It doesn’t get more gorgeous than this…
It doesn’t get more gorgeous than this…
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.
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.
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
So here I sit, on the eve of celebrating my 20th anniversary of being 40 – or as most people would say – turning 60. 6-0. S-i-x-t-y.
– Hello, how are you?
– Fine thanks, I’m 60.
How the hell did I get here already? Even my sister acknowledges that it’s a big number. She also assures me I’ll get over it. I’m sure she’s right, even if I can’t fully articulate what it is I’ve got. I understand that the alternative is untenable – so untenable in fact, that perhaps that’s my issue. I’ve lost my sense of infallibility. I’ve exited that period of my life (which lasted a very long time) where it feels that everything goes on forever – and I’m a part of that everything. Tom Stoppard writes that one should “[l]ook at every exit as being an entrance somewhere else”. Sounds right – I am just a little uncertain about opening that door.
Of course, if we’re fortunate and healthy and inexplicably blessed, we all enter phase after phase. And no beginning is without its challenges; it takes an effort to move from childhood to adolescence, adolescence to young adulthood, young adulthood to middle age, and so on. It’s that ‘so on’ part…
I still dance with an abandon that embarrasses my children. I still cry at romantic comedies, clap for Tinkerbell and keep my playlists relatively current. I was never known for being a night owl, so there’s been no concession there. Perhaps it takes a bit longer to heal if I’m unwell, but I have much more confidence that I know how to take care of myself. I don’t do ‘mom’ jeans. I’m still in search of the perfect lipstick, blush and the eye cream that really does wonders.
Perhaps that’s it – I still believe in wonders. In fact I think I notice them more than ever before. Wonder in the breath of the wind, the intangible, unbreakable connections that tie me to those I love. Wonder at how much more meaning my days have now that they have fewer requirements to dilute the attention I might give to the sun on my face. And while I marvel, I also realize how tightly I am holding onto this life. How much I love the moments as well as the spaces in between, when I breathe in the absolute sweetness of being a part of it all.
I guess I’m going to charge right into sixty, because that’s the door that is open to me. “There are years that ask questions, and years that answer” (Zora Neale Hurston). Whatever this year turns out to be, I know it will hold its own wonders. And I’ll be clinging just as tightly as I always have.
I have nothing against “More” magazine – in fact, I read it and applaud its mission to publish a magazine specifically designed for women who have traded their concerns about thigh-gap for hot flashes. However, on the cover this month (in the largest font possible) is the phrase “Secrets To Aging Gracefully” and in smaller print “from real women like you”.
Let me tell you what the secrets are – exercise, eat healthy foods (eat vegan – or not), color your hair – or not, use injectables – or not, live in the country or in the city, moisturize and be happy in your skin.
Thank you very much “More” magazine. I had no idea.
There’s something ironic about using the adverb ‘gracefully’ when one has joints that crack, a back that is willing to debate the merits of good posture, and an ever-increasing awareness that you will never be carded again. “Ha”, I say. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”
There is nothing graceful about aging. There is grace in aging. And there’s a rockin’ big difference between the two.
I spent a good part of yesterday at a local hospital receiving an I.V. infusion (for osteoporosis – I share this only because I don’t want you to think darker thoughts). This will be an annual trip; it’s nothing compared to some other unpleasant medical moments I’ve had and none of them come close to the challenges others face every single day. I may feel a little off today and I know that tomorrow will be far better. This doesn’t even qualify as a roll in the barrel -it’s a jostle.
The infusion center is where people go to receive their chemo treatments. On either side of me and all around me were patients watching hope as it slowly dripped into their ports.
To my left was a 67-year-old man who cheerfully told me about the hardy qualities of the liver, much of his having been removed a year ago; the 70-something woman on my right was laughing at the nurses who had to come and adjust her Taxol drip every two minutes. These two knew each other so they just pulled me into their conversation. They talked about their children, books, the cupcake shop in Georgetown. Significant others and good movies. Oncologists and naps when it rains. Joking with the nurses and occasionally closing their eyes as the minutes dragged. Just as I thought we were going to take a break, one of them piped up with a thought. I kissed them both when I left. The nurse and I hugged. Don’t know why – it was right though.
This post isn’t about cancer. It’s about moving forward in and with life, holding delight and intent in one hand and awareness in the other. It’s about fighting for your life like a street brawler while handling it as a newborn child. There’s nothing graceful about it – it’s scary and messy and fraught and unfair and arbitrary and clumsy. It’s also magnificent and wise and proud and freeing and luscious. Aging with grace? It’s those moments in between the extremes when you smile and weep and whisper ‘thank you so, so much’.
