The Gift of Communication

At first I titled this entry, "the gift of language", but while thinking about it - language does not get us anywhere if we cannot communicate with someone else.

Take, for example, the adorable 85 year old Baba that will go down in the books as being my "first patient". Other health care professionals on the unit seem to dislike having "Baba" as a patient because every time they enter her room she either:

a) talks non-stop

or

b) only uses an English word for every 20 Italian words and even then, it is said with a very thick immigrant accent

In the short time that I have come to know her, I've learned a few incredibly valuable lessons regarding communication.

1) When 'pretending' to speak Italian, one must simply add "isimo" onto the end of every word. This way, even if the patient is confused by what you are asking them, they will laugh at your feeble attempt to try and meet them in the middle.

2) As much as I want it to be, "Crap-isimo" is not a word in the Italian language. If I had the opportunity to add it to the vocabulary of Italians, the definition I would attach to the word would be, "Wooooow, I screwed THAT up royally!" or alternatively, "DOH!"

3) If one truly does not understand what another is saying, a smile and a gentle hand on the shoulder go a very long way.

4) People prefer being spoken to directly and greatly detest having to use their adolescent grand daughter as a translator when trying to tell you that they are constipated.

5) Communication is so much more than simply the language we speak from our lips. It is about reading the pain in someone's face as they undergo an uncomfortable procedure or dressing change and reassuring them when it happens. It is about engaging their eyes as a sign of deep respect and admiration for the journey they have traveled and the experiences they have to share. It is about smiling as if to tell them that being in their presence has truly made your day. It is about holding their hand with a warm and gentle embrace as if to say, "I'm here, I'm with you, I want to help to lift you to your feet when you've fallen". It is about sitting in silence in their presence in place of saying, "I shall keep watch for you", reassuring them that they are not alone but very much loved and looked after. And finally, it is about a journey - a journey of two people towards a deeper sense of what the other means by their frantic, indiscernible speech or their playful twinkle in their eye. It is a journey that requires many steps, many detours, many bathroom breaks and many, many servings of patience, teamwork, and laughter.

She has taught me lessons that I hope to never forget and lessons that are applicable to so many various relationships in life outside the hospital walls. For even when we speak the same language as friends, acquaintances, and colleagues... we struggle immensely with communicating. We send virtual messages in place of phone calls, we neglect requests to respond, and we get overwhelmed by day-to-day responsibilities that before we know it, the day is done. Some lessons I wish I could write in a card and mail to people who have, for whatever reason, stopped communicating simply to remind them that I am still here - patiently waiting for the gift to communicate with them.

God's Altar Cloth

I had a very wise friend who loved to knit. She would knit tea cozy's, afghans, dish clothes, blankets... you name it, she could probably knit it. I remember watching her in a daze-like state wondering how someone could be so swift and gentle with their hands... never ceasing the loop, pull, crossover maneuvers that resulted in a glorious pattern of wool. I guess my watching her distracted her from what she was doing and she missed a stitch. Carefully pulling her needle out from the row she was working on, she began to tug the line of wool and watch as the stitches slowly undid themselves, one by one. And when she had reached the place where the mistake had happened, she gracefully slipped her needle back in and continued on.

I was astonished that she could do such a thing. I was under the impression that when a mistake happened, you had to go all the way back to the beginning and start fresh. When I built up enough courage to ask her why this was not the case, her response threw me for a loop and I've never really forgotten it.

She told me about how knitting was like life - it is a series of choices and movements we make as a human being. We all have the same starting point - we are all just a mere knot on a stick... but it's where we go from there and how we dance our dance that determines what our blanket will eventually look like. Regardless of how hard we try, we will occasionally drop a stitch or force a new one where there shouldn't be and sometimes we can go back and fix it. Other times, our "extra" move simply means that we end up with an extra stitch - an extra loop, an extra step to take each time.

This all seemed okay and made sense but then I asked her why she chose to go back and try and fix her mistake rather than just leaving it be. Surely one extra stitch was not going to make a world of difference.

She told me that when she made the mistake, it was because she lost a stitch. A loop fell off the needle and was laying limp in between two knitted stitches... and this couldn't be.

Sometimes in life, we miss a step. We are in a hurry to get from A to B or we don't feel that it's a step of crucial importance, but when we think like this, we are wrong. If that dropped stitch were to just be left alone, it may be okay, but alternatively, it may cause our creation to fall apart - to be pulled and unraveled and become nothing more than a heap of kinked wool. We must go back and pick it up and carry on because if we aren't careful, we will drop more stitches and there will just be more damage in the end.

Funny how, years later, her words are only now starting to make sense.

