The idea of ice has always captivated me. Equally enthralled by its danger as much as its beauty, I’ve always been seduced by its off-putting allure. The way it forms simply from water and air has been a source of wonder and amazement, rivaling the most beautiful blooms of the garden at the height of summer, challenging the most exquisite perfume from a flower at the onset of dusk. Ice makes the gardens of winter sparkle and shine – the balm of something beautiful in the face of danger and darkness. 

Such visions deserve their own song, here in a piece by Andrew Souter. Entitled ‘Melting Icicles’, may it portend the spring to come, even if that feels far away, even if the winter has only just started. 

One relies on hope at this time of the year, because one cannot rely on beauty, especially the beauty of ice. The briefest thaw will decimate the pretty scene here, as will a relentless drying wind. Ice isn’t all-powerful – it’s probably one of the most fleeting of nature’s beauties. 

And so when I see it, and it’s safe to be out and about, I will pause to appreciate it, like a rare bloom gone by the end of a hot summer day. Winter holds its enchantments differently than summer in some ways, and remarkably the same in others. 

We have arrived at the coldest day of the year thus far, and the only thing to do is light a candle, do a flame dance, and pray that it all keeps you warm. This is the time for frozen pipes and frozen ears and noses, and suddenly a mask mandate doesn’t feel so awful when you’re outside making your world today takes everything you’ve got… a run-on sentence that segues into the ‘Cheers’ theme is not quite I had in mind when crafting this post, but the blog will take us where it wants to go. (Insert incorrect sitcom theme song link here.) Back on the hygge track, as hygge is what I’m hoping sees us through these brittle days, even if I’m due in the office and all I will have is a chunky cardigan and Tibetan wool blanket between me and a drafty window. My my my… I just wrote ‘My, my, my’ as if I’m someone’s grandmother… whoopsie daisy!

Refocusing on the original intent of this post, which is to provide a little flame of warmth on this brutally frigid morning, and a sliver of hope in the idea of hygge. If you can hunker down in a nest of cozy blankets and pillows, by all means do that. If you can’t, try to slip into something warm and fuzzy, like a sweater or chunky knit scarf. Failing that, perhaps you can find solace and comfort in a cup of hot chocolate or steaming tea. And if that isn’t possible, maybe you can find the spirit of hygge and hold it in your head and heart, taking a few deep breaths no matter where you might find yourself. 

I don’t know – I am out of practical suggestions so maybe this post is a bit of a failure. 

As for me, though I have a full day in the office ahead, I will eventually return home, and while it will be dark when I make my way into the warm comfort of our house, there will be the chance to light a few candles, put on a kettle of tea, and unwind in a moment of decompression. Andy will be watching the news in the den, the comforting drone of muted noise and the occasional ruffling of a grocery list will be its own form of music. I may meditate then, to ease the transition of the day, or I may save it for right before bed, as I’ve done of late, to set a peaceful tone for sleep. 

This is winter. We make our way in shuffling steps, guarding against the cold outside by making things cozier inside. This is hygge. 

Moving into winter proper means it’s time to embrace the notion of hygge as a way of making it through the season of slumber. It’s been a bit of a rollercoaster week, so 2022 looks to just pick up the terrible ferocity that was 2021 and aren’t we all the lovelier for it? Anyway, have fun navigating this minefield of posts as we hope for some more calm and tranquil fields in the near future.

Losing my mind in a song of comfort.

Entering one year and exiting another in a state of mindfulness.

This is the Lodge. (As opposed to the Dodge. Or the Rodge.)

A New Year’s tradition. 

Cozy sleeper.

Morning matcha with a side of Tchaikovsky. 

Crying by the Christmas tree: a holiday sob story that Hallmark will likely pass on. 

Picking up the pieces and getting on with it again. What choice have we?

A bloody mockery.

For anyone trying a Dry January, or something more lasting, a reminder that it’s ok not to drink. 

My new favorite cocktail. 

Like a prince. A naked prince. Many, many years ago… 

Hygge hibernation.

Lawrence Welk, chiffon and Geritol – what life is like nowadays. (And when the word ‘nowadays’ is employed earnestly, you know I’m old – though I still don’t know what Geritol does.)

