The year is coming to a close…and I struggle to write of joyous moments and rhythmic episodes of delight. I know they were there – as I often say, in those spaces in between. They were in the moments with Sophie’s head on my shoulder or singing (so to speak) on our walks; listening to Sienna imitate all the animal noises she knows and feeling the tenderness of her cheek; watching my sons as adoring fathers…the incredible kindness and love of friends near and far; the excitement of a new home (which with a little luck and prayer we will get into next week); sunsets that took my breath and sunrises that gave it back…
Yes…undeniably there have been moments, magical, wondrous moments.
And yet, this has also been a particularly strange and disorienting year. Certainly being in temporary living quarters, without Andy more often than not, has been particularly upending. Somehow as we get older it seems we lose more people – or perhaps age makes us more sensitive to these departures. And in every corner of the world, there is pain – palpable, horrid, unrelenting pain – that one can’t ignore. The faces of children – hungry, broken, scared; real-time nightmares from which one cannot look away. I spend a lot of time seeking comfort, for it all hurts so damn much.
And I don’t get it, I swear I don’t…I don’t get hate, vitriol, bias, ignorance…I don’t get power grabs considered more valuable than the heartbeats of our children – anywhere in the world. What are we doing? Kleenex stock must be doing really well, for I’m certainly using my share.
And yet…yet, I hope. I hope that you all receive all that you wish for and wish for all that you have. I wish that the orbit of the earth, spins just slightly askew, so that we can stop perhaps, rewind and try again to create something enduring and universally reflective of the beauty of the heart. I hope…for all of us..
“Hope
Smiles from the threshold of the year to come
Whispering, ‘it will be happier’ – Alfred Tennyson
The night was sleepless and I’m wide awake…and the co-existence of contradictory realities seems to prevail. I am a contradiction in terms – held together by the small inhalations between words. You’d think that living within duality would at least offer up some deep slumber at the end of a day. Ha.
Here’s one for you – I stopped believing in atheism a long time ago (yes, an oxymoron with a little hint of humor). About the time I stopped writing everything in lower case and pretending that I was a potential hybrid of joni mitchell and e.e. cummings. That said, I still belief in disbelief, if disbelief equals wonder and incredulity and stuff that’s just really hard to believe.
I believe in God. I believe that there is something that I can’t adequately explain and seek daily, even though I know it’s there. We have conversations (ok – I do all the talking, but given my profession and personality, that’s not too common). Perhaps as my sister notes, the older we get, the more comfort we seek – whether it be in a more spiritual grounding, greater connections with others, opening our eyes and arms a bit wider – or all of the above. One’s world may become more circumspect while one’s outlook widens….see what I mean?
I believe in humankind despite our reiterative behaviors of intentional cruelty and deplorable injustice. It exists within the same construct as acts of graciousness and generosity that I witness everyday. I cry over both. And a sunrise can be as comforting as a sunset. Go figure.
So much for the theory that it can be absolutely one thing or another. Life is beautiful and unforgivably ugly. We seek forgiveness when we find it difficult to forgive. We ask for people to be held accountable and shy away from personal responsibility. We’re a funny species – which makes me wonder why we came up with ‘oxymoron’ – it’s not a particularly appealing word.
And yet –
Faith is unassailable. Small wonders are unassailable – the magnificence of a child delighting in the way a flower yields to its touch; the silliness of dancing while taking a walk (me, with my earphones on, and yes, I did make sure there was no one around); those kinds of hugs where you feel completely surrounded by love and warmth; sunlight on spiderwebs…
And somehow it is through that prism that we look everyday – how we hold our days, each other, our lives. Through its angles we are fractured and we are gorgeous, a spectrum of dualities that make no sense and yet belong together. So I repeat, go figure..
It has been too long since I’ve written – but if you knew how often I think about you and Jilly, you would feel overwhelmed with warmth, friendship and arguably quiet smiles. You are so loved.
Your pictures have filled me with delight (and is there any way I can make copies of some of them – seriously – I want them in my new house) and comfort and hope. Even when hope sometimes seems too ephemeral to hold.
This is going to be a bit political, perhaps more than a bit. I ask that people refrain from posting ‘hate’ rebuttals. At the risk of sounding harsh – you are entitled to your opinion as much as I’m entitled to mine. But this is my blog, so perhaps you can begin your own if you want.
