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Posts Tagged ‘winter’

katie green coat black ink

A color story:

For several years, my favorite coat has been the jade-green wool one I found at a consignment shop in downtown Boston. It matches my eyes (like a certain Boy Who Lived, I have my mother’s green eyes) and it is warm, stylish and comfortable. It also garners compliments – from friends and strangers – like no other article of clothing I’ve ever owned.

When I started showing up at Darwin’s every day, some of the staff came to know me initially as “the girl in the green coat.” (They know my name now, and they also know my fondness for their chai lattes, shortbread cookies and soups of every kind.)

My green coat – with a warm scarf, fleece-lined tights and appropriate footwear – is perfect for many, if not most, winter days in Boston. But occasionally, we have arctic blasts (or blizzards) that send the temperatures dropping to near zero. That means I need to pull out the big guns: my knee-length, hooded, quilted down coat, which is red. (In the mornings, when I look around the subway platform, I’m often the only person not wearing black or gray.)

katie-red-coat-snow

A few weeks back, I walked into Darwin’s on a single-digit day wearing my red coat, and chatted with a friend behind the counter before going up to place my order. The staff member working the register stared at me for a moment in utter disbelief.

“Katie!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t even know who you were when you walked in!” I laughed out loud, and reassured her that the green coat would be back soon.

I told my husband this story that night. His comment? “Only you could wear a red coat and go incognito.”

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daffodils desk

If you’re a regular reader, you know that I periodically turn back to the question of what is saving my life now. (I got it from Barbara Brown Taylor’s luminous memoir Leaving Church.)

Even pausing to think about the question – or jot down list in my journal at the end of a long day – can help shift my perspective. There’s always something saving my life, even on the days when it feels like everything is killing me (and there are a lot of those, lately).

As she’s done in midwinter for the past few years, my friend Anne Bogel at Modern Mrs. Darcy is inviting everyone to share what’s saving their lives in this cold, bleak season. I’m sharing my list below, because I need the reminder to look for the lifesavers (or the bits of magic) that are all around. Bonus: I love the snapshot it provides of how my days look (and how they are brightened) at a given moment.

Here, in early February of a year that’s already been a wild ride, is what’s saving my life now:

  • The La La Land soundtrack, which is full of swingy jazz, melancholy piano music and a couple of songs that make me cry.
  • $3 daffodils for my desk (see above), and chats with my florist.
  • My magic green coat, which garners compliments from strangers all. the. time.
  • Red lipstick, especially on a grey day.
  • My daily walks to Darwin’s, and checking in with my people there.
  • Verlyn Klinkenborg’s wise, practical book on writing, which I am savoring on my morning commutes.
  • The mornings I get to catch a ride to the train station with my husband. Those few minutes in the car together are precious.
  • Texts from a few friends who are my lifelines.
  • Long (or short) walks around Harvard Square: beloved streets, fresh air, the chance to stretch my legs and clear my head.
  • Fleece-lined tights as the temperatures drop again.
  • Piles of bright orange, tangy clementines.
  • Hot water with honey and lemon, on the nights when I need a mug of warm (non-caffeinated) comfort.
  • The colorful quilt made by my husband’s grandmother, which we sleep under all winter long.
  • My happy lamp, Vitamin D pills, two desk lamps and all the sunshine I can get. (The days are slowly getting longer…)
  • Weekly yoga classes at my local studio, where I am known by name.
  • The fleece-lined plaid slippers I got for Christmas – so cozy.
  • The Hamilton soundtrack, which helps me summon my courage.
  • Scribbling in my journal when I can – even a few lines can help me sort out my thoughts.

Feel free to share your lifesavers in the comments, or hop over to Anne’s blog to join the linkup.

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midtown nyc skyscrapers blue sky

New York in January is rain-washed sidewalks and humid air, brittle Christmas trees with their sharp pine scent, piled in heaps on the streets for the garbage collectors. It is scraps of blue sky glinting off silver skyscraper windows, traffic lights and street lamps and the glitter of midtown mingling together in a wild, whirling urban glow.

