A pair of ducks has appeared in our pool for the second year in a row, and that’s no April Fool’s joke, despite the date. Last year it was more quaint. Until it really wasn’t, at which point I made this futile plan. And now we greeted their return with a weary laugh, because running out and scaring them three times on a rainy day is not how I want to spend my time. Such is our work, however, if we don’t want them to nest poolside. This isn’t ‘The Sopranos’, so we simply don’t have the space.
In the bird world, it’s usually the males who have the brightly colored plumage, while the females settle for drabber feathers and fuller figures. Such was the scene in our front yard the other day, when a scarlet male strutted across the lawn while his partner waited in the shadows, blending into the background and hopping about before joining him in flight. These grainy pictures don’t do them justice; their beauty cannot be captured or stilled. It’s a beauty that can only be experienced in fleeting form, the way most beauty exists only as a passing fancy.
It’s been part of my elaborate plan not to binge on every film Bette Davis has ever made, in order to draw them out and enjoy them as something new and undiscovered from time to time. Hence my willful ignorance of the gem that is ‘Dead Ringer’. It came after her success in ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ which makes it particularly interesting for those of us who enjoyed that period of her film work. This isn’t the greatest movie, but Davis gives it her usual bravado, and wears two of the greatest feather-fringed robes that cinematic history has ever witnessed. That alone makes it worth the watch.
She portrays twins, so you get double the bang for your Bette buck, and there’s even a grand staircase which she ascends and descends several times – another hallmark of every great Davis film. While such artifice and superficial-posturing is what initially draws me to most Davis movies, there’s a bit of a riveting storyline at work too, and it drew me in until the very end. Check off another box for my Gay-of-a-Certain-Age Card.
This week adds to the pile-up of physical upgrades my middle-aged body demands, with an eye-exam since I am due for one. Down to my last pair of contacts, it’s now or resign myself to a few weeks of spectacles. I have my share of eyeglass headaches from those moments when I need these readers – no need to turn it into a full-day affair.
Such upkeep is the stuff of all humans. We battle and hold back the lines of age as it encroaches evermore on our bodies – a lost cause, but we fight it because it’s the essence of survival. It’s what humans have always done – something more primal and innate than planned or fully understood. Though I suppose there are those who do give up. I’m fortunately not there yet, and so we go, on with some new contacts, in with some new blood pressure pills, up with some sun salutations. Being alive is a good thing, no matter how much work it takes.
Ladies and gentlemen and those who have yet to make up their minds, Holy Week has begun! Palms up for the Big JC Show coming your way! Before all that hoo-ha begins, however, let’s have our usual Monday morning look-back at what happened last week…
Hidden paintings on a pinecone.
Shirtless Superman Henry Cavill.
Do not schedule a Zoom call on a Saturday. Please. I only get two days off per week.
A chartreuse start, Adam & Eve style.
Pricked by the fragrance of hope.
Dazzlers of the Day included Jonathan Capehart, Carmie Hope, Pete & Chasten Buttigieg, Eugene Lee Yang, Dionne Warwick, and Lil Nas X.
Arriving as a preamble to Easter week, Palm Sunday always held an almost-dearer place in my heart than the big resurrection day – partly because I’ve always enjoyed the anticipation more than the actualization, and partly because palm fronds were a part of that morning’s church service. After every winter, their essence of newness, their bright but quiet canary color, edged with the freshest and slightest sliver of green reminding of how recently they had been cut. The palm fronds were a tangible bit of the hope of spring, the hope of Easter, there to be held in our hands and blessed by a Holy-Water wielding priest.
When I was an altar boy and serving on this day, I’d follow the priest around carrying the bucket of Holy Water as he traversed the entire church, dipping and swinging his wet scepter over his eager audience. It felt healing and hopeful, and at that young age I readily believed in such magic. That belief was enough, that trust was a source of confidence even if none of it turned out to be true, even if we had all been duped. The belief was what mattered, and there would be nothing to shatter it for years to come. I was lucky that way.
Today palms no longer represent the Sunday before Easter. They’ve gone back to their plant kingdom, assumed places of artifice and background beauty. They signal California sun and shadowy noirish films of sepia-toned warmth and decadence. A far cry from the innocence of Palm Sunday – and maybe it wasn’t never all that innocent anyway. The story of Jesus begins taking its darkest turns this week. Maybe the palm was a signal of warning, or portent. Such drama is always appreciated in these parts, particularly when it’s the drama of appearance. The world is harsh enough. Let’s cloak it in palm fronds, in freshness and green and all things spring.
“I came to this country in 1952, arriving by boat in Seattle. It was cold and wet the day that I arrived in the United States from Korea. I spent the first night here in jail (or some kind of detention center) because my papers were not right and I could not speak English well enough to explain anything.” ~ Sok Nam Ko, ‘The Way Back Home‘
This is a story of an immigrant from Korea, who came to America and forged a new life for himself while retaining the essence of his homeland.
