"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." 

"The end of a thing is better than its beginning."

Dear Friends and Family,

Three years ago, my pregnant wife in tow, I moved our household east across the continent, from the redwood forest to the gulf stream waters. We settled in a little town north of Hartford, on the border of two kingdoms—the Red Sox and the Yankees—to devote countless hours to the study of the law, and child rearing, in the Constitution State. After three sleep deprived years, I had made a host of new friends (including Fanny Mae, our benevolent benefactress) and had acquired a valuable new lexicon: res ipsa loquitor; res judicata, per curiam, and “collateral estoppel”—as well as “boppy,” “bouncy seat”, “cradle cap,” and “postpartum.”

Having slogged through the rocky landscape of jurisprudence, the University of Connecticut bestowed on me the magnanimous title of Juris Doctor (or Doctor of Jurisprudence). But no sooner had the fanfare sounded and the commencement speeches concluded, when the new title, still lingering in graduates’ ears, sounded hollow and ineffectual. I, Don Quixote, had conquered the vast dunes of the Sahara. I frolicked in the cool sea-froth at the desert’s edge and looked back in ecstasy, if but for a moment, before reality set in. I still had to navigate the Mediterranean before reaching Rome. Oh, false climax! Cruel hoax!  I felt the torment of Jacob’s when he lifted Leah’s veil. Yes, it was true: before I could practice law, I had to take the Connecticut Bar Examination. Nay, I had to pass the Connecticut Bar Examination!

            The stakes had never been higher, and I couldn’t fold. I’d have to bluff. So I studied the twenty-seven subjects with due diligence (including working out, playing tennis, spending time with my family, going camping, and driving to the coast to see a rare bird only days before the exam) and hoped for the best. As the behemoth approached, during the final weeks and days before its advent, the import of the task before me loomed higher than its spiny crown, ominous like its sulfurous breath. For two days I brandished the mighty pen and dueled twelve hours with the fine print beast.

             Victory was uncertain, results dilatory. Two moons I waited and sweated, reconstituting and analyzing those two miserable days until their memory was white-washed with false confidence and artificial doubt. I had begun to work in the firm where I was hired last November. I stood on the brink of an auspicious career, watching the ball in the air—bouncing on the rim, glancing the upright, approaching the foul pole. Nine pins were down and the last one was wobbling precariously.

            On Friday, September 29, 2006, the Bar Examining Committee blew its whistle, threw its flag, and approached the middle of the field to pronounce judgment. After two months of deliberation, the jury had reached a verdict. After much ado about nothing, I passed the bar.

            So now I have to get up tomorrow morning and go to work. Therefore, I bid you good night and thank you for your thoughts and prayers, your love and support.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there... I do not sleep.

I am the thousand winds that blow...

I am the diamond glints on snow...

I am the sunlight on ripened grain...

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you waken in the morning's hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of gentle birds in circling flight...

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry—

I am not there... I did not die..." 

Your friend and lawyer (as of Oct. 30, 2006),

David