Category: Newsletter (Page 16 of 20)

Colors are changing on my afternoon walks. Where it was brown for several months, green is now showing in the undergrowth and there are already dogwoods with their white and pale pink flowers and rosebuds in bloom. I have been walking sans headphones for a few weeks now to bask in the birdsong and sunshine. One of my regular routes even takes me past a bald eagle nest. It isn’t clear whether there are chicks this year, but the contrast between the white heads and the pine tree in which their nest is perched makes for the sort of picture that attracts people with massive telescopic lenses who stand there for some time waiting for the birds to move. I have never been such a dedicated photographer, especially of birds, but I walk the path regularly enough to recognize most of those who lug the massive lenses around so I know they are committed to getting those photos. There are also blue heron, geese, squirrels, and whitetail deer on the walk almost every time, but the eagles are the real draw.

Spring has always been my favorite season. My birthday is in April, spring turkey hunting is immensely fun (and sometimes frustrating), baseball season begins, and the days grow longer so that I have more daylight in which to walk. There is always a tinge to spring, though, and it is perhaps more bittersweet than usual this year. Flowers are always bittersweet, beautiful as they may be but lasting for only a short time. Aaron Watson has a poignant song about just that in specific reference to the bluebonnets of the Texas hill country. Business is ticking up and life feels more possible here as the days get warmer, yet I will be spending most of the next couple months elsewhere. Not that I’m complaining—my upcoming travels are all by choice and that is the sweetness intermixed with the bitter. If you have an hour, take the chance to get outside and leave your phone behind. A little forest therapy (a phrase borrowed from the Japanese) can go a long way towards helping one’s state of mind.

I gave a speech last Friday. It wasn’t a business presentation, though we have more than one of those scheduled in the coming weeks. This was personal. I felt little in the way of nerves; I overcame most of my fear of public speaking long ago. Besides, while the speech was given to a room full of people the real audience consisted of only two.

Unlike others who spoke and read bullet points off their phones, I wrote out my remarks. I used the paragraphs in the way others used bullet points, glancing down at them instead of reading them. Still the exercise of writing out my thoughts, seeing them on the screen, changing their order, and editing them down was a helpful one. The writing process is the way I hone my thoughts.

Preparing the text involved a memory exercise in which I rarely indulge. I spend so much time looking forward that I can struggle to live in the present. I have worked on this and continue to do so, but this speech was more an exercise in reflecting on some of the best parts of my past. I scoured back through some of my earliest memories, walked through years of childhood ball games, and reminisced on a few long walks in some of the most beautiful places on earth.

I don’t know how well I communicated what I wanted to get across. Only my audience could answer that and I haven’t spoken with them about it yet. I wish I had done better, had refined the words more, had made more eye contact, had varied my intonation more, all of those things. I would wish those things no matter the outcome—that is the perfectionist in me. In any event, it was a wonderful weekend spent celebrating two wonderful people. I may have needed galoshes instead of dress shoes, but my clothes were rented so that is no longer my problem.

I had a long drive yesterday, a six-hour drive that became a seven-hour drive with the aid of a well-placed soon-to-be construction zone in South Carolina. I don’t love road trips and never have, but this one was made better through the power of storytelling. As I have written in these posts more than once already, I am an avid podcast listener. A few weeks ago, a new podcast dropped from one of my favorite shows—Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History. The shows do not come out at a regular cadence but the episodes are mammoth when they are released. This one is over five and a half hours long at 1x speed, though in the car I listen at 1.3x.

Dan Carlin describes himself as an amateur historian. He reads a large number of sources on a given topic and pieces together his own narrative out of the events, caveating at every step that he is not qualified to make historical judgments and heavily quoting both primary and secondary sources so the episodes remain grounded. His constant self-effacement is equal parts endearing and distracting, but I was a history major myself and I enjoy listening to him quote primary sources from decades or even centuries past as the differences in language help me empathize with the protagonists. He doesn’t shy away from the macabre and this episode about the Atlantic slave trade is no exception. Yes, he wades into a topic that is untouchable for many in our current political climate, but he never veers into contemporary politics. Given the length of the episode, he has the scope to approach the narrative from multiple perspectives at each phase of the chronology and he does so in a way that can have you disagreeing with yourself as different, sometimes contrasting ideas are presented in quick succession. He has done the same for other topics too, and if you have a long road trip this summer without kids in the car I encourage you to download an episode and give it a try.

