Measure of a Decade

Marking the passage of ten years.

Back before I ever heard of frozen shoulders.

Ten years ago I had my first major surgery.  A Facebook reminder came up on my timeline earlier this year marking the day; the post was from Sissy saying she would see me when I came out.  It took five hours; we were only expecting a couple of hours.  I lost so much blood that I got two units infused.  There was some preparation and lead up to the surgery that took up some of the five hours, of course, but the surgery was the bulk of it and the main event/culmination - and in some ways the grand opening to the long, slow personal journey that ended last year.

That surgery was precipitated by little observations from years prior - physical changes I noticed but didn't tend to because they didn't really bother me and I was too busy.  And I just didn't know, didn't connect the dots that I was genetically susceptible.  And then I finally got myself checked out in 2010, the year before 10 years ago, and it became clear that I needed a medical intervention.  

Everything coincided with a professional rough patch - an anchor client died, and I was overwhelmed with work; I came close to breaking...  His widow was of Chinese descent, and I suspect she set their wedding - an odd Sunday in January - precisely to occur on the last possible day before she was to begin an "unlucky" zodiac year, but he died before they'd been married even a year - she couldn't escape it.  That was notable to me - as much as I believe in science, well, sometimes there are inexplicable forces that must be respected.  I took that to heart.  The estate tax return came due toward the end of MY unlucky zodiac year, and there would still be enough time left to schedule the surgery afterward to fall within that year - to be a responsible professional AND tend to my personal needs, and take an extended medical leave, and work break - to usher out my unlucky year and ring in a new and better lunar year.  So that's how that surgery came to be scheduled. 

So what has happened in the decade since that personally significant year?

The Arab Spring happened during my surgery; I spent the first day after the surgery watching coverage from a hospital bed.  Democracy has not taken hold across the Middle East as we had hoped.  Syria is still a sad mess.

That recovery period made me think about what I wanted from life - a baby was one, that was the whole point.  But even though the doctor said to give myself six months to heal and get to getting preggo, I hadn't met Mr. Right and I wasn't quite ready.  That's why we had last year.

The seed for this blog was planted during that first medical leave.  How did I REALLY want to spend my time?  Not in BigLaw.  So how could I learn about this social media thing, and could I monetize any of my hobbies to supplement a step away from BigLaw?  Well, I haven't monetized this thing, but I am still learning from it.  And for now, I own this domain that I conceived of back then (again).  That's something. 

I reached out to my high school ex-boyfriend during those unprecedented five weeks away from work.  I blame my feeling vulnerable as a woman and wanting affirmation of my femininity for that lapse in judgment.  Good thing he didn't respond.  But I saw him at reunion the year after, and he apologized, albeit belatedly, for his hurtful actions.  I learned of his surprisingly long marriage, and two young children.  I think the older of them is a legal adult now, and sleuthing indicates that he remains married.  Pettily, I have held up better than she.  But, of course, she is a married mom of two who owns a business.  So perhaps I need to think of better ways to assess my accomplishments. 

My law school reunion happened that year.  It coincided with Will and Kate's royal wedding.  With the time difference, I watched it in New York before heading down for the reunion.  At reunion I reconnected in person with an acquaintance,  who became a Facebook friend and led me to an increased use of Messenger - and into a phase of electronically reconnecting with boys from my past - turning over all the stones, so to speak.  At the end of that weekend, I visited friends nearby and we were up talking into the night, so we missed the live announcement of the assassination of Osama bin Laden...

... So ten years later and law school and college reunions are slated for underwhelming virtual formats.  I am going to agitate for later in the year real life flash mob reunions - whoever can make it comes.  We need to see and hold each other, confirm that we actually still exist.

... Will and Kate have produced three littles, the youngest of whom just celebrated his third birthday.  The English laws were changed so their second, a girl, will actually precede her little brother in line to the throne.  Slow progress for women in the English monarchy.  In the meantime, we had Megxit and the Oprah interview bombshells, so the monarchy shows itself as moving at snail's pace.

