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A Muse at Advent, December 6: Magic Mirror
Have you ever stopped to catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window? Maybe crank the rearview mirror of your car for a quick peek? It’s a fascinating piece of technology, a mirror: a silver coating applied to a piece of glass that allows a person to gaze upon themselves as others see them. Almost. I mean it is reversed. Oh, and highly subject to the vagaries of self-perception. Close enough though, right?
Behind Door number 6 we’ll reflect on reflections.
December 6, 2025
Reflections and mirrors have played leading roles in literature for millennia. Ovid’s The Metamorphoses tells the story of Narcissus, a handsome lad who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool of water. Not having learned her lesson down the rabbit hole, Alice steps through the looking glass and into yet another world where normal rules do not apply. Unlike Narcissus who, literally becomes rooted to the spot, Alice can earn her way home by solving puzzles. This got me thinking. What if we replaced the mirror in these tales with a smartphone? Was Narcissus the first influencer? Did Alice have a gaming addiction?
I remember when computer manufacturers promised tasks would be completed faster giving us more free time. Instead, they made it possible to do more work in the same amount of time and from anywhere; didn’t see that coming. I also remember when cell phones were purported to free us from the corded ball and chain of the home and office telephone. By that time, we really should’ve been able to predict that they would end privacy as we knew it. Now the ball and chain are invisible. We mindlessly obey all the notifications and mistake it for freedom. If you were really lucky when you got your smartphone, they also gave you a great deal on a watch; a matching handcuff, if you’re into that sort of thing.
When I look at the dark glass of my smartphone, Snow White’s wicked stepmother and her mirror come to mind. The Evil Queen famously asks, “Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?” A talking mirror is some old school, magic technology. It feels like a precursor to the magic piece of glass we carry in our pockets today. The major upgrade from the 19th century model is that ours is connected to a wireless network making it mobile. The Evil Queen would, undoubtedly, have been an early adopter.
What started as a way to communicate with friends, family, and colleagues, we now mostly use to take selfies, write in modern hieroglyphics (emojis), and post our thoughts into the echo chamber of social media. The Evil Queen would no longer need poison apples to take out her foe, that’s what comment sections are for. Had she only known, she could have used her newfangled magic mirror to effortlessly cancel Snow White with a compromising photo of her with the Seven Dwarves. No self-respecting Prince Charming would’ve wanted any part of that optic. Mission accomplished. Use the apples for pie.
The next time you pick up your smartphone, you’ll see your reflection gazing back at you from the depths of its glass slab. If you ask the AI bot that comes loaded in your phone “who is the fairest of them all?”, it will quickly search for the line and, like the Evil Queen, you’ll be told it’s Snow White. Perhaps the most important question to ask is to yourself: why are you talking to your phone? Put it down on the table, where its ancestors used to live. Go outside. And party like it’s 1999.
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A Muse at Advent, December 5: The Test of Time
Aging is a fascinating process. In the early years, we can’t wait to be old enough to do all the things that we think are so cool: driving, buying booze, being a grownup. At some point we realize that time is more fluid than we’d like. And then one day we recognize that it’s flowing like whitewater in a racing river. We look for anything, an overarching branch, even a slippery rock, to slow our progress toward… well, the end. Between these phases, is the meandering river of life that passes through Door number 5.
December 5, 20205
Youth is a fog of (mostly) unintentional narcissism. It’s often readily excused by folks with more life experience who recognize that the young offender has only just dipped their toe into the stream of time. That’s not to say one’s elders don’t snicker or roll their eyes in the face of youthful bravado. They will, and do, step in with corrections and clarifications as needed; needed mostly by them to keep from dope-slapping the young whippersnapper on their lawn. For the most part, youth is given adequate leeway to grow toward the light.
I’ve reached the age when I’ve lived through trends multiple times. Sometimes it’s an enthusiastic, “Oh, I remember that!” when I catch an old movie on late night TV. Other times it’s a “Hell no, not this again!” when I see rainbow leg warmers on Etsy. My enthusiasm or disdain is of no consequence to today’s youth who embrace what I have eschewed.
I have learned over the years that with age comes the awkward realization that the weird trends the kids are into today are not too far from the stuff I did at their age. Chanting 6-7 on Tik Tok seems pretty tame in comparison to… No way. I’m not going to tell you. I’m eternally grateful that my youth is not stored in the cloud for posterity.
I will, however, share an example of my youthful naivete: the day I first heard The Bangles’ Hazy Shade of Winter on the radio in 1987. I thought it was a brilliant new song. I was *gasp* wrong. The lyrics were written by Paul Simon and the song performed with Art Garfunkel in 1966. It’s are pure poetry. Their original recording was a departure from their folk roots and leaned hard toward rock. Those who are 20 years my senior are snickering and rolling their eyes right now. Admittedly, I deserve it.
