At no other time of the year do I try to inhabit the present moment as much as spring.
It all moves so swiftly once the warmer weather kicks in (assuming that will happen by the time this post goes up).
And all I want to do is stop, pause, and take in all the beauty around me.
I know it won’t last, and I want to remember…
Reaching the almost-mid-point of a thus-far rather chilly May, the birds and the bees and flowers and trees have still been putting on their annual show. Nature hustles to catch up to its own delays, and for now I pause to enjoy the coolness because by August we’ll likely be melting and wishing for relief. Live in the present moment, and remember what the days were like in February. On with the mid-May weekly blog recap…
Our lone Dazzler of the Day was Ben Cosgrove.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: non-functional decorative buttons are often the sign of a hobbled mind.
A cat story. Me-ow.
Pink and pea-like floral bridge, not to Terabithia.
A lilac spring comes finally into its own.
A low-key wedding anniversary glowed quietly in Boston.
Paving the way for peonies via the tulips.
Abstract floral accident. Whoopsie-daisy.
Primary colors in Boston.
Back on Broadway with Mom.
Have you ever seen a woman with her fly down?
A Mother’s Day post for my favorite one.
Big mistake. Big. Huge.
A brief bridge of redbud flowers, currently lighting up the sky in this glorious color and form.
This website needs more brief blog posts like this.
Soothsayers and magically-inclined thinkers had indicated that the burning of a red candle on the day of the full Flower Moon may result in abundance and clarity and all sorts of good stuff. Hedging my bets, I burned one during my meditation on that precious day. No word yet on abundance or clarity, but maybe these things take time. I suppose that’s a pretty safe bet in general – the older we get, the more we tend to gain both of those things, and I doubt very much that the burning of a candle, red or otherwise, plays much of a direct role. At best, it might give some sort of placebo encouragement to compel me to get off my ass and make them happen for myself. Chicken or egg, sometimes it doesn’t matter what came first, just what’s for dinner or breakfast.
My favorite month is in glorious swing, so rather than spend my time writing out a tedious introduction to the weekly recap, I’m going to get right into it…
Wrestling with demons that refuse to remain dormant is always fun.
A spring star set to florals and music.
A confessional in more ways than one.
What even is real anymore? Am I real? I’m the OG AI.
I can see the heaven in your eyes. Wrong song, wrong artist, wrong story…
At April’s end, lilacs in the rain.
A midnight morning meditation. You do the math.
Rosemary: protection at the entryway.
Cherry popping season is at hand. Stop the bleeding.
Dipping the dick into a lady’s pond.
Dazzlers of the Day included John Lam, Ilana Glazer, LJ Benet, and Rochelle Jordan.
The Kwanzan cherry was in bloom this week – just as the pool was being heated to a glorious 80+ degrees for a few lovely days that justify the pool heater every year. Pink against a sky of blue is always a sight to behold, and in the strong sunlight the colors revived all that had dimmed during the recent long and cruel winter. It already feels far away, and for that I’m grateful. It’s never too soon to start thinking about summer heat, summer sun, and summer fun.
If you have sun where you might be, go out now and enjoy it for a minute – or an hour – or the whole day. Never take a sunny day for granted.
Tra la, it’s May, the lusty month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray!
Tra la, it’s here, that shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear!
It’s May, it’s May, that gorgeous holiday
When every maiden prays that her lad will be a cad
It’s mad, it’s gay, a libelous display
Those dreary vows that everyone takes, everyone breaks
Everyone makes divine mistakes, the lusty month of May
Ahh, May – my most favorite month in almost all the ways, but rather than set up expectations (there is a full moon happening after all, and that always derails the most pristine of plans) I’m going with a laid-back bit of appreciation for the day, and I’ll take what joys and delights as they come.
May musical memories are rife with romantic foibles and paths strewn with broken heart wreckage. Happily, there are also lovely memories for this magical month, and sometimes the hand of destiny is kind enough to grant us that which will bring happiness and sustenance through the years.
It’s May, it’s May, the month of yes you may
The time for every frivolous whim, proper or im
It’s wild, it’s gay, a blot in every way
The birds and bees with all of their vast amorous past
Gaze at the human race aghast
Tra la, it’s May, the lusty month of May
That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray
Tra la, it’s here, that shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear
Yes, May has a wicked sort of spell to cast sometimes, and it is at such times that I need to remind myself of who I am, lest I lose myself to May’s madness as well. Andy and I will be celebrating an early anniversary weekend in Boston, and I’m looking forward to harnessing full moon magic and letting the stars wreak their havoc. Seeing oneself through the storms is sometimes best accomplished with a partner. We have rings to wash, gardens to revisit, and dinners to enjoy… It’s May! The word says it.
