And there, just like that, in the most unlikely of places, was a sliver of beauty and grace – in the way a fading bit of sun illuminated the unexceptional gray concrete support beam of an overpass. Winter has been opening such secrets to me this year, or maybe I’m just noticing what has always been there, in a different light. 

Such a scene is unremarkable in an upstate New York winter, and for that very fact I find this glimpse of beauty even more touching. Why should there not be beauty in what many would consider mundane? The older I get, the more I realize how much of our experience is in what we are willing to see, and how we are willing to see the world. In the past, this overpass would have registered as gray and dull. These days it thrills me with its spectacular structure, its shading, and the way it cradles the last light of the day in its arms. 

Every passing day seems to move us further from the time when attending a Broadway musical in New York felt normal and commonplace. When seeking throwback shots for this recent post, I stumbled upon these cheeky peeks from a January weekend in New York a number of year ago, and instantly I was brought back to some happy, if frigid, memories. 

It feels like there have been a few very important January shows that I’ve been lucky enough to attend. The first was when Andy and I had tickets to ‘Grey Gardens’ on what felt like the coldest weekend of the year. We had a steak dinner at Gallagher’s before rushing to the theater, bundled up and braced against the wind and chill, and Christine Ebersole warmed us with her glorious portrayal of The Edies. It was, despite its icy nature, a weekend I think back on quite fondly.

Much like the one depicted here, when I was in town to see a revival of ‘Follies’ with Bernadette Peters. Suzie was my date that night, and we repeated a hearty dinner at a nearby steakhouse. Such icy evenings apparently build a hankering for substantial meat. The show was exquisite, the company grand, and my lodgings at 6 Columbus were cozy enough. 

In the bathroom, an O-ring right before they even made O-ring lights surrounded the mirror. It should have been colder in that tiled bathroom, with its shiny navy vertical design, but the heat had been indulgently turned high, and a robe made things extra cozy. As was my wont when enjoying a weekend away, I’d purchased a bottle of body wash from L’Occitane nearby, making a memory with some Lemon Verbena. 

Such a simple weekend in New York feels so exotic and distant now, and it brings me back to my last brush with the city. That’s all it was, as it never came to fruition. I wonder if we’ll ever get back there – not just in the physical, actual sense, but in the figurative, emotional place where such things as COVID hadn’t yet come into existence. It will be more difficult to find that again. Places and things can be found. The past… not so much. 

Within this mid-point of winter, a bit of the garden still endures: these dried umbrels of Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’ seen in the afternoon sunlight, caged by the shadows of the stalwart cup plant stalks. Blue snow echoing blue sky, and in this winter landscape that once formed the floral border beside the pool, the invincibility of summer shone through the deep freeze. 

This is still the golden hour, come summer or snow, and it retains a different kind of magic now. The shadows are more pronounced, less hazy. Maybe the snow lends a crispness to it, a way of sharpening the light. 

As the hour progresses, and the sun lowers itself in the sky, colors grow deeper, the world gets more saturated, and the myth of winter as a colorless bore is confronted and confounded. The little forest of sedum flower-heads stands defiantly against the snow and wind. I admire their resilience, their tough and unyielding stance. Once upon a time I feared I would bend or break in the face of such adversity. Now, I follow the sedum’s example and stand in the winter wind. A cloak is all I need. 

This Throwback Thursday is brought to you by the madness that is Mercury in Retrograde. For a couple of weeks now I’ve been wondering what the fuck is going on, as moods and insanity and other such full-moon feelings have been rearing their ugly heads, not to mention a number of crazy circumstances and happenings that are more in line with the kookiness of 2020 than a promising 2021. As a full day of challenging events unfolded one right after the other, I looked up Mercury in Retrograde dates and sure enough, there it was: January 30 through February 21. 

That sets my mind oddly at ease – I was beginning to think I was losing it. Now that there’s something external to blame, we can move forward and be a little more careful. In the meantime, here are a couple of fun throw-way-back pics from a behind-the-scenes peek of our old knotty-pine room haunt in Ogunquit, Maine. Maybe this will be the year we return… or maybe not. We need to get through this apparent retrograde motion first… be wary, be warned. 

It’s not the cold or ice of winter that bothers me. It’s not the wind or snow. It’s not even the messy mix of salt and dirt that winter roads invariably become. It’s the darkness – that pervading darkness that comprises too much of the day and all of the night. It’s there when I wake and there when I retire, and it seeps into the middle of the day through gray shadows and the early setting of the sun. 

The concept of hygge has shown me the importance of light, even if it’s just the light from a candle or two. In that warm little beacon there is all the brightness of the world, all hope and joy and the single spark of spring on the tongue of a flame. There is warmth and loveliness here. 

Most of the time I employ candles at night, when the full darkness has overtaken all the land. I forget the powerful presence they can have early in the morning, when I’m about to sign on for the day, when the sky is still dim and darkness stubbornly lingers in more than just corners. Somehow it’s quieter then than the latest hour of night. Easing one’s way into the day is equally as important as easing into the time for slumber. 

Our crazy Thanksgiving/Christmas/Halloween/Easter cactus is blooming again, which means the light is mirroring some point in fall, ricocheting back and ever-closer to spring. This echo of blooms is a happy happening, signifying days that are getting longer, and a faint hint of hope in the air. 

We no longer have a walking iris, the blooms of which would be the other sign that winter was about to start its slow exit, so this cactus will have to do. 

A snowy week in February concludes, and another one begins. Such is our slow trudge through the winter of 2021, when everything feels like some purgatorial space of in-between uncertainty. That seems to be a theme here, when I teeter on decisions that once felt sure and simple. Even a trip to the grocery store is fraught with debate and internal dialogue, and lately I’ve been foregoing the trips and staying in, hunkering down with a book on the conversation couch or snuggling into the corner of the basement sectional, idly flipping through television channels and not watching much of anything. So goes winter… Another week is ahead, one that contains Valentine’s Day, whatever that might mean this year. If history is any indication, it means snow – lots of snow… so on with this pre-red recap.

February makes me shiver.

A snowy groundhog. 

The sweet spot.

The words of Shirley Chisholm.

Being the conductor of your own orchestra.

A gratuitous Gus Kenworthy glimpse. 

A winter window.

Wild is the winter wind. 

The words of Claudette Colvin.

Emanating warmth on the floor of winter. 

Bowls that sing.

Pulling the P at lunchtime. 

Friday flute mindfulness. 

Rita Hayworth gave good face.

The words of Dr. Mae Jemison.

Room noir.

The return of some glorious beefcake: Ben Cohen.

Making a command decision.

My virgin attempt at making Filipino leche flan.