My ignorance of the song’s provenance aside, I was not wrong that The Bangles propelled it fully into the rock genre. It’s mesmerizing opening with soft vocals is jolted to life with a driving beat (Debbi Peterson), wailing electric guitar (Susanna Hoffs), and exquisite harmony from four voices. From that moment forward, it leaves the 1966 recording in the dust. Sorry folk rock friends, The Bangles version wins according to the ears of Gen X.
The Bangles recorded their cover for the film Less Than Zero. Trust me when I tell you that there is no need to go watch it. Nonetheless, the cover was a hit and has been used in film and television many times since. Teenage me would not have guessed that it would still be on my playlist almost 40 years later. But that’s the magic of aging; the ability to move forward, learn new things, and weed out what is meaningful and retain it as the river flows along.
As far as I’m concerned, The Bangles can rest on their laurels for Hazy Shade of Winter. I won’t, however, rule out the possibility that another band, duo, or solo act may reimagine it for another generation. If that does happen, I’ll likely be too busy floating down life’s river toward the slippery rocks to catch its release. Although I’ll be sure to look around, leaves are brown, there’s a patch of snow on the ground.
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A Muse at Advent, December 4: Out of Season
My favorite season is winter. I admit it’s a controversial opinion. I thrive in cold weather. I love being outside in the snow. I own snowshoes. I stomp around outside and breathe in the refreshing, cold air while admiring nature as it sleeps, gathering its energy for the show it will put on in springtime.
There is, however, one thing about winter I don’t like: supermarket tomatoes.
Peek through Door number 4 to see how I’m tackling tomato withdrawal head on.
December 4, 2025
I browse the produce at my local supermarket every winter and try to find something that will taste what it looks like. That orange thing is carrot shaped; perhaps it will taste like a carrot? Nope. Tastes like balsa wood. Ooh, they have blueberries! It’s $10 for 5 blueberries in a flat, plastic clamshell box. Hope fades as I wander toward the tomatoes. I pick one up. It feels like a baseball, dense with a leathery texture. I smell it. Fresh tomatoes have a singular aroma. This one smells like the packaging of the extortionist blueberries. Sigh.
And then I remember the hydroponic planters that my sister keeps on her counter. That’s the solution! I call her for help. She recommends micro tomatoes that are bred to grow in containers but cautions me to only plant a few in one planter. She says they’ll take over the container. Against her advice, I decide to plant all six slots with 2 tomato plants, basil, chives, Swiss chard, and green leaf lettuce, too.
At first, the seeds sprouted in their own pods and had plenty of room. In about six weeks, I harvested lettuce, chard, and basil for salad! Heaven! The tomatoes started off more slowly but gained more leaves and the stems became very sturdy. And then they exploded! They shaded the other plants, stunting their growth. Within days, they grew to about half of their mature height. The harvested plants that enjoyed early success were now too small to compete. I should have heeded my wise sister’s warning. Tomato-geddon is underway.
The tomatoes have crowded out the other plants. The poor chives never stood a chance. I removed them and closed their slot. The roots of the tomato plants were wound around the chive pod. They didn’t die of natural causes. It was foul play.
With more room to spread out, the tomatoes shot up again and now they’re flowering. That means tomatoes are imminent. But wait! There aren’t any bees in the house. Another quick call to my sister reveals how to pollinate the plants by hand. Turns out I’m the bee!
It’s equal parts amazing and fun to have tomatoes growing in my dining room while the temperature outside dives below freezing night after night. In years past, I’d reluctantly accept that leathery tomatoes were my fate. With my hydroponic wonder planter, I can now defy winter and snack on cherry tomatoes while it snows. It’s agricultural sorcery!
It reminds me of that scene in Animal House when Bluto addresses the brotherhood of Delta Tau Chi as they face expulsion. He rallies them with a hilarious speech that begins, “What? Over? Did you say ‘over’? Nothing is over until we decide it is!” Well, Bluto, that’s how I feel about tomatoes. Thank you, sir, may I have another?
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A Muse at Advent, December 3: Island Dreaming
We had our first snowfall in Massachusetts yesterday. It was cold and messy; more sleet than snow where I live. Don’t get me wrong, I love snow. But the slush that resulted from that anemic smattering of frozen precipitation wasn’t pretty nor did it get me dreaming of a white Christmas. I amused myself by imagining one of the All-Christmas-Music radio stations playing Baby It’s Gross Outside, Let It Slush, and Black Ice Wonderland. Instead of inspiring my holiday spirit, the weather had me thinking about an island vacation. I guarantee you we are not thinking about the same kind of island.
I somehow managed to squeeze an island behind Door Number 3.