Audrey Niffenegger wrote – “There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.”
I don’t understand what is happening in our world. I don’t understand why we don’t hold our children in the highest esteem – so that we raise them in a world that doesn’t feel like it’s one breath away from self-implosion. I can’t wrap my head around vitriol, hate, rage that foments more rage, violence that – like a cattle prod – propels people to consider more violence. Yes, this is about Orlando. Yes, this is about insincere apologies (if they are offered at all) and veiled intimations that extremism is the best answer to extremism. What can I say? I’m an aging woman who marched after Kent State and was hit with lead pipes for doing so, who wore a necklace for too many years with the expression “war is not healthy for children and other living things”. And yes, it turned my neck a hideous shade of green.
I wasn’t going to write about this today. I was going to tell you a funny story about my new temporary neighborhood. It can wait.
There is no comfortable way to end this – other than by sending love to you and your family. To insist that I will just try greater kindness, find opportunities for compassion and work like crazy to make sure that my walk and my talk are in sync. There really is only one page left – and we are writing it with our words and deeds. I write to you because I write with the deepest, most loving conviction. We have to stop killing each other. We have to stop jumping from individual perceptions to massive generalizations. One person at a time, one heart at a time, arms wide open. So, with head bowed and heart hopeful and saddened, I send much love, Mimi
You have helped me through these last few weeks more than you know. And my gratitude is inestimable. Thank you for understanding that new chapters are exciting and daunting, bold and frightening, hopeful and rife with doubt. That I swing between these extremes from one minute to the next, like the proverbial cradle in a treetop. A precarious position from which to observe one’s days, let me tell you. Have I snuggled in yet? Hardly. Right now I feel like I’m invisible in my own life. My son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter know me, her family has welcomed me warmly. And that’s all I know.
And that’s all who know me. Well, my neighbor Mike – who has graciously welcomed the Sirs, despite Archie’s early morning sun salutations that arguably could wake the neighborhood. Poor guy, he spent his life with acreage separating him from the rest of the world, so he and Bogey could greet the day with unbridled enthusiasm and only risk the ire of some late-rising birds. He really doesn’t understand why I’m telling him to ‘shhhh’ at 5:00AM. I’d like to know that someone knows I’m here, but not necessarily because my dogs insist on it.
Because of my geographical challenges, Andy keeps encouraging me to purposefully get lost each day and find my way back to home base. Funny guy – his rationalization for my GPS not being updated, I guess. I’m lost already – and I’m sitting at the kitchen table! Oh, and did I tell you how I took out my side view mirror as I backed out of the new garage? Yup – thought I saw a snake (it was an extension cord). And you wonder about my hesitation to just go? I’m intrepid in my imagination – it’s safer.
Ah well…life transitions. I’ve never been good with them as you know, though I’m damn lucky that they happen despite my reluctance. Just when you feel like you’ve got one aspect of your life down, fate yells “Plot twist!”. Children grow before you’re ready to let them go; newlyweds get used to each other and morph into something familiar, but different from that frenetic excitement; our inside age begins to disconnect from our outside appearance; life laps at the shore as we’re standing on the boardwalk wondering what the hell just happened while we were looking for the concession stand. I keep looking at everyone else and wondering why I’m not getting my feet wet.
The truth is this is the perfect time to wade in – because no one knows me, because I am not really visible. I can try anything I want and it will make no difference one way or the other. But for the fact that I tried. And that’s what I’m slowly starting to understand. I spend so much time fretting over what I did or didn’t do, wondering if I’ve pissed someone off, what I could do to make a situation better – it’s kinda exhausting honestly. And I don’t have any power other than to try to be a decent human being. To love wholeheartedly and let go when asked, try and be a little nicer to myself as I haltingly begin to walk to the shore.
And so I circle back to you – and your loving reminder that I’m not untethered, that I belong even if I’m not sure at this point where I am. Your refusal to let me deflect the conversation away from me (and we both know I’m pretty good at that). Maybe it’s just knowing that you remind me I’m ok, that you’re my sister, and when one is loved, precise coordinates aren’t necessary.