... Those boys from the past: There have been five of varying intensity, a few more if we count the ones who were never in the running.  They are all now friends - an acceptable result.  Some were definitely missteps, but valuable lessons learned.  A couple were real contenders in The Project.  For one, I believe I was his penultimate potential foray before he met HIS soulmate, with whom he now has a long-awaited baby girl.  They did the journey too, ahead of, but overlapping mine.  He offered, and I actually considered calling his wife in my lowest moments of The Project.  And then there was the boy who touched my soul - or, I still feel like he did.  But my Mr. Right remains elusive, still hiding under his stone somewhere. 

When I shared with friends the surgery that decade ago, I learned of a few who were in late stages of pregnancy then, including my sole single mom friend.  She's been the reassurance it could be done.  But also the reminder of how hard it can be.  She took a leave and brought the baby home to visit family, and when I recovered enough to  travel by plane, I went down to spend a week at the beach with them.  That child just hit double digits.  

And my cousins had babies.  And I went out to visit those nuggets, who also hit double digits this year.  And to pass the week between my imposing myself on their parents, I vacationed by myself for the first and - unintentionally - only time.  I took myself to an all-inclusive, activity-centric resort in Mexico, and LOVED it.  I learned the trapeze, I learned to climb a wall, I tried water skiing (with less success); I learned to be by myself but also to make new, casual, short-term friends.

During the week away with my single mom friend, my closest friend from high school got married at city hall for health insurance reasons - impromptu, and compelled in part because the changing local marital landscape meant less recognition of domestic partnerships, in her husband's employer's case - with everyone able to get married, they needed to be married for coverage.  So they are still strong, and marriage equality remains the law, even if constantly under attack. 

And the year after, with more family travel and wanting space to host - gentlemen callers, among others, I bought space downstairs for Sissy.  She was supposed to launch to offset the expenses of her space.  She is out of the apartment, technically, but not yet launched.

Vacation vistas.

So we measure a decade, and I suppose my frustration is that not much has changed for me at all.  Still in BigLaw, which is now close to unbearable.  Unlaunched sibling.  No Mr. Right.  No nugget - and so when news hits for others, for all I want to be happy, there is a tinge and a tug and a tear.

It's hard to give myself a good grade for this decade.  And I have to take responsibility for that, and grab the steering wheel, and drive already.  Then when I hear happy news for others, I can be happy for knowing I have done all I can to be happy.

 [Edited April 25, 2021.]

Sustenance for the Soul

The Obelisk in Central Park.

A walk around the Reservoir with friends and other Springtime rituals in Central Park - almost like before COVID.

Friend N was in town this past weekend visiting her mother-in-law and gave late notice that she could sneak into the city to meet with our classmate A.  So much to do, but visits with friends are rare these days, and to be invited by an out of towner is special - worth making the time and effort.  I declined outdoor lunch - still a week off from dose #2 and playing it safe - but proposed instead a masked, outdoor walk around the Reservoir felt ok.  So on Sunday I headed over to Central Park for our mini-reunion.

Oh, how replenishing it was to see old friends, and nature, and Spring - how long I have gone without those ordinary pleasures (how long we all have - over a year now); how it fills the empty space inside of me to drink all of them up, even if only for a few short hours!  

To see people I have known over two decades now, to feel safe and be able to speak openly about hopes and dreams and disappointments, to sow the seeds - or, at least, to cast them broadly and see if any will germinate - for the future.  

To actually experience the seasonal changes - the return of the plants from their Winter’s hibernation - more widely than on my tiny (but mighty!) terrace, in beloved Central Park!  How I’ve missed the exercise, and the checking on the progress of the plants, Mother Nature's grounding rhythms... they used to be the cornerstone of my fitness and sanity maintenance routines, in the Before Times.

Magnolias - showy stars of Spring.

Heading back east, approaching the Obelisk, I caught a glimpse of Alex Da Corte’s “As Long as the Sun Lasts” atop the Met rooftop. Love me a sighting of Big Bird, even when he’s blue.  The work is a unity of two of my favorites - Sesame Street and Calder.

New exhibit on the Met Rooftop.

And then there were the lovely Spring garden vignettes of the fancy townhouses.

Townhouse front garden for Spring. 

[Edited April 24, 2021.]

