No Animals Were Harmed in Filming ...

Often in the credits of a movie or TV show we've most likely all seen the statement that no animals were harmed in filming, and for that I am very grateful, especially after watching a black and white classic movie a few years back (no, can't remember the name, but I'll give that some thought) when the actress kept picking up a cute little lap dog type, smacking him/her on the rump and shouting no-no ... made me really sad for the dog, because back in the day I don't think there were any computer graphics or photoshops to imply a smack on the rump. The sweet and vulnerable dog really got several smacks on the rump.

And, I just watched a movie (I'll use that term loosely here) in which I was VERY grateful to be assured no animals were harmed, because even the fake visuals of what was being done to animals disturbed me. Partly because even if no one has ever done what was implied, somebody probably will now because it's a novel and grotesque way to entertain oneself at the expense of the vulnerable.

After days of mulling over what I had seen and heard in that movie - three days of trying to escape the violence against those who are created in the very image of God, and violence against God's creatures great and small, the profane language, the undignified human behavior with one's own body excrement, the gratuitous female nudity during a "serious" conversation of import to the plot (after which conversation most viewers turned to each other to get clear just exactly what had been revealed other than the woman's breasts), and more gunshots and beatings than I can count - I realize another disclaimer at the end of movies and TV shows would please me: no humans were harmed in filming. No human minds were wrongly influenced. No human spirits were dampened. No human aspirations were misguided. No human dignity was lost. No human value was lessened. No human relationships were damaged.

It took me three days after seeing the movie to return to a place of center, and that came during a morning of spiritual reflection and planning of a Bible discussion. Thirty minutes or so of concentration on preparing an hour's worth of scripture - for discussion that edifies and lifts us to look upward toward that which is admirable, that which is worthy, that which is lovely - put me back in the place I want to be.

We must be careful in what we choose to see, what we choose to hear, what we choose to say, what we choose to do, and where we choose to go. Because it all influences us. It all affects us. May we all choose wisely.

According to me ...

1. I now feel awake and ready to do what I've already done today.
2. If I look trim and slim in a mirror, it's the mirror's fault; if I look pudgy and overweight in a mirror, it's the mirror's fault. I never see me in the mirror.
3. Good intentions get a bad rap.
4. Are the pros outweighing the cons? Settle it and live it.
5. I get up before my brain.
6. There are so many chips on my shoulder it's a wonder I can rise up out of the bed in the mornings.
7. It's the gift horse looking us in the mouth.
8. We need to focus on the rest of the stupid.
9. People watch stupid stuff all the time, and we're smarter than stupid.
10. I'm thinking. I have to think before I can talk. Some people think and talk at the same time.
11. Breeding fear is a tool used by the mean-spirited and selfish to accomplish an agenda.
12. Life is not a presentation.
13. The church is an unnatural setting - so is pre-school and middle school and high school - so is a grass lawn.
14. For life to be a vineyard, experience and make choices that benefit the vineyard, not cause its neglect.
15. I would love to loose the bounds of money.
16. Things are not supposed to work in any particular way. They're supposed to work the way they work.
17. There is a new standard that is even higher.
18. Something of almost all of it is in almost all of us.
19. There's not much of nothing anywhere in Istanbul.
20. Our culture is set up for a lot of unnecessary strain.
21. If you were responsible to set up a new world order, where would you start?
22. You said, therefore I thought.
23. Life should be bigger than that!
24. Forget immortality. Let's talk about the budget.
25. There are parts of me (all of us, actually) that it is not right to give indiscriminately to others. 
26. Be yourself. But find yourself first.
27. The concept of "assumption" ought not exist.
28. I'm a funny one.
29. Often we've gotta let go of one thing before we can grab hold of another.
30. Just because you can doesn't mean you should.
31. I'm tired of going to where it's not what I came here for.
32. Last is actually first when you turn around.
33. The fact that she is deaf settles his mumbling problem.
34. How many pounds am I away from great?
35. You've got 6 inches of empty "hiney" back there.
36. I believe we have now moved beyond my area of care.
37. When you just get up and go you can be in a different place.
38. Peanuts in a can of peanuts are much more desirable and tasty than the peanuts that are left in the bottom of the can of mixed nuts.
39. That's confidence. Or stupidity.
40. Cheers to hard times! Really.
41. There are a lot of things I know, that I'm glad I know, that I wouldn't know if I hadn't traveled.