How have you been? I have been remiss in writing to you timely; the thoughts in my head refused to make themselves apparent when I sat down at my laptop. True, I could have sent you some jumbled, free-form excuse for a post, but you would have seen right through it.
“Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory, pausing, bending and stopping” — Nicholas Sparks
Yeah, I’m good…thanks..
So – we have moved. Not just around the corner – go big or go home – we moved to another state. Renting a lovely little house until our new home gets built. Ostensibly, this should be completed before the end of the year, but something tells me that’s a concoction of hope combined with good intentions. Looks delicious to drink, with a surprisingly bitter after-taste.
I have found my toothbrush, coffee, hairdryer…the Sirs have found their favorite spots in the backyard, though their enthusiasm is tempered with a bit of anxiety. Andy discovered his sweatpants, iPad and softest t-shirt. All that we’re going to unpack for this temporary stay has been unpacked (let’s not talk about how much remains unopened). I’d say we’ve made progress in a week.
I have found the supermarket, Target and HomeGoods.
I’ve had the delightful company of my almost-six month old granddaughter who discovers the world around her with a contagious delight. We’re learning as we go. My appreciation for the warm welcome from my son and daughter-in-law and her family is greater than my facility with the English language permits me to articulate.
So, I promise you it’s all good – remarkable really, given that we just threw our lives up in the air a week or so ago. And yet…
I’m so lost right now that if someone pointed the exit to a paper bag, I’m not entirely sure I’d find my way out. Directions have never been my long suit. I miss my other son, his wife and yummy daughter, I’ve lost the familiarity of faces that graced my days for years, the enveloping comfort of driving down a street that welcomed me for decades, the subtleties that define ‘home’ and gently imprint themselves on your heart.
Don’t get me wrong – it was time to shake things up. Learn a new neighborhood rhythm, find alternate ways to embrace being lost and learn how to find one’s self (my GPS never seems to have those coordinates). Grab onto some newness to life in a way that one is forced to in situations like this. I’m going to learn how to play the ukulele, start moving these arthritic hips and see if I can at least make them a bit stronger. Slowly wind my way around the maze of uncertainty and trepidation, bump into some privets along the way…I’m going to sit down and have a good cry some days and I’m going to get up and keep going. And one day, we’re going to have a new house, and it will shelter new memories, its walls will contain laughter and love, and family get- togethers will be enhanced by the miracles of two little girls who will define their grandparents’ home in ways I can only imagine.
But right now, I need to figure out where the light bulbs are…
I’m trying to find the better part of me, and when I engage in such challenging activity, I am always tempted to talk to you. You see me as better than I am. The truth of the matter is, you see everyone and every situation bathed in a light that softens the edges, mutes the glare, blesses the spirit. (If you don’t believe me, check out his blog windinmywheels.com – there’s just something about my friend Simon).
People spent their snowbound days differently. Just as the snow began, we were meeting with a stager – a very talented woman who claims the professional mission of depersonalizing a home and transforming it into a space that others could love. So, I have been packing and purging – nauseous and angry and and considering everything except the pictures of my family (in all its iterations) dispensable. I’m not convinced I’m ever going to feel that sensation of ‘home’ again.
And yet you reminded me that ‘home’ has a far, far different meaning than I ascribe. Your quote “Home is where your heart is. It is your resting place” – my heart is everywhere, Simon. It feels both full and far too diffuse. It hurts. And as stupid as it sounds, home could be anywhere (and has been, believe me) I felt my family around me. And though we will find a place to rent here and a place there, I am less and less tethered. Is love what keeps one from floating away? I have no idea. Clearly if one were to determine what ‘element’ I am, it isn’t air…
So how does this all connect – bear with me. Our first dog was a little schnauzer named Demi (hybrid of my sister’s name and mine). I loved that pup as only a child can (though I think the person who truly adored Demi was our dad – they even looked a bit alike). Yet, when I was told that I needed to ‘share’ him with my sister, my response was to tell my parents that she could have him. I didn’t want him anymore. A lie of course, indignant and self-defeating without question. If I loved him so much and had to let go of him a bit, I would let go of him completely. Just so you know – we shared Demi, loved him and his nuttiness and there’s no unhappy ending.
And here I am today – plowing through closets and rooms that held the people I love in various stages of growing up (which include some moments that one might want to forget) and railing – ‘Take it all. Give it all away – none of it means anything to anyone but me anyway’. Hmmm…similar reaction to sharing that little dog all those years ago.