Forays into Foraging

Rice noodle "salad" with vegetarian chorizo and chickweed.

Returning to the blog with food porn - eating the weeds from the planters.

I was introduced by my friend E to @green_thyme recently when E posted that a lot of the edible wild plants featured by @green_thyme were growing in her own lawn, and she was going to give a wild greens pesto recipe a try.

So, the other day, @green_thyme featured chickweed, among other "weeds," and I realized it looked familiar. Upon closer inspection of my planter containing the maples, there it was, in abundance. I Googled to confirm it was, in fact, chickweed, took a little nibble, did not die or get sick, Googled some recipes, and, emboldened, decided to go all in with a harvest...

Tasty weeds.

Now, I have been following @66squarefeet for years, and so gradually have become accustomed to her forages (though, really, I follow her mainly for the small space/container gardening aspects of her blog). Born and bred city girl that I am, foraging and wild foods have not been in my wheelhouse. Mother Hen, my gardening mentor, also was born and raised and has lived all her life in cities, so there was no foraging in her upbringing to pass on to me. Gardening for her came of necessity when she arrived in the United States and could not find the fresh herbs that are so essential to Vietnamese cuisine. In New York City, she began with pots on the windowsills of our first apartment when she was able to get seeds from friends - everyone had to grow their own if they wanted herbs Vietnamese herbs in those early days. And when Mama Hen and Papa Rooster finally got a house with a yard, Mama Hen's inner gardener finally had a canvas with which to work. So my green thumb was trained in the world of domesticated and cultivated plants. Wild edibles are new and strange and still somewhat scary.

Wild edibles aplenty.

So harvesting the chickweed, which in past years I cut down and mulched in place to make room for edible plants (ha!), is a new step. I decided on  Vietnamese style rice noodle "salad" topped with vegetarian chorizo. Happily, my hodge podge, multicultural dinner was DELICIOUS! I am now sold on the chickweed! Thanks to E for the encouragement, and @green_thyme and @66squarefeet for the inspiration, information and tips!

[Edited April 24, 2021.]

"A Single Garment of Destiny"

Reflections on MLK, Jr. Day

Photo by Dick DeMarsico for the New York World-Telegram and the Sun, as shared by the Gracie Mansion Conservancy.  Dr. King, right near here before Gracie Mansion, after meeting with then Mayor Wagner on July 30, 1964.

Continuing with the notion of legacies that I was considering in my last post, on this day, a friend posted a link to Dr. King's Letter From a Birmingham Jail - a revealing legacy that great leader left for us of not only his message, but also his methodology.  The Letter reads in a manner reminiscent of a very condensed "Confessions," by St. Augustine in its persuasive purpose and highly logical arguments.  Very clear and cogent, geared toward its audience with religious references that they presumably would have found compelling and that were designed to convince them of the credibility and moral authority of the author.  Quite artful.  

180 degrees from credibility and moral authority, also on this day the Trump Administration apparently issued its "1776 Commission Report," lambasted by historians as a total distortion of history - right in line with the general character of this Administration - and downright offensive released on this national holiday.  Not at all unexpected for his occupant of the Oval Office.

His predecessor, President Obama, set a very different legacy for MLK, Jr.'s Birthday: the Obama family publicized it as a day of service.  Fitting, for the first African-American President, but also very much in line with their family's general character and actions - looking for ways to better American lives.

My friend's legacy that she will be leaving to me is rereading the Letter From a Birmingham Jail each year on this holiday - a tradition I plan to adopt; I found the practice meaningful when I did it this year.  Embarrassingly, I am not sure I had ever read the Letter in its entirety before; there are parts I did recognize, though.  It was helpful to remind myself of why we celebrate his birthday, to engage in some self reflection and assessment about what I am doing to advance the cause of social justice.  Also embarrassingly, I don't think I have ever actually engaged in any service activities on this holiday.  This year, COVID was an issue; in past years, well, I just needed the mental respite from work - lame.  But I do believe in the ideals of the day.  If COVID has taught us anything, we truly are all woven together in a "single garment of destiny" - despair creates ripple effects.

