January. From Janus, God of beginnings, transitions, passages, and endings. The two-faced god, looking back, but also forward. Weary but hopeful. God of a New Year. God(dess) of menopause? Hey, it says transitions and passages right there on Wiki, both euphemisms for the rocky middle landscape. Mine was a singular hell. That’s a different essay.
Right around the turn of the calendar, I had a dizzy spell straight from the peri archives. I crawled slowly out of my chair and waited flat on the floor. It’s been years since I felt this way. I’m post-meno, so it’s not hormones? I ate (constantly), so it’s not low blood sugar. The holidays? Dark days? Cookies? I’m reading a grim cancer memoir, on the heels of another, so maybe it’s cancer? (Why am I reading these books? Anyone?)
At 3 o’clock on the first Saturday of the new year I made a buckwheat chocolate cake. It seemed a reasonable, post-holiday (post dropping a kid at a chilly, gray airport) treat. When I looked up the recipe and read the first sentence, I knew it was the only thing to do.
“There are rainy, dreary, energy depleted days when the best thing you can do at 3 p.m. is to stop pretending that anything short of chocolate cake is going to improve your outlook.”
Yes. My outlook, as it were, is post-holiday, daughter-in-the-air, new year exhaustion. Dreary, energy depleted - check, check. My outlook is a short gin and flourless chocolate cake.
I don’t understand people who hate the story before the recipe. Please tell me a story first. The food is the story. Food is always in conversation with our moods, emotions, hopes, and fears. Comfort me with apples, madeleines, wolves, and all that.
The tree is still up, the little battery operated candles are in the windows, and the giant, slightly ridiculous Moravian star is screaming on the screen porch. We are lighting up the world this year, still in January. The travel was horrendous, the cold was beyond bitter, and the revelers were ragged and a little beaten.
The eating was extravagant. Shrimp cocktail, prime rib, lasagna, keftas, enough cheese to give us arteries for hanging coats. Authentic ramen bowls that took the chef son two days to make. Apple cake for breakfast, smoked fish and exotic cheeses for snacks. So many cookies. Prosecco with bitters, with sweet vermouth, in a French 75. A whole case of prosecco, purchased by the prescient husband in the early weeks of December. He doesn’t even like it, but knows his audience. The kitchen was a hub of activity, churning out delights for all the cranky visitors. Covid made an appearance, and kept the chef son away until the new year. Abundance was the star, though, even with the challenges. I thanked my tiny joy guy every day.
We improvised. We made it. Now we are without cookies.
So, Janus with the two faces.
Looking back, I see a year that was more a season. The three-year year. I see progress in the ranks, shifting and settling. Plan-making and world-building. I’ve mostly just watched, lended a hand when it helps. Listened. Nurtured tiny hopes for my own plans. Planted little seeds. I’m still gently reeling from my tortured passage through menopause, like a Weeble late in the wobble. What even was that? It was hard in a particularly fucked up and endlessly creative way. I’m still shaking it off, trying to parse it.
Looking forward, I’m hoping to tend those tiny seeds but OMG I’m tired. I started a 30 day yoga program in my bedroom and cried a bit, for reasons that elude me. I’m digging out from under a crushing inbox. I made an appointment for a physical but am, so far, ignoring the need for more dentistry.
I’m hoping to spend more time in my feet than my head. Abby the acupuncturist told me that when we’re stressed or anxious, everything is happening from the chest up. We are living in our heads and freaking ourselves out. Stimulating the feet, she says, is grounding and brings us out of that anxious state.
Looking forward to less time in my head, more in my feet. There will be foot massage. Less doing, more being. Or some doing, but less pressure about it. This week, we’re finally repairing and painting the high, center hall stairway (*paying people to do it) and hopefully the color won’t be Regret. Color is a madmaking rabbit hole and we are not good at it. Maybe I should ask my feet.
Happy New Year!
Lisa
Thinks to share:
Beyond “be better,” resolutions have lost their shine for me. I love a new calendar and the blank slate feel of a new year, but hesitate to get too planful about it. It’s a trap. That said, I still like my well-intentioned plan to stop catastrophizing. And there’s always room for more Calvin.
A relatable essay. In a perfectly predictable and endlessly infuriating development, we in the middle are now a market. A targetable demographic. Because of course we are. I have a messy document dump about this very thing and will put it here if it ever takes shape. So much to say but the rave must be contained.
If you haven’t seen the second season of The White Lotus, just do it.
I’m thinking about a new year with this newsletter. Not sure about frequency - I don’t want to send too much, or too little. I have lots of ideas, but if you have any opinions or suggestions, please let me know. I love hearing from you!
I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're doing something. - Neil Gaiman
"In a perfectly predictable and endlessly infuriating development, we in the middle are now a market. A targetable demographic. Because of course we are. I have a messy document dump about this very thing and will put it here if it ever takes shape. So much to say but the rave must be contained."
I will look forward to reading your rave (and I'm hoping it isn't contained too much). :-) I've read two completely infuriating articles about "branding menopause" in recent weeks. Do we really need another life stage that's all about creating and monetizing insecurity? No we do not!
Anyway, I'm a relatively recent subscriber and I'm really enjoying your newsletter.
Love that Janus image (and mention of weariness) and the metaphor “hope the color isn’t Regret.” 😹 also I am a SUCKER for a Moravian star. Give me all the light glowing in the winter, we need the stars. (My partner just thinks of religion nuts and won’t let me hang one lol).