New Old Home

This morning it is Kornblatt's Delicatessen. Jewish deli in the middle of upscale NW 23rd Ave, Portland, Oregon. So just how Jewish -- just how New York -- can it be? An entirely fair question, and as one who has never been to the city (and whose Jewishness may rightfully be questioned) I'm probably not the most reliable commentator. Be that as it may, I am feeling too comfortable, too "at home", here at Kornblatt's to give much care for whether or not these feelings are fitting.

Besides, it's possible that I was in fact born in the wrong city, at the wrong time in history, etc., etc. It might not be just coincidence that I have a secret, deep-seated love for onion bagels and cream cheese (and even, when the wallet is unusually fat, for lox. Unfortunately, that scenario is not the case today). It might not be just coincidence that I have a secret, deep-seated appreciation for the sort of quality newspaper writing found in publications like the New York Times. Of course, I've also at times fancied that I ought to have been born into Regency-era England (see Jane Austen fetish), or Revolutionary America, or... But for this morning, I would like to be in my Jewish New York deli, and this Portland incarnation is the nearest thing I can get.

On a separate note...

"They", the ubiquitous "they", say that it's all about "finishing well". Unfortunately, I've never been so adept at fulfilling the lofty ideal. One of my most vivid high school memories involves a particular English teacher, who I sorely sold short in my efforts I'll admit, commented that unlike most students, who begin the year slowly and build their efforts to a crescendo at the end, I had peaked rather early and leveled. "You are an anomaly, Aaron." Knowing the meaning of the word, but liking its sound nonetheless (and having a taste for self-deprecating irony), I replied, "Thank you." "It's not a compliment," she retorted. "I know," I clarified, with a smile. Beneath the bizarre student-teacher dynamics in this anecdote, there is an insight that I have been hesitant to admit. She is right. I don't often finish well. When there is enough intrinsic motivation in the thing, I can make it out alright. There have been certain classes, certain positions of leadership, etc. that I have, indeed, risen to the occasion. But there are others, probably the majority, in which I have rolled slowly across the finish line, feet dragging, shoulders slouched.

The context for this introspection has been the coming end of the Portland adventure. Less than two weeks now, and I can feel that familiar creep of complacency, of atrophying apathy, coming upon me. Actually, I'd been resolving rather clearly to myself that this time would be different. I've been trying to learn in recent years to make the conscious choice to persist. Farther back, I just blamed it on fate, a set of impermeable dispositions, that forbade me from "finishing well" an activity that I found increasingly meaningless (Unsurprisingly, I often found/find myself empathizing heartily with Solomon's Ecclesiastes). But now, I am more taken with the idea that choices are ever ours. I can choose this way or that. I can choose to love well or not. I can choose to push on or not. But the trick to it all, and it is one that I think I've been forgetting in recent days, is that while we possess the power of choice, it's still grace that gets us along. I can choose to press on, but it is grace that carries me there. Without that important addendum, it's just bootstrap theology.

So, anyway, there are 13 days or so left in Portland, cloudy Portland. Work has been stultifying, and there seems little chance of it suddenly turning otherwise. As best I try, I cannot keep from glancing at the calendar once, or twice, or a few times more each day, counting down the days until I am back in PHX and Athens. The question is whether or not you can "finish well" while still yearning, even if not as violently as in the past, for the future. I'm not sure. For purposes of self-justification, I want to say it can be done. For optimism, not normally my strong-suit, I want to say it can be done. But, much like my assessment of dear Kornblatt's (who has refilled my coffee cup probably seven or eight times already), I may not be the most reliable judge.

Whatever. For now, I have an onion bagel filling my stomach; good coffee keeping my fingers fleet; and enough youthful naivete remaining to not care much for resolving existential questions. Good morning, Portland.