This is a story of how we form our families and communities, and how we celebrate and reconcile our differences and disparities.
This is a story of a journey through a life cut short, a journey that for so long felt somehow incomplete, but that in retrospect was a journey that completed itself in its accomplishments, and everything it left behind.
Above all else, this is a story about love: love for one’s family, love for one’s adopted country, love for one’s homeland, love for the homelands we each make around the world, and love for the ongoing journey of making connections across cultures and countries and differences.
This is a story of my best friend’s father, Sok Nam Ko, and his incredible and all-too-short journey on this earth. As a legacy and testament to him, the Sok Nam Ko Foundation works to continue Dr. Ko’s passion for connecting cultures and people around the world by providing support for students looking to travel to other countries and enrich their lives.
In so many ways, over so many years, Dr. Ko – ‘Uncle Sok’ in my childhood memories – has become like a ghost to me. This is my way of rediscovering the man I knew when I was just a kid, and finding a way back to him as an adult. Even though he is gone, there is still much to be learned, new stories to be heard, and new connections to be made. I invite you to join us on this journey as it continues on the new social media accounts for the Sok Nam Ko Foundation.
FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/SokNamKoFoundation
Twitter: https://twitter.com/foundation_ko
“I was born in Kaesong, Korea. It is impossible to say whether it was a happy occasion or an unexpected accident that I came into this world on November 5, 1934…” ~ Sok Nam Ko, ‘The Way Back Home’
Sok Nam Ko was born in Kaesong, Korea on November 5, 1934, during the Japanese occupation. Eleven years later, the United States and Soviet Union divided his homeland, setting the stage for Korea’s bloody civil war. Separated from his family by the fighting, Ko left in 1952 at the age of seventeen to begin a new life in a small American town. There he found a home with the Harrington family and the people of Castleton, Vermont. Ko immediately embraced America and its patchwork culture, participating in the political, educational ad social life of his chosen country. He adopted a distinctly American sense of individualism and a belief in the fundamental equality of all people, while retaining a strong sense of Korean identity, imbued by his childhood experiences. He died on March 16, 1991, but his spirit remains strong in the purpose and mission of the Sok Nam Ko Educational Exchange Foundation, which fosters the connections and exchanges between all the cultures of the world.
Starting before anyone is quite ready, but not at all unwelcome, these are the first unfurling leaves of the fig trees I’ve overwintered in the garage. What a happy sight to see their buds swell and burst, and now the bright unfolding of the foliage. I don’t bother to get too attached – these first leaves tend to be killed off by late freezes and the shock of the sun after an unlit garage – but behind them will be the leaves and fruit that will see us through the summer to come.
Last year we had quite the fig harvest – starting in mid-summer and going into the fall. Hopefully this year will allow us to reap similar riches. If not, these handsome leaves and the enchanting form of their branches will have to suffice. Beauty will be enough. Sustenance would be a bonus.
Do not be fooled by its cute fuzzy garb, or its seasonally appropriate appearance – the rabbit is one of the garden’s most destructive enemies. My own Easter bunny trauma aside, I happen to adore these woodland creatures, so I put up with a certain degree of destruction – such as chewed up bamboo plants or foot-high bark peeling of the dogwood trees. In fact, something ate the ever green boughs underneath which this puffball sits. Strange that it wouldn’t think not to harm the source of shelter, but they’re no different from any other creature whose main instinct is survival – reason and planning for the future fall by the wayside when the task at hand is merely surviving a winter of starvation. For that reason, my heart softens a bit, and forgives the loss of some bamboo and fir boughs. At this point in our gardens, nothing is so precious that it can’t be a gift to a hungry rabbit.
This particular character is a happy sign of life returning to the outside world. Robins and blue jays and cardinals have already been chirping and flying to and fro in the front yard, while the squirrels have been making their usual ruckus in the backyard. Spring breathes new life into our surroundings. The world stirs, the land twitches, and the ice melts. The journey begins…
This is the face I give when someone tries to schedule a Zoom meeting smack dab in the middle of a Saturday.
You know who you are.
Maybe I’d never noticed it before because I’d never seen a pinecone in just the right light. Or maybe I’ve just never been as observant as I thought I was. Whatever the case, and however the negligence occurred, my sheer delight in finding the painted striations on the inner structure of this pinecone has been unparalleled of late, when outside delights have been few and few between. On this sunny afternoon, when I took a stroll around the yard to see if anything had the courage to peep through the floor (a couple of daffodils on the south-facing wall were all I could find) it was a pinecone dropped from above that caught my eye and interest.
I’ve noticed pinecones before – and appreciated them for their architecture and form, the way nature sets some swirls into works of art that stick out from their surroundings through their radial perfection. And I’ve examined many pinecones up close, but this is the first I recall seeing such patterns within, and it’s one of those neat observations that, at the ripe age of 45, feels fresh and new and filled with wonder – the perfect embodiment of a proper spring start.
