The Winter I Finally Stopped Bracing or, 'Growth Is Ugly and Does Not Photograph Well'

What I’ve come to understand (slowly, reluctantly, and with the emotional elegance of a rabid possum trapped inside a Panera) is that I fundamentally misunderstood what growth was supposed to look like. I used to believe that growth was a forward motion only. That to become more, you had to do more, achieve more, prove more. More productivity. More striving. More exhaustion disguised as ambition. I thought the evidence of a meaningful life would look like velocity.

 

But this winter taught me something quieter and, I think, more true.

That growth sometimes looks like retreat.
Like stillness.

 

Sometimes it means turning inward and tending to the abandoned rooms inside yourself—the parts that were neglected because survival demanded it. And I should note: this is not glamorous work. It does not photograph well. There are no inspirational montages. No one is posting “deep nervous system repair” content from beneath three blankets while eating stale crackers over the sink and trying not to cry during yet another prescription drug commercial.

But somewhere in the turning of this brutal winter, I realized something had changed.

The cold had finally left my body.

And I don’t mean the weather,  (although I'd like to petition that surviving a New York winter does make you feel eligible for frontier citizenship.) I mean the internal winter I had been carrying for far too long—the emotional frostbite that protected me from pain, yes, but also kept me from joy. The kind of psychic bracing that keeps a person functioning, productive, competent… and quietly absent from their own life.

Then, sometime in March, I noticed something almost imperceptible: I had stopped bracing.

I stopped apologizing for existing.
Stopped treating rest like moral failure.
Stopped experiencing my own life as something to endure.

And once that happened, something else suddenly became possible:

Expansion.

 

 

Of course, because life is not subtle, this period of stillness is now giving way to a season of extraordinary motion.  Spring into summer is arriving like a parade I did not RSVP to but am somehow expected to lead. Projects. Collaborations. Creative opportunities that feel not just exciting, but aligned. As though they were waiting for me to become the person capable of receiving them or, the version of myself capable of receiving them without immediately self-destructing.

 

This is new.

 

Before, work often felt like something I had to chase, or worse, survive.

 

Now, for the first time in a very long time, it feels like something I might actually be able to meet.

 

 

 

Books by-the-month: February

Ah, February. The month of winter’s last gasp, of small joys, and, yes, of love—whether it’s the romantic, the familial, or the self-love that comes from curling up with a good book. 

 

To help you make the most of these cozy, cold evenings, here are five books that should take you on unforgettable journeys. From classic tales of unrequited love to dazzling modern narratives, these picks will keep your heart warm as the chill lingers outside.

---

February Theme: Valentine's Day (obvs)

1. Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

Love can blossom where you least expect it. At least that seems to be the case in Sarah Waters’s twist-and-turn Victorian masterpiece, Fingersmith.

 

The novel tells the story of Sue Trinder, an orphan, abandoned as an infant in the care of Mrs. Sucksby, a conniving and resourceful ‘baby farmer,' whose bread and butter comes from raising children to become petty thieves—fingersmiths—in London' notorious East End. 

 

Sue’s world changes forever when 'Gentleman,' a sophisticated con-man arrives with a tantalizing proposition. He offers her the chance to take part in a clever ploy to steal the inheritance of Maud Lilly, an isolated and vulnerable heiress, by posing as her maid and encouraging her to marry Gentleman.

 

But nothing is quite how it seems. Sue and Maud soon kindle an unlikely friendship that becomes a passionate love affair. Waters is peerless in how she crafts exhilarating and unforgettable journeys through the Victorian underworld, filled with villains, deception, debauchery and, ultimately, love.

 

 

 

2. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
 

Not all love stories have happy endings. Some, in fact, barely even have beginnings, such as in Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel The Remains of the Day. 

There is something about February’s subtle melancholy that makes The Remains of the Day a perfect fit. Ishiguro’s subtle, almost painful prose will transport you deep into the life of Stevens, an English butler. Stevens has devoted his entire existence to service, and the story follows him as he reflects on the misguided loyalty of his past and attempts to reconnect with Ms Kenton, the housekeeper who worked alongside him— the woman he desperately loved, but for whom he never dared crossed a professional line. 

 

While Stevens hopes for a resolution at their reunion, Ms Kenton alludes to what might have been but concludes ‘there’s no turning back the clock now. One can’t be forever dwelling on what might have been’. 

 

As Stevens reflects on his past in a long, meandering road trip across the English countryside, the narrative reveals the complexities of duty, missed opportunities, and suppressed emotions. Ishiguro’s prose is— like Stevens’ emotions— buried deep beneath the surface, ready to surface in poignant moments that will linger long after you’ve turned the final page.

And so one of literature’s most heartbreaking love stories ends with a devastating whimper.

 

February Theme: Black History Month (because here at London Still, Al is still celebrating diversity because I am not threatened by thoughts, histories and ideas that might de-center my own lived experience or, Gd forbid, possibly make me the slightest bit uncomfortable...rant over. For now.)

 

2. "Beloved" by Toni Morrison
 

February is the perfect month to dive into Toni Morrison’s Beloved, a novel whose beauty lies in its raw, unapologetic exploration of the dark, terrible legacy of the enslaved people of the United States. Set in post-Civil War Ohio, Beloved follows Sethe, an escaped enslaved woman who is haunted by the ghost of her dead daughter.
 
Morrison’s writing is both lyrical and haunting—each sentence is a carefully wrought piece of art. The narrative swings between hauntingly beautiful prose and brutal truths, making for a reading experience that is as exhausting as it is revelatory. This is a book that demands your full attention, and rewards you with layers of meaning in return. If you haven’t read Beloved yet, February is the month to do it.
 

 

February Theme:  Lunar New Year (and yes, I know that sometimes Lunar New Year is in January.) 