The Dazzlers of the Day were Katy Perry and Amy Schneider.

Embracing the idea of hygge was an integral part of what got me through last winter, and it made the season, dare I say it, almost enjoyable. I’ve long maintained that without the slumber of winter, the gardens in spring and summer would not bloom as brilliantly. Yet even with that sobering concept in mind, it’s difficult to find enjoyment when the wind is as cutting as it’s been these past few days. The weather looks only to intensify as far as cold temperatures go, so to brace ourselves for the seasonally-appropriate dip, this is a post to make things as hyggelig as possible.

Our attic loft space is lit by a number of lamps and candles, and one of Andy’s Christmas gifts to me was a space heater that is gentle but effective, creating a cozy nook in our home that lends itself to hygge. There are plenty of thick blankets, a chaise lounge, an antique bed in the center of it all, and I’ve left the pair of little Christmas trees up with their white fairy lights twinkling. In keeping with the Danish origin of hygge, here’s some music with the Danish String Quartet. 

One needn’t have a Scandinavian retreat or attic loft to indulge and enjoy the idea of hygge. A cozy sweater and pair of plush socks is enough. A favorite blanket and comfy chair will do. A cup of hot tea or a mug of hot chocolate will work as well. It’s about finding that place of warmth and coziness, tucking yourself safely against the brutal weather raging outdoors, and slipping into a mindset of serenity and comfort. In a sense, and if done with a bit of mindfulness, it can be a method of meditation. 

“Happiness consists more in small conveniences or pleasures that occur every day, than in great pieces of good fortune that happen but seldom.” – Benjamin Franklin

After revealing this day of defeat, which ended in a tiny pool of tears, the next morning began in questionable form, as I brought a mostly-empty cup of hot chocolate down from the attic and promptly spilled it to begin what I assumed would be another shit-show, only to have that be the only minor blip in the day Proof that just because things begin in messy fashion doesn’t mean they have to continue or end that way. 

I lit a lavender candle – a candle which I’ve coddled and carried around for about two decades, and I’m not even sure why. Perhaps I wanted to save it as a decorative piece – a service which it performed admirably all this time. A couple of months ago, when I was shifting my hang-out space into the attic, I marked the moment by lighting this candle and enjoying its light and soft lavender scent. It brought the attic through the summer, though as fall neared I lit it less and less, to make it last through this very winter. 

While we all remember and recall the days of defeat, it’s the days that follow that make up the bulk of our lives – the days when we simply get up and unremarkably lead our lives to the best, and sometimes the worst, of our abilities – trying to be good, trying to be right, trying to be ok with whatever the day turns out to hold. It is not the nature of humans to be perfect, but to perfectly inhabit the moment – and to try – always to try. 

It’s a phenomenon no child should have to experience, though with the excitement and tantrums and rollercoasters of Christmas, I suppose most of us have at one point or another: the phenomenon of how Christmas tree lights look when viewed through tears. They become something more magical, and in some ways more beautiful – one of the rare recompenses of sorrow transforming into solace. I’d almost forgotten what that was like until the world defeated me the other day. 

I’d gone into work already feeling shaky and unsure of myself. My planned outfit didn’t work as well in the light of day as it had in my mind the night before, but it would have to do. A wave of fatigue from not sleeping well insisted on it. And just when I took one last look in the mirror while Andy was heading out to start the car, I noticed a hole in the crotch, to the right of the zipper, which made it look like the zipper was down. Maybe that’s when I gave up on the day, because I didn’t have the care or concern or energy to put on a new pair of pants. 

After a day of insanity, because in a world of Covid and madness all work days are insane, a day without taking a lunch break outside, and a day of non-stop business, I stumbled back into the car and was too shell-shocked and exhausted to speak. Andy may have wondered what was wrong but I didn’t have the strength or ability to put it into words then. When I got home and walked into the living room, I sat down and realized: I felt defeated. The day had licked me. The world had knocked it out of me. 

Later in the afternoon news came of more loved ones with Covid, and the slightly bothersome and troubling way my Mom now has of saying she wasn’t too worried about it, which kicked off the memory of a recurring nightmare I’ve had since childhood of some monster chasing her, or some terrible fate befalling her, and I’m yelling and trying to explain it to her but she doesn’t listen and it ends up catching her, and I’m screaming and crying, “I told you!! Why didn’t you listen to me?!?” and then I wake up in a mess of sweat and tears. 