We haven’t even reached Palm Sunday yet and already this Easter cactus is blooming. It may actually be a Thanksgiving cactus, or a Christmas cactus – and some years it’s showed off early and made itself a Halloween cactus. Whatever the case, at lease the sun is moving gin the right direction and duration, with more light, more heat, more joy to be held in each passing day. On with the recap, which includes the last days of this wretched winter.
The week began in somber fashion, as it marked the 30th anniversary of the day we lost Suzie’s Dad.
Our new reality turned one (and probably smashed the fucking cake).
Spring fragrance options are in the air.
Dazzlers of the Day includes Tom Bertram, Stacey Abrams, Cyrus McQueen, Marcus Lemonis, Soledad O’Brien, Brian Sims, and Kevin Bruce.
Once upon a time, not so log ago, I’d intended for this time slot to be the space for a more spiritual and soul-sustaining sort of post. It fell by the wayside because, quite frankly, I forgot about it, and those spiritual posts have been peppered throughout the blog, so I’ve been sustaining it that way. Now I find myself on a Sunday afternoon at the very start of spring, when the sun is warming the earth, and the feeling of hope and of possibility is making me both giddy and contemplative. That’s actually one of my happiest states, so I’m going to take this state and enjoy it for a bit.
Earlier in the day I did a minuscule amount of cleaning in the attic – and I mean minuscule: I moved two storage bins from the finished portion to the unfinished portion and called it a day. In that little effort however, I discovered that the unfinished part of the attic – which is not insulated and rather open to the outside elements – was retaining and multiplying the heat of the sun, like it does in summer. That definitely contributed to my happy countenance, and put a little spring into my step. So much so that I did a little more work up there (I found a single coat for donation!)
This is more a physical spring-cleaning post than a spiritual maintenance post, but one begets the other, especially when a Virgo is involved. Only when my surroundings are in order can my mind find any hope of following. Happy Spring Sunday!!
Never one to indulge in vulnerability – even that slip of the word ‘indulge’ gives an indication of my bias against such tendencies – I nonetheless found myself in the very typical mid-life moment of standing in a doctor’s office stripped of all but a one-sided ill-fitting and scratchy caftan, waiting for the next medical person to come in and examine me. Even my socks had to be off for the EKG, so I stood there slightly shivering, feeling both the oldest I’ve ever been and just like a child again. Thus far it had been a mostly comical affair – the very young medical assistant had taken my blood pressure and said it was ok “for my age” before instructing me on the mechanics of the medical gown. Now as I waited for the Nurse Practitioner, awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, it wasn’t the nakedness of my body that left me feeling vulnerable, it was the powerlessness we all had against time, and the way that no matter how well I took care of myself, the time my physical being had here was finite and rather small. For perhaps the first time, I felt the futility of life – but it wasn’t something sad or mournful somehow. It also didn’t feel scary like it does for some people, and like it once did for myself.
It was one of those strange contemplative moments where you feel at once at peace, while a nagging little worry and wonder runs as an undercurrent through it all – nothing to disturb the surface, nothing to disturb the peace – and it’s a lovely little encapsulation of my life journey at this point. Nowhere approaching perfection, not even bothering with such a nonsensical goal, and nowhere near the raw beginning of egotistical idiocy I once attempted to embody, this is a calm if slightly messy space. I found a calm and comfort even in this ridiculous medical gown I awkwardly attempted to hold together behind my back to keep warm. We are such silly, awkward creatures, throwing ourselves into such silly and awkward actions in order to survive, to stay healthy, to prolong life. It is our instinct to endure, even the most self-destructive among us, and as I shared the physical and mental journey of the past few years with the NP, I felt a profound sense of peace and accomplishment, along with the desire and wish to improve.
By the end of the exam, when I felt entirely at ease and comfortable, the NP took my blood pressure again and it was actually worse than it had been at the beginning. Yup, that sounded just about right for where 2021 had brought me – room for improvement, room for acknowledgment, and room for the laugh I let out as my 45-year-old self suddenly saw himself and his present predicament.
Whether it feels like it or not, and it’s scheduled to kind of feel like it, spring has arrived officially! I’m throwing my hands up and rejoicing because this has been one long and trying COVID winter. With our vaccinations finally on the horizon, the notion of spring has especially-powerful resonance this year, and I’m looking forward to whatever hope it may offer and instill.
Andy recently posted his own restlessness and wish to travel again, and that looks like it may be on the horizon as well – possibly as soon as our wedding anniversary in May (and a delayed 10th wedding anniversary celebration). All are happy thoughts, especially on the first day of a new season. We will make our spring wishes and burn them today, fulfilling our seasonal traditions and sending out our spiritual manifestations into the universe.