“Well, there is narcissism in all of us, of course. I mean we are the protagonists of our own lives, so naturally it feels like we’re at the wheel. But we’re not at the wheel. That just happens to be where the window is located” — Jean Marie Korelitz
I’ve been up at the mountain house since Sunday. It’s good to be back, though the first few days without any connectivity to the outside world was a little daunting. No phone service, no Internet. I thought that would be fine – and it was, except when the night encroached and I was reminded that I am a very little, inconsequential person in the great big scheme of things – and the mountains are a fairly imposing backdrop from which to consider this. What serendipity has brought me to this place in time. And yeah, there were occasionally shout-outs imploring the universe to keep me safe. So far, so good.
On some level it appalls me that silence can be unrequited, when it is so necessary and valuable. I’ve been struggling a lot of late with the outline of this next story line in my life (made even more difficult by the fact that I have yet to figure out what I want to be when I grow up). Itchy, out-of-sync, closing off more parts of me to see if I could get to the essence of what I want. The reality is I need this silence right now (though it is good to be able to converse with you again). With all the noise going on in my head, something had to force me to be still.
I have not arrived at any great conclusions, though I feel like I’m on the cusp of…something. And I’m feeling a bit less anxious about not being able to touch it. When you can’t avoid yourself, you have to figure out a way through the mild panic and self-deriding thoughts that circle around as a cyclone. Stepping outside myself to look inside and provide the reassurance that it’s ok. Let life carry me – for that is what it’s going to do anyway. What hubris to think that because I want answers now that I’m supposed to have them. They’re en route – like the spring.
I marvel that the buds on the trees, the flowers, etc are so insistent on blooming regardless of the temperature. They’re straining to burst forth, determined to honor their rightful time in the sun. A part of me wants them to be a bit more self-protective and wait until the temperature proves more accommodating. Another part of me is cheering them on, encouraging them to claim their rightful place. They’re going to bloom, in their time and on their schedule. I am learning a lot from them. The hide-and-seek exercise that transitions us from one season to the next, and the incoming season is always ‘it’. And always wins. So with this thought, I toy with a new season in my soul.
It’s all good. Learning to give myself a break, give myself permission to stare at the clouds, read a book in one sitting, make some tea and just savor. Savor my husband, my children (when they allow me), the cocoon I am ensconced in on top of this very large and imposing mountain. Make music in the silence and write a verse that has yet to be sung.
I’m not the most graceful person – never have been. I can trip over nothing, miss the lip of my coffee cup, bump into a wall – and that’s just walking from one end of the kitchen to the other. Would that these were marketable skills. What I typically balance well though are the variable weights of the thought bubbles in my head. Have you ever stopped to consider how many disconnected thoughts jump around your mind in a five-minute period? Some complete, others rejected. Some stubbornly intractable, others as ephemeral as a breeze. So we go through our days.
Perhaps it’s the disparate qualities of these thoughts that make them manageable. When life events collide, and the thoughts are connected despite the qualities that make them each unique – well, that’s another story…that’s the stuff of which headaches are made. Juggling – it’s not for the faint of heart.
Over the last few days, much has happened that is disparate yet similar. Andy turned sixty. My aunt passed away. Our well temporarily ran out of water – literally.
Sixty is an impressive number. A bit frightening even though the alternative is far scarier. And this generation of ours is making sixty look damn good. My daughter-in-law added a perspective I hadn’t considered – a birthday just makes you one day older than the day before. Well that just means that Andy is 59 plus a few days. And he wears it well. But when he looked at me yesterday and simply said “I’m sixty years old”, I felt the weight of those words. He is surprised naturally – how did we get here? I’m still wondering whether or not he’s going to ask me to go steady.
We also had just come home from the funeral service for my aunt. I hesitate to write too much about her, for as much as I loved her, there are four cousins of mine and six grandchildren who are the rightful authors of her story. She was a vibrant, social, politically passionate spitfire with a great smile. I remember lots of family moments at her house. Her husband and my dad (they were brothers) singing “The Bluebird Of Happiness” before collapsing in tears of laughter. Laughter. That’s it. I remember laughter. I choose to remember laughter. And how loving they were to my children. Her last years were stolen by Alzheimer’s – an unforgiving thief.
And she was the last of my parents’ cohort group. The last of my aunts and uncles. It suggests that my sister, cousins and I are now next in this ineffable path. I find that a difficult thought to hold onto for very long; I want to drop it, so I can pick it up when I’m ready – and yet it feels like it’s covered in Velcro. I’m not ready for all the ramifications of being a grown-up. My hunch is none of us are. I am in love with life and I am angry that it has to end as we know it. My head aches. My heart aches. And the sun rose this morning as it always does.