I guess I go to extremes, huh?
And yet my friend, if I want to extend a little kindness to myself, I could just admit that sometimes it’s hard to love – family, home, memories. It’s hard to let go and harder still to trust. It’s hard to be understood by the people who you think would get it, and then you are given the chance to cry with relief for the friends who do. And that brings me back to writing you. Thank you, Simon. Thank you for being so selfless that from across the pond, you sat with me for awhile. You let me go first as we sat and talked. And you nodded and smiled. And in that moment, I felt blessed. Wherever I go, I will remember being there with you and perhaps I will rail a little less and relish a little more…
May I introduce you to Sienna Reese – the most perfect daughter of my son and daughter-in-law. This little girl was made in love and born in love (with a powerful dose of determination, grit and strength on her mommy’s part) and is welcomed to the world with a full heart from so many – including this new grandmother.
There are no words for experiences like this…they get caught in the throat and can’t be fully formed. Ironically, I came across this post from The Story People, and it felt right for today. To rediscover that place. Perhaps I was never more at home than when I was holding my children against me. Welcome home precious child, welcome home
That’s the crib in our sitting room upstairs. It’s ready and waiting for our first grandchild who is due later this week (of course it’s up to her to decide when she’s ready). Pretty exciting stuff. Other than the arrival of one’s own children, there are few other heart-in-your-mouth moments in life. And I could wax pseudo-poetic on the magnificence of pearly toes and downy ears, that indescribable smell on the back of a baby’s neck, the sensation of little breaths against one’s cheek.
What they don’t tell you is that part of you re-awakens..the part that looks at your child-who-is-now-a-man and remembers how he would cling to you like a little monkey – arms and legs tightly wound around you so that there was no need to hold on to him for he was secure against your body (though you held him just the same). They don’t tell you that as he anticipates his daughter’s arrival or marvels at his wife’s equanimity and calm or imagines the awesome child that they are going to have, you are left alone with a sense of mild imbalance. For you can’t pull him onto your lap and remind him that you have been there – you had the experience of awesome children. Somehow there aren’t words that you can say any longer with the same forgiveness extended – that you’re a mushy, soppy mom who still is completely in love with her kids/men. And I am watching my son prepare to be a parent.
They don’t tell you that there is something surreal about it all. How this cycle, as reliable as night following day, moves in a rhythm of its own design. How you wish and wonder, hope and dream, fret and agonize, invest a love that defies description into years that you feel will be forever (certainly some phases that seemed endless too). I mentioned this to my sister – ‘when did this happen, Deb? How did we get here?’ She told me that when I was pregnant, my mother said something similar – though she never mentioned it to me. Undoubtedly I was far too wrapped up in the experience of becoming a mom to give much thought to her becoming a grandmother. To think of her children having children. I wish she was here – if only for me to tell her that I get it.
If there is any dissonance, its feeling so much love that I feel as if the heart can’t hold it all (for some of it must be held back or there’d be no dealing with me – as it is I can be insufferable). That love? Oh yes, baby girl it awaits you from so many corners of your life. But there is a certain love – that love that happens between a parent and a child. The one you hold onto forever while still letting go – that’s in there too. And that is the legacy of love you will inherit when you arrive.
“Nobody can do for little children what grandparents can do. Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children” — Alex Haley…I promise you stardust.
I’d write this to Santa, but being way over the age of majority and Jewish, it would seem remarkably disingenuous to do so. Instead, I’m sending this to the universe, because based on my calculations, it’s large enough to handle a few requests from me.
Hi Universe,
How’s it going where you are? Hopefully well, and you’re approaching the holidays with both anticipation and delight. I hope you get all that you ask for and realize that you already have all that you want. I’m not a big one for lists – I’ve been blessed too many times over to look at a gifted life and seek more.
And yet.
There are some things I desperately want this year. You see, we’ll be welcoming our first grandchild into the world in February, and while I spend a ridiculous amount of time wondering what our relationship will be like, I’m spending more time perseverating about the world she will be joining. And there’s some work we really need to do.