When the evening had descended, I found my way to the Christmas tree. Still decorated and lit, it provided the only illumination in the room. I sat down beneath it, looking up into the branches, and I started to cry. Not because I’m going through anything particularly difficult, not because my life is any more stressful or despondent than anyone else’s – I simply let out the average weight of the world on any adult’s shoulders right now. 

The tears came quietly, and it wasn’t a terribly awful cry – it was mostly from sheer exhaustion and years of worry. When I looked at the Christmas tree though my tears, the sensation was bracingly familiar, and suddenly I was a kid beneath the tree again, hiding from some act of shame or ostracization, something that made it clear that I was very different and very alone, and that not even my family could keep me company. I felt the same loneliness and isolation that I had in my childhood, and in a way that no one else seemed to share or understand. 

Part of me understood that I was probably just tired. Tired of worrying all the time without any breaks of hope or relief. Tired of being afraid and trying to find solutions and only finding blame. Tired of canceling trips and plans and simple dinners with family and friends. Tired of trying to find some semblance of peace and beauty and warmth in this amazingly fucked-up world. Tired of attempting to make any sort of sense of it all. 

There, in the tear-stained glassy visage of Christmas lights and ornaments, where branches blurred with bulbs, I sat in silent wonder and condemnation, unable to see a way out, letting this day of defeat wash over and then through me.

My favorite childhood memories often involved a sleeper – that fuzzy one-piece romper that served as both pajamas and lounge wear for those aged five to ten years old. In the fall and winter, it was the cozy outfit for holidays and weekends, when a new one had shiny and slick soles that allowed you to slide across the carpet as if on ice. On Christmas vacations, my brother and I would spend days in this easy outfit, sometimes even wearing it under a snowsuit to go outside. 

Come summer, the memory was a different sort; when it came time to finally put away the sleeper for the season, the sudden cool feel of sheets against naked feet was a forgotten thrill that made me appreciate the months of confinement all the more. 

 A magical thing, the sleeper. 

This is The Lodge.

It is a candle, and more than that it is a frame of mind. 

In our attic it glows and scents the space with what can only be described as winter.

Pine and smoke and embers ~ the coziest portions of the slumbering season. 

It is a small consolation for the bitter cold of late, but a powerful one at that. A small light that strikes through the immensity of night. A small source of heat that cuts through the iciest edge. 

The Lodge conjured in the mind can be the one that staves off the worst of winter. It is there when we curl in on ourselves right before forcing ourselves awake and out of the warmest bed. It is there when we pull our arms tightly in front of us on the afternoon walk in the wind. It is there to save us when we slip out of our clothes and into the brief interim of brittle, unprotected air before jumping into the shower or bath. 

I like The Lodge. The candle and the idea. The light and the power. 

It was January 1, 2010 when I joined Twitter. As far as my records indicate, my first tweet was that I’d “just joined Twitter on the advice of Martha Stewart. God help us everyone.” Back then I had maybe five or six followers, who I knew personally from real life, or at least freaking FaceBook. Looking over ridiculous Tweets from that period of time, it seems like I was a regular poster of absolute nonsense. A Jennifer Lopez critique here, a governor’s accolade there, and a mention of having ‘the Koto experience’ a restaurant ad which local movie-goers of the time will recall from the opening credits of the nearby movie theater. Cut to today, a decade plus later, when I’ve tweeted well over 100,000 times and have about 64,000 followers and a blue checkmark by my handle. What a long, strange and ever-evolving trip it’s been. There have been insults and accusations, adoration and celebration, arguments and death threats, and somehow I’ve managed to not get banned.

Social media is an elusive and untethered beast. It cannot be simply understood or manipulated, despite what most people think. The accounts that last and endure are those who are genuine and based in reality. You may not like them or agree with them, but they are the ones who refuse to be anyone other than themselves. The fakes and wanna-bes, the frauds and players, the people who hide behind a false image or entirely fabricated persona can pull off the façade for a while, but eventually they run out of space. As easy as it is for a lie to exist and be perpetuated on social media, the accounts who perpetrate such falsity eventually and always crumble. (Where is that former President who got booted anyway?) You can only hide behind a blank egg and a pretend persona for so long. And what is the point of that anyway?

