Sunday, April 23, 2017
I used to think my modest house took on its beauty only by candlelight. But that was before I had a new front door installed with a half-moon transom built into the top. Every morning this past week, as I descended the stairs, I noticed a spring pastoral scene framed in that window, as pretty as if it had been stolen from a colorful illustrated bible. The window is also responsible for shedding a tender shaft of light on my living room floor that greets me each day as I pad across it to reach my coffee cup.
I've lived in my home almost twenty years now, so it is too steeped in memories to be seen in a detached way. But I do take it for granted sometimes. And since I've only just begun to appreciate spring as the lovely season it is, I always thought my house made its grand entrance on Christmas Eve when my tree shines bright along with the myriad of white votives I scatter across the bookshelves. Not so anymore...
As well as the new light in the morning, I realize I am truly indebted to the frieze of trees that shelter the front of my house and help keep things quiet around here. Those elms are not yet in leaf but a coppery aura tell me that they will be green soon. I learned about that from an old farmer once. The birches are still blurred with a hazy pistachio-green foliage along with a lot of other unnamed plants and bushes. I don't have a green thumb but I have always admired what gardeners choose to plant for maximum spring color.
Something as simple as a newly installed window has caught me off guard and made me want to head outdoors for walks. But not for exercise - I only want to scavenge for presents for the house. I clipped a communal bush for forsythia branches but now they have passed. Next will be my mother's lilac which I will pilfer for both us.
There's always one moment in the house, when I notice that summer has come. Sometimes it's the heat I feel from the second floor when I open the front door from work. Or it's the unmistakable earth smell from the open windows in my bedroom. But I've always ignored spring's visit - it's just been too painful. Lucky for me, a friend has been showering me with love and holding my hand for the last few springs. This year, with my new "view" from a simple built-in window that was really just an afterthought, I should be able to manage on my own.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
When I was too young to understand anything spoken in church, I asked my big brother why we had Easter. His wise, all-knowing answer was, "Easter holds us over 'til Christmas". And it made perfect sense.
My mother created Easter baskets for us but what I remember most fondly was the finery she outfitted my sister and I in. There were winsome cotton dresses with smocking and sashes or colorful prints of flowers or birds, cotton ankle socks with lace trim, straw hats with excruciatingly tight chin straps, snow-white cotton gloves, and brand new shoes. How I loved the shoes! So much so, that one Easter Eve, a pair slept in their cardboard shrine right next to me in bed. I remember peeking into the box just before sleep, peeling apart the crinkly tissue paper and inhaling the leathery goodness. Our shoes were often shiny black patent with petal cut-outs or dainty t-straps replete with pearl buttons. But sometimes we found the same version in milky white or pale pink.
The most heralded Easter garment however, was the spring coat. Each year on a special Saturday in March, when winter was still biting our toes, my mother would take my sister and I to the big city department store to search for new coats - coats that would have their debut only on Easter Sunday. Formal and lightweight outerwear was not hard to find in those days because everyone had a spring coat back then. They were as ubiquitous as ski jackets in December. The quintessential go-to color was navy and if all else failed, it was the one hue that could be counted on to coordinate with any dress. But more often than not, my mother found pretty pastels for us in nubby weightless wools or sturdy pique cotton with large tone-on-tone buttons.
Along with the coats, we would buy rustling slips and tiny structured grown-up-looking purses to match our shoes.
We gave Easter special honors by dressing as beautifully as could be afforded. Our ensembles were thoughtfully planned, purchased and executed with an excited anticipation that belied a holiday my brother said just came around to hold us over.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
I've introduced you to this handsome chap before. He was the grandfather of a good friend of mine and I was delighted to see this newly-found photograph of him. Known mostly as the favored dentist in our hometown, he is still remembered well by some of the parents of my high school friends - nearly 75 years after his death. Imagine that...
Even with a torture chamber for an office, you may wonder why he is still talked about with such warmth and respect among local elders. His striking good looks and untimely death are certainly mentioned but mostly he is remembered for kindness and generosity of spirit. When he died suddenly at 49, nearly the entire town owed him money for the mercury-filled holes in their teeth. There are other stories too - but that's for another time.
More than a few years ago, a co-worker brought a newspaper into work that contained the obituary of the woman who used to run our department. The first reaction was from another co-worker, who under her breath, simply muttered, "Ding Dong". Everyone knew that was a reference to The Wizard of Oz when the bad witch had a house fall on her head. There were a few snickers and a few shrugs too. But I was left quietly stunned. This woman - our former supervisor - was a mother and a grandmother of five. Yes, she was punitive, even mean at times, taking the letter of the company's law to ridiculous and borderline inhumane degrees. But she was a grandmother, presumably with small children who loved her. Somehow, the in-congruence of that unnerved me. Even with an assumed loving family, there were still a not insignificant number of people who saw her as the Wicked Witch of the West and would remember her so. It gave me pause - I thought about legacies and the impressions that follow bosses and others in authority long after they are gone.
I've seen a lot of behaviors from bosses in my lengthy career. I've worked for those willing to do anything to get ahead including walking over friends, colleagues, and underlings and then kicking the remains to the curb. But there have been others who were principled enough to go the extra mile to do the right thing. I suppose success can be had on either path...
Recently I left a job I liked a lot. What I didn't like were the behaviors of the person in charge. His actions were abusive to the degree that gave me no choice. I guess in our careers, it comes down to what we choose to do at the fork in the road. And at the end of our lives, how do we want to be remembered by those we served or by those who served us? I'd prefer to be remembered like the beloved young dentist above and not by a reference to an evil player in a child's fairy tale.
Special note: there will be happy springtime topics to cover here soon. And this, in case you need help: https://www.facebook.com/thatsharassment/
Thursday, March 30, 2017
I am about to venture to my own Vanity Fair and although I have no sisters nearby to help pack my trunk, I do feel the love and support of those who care. My destination is not Boston Society but an exciting new job with more money, exceptionally wonderful benefits and hopefully, more respect than in my last position. To prepare for Vanity Fair, I have scripted a checklist for my "trunk" based on all the loving advice I have received about this sudden and perfectly Providential chance. The new position practically fell from the sky and into my outstretched arms (although I was ready the day my heart whispered to my soul, "Where's your pride?").
~As I enter the door of my new firm, I will tell myself "I am about to meet some life-long friends". (From my sister)
~I will pack a book as well as a healthy salad for lunch in case my initial lunchtime appears to be a lone one (i.e., lonely). (From my daughter)
~I will remind myself that this job was a gift from Heaven above and I will be mindful of the Divine's hand. (From my good friend, Karen, who prayed)
~My look will straddle the more casual dress code of my new company with my natural tendency toward trust-fund-librarian style. I will strike an appropriate balance until I know more about how the natives dress. (Also from Karen)
~I will remember that new ventures even at my age, mean a "younger" brain and learning new things will be ever-so-good for me. (Also from my sister)
~I will carry a small tote bag with a few "comforts" for just-in-case, including an extra set of contact lenses, some tea bags, tissues, and a new notebook for jotting down notes in a pretty way. (My friend Patty, an inveterate self-starter who is a wee bit older than I)
~I will become acquainted with my new commute route well before my start date so I arrive with time enough to compose myself and check my lipstick. (The Complete Secretary's Handbook - 1962 edition)
Unlike Meg March, no one can pack my trunk for me...but my loved ones have certainly helped me fill it.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Long ago, I clipped a quote from an article about Joan Didion. She told the journalist that when she was small and upset by something that happened in school, her parents would tell her to "go to literature" for help. They believed she would find answers in the classics. When I am unsettled, I also go to my shelves looking for, if not answers, comfort. My books remind me who I am, where I've been, and where I need to go.
Like old friends, my library is familiar and friendly. Sometimes just gazing at an image in one of my books takes me back to a version of myself that I may have forgotten. I am reminded that the person who looked upon that image, sometimes many years ago, still exists within. And if I can tap into her, I can tap into renewed strength.
