not to be like barbara howard, but i saw both “katie holmes” and “michelle williams” trending on twitter & thought there was some fun “dawson’s creek” news
alas, it was about the OTHER michelle williams & did not have anything to do with “dawson’s creek” :/
Hi— I was away from home for the a week and when I came back the tree outside my window had started to blossom, tiny pink buds and flowers. It was a fun little surprise, having grown used to weeks of bare branches, and then the deep red-purple leaves before them.
“Oh,” my brother said, “it’s been a while since you’ve been home to see it bloom.”
It’s true— this will be my first spring at home in a decade. Sure, I’ve visited for a few days during the season a couple times over the year, but the best part of spring, in my opinion, is witnessing the blooming, the growing. If you’ve been reading crocetime since day one, you may recall my fascination with the trees in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn, how I would differentiate the early, repetitive days of the COVID lockdown by measuring the growth of the trees during my daily Mental-Health Meander. They line 7th avenue and someone put little plaques on their trunks so passersby can know who they are: Maidenhair, Green Ash, Littleleaf Linden, Norway Maple, American Elm, Japanese Pagoda, and Bradford Pear. And how could I forget the beautiful willow tree, enshrined in the community garden! I’m sure the green is creeping back upon her. Anyway, I miss them. I hope they’re blooming proudly again. That said, I’m glad I at least have one tree to measure the days by.
Speaking of blooming, as I promised my friend, Emily, here’s a link to Anne Helen Peterson’s in-depth look at the “Dahlia Wars”. (Yes, this is about actual dahlia flowers, and not like, IDK, a historical term for an economical struggle in 1700s Netherlands featuring different crime boss families, or the title of a YA novel). I read this and was both fascinated and horrified. Nothing is sacred, not even pretty flowers! Even though I admit, these Cinder Rose flowers go so hard. I want that in manicure form, somehow…
I know it’s the beginning of the week, but I thought this graphic about “end of the week check-in” questions was worthwhile. I think many of us are constantly in this sort of zombie, mindless state where the days and weeks run together, and our lives are punctuated by events that bring living into sharper clarity. I feel like I’m swimming upstream, trying to fight against that impulse to just slog through every day, to think of them all as the same. It’s a, frankly, depressing way to live. It’s why I journal every day; it’s why I write this newsletter weekly. I know it’s not possible to be present & intentional in all things every day, but that’s why reflection exists, right?
Today’s recipe is courtesy of my friend, Felicia, who made this and loved it so much she texted me to suggest it for this newsletter (thanks, Felicia!): Roasted Cauliflower with Sweet Chermoula and Yogurt. She “[w]ould recommend it over rice since the sauce is so yummy” and honestly, that’s my barometer for what a yummy sauce is. If you wouldn’t serve it over rice, ok, what’s the point??
For this week’s astrology, the most note-worthy thing is that there’s a New Moon in Pisces on Saturday. Enjoy this one, folks, because it’s the last one before eclipse season starts up, and that’s when things get freaky! So be sure to cleanse any crystals/tarot decks you have, because that’ll be your last opportunity for a minute. There’s also some weird energy towards the end of the week, especially Friday, so if things get a bit wonky, that’s why. Nothing bad! Just strange. Mercury-in-retrograde-esque. So be very careful and detail-oriented, especially with communication-related things.
Today’s poem: “I Don’t Miss It” by Tracy K Smith
But sometimes I forget where I am, Imagine myself inside that life again. Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps, Or more likely colorless light Filtering its way through shapeless cloud. And when I begin to believe I haven’t left, The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke Climbing the walls while the hours fall. Straining against the noise of traffic, music, Anything alive, to catch your key in the door. And that scamper of feeling in my chest, As if the day, the night, wherever it is I am by then, has been only a whir Of something other than waiting. We hear so much about what love feels like. Right now, today, with the rain outside, And leaves that want as much as I do to believe In May, in seasons that come when called, It’s impossible not to want To walk into the next room and let you Run your hands down the sides of my legs, Knowing perfectly well what they know.
That’s all from me. Stay safe, take care, and see you next time.