There are days in which I wish I could drop the past and leave it be. Days that I wish I could just start a new education and carry on with my life rather than going back all those rows to pick up that lost stitch... it would mean I would have to undo so many stitches...

But what I have only now realized is that I can't leave those dropped loops hanging in the middle of my afghan... they require my attention so as to one day, truly have the most beautiful blanket to lay upon the altar of God.

I thought each stitch was independent of the stitch beside it, above it, rows beyond it... but it's not - they are all from the same pile of wool. The further I go on this journey of discernment and healing, the more I come to understand how the stitches from years ago are truly interconnected with the stitches I am stitching now. Kind of mind boggling, but oddly reassuring.

Ultimately, my goal is to knit the most elegant and incredibly awesome altar cloth with my pile of wool I was entrusted. And the reality is that in order to do so, it means going back and picking up those dropped stitches, and pulling them back into the fabric. Because if I don't, not only do I risk a catastrophic unraveling, but I risk a finished product that is truly not reflective of the gifts and dreams I was entrusted with at my baptism.

So, to those stitches who have been knit into my cloth recently, bear with me. Please remind me that you are still part of the wool and I will pick you up again when I get there. To those stitches who have been waiting patiently for our paths to cross, hang tight. They will some day soon. And to those stitches who were dropped along the way, take heart, cry out for I am coming back to pick you up and tie you into where you belong. You will not be lost for long, I am coming.

Forgive Me

Everyday, at 10:11pm, my phone goes off to indicate that I have an email message to attend to.

I realize that the timing is a bit odd and actually invades into personal time whereby I should not be attending to anything other than peaceful reading, studying or sleeping... however, in a lot of ways, I need for my phone to go off at 10:11pm every night.

The email that I get is always from the same place... it was something that I signed up for years ago and occassionally the message that comes through is one that I've read before. But, for the most part, the message is a new one - and one that I oddly... need to hear on that given day for some reason.

Today, I had to laugh. After a crazy busy day of errands that have accumulated while in school, I was racing to put clean laundry away while reflecting on the day when I phone did it's little "bleep bleep" sound.

This was today's message - a quote from Robert Frost:

"Forgive me my nonsense as I also forgive the nonsense of those who think they talk sense"

At first - seems kind of comical - a poet's take on the Lord's Prayer. But when you really stop to think about it... it's not a nonsense quote at all... just a different way of saying it. Huh... imagine that. :)

To some, it's a coincidence, but to me... it's a gentle whisper.

Having a degree in psychology, it always astounds me to people watch. I don't stare them down so that it becomes a creepy and awkward situation, but at the same time, I love watching people and how they react to different situations in life.

For example, take car-racing friend. For the first time in her life this week, she played hockey. Helmet, gloves, stick and runners - she is part of our new ball hockey team this summer. Following the 4-0 loss, there were glum faces in the dressing room. Car-racing friend threw her helmet off in frustration and began going on about how much she "sucked" at this sport.

For us as a team, it was our second ever game. The score did not reflect the effort and energy we had invested, but there were a lot of great things that happened. Defense learned about keeping the other team out of our goalie's way and forwards learned how to line up for an offense face-off. There were wonderful passes being made, great team spirit and 15 exhausted ladies who have invested an hour of exercise back into their life that they wouldn't have otherwise done.

15 pairs of eyes and I bet every pair saw that game in a different light.

Funny how that works, isn't it?

This week was my limit. Our program requires that we take 15 credits in 5 weeks and this translates to literally, 8-5 days packed with lectures, labs, seminars, and study hours into the wee morning when we get home.

One of our seminar topics this week was discussing a "patient" by the name of Katherine, a middle aged woman who is in our care after suffering her second heart attack. She has all the "risk factors" that make her high risk for suffering another one: morbidly obese, a smoker, suffers from Type II diabetes... you name it. If she doesn't change her ways, she will die of a heart attack. Our seminar group was discussing what we should do with her. She is not being compliant with the cardiac rehabilitation program and our choices include discharging her on account of non-compliance or "reading her the riot act" (essentially laying it out for her that she will die in short succession if she keeps her life on this track).

Out of 11 of us... 10 voted to discharge her. 1 fought to keep her in the program a little longer and try to elicit a change in her behaviour/lifestyle.

I was overruled and we discharged her. I was devastated.

When speaking with our prof the next day, I was told that "in the real world", she would have to be discharged. It comes down to funding, to making priorities and to realizing that our patients problems should never become "our" problem as her caregiver. And, because I couldn't rationalize this decision in my heart, my prof and I ended up talking at length about Ms. Katherine.