The well feels a bit dry as you can probably tell. The well guys were here already this morning and needed to swap out a part, advising us to keep the power off for a couple of hours to give the well a chance to refill. It seems like good advice. Sometimes you just have to power down and give it all over. Cry a bit. Accept that there are questions without answers or at least fight them with less vehemence. Let the sun hurt your eyes as it warms your skin. It’s okay.
RadiatingBlossom.wordpress.com posted a poem yesterday which has stayed in my bones. It seems a far better closing thought than anything I could offer.
The Thing Is – Ellen Bass
To love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
Today is my friend Joanne’s birthday. It’s a big one to us – sixty is a pretty impressive number, and worthy of celebration. Since I can’t be with her today, at the very least it is deserving of a post.
A few years ago, my daughter-in-law set up my Facebook page though I had little expectation that I would ‘meet’ people in such a forum. Within two hours of being connected, I received a message from Jo. She had been looking for me for oh, about forty years. And I felt a surge of gratitude and disbelief that is difficult to explain. Honestly, I don’t consider myself one of the memorable ones. But anyway, there was no denying that we were best friends in junior high school, two of the bar mitzvah brides in the neighborhood (a phrase of my mother’s referring to the number of bar mitzvahs we were invited to attend), and typically on the phone when we weren’t in each other’s apartment. But life happened in between then and now. We went to different high schools, colleges. The last time I saw her was when she came to hear me sing at a place called “Catch A Rising Star” in New York.
“While they talked they remembered the years of their youth, and each thought of the other as he had been in another time” (John Edward Williams)
So we have traveled different roads, in different cities, in different vehicles. And yet our travels paralleled each other. Our majors were similar, our commitments were similar. Our twenties were blessed with the arrival of our kids but kicked our asses in every other way. I probably built more walls around me than Jo; she remains far more open and trusting. I am here for her today as I was for her when I was thirteen. We have both lost our parents and understand the seismic shift this causes in one’s bearings; one’s place in the world. She thinks I’m a better person than I am. I think of her as a magic kite – she soars and dips in colors so vibrant your eyes have to adjust to its brightness. You see nothing else in the sky.
Jo was going to become a bat mitzvah today, but sometimes life shouts “Plot Change!” and you have to adjust accordingly. She was going to speak about her journey, what she has integrated into her soul along the way. She had asked me to say something too – and I would have said the following – “This is a day that celebrates the nexus of all that has come before you and all that still awaits. I am a better, happier person for your friendship. The children you have taught and the parents you have guided have been led by an uncompromising, dedicated, singularly outstanding educator. The formidable and unyielding love for Ben and Jenna is so powerful, it is its own energy force. Your heart holds more than most can ever hope to experience in a lifetime – and you still have a long way to go. This world which you have touched with your passion and your elation, with your sorrow and your tears, with your right and righteous “Made In America” indignation and gentle yearnings for a view of the Gulf Of Mexico – is a better place because of the way you have chosen to grace it. I would have thanked you for the gift of being able to speak these words. Yet that said, I’m just as happy to write them to you here. With love and laughter and wishes for all that you wish for yourself and more – Happy Birthday Jo.
“Become major…Live like a hero. That’s what the classics teach us. Be a main character. Otherwise what is life for?” — J.M. Coetzee
I’ve been thinking a lot about transitions lately. My friends who are encountering detours and re-routes that they hadn’t anticipated. Bumps that feel like moguls on one of the Olympic ski runs. The kinds of change that can leave your posture skewed and your jaw clenched to the point of pain. Jo told me that she thought transitions were easier when we were younger. Perhaps. Perhaps we just weren’t aware of what part of our story we were in the middle of – innocence is a wonderful thing. But when you get a bit older, when the time comes that you realize that this is in fact the story line in which you are the focal character, perspective changes a bit. We spend so much of our life planning our next chapters – even when they don’t turn out the way we thought they would.
As a child, I remember feeling that I just couldn’t wait for life to start – I couldn’t wait to be able to ride with the experienced riders; couldn’t wait to be double digits. As a newly-minted teen, I couldn’t wait until I could wear Yardley’s cake eyeliner. Then I couldn’t wait until I was legal. Anticipation in my twenties – to be a mom, be seen as an adult (and be forgiven for transgressions that were a result of not knowing what I was doing as an adult), have my own home. The thirties brought confirmation that though I no longer had the excuse of being a novice grown-up, I had fertile years to dig into this life I was creating without boundaries or barriers. Perhaps in my forties it began to wear a little thin, but not so much so that my mind was reluctant to keep moving ahead, anticipating next steps with energy and spirit.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that looking forward no longer held the same thrill. And despite the gratitude (which accompanies most things for me), there lingers questions about legacy and lasting impressions, an awareness that looking forward diminishes the present and quite frankly, too much future-thinking just makes me anxious. I can write a chapter, but I’m not prepared for the story to end.
