Everyone has a favorite time of year. Mine is Summer Solstice, or Litha, as it’s called in Celtic circles. (That it sounds like my name lisped is pure coincidence.) I gratefully accept the lessons that shadows teach us, but most embrace our Mother Sun’s beautiful light. Today she shines longest and brightest upon our lives—revealing who we truly are, not merely how we seem. This is a day of abundance, of lush greens and fresh blooms, of native caresses and first communions. It is a day of planting and harvesting, of seed and flower—of closing the gap between hope and manifestation, fundamentally. The best part? All we need do is breathe in this magic. If you want to get super fancy about it, light a yellow or orange candle, burn some sage, or just murmur your wishes into this eternal light. Divine mama does the rest.
Since returning from the desert, my already limited ability to tolerate mansplainers has evaporated entirely. Exhibit A: I was just cowering at Oslo coffee shop, waiting for the thunderstorm to subside while working on an overdue essay. In sails a former suitor, and by this I mean a man with whom I’ve entertained a mild flirtation for years though I’ve always rebuffed his direct overtures. I call this man The Crossword Bandit because he often fills out the New York Times crossword incorrectly in ink, a transgression some may consider a dealbreaker in and of itself.
Today he started to hold forth on his favorite topic: the toxicity of any diet containing carbohydrates, “even whole grains.” He delivered this lecture while staring pointedly at my body, which was looking especially matronly in the tent dress in which I like to write. Suffice it to say I cut him off at the knees. Continue Reading →
Lately I keep whispering to myself: “You saw lilacs twice this year.” And it’s true. I saw them bloom in Brooklyn in early May, and then again when I traveled up to Provincetown and Greater Boston later that month. It was a shock, really. I’d been driving up terrible old Route 6 of Cape Cod when this heady fragrance started supplanting the gas fumes. It took a hot minute to realize the smell was not me having a stroke but lilacs. Again.
These last few months have been like a magic hour that just hasn’t ended.
I had so dreaded this year. Had seen the writing on the wall about the demise of my NY1 show and labor journal job; had been waging a legal battle of the sort that few long-time New Yorkers elude (housing-related); had regarded the second half of my forties as–oh, I’ll just say it–the beginning of the end. The boobs falling, the hair greying, the eyesight fading. You get the picture. Not pretty. Continue Reading →