Lunar New Year is a time for reflection, celebration, and renewal (and DUMPLINGS) making it an ideal occasion to explore books with Asian characters or themes. For me personally, being married to a Chinese-American makes me plump for Chinese-forward picks, but the Asian literary canon is infinite in its richness and rewards–it would be impossible to choose. 

However, choose I must, and below are two exceptional reads that offer profound insight into Chinese culture, history, and the human experience and each offer a rich and varied portrait of life, love, and the pursuit of meaning. They also happen to be stalwarts of world literature.

 

4. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan

 
Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club is a masterful exploration of the generational divides between Chinese-American mothers and their daughters. Told through the interconnected stories of eight women, the novel spans decades, alternating between the perspectives of the mothers, who arrived in America as immigrants, and their daughters, who grapple with the weight of their cultural heritage. 

 

Tan’s writing is deeply empathetic, her prose rich with the nuances of family dynamics, identity, and the immigrant experience. Each chapter captures the delicate interplay of hope, sacrifice, and love, weaving an intricate tapestry of Chinese-American life that’s as heartwarming as it is heartbreaking. 

 

The Joy Luck Club is an enduring work that beautifully portrays the complexities of the immigrant experience and the delicate ties that bind generations together.
 


5. The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane by Lisa See

 
Lisa See’s The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane is an exquisite exploration of family, tradition, and identity, set in the lush, remote mountains of China. The novel follows Li-yan, a young girl from an ethnic minority group in the far southwest of China, whose life is deeply shaped by the ancient traditions surrounding tea cultivation. As Li-yan grows up, her life is marked by love, loss, and the complex relationship between personal ambition and cultural heritage. 

 

See’s writing is lyrical and immersive, drawing on the beauty of the Chinese landscape while delving into the complex social structures that define Li-yan’s world. The novel is also a poignant exploration of motherhood, with themes of separation and reconciliation as Li-yan’s path crosses with that of her daughter, whom she must give up. 

 

The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane is a heart-wrenching and thought-provoking read that will transport you to a world that is both timeless and strikingly contemporary.

February’s slow, still air offers the perfect backdrop for diving into these books, each of which brings something unique. Curl up in a corner, drink your hot cocoa, and lose yourself in these extraordinary tales. You’ll emerge from the month not just with the memory of a good book, but with a deeper understanding of the human heart—both its beauty and its flaws.

Books by-the-month: January

T. S. Eliot was wrong when he said that "April is the cruelest month–" [he was wrong about a lot of things, like, ya know, his raging antisemitism, but, anyway, meh: a phenomenal poet] he’d clearly never experienced the nightmare that is returning to work, and the world-in-general, in January. In an election year. 

"Oh, what a long year this January has been!" I literally proclaimed yesterday. 

It's January 9th. 

Bleak times.

But with the festive season long gone, January can feel bleak and never-ending, not helped by the sidewalks lined with the corpses of Christmas trees, the days shorter and the darkness encroaching upon what feels like lunchtime, plus resolutions tugging away at your conscience? HARD PASS. So with the January blues in full swing, I offer a reprieve: an uplifting book.

I jest I jest. January is the birth month of too many of my close friends to count, including my husband. And who am I kidding I love winter coziness and any excuse for hyyge and all thing snuggling. Add a book to the picture of me + fireplace + snow outside + cup of hot something + Tatiana? Bliss. (Apologies for the wintery rant, southern hemisphere friends...)

 

In this new series Books by-the-month, I'm endeavoring to play the role of curator, assembling mini book collections across time and genre, according to themes endemic to the months on the good ol' Gregorian calendar. Holidays, yes. Seasons, sure. Themes the seasons inspire, why not? I also welcome any and all of your suggestions in the comments, friends!

 

And with that said, I give you January's mini list. Whether you’re looking to expand your mind, take up a New Year’s reading practice, or simply distract yourself from the chilly, soggy realities January has to offer, these books are sure to soothe you (at least mentally) for a day or two (plus the month or so those two days feel like... because, it's January).

 

*

January Theme: "Fresh Starts" and "Self Improvement"

 

1. Build The Life You Want by Albert C Brooks and Oprah Winfrey

On the solar calendar, January is all about the New Year's resolutions, and boy oh boy does our culture love to offer every one of us a million offers to improve. Lose the weight! Quit smoking! Save more money! Finally start therapy! Kick your weird habit! Start a juice cleanse! Have better relationships, conversations, anger management, sleep! Stop being a total jerk! 

 

The list is endless. And so is the pressure.

So my choice for this January "self improvement" category is a book of science-backed, evergreen wisdom on improving your overall HAPPINESS. And the first lesson is all about how we as a culture don't fully understand our own happiness, and how doing so can make a huge impact on how we experience the world, connect with ourselves and others, and shape a reality that brings us more peace, contentment and joy. 

 

Because apparently you can get happier. And getting there will be the adventure of your lifetime. So sayeth Oprah and author, researcher, academic and lecturer on happiness at Harvard University Arthur C Brooks. 

 

"In Build the Life You Want, Arthur C. Brooks and Oprah Winfrey invite you to begin a journey toward greater happiness no matter how challenging your circumstances. Drawing on cutting-edge science and their years of helping people translate ideas into action, they show you how to improve your life right now instead of waiting for the outside world to change.

With insight, compassion, and hope, Brooks and Winfrey reveal how the tools of emotional self-management can change your life―immediately. They recommend practical, research-based practices to build the four pillars of family, friendship, work, and faith. And along the way, they share hard-earned wisdom from their own lives and careers as well as the witness of regular people whose lives are joyful despite setbacks and hardship.

Equipped with the tools of emotional self-management and ready to build your four pillars, you can take control of your present and future rather than hoping and waiting for your circumstances to improve. Build the Life You Want is your blueprint for a better life."

I hope you are as moved by its practicality, compassion, and candor as I was. 

