A Lovely Inconsequence

Our Slow Steady Light

A Lovely Inconsequence — Tue, 14 Apr 2026 11:38:03 +0000

Last month my twin was abruptly diagnosed with breast cancer. And our world stopped. It’s lumbering forward now but very painstakingly and very slowly. Let me preface all that’s next with “She has an excellent prognosis and will be fine”. Please breath a sigh of relief with me because it is the truth. And don’t immediately say, “Oh you should get checked yourself!” because I will only file that under the “Gee, why didn’t I think of that???” circular file. For the record, it’s been addressed and addressed over again. My post is about my beautiful sister and her new world order. Initially, there is terror because so many things in this realm take time. It seemed to me that each new thing we had to go through took 7 days to resolve: the repeat mammogram with ultrasound, the biopsy, the surgery, the pathology, etc. etc. All with lots of waiting days in between. Days to worry and wonder and of course pray and hope. And now beautiful, beautiful skilled people are surrounding us and they are so steady in their message that things will be well again. And because of that, we have finally stopped shaking. Yes, there is work ahead and hard things to go through. And there is light. Slow but steady and we are leaning towards it every single day. But sometimes people say the stupidest things and the curtain draws closed again. It’s not that I blame them or it’s truly their fault. They use old cliches that may have been told to them or things they heard or saw on an old TV show. So many people are not up to date on modern breast cancer treatment which is so much better and more targeted than ever, even in the last 15 years. Nevertheless, things have been said. But our team is still edging that curtain back and proceeding to open it to full sunshine which is not a milky white one but full-on bright yellow. And we will get there. Together. There is something about this kind of news that rearranges everything quietly but completely. We are learning how to live in two places at once: in the reality of appointments and side effects and timelines, and also in this growing, stubborn belief that she is going to come through this. Not untouched—but still herself. Still my sister. Still us. Some days the fear is louder. Some days the light is. Most days, they sit side by side and we just keep going anyway. And maybe that’s what this is now—not a dramatic story of bravery or transformation, but something quieter. Showing up. Sitting next to each other. Letting the hard moments be hard without letting them take everything. We are not rushing this. We are not skipping ahead. We are just here—holding onto a slow, steady light—and trusting that if we keep facing it, that light will take over. And for the first time since all of this began, that feels like enough.

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An Eye to Spring

A Lovely Inconsequence — Wed, 04 Mar 2026 11:51:40 +0000

This is not a lament, though we have just lived through the largest blizzard on record — by every measure: snowfall, wind, the long howl of it. For now, my state is shuttered. When Mother Nature decides to stretch her authority, I am gently reminded who truly has the final say. As I fold my sweaters back into their familiar rotation, my thoughts lean toward spring. The other day I came upon a photograph on my phone — my backyard patio last summer (see above – it’s humble but it’s mine). There sat my pretty settee, cushions plumped just so, an open book resting face-down, mid-chapter and much enjoyed. The flowers were lavish and unapologetic, especially the large begonia I buy each year. Nothing behaves more generously in a container than a begonia. I favor the lipstick shades — coral, hot pink, watermelon. I don’t think I had even finished planting when I took that picture; there was still more abundance to come — herbs, geraniums, another pot or two of trailing green. It was a beautiful little haven, a soft place to land when I wasn’t happily idling away hours at the beach or pool. In the deep of winter — whether the kind that barrels in with drifts to the windows (and I have never, ever seen snow quite like this), or the winter that settles quietly in the heart when something goes awry, when someone we love is hurting, or when we lose what we hold dear — it is the promise of spring that steadies us. The thought of it just over the horizon. And, of course, the prayers and kindness of the good souls in our lives. We must never forget them. I find myself dreaming of sunlight on my shoulders, the way I always do this time of year. But it is not only the light I crave — it is the warmth. To feel a tender, balm-soft breeze drift across bare arms. To step outside without bracing. Those days are coming. I know they are. In the meantime, I am tending to small anticipations of a gentler season, even as I marvel at the towering white banks encircling my home. Along with that patio photograph, I rediscovered a film that once meant the world to me: See You in the Morning. The moment I heard its opening notes — Nat King Cole singing “When I Fall in Love” — I tucked myself into a cradle of blankets and heating pads and surrendered to a tender, nostalgic afternoon. I can remember exactly who I was when that film first found me in the theater. I went four times before I could own it on VHS, and later on DVD. Some stories simply stay with us. Though I have never been patient enough for audiobooks, I slipped a CD from the library into my car’s player this winter. What a gift it has been to listen to Mrs. Dalloway while idling at the pharmacy drive-thru or running brief errands. The story waits faithfully for me each time I turn the key. Some narrators are so melodic they feel like companions. I’ve even borrowed from the children’s shelves — The Secret Garden and The Railway Children among them — and listening in these small bursts has been a quiet winter joy. I have dedicated one of my small journals to “Spring Things,” an ongoing list of homekeeping, gardening, and decorating ideas I don’t want to lose once the busy season arrives. I am planning an Easter basket for my coffee table — hyacinths, daffodils, and pussy willows gathered together in a simple arrangement. I am browsing for everyday silverware that feels sturdy and lovely in the hand, and loose teas in flavors that hint at blossom and sun. So yes, the snow is high and the winds have had their say. But I am keeping company with memory, with story, with small preparations. Spring is already beginning — quietly, faithfully — in my thoughts.