Will listening to the episode compel me to do a deep dive into the Haitian revolution after listening to some stories about the horrors it wrought? Probably not, but even so I now have at least a basic understanding of a few of the major themes. While that may be just enough knowledge to be dangerous, it is only such if one forgoes all intellectual humility in the manner of cable news prognosticators. This high-level overview style is one of the things I enjoy so much about podcasts. Yes, I have listened to podcast series that go into much greater detail (here’s looking at you, History of Rome), but many of my favorites give a glimpse into an idea, a perspective, a place. If I want to go deeper, then all I need do is visit the show notes and explore the sources cited and resources listed there. If I don’t, then I can move onto the next topic—podcasts make up one big intellectual buffet.

On Thursday, I attended a public lecture presented by Dr. Jordan Peterson. In his lectures, ostensibly billed as a book tour, Dr. Peterson takes one of the rules from his two most recent books as his starting point and launches off from there. The chosen rule for this lecture was “Make one room in your house as beautiful as possible,” the same rule I reflected upon several months ago using this same medium. The introductory remarks offered by his wife hewed much closer to the topic as she addressed her experiences remodeling parts of their homes, but I expected that based on the length of his talk. His remarks were more abstract, generalizing to the level of art itself as a glimpse towards the possibility of better, even the existence of better. In this way, bringing art or beautiful things more generally into your living space is a way of reminding yourself that you can be better and that life can too. It was heady stuff, but I found myself able to follow throughout and everyone around me rapt until about the hour mark, at which point a few people started fidgeting and he circled back to his main points and concluded.

Once the lecture concluded, there was a brief interlude and the couple returned, she reading questions from a laptop and he providing responses. The questions were not trifling and the responses were more reflections than answers, but what struck me most during the Q&A were his pauses. After each question was read, he took a few seconds to collect his thoughts before speaking. The effect was to add gravitas to each of the responses. It suggested intellectual honesty and simultaneous respect for the questioner. I am unsure how well it will translate to the virtual meeting setting in which I so often find myself, but I do plan to try to pause an extra second before answering certain questions to see how it impacts the quality of my communication.

I attended a cocktail-making class on Saturday. The class took place in the upstairs area of a distillery showroom, a fitting location though perhaps less fitting than a chic bar would have been. It was early afternoon, though, so I’m not sure there was a perfect venue. The host’s appearance was itself remarkable, what with hair dyed a bright lime green at the front, yellow contacts, a tattoo making his entire neck black, and a suit vest with what appeared to be voodoo symbols adorning it. I only saw these details in stages, each time looking at him seeing something new. In many ways, this was the perfect introduction to his vision of how making and drinking a cocktail should unfold.

The host is in training to become a member of the International Bartenders’ Association, a small group I’d never heard of previously but one that is very serious about the art and science of making cocktails. A few tidbits from the session included finding out what James Bond is communicating when he orders his martini shaken and not stirred and why a Margarita is called a Margarita. The real highlight of the event, though, was the Old Fashioned. This was the finest one I have ever had, the sort of experience that stands as a measuring stick and diminishes subsequent ones. He poured  a high-proof bourbon. He gave a dissertation on the reasons why filthy cherries were used and not some other preparation. The simple syrup was custom-made to match the bourbon and infused with three different herbs (sage, thyme, and rosemary). Then to finish it off he used three different kinds of bitters (angostura, orange, and cacao) and maximized the squeeze from the orange peel that garnished the drink. He then implored us not to stir the drink anymore but to just drink it and allow that motion to mix the concoction together, a “mistake” I have made many times. It was an excellent drink.

The level of detail was the most impressive part of the short seminar. Every aspect of every drink mattered, had been planned, and then was executed. Well, the execution may not have been perfect since that part was done by us the customers, but it’s the little imperfections in assembly that can be most endearing about IKEA furniture you put together yourself also. The event was a presentation by a craftsman, someone who studied what he was doing and to whom everything mattered. It seems to be an increasing rarity to find someone so immersed in doing his work and doing it well, but seeing it planted a stake in my mind. I’m not yet sure what to do with that stake, how to process it, what action to take based on its presence, but it is there now and I have thought about it several times over the intervening days.