Set points are powerful forces. They are the suction cups of life, taking hold and not letting go without the greatest of steady and deliberate attention on our part.

No matter how much weight I gain or lose, I end up back at my set point ... that comfortable place of neither under or too much over, but still too much. Leaving the house in the morning for church, set point of 9:28 when it ought to be 9:15. Money in the bank? Where does it go and why does it return to and hold at that same disturbingly dangerously low balance? The catch all table or counter or dresser top or floor board can be aggressively made orderly ... only to return to a familiar and chaotic set point.

We work diligently on breaking old habits and developing new ones and suddenly and unexpectedly find our return to a habitual way of doing things we thought we'd left behind, just like a messy closet.

Set points in nature are good things - the rise of the sun every morning, the seasons coming and going just so. So why are human set points usually not reflective of our best? Why is it that when left at rest our set points turn flat? Or fat? Or messy? Or irritating?

Why don't undisciplined human set points result in something awesome. Or do they? When there is so much change and chaos in the world, how is it that these set points which we'd like to see change or throw to the wind hold on steady and firm for most of our days?

I Ain't Got the Patience No More

I ain't got the patience no more.

It has been said of me, many times, that I have the proverbial patience of Job. So, what happened that morning, in the car, on the way home from a prayer breakfast, when I said to my husband, "I ain't got the patience no more."

It means I still have the patience of Job with life circumstances that come my way over which I have no control, literal acts of God as one might say, and with others who are experiencing such and striving to make their way through. But, I ain't got the patience no more for attention paid to behaviors, initiatives, conversations and so on and so on and so on and so on that do not move this world and its people to a better place.

I ain't got the patience no more for petty put downs, gossip, disgruntledness, insignificant aggravations, philandering. I ain't got the patience no more with joking that jabs and cuts. I ain't got the patience no more over bitter words from scowly mouths in perfectly created and healthy bodies ... what a waste. I almost ain't even got the patience no more for hopelessness ... though I'll respect it while a person sorts out a loss, or a new direction. But I ain't got the patience no more with whole and resourced lives sitting pitifully desiring ... something, anything they don't have, or trying to kick another person down in order to rise above, or determining that a child with less ought to just have to stay put.

That said, if I am not careful, I am going to end up in a place where I ain't got the patience no more with myself. Gotta always strive to claim all good things observed and invisible, and stay with what matters and makes a difference. Seek joy. Stay encouraged. Convey care. Wear love.

Sheriff Rhonda's Dealin'

Sheriff Rhonda just got called down by the law. It's about time, I guess. Never even had any kind of ticket in my 55 years. But today all that nearly changed ... it didn't fully change because I was let go with a warning in a kind of anticlimactic way after the blue lights and singular siren burp.

If anyone is on the side of the law, I am. Grew up respecting my police officer father more than I can tell you, and learned from that a trust that most law enforcement has the best of intentions under the literal worst of circumstances. I want to do good and what's right. I have no need to buck the rules.

So today's scrutiny came as quite a surprise as I was taking my friend home after an afternoon together. She happens to be a 10 year old African American girl who lives in public housing. We had just spent the past hour together, as we do every Thursday afternoon after school, at a community center where I give her a piano lesson. She's just mastered the left hand of the last piece in Teaching Little Fingers to play. She was humming it on our way to her home.

Upon entering the development where she lives, I turned on my left turn signal - ever always careful to use them properly you see - and started to begin thinking about making the turn when my friend shouted out the window "Momma! There's my momma!" Momma is in a park to my right - my friend shouts to me "Turn right! Turn right!" I follow suit easily, it's a residential section, not much traffic, slow speed, and make the right turn quickly but only after confirming it was not hazardous in any way ... but my left turn signal is still "a-blinking." I am aware of my mistake, but see no harm in it until ...

The officers approach my car, one on either side of me, confess that they "were not following me," point out my mistake, ask to see my license, again say they "were not following me," give me a warning this time and send me on my way.

I have felt conspicuous entering the public housing development where two of my friends live and who I pick up each week for music lessons. Children have begun gathering around my shiny red Volvo, hoping to get in on whatever it is that I am offering. I've seen neighbors watching the old white woman coming in to take the children away (I have parental consent) and I have wondered if I am suspect.

