Mercury retrograde begins tomorrow and will last through January 25. This round, it’s taking place in know-it-all Capricorn and big-ideas Aquarius, which means that it’ll be a better time for making plans than executing them–and a generally terrible time for clear, direct communication. Back up your electronics, make contingency plans, slow down (make even get a reading), and above all, don’t blame everything–especially your transgressions–on Mercury Retrograde, which gets an unnecessarily bad rap. I find these periods an excellent time to hole up with a book, a fireplace, a brand-new notebook, and our personal connection to the divine intelligence of, well, everything.
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Minerva on My Mind
I had a lovely time tooling around in my new car today. I drove over to Red Hook, then Prospect Heights, then Ditmas Park. I fetched friends and dropped them off. I blasted Aretha with the windows rolled down, zipped in and out of traffic lanes, slid into spaces so small I wouldn’t have been able to fit my old couch in them, and shifted from neutral to fourth in the time that automatic cars take to rev into gear at all. I’d forgotten how much fun it was to cruise around on new wheels. Like, wicked OG.
I admit I struggled a bit in the first weeks after purchasing Minverva. I gave her a grand name–she’s the Roman goddess of wisdom, art, trade, and strategy–but found her dauntingly tiny for a larger-than-life female human like myself. Even her honk sounded more 
like a mew than a bellow. Then I remembered that I felt the same way about permakitten Gracie when she first moved in, so much so that I used to refer to her as the cat of my dearly departed calico Max. (This is my cat Max, I’d say as he trotted into a room. And this is his cat Gracie, as she bounded at his heels, a quarter of his size.) Now, though she’s still a microcat, she occupies as big a part of my heart as anybody or anything ever could. Which makes me realize: Minerva is the Gracie of cars. I think I’m going to call her Minnie for short–and BB-8 Microcar Castevet for long.
The Church of Mark Morris & Noels Past
Yesterday morning I woke to a clean house. This may not be a big deal to some, but because I live and work and often cook at home, and because I was not raised to be Martha Stewart (or even Erma Bombeck), things can get fairly psychotic by Friday of every week. I used to loll around the apartment the whole weekend, too oppressed by the mess to address it. Only on Sunday night would I finally lumber to my feet and grab a sponge–and then just because I couldn’t face a new week with the detritus of the last one still holding me hostage.
There was nothing especially restful about the cycle.
Something shifted in me this year. I suppose I should say, “I shifted something in me” because overall I underwent an enormous growth spurt, and it is my observation that adults only experience growth when they pursue it rather than passively await it.
The upshot is that, no matter how tired I am on Fridays now, I straighten up my house before I go to bed. It’s the least I can do for Future Lisa, who deserves to exist unfettered by the squalor of Lisa Past. So now I clean the way you’d fold a beloved child’s clothing: with concentrated fondness and a profound patience. If I want an iteration of me to thrive in the soft, sweet order for which I clamored as a little girl, I’ve resolved that I must carve out that space. Continue Reading →