When Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day collide, you have an interesting day indeed. Ashes or chocolates? Fasting or feasting? Eternal rest or eternal love?
As a three-year-old I know would say, “What the heck?”
But there are answers to these questions, a solution to this dilemma.
Lent is part of Valentine’s. Not the other way around.
I’ve just spent more time than I meant to reading about Taylor Swift. I’m not exactly at the vanguard of popular culture, but the juggernaut that is Taylor + Travis, especially as we race toward Super Bowl Sunday, seemed like something I should know just a little bit about.
This led me to watch a few music videos, do a little googling (there’s a Taylor Swift class at Harvard and, of course, she was Time‘s Person of the Year for 2023) and feel just a little more a part of the cultural zeitgeist.
I’m still mostly in the dark about the superstar and her super-athlete boyfriend, but I’m curious enough that I may tune in on Sunday, if not for the football then for the celebrity dish.
(Photo: Patrick Smith/Getty)
A Walker in the Suburbs turns 14 today! If it was growing up in England in the last century, it would be free to leave school forever and get a job.
I learned this fact while reading a Washington Post article “Centenarians Tell Us What Matters Most.” It strikes me this morning that the article’s subheads do a good job of explaining why I started A Walker in the Suburbs in 2010 and continue it still.
Don’t neglect your education. Think positive. Keep reading. Keep moving. Do what you love.
What started as an experiment during a snowstorm almost a decade and a half ago has become an essential part of my writing life. It keeps me learning and reading. It encourages positivity and perspective. And it certainly keeps me moving.
Most of all, though, it gives me the chance to do what I love. But that’s just half the equation. The other half is what happens in the minds and hearts of the people reading it. I hope A Walker in the Suburbs brings you a bit of pleasure, too.
(An old snapshot of the girls. I bet one of them was 14 in this photo.)
Yesterday I spent a few minutes in Lala Land, courtesy of a dental procedure. This is not the Lala Land of tropical breezes and white-sand beaches. This is oblivion followed by someone saying, “It’s over. You can wake up now.”
Nevertheless, I’m not one to turn my back on oblivion when I have the chance. In fact, I think oblivion is the perfect way to visit an oral surgeon’s office.
Today I’m back in the Land of the Living. A cup of tea, a bowl of yogurt (still soft foods at this point) and no oblivion at all. I’ll take it.
The new year is no longer the shiny new penny that shows up from time to time in my change purse. It has dulled around the edges. But when I look at the days proportionately — 18 out of 366 — 2024 is still in its infancy. A resolution stands a chance with odds like that.
Which is why I trundled out to a yoga class at 8:30 on the coldest morning of the year yesterday. Not just for the stretching and the strengthening, but also for the meditative aspect of it.
The trip was worth it. The class was small, and the instructor was experienced. She took us through a variety of poses and encouraged us to use our breath to get into and out of them. Studio lights were low, music was soft. When I left, the new year seemed young again.
(Ah, to be as limber as a baby! Photo: CCC)
I noticed it as soon as I finished the project, a baby blanket. I knew then that I would have to start crocheting something else before too long.
It’s funny how I can go for years without needlework but then it blossoms back into my life and I can’t live without it. The crochet hook between my fingers, the yarn moving through them, keeping it taut (or trying to). Seeing a skein of wool become an afghan.
Crocheting siphons off energy that would otherwise become rumination or worry. Crocheting calms and soothes. I’m due for another project. Another blanket, two colors at least. One of them pink.
Today is Epiphany, celebrated as Christmas by some and as a day of wonder and awe by others. I’m one of the latter. For me, this is a day to celebrate the aha moments of life.
Which brings me to an op-ed I read in yesterday’s Washington Post. In it, James Naples, a surgeon and medical residency program director, shares how he conquered the yips, an unexplained loss of skill that affects high-performing athletes, performers and, apparently, surgical residents.
Early in his training, Naples explained, he began to struggle through even basic procedures. “My head had gotten in the way of my hands.” Then he met a new senior surgeon, Dr. E., who in the three minutes it took the two of them to scrub for an operation, totally changed the younger surgeon’s trajectory. The older doctor was warm and open and approachable. There was only one thing to avoid doing in the upcoming procedure, he said. “Everything else is fixable.”
The effect on Naples was profound. The younger surgeon realized it was okay to make mistakes, that it was part of the learning process. Now he’s mentoring new doctors, encouraging them to share their fears and doubts. ‘
I’m not a surgical resident, but the lesson that “all mistakes are fixable” resonates with me, too. “What thing worth doing — in our jobs, families or communities — is not susceptible to the folly of perfectionism?” Naples asks. “With honesty and empathy, we all can help others find peace with fallibility.” I’m grateful that Naples had his epiphany and shared it with the rest of us.
(A photo not of surgery but of an Epiphany surprise.)
Seventeen years ago today we took into our home a dog of uncertain heritage and even more dubious temperament: a bundle of nerves, a combination of dog parts that never seemed to fit together. Long body, short legs. Perky ears, plume tail.
A dog that fooled us from the beginning, behaving so well at the Loudoun County Humane Society shelter that you barely knew he was there. A week later he would bark at anything that moved.
He had the powerful shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, could bound over the couch in one leap: preferably into the arms of my mother, visiting for Christmas, sipping a glass of red wine and no fan of rambunctious animals.
In his first month with us, Copper would consume shoe leather, eye medicine, a pair of pink panties, and the contents of a colostomy bag. He sometimes ate dog food, too. He barked, he nipped, he escaped every chance he got.
But none of that mattered. Because we loved him right from the start. Loved him fiercely. He was joy incarnate, you see. And now … he’s gone.
Before the flurry of preparation begins, I search for a poem to serve as grace before the meal. Or if not, to sum up gratitude for my eyes only. This one does:
Ripeness
Jane Hirshfield
Ripeness is
what falls away with ease.
To let your body
love this world
that gave itself to your care
in all of its ripeness,
with ease,
and will take itself from you
in equal ripeness and ease,
is also harvest.
And however sharply
you are tested —
this sorrow, that great love —
it too will leave on that clean knife.
It wasn’t exactly a haunted walk I took yesterday through uptown Port Townsend. But it was filled with little ghosts and goblins and houses decked out in their Halloween best.
My favorite was this haunted chicken coop, the hens pecking away nonchalantly behind faux tombstones. They don’t need to make fun of death because, well, they have no idea they’ll experience it one day.
We humans, of course, are another matter.