And perhaps that is why these transitions get so damn tricky. Our emotional muscles aren’t as supple; we have seen enough to hesitate – able now to determine the degree of difficulty associated with our next move.
There is a certain grace in such awareness though. To be able to be engaged with life and observe it simultaneously. Moving thoughtfully enough that you don’t miss a cardinal on a snow filled branch or the sound the wind makes right before it blows through your hair. Arriving at a point where you know what matters more often than not, and staying that course. Transitions may not get easier as we get older, the choices may change in scope and size, but we are each, still the author. And I for one, think my story is damn good.
We had all the kids at home yesterday, and the house was resonant with laughter and teasing, generous gift-giving and a love I can only reference as palpable. My heart beats more deeply, echoing in my chest, snippets of serious conversation that stay in the forefront of my thoughts as I process and hold them as gently as feathers. “You really are my only mom” (a figurative comment that was so full of history and stories and trust and love that I will never ever forget its intent); “Remember when Grammy would give us shit for playing ball in the playroom and I asked her why it was called a playroom then?” “I used to think it was so ridiculous that you would treat me like a child when I was over; of course now I realize it was because I was a child”. Lessons in wine tasting, a book titled “The Story Of A Lifetime” which offers prompts and questions to facilitate the telling of one’s tale in a way that may be at least salient if not interesting. Laughter that included some good snorts, bad fart jokes and hugs good-bye for which I am never fully prepared.
And so it is as one year ends and another waits in the wings. I guess I’m not fully prepared. Certainly for some of the people I love, it has been a challenging year with losses that re-shape the heart. For most though, it has been relatively gentle. Our lives are intact, marriages seem happy though not without their requisite effort, young adults are realizing that the operative word has changed from ‘young’ to ‘adult’. We’re still close and I am forgiven my maternal neuroses that at least can be shared among three. I consciously tried to be kinder, cared less about judging and more about accepting, placed the notion of acquisitiveness somewhere down on the list where it belongs. I learned this year, perhaps more than the one before, how deeply I can be touched by the candor and stories of people I have come to know in this little universe. I have been gobsmacked when I received comments insisting that I have inspired, or tickled, or pleased, or echoed a thought that had been unspoken in someone else’s thoughts. I’ve been brought to tears and moments of spontaneous delight by David and Bill, Russ and Andrea, Bonnie and Liz, LouAnn and TIna and Ivon, Kizzy, Rhonda. Of course there are more and I do not intentionally omit anyone – you are in this circle with me and I believe you know it. People who comment with thoughtfulness and generosity and love. My friendships have been enhanced and allowed to flourish (for Lori wouldn’t have it any other way).
We found a house to hide in and stand outside of in that mystic fog of the morning when the world demands stillness. Memories have begun to be made, new places to claim as one’s own. And we got Bogey – our juvenile delinquent puppy, who should be wearing a leather jacket with a skull and crossbones instead of his snappy little tartan plaid. Except of course when he’s just so laughably adorable that he is forgiven everything.
I will turn 60 this coming year, a number of some sobriety. I know that at this point I’d be aged-out of employment in many cases (if I was looking), considered truly senior in the eyes of people with younger eyes and minds. And yet, I’m so far from done, I don’t swallow too hard at the number. There is abundant time to try and do better, be kinder, live in moments that should not be ignored, celebrate that which others often miss. Read more, give more, dance in the driveway and maybe even get up and sing. Who knows? There is so much yet to be. Thank you for sharing this part of the trip with me. And Happy Happy New Year.
My in-laws left today after a few days visit with us here in VA. Our time together was relaxed and laugh-filled, much conversation and time to enjoy each other’s company. And I sit here reflecting on what I learned while they were here.
Pop is 87 and his beloved is six years his junior. They met when she was 16 years old. He was an ex-GI, recently graduated from NYU. She was a beautiful girl with a very protective father. When Pop’s friend first told him about her, he told him to give her a nickel and tell her to call him when she was older. Love finds its way – they married three years later.