New York in January is women in black coats and ankle boots and red lipstick, hundreds of men in suits striding through midtown with sleek leather portfolios under their arms. It is spindly bare trees still wound with twinkle lights, orange construction cones and planks of plywood and men in hard hats blocking street corners with their work zones. It is darkness falling early as you walk past uniformed doormen, glowing storefronts and unexpected churches amid the high-rise buildings, raising their spires to the sky.

st patricks cathedral spires nyc

New York in January is dogs bundled up in plaid coats for a morning walk, intrepid runners in leggings and knit caps, slippery patches on sidewalks after hours of unexpected snow. It is skies so blue they make your heart ache, a brisk wind whipping off the East River, the relief of coming indoors to a warm bookstore or cafe after walking with your head bent for blocks on end.

New York in January is New York in all seasons: captivating, exhausting, a demanding, bewitching delight.

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birds nest branches

Black Rook in Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then —
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you dare to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

—Sylvia Plath

The first time I came across this poem in Watch for the Light (over a decade ago), I remember being surprised at its inclusion. I knew Plath only as angry and suicidal, and her quiet, melancholy words moved me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Every year, I turn back to them and am grateful to hear them again.

This year, as I’ve edged slowly into Advent, these lines have run through my head on a daily basis. This is a “season of fatigue” and despair for many of us, but I am keeping a weather eye open for small miracles.

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freesia flower yellow candle table

There’s rain in the forecast today. And tomorrow.

I’m not entirely sorry about this: it is February, after all. And it isn’t snow. And Monday was gloriously sunny. Besides – I can hear my dad’s voice in my head, as he looks out across a drought-browned West Texas lawn – we need the rain. Those spring flowers and trees I love so much won’t grow without it.

One of my favorite hashtags on Instagram is #chasinglight. It yields gorgeous photos of skies, sunsets and small everyday scenes. And it reminds me to do what I always feel the need to do in the depths of winter: chase a little light of my own.

Because it’s grey outside, I’m also chasing color this week, and I thought I’d share some of it with you.

In addition to the sprig of freesia above (a gift from my ever-kind florist), I spotted the season’s first crocuses – they’re early! – in Cambridge this week.

purple crocus flowers light green leaves

The skies may be grey today, but on Monday morning, they were my favorite deep, bold blue.

blue sky red brick harvard yard

I’m reading my friend Christie’s gorgeous memoir, which is a feast for the eyes and the soul. (Bonus: it happens to match my potato-chip bag.)

roots and sky book table sunglasses

This bright pink cowl took me ages to finish, but is providing a much-needed shot of color and warmth.

katie selfie pink cowl

Where are you finding color and light these days?

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baby its cold outside sign dress shop

I snapped this photo as I was leaving work one day last week. It was clear twilight – not dark – outside, but still piercingly cold. And while the chalkboard sign captured my sentiments exactly, the flimsy sundress (blowing in the bitter wind) made me shake my head in irritation.

Several years ago, Nichole Robertson (now of Obvious State) wrote a blog post called “Dress in the Moment.” In it, she detailed the vexation of being unable to find winter accessories in American stores when it was still frigid outside. Nichole was living and working part-time in Paris then, and she pointed out that French department stores – at least in her experience – tend to stock more seasonally appropriate items.

Maybe because I moved to Boston soon after she wrote that post, I think about Nichole’s words every winter.

When the shop windows are full of sundresses and gauzy scarves, and we’re stepping around frozen piles of gray snow on the sidewalk, a certain cognitive dissonance sets in. Many of us (myself included) don’t love the cold anyway, and the displays of colorful spring outfits that we can buy, but not wear, are a tantalizing frustration.

Separate, but related, is the annoyance of being forced to make do with worn or tattered winter gear. (I’ve spent more time than I care to admit digging through sale bins in midwinter, searching for a proper pair of gloves. And it is nearly impossible to buy snow boots if yours start leaking in, say, February.)