If the main purpose of social media is to connect and share, to do so while coming from a place of fabrication or lies is an empty and fruitless endeavor. You can fake it for a while, but whatever you reap doesn’t mean anything because it didn’t come from a place of truth and honesty. My failings and flaws, while not exactly celebrated, were also not ignored. I didn’t pretend to be perfect, even if I acted with delusional grandiosity like I was. People see through that shit instantly. I made mistakes, I owed apologies, and I fumbled and stumbled through my social media accounts, but I was always myself.

And somehow, over the years, I garnered some like-minded followers who appreciated the silly whims and Madonna-drooling and Tom Ford regaling and shirtless male celebrity watching that went on in my online world. Whereas I could dive deep and get serious on this blog, in the brief posts and character-limits of Twitter my life was fluffy and light. It was a place where levity and brevity were the orders of the day, to keep pace with the attention-lacking flow of the modern world, darting hither and thither at break-neck pace – a Tweet on the devastation of climate change followed immediately on its heels by a Tweet on the devastating brilliance of Lady Gaga’s shoes. This smorgasbord of news and entertainment and personal life made for a Shepherd’s pie of eclectic and often-unrelated quick commentary. It meant so much and so little – the world in a single tweet that was everything and nothing at the same time. Such a silly thing when you really think about it – which is how I’ve kept it going all these years. The people who take it seriously flounder and flail, inevitably feeling the high of viral glory wane and ebb, vainly trying to capture lightning instead of just enjoying the show and letting it strike where it may. I can enjoy it for the trifling it is, because I never allowed it to be anything more than that.

Like the birdie that embodies its logo, I try to keep Twitter light and fluffy, so follow and watch me fly!

A branch of Eastern pine hangs over the desk on which I type this. Curving gracefully up and then down, it lends the space a rustic, natural feel, mirrored on the other end of the desk by a vase of thuja fronds. Candles glow on pedestals and in glass votives, flickering their warm light over the cozily-angled ceiling and white panel walls. A sparse Christmas tree, bedecked by an old-fashioned string of bulbous Christmas lights, emits a soft ambient light, instantly recalling holidays from childhood, reaching that far back into memory in happy, jarring fashion.

It’s a mistake to consider a single blog post as the indicator for the entire year to come, despite what I’ve professed in previous New Year’s Day entries. Still, it’s nice to set a theme or propose a tone, and with the way the world seems to be going, I’m going to put forth this manifesto for calm and peace as the aspirational goal for the new year ahead. One of the main components of manifestation is simply putting the idea into the universe – a public declaration of intent, a call of all mystical entities and spirits to help us along the journey. If we create the wish for calm and serenity, we create the place of possibility for it to exist. From there it’s just a matter of making it happen.  Seems so simple… yet for every and any intention to come to fruition, one must follow up with work and diligence and consistent upkeep. It is not enough to wish and hope, and too many entitled people think it is.

Looking back at previous New Year beginnings is proof that no matter how much I may wish for things to go a certain way, the universe will always find its own path, and it’s best to go along with the natural push and pull of things with a bit of nudging instead of hard-fast and unyielding determination. It’s good to be flexible in today’s world. Hell, after the past two years it’s become mandatory, because in too many ways we have no choice or say in the matter – the only thing we control is how we react or respond or live within a situation. There’s a certain freedom and peace when you genuinely realize that.

And so we begin another year – which in a few weeks will mark the 19^thanniversary of this website. We will keep things low-key, and if we manage to make it to 20, we’ll go fucking crazy. Happy New Year!

Our Year in Review continues from this link-saturated post, and it is said that second parts should always be briefer than first parts. With that in mind here’s a condensed look-see at the second half of 2021, labeled semi because we are leaving at least half out, and all without hoopla or hubbub or H-E-double-hockey-sticks.

July 2021: in which a cardinal alights on the height of summer and memories of Andy’s roses filled the air. 

A summer song, and an imitation of life.

Summer was nothing but rain, even if the world was still standing. 

A rainy trip to Boston with Chris was filled with all the drama, and quite a bit more, than either of us could stand. 

