Away I Went

Menemsha.  Martha's Vineyard.

12:14 pm.  Monday.  2012.  28 May.

Clumsily toddled along nippy shores and murmuring waves.
Sunk my bare feet into sunkissed sands.
Goodness.
What I'd give to start each day with a walk along a quiet beach.
The salty edge.
The still calm.
The soft breeze.
I'd be a whole new person.

Stood on a narrow bridge over the stillest pond I can remember.
Heard a plump little frog plop squarely into that pond.
And then another!
Couldn't quite put my finger on the sound.
Maybe it was my first frog plop?
It's quite delightful.
That curious perfection ringing in my ear.

About kitchen-ing.
I'm one impatient little diva.
Let a few tiny drops of yolk into the separated egg whites.
Cheesecake turned out more than fine.
Thank you very much.

Fresh pasta.

I can understand the hype a little better now.

Baked panko-crusted eggplant.

Yum.

It had been a long time since I had been away.

A proper trip.

One that requires extensive time on a moving vessel of some sort.

As someone pointed out.

Six hours is like.

Europe.

Or Cali-pohr-nia.

(Hab you seen that dairy campaign?

Featuring a talking cow with a Korean accent?

It's good stuff.)

I'm proud of myself.

For acknowledging that I'm still learning me.

That maybe I'm not always able.

But this time.

For trying.

And for being able.

Post Campaign Prayer

I realize that I haven't followed up on the $1.50 poverty awareness campaign.  Aside from that doozy of a Wednesday morning when I thought I'd fall over in the middle of a status meeting, I felt really good about the experience.  It sparked a lot of interesting dialogue.  I can't tell you how many times someone would look down at the cup of coffee in their hand and sheepishly comment, "This cost me $4."  I successfully lasted the week living on less than $1.50 a day.  I say less because after I prepared my final dinner of the week, I had a few servings of pasta and two big fat carrots leftover.  I was impressed.

I feel very blessed to have a lifestyle that doesn't focus on meeting basic necessities like food and water.  It shouldn't be, but it is truly a privilege.  Because I live in a part of my country where I am blind to extreme poverty, the closest to which I can relate in terms of hunger disparity are the sufferings of the homeless that wander this city.  Yes, most of them suffer from some mental disorder that prevents them from taking care of themselves.  Social programs and charitable services provide food and other basics (thank goodness).  How lucky am I - are you, reader - that we do not have such ailments that leave us unable to independently nourish our bodies and minds?  And if we do, that we have the resources necessary to keep our sanity intact enough to take care of basic human needs like a roof over our heads, like food on the table, like clean clothes on our backs?  I'm not saying that we should lower our standards for healthy lifestyles; we should certainly take advantage of all of life's luxuries.  What I am saying is that some of our fellow human citizens, they have been dealt a harsh hand of cards.  Many a time, I wonder why I am so lucky and others not.  Acknowledging the seemingly unfair disparity eats away at me.

My campaign ended on a Friday.  It was just five days.  That Saturday, I bolted out the door to my Saturday job without breakfast.  Later, I had a mediocre salad and fruit.  It was all very anti-climactic and meh-tasting.  Sunday morning was the first chance I had to really cut and dice and chop.  I greedily went to town on everything green in the fridge.  A week without fresh plants would do that to you, too.  I was so high on the moment as I looked down at this lovely bowl of greens that I felt the need to pray a prayer of thanks, something I haven't done much of lately.  And even then, because I am an impatient little imp, I rudely said my thanks as I shoveled greenness into my pie hole.  I waited six whole days and couldn't wait ten more seconds to say a proper word of thanks?  Apparently not.  And then I reached for Pablo and snapped this shot to remember the moment.

I Don't Think I Want Children

This post is all over the place, but that's ok, because when it comes to this topic, I'm sort of all over the place.

Father with daughter.  Cutest thing ever.

Madison Square Park.  May 2012.

Seriously.  I've thought about it for almost five years.  I go back and forth on the subject but almost always, I talk myself out of it.  It's that I'm too emotionally unprepared, that I'm too stubborn, that I'm too immature, that I can't even figure out how to have a relationship with my mother, how will I ever manage the humility and grace required of allowing a grandchild to grow a relationship with her grandparents?  Ironically, I know that I am maternal enough; it's the other things that have me wringing my hands (internally, of course, because, um, have we met?).  Admittedly, while I typed the words of this post's title, and now that I see the words on the screen, things are still a little hazy.