Because they "were not following me" (two officers who were white, just like me), I can't help but wonder if I have been reported, someone different who enters in and interacts with the children. I can't help but wonder if the neighborhood wonders if I am "dealin'" something.

The more I think about it, I realize I am dealin' something with the children. I am dealin' opportunity in the form of relationship and music education. I am dealin' juice boxes and apples. I go where the children are and get them and take them to a place where they get committed relationship to stick with them through school suspensions or bus suspensions, or expulsions, and to get their attention on practice and progress and hope and music for the sake of music. I love seeing them looking at nothing but the music and their fingers on the violin strings or piano keyboard. No one is threatening them. No one is judging them. They relax and focus on something worthy. And they gain from it.

I've heard it asked of gang leaders how they get such support and participation by vulnerable kids. The answer that stands out is "We're there." The gathering around my car, the desire for kids I've never even met begging to "go to violin, too" is proof that these children often go where the "get in the car" is.

I am going to keep being there. Because goodness for the sake of the children has to be there, too.

Please help me understand. I mean it. I am past my rage. Past my shock. Past my disdain. And past my personal offense. Or, at least let's say I'm past all that. For the sake of argument anyway.

But, truly, those of you who get it. Who support her. Those of you who have voted for her and would vote for her again, explain it to me. Explain to me why, when Sarah Palin speaks, the audience not only applauds but stands in ovation. WHY? I want to understand the answer. Why are people not outraged.

Because when I heard her speak just now, of it being the Christmas her husband got the gun and she got the rack I felt betrayed. I was betrayed. Every other woman who has ever lived and suffered because she did or did not have said "rack," or suffered and/or died because of the disease attacking said "rack" was also betrayed on some level. What happens when her rack is compromised? What will she have to say then? Her lack of depth of sensitivity and understanding is mind boggling.

And if I can apologize in some way for her having said it, I cannot apologize for an entire audience leaping in ovation after that comment when she then proceeds to mock the truly damaging effects of a Big Gulp. Of course, banning the Big Gulp seems over the top, but at least there is an effort to send the message that maybe we ought to think (does that happen much anymore?) before fueling our bodies with the stuff. Her message is destroy at will. We have the right to destroy at will. At least the destruction is tasty. And not so painful with a nice rack.

With her presentation a disservice has been done to women. A disservice has been done to children who look for role models. And the whole point of public service is ... well ... service. Not disservice.

So tell me why sucking on a Big Gulp with lips that have been prepped for presentation, why mocking an attempt at weaning ourselves from obesity and diabetes and sugar highs and mocking an attempt at setting a standard for health gets the standing ovation.

Tell me.

Get ready ... brace yourself ...

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I was neither ready nor braced when the search results were up ... all the above are the top five results from a bing search of the word "wife." I had intended to enter the name of a man I had just heard speak in a TED talk who referred to his wife several times, followed by the word "wife." Instead, the way whatever is written in the search window is highlighted when the window is revisited and then deleted when additional typing begins, I ended up unintentionally searching for the singular word "wife."

And, in an instant, the top five webpage results for the word "wife" were splayed across my computer screen. My repsonse? Confusion. Then shock. Then horror. Then anger. Then despair for the condition of the honor of "wife".

I remember from over 30 years ago a comment from a husband to his wife that he wanted her to be "more than a wife." I distinctly remember wondering, silently of course, what that meant. How could a wife be more than a wife unless "wife" implied something less than, something limited, something undesirable. These top websites, with the notable exception of Wikipedia, seem to speak to that syndrome.

A "wife" has been denigrated into a concept of "vulgar," which has been denigrated into a concept of desireable. Dishonor and disregard accomplished. 

Proverbs 12:4a

A good wife is the crown of her husband ...

 

Threw on a wrinkled gray t-shirt to dash out the door for a quick trip to the gym, caught sight of myself in a mirror, and saw that my neck matched my shirt. Sigh ... not the look I'm going for.

This world

It is when we try to make this world be more than it is, better than it is, that we risk falling victim to hopelessness.

