Yesterday was a sluggish day. I felt down, blue. For the better part of the day, I assumed it was because the Tuesday after a long weekend is usually worse than any regular Monday. On my way home, it dawned on me: it was the one-year anniversary of my return to private-sector legal practice.
For the balance of the evening, I nursed a melancholy ode to the year gone by, of dreams deferred, of applications rejected. I counted the number of days it had been since I was last out of the country: 504. That straw broke this camel's back and I sank into a glorious self-pity that not even the season premiere of "90210" could abate.
15 hours later, I'm sitting in my office, tabbing pages of a treatise with post-it notes. Gratitude washes over me; my mourning turns to dancing. Here, in no particular order, are some reasons I love/appreciate/enjoy my job:
1. Office supplies. This place never runs out of them. Notebooks, post-its, binders, highlighters, staplers, fine-point pens, medium-point pens, sharpies, paper clips, binder clips. I'm sure that, technically, some of this stuff does run out sometimes, but someone always orders more. I used to take this for granted. Then I spent a year at a law office in Uganda. Things always ran out, and when they did, I had to fill out an acquisition form, get money from the office accountant, get permission to leave the office, take a bus to town, walk to the bookstore, look for the needed items, reel from shock at the price of basic office supplies, pay too much for too little, take a bus back to the office. By the time I got back to the office, I would be drenched in sweat and the day would be mostly over. Here, all I have to do is walk to the supply room and get more. (If I insist on being a pain, I can even call someone to bring me more.) Instead of tearing strips of paper to mark pages, I use post-it notes.
2. Air-conditioning. Last week, Los Angeles was boiling hot. My apartment has charming details such as crown molding, but lacks less charming details such as central air or windows that cross-ventilate. I came home each night to a charming oven with warm floorboards. But the office is always cool. In fact, it is so cool that I keep a sweater in my office. On hot days, I get to the office early and leave late. I wear my sweater and drink hot tea until the sun sets and the heat relents.
3. Stimulation. I regularly experience stress and frustration and panic at work. But I rarely experience boredom. The job necessitates crash courses in whatever field the client works in, be it movie production, securities, real estate, or civil rights. I am surrounded by people who are well-educated, well-traveled and well-read. They easily and intelligently speak of the news of the day, the books they're reading, the cases they're working on, the latest technology. They are smarter than I am and I have to scramble to keep up, but I am always learning.
4. Money. I get paid to work. That is no small thing in this economy. I get paid well for doing work that I find interesting and challenging. That is a pretty wonderful thing in any economy. As often as I feel guilty for having money, I feel grateful that I have it. It's nice to have resources, to not worry about whether checks will bounce, to have the means to help people. I'll never forget the years of obsessively monitoring the balance in my checking account, but I do not regret that (for now) those years are behind me.
Whatever complaints I harbor about my job, there is a silver lining. And it is a thick, generous lining.
08 September 2009
03 August 2009
good samaritan
The Hollywood freeway (101) in Los Angeles is a marvel of congestion. The flow of traffic is almost always at a crawl, usually with no discernible explanation (i.e., no visible collision or lane obstruction).
On Sunday, I found myself semi-parked on the 101 on my way home from church. As I inched toward my destination, I saw two cars stopped in the No. 2 lane. One of the cars - an old, beat-up hatchback - started moving toward the right shoulder of the freeway; someone was pushing it. In the meantime, L.A. drivers behaved like L.A. drivers: hop-scotching between lanes in search of an opening that would allow them to zoom past. With bated breath, I waited for disaster.
The hatchback reached the right shoulder in safety. The person who had pushed the hatchback - an African-American man in military fatigues - hustled back to the sedan still parked in the No. 2 lane, waving his apology to cars that had slowed or stopped for him. He jumped into the driver's seat of the sedan, switched off the hazard lights and drove on.
