed as sacred. I love that idea, and when I saw one of these little plants at the local nursery, I picked it up on a whim to be closer to such enlightenment.
“If you truly loved yourself, you could never hurt another.” ~ The Buddha
Reportedly, this plant is a good alternative to the more finicky Fiddle leaf fig, a plant whose moodiness is too frightening for me to attempt. I don’t have the expanse of bright indirect light and space for the ginormous Fiddle leaf trees, but this tiny little Audrey fig looks manageable. Smaller specimens generally are more amenable to change and adaptation for less than perfect indoor situations. I have a humidifier and some decent enough light by a bay window to at least give this little guy a chance.
He rests on the table beside which I do my daily meditation. Sitting in the lotus position, I can gaze with a soft focus on his handsome leaves, and feel some wondrous connection to nature, to the earth, to the Buddha, and the path on which I find myself makes a little more sense.
I don’t know if the common name (Ficus Audrey) came before or after ‘Little Shop of Horrors’ but I’m taking it as an auspicious sign that it may grow for me. If it ends up eating me alive, well, it was nice knowing you.
“It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you.” ~ The Buddha
If you want to make your booty POP(!) then just order these not-so-crazy-ass leggings that are all the rage on social media right now, squeeze your butt into them, and wait for the dicks, I mean clicks. It’s been a while since I’ve posted any gratuitous photos, so maybe this little GIF will quell the non-existent clamor for cake.
Perhaps it’s the return of the Madonna Timeline, or the ennui of this disheartening winter, but something stirs the flash-my-ass-cheeks attitude and reminds me of saucier times on this blog. Like a proper sadist, I’m not going to make this easy for you, so if you want to find those more salacious shots, do some digging on your own, and probe the search feature at the bottom of every page. Type in whatever you want to see, then step on board for a magic ride better than anything the great space coaster could conjure. (Tell Gary Gnu that Al sent you.)
For the lazier lugs among us, here are some general categories of SexyBack:
