February, for those of us who have spent our lives in school, is a long slog—tricky weather, cranky people, more weather. My coaching clients and I have talked this week about how ironic it is that short months and short weeks feel endless. An occasional anecdote? For me, it’s gratitude and the awareness that even February will not last forever. In a recent writing workshop, we wrote about what never gets old..

Mine is a long list. What about yours?

Our dog, Sclepi making tiny snuffling snores at the foot of the bed.
Watching snow fall while I am warm inside.
Photos of the kids through the years that randomly pop up on my I-pad, and, in the spirit of full disclosure, I have no idea why or how they appear, so it feels like a surprise every time.
Not waking to an alarm, but letting myself wake when I choose, which is often just as early as the alarm would wake me, but the luxury is in waking without being awakened.
The first sip of coffee, pleasure only increased when my favorite mug is clean in the cabinet and I don’t have to settle for an understudy mug and there is plenty of Half and Half..
The smell of garlic and onions in the frying pan–of course, this does get old a day later, but in the moment, it’s a glorious scent.
A brand new needlepoint canvas with all the skeins of silky thread unsullied before I cut them and stuff them into my carrying bag.
A first run hardback novel, waiting for me to open it.
The sunday emails–the Marginalian, Pádraig Ó Tuama; Suleika Jaoud–greeting me when I wake, micro-doses of inspiration.
Watercoloring, even though I can’t draw–how I love the accident that looks better than the intention.
The color of the walls in our new house–of course, they haven’t had a chance to get old since we moved in only in October, but I love the maroon berry walls in the living room, haint blue on the porch ceiling, the shiny champagne hue of my library, the deep lavender of the little reading nook, the glossy celery of the kitchen woodwork, the apricot of our bedroom, the deep teal in the laundry room, the paler lavender of our bathroom, complete with bright purple clawfoot tub, and the cheery orange of the hallway, dubbed Creamsicle Corner by our children, who accused us of painting the house to look like a Pride Flag!
Blank notebooks–and I can admit I have a problem here–there are too many notebooks in my life, far too many.
Writing prompts someone else thinks up and offers.
Teaching–that rush of joy I feel in a classroom–even one-on-one with the women I am tutoring at the prison.
The lights going down in a theatre, any theatre, for any production–the Kindergarten assembly or Broadway.
The feel of my husband’s arm flung casually over me as he sleeps.
Clean sheets and a well-made bed, ideally not made by me.
My armchair and footstool, located especially for reading, with the “Tiffany” lamp I had in my school office and the mint green Minky blanket that our oldest daughter gave me.
Wooden floors with patterns–zig zags, borders, parquet squares.
Items that have been passed down in my family–the portrait of Uncle Jimmy, my mother’s Rose Medallion china and her tiny pitcher with shamrocks on an ivory background.
My earring collection–perhaps as bad as my collection of unused notebooks but easier to store.
Bins of flowers outside grocery stores in Manhattan.
Purple ink in my fountain pens.
A cup of Earl Grey tea in the afternoon.
Radiant heat on the bathroom floor first thing in the morning.
Being connected to former students.
Candles that smell nice in the kitchen on chilly mornings
Trees, whose architecture is so beautifully revealed when branches are covered in snow.
Maisie’s plumy tail, waving when she is happy.

Such a list, such a huge, long list of moments and pleasures that never grow old. Take a look at Lindsay Rush’s poetry collection, A Bit Much. My list was inspired by her poem, “A Race Against the Guac.” Thank you, Penny Guisinger, for sharing it at the Iota Short Forms Sunday Writing Session last Sunday!

What Never Gets Old

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