I have favorite literature that offers me all kinds of inspiration but I thought I would give you some of the non-fiction books that I reach for in times of trouble. So, straight from my shelf:
Linda Dannenberg's The Paris Way of Beauty will always be my favorite beauty book. I purchased my copy in 1979 and as a young single working women, I learned how to care for myself and organize my beauty routine using its tried-and-true French methods. I still employ the Recipe for a Basic Makeup outlined in the book and the diet advice has stood the test of time. I still get a thrill when I crack it open and a shy but chic young woman meets me between the pages.
Romancing the Ordinary by Sarah Ban Breathnach is not unlike her blockbuster Simple Abundance but it is more concrete in its approach. I love both of Sarah's books but Romancing the Ordinary speaks to my soul. Reading a few chapters before bed is like a beloved great aunt tucking me in as she murmurs, "There, there dear". In times of stress or pain, Romancing the Ordinary provides the quiet comfort I crave.
When I need a good cry about life's heartbreaking tenderness, I reach for Nancy Lindemeyer's Jenny Walton's Packing for a Woman's Journey. Nancy's stories, drawn from her childhood to young womanhood are so poignantly written that it is one of the only books that can make me sob out loud. Her stirring essays about the grandmother who adopted her as a small child, tug at my heartstrings like a plaintive violin. I had the pleasure of having lunch with Nancy once and she told me that the only way to write the stories was to relive each one. It shows.
My Father by Judy Collins is illustrated by my favorite children's book artist, Jane Dyer. The story is about a daughter of a coal miner whose life is made radiant by her father's dreams for her. Dyer's colorful and gently realistic interpretations of what should have been a stark childhood come alive off the page. This book is perfect for a weary grown-up's lullaby.
I love the art of the Impressionists and so another book I turn to regularly aligns fashion with my favorite art movement. Dior Impressions: the Inspiration and Influence of Impressionism at the House of Dior is a beautiful volume that explores the relationship between Dior's designs and 19th century artists use of light, nature and color. Many of Dior's dresses appear to step right from the gilded frame. The text is engaging and the book is so spring-like, I can almost smell verdant grasses when I open it. Mesmerizing.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Lace is a big tease - it both provokes and conceals. The women above are all "laced up" but they're not telling any secrets...except to each other. Today's lace is different - it's quintessentially feminine and very alluring. If you want to look girly - wear lace.
Most lace is made by machine these days, the design of which sometimes begins on a computer because lace artistry and other needle arts are not being handed down as much anymore. If I had more time, lace is definitely a subject I would explore - there are hundreds of books, mostly vintage, to help me along. Handmade lace requires painstaking work and a nimbleness to create. The bobbins and threads that artisans use to make this ancient textile are mind-boggling. A lace-maker is no klutz.
My grandmother made me a white eyelet lace dress when I was 13 and I loved it. I thought it made me look sexy and grown-up but I probably just looked chaste and virginal - my grandmother's creations were far more conservative than my mod 1968, Seventeen-Magazine-as-Bible self wanted. The only color in the shift was the tender green velvet ribbon that Nana wove through the waist and the embellishment of a lone golden daisy stitched where the ribbon joined. That dress stayed in my heart and the memory of it still has me trawling spring catalogs every year for eyelet blouses.
I do wonder how appropriate lace is for a woman of a certain age though. I wore an orchid-colored lace dress for my daughter's wedding almost two years ago but I'm not sure I would feel comfortable anymore in a pure white lace dress. I would however, embrace a crisp shell or bell-sleeved blouse, especially in eyelet.
So what is it about this textile that appeals? Is it the association with brides and matrimony? Babies in Christening dresses? Mostly, I think it's like the freshness you feel on the day you suddenly discover that spring came to stay. Lace is as unexpected and delightful as a breath of fresh air - accompanied by a jolt of sex-appeal. Or not.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
I came home yesterday with 4 petite rose-colored calla lilies and some long stalks of irises. They look so pretty in my etched crystal pitcher. I want to think that they are harbingers of spring but our local weather source states we could have up to 50 inches of snow by the time this month is over. March is funny that way.