– This year I want the world to work on forgiveness. If we’ve done something wrong – to the world or to an individual – let’s own it, apologize, forgive and learn the lesson. I feel emotionally assaulted everyday – whether it is the horrific senselessness of murder and ill-defined parameters of justice; too many homeless for my extra coats to warm; so much vitriol and judgment and too little shared compassion and faith. Anonymous haters spitting venom in virtual environments where pain is the currency and absence of accountability is assured. Can we have a body politic that agrees that a good foundation is one predicated upon us not hurting each other and/or this fragile earth we are only borrowing for a short while? Can we eliminate the ‘yeah, but…’ and replace it with ‘maybe we can’?
– This year I want families and friends to recognize that we can be extensions of our best selves to those we love the most and reflect a better self to those who we may never see again. I want memories to be filled with limitless possibilities that we inspire with the merest of actions, the most innocent of exchanges, a smile.
– I don’t want any more children to be hungry, or cold, or denied the feeling of being held in love and safety.
– I want gratitude to be as contagious as kvetching and just as colorful.
– I want the world’s religions to remember that the shared predicate is love. I’m no scholar, but I’m no fool either. If there is no love as a foundation, what is there to believe?
– This year, I want this whole growing up thing to be a little easier. I thought I’d at least know what I don’t know instead of finding the list increasing and expanding each day…Universe, I ask that we give ourselves the gift of the better part of who we are. Chicken soup for the world, I guess.
“It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools – friendship, prayer, conscience, honesty – and said ‘do the best you can with these, they will have to do.’ And mostly; against all odds, they do.” — Annie LaMott
Well, Bogey navigated us to the mountains yesterday, and despite his insistence on looking behind or beside us, we made it.
And now comes the snow, with no estimates even suggested for those of us at ‘higher elevations’. Clearly this ain’t no gamblin’ town.
It’s a cozy Thanksgiving this year – one beloved son and daughter-in-law, Andy, four Sirs (one grand-dog included at the Round Table) and yours truly. One cherished son in Toronto; the other adored one, with his in-laws. My sister is up in NY; Andy’s family in CA. I’ve never prepared Thanksgiving for four. And since I’m not sure how successful I will be at re-calculating measurements, there will be plenty of leftovers. It feels a little strange – and yet it’s ok – for everyone is where they want/need to be. And they’re fine. Let’s move on.
Something about the silence that accompanies snow forces one to pause and listen. It is right to pay attention at times like these. When the world continually reminds us why we’re angry, impotent, righteously indignant and not righteous enough, the snow blinds me to all of this vitriol. It provides a day of muted noise – a compulsory moment to feel something other than head-shaking disillusion.
Gratitude and giving thanks – it’s as white and clean and pure as snow falling. Despite some chronic pain stuff (yawn), which has compromised aspects of my life lately, I am choosing this moment of grace. To be thankful. Thankful for family and friends who are generous with their love and laughter; meager with their criticisms and callousness. Thankful that I’m going to be a grandma in February and hopeful that I may be a vital part of this little girl’s life. Thankful for new friends who expand my view of the road ahead, and old friends who have rejoined my travels and have myopic vision that forgives much of history. Thankful for giggles that cause stomach aches, tears that cleanse and puppy kisses. Thankful for books that transport and bring me home again. Thankful for music that accompanies all my moments. Thankful for featherbeds and drool-y naps. Thankful for t-shirts warm from the dryer. Thankful for those spaces in between – when my breathing slows and I bow my head. ‘Please. Wow. Thanks.’ – to paraphrase Annie Lamott. That is the prayer; the alpha and the omega. We are blessed. We love and we are loved. We have limitless capacity for a limited time. Gotta get your grateful on. And I do. Before I get to the chestnuts that will be roasting and sweet potatoes baking and turkey brining…before the smells begin to infuse the house with hints of tomorrow’s yumminess. Get to that place where the greatest tradition is observed – where you go to whisper ‘thank you’.
Round the world, gonna go again” — (Elias McDaniel, songwriter)
I’ve been away a long time – or at least it feels like a long time. Not sure whether I’m really back. Blogger fatigue? Not really. More the sense that if I had nothing interesting to say, better to stay mum. When I consult, I often say that if you put your bucket down a well for water and you get a bountiful supply, you’ll keep putting your bucket down that well. If you put a bucket down a well and draw up dirt, how often are you going to return to that well? Felt like a lot of dirt to me. So I’ve been out dousing…
Serendipity, the universe, a smack upside the head – call it what you will. I received a comment from a woman named Karen in response to my last blog. I’m sharing it with you in part (you could check it out yourself, but it’s important to this little story to quote from it here).