I hear the phrase "stick in the mud" echo in my head nearly every time I voice a criticism or observation or dislike of something. While I truly fear being known as the stick in the mud I also know that sometimes I am the stick in the mud. In my defense, I just can't let go of certain things that I so desire for the people of the world. Even when that desire bucks up against the status quo. And yet, who wants to be around an opinionated, irritating, critical woman with a chip on her shoulder? Not me. And I am with her all the time. Sometimes I just wish she would shut up.

But I will say she causes me to think. She causes me to think beyond myself and to how others are affected and suffering by being mocked or abused by status quo way of thinking. Why do we tolerate the belittling, hurtful words and behaviors often prominantly expressed all around us, but then are intolerate of the sticks in the mud who speak out to rise above?

Where did this belittling identifier "stick in the mud" come from, anyway? I decided to check that out. Here's what I found: An unpleasant contaminate (stick) in the potter's clay that ruins the finished product. Hmmm ... interesting. How about we sic "stick in the mud" on the status qou??!! How about we call Anthony Jeselnik's vulgar and mean spirited comedy stick in the mud? How about Seth's Oscar comment on the assassination of one of the strongest leaders the world has ever known who conveyed, and thereby led, our nation to compassion and regard for the human dignity all people? I say Seth is the pollutant, the adulterer of something good and pure. I'd say the stick in the mud is the concept that tells women that nudity in film is honorable work, when the shocked look on the actresses faces during the We Saw Your Boobs extravaganza defies that concept as truth. That concept is a stick in the mud to dignity and honor. Shocking Revelation #1: woman are vulnerable to disregard. Like it or not, it is true.

The sticks in the mud are standing firm in the muck, trying to voice regard for incredible life experiences that have left many folks wounded and struggling ... and wanting to escape to a safe place. Entertainment can be that safe place, but not when viewers are slapped in the face with the personal memories of violence or loss or cutting words, or are left doubting their own value. Life is full of imperfections, but to strive for a world that does not hurt quite so much seems an honorable desire.

Then comes the second part of the very same definition and origin of the phrase stick in the mud that I used earlier in this rant. After the noble descriptor of "An unpleasant contaminate (stick) in the potter's clay that ruins the finished product," we are presented with the following: Term is applied to unpleasant/ uncooperative persons who spoil fun or good times by being non-homogeneous. With that, stick in the mud becomes an identifier as a pollutant to status qou, as a pollutant to anything goes, as a pollutant to the very value and hope for the human condition. I personally have no desire for a clay pot made without the interference of a stick in the mud or two of insight and wisdom and desire for all that is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent or praiseworthy. 

Shocking Revelation #2: I hope I keep being a stick in the mud. 

This may seem odd ... why would I have given any thought to this whatsoever. However, I just this morning (as I was cleaning the bathroom) became aware that I have spent a good portion of my adult life trying to like Bond. James Bond. It seems I should like him. I mean what's not to like of the adventuresome debonair fellow. But it has not only never clicked with me and James, I have actually had an aversion to him. I thought that with Skyfall I might have my chance to finally like him ... and I don't mean the premise, or the films, or the books, but the real person of James. I'd heard reviews saying this James is introspective. He's human. He has a few failures up his sleeve with all the other cards.

But after watching the Skyfall James, I am no more in like with him than ever, and our relationship may have taken a serious turn for the worse. Yes, he's more introspective, but seemingly only toward himself. It's all about him, what he has lost, what he has given up. I did not see any introspection toward whether he should continue with his license to kill or find other ways of ... well, negotiation, shall we say.

What really disturbs me, though, stems from a comment I made last night to my dear husband after we watched Skyfall. "I find it interesting that in this day of slave trafficking awareness, that Bond's girl was a victim of that. And instead of finding a way out for her, he used her sexually, too." And, I guess we think it's ok ... I mean, it's Bond after all. What woman would not want an encounter with him? And, with that, the sex slave business seems all the more appealing, sexy, alluring, desirable even. And it is not. A huge disservice has been done to the victims by the very gift to woman himself.

And therein lies the problem.