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Snow, Carefully

A Lovely Inconsequence — Tue, 03 Feb 2026 02:13:04 +0000

The snow that fell two weeks ago has hardened into something glassy and unyielding, not unlike the cooled lava I once walked near in Hawaii—beautiful, fixed, and everywhere. It presses against roads and pathways that once felt easy, transforming ordinary movement into something that requires patience and care. I look toward the recycling bin along the side of the house and know, without quite deciding it, that today is not the day to risk an angry twist of fate with my bad knee. Staying indoors feels less like hesitation and more like preservation. And yet, I still love winter. It asks us to slow down and dress with intention. Sweaters become essential companions, and I know which ones truly hold warmth and which silently surrender to the cold at the wrists. A sweater I began knitting years ago—once too heavy to imagine wearing—has returned to me at just the right moment. Now it belongs to this season. I work on it in the late afternoons, the wool resting across my lap like a sleeping cat, each stitch a small answer to the cold outside. A new part-time job I love carries me outdoors in the early mornings a few days each week, and I have learned the comfort of proper layers. Long johns in soft fleece and smooth black knits that hold my shoulders and back in steady warmth. Soon, a merino wool undershirt from my sister will join them. These layers stay close beneath my sweaters, even after I am home again, and I wonder why I resisted such wisdom for so long. Perhaps vanity once had its say, but today’s fibers are kinder, offering warmth without a weighty silhouette. Winter dries everything it touches, including my skin. One evening, searching for relief for flaky eyelids, I opened a sample of a special eye mask and discovered it worked best when used gently, like a cream. A visit to my local cosmetic emporium confirmed that many others had made the same quiet discovery. It was a splurge, yes, but the skin around my eyes has never felt so calm and healthy. There is something deeply winter-like about this kind of care—attentive and protective. And like winter, I am unhurried. The snow remains outside, still sharp and unmoving, a pale echo of those distant lava fields that fascinated me once. It waits along the edges of my days, reminding me to move carefully, to layer thoughtfully, and to stay close to what offers warmth. For now, staying indoors in the afternoon and evening feels exactly right—an act of intention and a seasonal kind of grace.