I was stunned. This man could have driven around the hatchback like every other driver before him. Instead, he put his car and his person at risk in order to move the hatchback and its driver to safety. (Incidentally, by moving the hatchback out of moving traffic, he also did a lot of other drivers a big favor.) He didn't wait around for thanks or reward. He helped because he could, because someone - albeit a complete stranger - needed help. In the span of a minute or two, he taught me more of neighborly love than any Bible study or sermon.
Thank you, sir, for your unadorned service. May the Lord keep you safe.
On Sunday, I found myself semi-parked on the 101 on my way home from church. As I inched toward my destination, I saw two cars stopped in the No. 2 lane. One of the cars - an old, beat-up hatchback - started moving toward the right shoulder of the freeway; someone was pushing it. In the meantime, L.A. drivers behaved like L.A. drivers: hop-scotching between lanes in search of an opening that would allow them to zoom past. With bated breath, I waited for disaster.
The hatchback reached the right shoulder in safety. The person who had pushed the hatchback - an African-American man in military fatigues - hustled back to the sedan still parked in the No. 2 lane, waving his apology to cars that had slowed or stopped for him. He jumped into the driver's seat of the sedan, switched off the hazard lights and drove on.
I was stunned. This man could have driven around the hatchback like every other driver before him. Instead, he put his car and his person at risk in order to move the hatchback and its driver to safety. (Incidentally, by moving the hatchback out of moving traffic, he also did a lot of other drivers a big favor.) He didn't wait around for thanks or reward. He helped because he could, because someone - albeit a complete stranger - needed help. In the span of a minute or two, he taught me more of neighborly love than any Bible study or sermon.
Thank you, sir, for your unadorned service. May the Lord keep you safe.
30 July 2009
the day the donuts never came
Friday is donut day at the office. Lawyers, paralegals and secretaries alike volunteer for "donut schlepper" duty. It is probably the least hierarchical institution within the firm.
A few Fridays back, I arrived at the office with coffee in hand. I dropped off my personal effects in my office and headed to the small kitchen where the donuts are usually located on Friday mornings. No donuts in sight. There had been occasions when I'd arrived too late to partake, but on this particular Friday, there were no signs that donuts had ever been there: no crumpled box, no crumb, no remnant of powdered sugar or maple glaze smeared on the table.
Then I noticed them. Fellow coworkers wandering aimlessly with coffee mug in hand. They'd slow as they neared the kitchen door, peer in, wrinkle their brows, then move on to take another lap. I soon followed suit. I checked the other kitchen. (Friday donuts are never deposited in the other kitchen, but maybe someone made a mistake?) There, too, were coworkers wandering and peering.
Twenty minutes passed. This had become highly irregular. Unable to contain my curiosity, I stopped by the receptionist, who usually sent out the email announcing the donuts' arrival. "Pssst," I whispered. "Where are they?" She shrugged.
Not five minutes later, my computer pinged with a firm-wide email from the receptionist. It listed the donut-schlepping schedule for the entire year. It went on to explain that so-and-so, who was on duty, had switched with what's-his-name because so-and-so had to go out of town for deposition. But there was no news from what's-his-name; no word on his or the donuts' whereabouts.
Not two minutes later, my computer pinged again, with two more firm-wide emails. So-and-so emailed from her blackberry, confirming that she had indeed switched with what's-his-name. What's-his-name emailed from his hand-held device, as he had also been called away from the office on a different case. He had forgotten to find another substitute; he apologized profusely.
There it was: the donuts were not coming. It was disappointing, but also a relief to let go of the anticipation. I grabbed my wallet and headed downstairs to scavenge for an alternative. When I reached the cafe, half the office was there. We grumbled and commiserated; we laughed at our attachment to our weekly ritual. We shared ideas of how to ensure this never happens again.
At around 3:30pm, my computer pinged with yet another firm-wide email, this time from the office manager, who had sensed the trauma that earlier reverberated through the office. "Ice cream cake in the kitchen," it read. "Come and get it!"