So what have I done in the past to advance the cause of justice?  Not as much as I should have.  When I was in third grade, my first interest in the power of law came about from a phase of reading biographies written for children.  "Ten Great American Women," or some title along those lines (I have never been able to find the book since - I think it was a Scholastic Press publication), made me incensed when I learned that women were not always able to vote; Phyllis Wheatley and Harriet Tubman were among the women profiled, and that taught me about the plight of African Americans.  So one might have thought that after law school, I would have chosen a social justice career; I did just the opposite.  In fact, I pretty consciously rebuffed some mild advances of a still dear friend because that is the career he chose; I felt the need to be financially secure, to take care of my family, to be sure everyone had a financial safety net.  I don't know why I came to feel that insecurity - maybe it was my days at a certain exam admissions public school on the Upper Eastside - but I felt it.  And it has stayed with me.  To the detriment of my commitment to social justice.  Those efforts got relegated to work "extracurriculars."  I have always been active in affinity groups at each of the firms at which I've been associated, but, alas, that is mostly all I have to point to.

My most rewarding one, though, and the contribution for which I would like to be remembered if the proverbial bus came for me tomorrow, was helping two lovely young women from the South Bronx polish their college essays.  And I was quite pleased with how I approached it - they each wrote their own essays; I merely contributed constructive criticism - I felt very strongly about not crossing any lines into even approaching joint authorship.  Ideas and themes and words and tone were all them; I just helped them to express themselves more clearly.  And both won Gates Foundation Scholarships.  One was admitted to Boston University.  The other went to Columbia.  Both from single parent families, both the first in their families to attend college.  Today, I believe both are practicing attorneys.  In my dream, fully balanced world, turning that into a business would be one of the legs of my economic stool (estate planning law would be another leg, some combination of entrepreneurial pursuits combining garden consulting and lifestyle products, all tied to this here blog, would be the third leg).  I would need to work with the privileged to supplement my work with the underprivileged.  I think I could do it - I have a pretty good track record.  One day....

So after reading the Letter today, and reflecting on my rather dismal record, my Monday night Postcards to Voters Zoom group that I was planning to scale back on beginning this week, I decided instead to proceed with - it is small, but it is something.  And it turned out to be an effort for Georgia - we flipped Georgia (!) - so Georgia has been key, and it was Dr. King's home state, so it turned out to be the right small project for the day.

 

My hand accentuated get out the vote postcards with simplified stylized peach drawing.

[Edited January 24, 2021.]

Legacy Building

Trees seem a perfectly lovely legacy to leave.

 

Ephraim Maple in Autumn.

Mid-January in the year after a Presidential election during a lame duck term is inevitably a time of review and introspection for the outgoing Administration, a time when spinning begins in earnest to establish the narrative on accomplishments to be recorded for history.  Apparently, the Orange Turd's aides are furious that his legacy will be a seditious siege, that all of their "work" will be overshadowed.  Five days before Inauguration Day, another facet of the Orange Turd's distinctive legacy is that he stands alone as the only occupant of the Oval Office who has lost the popular vote twice and the only one who has been impeached twice.  Well deserved legacy, at that.

The most fitting legacies are perhaps the ones that are not designed or intentional, that are simply the result of the essence of the individual.  My high school friend Luke died unexpectedly a few years back.  Everyone remembers him as a connector, a networker before "networking" became a thing and before we were all told we should be doing it to advance our careers.  He just knew lots of people and liked introducing them to each other from disparate parts of his life.  I thought about him this past Christmas Day, when another high school mate to whom he had introduced me put out an open call on Facebook for a bundt cake recipe that she could make with her little girl, and I pulled out and sent her Luke's recipe for "Abigail's Apple Cake" - Abigail being the mother of Luke's friend whose name I never got, a cake so yummy that it has been made repeatedly at the Mothership over the years and is a favorite of Papa Rooster's, a recipe so beloved that I have carried it on an index card for years in my wallet.  And now, through his connecting people, our friend Colleen's little girl Hannah will have it too - it will pass into another generation of bakers.  That's not a bad legacy to leave.

 

Abigail’s apple cake, from dearly departed Luke H.