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On the Twelfth Day of a Feminine Christmas

A Lovely Inconsequence — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 21:55:22 +0000

These two make me smile. They are clearly at a real, old-fashioned New Year’s Eve party—dressed to the nines, party makers in hand. I love the idea of it far more than the reality. Truth be told, I prefer being at home on New Year’s Eve…and New Year’s Day, too. That said, if a wonderful invitation came my way, I wouldn’t turn down a good party. Still, so many of my friends feel just as I do—been there, done that. Which is not to say that New Year’s Eve is without its special glimmers. Tonight is cold but not clear. A little icy snow is on its way—yet another reason to stay in. But I do love a crystalline holiday night. It adds a certain jubilant shimmer to New Year’s Eve and has always felt like a glimmer meant just for me. Other glimmers abound as well: warm firelight, good food, friendly faces, cozy sweaters. This season I’ve even taken to wearing scarves indoors, just for that extra layer of comfort. Dear Readers, thank you for your faithfulness to this blog, which probably should have been closed down long ago. I suppose I’m simply not smart enough to do it. God bless you, and may you find beautiful glimmers tonight, tomorrow, and always. ~DMM

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On the Eleventh Day of a Feminine Christmas

A Lovely Inconsequence — Tue, 30 Dec 2025 23:35:22 +0000

This may not look like a Christmas image, at least not in the way you’ve come to expect from A Lovely Inconsequence. But let me explain. The photograph is of Meryl Streep in the 1984 film Falling in Love. I count this movie among my Christmas staples—not one I watch every year, perhaps, but one I return to from time to time. When Falling in Love was released, audiences were not especially kind to it. They couldn’t quite reconcile how two people, played by Streep and Robert De Niro, could leave their perfectly nice spouses for one another. Setting that discomfort aside, the film quite literally begins and ends at Christmas. The holiday frames the story, quietly bookending this crisp, visually beautiful 1980’s film. Watching it now, I’m struck by how much I enjoy the world as it once was—quiet commuters on a morning train, dressed well and behaving well. Restaurants without endless gimmicks and noise. A New York City I recognize and understand. But back to this photograph—and with the lightest hint of a spoiler. Here is Meryl just before embarking on the evening train, dressed in her Christmas finery after a day of holiday shopping in the city, much as she had done the year before. She wears a silk blouse, a crocheted vest, and a very traditional Christmas brooch—a wreath (and honestly, that pin deserves a post all its own, don’t you think?). If you’ve seen the film, you may agree with me that Meryl never looked more beautiful than she does on this late-night Christmas train, where she finally meets her destiny. I’ll say no more. It’s a Christmas movie.

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On the Tenth Day of a Feminine Christmas

A Lovely Inconsequence — Tue, 30 Dec 2025 01:29:00 +0000

This image calls to mind so many of the things I loved about the Christmas gifts my mother chose for me during my teenage years. The dolls and bassinets had quietly slipped away, replaced by frilly nightgowns, small bottles of cologne, Yardley lipsticks, and softly scented bubble bath. My stocking held jewelry now — a charm or two meant for my silver bracelet — small, shining acknowledgments that life had changed, and with it, Christmas itself. It was also a time when teens and in-betweens came down to Christmas morning wrapped in modest rose-sprigged quilted robes, slippers neatly on their feet. Even at early dawn, one was expected to be properly dressed in respectable nightclothes to open gifts with the family. Our model is beribboned here, and it appears she may have swiped on a touch of her Christmas lipstick before the photograph was taken — a small, telling gesture of becoming. Do you remember when your presents under the Christmas tree reflected this important change too?

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On the Ninth Day of a Feminine Christmas

A Lovely Inconsequence — Sun, 28 Dec 2025 20:22:32 +0000

I love these two friends. paused together before a shop window at Christmas. Their delight is unmistakable—faces softened by wonder, shoulder to shoulder in shared pleasure. Even now, with Christmas Day behind us, that feeling still lingers for me, warm and intact. The days between Christmas and New Year’s seem to hover in a kind of doorway. The new year has not yet announced itself and time has loosened its grip. Obligations drift out of focus, and more than once I’ve stopped and asked myself what day it is. A recent snowfall has kept the world looking decidedly Christmas-y, lending everything an old-fashioned charm. For now, I remain devoted to the season’s quiet riches. I remember this week from childhood—the snow, the new stuffed animals still carrying their fresh-from-the-shop scent, the picture books from Santa opened and reopened beside a glowing fire. Yes, the gifts have been unwrapped and the clamor has softened, but the true power of Christmas—the gentle joy reflected on the faces of dear friends like these—begins here.