A relatively new summer tradition found me visiting these dear friends in Connecticut. 

A visit from the Cape Crew brightened the rainy summer days.

An anniversary letter to my husband. 

August 2021: in which summer found expression in a song, or a few, and sadness found itself living within the space of summer. 

The light in the attic come summer. 

Madonna and Mandy asked the problematic question, ‘What can you lose?’

Tom Daley was obsessed with knitting. 

A tale of two dinners in downtown Albany.

Spending a couple of days and nights with Dad and the gentlemen Ilagan. 

Shakedown, 80’s style. 

As an antidote to the rainy Boston weekend with Chris, Suzie and I made a trip to Boston where all was sun and fun, a throwback to many an enjoyable vacation, and a welcome reminder of the importance to stay connected in such a disconnected time. 

A matcha made in heaven.

My birthday, and accompanying birthday suit. 

This was August, slipping away.

Two decades down, and one to go.

September 2021: in which the world finally caught a glimpse of David Beckham’s naked ass.

Entering the second half of my forties proved a quiet but beautiful sort of transition in Boston. 

These golden worries and this summer-ending babysitting jaunt paved the way for fall.

Dad turned 91 years old and we celebrated. 

The summer of 2021 proved rainy and stormy but we managed to smile our way through it. 

Fall arrived and with it the return of Abba and our cousin Tyler, who joined me in Boston. 

I survived the day it was predicted I would meet my demise. (And lived to show my ass off.)

October 2021: in which the fall fragrance was a selection by Byredo and Suzie joined me for a trip to Manchester, VT. 

Our annual fall adventure with the twins took place, which brought us to Manchester, and to the attic for a lesson on meditation. 

Nude but for an apron, as promised to the folks at Marimekko. 

Haunted by the boy who was killed for being gay.

October is when we celebrated Andy’s birthday and the anniversary of ‘Sex’ and ‘Erotica’. 

Mercury worked its madness and magic on a trip to Boston, which also included reunions new and old. 

No one talks about the way we all come home for Halloween, so we put music and words to it in this Halloween song. (Bonus: a fall visit to Connecticut!)

October 26, 2021 marked just two years of not drinking alcohol for me. 

November 2021: in which the quarter-century anniversary of Madonna’s turn as ‘Evita’ brings back memories that are best left forgotten. 

Taylor Swift said it all too well, and all in ten minutes. (About the length of my autumnal meditations.)

This Friendsgiving with Kira will have to suffice for the holiday stroll, until the world rights itself or at least steadies to a semi-calm state, for which we would be greatly grateful.

December 2021: in which the holly entered with the ivy, and live greens formed an integral part of a holiday tablescape.

Two queens in a king-sized bed.

The new Tom Ford Private Blend was probably the most perfect scent for reasons both personal and universal. 

A day with Dad was a pre-holiday luxury. 

Once upon a time I tried to be Mr. Perfectly Fine, perhaps a little too well.

The Holiday Card for 2021 was a slumber-themed subdued affair, but check out its predecessors, and prepare for a winter sleep. 

Keep calm and remain peaceful.

For the love of Andy’s meatballs.

Revisiting previous holiday strolls while this year’s is on hold. 

Winter has come.

A new year begins tomorrow – won’t you come back to see what’s next?

Year-end reviews take so much time and work, and most people just gloss over them, so this year Im just hitting on a very select few posts, and posting them in just two entries, the first of which is this, with each one covering six months of time. If you really want to see more, scroll to the bottom of the page and click on the Archives to select the month you’d like to view. Not sure who wants to recall the days of 2021, any more than we want to recount the calamity that was 2020. At any rate, here we are, ending 2021 on a rushed let’s-get-this-done-with note, the same way I feel about New Year’s Eve for the most part, and here we go ~ rewind to a year ago, when the madness all began again…

January 2021: Which began on this relatively quiet note. We somehow knew what might be in store for the year. 

Roses in January were an exquisite treat, whether they appeared during the day, or revealed their enchantment in the evening. 

Our country was attacked by our own domestic terrorists – the Trump-loving MAGA degenerates – and the majority of people seem to want to let it all go.

Feeding myself a slice of humble pie and embracing the long-overdue realization that perfection is impossible. 

