Andy always waits at least until the Epiphany (or as he puts it ‘Little Christmas’) before taking our Christmas tree down, and it’s a tradition I’ve come to appreciate and embrace. As long as it’s out before all the needles drop, and as long as I don’t have to take part in its sad deconstruction, I’m fine with this timetable. It extends the light of the season, which this year I needed a bit as I was not feeling particularly Christmas-like until it was practically over. At that point I paused beneath the tree as I began my daily meditation, inhaling its delicious pine scent, and marveling at the way the lights and ornaments cast their enchanting spell. Anyone can get excited about the tree when it first goes up, when the season is fresh and new – it takes a different kind of person to embrace it during its last days. And it takes a very special kind of person to take it down with the honor and care that Andy uses every year. I sense that it’s a ritual for him.

He removes each fragile ornament, wrapping every single one with a single tissue, and carefully places them back in their container. Then he unwinds the lights from the branches, before adroitly rolling them back up so they can be unfurled with ease the next year. He goes about the process slowly, with purpose and deliberation, and I see how it is how own meditative practice – a way of putting another year to bed, a way to remember his own childhood and youth, a way to bring back memories of those he has loved and lost. 

For my part, I will miss the greenery, and the soft light that the tree provided to our living room. To make up for it, I will seek out greenery – such as this bouquet of eucalyptus branches, or a vase of silvery-green junipers from the yard – to take the place of the missing tree. It’s a little effort that makes a difference in these dim days of January, when so much of what the heart yearns for now – green, verdant warmth – is in such short supply. 

When the doldrums of January stretch out before us, when we are knee-deep in the weeds of winter, I find solace in any greenhouse within reach. That means weekly trips to Faddegon’s or some place similar where I can get lost in the lush, tropical environment of a greenhouse, surrounded by plants and flowers and beauty as a balm for the winter-ravaged heart. Last weekend I brought the twins here, and though they seemed quizzical as to what we were doing, they merrily went with the flow as if they had a choice. 

If I teach them anything, I hope it will be an appreciation and love for nature and plants, and the peace found from immersing yourself in their presence, even in the endless landscape of a winter that finds us all bundled up and itching to get out. 

When it doesn’t rock us too much, winter makes a good moment for reflection. Keeping that lesson in mind, I sit at the dining room table before the night of day arrive and type out these words. The light from the computer screen and a dim overhead lamp guide me, and I add the light of a candle for something soft and flickering. Before COVID alerted the world to the fact that most of us could successfully work at home, these early morning hours used to be the only time I was alone in the house. There was always a sort of solace I found in solitude, provided I could hear Andy’s occasional rustling in the bedroom. Present but distant, the way I’ve operated, the only way I knew. 

The click and gentle hum of the heater as it kicks on alerts me to the wakening of the world, and soon it will be time to shower and face the day. For now, however, there is only darkness, and the endless expansive possibilities of a winter’s day. 

My feet are in piss-poor shape. Rough and chapped, the heels cry out for moisture and care that I just don’t have to give. The toenails are even worse – ragged and shredded, because instead of properly clipping them I tend to just tear off the ends in idle moments of barefoot daydreaming. Even in the summer, when sandals and poolside lounging might put them on semi-public display, they don’t get much more pampering than that, and it shows. 

Last year, however, with the happy advent of my first manicure, I was also told to concentrate on my feet as well, and while I’m not quite ready for my first pedicure, it’s on the distant horizon, so I need to get my soles in order. To that end, I’m starting with the heels and moving outward, beginning with some basic moisturizing lotion before sliding into my socks. It’s a little moment of self-care and indulgence that I’m simply going to embrace in my middle-age. Life affords a few more comforts in consolation for growing older and dealing with other discomforts. 

As for the foot fetishists out there, I see you, I hear you, and I honor your prayer. Bottoms up for the unabashedly kinky: to thy own sole be true. (And if your hidden proclivity is getting off on feet, I’d say that’s one of the more harmless kinks in this day and age; I will not be volunteering more extreme examples..)