For my part, The Project I undertook over the last couple of years was part forward looking - an investment in and leap of faith into the future - but also part legacy building, an attempt to extend Mother Hen's and Papa Rooster's time on the earth and mark on the world, to leave living testaments to their loving, good, industrious, resilient natures.  It still makes me sad that The Project did not succeed.  I will need to figure out a different way to leave my legacy, and by definition, Mother Hen's and Papa Rooster's legacies.

I suppose the little maples still living, now dormant, in the tree wells here in Yorkville that I put in last year, when I was itching for outdoor activity to counter the quarantine mandate, qualify as one of my legacies.  A little bit of positivity and beautification and greening, a bit of growth and community comraderie.  The maples might live on after me, after Mother Hen and Papa Rooster - though there's nothing that connects the maples back to them, that sheds positive light on them.  But then, isn't that the very essence of the Buddhist way - our time here is fleeting, our presence is meant to be ethereal.  So maybe the plaque less, nameless maples in the sidewalk tree wells are exactly what are meant to be left behind.

Here are some recent updates in the life of one of the two surviving legacy maples - the second largest of the original seedlings.  Let's call it "Ephraim" - the Biblical second son, middle name of my first love from high school, who was, yes, a second son (I have a penchant for second sons).  Hmm - and before I even knew it, my tendency to anthropomorphize defeated what few Buddhist teachings manage to stick.  Oh well.

October - breaking up the compacted soil.

A little too much communal love.  A well-intentioned neighbor tried to attach a stake for support, but the twist tie became embedded as the branch grew. I cut it free.

Mid-October, mulched with some of the load retrieved from Green-Wood Cemetery. 

November - Putting in tulip bulbs retrieved from the Park Avenue median beds.

Tulip bulb, ready to be planted.

Ephraim Maple with chipped Christmas tree mulch.

Ephraim Maple with abandoned Christmas tree friend.

For more photos of Ephraim Maple, scroll back to July.

[Edited January 16, 2021.]

Do Over Fresh Start

The first week of 2021 didn't go quite as we hoped or expected.

Thanksgiving cranberry sauce in a new January role.

To state the obvious, 2020 was not a good year.  2021 is supposed to be our fresh new hope.  People pointed out, and of course in our rational moments we already knew, that just because the calendar page flips and the last digit of the year changes doesn't mean all the bad stuff from last year goes away.  And so it was borne out in the first full week by the unthinkable treachery.

In the marking of the passage of time, the end of one year and beginning of another is really only an arbitrary selection of a specific moment that happens to be widely recognized so as to have become a matter of convention.  So what mystical significance or power could possibly be imbued in that second after midnight January 1st?  None.

Now, that could be a disappointing or devastating realization for some people - that nothing has changed, that the dark clouds from the prior period still loom over 2021.  But not for me, because there was always a chance at a new fresh start soon afterward - Lunar New Year, which, in my Vietnamese upbringing, meant the one based on the Chinese calendar (due to the long history of Chinese influence on the Vietnamese), and that one traditionally follows on the heels of the Julian new year, generally lagging by a couple of weeks, though in some years by more than a month.  So if something goes awry in the early part of the Julian year, it's easy enough to switch mindset and chalk it up to the fact that it is still the end of the lunar year.  It's all just a matter of perspective - and for that, having access to different cultural traditions is mighty handy. 

Didn't manage to get out December holiday cards?  There's still time before the Lunar New Year.  Resolutions already caput?  There's still a chance to rededicate yourself to them when Lunar New Year rolls around. So the early part of January, that tail end of the year in the lunar calendar, it remains that period when all the kinks can be worked out, the bad juju from the prior year can all be chalked up to that.  It's the buffer zone, the rehearsal period, so to speak.

The leftover odds and ends lingering from last year can still sort themselves out, and maybe transform themselves into something more positive... The Trump-incited siege of the Capitol can turn into a wake-up call for renewed protection of the democratic process, perhaps a soul searching within the Republican Party that will lead to a cleaving from the extremist, racist, bigoted, deluded wingnuts within its ranks; we did all know that Inauguration Day isn't until January 20th anyway... The cranberry sauce from a pre-Thanksgiving Zoom call dinner with colleagues can transform from an accompaniment to a grilled turkey burger to become a sweet counterpoint to brie encoated in chia seeds on grain crackers with walnuts - a marginally acceptably healthy lunch or snack... The trunk of the long-dead tricolor peach tree, stripped of its branches seasons upon seasons ago, can join with spent Christmas trees and be transformed during Mulchfest into mulch for the street trees.