January Theme: Reverend Martin Luther King Junior Day

2. Several reads on Martin Luther King Junior to celebrate 

There are many ways to celebrate the life of the peerless speaker, activist, leader, man of G-d and visionary humanitarian, Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. It is being suggested by sociologists that in the 2010s-20s we are living during the second Civil Rights Movement, and where better to look to understand our present and our future, than to examine the courage of our origins. 

 

We have the gift of listening to his recorded speeches, joining in festivities, reflecting with friends and family. But of course, my favorite way to do this is to read books. Books have the capacity to create atmosphere like none other, and here are some essential reads about the man who lived up to the name of ‘King’ — the leader of America's civil rights movement.

• "Parting the Waters: America in the King Years, 1954-63" (1986),
• "Pillar of Fire: America in the King Years, 1963-1965" (1998),
• "At Canaan's Edge: America in the King Years, 1965-68" (2006)
• "The King Years: Historic Moments in the Civil Rights Movement" (2013),

 All by Taylor Branch.

The first book in Branch's multi-volume King biography, "Parting the Waters," was a winner of the Pulitzer Prize for history in 1987. The two following books were also highly praised and in 2013 he provided a single-volume overview. Totaling almost 3,000 pages, Branch's exhaustive biography provides a deep look into King's life and legacy.

In addition,
Here is a wonderful list of MLK celebration books from the always book-savvy LA Times.

January Theme: :: Deepest Winterrrrr ::

3. "Anna Karenina" by Leo Tolstoy

In 2011 I wrote books-by-the-season, and regaled you with many books for the wintry months. From the first magic of The Chronicles of Narnia to Italo Calvino's singular If on a winter's night a traveler, to the psychological thriller masterpiece that is Rebecca—I waxed on and on and stand by my choices!

Winter can make for an irresistible setting for a book (believe me I... wrote a book set... in Siberia. So). From the glass-like surface of a frozen lake to the frenetic power of a white-out squall, the dead of winter offers countless evocative and extreme conditions that conjure magic, channel psychological heartbreak and push characters to their absolute limits. But January offers the longest of nights and bitterest of cold, and thus makes perfect meteorological grist for atmosphere, making you clutch your mug of tea a little closer.

And who does any of this better? Than RUSSIAN LITERATURE. You heard me. If you are a London Still venteran you know I love allthingsRussian (just to be clear in 2025: all things arts and culture, and not politics for literally ... the last 100 years?) 

 

And while Bulgakov is my dearest love, there is no greater place to start, end, and linger along the streets of Moscow than in the heartbroken arms of Tolstoy's great heroine, Anna Karenina. 

 

[:: Sweeping orchestral swell! ::] 

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was serialized between 1875 and 1877, and first published in book form in 1878. Tolstoy considered it his first true novel— (note that War and Peace appeared in 1869! He must've felt very strongly!) Those two novels, of course, are considered among the two greatest novels not simply of Tolstoy's, not simply of Russian Literature, but two of the greatest novel and frankly, works of art, of all time.  William Faulkner famously answered, when asked to name the three best novels, "Anna Karenina, Anna Karenina, Anna Karenina."  And Anton Chekhov reputedly said, after visiting his hero: "When you know you have achieved nothing yourself and are still achieving nothing, this is not as terrible as it might otherwise be, because Tolstoy achieves for everyone."

 

Tolstoy wrote many other (truly wonderful) short stories, and works like The Death of Ivan Ilyich (my "gateway drug" to all Russian Literature— thank you Jean Gaede by Russian Lit teacher Junior year at Interlochen Arts Academy), The Kreutzer Sonata, and Hadji Murat are also held in high esteem. Tolstoy was also a profoundly influential thinker— a radical Christian, a vegetarian (nearly a vegan), a pacifist. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in both Literature and Peace multiple times, and it feels criminal that he never received either honor (to be fair, it was early days for the existence of the award.)

 

So thanks very much in part to my previously mentioned life-transforming Russian Literature class in high school (once again, thank you Jean Gaede), and additionally in part to a childhood best friend Arielle who married a gosh darn Russian Literature professor, I was hooked. I picked up a copy of Anna Karenina one frigid, lonely, heartbroken winter years ago, and, after owning it for less than a week, I was performing medical-grade triage on the collapsing spine of my copy. Unputdownable isn't the word. Because it far exceeds that.

With its sempiternal themes of envy, fidelity, ambition, success, power, pity, lust and the greater machinations of a "civilized" society, Anna Karenina is the perfect place to begin your Russian literary journey, for it will be an odyssey. 

 

Sure sure, I hear you moan, but what is the novel about? Well, it's roughly 350,000 words are "about" marriage and adultery, but also farming, and war, and religion (and philosophy in general), and about economics, and about the difference between life in Russia and life in Europe; and, in a large way, about how to live a life, and the time-worn question of destiny versus personal agency. It offers few answers. Just better and better questions.

The modernity of the characters is leave-you-breathless astonishing: how they all, from young Kitty, to the author's alter-ego Levin, strive for meaning; how they so often fail (as the cuckolded husband Karenin does when he confronts Anna's adultery) to put into words what they desperately yearn to express; how one society princess is "awfully, awfully bored" and laments the "same everlasting crowd doing the same everlasting things" (Tolstoy's princess is a literary antecedent of F Scott Fitzgerald's Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby: "What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon … and the day after that, and the next thirty years?")

Tolstoy observed that the way to begin a novel was to "plunge readers right into the middle of the action." This is borne out in Anna Karenina: the opening chapter plunges us into themes that will be explored fully later. We learn in the first paragraph that "everything had gone wrong in the Oblonsky household. The wife had found out about her husband's relationship with their former French governess and had announced that she could not go on living in the same house with him."


Part One's most enduring scene, however, is Anna's arrival where, just after she has exchanged eye contact with Vronsky (her fatal attraction), a guard is crushed by a train: "A bad omen," she says to her brother, tears streaming down her face. As readers, we know she is doomed. And we are hopelessly hooked.

A little note on translations, while we are here.