So instead of going outside to collect the strange twig formations stuck in my soggy lawn, I am comforting myself with poetic March things. Aside from enjoying spring flowers, here are some of them:
~Re-watching Masterpiece Theater's Victoria on my laptop in bed while knitting a spring sweater.
~Cooking with French mustards - chicken, vegetables, vinaigrette's...so many delicious varieties and recipes to try.
~Dipping in and out of a Maeve Binchy book of short stories. Just one or two...whenever I get a few minutes to reset my brain and connect me with tales of other women's lives.
~Enjoying my tea with honey "spoons" - they add just the right amount of sweetness.
~Listening to background music especially youtube clips of one of my favorite songs, "Once Upon A Time"...a sweet song of love and loss with beautiful orchestral strings that stir the heart. (Kevin Spacey and Perry Como have the bestest renditions).
The landscape may become restless again but I will already be tucked inside enjoying slow and lyrical March.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Dear Readers, you may know that I do not write for a living. At least not all my living. My style writing and other contributions, paid writing, etc. have never filled the coffers completely and so I must have a full-time job at all times. That job is in the financial sector - a roly-poly mess of a world with changing regulations and ever-squeezing and strident edicts. This isn't really a pretty post - I'm talking about work reviews - you know, when your boss rates you and determines your very worth as a human being and your right to exist on the planet.
If you have been visiting my blog for a long time then you might remember my sad post from two years ago when I left a job I held for 20 years. It was an arm wrench and just as painful. What drove me from that position were, for lack of better words, viperous women. It is said that the art of the deal is the art of war and I would go so far as to say that work is a battleground. And if all is fair in love and war then all is fair in the modern workplace too. I had my annual review yesterday.
Despite my passion for my job, my boss snared me on some very petty things. And in 12 months, this was the first I had heard about them. Among some of the infractions, apparently I should have attended the company's Christmas party which I would have had to buy tickets for, accompanied my boss home from a meeting instead of driving home with lovely co-workers so we could have a rare dinner together, and provided a set of birthday cards each Monday for clients. Initially I was told the required company cards were gauche and calls would be made instead. Not so, I discovered in my review. When did reading your boss' mind become a core value to be rated on?
So this weekend, this precious three day weekend, I am allowing myself to grieve a position I believed to be perfect as my final act. My consolation is that I will wake to a kind friend waiting for me in "his" leather chair in the den I decorated after my daughter left home and married last year. I'm sure he will silently get up and trod downstairs to fetch my daily joy - a mug of creamy and delicious coffee. Then he will then sit back with a Twinkie (a favorite weekend Breakfast of Champions) where he will stare at me kindly and blink until my tears flow and re-flow with yet another rendering of hurt and sting until I am spent and have no words left to say.
It will be then that we dress and drive to the beach where in only a few short months the sand will be warm and covered with summer umbrellas that will stretch as far as the eye beholds. They will be as bright and colorful as massive children's beach balls magically suspended in air.
And not one dragon shall be near.
THE INNER VOICE
Somewhere in every heart there is a discerning voice. This voice distrusts the status quo. It sounds out the falsity in things and encourages dissent from the images things tend to assume. It underlines the secret crevices where the surface has become strained. It advises distance and opens up a new perspective through which the concealed meaning of a situation might emerge. The inner voice makes any complicity uneasy. Its intention is to keep the heart clean and clear. This voice is an inner whisper not obvious or known to others outside. It receives little attention and is not usually highlighted among a person's qualities. Yet so much depends on that small voice. The truth of its whisper marks the line between honor and egoism, kindness and chaos. In extreme situations, which have been emptied of all shelter and tenderness, that small voice whispers from somewhere beyond and encourages the heart to hold out for dignity, respect, beauty and love.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Recently, I received a text from my first childhood friend which accompanied the picture above. "I saw this at the Smithsonian today and thought of us", was all she wrote. The mystical soft green painting of three women strolling at dusk is by Thomas Wilmer Dewing who was known for painting ethereal images of women. Given the friendship between Paula, my sister, and I, it is no surprise that my friend was drawn to the painting. I too, have a fondness for threes.