I recently read Of Wolves and Men. It was published in 1978, at a time when wolves had been extirpated from the lower 48 with only two small exceptions in Isle Royale and in parts of the North Woods in Minnesota. This was well before the reintroduction of wolves into Greater Yellowstone or the slow expansion of wolf territory south through the Rocky Mountains. I have not yet seen a wolf in the wild myself, but the magic of being in the presence of a large predator may be the impetus for any future journey I take to Yellowstone.

The book starts with wolf biology and describes what was known about wolves at the time of publication, but turns then to human attitudes towards the wolf and projections onto it. This latter part is much more engrossing as man’s attitude towards wolves presents a reflective lens through which human psychology can be observed. It may be unfair to oversimplify the book as describing a difference between Native Americans trying to live in harmony with and as a part of nature on the one hand versus Whites conquering nature on the other, but that is a first-cut approximation. Even though I grew up imbibing a conservation ethos, I still lack the ability to bring myself into the perspective of someone who grew up and lives on the land. Maybe that is why I found reading descriptions of that perspective so engrossing.

No animal elicits reactions as strong as those caused by the wolf. For centuries, eliminating wolves was seen as a sign of the progress of civilization and an unequivocal good by the American government—there were several bounty programs in this country. When wolves were protected under the Endangered Species Act, many were killed in protest. Conflicts continue to occur between wolves and people/livestock on the Northern Plains, and this trend is likely to grow as time passes even though small interventions can greatly reduce such incidents. It is difficult to disentangle whether the wolf being the villain in so many fairy tales is the cause or the result of animosity toward them. It is likely both. Lions, tigers, and bears have all received more favorable portrayals in fables, stories, cartoons, and movies while wolves are always portrayed in a negative light. Yet dogs are man’s best friend. There are intimations of humans projecting feelings about our own natures onto canids, what with its positives and its negatives, but that is a psychological exploration beyond the scope of this short writing. To end this, it is enough to say that I found it enjoyable to read a book outside of the business books that have formed so much of my reading over the past year. Selective dabbling is something I will continue to pursue and explore.

For several days last week, I was without internet connectivity in my apartment. Given that I work from home and almost all of my work either involves online teleconferences or working with documents stored and accessed via cloud servers, this was not ideal. I had the benefit of being able to use my mobile data via a wireless hotspot so I was not bereft of the internet, but I was data-limited and my connection speed was reduced. This forced me to take Zoom calls on my phone while simultaneously looking at documents on my computer, a practice that I find annoying and so resented doing myself even if I had the camera stationary in order to minimize the potential distraction.

On Thursday with my internet still out, we extended what is usually a half day of being in-person working together into a full day as I drove to Durham as if I had a normal working commute. I don’t miss that part of the day, even if the absence of a commute means I listen to fewer podcasts now than I have during certain periods. My productivity was also less than it would have been on a more typical Thursday morning, but there were some broader strategic discussions that compensated for this slight delay in production work.

By the end of Friday afternoon, I had a new modem in place. It had also been a roller coaster of a day, starting off with a business pitch that went very well and ending by offering the opportunity to absorb some lessons on how to better manage particular situations (and angry counterparties). It was a good evening for a group dinner and some decompression. It was also nice to have a period of forced no-television for a few evenings, even if this meant I had to delay watching the gold medal match of mixed doubles curling at the Winter Olympics, something I finally did early Saturday morning when I couldn’t go back to sleep. Mind you, I returned to watching videos sooner than I would have liked. Maybe that is suggestive of something I can experiment with removing in order to create more time and mental space for other things.

Saturday, I found myself in the suburbs. Specifically, I was in Cary, a (for now) suburban dreamscape that is a divisive subject among residents given the number of people who have relocated there from out of state. I have been intermittently watching a Netflix show about Asian megacities, so I took the opportunity to visit H Mart to look around and have a late lunch.