In translating literature from one language to another in general, it is important to convey not only the literal meaning of the story, but the culture, dialogue, thought flow, and essence of the characters being conveyed in a way that makes literal and emotional sense to the reader who experiences the world through the lens of another language.

Because Russia holds such an extra layer of foreign mystery to Westerners, cultural conveyance is of even more import.

Russians (and of course, subsequently, their language) are very direct in their everyday conversations. They say exactly what is needed, often coming across as harsh or rude to the smiley, overly polite English-speaking world that values socially manicured manners and friendlyness above all else. 

 

 

So who does this best? The contemporary husband and wife team of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky are considered by many scholars to be the gold standard of Russian Literature in English translation. Not only in the prose (which is *ga ga ga gorgeous*) but crucially, in the dialogue. Also crucial is the footnotes. Their footnotes explain EVERYTHING you could ever want to know about what you are reading in a comprehensive but concise way. 

[Two little] CONS:
The bummer about many of Penguin Classics editions (that Pevar and Volokhonsky publish with)? --
1. the font is so tiny you could totally get an ocular migraine.
2. The covers...? The American covers anyway are ...  not inspired. And the saying be hang, judging a book by its cover is fine be me because book covers matter.

'Earth, You Have Returned to Me' By Elaine Equi

Can you imagine waking up

every morning on a different planet,

each with its own gravity?

Slogging, wobbling,

wavering. Atilt

and out-of-sync

with all that moves

and doesn’t.

Through years of trial

and mostly error

did I study this unsteady way — 

changing pills, adjusting the dosage,

never settling.

A long time we were separate,

O Earth,

but now you have returned to me.

Wintro-vert

It took me a couple of years into my adulthood to really understand why I always felt so exhausted at parties— personal or professional.  Then one day, inspired by her incredible TED Talk I read Quiet by Susan Cain, and I realized: oh. Right, HELLO—Thank you Susan Cain—I’m an introvert. (An INFJ, to be precise, should you be in the Myers Briggs mindset).

I’m sure I am not the first to thank the pro-Introvert movement for helping me recognize and respect myself.

Dear readers, Hi there. My name is Alexandra Silber and I am an Introvert.

No, I am not aloof.
No, I am not shy,
     or antisocial.
Or people-hating.

YES, despite having extraordinary extrovert skills, I am an Introvert. 
And if you suspect you are one too, this brilliantly curated site ‘Introvert, Dear’ could not be more illuminating and celebratory of our true nature.
(Also? I know I am an actress with a lot of personality when I AM in public but… those are highly honed SKILLS, not nature. Please don’t tell me I am NOT an introvert. Please don’t assume you know me better than I know me. Don’t ever do this to anyone.)

In an extrovert-rewarding world that favors the outgoing and the gregarious, being an introvert can be difficult. We are assumed to be many a negative thing simply for being quiet (aloof, shy, anti-social, misanthropic and smug, being a handful of them). But the truth is that introverts are the world’s “watchers” and “listeners”— and have distinct advantages — as long as they know how to use them, and hopefully, the world comes to appreciate them.

Unlike extroverts, who draw their energy from social interactions, introverts gather their energy and recharge their batteries in (sweet, sweet) solitude, and gain hugely from quiet reflection.

I think winter is the season for introverts. It’s the time of year when Mother Nature begs us to rest, to slow down, to reflect. The world around us seems to take a collective breath, take time for quiet, deep reflection. It feels like the only time of year when humanity says it is socially acceptable to hole away at home—a state introverts enjoy immensely.

Thus, I have termed myself a “WINTROVERT.”

For when the days grow short and the temperatures plunge, the following virtues are at their peak:

Curling up for no particular reason
A long solo walk through the snow on a sunny winter’s day— the crisp, cold air filling my lungs!
Disappear under a blanket or three,
Make endless crockpots full of delicious soup.
Drink pots of hot beverages (sometimes in very cute teapots)

• Get lost in a good book.
• Binge-watch all twelve seasons of Murder, She Wrote.
• Nobody expects you to leave the house. In fact, often, they insist you don’t (for once, cancelling plans due to it being “WINTER AF” outside is the right thing to do).
• Staying put and hunkering down. A day to hibernate in your home and a reason to leave the rest of the world out in the blizzard. Nowhere to be. Time to watch the gentle flakes fall to the ground and marvel at the frozen beauty surrounding you.
• There is something particularly satisfying about cooking and eating warm winter food from the comfort of your warm kitchen as a storm swirls outside.
• Fireplace + book. No explanation required.
• Netflix + couch. From late November to Mid-March, this is an actual destination.
• Candles are cozier and even more atmospheric.
• Winter is nature’s resting time—a very special hush comes over the world as the days grow short and the earth rests.
• Winter makes one cocooned inside and splendidly alone. Trust me when I say that for introverts? THIS IS DAMN WONDERFUL.
• Come on: SNOW IS AMAZING. We learned this from The King and I and we probably won’t have snow much longer because climate change.
• It’s exciting when the outside world feels so dangerous and I am safely sitting on an armchair, slipping my finger between the dusty blinds, peeking at the slippery chaos.
• Winter is the time for crafty projects, homemade food, daydreams and catching up with yourself (to cabin fever I am permanently immune!)
• Zero FOMO, because everyone else is also trapped inside. I have an excuse for doing nothing at night and eating chips from the bag and writing writing writing.

    As much as I enjoy the vibrant colors of spring, warmer days mean it is time to come back out and rejoin the world. The time of rest has come to an end. I shall savor every chilly moment until the final snowflake has melted into the budding crocuses.

I've Been: Winter 2018/19

• playing Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream

• hosting the Chicago edition of The Hanukkah Hoedown!

• feeling more lonely than I ever have in all my life

• wondering why some people are absolute jerks

• letting go

• accepting

• endeavoring to reveal my inner self

• Writing writing wrting...