Nichole urged her readers to “channel their inner French girl” – and maybe mitigate the winter blues a bit – by caring for their winter clothing properly. I thought of this last week as I picked up my favorite green coat from the dry cleaners and cleaned the road salt off my leather boots.

We’re only midway through winter and I’m sick of my puffy down coat, but I’ll have to wear it, and my fleece-lined tights, for a while yet. (Though I ran around in ballet flats and a light jacket this weekend, because I could.) So I may as well embrace the corresponding need for sweaters, hats and cozy scarves. I splurged on this soft plaid one right before Christmas, and I love it.

k j hotel mirror selfie

I am already watching for signs of spring, and I relish each day that’s mild enough for lighter clothing (in whatever form). But Nichole’s words remind me to pass by the sundresses – for now – and embrace the season we’re in.

Instead of sighing over what I can’t wear yet, I’ll be doing my best to snuggle into my soft handknits and cozy sweaterdresses. (And thanking whatever genius came up with the idea for fleece-lined tights.)

How do you dress in the moment – especially in wintertime?

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harvard yard trees snow

It snowed eight inches in Cambridge on Friday, as predicted. I’d kept an eye on the forecast, pulled out my snow boots, bundled up in all the right gear. But I was not ready.

After last winter’s record-breaking 108 inches of snow (that’s nine feet, people), most New England residents are greeting the weather forecast with a little trepidation these days. Even though we’ve had some shockingly mild spells, and this snow was mostly falling on bare ground, I still expected the usual slew of snow-related problems: icy sidewalks, bitter winds, slushy streets, possible train delays.

I didn’t want to walk out there and face it. But I had to.

harvard hall snow trees winter

These past few months have been a tough stretch for me, and for several people I love. We’re all dealing with the present reality or the aftermath of hard things: surgery, illness, uncertainty in our personal and professional lives. We wake up and face them because we have to, and we get through the day somehow, but at the end, it is still winter.

My sister is still on crutches after her knee surgery; my friends’ grown daughter still has cancer. I am still job hunting. We are all hanging in, bearing things we’d rather not have to bear, hoping for a glimpse of good news.

And yet.

cambridge fence sidewalk snow

On Friday, I arrived at the office to find I wasn’t alone, as I had feared I might be; about half of my colleagues had made it in. We spent a quiet, convivial, productive morning, watching the snow swirl down outside Sarah’s office window.

It felt like being inside a snow globe, and at lunch I walked out to the scene above. I made my way down the street to Darwin’s, for a sandwich and chitchat with the staff, and returned to work feeling nourished in several ways.

Later that afternoon, I threw on my coat, picked up a library book that needed returning, and headed over to the Yard. It is difficult to overstate my love for this particular patch of ground: I love it in all seasons, and it’s stunning in the snow.

johnson gate harvard snow

I walked down snowy sidewalks through Old Yard, past Widener Library and over to Lamont, where I returned my book and picked up another one. I stopped every few yards to marvel, sliding off my glove and snapping photos of buildings and trees limned with fluffy snow.

houghton library harvard memorial church snow

I am not a lover of cold and snow by nature. Given the choice, I’d prefer a mild spring evening or a crisp autumn day when the trees blaze red instead of standing out in black and white. But this winter wonderland has its own charms. And I was so grateful, on Friday, to be out in it, enjoying it. (I was equally glad to go back inside, where it was warm and dry.)

Worried about a messy evening commute, I left work a little early, only to find that the snow had stopped when I reached my neighborhood. The sky was tinted a delicate sunset pink, and the rosy light on the branches of the trees next to the subway station took my breath away.

sunset light snow branches winter

I would rather not have to bear the frustrations of winter (and I’m watching the forecast carefully, since more cold and snow are on their way). And I am so ready for the job hunt to be over. But both of them also possess some lovely silver – or, occasionally, rose-tinted – linings.

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