Planning the day.

Every bench in Central Park has a story, all beginning with a dedication, this one's :

"John Jacob Rothschild 1938-2010

I arise in the morning torn between a desire

To save the world and a desire to savor the world.

That makes it hard to plan the day.

E.B. White"

It’s the eve of my grandmother’s 80th birthday. A day I named as the most anxiety inducing of the year to my therapist in our last session. Once, almost 20 years ago to the day, my mother left Gran's room crying having been chastised for neglecting to perform a grand birthday gesture before mid afternoon. Gran had Denise (my mother) when she was 18 and after birthing Scott (my uncle) at 19, she wouldn’t see another baby until 47 when yours truly came to breathe.

From what I understand, my mother (as a result of our shared brain chemistry) had severe postpartum depression. So intense, that she and my father had been advised not to leave us alone together until I was 6 moths old. I've been told, and have come to imagine, that during this interim I spent more time in the arms of my second mother, Gran.

My grandmother, Celine Adam, cloaked me in her name. She, a Scottish immigrant by marriage, left her sleepy Scottish hometown to marry an American soldier stationed there, Paul Reedy, my grandfather. Gran took me to her hometown of Dunoon when I was 16 and, judging by the fondness she retained for it, I don't know if she'd have left had she been privy to the life leaving would lead her to. I think, if given the choice tomorrow, she’d take borrowed time with her family over the gilded American Dream.

The bench dedication dissolved tension in my soft pallet. A piece of myself I’d apparently been clenching.

I am ashamed of how broke I am. I know there is significant scientific evidence to support that my mismanagement of money, impulsivity, and lack of foresight is connected to the chemical reactions within the organ responsible for these functions. I also understand that being reared by a woman with an almost identical deficit has resulted in a myriad of formative experiences that would exacerbate the worst of my neurodivergence.

The part of myself that loves unconditionally — the part I think we’re all borrowing from God — can say with moderate conviction that I, for the most part, continue to do my best. However, a burden is still a burden and I’m altogether sick of being one.

I secured my entrance into New York City real estate with privilege. I thought I’d been given the keys to the castle: keys I could use to generate capital to bring vital cultural stories to fruition.

I’ve always wanted to change the world this way, with stories. Unattached to whose they were but delighted when given the opportunity to be seen in sharing my own.

My grandmother turns 80 tomorrow, my other grandmother turns 90 in June and I just missed the FIRST Birthday of a second cousin named Greta. I don’t like planning trips because I can’t afford them. I’m paranoid that the moment I’m anywhere but New York City, will be the moment New York City will suddenly show up to take me anywhere.

I want to savor my family but it feels like the more allowances I take to do that, the more burdensome I ultimately become.

My deal with the devil was New York City real estate. An agreement I thought would lead to an ability to take care of not only myself but everyone around me. A contract that would ensure my role in materializing experiences that would help us (as much as we could) understand one another. That would give me the freedom and autonomy to savor every candle on a birthday cake — mine or otherwise.

“I arise in the morning, torn between a desire to save the world and a desire to savor the world. That makes it very difficult to plan the day.”