A few Fridays back, I arrived at the office with coffee in hand. I dropped off my personal effects in my office and headed to the small kitchen where the donuts are usually located on Friday mornings. No donuts in sight. There had been occasions when I'd arrived too late to partake, but on this particular Friday, there were no signs that donuts had ever been there: no crumpled box, no crumb, no remnant of powdered sugar or maple glaze smeared on the table.
Then I noticed them. Fellow coworkers wandering aimlessly with coffee mug in hand. They'd slow as they neared the kitchen door, peer in, wrinkle their brows, then move on to take another lap. I soon followed suit. I checked the other kitchen. (Friday donuts are never deposited in the other kitchen, but maybe someone made a mistake?) There, too, were coworkers wandering and peering.
Twenty minutes passed. This had become highly irregular. Unable to contain my curiosity, I stopped by the receptionist, who usually sent out the email announcing the donuts' arrival. "Pssst," I whispered. "Where are they?" She shrugged.
Not five minutes later, my computer pinged with a firm-wide email from the receptionist. It listed the donut-schlepping schedule for the entire year. It went on to explain that so-and-so, who was on duty, had switched with what's-his-name because so-and-so had to go out of town for deposition. But there was no news from what's-his-name; no word on his or the donuts' whereabouts.
Not two minutes later, my computer pinged again, with two more firm-wide emails. So-and-so emailed from her blackberry, confirming that she had indeed switched with what's-his-name. What's-his-name emailed from his hand-held device, as he had also been called away from the office on a different case. He had forgotten to find another substitute; he apologized profusely.
There it was: the donuts were not coming. It was disappointing, but also a relief to let go of the anticipation. I grabbed my wallet and headed downstairs to scavenge for an alternative. When I reached the cafe, half the office was there. We grumbled and commiserated; we laughed at our attachment to our weekly ritual. We shared ideas of how to ensure this never happens again.
At around 3:30pm, my computer pinged with yet another firm-wide email, this time from the office manager, who had sensed the trauma that earlier reverberated through the office. "Ice cream cake in the kitchen," it read. "Come and get it!"
30 June 2009
a better man
June has come and gone, along with my attempts to become a better man. I completed some of the 30 challenges with great enthusiasm (ex. days 1, 7, 12), found I had tackled some on my own initiative in the recent past (ex. days 6, 13, 19), deemed myself exempt from others (ex. days 4, 11, 30), and was utterly confounded by a few (ex. days 3, 21, 26).
The main insight that this experience afforded was that it takes a lot of effort to be a good and, over time, a better person. This may seem a somewhat obvious point, but I realized that I often give way to the belief that some people are just more naturally good than others. I'm not talking about the idea, usually born of modesty, that others are better - stronger, braver, more gracious and patient - than we are. I'm talking about the paradigm that these traits are innate to some, so that those outside of "the elect" are excused from exhibiting these virtues and, worse yet, relieved of trying to attain them.
It takes substantial and conscious effort to navigate the push-and-pull's of life, to strike the balance between labor and rest, gentleness and firmness, patience and gumption, frugality and generosity, hanging on and letting go... the mere thought of getting it all right makes me want to quit on the spot. But nobody wakes up one day and becomes a responsible, mature adult who balances family, work, spiritual and physical obligations with ease and aplomb. No one in my acquaintance - including people who I admire and respect the most - even comes close to that description. Those who try, however, are better for the effort; quite often, the world is also better for it.
A better man (or person), therefore, is one who tries and strives to be better than his or her current self. For there is always room for improvement and no one is exempt from the effort.
The main insight that this experience afforded was that it takes a lot of effort to be a good and, over time, a better person. This may seem a somewhat obvious point, but I realized that I often give way to the belief that some people are just more naturally good than others. I'm not talking about the idea, usually born of modesty, that others are better - stronger, braver, more gracious and patient - than we are. I'm talking about the paradigm that these traits are innate to some, so that those outside of "the elect" are excused from exhibiting these virtues and, worse yet, relieved of trying to attain them.