{This blog post has been brought to you by Shameless Clickbait, FeetFinder, and Thirst-Trap (Feet-Don’t-Fail-Me-Now remix).} Now everybody cut footloose!

Winter has hit these ornamental fruit trees like a shot to the nuts, taking the smooth youthful blush of their hanging balls and shriveling it up with the advance of the season. Everyone knows Mother Nature doesn’t mess around, and when it’s time, it’s time. In this case, these berries had an extended season – usually their perfect form has shriveled long ago. The past few months have found a gentler rush of weather in these parts, though the rest of the country may beg to differ. 

This is the sort of winter scene that goes mostly unheralded and unnoticed in our hurry to get through the darker season. It’s also the sort of beauty that I find most arresting, perhaps because it comes at such a bleak time, when we are starved for color or excitement, when the barren land is mostly bereft of this bravado. 

With the full moon last Friday, and both Mars and Mercury in retrograde motion, the universe is rocking us all for a loop these past few days. At such tumultuous times, I tend to lay low, keep to myself, and stay as quiet as possible. There’s even a hushed tone to these posts, in the hope of making it through this with some bit of tranquility. On with the weekly recap…

Roses in the darkest season.

Drinking the blood of a virgin.

Our New Year’s guests.

Cheese and apples for the kids. 

Adventure in the turquoise night. 

Finding my cherry.

Underwear by Dominic Albano.

Lone shoe, lost in the rain.

Memories of a superstar.

Light of a star long gone. 

Kiss my Bitter Peach.

Acquainted with the night.

Every Sunday can be Christmas if you cook this. 

Vamping with the twins before Plan B.

Dazzlers of the Day included Luke Evans and Hakeem Jeffries. 

Last night we had a full moon, on top of Mars and Mercury being in retrograde motion, which made for quite an interesting day at work. Before leaving the house, I made an intention that I would focus on three f-words for the day: flexibility, forgiveness, and fun.

Flexibility: because it’s always easier to be flexible than rigid. There are so many times in a day when being able to bend is so much more helpful and conducive to progress than refusing to yield. During times of distress or drama, being flexible and open to other opinions and ideas is often the way to finding solutions rather than making things worse. 

Forgiveness: because we all need to be a little more forgiving – of others and of ourselves. It’s ok for people to make mistakes, and it’s ok to make them yourself – most of all, it’s ok to forgive and move on beyond them. This is far easier said than done, and takes some practice and loads of effort, but I’ve found it incredibly useful. It brings about a peaceful heart more than perhaps anything else. 

Fun: because we are only human, we will make fools of ourselves and fumble through the human experience in all sorts of awkward, ridiculous manners. The best thing to do when any of that befalls you is to laugh it off. Whatever setback or conundrum or fluke that happens, whether it be the full moon or planetary retrograde motion or the simple foibles of an average day, if you go into the world ready to laugh instead of cry, you’re already one step nearer to happiness than misery. 

And so I made my way through the day with those words in my head. With every red light, slow/bad driver, or wayward pedestrian along my commute to work, I paused before rising to road rage, allowing myself a deep breath or a smile and chuckle, and when I arrived at the office, that mood was able to hold. It was no small feat, as a full moon/retrograde day in the office is often a nightmare. Somehow, I was able to keep this little trio of f-words in my head, and respond to whatever came up in better form, without resorting to screaming something like “Fuck around and find out!” at the top of my lungs. Hey, sometimes it’s the simple achievements that matter the most. 

I also decided to go into the evening with an intention of peace and calm, to rein in the energy of a full moon and the Mars and Mercury retrograde and focus it toward an inward practice of meditation. For too long, I’ve discounted the power and capability of intention, dismissing it as some new-age concept of empty words and meaningless tripe, but I now think there I something to it. We set the mental scene for our days and nights. We hold the power. And now I hold those thoughts to keep me on track. 

“Acquainted With The Night” by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye; 
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.