• freezing my ass off in Chicago

• "Chicago-ing"(at Steppenwolf, the Art Institute, IO Improv night, Magnificent Mile and many more wonders)

• baking paleo bread

• participating in a really interesting and genre-busting play-reading of The Block Association Project with a phenomenal group of talents

Reading:

•  So Sad Today: Personal Essays by Melissa Broder 
•  The Nightengale's Sonata
• The Big New Yorker Book of Cats
• New Family Values by Andrew Solomon
• The Night Watch by Sarah Waters
• Why You Are Who You Are from The Great Courses
• The Disappearing Spoon by Sam Kean
• Dare to Lead by Brené Brown



My sisters!

• Daring Greatly by Brené Brown

• recording a cut song from Fiddler on the Roof titled 'Marry for Love' (which was ultimately replaced by 'Matchmaker') with Roslaind Harris and Neva Small (Tzeitel and Chava from the Fiddler motion picture, respectively!)
  

with Rosalind Harris and Neva Small

• hosting friends from far away (both named Alexandra)

• reuniting with my Fiddler family at 54 Below!

• re-connecting with old friends who live locally!

• hanging with MamaSilbs

• and (shockingly, surprisingly... in THE most unlikely of places and circumstances) falling in love... 

Him. <3

GALentine Lady Tea

Tea party fixings for Galentine's Day

Lovers!

As you may recall from my previous post about the One Party Per Month Plan, my goal for 2018 is to have one party or gathering in my home per month.

Now that I have "come out" about my health journey, I can share a bit more candidly that one of the overall woes was the sensation that my life was getting smaller and smaller. It wasn't all bad. It was, in fact, a necessity of sorts—my wonderful little haven of an apartment became a kind of cocoon for restoration even when I felt like I would never get well, catch up, or feel normal again.

Every moment, every thought, every action, literally every thing was focused on just "getting by"—making certain I had the base amount of energetic wherewithal to get from my home to work, and back again. Hopefully without incident.

I did not have the energy to see friends or conventionally socialize, and even if I had, I wouldn't know what to share with them when the inevitable "How have you been" questions. I am grateful all of it, but I sensed a need to break open once more.

I still have my limitations (not to mention my introvert nature!)—and I realized that going from fetal position to CLUBBING ALL NIGHT was not really going to be my trajectory when it came to "getting back out into the world." (Plus, let's be frank: I'm in my thirties, Y'all. I don't "club" as a verb. Ever. And I didn't at any age but that's not even the point.) Anyway! My goal was to open my life, my heart, re-introduce myself to the world again, on my own terms.

The solution?

Use my own wonderful home! The place that has served me so well as a place of healing and womb-like restoration, can now be a place to gather friends old and new. I vow to throw one gathering or party in my home per calendar month for all of 2018. That will force me to vacuum. And buy crudite. And pause Netflix.

February? Amidst the grey skies and frigid temperatures, I thought a bit of bright sunny civility was in order. Why not have a proper ladies-only high tea for Galentine's Day?

In today's environment of seemingly endless hostility, activism and feelings of helplessness, Galentine's Day honestly seemed to be just the self-care day we, and perhaps all, women need.  We dressed up. We are tiiiiiny sandwiches. We drank tea. Above all, it was a time for us to come together to reflect on goals, dreams, accomplishments, life in general, and the work we still need to do as women. It was not-annoying-or-overly-aggressive Feminism. With a side of Darjeeling.

Here's to the ladies who tea.
Everybody Rise.

HOORAY FOR LADIES!

'Dust of Snow' by Robert Frost

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

If on a Winter's Night a Traveler

“There are days when everything I see seems to me charged with meaning: messages it would be difficult for me to communicate to others, define, translate into words, but which for this very reason appear to me decisive. They are announcements or presages that concern me or the world at once: for my part, not only the external events of my existence but also what happens inside, in the depths of me; and for the world, not some particular event but the general way of being of all things.” 

— Italo Calvino, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler

Miracle of Lights

Deep in the shadows of old Jerusalem, the ancient Jews fought against oppression. They joined together, rose up, and defeated the oppressors who had outlawed their faith and desecrated their holy temple.

In the ruins of their newly won city, the ancient Jews stood in the silence and agreed: they must cleanse and re-dedicate the temple. They would reignite the menorah—a beacon of light that would burn all day and all night—as a symbol of their fortitude, and, in every way, their faith.

According to the Talmud, olive oil was required to keep the menorah ablaze within the Temple. But when the Jews returned to their oil supply, they found that there was only enough oil to burn for a single day. Eight days would be required to prepare a new supply of oil. The light in the temple would be doused long before then.

But a miracle happened.

The oil in the temple lasted eight incredible days: exactly the time needed to prepare a fresh supply of oil for the menorah. Thus, Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights came to be.

Beyond all reason or logic, we too—like the light in the ancient Temple of Jerusalem—are inextinguishable. In the darkest and most desperate hours, when we mine ourselves for more than we ever could conceive was possible, the fuel is there. So that we may continue on.

Hope may be fragile, but it is there.

     Like light. . .

Sometimes blazing, sometimes merely a tender, trembling flicker that regardless, cannot be extinguished, that flame winking even in the darkest hours. So our ancient ancestors have taught us. So we continue to learn again and again as time churns ever onward.

Hope accompanies all new beginnings. . .

Happy Hanukkah everyone. May we all mine ourselves for more-- tonight and always. 

I've Been...

MIA.

Sorry folks.

Winter Reads: A List

[Cue: deep-baritoned voice over...]

Winter.

[Cue: windy sounds]

The dim days of earth's sabbath are before you.

[Cue: record scratch]

Did I ever tell you that my New York apartment is called "the Winter Palace?"
No?
Did I not do that because it reveals how nerdy I am, that I love AllThingsRussian so profoundly I have chosen to name my apartment after the winter residence of the Tsars of Russia? Well at least I am consistent. At least I faked left and swung left.