December 3, 2025
For the last two summers I’ve had the pleasure of returning to a magical island in the Canadian Maritimes that I first visited as a teenager. While Prince Edward Island is as cold and prone to snow as Boston is right now, in my mind it’s always August there.
My first trip to the island was in junior high school as the guest of my friends’ family. Before you call the grammar police, I assure you I used that apostrophe correctly. My friends are twins. Their parents graciously allowed me to spend three weeks with them in a storybook, Victorian farmhouse in a beautiful town near the north shore of the island. I went with them for three more charmed summers.
They introduced me to their friends that they had grown to call family over the many years of visiting. Within minutes, they were my friends, too. The magic of the island radiates from its people. Sure, the scenery is breathtaking, the beaches sublime, but the most valuable natural resource PEI has to offer is its residents. They welcome strangers as if they’ve just returned after a moment away. Once your toes touch that red earth, you are home. As the island fades into the mist of memory as you cross over the bridge to New Brunswick, you long to return.
In recent years, when the twins and I plan our summer vacation on PEI, we tell our island friends that we are coming home. We make sure that our visit coincides with their being home, too, since some have moved to other parts of Canada and the Commonwealth. No matter where we roam, all roads lead to Prince Edward Island.
What follows is a gallery of photos that I’ve taken over the last two vacations on the island. They include beautiful vistas, whimsical gardens, and red clay roads. Some people go to Carolina in their mind. As for me, I go to PEI. Now you can, too.
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A Muse at Advent, December 2: How ‘Bout That?
Each of us has something we’re good at. Some of those talents are obvious, like being able to tap dance or perform open heart surgery. But I’m not talking about a skill that we practice until proficiency is achieved. I’m talking about innate talent. The sort that’s always been there, flying under the radar, until one fateful day when a situation arises allowing it to shine. For example, your aunt, who never sings in public, has an extra glass of white at the family reunion and turns karaoke into a night at Carnegie Hall. Who knew?
Step through door number two and I’ll tell you about my hidden talent.
December 2, 2025
Haiku, do you?
No, I’m serious. I have a tendency to think in haiku format. It’s not something I do consciously, but when I make observations, either in my mind or on paper, I notice that familiar pattern of syllables.
I had no idea that there was a name for this until the third grade. My teacher taught us about a form of poetry that originated in Japan and was a way to express ourselves through carefully chosen words. The trick was to make sure there were a certain number of syllables in each line. Needless to say, she taught us about syllables first. I was intrigued. Math combined with poetry seemed like a wild ride.
After she explained, read us some examples, and demonstrated the format on the chalkboard, she handed out sheets of paper and told us to give it a shot. Sitting there at my little desk, butted up against three other classmates’ desks so we all faced each other in a square, I noticed something. While my desk mates struggled to get their haiku off the ground, one hand trying to write while the other counted off syllables, my paper was effortlessly filling up. The pattern was natural, and my thoughts flowed out through my pencil. I flipped the page to write more.
I guess it was obvious that I was in the zone because my teacher snatched up my page and started to read my haiku aloud to the class. I was pretty sure this would not make recess conflict-free but being the youngest of five and tall for my age, I could hold my own.
I wrote mostly about horses and rainbows in those days. I was fascinated by the Wizard of Oz and spent most of my spare time on horseback. My haiku may have been naive and predictable, but it was haiku, nonetheless. As it turns out, I worried for naught. My friends and classmates asked me to help them write their haiku as we sat under the jungle gym at recess. Who knew that haiku had the power to entrance 7-year-olds?
So, when people ask me why I write so much haiku, I shrug a bit and tell them that I didn’t choose the 5-7-5 life. It chose me.
I think in haiku
I don't know why, but I do
I'm wired that way
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A Muse at Advent, December 1: Leftover Thoughts
While many Americans shopped the holiday sales the moment they pushed back from the Thanksgiving table last Thursday, I stood gazing into my fridge contemplating the fate of all those leftovers. Let’s start this year’s advent calendar with a nod to the biggest meal of the year… thus far.
Door number one belongs to the fridge.
December 1, 2025
Fun fact: my paternal ancestors descend from passengers of the Mayflower who celebrated the first Thanksgiving in 1621 at Plymouth, Massachusetts. Ancestral ties notwithstanding, turkey is not my favorite thing to eat. It’s kind of a pain to cook and no matter what I do, some part of it ends up dry. Gravy should be a savory supporting flavor, not a culinary lubricant.
I’m a twenty-first century gal. Unlike my Pilgrim precursors, I’ve had the pleasure of eating at a diner. There is nothing quite like the comfort food served up at an American diner. After considerable thought, over the course of maybe five minutes, I decided to eschew the traditional Thanksgiving turkey. Instead, my menu consisted of classic diner fare: meatloaf, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, squash, and mac and cheese. Before you ask, of course I made stuffing. A turkey isn’t necessary to enjoy seasoned bread stuffing. Homemade apple and chocolate cream pies with whipped cream rounded out the dessert course. The first diner-themed Thanksgiving was declared a success by those who partook.