It takes substantial and conscious effort to navigate the push-and-pull's of life, to strike the balance between labor and rest, gentleness and firmness, patience and gumption, frugality and generosity, hanging on and letting go... the mere thought of getting it all right makes me want to quit on the spot. But nobody wakes up one day and becomes a responsible, mature adult who balances family, work, spiritual and physical obligations with ease and aplomb. No one in my acquaintance - including people who I admire and respect the most - even comes close to that description. Those who try, however, are better for the effort; quite often, the world is also better for it.
A better man (or person), therefore, is one who tries and strives to be better than his or her current self. For there is always room for improvement and no one is exempt from the effort.
29 May 2009
sign me up
16 May 2009
hug it out
Once upon a time, I wished myself a man, primarily for the ease of certainly bodily functions. Oh, how that would simplify camping and long bus rides! Oh, to be free of worry about the dreaded "surprise" during travel!
Then I read this and watched this. After I recover from choking and falling off my chair in laughter, I breathe a sigh of relief. I have never thought about this; I've never had to. It is entirely possible this is only of concern for men in America or men in the West, where masculinity is at once protected and doubted, and certainly overly scrutinized. But this is but one of many areas in which seemingly simple decisions are complicated by the appearance of masculinity, or the lack thereof. For example, I distinctly remember boarding a rocking boat from a slippery dock with the helping hand of a male crew member, only to then watch men of all ages risk slipping and doing a face-plant so as to avoid taking (or touching) another man's hand.
It's good to be a woman.
Then I read this and watched this. After I recover from choking and falling off my chair in laughter, I breathe a sigh of relief. I have never thought about this; I've never had to. It is entirely possible this is only of concern for men in America or men in the West, where masculinity is at once protected and doubted, and certainly overly scrutinized. But this is but one of many areas in which seemingly simple decisions are complicated by the appearance of masculinity, or the lack thereof. For example, I distinctly remember boarding a rocking boat from a slippery dock with the helping hand of a male crew member, only to then watch men of all ages risk slipping and doing a face-plant so as to avoid taking (or touching) another man's hand.
It's good to be a woman.
25 April 2009
get up!
There is more to following Jesus than an all-access pass to heaven after death. This has been the subject of sermons and conversations at my church for the past few months. The point seems obvious - too obvious - to warrant an entire sermon series, focused Bible studies and even weekend seminars. While the intellectual point may be apparent, its application certainly is not. Just look... around.
I am part of a highly-educated and generally well-resourced congregation, so this message has been very challenging and demanding. It has caused some discomfort, some shifting in seats and adjusting of collars; it has also stirred a lot of excitement. Consciously or unconsciously, a lot of us have come to view church as hospice care - it is all about making us more comfortable until we reach our inevitable destination (death, then afterlife). But what all this talk has awakened is our dormant but deep desire for church to be physical therapy - a place where we receive from Jesus and extend to one another help in re-gaining and strengthening muscles (of compassion, hospitality, justice) that have atrophied, so that we can go out as healed people and live a more active and meaningful life in the here and now. Jesus never told us to "go gentle into that good night." His words were, "Get up! Pick up your mat and walk." (John 5:8)
Following Jesus is an all-access pass to heaven, and the pass is effective immediately.
I am part of a highly-educated and generally well-resourced congregation, so this message has been very challenging and demanding. It has caused some discomfort, some shifting in seats and adjusting of collars; it has also stirred a lot of excitement. Consciously or unconsciously, a lot of us have come to view church as hospice care - it is all about making us more comfortable until we reach our inevitable destination (death, then afterlife). But what all this talk has awakened is our dormant but deep desire for church to be physical therapy - a place where we receive from Jesus and extend to one another help in re-gaining and strengthening muscles (of compassion, hospitality, justice) that have atrophied, so that we can go out as healed people and live a more active and meaningful life in the here and now. Jesus never told us to "go gentle into that good night." His words were, "Get up! Pick up your mat and walk." (John 5:8)
Following Jesus is an all-access pass to heaven, and the pass is effective immediately.