Lone surviving tree pit planting of mine on 81st street - a little post-Mulchfest mulching. 

There remains the possibility of transformation, hope, renewal, a fresh start yet.

[Edited January 12, 2021.]

ARTEL Blogging

Meta blogging by blogging on the process of blogging.

Visiting blue jay - he was initially at the far end of the terrace, with another blue jay friend who flew off earlier.  I maintained my distance so as not to scare him off, and he came ever closer; he had no fear.  Little snippets of life, caught while breaking from work - a snippet that does not rise to the level of a separate post or theme; so it seems fitting here, as this whole blog is about shoehorning life where it can fit - and so with this image.

Abbreviate, return to edit later = ARTEL.  That is what I have taken to doing.  No, it's not a particularly professional approach.  And probably only possible because I have no followers, for editing on the fly post-publication seems a surefire way to lose credibility - seems wrong for a reader to read a post and then come back to find it inexplicably changed.  Hmm ...

Having now thought that through, it seems the way to address that, to an extent, beyond indicating that there is "more to come," is to at the very least disclose when a post was last edited.  Then, anyone returning after having already read an earlier version will be alerted that it may have changed.  And the policy of disclosure may discourage me from posting too prematurely, before taking the time to edit, or, more accurately, from making last minute posts to hit an imaginary due date to keep apace of a certain frequency of posts.  Although, even when I deliberate and compose, my process seems to be that I re-read the post on the site (where it somehow always looks different), and then I tweak because I catch something or think of a better word choice.  Ah well, so it goes; there will be edit notes on everything. 

Quantity versus quality.  I would rather be known for quality, hands down, of course.  So there needs to be a better compromise - slower pace, fewer posts, better posts up front that don't require post-publication edits because they will have undergone editing pre-publication, as should have been the process all along.  

Perhaps I should aim for a blog publication schedule of no greater frequency than twice a week?  But how to address current events in a timely manner?  Maybe those should be the exception?  After all, my most prolific year was 2019 - 67 posts; so 104 posts in 2021 seems plenty ambitious, and leaves more than enough room to express all I should want.  Really, can I even contrive of enough quality content for so many posts?  Just because I feel like I am brimming with ideas at this point at the outset of the new year does not mean this pace is sustainable.  Well, I do have a backlog of articles in my inbox that seemed like great launch pads for posts when I read them (or their headlines), but I don't know how far into the well I will want to draw.  We shall see.  Twice per week on Mondays and Fridays could be aspirationally doable, given my current schedule.  Shall we settle on that for the time being?  Let's do.  We'll try it out, see how it goes...

So back to the ARTEL method - putting down, and out, abbreviated posts (bullet posting, if you will) seemed a good way to not lose a thought, to sort of fulfill the content output floor for a running blog in a semi-timely fashion, in the face of time constraints and other demands.  And then, since it's really just been for me, to return later when time blocks are more available to polish it up and edit - in case any third party down the line ever gets a hold of this.  It all seemed workable and acceptable, given the audience of one.  But the goal is to expand that audience, so perhaps some changes to that ad hoc approach are in order?

I don't know; I mean, this whole blog is about trying to balance competing demands and making time and other compromises.  ARTEL is the quintessential example of that, no?  Can we make allowances from standard, more professional blogging if the blog is all about how difficult it is to manage it all - when the whole point is we're all just trying to do our best to keep all the balls in the air?  My process is what it is, imperfect at best - by necessity a rolling target.  Can we accept disclosure of incompleteness and post-publication edits as the middle ground?  Hopefully so.  Because it's how it's gotta be.

Now cognizant of the process, I am already adjusting to drafting in advance of the planned publication date so that there is time to allow a draft post to sit and marinate, be tried on for size.  So maybe ARTEL can mostly happen behind the scenes and pre-publication, and YOU, imaginary blog readers, will never even see it happen.  Ah, goals!