But there’s a catch.
Roasting a turkey has the distinct advantage that there is leftover meat for days. Meatloaf doesn’t get the same mileage. Unlike roast turkey, there aren’t several pounds of meatloaf stowed away for later. The only things left to eat are the side dishes. One doesn’t rush to the fridge to make a squash sandwich. During the third football game of the day no one asks if there are any green beans left. Holding open the fridge doors on Friday, the dearth of meatloaf made me realize that once it’s gone, the remaining side dishes lose their sense of purpose.
As I closed the fridge door, just before the light turned off, I swear I heard the potatoes whine, “What were you thinking mashing 3 pounds of us?” The congealed gravy jiggled with indignance in its jar. The green beans lay sullen in their casserole dish knowing they only made the cut because when they’re slathered with sauce and decked out in French fried onions, no one realizes they’re eating green beans. But not all the sides were forlorn. The mac and cheese sat in smug silence because it knows it can stand alone. “We don’t need no stinking meatloaf!” I quickly closed the door before the squash could chime in.
The denizens of 17th century Plymouth might make me wear a scarlet M for straying from the traditional and bountiful fowl that was the centerpiece of their feast. I would challenge their misgivings with the succulent success of my diner alternative. I’d insist that they try my concoction before I start embroidering my bodice. And I dare say my forebears’ buckles would no longer be in a twist after savoring their first bite of their great-to-the-nth granddaughter’s meatloaf. The only thing I’ll do differently next year is to make two of them.
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With a Side of Thanks
November morning
a moment of reflection
to give thanks for all
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Limited Time Offer
Because November's
light is fleeting, it's beauty
is more beloved.
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The Lazarus Papers
Those of you who’ve followed my socials or rooted around in my archives here know that I typically write anecdotes, quirky haiku, caption photographs, and express the whirl of whimsy that is my stream of consciousness in short form. My goal is to entertain my readers and leave them smiling to themselves, musing even, without making them tap their watch or look for the nearest exit.
I am not a novelist. At least I never thought so. However, like most people who write, I’ve had a plotline rattling around in my head, and my desk drawer, for a long time. I mean, since before-the-internet-became-a-thing type of long time. My draft exists in longhand form. It waits patiently for me to pick it up, briefly ruminate over it while riddled with self-doubt, only to be abandoned for another year or six.
This evening, while waiting for Trick or Treaters, I dusted off the folder containing the old, longhand draft. Thalia’s first whisper in my ear, if you will. A story idea that is as familiar to me as my own name but whose conclusion is a distant echo I can’t quite hear. Tonight, I read it again for what always feels like the first time.
I thought it would be awful. Honestly, I hoped it would be awful. I planned to snort at it with derision and marvel at how I ever thought it was worth writing. Then I could Marie Kondo the whole thing and get on with my life with newfound joy; no more whispers from partially developed characters haunting me from the drawer. I’d be free.
I slipped the college ruled paper from the folder and smiled at my handwriting. It’s a mix of printing and cursive within each word. It’d make an effective code with the demise of cursive and penmanship classes. As I read, to my surprise, I became immersed, eagerly turning pages until, abruptly, I came to the last word on the last page. It hung there, dangling mid-sentence. If there was a literary award for inadvertent cliffhangers, I’d win. I have a feeling the award would be rescinded once the committee realized I had no idea what came next. I guess I’ll save my acceptance speech.
I flipped the last page over and back as if the story would emerge from the paper like a specter from the fog on All Hallows’ Eve. It was then that I realized, in the spirit of the evening and Monty Python, that my ancient plot is not dead yet. My own curiosity had jolted it back to life, freeing it from its drawer to a place atop my desk. I’d better put something else in that drawer to appease the spirits who haunt all who put pen to paper. A list of past New Year’s Resolutions should suffice.
As dawn approaches on the first of November, the veil between worlds closes and those who write shall be possessed by a new, yet ambitious, spirit. November is the month dedicated to the challenge of writing 50,000 words, the equivalent of a novel. Thirty days to turn an idea or an unfinished draft into a working novel. With my haunted draft in hand, I’ve decided to give it a shot using an online platform to experience the camaraderie of the challenge and avail myself of community resources. As I set up my account and type in the specifics for my draft, I’ve been asked for a working title. At this juncture, “The Lazarus Papers” seems appropriate. Stay tuned.
If you’d like to see how I’ve spent Halloween in the past, check out these articles:
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Ahead of Its Time
This morning I opened the bedroom curtains to discover that a tree out back had quietly turned orange overnight. It didn’t look like that yesterday. Six days remain until the autumnal equinox. I bet it has its Christmas shopping done, too.
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