Wise-professor took off her reading glasses and set them on the table without breaking eye contact and after a lengthy silence asked if she could give me a piece of advice that has worked for her in her practice as a primary caregiver. She began to tell me about how important it was for her, to establish those boundaries. She preceded her metaphor by claiming that it was a bit "out there", but it would be good to try. She then told me that every morning before going to work, she would put on her armor. It was not "real", but a mere image that helped her immensely. "I put on a helmet, a body armor, a belt, and carry my shield..."

As far as she let on, for her... it was just an expression of imagery. A mere coincidence that this imagery can be found in various places within a thick, ancient manuscript of how to live one's life.

But for me, it was more than just a survival mechanism in clinical... for me, it was a gentle whisper that wherever I go, there God will go too. Long gone, but not forgotten.

What does it mean for me? For God?

It kind of bugs me when other people wish something for me and it ends up coming true in inconceivable ways. Let me unpack that sentence a little bit more. I was exchanging facebook messages with that person in my life who wonderfully drives me nuts. They are that person who understands my thoughts better than anyone else and because of that, they are both wonderful and annoying. For sometimes, having someone know what you're thinking is the most annoying thing in the world. Anywho, I digress. This individual sent a message along asking how my Easter was and I responded truthfully by saying that for the first time in 25 years, I had not more than a snipet of the Holy Triduum in a church... of any denomination.

When asked, I explained to her that I was providing relief for a young man whose parents were in Vancouver and he required 24 hour supervision. Thus, preventing me from attending more than the occasional church service. And, I continued on to say that frankly, I'm not sure church is where I'm meant to be. Her response was something along the lines of, "I hope you manage to find Easter in other avenues of life, whether it be in Brady or what's around you".

I am rather in awe to confess that I think her "hope" for me actually became manifest in ways that I will never fully comprehend.

Easter Monday coincided with my 25th birthday this year. I was actually born on Good Friday, but it's not uncommon for my early April birthday to fall somewhere within the most holy weekend in the church calendar. I didn't have any grandiose plans for the occasion because I would be living with Brady until that Wednesday. At some point in the morning, Brady came upstairs and asked if we could go public library. I tried to explain that we couldn't, because the library was closed for the holidays. He seemed to accept this answer and went back downstairs. Moments later, however, he came and asked again. So, once again, I tried to explain that the library was closed but that we could go tomorrow (Tuesday). He quickly became agitated and began biting his hand (as per usual when he becomes anxious) and jumping up and down. My feeble attempts to calm him down by saying, "Deep breath bud" didn't really work and so I got up to try and calm him down with gentle physical contact.

Before I knew it, my forearm was locked in his teeth.

When he finally opted to free my arm from his lovely bicuspid grip, it was worse than I had hoped and he managed to pierce the skin in three locations. My birthday afternoon was spent with icepacks, copious amounts of polysporin, and hours on the phone with local health links trying to figure out how to prevent infections as the human mouth is pooling with bacteria.

However, this is where I was taken aback and cursed my friend for her Easter message to me.

Moments after the incident occurred, he came back upstairs and into the kitchen. "Brady sorry Dreea (his attempt at saying my first name, which is not really close, but we have a mutual understanding that this is my name)", picked up my arm, kissed it, rubbed it a little, and then gave me a hug. He turned around and went back down to watching his movie.

It was at this point that I began to cry. Brady seemed to sum up every Easter lesson known to Christians because he demonstrated to me, what it meant to forgive. Of course I was hurting and bleeding and worrying about future infections and complications. Without a doubt, it was the most upset I have been with another human being in a very long time. I was confused - why couldn't he just be verbally upset that the library was closed? It was something completely out of my control and yet, I was the one who got hurt.

But, at the same time, of course I could never stay mad at him. My hurt and anger and pain seemed to melt away in the moments following his child-like apology and understanding. Did his kiss stop my arm from hurting? Not a chance. But to my surprise, his simple gestures stopped my heart from hurting. In a huge way. Of course I forgave him. How could I not? He said he was sorry. Will he ever do it again? That I don't know. I do know that next time I have bad news for him, I will keep my distance and let him work through his aggression on his own, but I can't guarantee that it will never happen again.

This has really boggled my brain as of late as I have spent the last 2 years punishing myself for the mistakes I've made, removing myself from contact with those who know the truth and those who want to tell me all about God's love and mercy and forgiveness. But Brady, in his childhood mentality, has made me feel like the Grinch on Christmas morning as my heart seems to be growing. I now must set out to discover whether this is the case with God. Whether God is open to letting me kiss the bleeding wound I caused, rub it better, and say the words, "Dreea sorry God" or if I have missed my window of opportunity or worse, bit too deep for a mere kiss, rub and apology to rectify.

