20 April 2014

The Song of Spring

I set my alarm for early this morning. I needed to get up and put the topping on a lemon meringue pie, which is a holiday favorite in my family. I had spent all day yesterday knitting - probably not the best use of my time, but certainly an enjoyable one for me - and my procrastination had come to this. Up with the sun on Easter morning.

Except that I was awakened far earlier than I had planned, by a little songbird that decided to sing its heart out at 4 A.M. just outside my bedroom window.

That little bird is still singing as I write this, pie in the oven, almost three hours later. He is singing with all his heart and soul. He is sitting on a withered branch of a dead maple tree, singing with the urgency of someone who has something very important to say. Maybe he is looking for a mate. Maybe he is conveying a message to his fellow songbirds: he has found a full feeder, or a rotted branch full of tasty bugs, or the little net bag full of yarn scraps I set out for nest-building assistance. Maybe he's just happy that it's not snowing anymore, and he no longer needs to brace himself against the cold. One less thing to worry about in the daily fight for survival in suburbia.

Let me say this right here and now: I am only guessing. I do not know what the song is about. I do not understand fluently every single expression of joy, whether encoded in my own language or in the sunrise hymn of some enthusiastic robin in a tree. I know that we, as a species, tend to play ourselves the same songs of joy, over and over again, every spring: the song of Miriam with her tambourine on the far shore of the Red Sea, finally free from slavery, and the bright, blaring trumpet that heralds the discovery of an empty tomb in ancient occupied Palestine. We shop for the foods that comfort us and accompany our songs: bitter herbs, crunchy matzoh, chocolate bunnies, eggs to dye brightly and to whip into that meringue topping at the crack of dawn. We gather, we exchange greetings, we celebrate the same things our ancestors celebrated. We do this year after year, whether or not we believe, whether or not we understand.

It might just be enough to let the song awaken us, even if it's earlier than we had hoped, and listen to it, in all of its mystery. Maybe it's just about food, about housing, about a search for companionship, about warming temperatures, about survival in an uncertain world.

Or maybe it's about something more. Maybe it's about hope. Or maybe it's about the song itself. Some things stand on their own.

Happy Easter. Happy Passover. Welcome, spring. Keep singing.

My dad's favorite: lemon meringue pie.
What I spent all day yesterday working on: a cotton sweater for my daughter.
It will eventually have long sleeves, at her request.

08 April 2014


My high school class celebrated its thirtieth reunion last week. I didn't go to the festivities at the school, but I attended a cocktail party at a private home, and I was delighted to see all my classmates. I went to an all-girls' independent school in Manhattan, so the gathering was exclusively female. There were forty-one of us in the graduating class, but we include in our reunions anyone who was a part of the class at any point, and that encompasses about fifty women in all.

I'm not going to lie and say that we were all the best of friends back then. We had our squabbles and our cliques and our difficulties, like any group of teenaged girls. What pleases me now is the sense I get that, having reached midlife, we are all friends. We're like sisters; we can criticize each other, but as against outsiders, we will defend each other to the death.

I arrived at the cocktail party drenched, as I had walked through Union Square in the rain without a coat or umbrella. (I haven't really matured that much in that regard since twelfth grade. I still do the quintessential New York squint-and-dash, which my mother used to call "dodging the raindrops.") I was greeted at the door by a classmate who quickly poured me a glass of wine. I looked around the room and was instantly calm; I knew exactly who everyone was. No one had changed so much that I didn't remember her, or didn't know her name. They were all there, these old friends, and they hugged me warmly, not caring about my frizzy hair and damp sweater.

Some of us are still married (or married again), and some are divorced. Many never married. The group included both mothers and women who never had children; among the mothers, some had college-aged children and some had children who are still quite young. In addition to having handled pretty complicated private lives, every single one of these women is professionally accomplished in some way. Artists, musicians, writers, doctors, executives, teachers, scientists - you name it, and there's one in the group. In chatting with them, though, I heard a recurring theme: in our mid-forties, we all feel like we are at a turning point, either personally or professionally, and we aren't sure about what comes next.