The concept of hygge became a brief obsession, one that warmed the winter in ways that shall continue this year. 

A winter cloak.

Top coat and chest hair. 

Cookies of lace and memory.

This Buddha’s tree joined our family at the start of the year. (Today, it’s approaching a foot an half tall.)

February 2021: Which found some of us embracing Friday night flute mindfulness.

A flan for February and a lady in red. A song fit for Valentine’s Day and acting all sorts of crazy. Because, well, ‘tis the damn season.

A Lenten beginning as I continued on a journey toward light and awareness. 

Perhaps the biggest news in these parts was the end of the Hunk of the Day feature and the start of the Dazzler of the Day. I love alliteration even more than shirtless men so this was a good switch.

Fuck the sourdough starter bullshit. 

Rediscovering the way back home.

March 2021: Which we got through by channeling Hollywood glamour in black and white. 

The art of Andy’s reparation. 

A blanket I’ve been crocheting since 1986… no lie.

The day we had to grow up. 

A new reality a full year later. 

What a prick.

Beginning the way back home again. 

April 2021: Which began with an ever-elusive happy ending. 

Portrait of a lady for a gentleman in the form of a fragrance. 

A delayed Easter outside with the family. 

No longer so haunted by my jury experience, I still recall it vividly. 

The Korean Victorian home where we spent our happiest childhood holidays. 

New friends silver, old friends gold. 

The return of the queen.

May 2021: Which marked Asian American – Pacific Islander Month, the season of Gatsby, and our 11th wedding anniversary. 

A very happy recap that included our Boston Wedding Anniversary.

Let’s get unconscious honey: the Madonna Timeline tackled the brilliance of ‘Bedtime Story.’

An unexpectedly-emotionally-tumultuous visit to Boston was filled with whimsy and mysterious enchantment, and while it held no happy ending, it was not entirely without hope. 

June 2021: Which found us celebrating Pride Month and creating the absolute summer place to be with this Scandic-Inspired attic loft space. 

What a difference a branch makes. 

Starting summer early, right where the boys are. 

A Saratoga movie/lunch date with the twins. 

Happily ever Andy.

Stalling and savoring in service of a proper write-up, this time of our return to the Boston BroSox Adventure, which came amid the madness of Mercury in retrograde, and boy did it rip. 

A summer escapist song: San Remo. 

Father’s Day celebration. 

Lavender going pink. 

{For the remainder of the days, come back this afternoon for the second part of the 2021 Year in Review.}

The long journey to spring has begun, and this teaser trailer for the new ‘Downton Abbey: A New Era’ movie sets the splendiferous tone for a lighter and airier and South-of-Francier atmosphere. Not sure how the stiff upper lip I’ve come to love of the Abbey will fare when transported to a new locale, but I’m keeping an open mind. 

The release date of March 18, 2022 is also a few days before spring, indicating the perfect kick-off to the next season, and the return of the sun. It’s been a very long time since we’ve allowed ourselves to look forward to anything, and even this is done with a certain trepidation and hesitation, with the now-customary proviso that all is subject to change. Still, the heart longs, the heart hopes, and the heart waits in joyful anticipation… 

While not quite lamenting all the gray in my hair now, it was a slight jolt when I saw a picture from a decade ago of me on Christmas Eve with decidedly fewer gray hairs (like none). My friend Marline quickly came to my defense against my own self-doubt by saying that I earned them. (And to be fair, we earned them together, with a few usual suspects draining the color from our heads.) 

These days, there are far greater concerns than gray hair or the world-weary wrinkles and lines that are creeping into my face. I’ve made my peace with the aging process mostly, and most of my squawking and complaining is merely for show. Something to go along with the general impression and image the world has of me, the version that makes it easier to deal with daily life. Not a big deal really. I’ve reached the age where it doesn’t bother me as much – it’s more of a fascinating realization that maybe I’ve come a little further in my own self-acceptance than I give myself credit for. 

Winter gray, like the coat of a wolf or some silver fox, can be quite beautiful, especially at this time of the year. It indicates a hard-won reserve of wisdom and genuine confidence, with nary the need to pretend anymore. (There’s also a sprinkling of fuck-around-and-see-what-happens in it.) Whatever gets one through the winter.