19 April 2009
wolf in sheep's clothing
Thunder only happens when it's raining. Players only love you when they're playing. ~ Dreams by Fleetwood Mac
The worst kind of player is the Christian kind. There is nothing wrong with being a wolf among wolves. But when one infiltrates the fold under the guise of being a harmless, upstanding member equally interested in fidelity and commitment? Well, it is not an exaggeration to say that slaughter often results. Sheep that survive carry their devastation into future interactions, casting suspicions and aspersions where none is deserved; though they have valuable insight to lend to others, they hide in shame and embarrassment. The wolf, on the other hand, easily regroups and moves onto the next victim.
The basics of an adequate wolf-protection plan are not very different from those of the personal safety regime. First, exercise caution. Do not assume safety on the basis of geography alone. It is obviously not a good idea to stumble around, half-inebriated, alone at 2 a.m. in a "bad" neighborhood, but it's generally a bad idea to do that in any neighborhood. Likewise, just because the guy goes to church doesn't mean... much, really.
Second, establish communal security. Report suspicious activities to the proper authorities. Don't look away and drive away when your neighbor is getting mugged. In the aftermath of a wolf attack, there are always people who sigh and shake their heads at the outcome that they had foreseen all along. Um, where were you sages before stuff hit the fan?
Third, hold law enforcement accountable. If the police consistently refuses to respond, pester them, go over their heads, petition elected officials who fear unhappy constituents, make them do their jobs. Pastors are responsible, as shepherds, for protecting the flock. Wolves should not get a free pass just because they volunteer a lot or are friendly with people in high places. Some types of wolves should be shot from helicopters.
The worst kind of player is the Christian kind. There is nothing wrong with being a wolf among wolves. But when one infiltrates the fold under the guise of being a harmless, upstanding member equally interested in fidelity and commitment? Well, it is not an exaggeration to say that slaughter often results. Sheep that survive carry their devastation into future interactions, casting suspicions and aspersions where none is deserved; though they have valuable insight to lend to others, they hide in shame and embarrassment. The wolf, on the other hand, easily regroups and moves onto the next victim.
The basics of an adequate wolf-protection plan are not very different from those of the personal safety regime. First, exercise caution. Do not assume safety on the basis of geography alone. It is obviously not a good idea to stumble around, half-inebriated, alone at 2 a.m. in a "bad" neighborhood, but it's generally a bad idea to do that in any neighborhood. Likewise, just because the guy goes to church doesn't mean... much, really.
Second, establish communal security. Report suspicious activities to the proper authorities. Don't look away and drive away when your neighbor is getting mugged. In the aftermath of a wolf attack, there are always people who sigh and shake their heads at the outcome that they had foreseen all along. Um, where were you sages before stuff hit the fan?
Third, hold law enforcement accountable. If the police consistently refuses to respond, pester them, go over their heads, petition elected officials who fear unhappy constituents, make them do their jobs. Pastors are responsible, as shepherds, for protecting the flock. Wolves should not get a free pass just because they volunteer a lot or are friendly with people in high places. Some types of wolves should be shot from helicopters.
07 April 2009
amen to that
Q: What is the chief end of man?
A: Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.
~Westminster Catechism
A: Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.
~Westminster Catechism
26 March 2009
if i had facebook
My status message would read: "got the official kiss-off from the job for which she's been pining for the past year and a half."
My favorite TV couple broke up tonight.
At this rate, tomorrow, someone will spill coffee on me, my recently washed car will get shat on and towed, and I'll get food poisoning from my favorite sushi joint.
Go ahead, life, kick me while I'm down.
My favorite TV couple broke up tonight.
At this rate, tomorrow, someone will spill coffee on me, my recently washed car will get shat on and towed, and I'll get food poisoning from my favorite sushi joint.
Go ahead, life, kick me while I'm down.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