Here in the Winter Palace I don't rely on the calendar or the weather to let me know that winter is here. My winter traditionally kicks off with:

1. A viewing of Bill Murray in Scrooged. (Because this is the one time of year when it is acceptable to view a Bill Murray film on repeat that is not What About Bob?)
2. The setting up of my sweet lil' lopsided Christmas tree, as well as my portable menorah presented to me (from a big black bag) by an enthusiastic Orthodox Jew in the middle of Leicester Square 5 years ago.
3. An attempt or two at making the best of watching winter sports on television (Because sometimes you have been taken hostage. Or are tied to a pole. And forced to watch curling).
4. A Google Image search for "Peppermint Schnapps Office Drunk-Fest." (Because there may not be snow on the ground but there is always time for a pointless Google search featuring the non-word "fest"...)
5. Preparing the sofa for me to be curled up within it all winter long. And beneath a snuggle-y duvet, I shall be curled around a book.

[Cue: Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Snowflakes


aaaaand Cue:

: : :::Snow::: : :]

It is winter.
You will be cold.
You will, at times, be housebound.
You will sip delicious hot beverages.
You will endure terrible winter sporting events on television (if you are dating anyone from Minnesota...)
You will warm your apartment with the oven in desperation (because central heating is sooo un-New York).
You will catch The Latest Animal Flu and give it to your friends.
But you will have books.
And a good book on a winter's day will make your heart warm, your imagination alive, and your afternoons waaay better than enduring a viewing of the Nordic Combined (because your cable has inevitably gone out...)

Here are some winter reading suggestions, for the only season that begins with "WIN."

*

original cover. nice.

1. The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe

I won't bother to go on and on (and on) about The Narnian Order Debate again.

[pause]

...But I will passive-aggressively say that this FIRST novel in The Chronicles of Narnia is winter reading perfection:
a snow-laden magical land
discovered in the back of a wardrobe
that leads to the adventure of a lifetime
for four young children
in war-torn England.
...
Come on.
Break out the Turkish Delight, pour a hot cocoa and get to it.
There are talking animals,
an evil Snow Queen with both a carriage and a bone to pick with Goodness (not to mention an endless supply of poison brain-washing candy),
a war against Evil
and a journey home.

If you have only seen any of the (lovely) film adaptations, you are missing out. Go get it right now (and make certain you love the cover because there are many to choose from, some far better than others, and honestly? it matters...)

I also want to say this for good measure:
I am not a person of particular religion, but I am a person of great individual (though unspecified) faith, and despite the ownership the religious community finds in these stories (which I do not, and I encourage all of you to not begrudge, for they were written by a beautiful man of great faith), I admit that I never connected to them on that level.
     As a little girl and as an adult, I relate to Narnia on the level of an inquisitive child whose life was happy, but not without a constant, low, sonorous note of tumult represented by my father's illness. This allowed me to identify greatly with the Penvesies—who were happy children surrounded by great unrest in their country and their world, much as we are today.
     Full of hope, I was always ready for a fairy tale that fostered a faith in myself more profoundly  than in any particular Deity, and encourage anyone else to mine The Chronicles of Narnia for more than what is "on the label."
     My point for religious and secular readers alike is this: just as traveling to Rome, to Italy, to Europe itself, is not merely about a trip to the Vatican, a trip to Narnia is as fulfilling and rich as we have the vision and openness for it it to be.
Narnia is for us all.

"But what does it all mean?" asked Susan when they were somewhat calmer.
"It means," said Aslan, "that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of Time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation."

2. Little Women 
by Louisa May Alcott

Ah! One of my favorite Christmases in literary history begins on page one: sisters Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy March are discussing what they might buy themselves for Christmas if they only had the means (as the March family did in the days before their father went into the Civil War), only to remember all the things they could give to their selfless mother, Marmy.

But of course, Little Women is one of the most beloved books of all time, chronicling the four inextinguishable March sisters as they struggle through poverty, miss their soldiering father, and cope with the harsh realities of life as they grow up in an often frigid New England (in both literal and social climate). Louisa May Alcott based much of this story on events and people in her own life and the prose, dialogue and swollen feeling that drapes each character she describes (and clearly loves) is as endearing and readable as it is passionate.


3. Rebecca
by Daphne DuMarier

Rebecca is a novel by Daphne du Maurier. When Rebecca was published in 1938, du Maurier became – to her great surprise – one of the most popular authors of the day. Rebecca is considered to be one of her best works.

"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again" is the book's famous opening line, and from here its unnamed narrator reminisces about her past. It is evident at the beginning of the novel that Maxim and the second Mrs. de Winter now live in some foreign exile. The events recounted in the book are in essence a flashback of the narrator's life at Manderley.

Its heroine, symbolically nameless, comes to Manderley and finds herself competing with the ghost of her husband's dead wife. The heroine has recently become "Mrs. de Winter," but Rebecca was "Mrs. de Winter" first, and the novel shows us the heroine's attempts to escape the dead wife's shadow, even as the sinister servant Mrs. Danvers dresses her in Rebecca's clothes and urges her to kill herself and leave the house to the ghost...come on. Why haven't you already started?

Rebecca is a classic of modern Gothic and psychological, and suspense literature. Gothic fiction is characterized by picturesque settings, an atmosphere of mystery and terror, and a hint of violence and the supernatural; Rebecca exemplifies the genre. The action takes place in the hallowed mansion of Manderley; the book encompasses a murder, a terrible fire, and features a sinister servant; finally, the entire story is pervaded by the unquiet ghost of Rebecca herself.

Plus, in typically Gothic fashion, the weather mirrors the characters' moods (which is why it makes the Winter list!): a fog descends when the heroine is confused and depressed; Maxim kills Rebecca on the night of a terrible storm. A mansion consumed by fire? The (Freudian field-day) romance between an older man and a younger woman? The lurking, secret-enshrouded presence of a first wife? 19th Century fiction heaven! This story comes full circle, bringing us back to the present where we began, having been led us on a Gothic adventure of psychological and supernatural intrigue.
Read it.