H Mart is not a normal American grocery store, and while there was one in Cambridge I never ventured the short distance from Harvard to Central Square for that purpose so this was my first visit. You enter into a section of fruits and vegetables with a makeup boutique also cornered off to greet you as if you were entering a department store. The fare is more varied than what I grew up with and there is an obvious bent towards Asian varieties. I did not see rambutans, so rejecting the similar lychees I did not purchase any groceries. After walking though the fruits and vegetables, you circle around the back past the meat and kimchi. Then there are rows and rows of items where little to none of the packaging is in English, but that is not unique among international markets. The back left corner is a fish market that had some wonderful-looking salmon steaks and sashimi. The smell in the fish market section was close to some of the markets I have visited myself in Asia. Yes, it is the smells of a market that linger longest in my memory. Some have been wonderful, like the spice markets in India, and some have not, like a particular market in the afternoon heat of Saigon.

After my walking tour, I circled back through the bakery (the macaroons looked delectable, but that isn’t my area of expertise) and wandered back to the alleyway on the far right of the store to browse the menus at the built-in food stalls. I cobbled together a three-course meal for myself with fried octopus balls as an appetizer, Korean fried chicken as my main, and sushi for dessert. Not that I intended it to be a multi-course meal, but my orders were ready at different times from different stalls. The octopus was easily the best of the three dishes, meaning that the meal started with its crescendo and waned from there like an anticlimactic narrative.

The store is about a half hour from my current apartment, so visiting won’t become a normal part of my routine but it was nice to get a dose of different this weekend, however sanitized. My propensity to walk through markets and grocery stores in each new place I visit, though, will persist. I have found that to be among the quickest ways to learn about a place and its people. I like to think I inherited this habit from my grandfather, even if I never joined him in any of his own scouting visits to grocery stores.

Monday morning, I received a video on my phone. It was one of my young cousins delivering a very important message: “Hi James David, brother’s on the way and he’s doin’ fine. Bye.” Then she repeated the message after some prompting and that was that. The message was delivered with the sort of innocence that only a child can have, oversized decorative candy cane twirling in her hands and still wearing her pajamas. Her little world has changed forever—now she has a baby brother and is a middle child. Given her repeated insistence that she is not a baby, though, I’m sure she will come to embrace having someone younger in the house. By early afternoon I had received several pictures of my newborn cousin.

I no longer use Facebook and have not even responded to the text pictures, which I probably should have done. Alas, this post is my way of sharing how excited I am to welcome another member into the family. It will be at least a few months before I can meet him in person, but I look forward to holding him and just watching him sleep (fingers crossed) in my arms—there is nothing quite like holding a baby and thinking about all the possibilities for its life. A few of my law school classmates have also had children in the last month, and all of these babies have offered a stark reminder that some things matter a whole lot more than everything else.

I stopped reading a book this week—removed my yellow post-it note bookmark and returned it to the library with roughly two-thirds of the text unread, and this a work of fiction too. I have stopped reading nonfiction idea books after I read the same idea presented three different ways. Such books really should have been articles anyway. But with fiction I have persevered, stubbornly adhering to my initial decision to read the book even after it fails to grab my attention after multiple attempts. Though I derive no satisfaction from such a slog, it’s difficult to admit an error, even one based on incomplete information that has been rendered obsolete.

Several of the contemporary thinkers I most admire pride themselves on how many books they start or skim, not how many they finish. These people place books into three rough categories: books to be read and enjoyed for their own sake, mainly fiction and biography/memoir; books to be read to absorb a writer’s main ideas, encompassing most nonfiction works; and books to be studied and reread many times.

My own nighttime reading is intended to fit into the first category. I want to wind down and relax without resorting to the television screen, not send my mind whirring. It is self-defeating to persist through page after page of drudgery in what is intended to be pleasure reading. It is true that some books start slowly and build. To account for this, there is a little heuristic I once heard that you should read 100-minus-your-age pages (currently 70 for me) before setting a book aside. This particular book was well past that threshold and still hadn’t drawn me into the story.

I have been contemplating how this stop-loss ethos might apply to other areas of life. There are certain realms where it has no place, but maybe the principle extends beyond leisure and even into certain professional projects where neither results nor pleasure are forthcoming. It is something I will keep in mind anyway.