There was a turning point for me this past fall.  I was at a work function chatting with someone when, as an aside, she said, "I'm not having children" and then continued on her merry way with the rest of her story.  I looked at her as my brain processed her words.  Her statement was so resolute.  She didn't even flinch.  So finite.  So matter-of-fact.

It was refreshing.

I thought, what personal narrative could this woman, someone my age, someone far more successful and caring, someone whom I thought would make for the perfect mother candidate, have that would bring her to decide so progressively on motherhood?  I had heard of the notion before, but hadn't met anyone who was so comfortable and self-assured with her decision that she openly carried it into and out of conversation.  Part of me was sad, thinking that a mini version of this woman would actually be a gift to the world.  She was completely ok with it.  Just like that, a little magic wand appeared and twirled atop my head.  Was I in the same boat?

The reasons I left Philadelphia were many, but none of them were as compelling as the fact that our baby brother had finally graduated high school.  It was the summer of 2007 and he had been living with me since his junior year.  Ever heard of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air?  It was a little bit like that, only the bad influences were our parents, not his neighborhood peers.  And instead of moving into a mansion with his rich aunt and uncle, he downsized into a small apartment with his modest income twenty-something sister.  Things had spun out of control by the time he arrived at my place.  When it was all over and he had his diploma in his hands, I submitted my resignation to the greatest boss I ever had, sold all my furniture, and moved here.

I learned so much about myself during that time: what true friends did; what loving people did for one another; how good, compassionate people handled trying situations.  It really lit up humanity for me.  Humans are amazing.  Really.  One of my greatest lessons was that I don't have the spine to be a lifelong single caretaker.  It is, to put simply, not for the weak.  And I am exceptionally weak in more ways than one.  I can hold myself up, but only by a thread.  And so I decided, if I can help it, I will never choose the path of single parenthood.

Since then, this line of thinking has morphed into, well, maybe I'm not cut out to be a mother at all.  Coming from the girl who had planned on seven children (four biological and three adopted!) this is a complete one-eighty.  I'm still shocked.  Ultimately, because I don't want to go at it alone, my choice will be navigated by my partner.  I'm not blind to that.  I trust that he'll steer me in the right direction, whether that's with child or without.  Poor guy.  Taking me on sounds like a lot of work.

Morning Good

It's barely six on a Sunday morning and I'm up.  Odd.  But I feel pretty darned good.  You?  I hope so.  It's indescribable how wonderful it is to wake up feeling good.  Not well because that would be proper English, but good because it sounds rebellious.  

Earlier this week, I had opened the cupboard to have a full bottle of sesame seed oil tip over and plunge to its death.  It landed with a heavy splat six inches in front of me whilst covering everything between the stove and the fridge.  The last time I had dropped anything, it was an opened bottle of red wine which exploded EVERYWHERE.  Like, every inch of the kitchen.  At least oil moves slower than wine, right?  I had to run, so I contained the spill the best I could and ran out.  By the time I came back later that night, the smell had taken over the entire apartment.  The next morning, as I stepped out of the shower, I realized that even my bath towel had absorbed the smell.  In the bathroom!  Talk about potent.  But now that I've run the dishwasher, everything is finally de-sesame-oiled and life may resume to normal.

Happy Sunday, y'all.  Make it a good one.

Prime

Get outside. Right now. Put down that contract, minimize that Excel spreadsheet, set your office line to voicemail. Do it.

I just stepped out of my office and it is fabulous out there, people.  The wind is a spot chilly, but the sun is beating down. Sunglasses are a must. I'm wearing cashmere and jeans and it's all almost too much, this perfection. What we have here is prime Julia weather.  Prime, I say!  I'm a little bummed that I'm scheduled to be indoors until sundown today, but you can't win 'em all. No big deal.

Also, what is it about little Asian babies that make them look like 90-year-old grandpas?  The crusties under his nose are classic.  Sorta.

Philadelphia. September 2011.

Breathing, Again

The people across the way enjoying a lot of Shake Shack custard.  A lot.