The number of times they say “I love you” in a day exceeds the number of digits on my body (even if I include my eyes, ears, nose, etc – and yes, I know they’re not digits). We downloaded a bunch of songs on Pop’s new iPad (Louis Prima is a kick; Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong) – and he told me about a theater in the Bronx where he would go to and pay fifty cents to hear these masters perform. I suggested that now they had music to dance to – he told me they already do. I think they will keep dancing whether or not the iPad is charged.With the Kindle app, he’s got the ordering process down and has some reading to get him started. And yet please don’t think that I was the teacher while they were here. There’s a reason why the family calls him “The Coach”.
Their life together is changing. Age does that. Memory doesn’t serve my mother-in-law in the way we all wish it would. There are new challenges, frustrations, adjustments that the most flexible among us would be hard-pressed to adopt. And they are taking life one moment at a time – and laughing along the way. Their laughter is intimate; it’s an inside joke that none of us need to get. It is tender to watch; an element of the character of deep love. There are no classes offered on grace, so you only get to learn it by seeing it. These days were a lesson in grace. And the enormous power of love that can thrive for over sixty years.
“To know how to grow old is the master-work of wisdom, and one of the most difficult chapters in the art of living.” — Henri Amiel
I’m not rushing time, it has a speed of its own which is already too fast for my liking. I am however, appreciative of the wisdom that comes with time, savoring the lessons one can learn from those who are cherishing every moment. Thank you both – this is for you..
Today the Prince returns – victorious from his infamous weeklong battle against the baseball diamond. But for a mild muscle pull here and an inexplicable ache there, he emerges unscathed with the loving attention of the locker room trainers still warming his skin. His feats will soon become the stuff of legend – his remarkable batting and fielding stats, his control of the lands around second base. There is no need for a moat when the Prince is there to protect the kingdom of baseball.
With a visit to see his parents before camp started, it’s been ten days since I’ve seen the Prince – and it’s time for him to come home. I need no proof that I enjoy my own company, no test to see whether or not I can manage. Been there, done that – and it was fine thank you very much. But in order for this house to feel at peace, it needs the Prince. This is where he belongs – whether he’s zoning out playing some game on his iPad or napping on the couch. He needs to be here so I can make him laugh so hard he snorts. So he can dance with me in the kitchen. So he can reach the top of the garage door, because it’s stuck. Because I miss hearing, “Hi doll girl” in the way that only the Prince can say it. I will not go so far to say that I miss hearing his a cappella “King Of The Road” (but thinking about it makes me smile).
And I want him to go back next year if that’s what he wants to do. This annual flight of fantasy gives him feelings of delighted anticipation, and the reality has yet to be less than all he imagined. So go ahead Andy, sign up for 2014 – you are well on your way to being a legend in your own time.
“I can’t say I was ever lost, but I was bewildered once for three days” –Daniel Boone
Another reason for me to feel sizeable respect for dear Daniel – only three days of bewilderment? No wonder he became a tv star and iconic figure – the guy knew where he was going. I imagine him looking for animal scat, tasting berries and understanding the topology of the land so well that he never needed to ask for directions. I’m bewildered most of the time – and that’s with a GPS system.
I’m not even sure I know how I ended up here. Recognizing that I have been with myself throughout the last fifty-eight years (with some minimal exemptions through infancy and a few times in college), it seems somewhat disingenuous to beg disbelief, yet…how many of us can say that our lives are playing out exactly according to plan? This isn’t a bad thing – it’s a respectful nod to the reality that for all of our planning, devising, fantasizing, considered thinking – life is going to happen and unfold in ways unforeseen, ways both magical and horrible. And for all the control that we wish to assert over our lives, we also have to let go and let it happen. Because it’s going to with or without permission.
This is a hard pill to swallow for those I know who are pretty controlling. And yet, it can also be freeing. I choose to believe that the fates have been inordinately kind, giving me moment after moment to savor, chance after chance to try again, years of frenetic activity and days of magnificent solitude. My losses have been deep and define my emotional shoreline, offering protection against day-to-day irritants that no longer cause further erosion. Love is represented in the highest elevations and they continue to rise. Laughter, like wildflowers gone amok, proliferate the land I walk. And all that is unknown is the forest I hesitate to enter, at times choked by fear and other times brazen with curiosity. But given my poor sense of direction I’m probably not all that intrepid – I only go as far as the light allows, for I have to be able to see my way out of the density of trees. This I think is the caution that comes with learning a few lessons along the way.
And so it is this morning, with the Sirs asleep (one in my lap, the other on my foot), hot coffee in hand and the most comfortable silence imaginable, I can tell you that I have no clue where this road leads. What I know with certainty is that I’m walking on some spectacular ground, surrounded by the whispers of my friends and family on the wind. I’m planting as much of my best as I can, for I do believe that you get out of this journey what you put in. And with that knowledge wherever I end up, that’s where I’ll be. Ooh la la..