Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

When the burdens of basic life become too much, and in this present moment of world history, it is most decidedly too much, I find it helpful to take a pause and make a cup of tea: for the ritual, for the meditative moment, and for the calming effects of chamomile coziness.

Our Memorial Day weekend in Maine closed with a full day and night of rain, which also made a mess of things on the first part of the ride home. Still, there is something romantic about the rain, and leaning into that aspect of a rainy ride made for a balm on a scary rainy day Monday. You don’t get a double-downer like that all too often, and perhaps that’s the reason for my melancholy of late. We usually get more sun than we’ve had, and maybe that’s contributing to it as well.

Rain hasn’t always been a balm on my heart. It formed the backdrop to several suicidal months of my youth, ruined just about every spring weekend last year, and ransacked an Arabian Night party (which stressed me out so much I drank until drunken oblivion hit, then had a piece of cake and threw it all up). So no, the rain has not always been a friend, but it’s had its moments.

When my fifth grade year started at McNulty Elementary School, we had a rainy stretch of a few days when we were cooped up inside, beneath the florescent lights of grade school design, and for some reason the idea of the rain forcing us together indoors felt safe and comforting. When it broke days later, and we were allowed to go outside for recess, I reluctantly joined everyone outside, when I still wanted us to all be together indoors. (Yes, I was a strange child.)

My first trip to London was blessedly rain-free, but for a second excursion there, on my own, it rained for some of the trip, and, having expected it as part of London’s charm, I flipped open an umbrella and went about my business, ducking into pubs when it got heavy, having a cup of tea when it got cold, and waiting it out always seemed to work. There was a cozy romanticism to rain in London, one that I still hold close to my heart.

For several vacations in Ogunquit, it rained for the entire time – and not just showers – heavy, down-pouring rain with driving wind that made any sort of outdoor walk impossible. We had to miss the Marginal Way for a few of those vacations because it simply wasn’t possible – but somehow it was always all right.

Rain is a part of life, and I’m learning to embrace it.

A weekend in Maine has come to a rainy close, and while my mind processes rejoining the working masses, this post is just to mark time with its brilliant begonia blooms. The patio plantings went in a little later than usual, and the cool weather we’ve had hasn’t really inspired them with much confidence, but the plants will catch up when the sun and warmth do. I’m placing my faith in the universe to nudge us along to where we are supposed to be.

The unofficial arrival of summer (though we’re waiting until it’s official in June for our summer reveals) comes with Memorial Day, and we’re off to the races – but first the weekly blog recap for all that you may have unintentionally (ahem) missed…

My mandated dates of touching grass were more needed than I realized.

Dahlias continue to be the stuff of dreams.

A quick lilac lesson continued the magic of the spring season.

This Greek salad by the pool was all about the chopping.

This is why money is so cool.

A merry magnolia for your viewing pleasure.

I love a good edge.

Giving happy head.

Only a moron does a thing like this. (Guilty.)

Two strangers, a few lost boys, and my mother = our annual Mother’s Day weekend on Broadway.

Living for this colour palette.

Why oh why must it be this way?

All fiery colour.

Venus & the moon.

Dazzlers of the Day included Charles Melton and Hamish Powell.

This is Venus and the moon, playfully skirting each other on a recent early evening following one of those impossibly warm 90-degree days we had before it all turned cold and rainy again. Brief spells of magic, tantalizing glimpses of summer, and prayers for more beauty and charm to come… late spring weaves and works its enchantments like no other season, offering hope and promise for those of us still smarting from winter.

In the spring night, the mind unspools like the whorls of a radial flower – spreading and sending out feelers for warmth and comfort, luring in potential pollinators, and beauty is almost an incidental afterthought. What is Venus whispering to the moon on this evening? Secrets of love and naughtiness perhaps, secrets of wanton desire, of tenuous connections of the sort traced by planets and moons and lost to time and space and distance. The missed cries of orbits uncrossed sound from and for another century, and what would it mean if two orbits ever did in fact cross at the same time? Nobody wants to see the sayings through.

And so the moon whispers back to Venus, and it is something we mortals will never hear – even if we did, we could hardly understand it. We are basic and limited creatures – to Venus and the moon we aren’t even here.

There is a certain segment of people that will always enjoy seeing me in states of distress, duress, and undress. I’ve endeavored to accept this without catering or kowtowing to them.

I’m not always successful.

Reminder: don’t come for me until you’re called.

If you think you are going to be able to control mint in the garden through careful monitoring and ruthless maintenance, you are incorrect.

I thought I could – the same way I contained a wild sweet pea (which I still have under somewhat stringent control) but mint is a different animal entirely, with its deceptive runners that creep wherever it senses water, sprouting up many feet from its source, and then splitting off into numerous other channels.

Don’t even let it get started. Forewarned is fair-warned, as they told us in retail.

Thyme, on the other hand, is always on your side.