“Dear Mimi,
I just found your blog and it could not have been better timed. I find your writing to be so lyrical and admire your authenticity…I want you to know that you have made an impact on my life at a time when I needed inspiration and the strength to move forward; I lost my husband 18 most ago; we both had cancer at the same time. 8 weeks after his death I was diagnosed with a second cancer and went through 9 months of grueling treatment, alone, without my Beloved…[L]ife has a way of being arbitrary in how we learn the real lessons, yes? Our life together was like a beautiful song – starting with an anthem of the wonder of finding one another, then verse after verse over 45 years playing out the excitement of creating a family, the expansiveness of gratitude for all our hearts could hold that spilled so lavishly onto us and those we held dear, and then even over the period of shock and awe, our determination to live in the ‘now’. to savor the tastes, the touches, the fragrances and sights of ordinary days. Your writing has restored my soul, my heart, my mind and my body once again hear that beautiful song – the one we created together that chapter and verse comforts and sustains me, and the belief once again that though we ay not always cling to it, that the Universe is on our side, that it is Love that is always the answer to aching hearts. Thank you Mimi, thank you.”
I was left humbled, silenced by such gratitude for something I didn’t realize I had done. That Karen shared this with me – to give me such a generous gift. I affected a life. I. affected. a. life. Is there a greater contribution one can offer – especially without any knowledge of doing so? I am still awed. I am still shaking my head and I am still so touched that my words helped this beautiful woman. This beautiful woman who was willing to share her personal thoughts with me.
Flash forward to dinner with someone I used to know in high school and college. Ok, we dated – but that was a lifetime ago and after forty years, it counts far more as someone who used to know you before you learned a lot about pretense and guile and the only games you could play were the most sophomoric ones. Anyway, he mentioned a memory – I was 17 or so, and apparently was upset about something. He asked me if he had done something to make me mad, was it about him, etc. My response? “You know, sometimes it’s not all about you.”
And here I’ve sat – with these two disparate, yet powerful moments in my hands. I am heartened to know I still run true to form. That I am still focused more on others than on myself. It isn’t selfless believe me – it’s just where my comfort lies.
But do you realize that you change lives with your writing? Those whom I follow devotedly, affect my day, my thoughts, expanding vistas and shrinking others that have been over-planted and tended. You have changed my life. And if we can do this with and for each other, are we not answering one of the highest of human purposes? You matter. You have made a difference. You touch with tentative but determined intention. How incredible is that? We are here. And when we hurt or thrill, when we cry or giggle – when we least expect it – we are gifted.
I can’t believe I’ve written nothing for a couple of weeks – yet there has been so much going on that I can’t quite get a grip on my reaction to it all. Horrific events around the world, virulent illnesses, the passing of iconic talents, thirteen years gone by since 9/11. I was in NY that day – and yet to write of that day seems disingenuous. How the air stank as a disgustingly grey cloud forged uptown. Shock and disbelief trumped any sense of reality. Yet, I am here; my family is fine; I didn’t have that much innocence left for the thievery that occurred that day.
And still, this all seems like too much stimuli – I am too pained to be numb and too numb to reveal or touch the pain evinced in my heart. For reasons unknown to me, I can’t rise above this ache and feel stymied by my limitations with the English language. Somehow it feels like there’s no recovery period, no chance to re-group, cry the needed tears or resume breathing rhythmically.
This morning broke a bit differently though. The air is clear, the sky so blue it seems almost as if in a cartoon. The weariness of the leaves hinted at the promise of colors so vibrant, that the landscape waits with impatience. And I felt myself inhale for the first time perhaps in weeks. I drove with all the windows down, letting the breeze in and maybe suffusing the air around me with something fresher and kinder. Hope, hope – in the moment, for tomorrow, for the moments unseen. And finally, I bowed my head and cried.
Listening to NPR, this was playing …and I sat in the parking lot and was lifted. I hope. And I hope you do too.
Waiting for the Karma Truck 