Our enduring friendship is probably why I also love the Three Graces - the classical goddesses that have inspired artists for centuries. Talk about sisterhood - always linked, always entwined - they represent the female ideals of Grace, Charm, and Beauty. And they represent something else too - solidarity...something I didn't see too much of in my years in the corporate world.
For me, the Three Graces' message isn't just of femininity although my little cameo of their likeness reminds me so. I believe the Graces, who are daughters of Zeus and therefore, sisters, also speak for friendship. The deep abiding, "I've got your back" kind that comes around just a few times in life. I still have it with my childhood friend, my sister, and a small handful of others. These are the pals that keep you company on the phone late at night when you're in the hospital. They remember not just your birthday but the secret anniversaries of your heart too. They never forget the slights that hurt and the perpetrators who caused them - they remember all the slings and arrows, sometimes long after you've forgotten them yourself. Like when you mistakenly got put in the corner at 3rd grade recess. They pick you up when your car breaks down with curlers in their hair and just a half hour before their Big Date. They would never leave you stranded. No. Matter. What.
To say that we three, Paula, my sister, and I spent a lot of time together is a gross understatement - our days were braided like the plaits in our hair. Today, I can still name their every doll and every boyfriend. And although decades separate us from those childhood days, whenever I happen to run across a variation of the Three Graces, I think of us too.
Do "Graces" grace your life?
And other "Graces":
The three of us (I'm on left).
Saturday, January 28, 2017
My pretty mother wore a grey vertical striped shirtwaist dress the day she brought my little brother home from the hospital. As she knelt in front of us with her tender white bundle, the skirt of her dress ballooned over her knees like an upside down tulip. I know this partly because I have a picture of that moment in time. It is no surprise that the dress became the most-requested for our birthdays when we each got to choose her outfit for one day. It's also not hard to understand the special memory that plain and serviceable grey dress held.
But it also conveyed something about my mother and who she was at that time - a practical yet devoted young mother. I would love to have that everyday dress and some other favorites that my mother wore and for that matter, some of my own dresses, long disappeared.
Augusta Roddis (that is her picture above) certainly understood that clothes have the power to speak to us about the past and that is perhaps why she saved, in her large Wisconsin home, more than a hundred years of family clothes. The story of Augusta's extraordinary collection, American Style and Spirit - Fashions and Lives of the Roddis Family, 1850-1995, has captivated me and absorbed most of my winter reading time.
The text of the book engagingly gives evocative descriptions of dresses, hats, shoes and other accessories worn by the Roddis family for much of the 20th century. The rich variety of items are complemented by photographs and letters indicating where the garments were worn and by receipts which indicate where the garments were bought. It's a fascinating account of an interesting middle-class family that grew in wealth but somehow maintained humble middle class roots.
But this is not to say that the Roddis women were boring - the family often traveled and there was always a charity ball, wedding or party to attend. The lovely part is that there are so many frocks and fripperies to commemorate each of these events. The book is filled with photos of not only the clothes, but dress patterns (the Roddis women also sewed!), artifacts and supporting ephemera like ads from periodicals. It is a spellbinding picture book with an engrossing true story to savor.
Sometime in her seventies, Augusta wrote a letter about what it was like to open trunks in the attic filled with a treasure trove of dresses amply adorned with embroidery and laces that once belonged to her grandmother. "There were her clothes, bearing mute but eloquent testimony...to her very discriminating, fastidious, elegant and feminine taste". And isn't that exactly what our clothes do for us, whether we are in a ball gown or a plain shirtwaist - silently saying the things we cannot express?
If I were to find my mother's simple grey dress in a trunk today, I suspect it would transmit a wordless message from the past too - just as Augusta Roddis' collection does.