Madison Square Park.  NYC.  May 13th, 2012.

Were you around these parts on Sunday?  If no, I'm so sorry!  No, really.  I mean it.  It was Stinking Gorgeous.  I wish you had been here because everyone deserves a day like that.  I was insanely productive in the morning which allowed me to catch a matinee and then park my butt on a bench in Madison Square Park.  In between watching the leaves high above my head against the blue sky, I read.  A little Dominican toddler screamed and squealed and babbled with his parents for a few hours on the bench next to mine.  I thought his yapping would disrupt my calm, but hey, it didn't.  He was cute and hilarious.  An Asian yuppy bragged loudly to two girls about his job at a hedge fund (money makes insecure people act so funny).  The girls lapped up his every word.  I cringed, embarrassed for the whole obnoxious situation, and lit up my iPod to drown them out.  Before I knew it, it was six.  It had felt like only an hour, but I spent pretty much all day in that little bit of green.  It was amazing.

One evening about a month ago, I cut through this same park and came across one of my most favorite smells in the whole wide world: fresh cut grass.  I remembered sitting in my high school Latin classroom.  The edge of the girls' lacrosse field was right outside.  The windows would let in the fresh cut grass smell every spring.  Catching that first spring whiff so unexpectedly in Madison Square Park nearly knocked me over.  The scent was so amazingly therapeutic that I stopped and stood still.  The direction of the wind had changed, but I remained patient until it fluttered through my way once again.  It was, in one word, marvelous.  I wanted to vanish right there.  It was so peaceful.  I didn't need anything else.

Shaking my winter blues this spring was more challenging than any year in memory.  I thought when the clock officially sprung forward, with the extra daylight and the warmer days, I'd perk back up.  But I didn't.  In fact, it wasn't until just a few weeks ago when I had the apartment to myself (for two weekends straight!) that I started to feel like I could breathe again.  It had been a while since I had felt really good, even just ok.  I had the luxury to be carefree, walking around in my underwear, sleeping in almost nothing without the fear of bumping into someone in the middle of the night on my way to pee (someone not related to me, if you catch my drift).  Suddenly, my head wasn't hurting all the time.  I didn't mind my neighbors slamming their doors so much.  I could think straight without getting exhausted.  I didn't want to tuck away early under my soft comforter every night.  I felt like life was back.  And that there was fresh cut grass right outside my window to greet me every morning.

I had been desperately hoping that May was going to be a really good month, and so far, I am so pleased that it has been.  I feel like I'm standing back upright, that I'm not suffocating, that the world is showing its kindness again.

Solo

The Met, April 7th

Right in the middle of this week's poverty awareness campaign was Wednesday.  It was a fairly humpy hump day.  For one, I woke up feeling powerfully weak.  My calorie count had been incredibly low for forty-eight hours so it wasn't much of a surprise, but it still made for a rough morning.  Then I went to lunch.  As in, out to lunch.

While the others in my group worked on platters of thick steak fries and hot dishes straight out of the oven, I tore open my chilled plastic container of cold pasta. As I rolled a piece of boiled carrot around in my mouth, earnestly hoping to taste some iota of flavor (it turns out that eating within the extreme poverty budget is not just unhealthy and unvaried, but bland, too), I looked to my right to see three men at the bar.  There they were, all by their lonesome, drinking cold beers, each dining alone. Their expressions were blank.  They looked only straight ahead, making eye contact with no one.  I didn't know that that sort of thing really happened.  At least not in the middle of the day. Beers in hands, men dining solo at bars, that is.  The three of them looked so sad.  Lonely.

When I'm out and about solo, I wonder if I look as sad as these guys did.  Before I started pinching pennies with this job, I used to go out and have a meal alone on occasion. On a Saturday, or a Sunday, or a holiday when the office was closed.  Or just because.  I had no qualms about it.  I used to do it in Philly.  New York was even better because I wouldn't run into people.  In fact, I rather relished those dates.  I'd bring along something to read.  I'd take my time.  The waiters would always smile an extra smile.  It was...good.  

Seeing those men yesterday made me reconsider how I might appear to the outside world. To a great extent, it doesn't matter, but I'm still curious.  I think strangers might pity people, especially women, who go solo in public places where there's usually socializing to be done.  Hmm.