Somehow I ended up in Turkey just now on the internet and was enjoying the blogs of several travelers with photos of just remarkably beautiful and historically vital places and structures in a country of crossroads for many different cultures. I dreamily perused the photos, inspired at every click on "next photo," and imagined that this might be the trip of a lifetime. One click of the mouse and I was in Instanbul ...  click - Ephesus, click Pamukkale, click - Hierapolis ... click - but wait, go back to Hierapolis. Didn't the theater at Hierapolis remind me of something familiar? Ah, yes, the theater at Merida, Spain that I had experienced with my sister and daughters as an unexpected treasure of a find on a drive between Barbate and Madrid. Hmmm, and on further thought those theaters looked an awful lot like the theater at Ephesus ... incredibly beautiful works of art, but, could it be somewhat "cookie cutter?" That led me to realize that the arena at Nimes, France looks a lot like the big boy of them all, the Colosseum in Rome. And, upon further exploration online, I see that the top 10 arenas and theaters around the world are remarkably similar and are in Tunisia, Italy, Croatia, Libya, Jordan, France, and Syria ...  major presence in all of what was the Roman Empire.

Which leads me to this question: were these fantastic works of art, these Roman arenas and theaters, these centers for games and art and culture, well, were they the Walmart of that era? Wiped out the mom and pop theaters for the Roman colonnades, and the Route 66's for the Appian Way? The landscape of vast areas of the Roman Empire becoming indistinguishable from each other with the cookie cutter forms perched on every hillside?

So, now I've become a bit disturbed by this syndrome in which I used to stand amazed. I'm not quite as impressed as I was. It truly was the shock of seeing the photo of the theater at Hierapolis, Turkey and realizing it looked oh so very similar to my photo from the nose bleed section of the theater at Merida, Spain that set me in such a disappointed mood. Instead of grandeur, I felt I had beheld the "Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky tacky, Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes all the same." I had beheld the attempt to make everyone and everything the same. Over time it failed, though, and I hope our own attempts to make everyone and everything the same are no more successful.

I pride myself on not being a pack rat. And, again, the proverb proves true once again ... pride goeth before a fall. The fall occurred just this morning as I sat tending the repair and refurbishment of a raggedy clown doll that my husband had as a child 58 years ago. The arms are tiny in my hands as I make tiny little handsewn stitches. And that reminds me - oh so reminds me - of the Barbie clothes I received for Christmas the year we lived in Elizabethton TN and I was in second grade.

The text on the box as seen camouflaged through the wrapping paper led me to think I was getting something else. The ruse was secure. My mother, in a clandestine move that could have impressed the CIA, had sewn me an entire wardrobe of Barbie clothes! Circle skirt dresses! a Wedding dress with veil! Coats! A-line dresses! Princess style dresses! A dream of heaven opened up as the contents of that gift poured out into my lap. Those clothes were treasured. They were my one big bragging point with all my friends, always, always all the way through ... well, when? I guess most of my life.

I thanked my mother profusely year after year. I thanked her even more profusely as I grew up and started really noticing and thinking about the hundreds of tiny stitches required to piece these garments together ... most done on machine, but countless others by hand where the tiny turn or hem could not have been made otherwise.

And, I am thankful that I voiced my admiration, appreciation, and gratitude for that wardrobe, because sitting here this morning making similar tiny stitches, I've thought I'd call her again and tell her wow, thanks again! But, those days of making a call, having a conversation are gone forever. That makes me sad, but also affirms the rightness of saying thank you when we have the chance.

The fall occurred not when I grieved the loss of my mother, when I found myself missing her. That's all good in its own way. The fall occurred when I wondered where those clothes are now? Oh dear. My daughters played into their adulthood with the same Barbies and clothes. After that succession did we (I) pass them on to another generation out there somewhere? That seems so like me. And I have prided myself on that. But, now I wonder. I really wonder. And I wish. And, uh-oh ... I am very sad.

Old things creep me out. I free myself easily from things. However, I now have to confess that I wish I still had a few things. Alas, we just go from where we are, so "onward." But, a lesson has been learned. Treasure things from the hands of those we love.

Stephen Colbert needs a co-host ... a Republican looking, rich white women in her mid-fifties who is not what she seems. Boy, paint up the spider veins in my legs, put me in a cute short skirt and let me sit there on a stool beside him. Could I ever confuse the waters and ride sheriff extraordinaire.

I look so much like I am not.