Saturday, January 21, 2017
There are so many things I wanted to write about in January. I really wanted to tell you about the quintessential snowy New England weekend I spent many years ago at a old and lovely brick manor house in the middle of a Western Massachusetts forest and how each room was decorated with a dash of woodland magic. I would have described the china bowls of wild berries and moss, the baskets of pinecones, and I would have written that every room had a hissing fire in the grate. But then we had an extended January thaw and I lost passion for the story and so I almost wrote a story about a commonplace book I kept for a season long ago and forgot about until recently, and how in its pages I found a girl I wished I cherished more because I think she was pretty neat. And then, I had a blog post nearly written in my head about my hero, Col. John Glenn and his honorable life and for-the-ages love story with his beloved wife Annie, and how, although I mourned in the weeks leading up to Christmas, the story evaporated in the holiday rush.
I also wanted to write about a dear yellow house that is for sale in the neighborhood I grew up in and how my reveries turned rapturously fantastical one morning as I drove to work and imagined myself buying the place, decorating it and actually living there even though it would mean I would have to move out of state and leave my family and job. I would have also told you that as long as I could remember, the house was yellow and that if I were to ever be its mistress, it always would be...
And I wanted to tell you about all the new books I am reading these days especially the one about a woman who saved a century of family clothing including everyday dresses from the 1940's and enchanting ballgowns with the dance cards to match. And speaking of books, I almost wrote about the oldie-but-goody cookbook my grandmother gave me long ago and how I have been revisiting it for comfort food cooked from scratch and how I have come to realize that sometimes the old ways of cooking are the best ways.
And I thought you might like to read that my very favorite junk shop was closing and I had special permission to shop the "attic" and all the treasures I found there for practically nothing including a beautiful etched crystal pitcher and how I brought it home and filled it with white lilies that cheered me with the scent of hothouse days to come. And I would have written that I also found a brand new Ralph Lauren white ruffled flat sheet for pennies which now graces my bed (seen in the picture above).
I also meant to write about music and how I re-discovered the lilting and ardent voice of Susan Boyle and how I now believe she is the archetypal woman's songstress whose personal compositions will positively possess you on dark January nights. I wanted to say something too, about my new bottle of the indie Chanel fragrance, Chanel 1932, and how it compares to my other winter favorite, Chanel No. 5 (it has a lovely jasmine "bite").
Yes...these are the things I wanted to write for you in January. I am so sorry.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
Ever since I visited the Warner House in Portsmouth, New Hampshire a few years back and saw the evocative portrait of Polly Warner, I've been intrigued with 18th and 19th century paintings of women with birds. And there are plenty of them.
In art, women are popular subjects especially attractive women in elaborate dress. But I was unprepared for the number of paintings of women holding birds - even exotic and dangerous birds. I wish I could say I discovered a reason for this but there seems to be very little said about the phenomena except to mention the deep connection between women and nature. I never pretend to be an art expert but I believe I could imagine a few reasons why - one being that birds represent the freedom that often eludes women in life. I would also say that it is in women's nature to protect small things, especially things that are vulnerable and frail.
The portrait of Polly directly below, appears both wistful and melancholy to me. There is but a half-smile on her lips and the landscape behind her seems changeable and moody. Yet a delicate thing rests upon her graceful upraised hand - unencumbered except for a long loose thread - where it seems quite content to be in her presence.
Yesterday the color was snow. White and pristine, missing at Christmas but present for my daughter's birthday on Epiphany, another holy day. We took the train to Boston along with my sister in icy cold air and soft flurries to celebrate my daughter.
And oh the things we did ...a companionable lunch high above the city streets, a little bit of shopping, people-watching and then home to join husbands and family for cake and iced cream. A full day of bumping shoulders with my daughter and sister and taking inspiration and energy from the city.
This is an annual trek which signals my personal end of the holidays - once January 6th passes, I finally store the ribbons and paper that clutter my wrapping corner. We do indulge in some of the sales - I found an irresistible ballet-pink wool muffler, two small lacy gold picture frames, and a box of snowy candles that will look lovely in the crystal candlesticks on my mantel which have been vacant since the red ones burned to stubs on Christmas Eve.