I had an English teacher in high school that I didn't like particularly at the time. She called me out once on writing a first draft of a paper about a book I hadn't read; my cocky sixteen-year-old self was supremely annoyed at her power of perception and her insistence on confronting me about it. (She ended up giving me an extra week to read the book and resubmit the paper, and she didn't penalize me. Having been found out was punishment enough, and I learned the lesson.)

That same teacher, in a conversation I had with her years later at a school-related event, listened to my tale about leaving the workforce to care for my small children, and my doubt as to whether I had done the right thing. She responded with something I would never forget.

Women, she told me, live their lives in cycles. We are designed that way. Everything about us follows a curving path: our bodies, our careers, our thoughts and perceptions. We start out in one direction, pursue it to a turning point, and then cycle back. When we cycle back, we sometimes think we have lost ground, but in fact we have covered more territory than our male counterparts, who tend to live their lives in a more linear fashion. To someone with less acute perception, we don't seem to be making forward progress, but later in our lives, having accomplished so much - relationships, families, careers, and other contributions to the world - we can be astounded at how far we have actually traveled.

At the reunion last week, I repeated this wisdom to one of my classmates, a beautiful woman in her mid-forties who, having given up a career as an accomplished and acclaimed musician to raise her sons, is now wondering what comes next. She e-mailed me the next morning to thank me. I know she can accomplish anything she wants to accomplish, whether that includes putting out another album, taking up some other form of art, or waiting until her young men are fully grown to begin cycling around again. Many paths are available to her, and the choice is exclusively hers.

I went home after the party - dodging the raindrops again - with the profound conviction that we are all at a turning point in this particular cycle, a cycle we have traveled both together and apart. I am very, very eager to see what comes next, and I am going to try to stay in touch with my classmates so that I can witness the rest of the journey in real time.

05 April 2014


My husband and I are both graduates of Dartmouth College - that's where we met - and we're members of the Dartmouth Lawyers Association. The DLA is supposed to be a professional affinity group, but I'll tell you a secret: it's really a loose-knit group of avid skiers who travel to a different ski resort every year with their families and renew their friendships over apr├ęs-ski drinks and continuing legal education lectures.

We've been to Colorado, Utah, California, and even Switzerland together. And this year, we went to Alaska.

That's right. Our meeting was in a beautiful ski resort called Alyeska, not too far from Anchorage.

On our way out, we flew from Newark to Minneapolis, and then from Minneapolis to Anchorage. We stayed two days and two nights in the city before driving out to Alyeska for our meeting. In those two days and nights, we got to see just about everything Anchorage has to offer:

Me at the starting line of the Iditarod Trail Race, the famous dogsledding race from Anchorage to Nome.
We saw the mushers and their teams take off at the beginning of the race!
Making friends with one of the racers!

A reindeer on a leash in downtown Anchorage.
Things you don't really get to see in New Jersey.

After Anchorage, we drove along the Seward Inlet to Alyeska, taking in incredible views of the Chugatch Mountain Range in the fog.

Our hotel lobby featured a life-sized diorama of a polar bear in his native habitat.

We spent some time skiing in the beautiful mountains right outside the hotel.

One of the best things about skiing is the lunch breaks: you are burning tons of calories on the slopes, so you can have whatever you want for lunch. In Alyeska, the view was the icing on the cake - almost literally. But the best part was the company, of course.

Yes, I made that sweater I'm wearing.

We even had a chance to go snowmobiling one afternoon. Snowmobiling is like motorcycling or jet-skiing, but on the snow. It's a really wonderful way to get out of the resort and see the natural beauty of the interior forest areas.

Me on my snowmobile

Lunch break on the trail

It was a wonderful (if long) trip. I learned a lot about the 49th state and a little bit about its laws. Did you travel this winter, or did you stay home where it was warm and cozy? Where would you go next if you could?