4. If on a winter's night a traveler

by Italo Calvino

Let's talk for a moment abouta little literary function called the second-person narrative.

Okay. It is a narrative mode (not the story itself, but the way in which a story is told) where the protagonist or another main character is referred to by use of personal pronouns ("I," "They," and all other substitutes for proper nouns) in the second-person, giving the impression that you are being simultaneously addressed directly by the narrator, as well as being in the shoes of the narrator themselves.

Traditionally, the employment of the second-person form in literary fiction has not been as prevalent as the corresponding first-person and third-person forms. 
Here is a little chart:

Personal Pronouns

Pronouns	Nominative Case	Objective Case	Possessive Case
1st Person	I, we	me, us	my, mine, our, ours
2nd Person	you	you	your, yours
3rd Person	he, she, it, they	him, her, it, them	his, her, hers, it, their, theirs

In Second Person Narrative the narrator does NOT speak of themselves as in First Person Narrative ("Last night I dreamed of Manderley again..." - from Daphne DuMarier's previously mentioned Rebecca)
or in the uninvolved entity of the Third Person Narrative ("When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him." - from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice)

Second Person Narrative has the quality of addressing you directly, and though not as popular in literary fiction, is hugely prevalent in other literature such as in the case of a "How To" book, guide books, song lyrics, self-help books, do-it-yourself manuals, interactive fiction, role-playing games, and advertisements. ("You have alertly seized your opportunities and are now on the first rung of the ladder..." - from How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying)

Al, I hear you asking, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

Second Person Narrative is rare in fiction and this is 'SPN' at its finest. Calvino shows that the novel is capable of endless mutations. If on a winter's night a traveler turns out to be not one novel but ten, each with a different plot, style, ambiance, and author.

The narrative is about a reader trying to read a book called If on a winter's night a traveler.
That's right.
You heard me.
The book is about a person attempting to complete the task you yourself are currently attempting to complete as your are reading it.
... freaky... 

But wait, there's more! In this "playful postmodernist puzzle" described by The Telegraph (in one of it's "100 novels everyone should read" list)
Every odd-numbered chapter is in the second person, and tells the reader what he is doing in preparation for reading the next chapter.
The even-numbered chapters are all single chapters from whichever book the reader is trying to read.

Trust me: it is weird and wonderful innovative contemporary fiction, and full of magic.

5. The Master and Margarita
by Mikhail Bulgakov

Look.
People.
     . . . Comrades:
Winter is clearly the most opportune time to spend curled around a juicy piece of Russian Lit-- and truly Russian Lit could be its very own post. You all know how I *feel* about allthingsrussian (reiterated in the nerd-faced naming of my apartment) so you have to understand how seriously I took this singular selection. I could use this spot to ask you why-the-heck have you not yet read Anna Karenina? Or stuff quote after quote of the humanity and whimsey of Gogol down your throat like a rancid Soviet potato ration. I could melt your hair with the heat of my passion for the gorgeous prose of Pasternak. I could shove Pushkin's poetry in your face...Push-kin would, quite literally, come to Shove...kin... (...sorry...)

Regardless, Comrades!
None of it could compare to the weight of my insistence that (she cringes slightly) if you read no other piece of Russian literature in your entire life, you must make certain it is The Master and Margarita. (But... that said, please read more. Please. I am certain my best friend Arielle who also loves allthingsrussian--including if not especially her Russian literature professor husband-- would be happy to make you a reading list even more insanely detailed than this one.)

The Master and Margarita (Мастер и Маргарита), is a novel by the great Mikhail Bulgakov which he began writing in 1928 and which was finally published by his widow in 1966, twenty-six years after his death, led to an international appreciation of his work. (In fact: Bulgakov had to rewrite the novel from memory after he burned the draft manuscript of this novel, and a destroyed manuscript of the original is an important element of the plot.) Initially banned by the Soviets, it is now regarded as a classic of Russian Literature, and many critics consider the book to be one of the greatest novels of the 20th century.

Its plot, woven around the premise of a visit by The Devil to a (fervently atheistic) 1930s Moscow in the Soviet Union. The premise was considered to be too far a departure from socialist realism (the state approved mode of writing. Fancy that.) But below the twisty, windy, delightfully bizarre-o plot, this great work is a withering critique of Soviet society and its literary establishment.

Thanks to picturesque descriptions (especially of old Jerusalem), lyrical fragments and outlandish "no rules" style,  the piece is appreciated far beyond it's philosophical undertones, transcending to a soaring example of "out-there," psychological, brain-melting storytelling, sardonic wit, high artistic flourish, as well as a pure literary technical prowess.

A frame narrative structure (a technique characteristic to story-within-a-story formats such as in The Princess Bride, for example, where a main narrative is presented for the purpose of setting the stage for a more emphasized second narrative), involves two characteristically related time periods and/or plot lines. In the case of The Master and Margarita: a retelling of the gospels alongside a description of contemporary Moscow.

In what I consider to be perhaps the most stunning opening chapter of any novel I have ever read,
the story begins in 1930s Moscow with two men, a literary publisher and a young poet, traversing the Patriot Ponds, only to be visited by a mysterious (and deeply creepy) "foreigner"  who confidently joins a conversation between the two men as they debate the existence of Jesus Christ and the Devil...the latter whom the Foreigner seems all too familiar with...