My joy was watching my daughter's blond head hovered above the crowd in her attractive chalk-white down coat - she was the picture of winter. And as all of her birthdays do, they make me feel a little nostalgic with a stark reminder that time is passing really fast now. Last year marked the "crossover" birthday which means she has been a presence in my life longer than the years I lived before her. That says something, doesn't it?
Daughters are a fine thing - sons too, I am assured by my sister. But may I just say that my daughter's chroma is from vivid kaleidoscope hues that transform in ever-changing sequences? Her chic look yesterday may have mirrored the day's fairy-scape, but she is the color in my world.
I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world
But, she's just like a maze
Where all of the walls all continually change
And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in my hand
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe It's got nothing to do with me
Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers be good to your daughters too ~ Daughters, John Mayer
Photo Credit: Volk Clarke Galleries
Monday, January 2, 2017
"Your holiday guests have departed and the house at last, is still. A piano sonata is gently tinkling from the stereo and the fragrance of flowers fills the air. A fire simmers in the grate... You wander upstairs to draw a soothing scented bath. A thick towel hangs from the hook next to your soft new robe. A glass of wine awaits... At last, the time is nigh for the lady of the house to have her due rest".
Instead of taking my little Christmas tree down completely, I followed advice from my friend Kay and kept the tree up but only with the white fairy lights on it. It looks charming and so I spread the word throughout the house that I'm creating a beacon for when the light has a mind to return on its own. I kept the white tapers on the mantle and strung mini-lights across the hutch's top shelf. Three stems of white lilies, when opened, will fill the house with the promise of spring. The frost outside colludes with what is taking place indoors - I want everything to be crystalline.
Even in bleak winter, nature can be breathtakingly beautiful with elements of wonderment not to be missed. And although January is a wonderful month for hibernating there are still those of us who must brave the elements to get to work each day. Returning to an incandescent home with whispers of silvery frost can be energizing and may even help with seasonal moods. With that in mind, I tossed a cream wool throw on my couch for coziness as well as for Netflix-binging and laid out an old tole tray on the kitchen table, chock-full of teas, tea cups and saucers, all nestled on a snowy cloth. I fluffed my bed after adding an extra layer and splayed white votives about my bedroom like candy. My private rebellion against the dark unforgiving sky above. Even the bathroom shower curtain got a reboot with the addition of plush coordinating towels I forgot I had, found in the recess of the linen closet when I went on a search and destroy for the humidifier. Christmas is over but my home is ready for winter, come what may.
Sunday, January 1, 2017
For last year's words belong to last year's language;
And next year's words await another voice;
And to make an end is to make a beginning...
The new year beckoned all week and finally arrived right on schedule. My friend Patty, a closet astrologist kept telling me all through December that things would be changing in 2017. So many people seemed anxious to see the backside of 2016.
Last night I went to a lovely little party given by my sister. She had a nice smallish crowd and I met some new people. My sis has had an extremely trying 2016 which began with a frightening health scare and surgeries. It malingered and then morphed into other issues that left her unbalanced with scars I wasn't sure she would ever recover from. She's doing great now and it was so nice to see her relaxed and enjoying herself.
New Year's has many myths and superstitions. I try not to buy into the perceived momentousness of the calendar turn and the resolutions that inevitably follow. I think if one is motivated to make changes in life, they can do it just as easily on June 1st as January 1st.
But I do believe it is helpful to begin as we intend to proceed and so it was with some surprise as I drove home last night that I began to weep. I thought of my sister and the expectations she had for her 2016 and how abruptly her dreams crashed. I thought about her enduring suffering and her constant worries that continued unabated all last year. But I also remembered the bright moment on Christmas Day when my niece said grace at dinner and how then the entire table raised their glasses to my sister in thanks that she is well. "To Debbie", we all chanted in unison as eyes brimmed over. It was an inexpressibly tender moment...
So as I clutched the steering wheel on the dark road just after midnight, I called up my sister. Through my tears I croaked out, "Happy New Year to you most of all"! However, the tears were not a portent of things to come - they were merely the first blessing of the new year. And that is how I intend to proceed.