That I realize when I think on the fact that parking is not a problem where I attend church because most people do not have a car. In fact, most of them do not have home. Yes, you heard me ... most of them do not have a home. I have found a church home (all blond tinted, bejeweled, sharp dressed me arriving in my cinnamon colored Volvo wagon) with people who are homeless. I have found them to be the least judgmental of Christians. I ended up at this church of no judgment when the "First (fill in the blank) Church of Huntsville was suspicious of my inquiries about the sanctuary when my daughter was looking for a place to be married. Yes, I was of that denomination. Yes, I have attended church at this church this summer upon my return to Huntsville after a flee as a widow. Yes, I am a CHRISTIAN!!!!!

I look like I should be for values of faith and marriage and all that is right with the Republican party. I look nice and sweet and within the box of acceptability. However, I have experienced want and need. I have lived divorce. I have had cancer. I have lost my hair. I have lost my breasts. I have been widowed. I have had failed reconstructive surgery. I have recognized that others in life are "just trying' to live." I have watched my mother suffer and die from Alzheimer's. I see my father challenging Parkinson's. I see brother and sister living their lives along side the life of a caregiver. I see Hispanic contributors to our community who desire a life of hope and opportunity for their children that is available only in the USA. And I care. I have thought about it.

And this church of mine. It is called Grateful Life and is that ever appropriate. I love Grateful Life. We have to call down the talkers in the back of the room. We have to awaken the snorers. Sometimes, we have to clean up vomit. But, we are all there. We are mixed. And we are praising God together. Thanks be to God.

Stephen Colbert ... just try to figure this one out.

How can we get back to simplicity? How can we get back to a time before American Idol where louder, and bigger, and better is the norm? Before half time shows that are vulgar and demeaning but are heralded as show stopping? Before times where expectations lead to dissatisfaction? Where normal equals or is interpreted as insufficient? To a time where the noble and honorable is valued? Why are we stopped and silent when presented with something that matters?

Coffee Life

If only life were coffee colored. Then the coffee stains would not show up.

"Ms. Mitchell." The phlebotomist calls the name without any emotion. I get up from the waiting area and enter into a room with 9 stations. "Go to Chair #8," the phlebotomist tells me. I sit down in said Chair #8, and my gaze falls on some photographs on the wall across from me at Chair #2. How seemingly innocuous. How seemingly random. Yet, my visit for my six month oncology check up is further rattling me by one of the photos. Across the room, directly facing the anonymous "Ms. Mitchell" is a photo of my late husband.  A former and beloved patient of this same facility. In the photo he is conducting the University of Alabama Million Dollar Band in the National Anthem at the Alabama/Tennessee game of 2005. This is 2013. If anyone in the lab were to know me as the "wife" of the beloved man in the photo, the waters would part and people would become more engaged and highly sensitive and respectful of me. The photo is still there. And so am I.

2005, the same year of the photo on the wall, was the year this journey began for me. I strive to do no complaining, because I have life. When I step into CCI I go dragging fear of what might be revealed and the interruption this visit brings to my life as I have ordered it around living beyond that disease. I also step into CCI with gratitude that I am walking in healthy and robust, with my hair on my head (instead of down the drain) and more to my liking than ever before in my 55 years. I am not struggling to live. or to breathe. or to hope. or to think. or to walk out of CCI and get on with the life of my dreams.  I step in with a few extra pounds on my frame that I never fail to see as a great gift because my body is receiving and processing nutrition ... every six months I am reminded that many face the nightmare of food or drink refused by a body that can no longer coorperate with such "luxuries." I have no complaints.

I must be careful with the gratitude that I feel. It could be seen as haughty and prideful and insensitive to those patients there whose disease so defines their every moment and which is visibly seen by others. I am aware that as I step into CCI I look more like one attending and assisting a family member or friend who is a patient. The only visible indicator that I am "one of them" is the stretchy arm bandage covering the IV site and the lab work vein stick that I wear on my way out of the building. I feel myself wearing it almost like a badge or a war wound as I exit the building. With the visible sign that I, too, call oncology a familiar acquaintance, I feel camaraderie with those who more visibly suffer, and I feel more received by them. I feel authentic in that place.

And, yet, I am not authentic there. "Mitchell" is the name on the insurance card, but not the new name on the driver's license. It's the name on the chart. Dare not change for fear of confusion. It's a conflicting place to go every six months. I don't go easily. I know when I go there I am seen but not seen. I am known but not known. I am free but not free.

But, I AM alive and I AM alive. I AM healthy and I AM healthy. I WALK out and LIVE the life of my dreams. And I know life must not be measured or lived six months at a time.