Father forgive me, for I have sinned, it has been three and a half decades since my last confession and these are my sins: just fucking kidding – no way would my sins over the last few decades fit into a single confession, blog post, or even an entire website that’s been around as long. Instead, my confession is only to myself – a confession of not remembering who I am.
Not in the literal sense – I still know my name, I still know (mostly) my history, I still know what I do in the world – I mean in the sense of forgetting my own worth and value, misplacing them at various points this past month, or perhaps year. The usual doubt and disbelief in myself that can’t be conquered as simply as one would think for someone with my perceived bravado.
Spring doesn’t always aid in building such self-belief, and as the screws tighten on winter’s coffin, the expectation of elation is sometimes only the set-up and starting point for disappointment. So it is that I seek stillness and quiet, sanctuary and respite in a world seemingly bereft of such things.
On lunch, I walk up to the church where I used to go when Dad was dying. It wasn’t a moment of sadness, more of reflection, and oddly enough, comfort. The Easter celebrations had been over for a while – a collection of dead Easter lilies sat sadly in the entryway – no scent or fragrance emitting from the dessiccated blooms, but the foliage was still green. I hoped someone would plant them in a garden and give them a chance to come back next spring. Unlikely, but while they stood in the hall I reserved hope.
Long ago disillusioned by the machinations and patriarchal shadiness of the church, I understood that this wasn’t about religion – this was about a peace and spiritual grace that had nothing to necessarily do with God or saints – one hard look at the human condition in the world should give God-pause to anyone with half a functioning brain. On this day, I looked around at the beauty that man had crafted – in the church, in the way the Easter lilies had been cultivated into bloom, in the overall atmosphere that had been erected in the purpose of peace and contemplation and congregation. I also acknowledged the space for mystery – something unseen or unknown to the human mind, something sacred and religious in a different way. I allowed room for doubt, room for forgiveness, room to weep out of frustration and madness in being unable to be more than just human.
The past few weeks have found my sleep patterns wildly deviant from how they normally play out. I’ve been getting to bed earlier, out of sheer exhaustion, then dropping off quickly, only to awaken at 1 or 2 in the morning, when I remain restlessly awake and heart aflutter for another hour or so. Maybe it’s just old age arriving somewhat prematurely. We get less sleep as we get older, or so I’ve been told. More waking time to do more waking things, I suppose.
To combat the sleepless moments, I’ve been revisiting a favorite book, ‘The God in Flight’ by Laura Argiri. May this excerpt send us off to sleep tonight…
“…And solitude and loneliness are forms of torture, and they also yield some wisdom. I’ll give you what they gave me. The first thing is that there is nothing in the world more important than knowing and loving someone else well. And the second is, know your own nature, accept it, and let no one and nothing alienate you from it. You have as much right to it as anyone else has to theirs.”
April runs out of time this week, and perhaps that’s best for a month that was such a wild rollercoaster of weather, a riotous ride of emotional and astrological mayhem. As we careen to the end of such a month, this blog has a few more tricks and treats up its sleeve before the glorious entry of May. For now, the weekly blog recap of all that just happened, where you want it or not…
“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.”
Dazzlers of the Day included Shawn Hollenbach, Simon Lycett, Mitski and Matt Cain.
Movie-makers are being advised to repeat key plot points at various points in their movies because audiences can’t sit through a fucking movie without being distracted by their phones. My niece and nephew do this all the time – they will periodically check their phone if we are watching a movie at home or in the theater, as if their CEO is breathing down their neck waiting for an update on something. They’re only sixteen, so it looks like the next generation is already gone when it comes to any sort of attention span.
Part of it probably stems from the ten-second window within which people now expect to be grabbed or wowed or impressed enough to retain any sort of allegiance. Part of it might stem from the quick-paced way Tik Tok and social media works – and the way that podcasts and videos offer the option of double or triple speed playback. I’ve never taken part of that because my brain isn’t wired that way. It would seem to suck out all the enjoyment of something – if you are engrossed in a podcast or video, if you’re interested in the topic and loving what they are saying, why would you want to rush through it? It might allow for you to ingest more, but ingesting something is decidedly and crucially different than digesting something. Quantity rarely bests quality – our rush to take in more and more and more doesn’t help in deeper understanding.
That also feeds into the epidemic disaster that is FOMO, currently derailing all sorts of meaningful moments because people are so obsessed with what they might be missing – an overload of possibility, and an inability to make a decision and stick to it without wondering if something better is happening; what a horrid way to go through life.
But I’m old now, and honest enough to acknowledge that this could just be the ramblings of age, the way it’s been through centuries. I don’t entirely buy that – it feels different, and teachers I’ve talked to indicate that there is very much a marked difference in how long a student can focus now than just a decade ago. That’s a little too dismaying to think on for any length of time, and for a Sunday morning I’ve left enough dour words for the final gasp of the weekend.
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.