The narrative quickly evolves into an all-embracing indictment of the corruption, greed, narrow-mindedness, and widespread paranoia of Soviet Russia, with grit and character portraits worthy of a Scorcese film, and mind-bending phantasmagoric twists worthy of Charlie Kaufman (that I cannot chronicle here without 400+ spoiler alerts, so I will not). Why do I use cinematic parallels you ask? Because The Master and Margarita possesses dramatically cinematic scope, and all written the year after talking pictures were invented. You will fly over the USSR at midnight. You will meet a motley crew of subversive weirdos (which, among other things, includes a Puss-in-Boots-type gun slinging pussy cat), and go back in time to visit with Pontius Pilate of old Jerusalem. Bulgakov exploits art's capacity to give life to the unfathomable, the illogical, while simultaneously reminding us of art's parallel capacity to fulfill dreams. The results elicit terror, laughter, sadness, and wonder.

Published more than 25 years after Bulgakov's death, and more than ten years after Stalin's, the novel firmly secured Bulgakov's place among the pantheon of great Russian writers, and contributed a number of sayings to the Russian language, for example, "Manuscripts don't burn" and "second-grade freshness." It has also influenced anyone from Mick Jagger, to Pearl Jam, to Scottish band Franz Ferdinand's song "Love and Destroy."

What. Are. You. Waiting. For? 

Grab your cozy socks, 

brew that cup of hot tea, 

snuggle up in the duvet and 

     get reading. 

'Tis the season...

It's all Greek to me...

In from the Blizzard

I enter the high rise studio room in the middle of a blizzard-- fresh off the plane from the mild, sunny West.

"Alexandra!" many people cheer, and they gather toward me like enthusiastic magnets. I should be a day late more often, I think.

I am instantly greeted by the quiet, charming, disheveled director of genius proportions, who has been talking to Chita in the corner alongside a gigantic window displaying the snow coming down in vast curtains outside.

And when I say Chita? Yes, I mean the one and only Chita Rivera. The living legend.

These people could not be nicer. It feels; not at all like the first day of school, but like the first day of summer camp— or rather, the second day of summer camp and everyone has heard about the camper arriving tomorrow and let’s make sure she feels welcome. Delightful.


* * *


Why Can’t I Speak?


Five of us gather around the piano— the musical director Patrick, Justin the young actor playing Niko, myself and Jim the accompanist. Leveaux looks on, Banderas beside him, stage management organize, shuffle and arrange in the corner.

There are two trios Niko, The Leader, and The Widow sing together— we go about learning them.

Then a Ricola exchange-- Chita is kitted out with anything a performer might need and it is all there on the music stand-- balanced within an inch of its life. "Anything you need my dear!" smiles Chita, a beautiful septuagenarian of Olympic proportion. Still on it, sharp as a whip and kind far beyond necessary for her status.

The left-handed MD Patrick takes us through it slowly, the rhythms are tough— the harmonies complex. One of Kander’s great unknown and literally unsung gems. Chita makes notations (she is left-handed too).


And just then, from the bluster of the February storm, enters a dark-coated John Kander shivering from the wind and cold. He made his way to our gathering around the piano.

“Hello…” his voice was soft, his eyes incredibly kind.

We continued learning. Harmonies. Chords.

He placed his satchel and battered umbrella on a nearby chair, removed his coat, and sat there listening. They are all; these lovely men—Kander, Leveaux (David NineandFiddlerRevivalsVisionaryEnglishDirector), Banderas (yes, of the Antonio variety)— in fact, listening. In exactly the same position: legs crossed, arms folded, head at rest atop the right hand brought up directly to the chin and mouth. A stance well known to the deeply contemplative. Think about the story of the butterfly… I think they are.


Suddenly we reach an impasse: Chita feels her notes “aren’t what they used to be I fear, too high too high. I’m so sorry.” She has such a sense of humor— not only about life but about herself, her self-awareness harsh but remarkable. She is struggling but so are the newbies! we have only been learning music for three-quarters of an hour! (And for what it’s worth, I disagree, I think the woman is a marvel though I don’t quite feel inclined to say so in this moment).

“May I?” Kander asks the accompanist politely.
“Of course,” Jim stands up allowing the composer to sit before the keys.
“Allow me, I’m just going to sort of the keys and modulations…”

We all watch in silence.
“Watch…” Chita whispers to me, “just watch. `When John touches a piano, it explodes with sound…”

And then it did.

He sat there a moment, brow furrowed, working out chord transpositions with the ease, vision, and elegance of a mathematician. I am in awe.

“Told you…” Chita smiled.


Meanwhile, Justin is focused and serious in the corner. I assume from every clue in his demeanor he is experiencing the not wanting to blow it sensation. I can only imagine; Alan Bates on his mind, a classic novel, a beloved film, an A to hit, Banderas to play to, the world to impress. --When I glance over he is buried in the score—for what it’s worth he’s doing just fine on all counts and I’ve known him 30 minutes.


Back at the impasse Chita looks over and smiles at me before announcing to Kander, "Yes I heard her next to me and thought 'I sound great!' but it wasn’t me after all! I’ll get it. I will get it. I just want to do your music justice darling."

Kander stood, clasping his hands together and placing them casually across the top of the upright piano. He is such a quiet man. "I promise you will be fine," he murmurs, eyes smiling.
"Yeah?"
"Have I ever broken a promise to you...? …after all these years?"
"True."

And they smile.

And it was that exchange. It was in that exchange that I could not believe the company I was keeping.

It truly was, above all others, a moment I have worked my whole life to be in the presence of. One that teleported me straight back to the dusty days of a twelve-year-old girl on a bunk-bed at Interlochen listening and learning from to and from these people making theatre history on a crappy Walkman. Banderas was great-- the real deal and a wonderful man, but these were my idols. It was the moment of a lifetime. A moment of arrival.

After the music session we packed up our things and made our way toward the smaller rehearsal space to talk things over, but I am mesmerized by Kander’s warmheartedness, his gentle face. His kind eyes.

"You wanna know why his eyes are so kind?" Chita asks me looking over at her old friend.
"Yes. Why?"
She smiled, not looking at me, “Because he’s kind…"

...she nudged my shoulder and walked slowly away, each step seemingly filled with memories...