Fierce February Light

It’s dreary and cold, but at least it’s short.

That sums up my attitude towards February. The lights and sounds and smells of Christmas have faded and spring won’t really arrive until May (in New England). The only good thing about February is its length: 28 days. Four weeks: I can get through that. March will be spring in name only, but the days will be warmer and the nights shorter.

Two weeks ago, a fierce February light shone into my staircase window. Staying home last fall, I appreciated my maple trees more than ever, watching as their colors changed every day, from the lightest yellow-green of spring through many gradations until the yellow leaves fell in October. This month, I watch how the sun out my south window traces a higher arc than in December. The sunlight seems brilliant white, intense, and pure.

When we moved to New Hampshire in 1985, I reveled in the fact that I got to live in a place that other people only visit on vacation. For the last 29 years, living less than half a mile from the Lexington Battlegreen, I’ve seen tour buses three seasons of the year (most years and hopefully again soon). For me, it doesn’t matter when the fall color ‘peak’ happens; I’m here for the whole show.

I just learned what February means. It’s named after Februa, an annual Roman festival of ritual purification and cleansing. In Old English it was often called Solmonath, mud month, and less frequently, Kale-monath, cabbage month. By February cabbage would be the only green vegetable available. (Thank you dictionary.com)

We’ve stayed at home (mostly) for the past 11 months. I’ve watched the seasons revolve out my office window while sitting in my diagon alley. For all my life, February has been my most underappreciated month. This year, I’m savoring it.

 

Clean Sidewalk

 Last Tuesday we got another two or three inches of snow. After dusk I walked to the post office, enjoying the crunch of the snow beneath my boots and the near-empty streets. After posting my package, I took the circuitous route home down Winthrop St. Ahead of me I saw a neatly cleaned stretch of sidewalk and heard the scrape of a snow shovel. A middle-aged man with his back to the street was shoveling his front porch steps. I thought I’d pass by silently: somehow the pandemic has made me shy of people, but decided to take the chance to have a connection. “Nice sidewalk” I shouted. “You are welcome!” he called back. The simple exchange warmed me as much as the aerobics of trudging through the snow.

Half a mile later, I saw a man and a dog at the bottom of Belfry Hill. After I had passed, I heard the dog rushing up behind me. As it hit my knees, I screamed, but kept my balance. The man yelled at the dog and the dog retreated. “Sorry!” called the man. I thought about calling out angrily: the dog had really frightened me and in that situation it’s no good the dog owner saying, “He’s harmless.” If he were so harmless, he wouldn’t have chased me.

But I just walked on. That was as charitable as I could manage. I didn’t feel like calling out, “That’s okay,” or “No harm done,” or “I’m sure he meant well.” But I could manage not criticizing the man. There are leash laws in Lexington: the dog should have been leashed.

I had a vague idea that Lexington has a ‘leash law,’ so I Googled it:

No dog owned or kept in this Town shall be allowed to be off the premises of its owner or keeper except in the immediate restraint and control of some person by means of a leash or by effective command. The owner or keeper of any such dog that is not restrained or controlled off the premises of its owner or keeper shall be punishable by a fine of up to $50 or the maximum permitted by Section 173A of Chapter 140 of the General Laws, whichever is higher.

I suppose the man thought his dog was restrained by effective command, but, in my book, any dog who rams into the back of my legs is not effectively controlled.

If I were more charitable, perhaps I would have turned and smiled, said good doggy or the like. But at least I didn’t lash out. He probably didn’t expect any pedestrians on a snowy evening: there were no other pedestrians and hardly any cars out even.

Sunday, Jim went with me to in-person sacrament meeting. Quick waving of the hands (I suppose we can see each other's smiles behind the masks) and a short conversation or two out in the parking lot. Not satisfying, but better than nothing.

Yesterday we called a house painter, Marcio of Souza Painting, for some house projects that have languished for years. We made a list and Marcio and I walked through the house and outside as I explained the jobs and he made comments and notes. After we were done, Jim came down and we chatted for a few minutes. After seeing our library, he told a funny story about his relationshiop to a very thick book a customer gave him. (He took it on a 9-hour flight back to Brazil, but it stayed in his bag.) Have you read every book? Well, maybe parts of most of them, between the two of us.

It felt so good to have a normal conversation with a great guy. (He refinished our deck and coach house stairs a few years ago and they still look great.) He cheerfully helped Jim carry an IKEA bookcase in a box up to David's room. We've calculated that we can keep buying books, at a moderate rate, for the rest of our lives if we purchase about three more bookcases. I told Marcio that owning books was a hobby: Some people collect sportscars; we own books.

Reward and Loss

 

December 1^st I signed up for Nerd Fitness One-on-One Coaching. I had stagnated in my fitness goals and needed some outside help. Frankly, aging is encroaching on my resolves.

              This isn’t going to be a post bemoaning lack of fitness, but suffice it to say that over the last 18 months I’ve gained over 25 lbs. At that rate, I soon would be at risk for serious health consequences.

              My new Nerd coach, Heather, suggested I start by simply logging my food intake and giving her access to my data. She reviews it, without comment. I thought that would clinch it: the motivation of knowing someone, even a very sympathetic someone, was reading my log. But it didn’t.

              I asked her about motivation tips and she suggested a non-food reward system. As I considered it, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted (besides ice cream and skittles: I have very simple tastes). I enjoy wearing old clothes, have frugal habits, and these days, with college tuitions behind us, if I really want something, I buy it.

              I mentioned the problem to my psych. nurse practitioner. She suggested finding a therapist who could help me work through the issue. Duh! I’ve had a therapist since my last psychotic break in 2003. Oh, right, she said, of course you do.

              When I saw my therapist, David, two weeks later, I presented my dilemma. What he asked in response took me aback.

What losses have you experienced during the pandemic?

    My immediate reaction was: I haven’t had any significant losses. I haven’t lost any loved ones in the pandemic (my parents died six and seven years ago), I can freely take walks in our leafy ( currently snowy) suburb of Boston; my grandchildren (and children) have been able to visit and enjoy our ‘grandchild magnet.’ But David just sat patiently as I processed his question and I did finally offer that I’d lost the ability to travel freely, attend musical concerts, and meet with people.

              He asked what my church congregation was doing and I admitted that although the in-person meetings were better than nothing, they were highly unsatisfactory: the 30 or so participants sitting in every third pew, unable to congregate, chat, and catch up before and after sacrament meeting. Sunday School and Relief Society are exclusively on Zoom.

    We left it there: the hour was over, but I continued to ponder his question.

    A reward system, as I have always practiced it, is actually a punishment system. My focus has always been giving up something pleasurable unless I straighten up and meet a goal. Similar to lugging books home from college, in my reward system I'm always behind, always inadequate, always falling short.

    Do I really need to punish myself in this time of loss? No, I don't. I've always considered myself an introvert, but even this introvert misses the face-to-face contact, the ability to give and receive nonverbal messages, the immediate feedback which prevents the common talk-over of Zoom.

    Pondering David's inquiry hasn't solved my overeating, but it is giving me a window into my interior world. That's the first step.