Archive | Age Matters

Fish Soup (More Pisces Season Notes)

I just wanted acknowledge to all the other women my age–and all those who care about our welfare–that perimenopause SUCKS. The mood swings, hot and cold flashes, sleep disturbances, constant peeing, bad skin, weird-ass cycle shifts. It’s basically a nonstop PMS. Worse, it’s basically a second puberty–one that results in sagging rather than pert breasts and, oy vey, dry pussies and grey pubes. Ok, rant over. But feel free to chime in.

Of course, this hormonal maelstrom is hitting extra hard because of this Mercury Retrograde in Pisces, which has been ravaging my heart and savaging my style–dowager chic having slid into shtetl chic (see pic!).

Here in New York everyone seems to be hurting everyone else and no one has been clearly communicating what they mean; this Retrograde has caused a Metrograde. After two inadvertently ugly interactions today, I climbed back into my witch’s lair and am now cooking everything I want to eat for the next four days: namely, fish soup with a splash of pernod,and a meatball ragu. Tears only improve the contents of a cauldron, right?

So if things are hitting you hard, it may be a good time to bunker up with home projects. Just remember: The only consistent thing in this world is change! By March 4, life will lighten up immeasurably.

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One benefit of such an emotionally driven month is our enhanced ability to tap into soul-level truths. To schedule an intuition reading during this time, get in touch.

The Future as February

For as long as I can remember, I have known that staying wedded to the past denies the magic of the future.

It’s why I’ve always stayed open to what movies, music, fashion, technology, ideas, humans, nature have brought in next. It’s also why I love reading for people. I can see the whole of their stories; I can see them shine.

But this month—this bleak, rainy February—I’ve been realizing that I like my future best when it’s rolling in front of me like a red carpet or a yellow brick road, glittering as a promise rather than a manifestation.

In other words, I don’t dream of sowing my dreams. I dream of my dreams themselves– glorious sunrises forever igniting the horizon. Continue Reading →

Through the Past But Never Over It

This is my mother in 1967. She was 24, which means she had just changed her name from Mary Susan to Sari Musan (true) and married my father the year before.

As a child I thought of my mother as a redwood oak. Six foot tall in stocking-feet, she loomed over everyone else, even my father, who ogled her like the cat who ate the canary even when she was covered in sweat from doing Jane Fonda. Especially, come to think of it, when she was serving him matzo brei. With her blue-gold eyes and curving mouth and cheekbones, I guess I knew she was beautiful. But mostly I read her frustration–stuck in the suburbs, stuck with two screaming brats, stuck in compromises that whisked her away from a city career as an art designer, barely making ends meet but having so much more fun.

My father would tell me, “You’ll never be as beautiful as your mother” while she’d look away demurely, and even when I was small I’d think, What a fucked-up thing to say. But today I was nosing around the recently refinished basement of my apartment building and stumbled upon a box containing old letters and photos from my teens. There gleamed my twentysomething mother in a repose I’d long forgotten–lowered lids, pursed lips, goddess dress and tresses flowing. Venus in your bloodline: That’s something all right.

I find it no coincidence I excavated this image right before revising my book.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy