Hark! How the birds new songs are making
Today's subject line comes from "Shepherds! shake off your drowsy sleep," where the second line invariably makes me giggle and the tune (Besançon) is the same as the one designated for the Advent carol "People, look east."
I am moving through today more slowly than I planned or expected, and I am okay with that. I have a cough -- most likely from reflux -- that has been severe enough to keep me off this week's singing/recording projects. I worked 53 hours this week to make sure our next exhibition opens on time, signing off on almost all the proofs at the end of an 11-hour day and missing an online happy hour en route. I continue to be enraged by traitors and covidiots, and Autumn Sky published my poem about zombie minks last week ("Uncontained").
I like to think that as I get older, I at least get a shade less stupid. More able to admire something tantalizingly shiny or plush while at the same time recognizing "not the right thing for me right now" or even "not for me ever," be it a dance workshop in January or the many amazing music/theatre presentations streaming this month. What's already on the laptop, let alone in the house, could occupy me spiritually and possibly even profitably for years.
. . . and yes, I realize that this has been the theme of virtually every blog entry I've managed to post (and many of the cards/letters I put in the mail) the past umpteen years. What can I say? It's who I am -- and this year, of course, has exacerbated my ever-present awareness of how limited our time is on Earth. My dad died when he was 58, after literally decades of my parents warning me about our family's poor health history. He and most of his nine siblings succumbed to cancer before I turned thirty.
It turns out the charity we specified in my aunt's obituary doesn't have a field for memorial designations on its web form, and my cousin is fine with Restaurant Opportunities Centers United as an alternative. So that was one needle moved. To my delight, a longtime mainly-online friend (our in-person meetings have included a regatta and a bachelorette party, but for 20+ years, it's been mainly mailing lists and blogs and emails, initially sparked by our mutual interest in Dorothy L. Sayers) donated to the Jewish Liberation Fund in my honor for Hanukkah. I used more oil in one night than I usually pour all month to deep-fry falafel. It wasn't a particular success, but the BYM approved of my riffs on Tavern's kale salad (which I learned to make at home mainly by adapting Nigella Lawson's similar recipe for spinach salad with pinenuts and sultanas). I have pulled together the ingredients for making bourbon balls, but somehow we have like three bags of boba instead of the powdered sugar I thought was still on one of those shelves. Derp.
Still, holiday observances and preparations will continue. We do not have a tree, but one of the sunroom residents is servng admirably as a Christmoose:
I have been rereading parts of Stephanie Laurens's Osbaldestone series, and also Jackie Lau's One Bed for Christmas (the latter because another woman I met via the Sayers list just received a T-Rex costume, which happens to be a Thing in that story).
There's more to write - here, in cards, for submissions, and elsewhere. My tulsi-galangal experiment turned out okay, and the mason jar of lemon-juniper infused vodka smells pleasantly potent. There is an Ailey groove to get back into (thank you Universe and friends for the nudges in that direction). But the next business at hand is a nap. Pacing matters. :) This entry was originally posted at https://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/169894.html.
I am moving through today more slowly than I planned or expected, and I am okay with that. I have a cough -- most likely from reflux -- that has been severe enough to keep me off this week's singing/recording projects. I worked 53 hours this week to make sure our next exhibition opens on time, signing off on almost all the proofs at the end of an 11-hour day and missing an online happy hour en route. I continue to be enraged by traitors and covidiots, and Autumn Sky published my poem about zombie minks last week ("Uncontained").
I like to think that as I get older, I at least get a shade less stupid. More able to admire something tantalizingly shiny or plush while at the same time recognizing "not the right thing for me right now" or even "not for me ever," be it a dance workshop in January or the many amazing music/theatre presentations streaming this month. What's already on the laptop, let alone in the house, could occupy me spiritually and possibly even profitably for years.
. . . and yes, I realize that this has been the theme of virtually every blog entry I've managed to post (and many of the cards/letters I put in the mail) the past umpteen years. What can I say? It's who I am -- and this year, of course, has exacerbated my ever-present awareness of how limited our time is on Earth. My dad died when he was 58, after literally decades of my parents warning me about our family's poor health history. He and most of his nine siblings succumbed to cancer before I turned thirty.
It turns out the charity we specified in my aunt's obituary doesn't have a field for memorial designations on its web form, and my cousin is fine with Restaurant Opportunities Centers United as an alternative. So that was one needle moved. To my delight, a longtime mainly-online friend (our in-person meetings have included a regatta and a bachelorette party, but for 20+ years, it's been mainly mailing lists and blogs and emails, initially sparked by our mutual interest in Dorothy L. Sayers) donated to the Jewish Liberation Fund in my honor for Hanukkah. I used more oil in one night than I usually pour all month to deep-fry falafel. It wasn't a particular success, but the BYM approved of my riffs on Tavern's kale salad (which I learned to make at home mainly by adapting Nigella Lawson's similar recipe for spinach salad with pinenuts and sultanas). I have pulled together the ingredients for making bourbon balls, but somehow we have like three bags of boba instead of the powdered sugar I thought was still on one of those shelves. Derp.
Still, holiday observances and preparations will continue. We do not have a tree, but one of the sunroom residents is servng admirably as a Christmoose:
I have been rereading parts of Stephanie Laurens's Osbaldestone series, and also Jackie Lau's One Bed for Christmas (the latter because another woman I met via the Sayers list just received a T-Rex costume, which happens to be a Thing in that story).
There's more to write - here, in cards, for submissions, and elsewhere. My tulsi-galangal experiment turned out okay, and the mason jar of lemon-juniper infused vodka smells pleasantly potent. There is an Ailey groove to get back into (thank you Universe and friends for the nudges in that direction). But the next business at hand is a nap. Pacing matters. :) This entry was originally posted at https://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/169894.html.