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On the Eight Day of a Feminine Christmas

A Lovely Inconsequence — Thu, 25 Dec 2025 01:59:40 +0000

If you’ve come this far, you’ve earned your elegant arabesque. At last, with Christmas Eve upon us, we may lower our guard; whatever remains unfinished no longer matters. Take a breath. Christmas morning is close now, and things will settle as they always do. What matters most in all this Christmas bustle is being with the people we love, and the season graciously gives us permission to linger there—to revel, just a little, in one another’s company. Tomorrow morning, give yourself permission for a little self-care. If you are hosting this year, pause to sip cool mineral water from a pretty glass. Take a warm bath, and smooth on something lovely you may have found beneath the tree. Let your frontline help — they are likely eager to be useful. Savor the conversations, the easy laughter, the small moments that quietly become memories. Later, set them down in a journal so they won’t slip away. And do allow yourself a decadent bite of dessert, especially if it involves chocolate. Merry Christmas!

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On the Seventh Day of a Feminine Christmas

A Lovely Inconsequence — Wed, 24 Dec 2025 03:48:41 +0000

This may well be an AI-generated image, or at least one that has been idealized. Still, I am drawn to it for its unmistakably female point of view. The women feel almost like a romanticized version of the four March sisters from Little Women, though my first instinct was to see them as girlfriends. That may be because this Christmas I feel especially indebted to my own friends—women whose companionship I am savoring deeply during these festive weeks leading up to the holiday. I have enjoyed more than my share of parties, long lunches, and even a merry concert set within the soaring beauty of a cathedral. As we grow older, Christmas shifts its shape a little. We lose beloved people, children grow up and must divide their holiday to include a spouse’s family, and traditions quietly adjust. What I have found, particularly in recent years, is that friends can be wonderfully available—and that availability has been one of the great gifts of this season for me. I also spent the past weekend in the company of a childhood friend and her husband. I wavered over whether it was sensible to travel so close to Christmas, and I am now so glad I chose to go. The time we shared was a true reprieve from the season’s inevitable bustle, a gentle pause that I didn’t realize how much I needed. I drove home feeling restored and ready to take up my Christmas preparations once again. We traded recipes and stories, lingered over cozy meals, and I was treated to the glow of holiday lights in my beloved city of Boston. Each small pleasure added its own shimmer to this already enchanting time of year. Christmas may be the greatest of family celebrations, but our friends so often become the quiet constellations that steady us—showing up with their time, their laughter, and their easy understanding when the season shifts and familiar patterns change.

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On the Sixth Day of a Feminine Christmas

A Lovely Inconsequence — Mon, 22 Dec 2025 03:51:16 +0000

Being a grandmother, I now feel Christmas, most keenly through grandmotherhood—which is a love that is both deep and light, rooted and buoyant. There is a particular joy in seeing the season through a child’s eyes. The thrill of a twinkling light, the seriousness with which a story is listened to, the way a small hand reaches out without thinking. These moments soften the sharp edges of time and remind me that wonder is not lost; it is passed along. Christmas with a grandchild feels less hurried. I am no longer orchestrating every detail. Instead, I am watching, listening, remembering. I choose warmth over perfection—cookies slightly misshapen, traditions happily repeated, the pleasure of being fully present rather than impressively prepared. Christmas holds memory tenderly, and grandmotherhood teaches me how to hold the present the same way. To linger. To savor. To recognize that the greatest gifts are not wrapped at all, but arrive from the sidelines—in shared laughter, bedtime stories, the simple blessing of being here, together, in the gentle glow of the season. I close my eyes and see shining faces Of all the children who now have children of their own Funny, but comes December, and I remember every Christmas I’ve known. ~ Frank Sinatra

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