I don't know the answer, nor really who to ask. However, in my quest to wholeness and interacting with those who carry the light in this rather dark journey, I shall keep this question close at heart should I find someone who is safe enough to ask.

In the meantime, shall continue to give thanks for individual who sent along a message of hope, and a young man who taught me a lesson that I never would have learned otherwise.

WWJD

Tonight is a strange night. Not because I am sleeping in a strange bed or because I am away from family for the Holy Triduum, nor is it because we lost the championship game and I have to hang the skates up for another season. Truth be told, I'm not sure why tonight is strange... but it is.

On the drive "home" from the arena tonight, I started thinking about how Christians everywhere had come together to be with our Lord tonight. To sit in his presence as he broke the bread, to pay witness to a king humbling himself for the lowest of the low, and to sit in the shadows of darkness and keep watch just like he asked.

The memory that came to mind was one from elementary school; I was having an extremely difficult time "sharing" my best friend with the new kid at our school who obviously didn't get the memo that Krystal was my best friend and there was no room for sharing as far as recess time went. One of the teachers, noticing my upset, asked me to try an exercise with her. All she said to me was, "what if the shoe was on the other foot? What if you were the new kid and had to make friends and no one was willing? What would you do?"

Although I refused to see the logic in her words until many years later, she had a point. One must always seek first to understand and once they understand, can seek to be understood. I have since learned that she was influenced by St. Francis and that the lesson is a wise one.

Tonight, as I lay here, I wonder what it might be like to be in Judas' shoes. What would Judas do if Jesus offered forgiveness? Would there still have been a suicide? Would there still have been a crucification? If Judas dropped to his knees in remorse and repentance for reporting, would the church be different? Would the course of events have lead to a happier ending? If Judas spent time in his "cell" contemplating his actions and the consequences they had in the lives of others, would the other disciples have let him back to the table? Or, would they have crucified him themselves? Is there ever any way that Judas could right the wrongs? Would his personal testimony of the man Jesus was be a tale of incredible love and mercy or would his story be one riddled with fear of what was to come?

The only thing that I understand about our dear and fearful friend Judas, is why he may of felt that the only punishment suitable, was death. The guilt one carries when they betray a friend, a colleague, a mentor, a prophet, a king is more powerful and draining than anything else in the whole world. Truly, I understand that in a very tangible way. But surely, with enough self-inflicted punishment and remorse, God allows u-turns for even Judas is first and foremost a child of God, isn't he?

Hm. While it will be a night of staying awake for me tonight, my heart shall ache for the lost disciple this year, in hopes that a piece of him finds God in that garden and rather than turning against Jesus, he may find the strength to drop to his knees at the side of his fearless leader and seek forgiveness and strength for his frail and tempted soul.

And the winner today... Dr. J

"How is the medication working?" (Dr. J)
"Yes, I think so, but... it seems to leave me with a really dry mouth" (YS)
"Does this bother you?"
"Well, yes. You see, I was playing saxophone the one morning in church and there were a subsequent number of squeaks that are not normally part of my music because I couldn't gather up enough saliva to keep my reed damp enough..."
"Oh, you play the saxophone?"
"Yup!"
"Where are you going to church?"
"Well, I don't really refer to it as 'going to church' because I am really and truly only there for the music"
"You aren't there for God?"
"Nope"
"Are you mad at God? Because as a Christian (pointing to themselves at this point), just know that you are never alone in that journey"
"Ok"
"I once had a patient call God a very, very, very, very, very, very, very bad name - one that would never come out of my lips... are you afraid of God?"
"Uhhh... (voice quivering slightly)..."
"We should work on that. Find someone that we can talk to about that. We can both do that and we will compare notes next time."

I no longer felt completely alone on this journey where judgment seems to come before acceptance and more importantly, really respect a health care professional who is up front with me and calls it like it is - even if it threw me for a loop initially.

Tonight, I give thanks for the gentle way in which the truth was sought about a touchy subject and the reassurance that was shared, reminding me that I am not alone, not an alien, and not forgotten.

Ms. Saxophone Sue

The person of today is Ms. Saxophone Sue, but in order to illustrate the quality of S.S., I need to go back a little ways to tell the story.

I started playing piano when I was five. When I got to grade seven (approx 12-13 yrs old), it was a no brainer that I would choose to study band over art. So, my parents paid the band fees (art had no associated/additional fees), and I showed up the first day to be given a piece of paper with three lines. On it, I was to write my first three choices for instruments. I wrote:

1) Alto saxophone

2) Tenor saxophone (only if the alto is really not possible)

3) Baritone saxophone (only if the alto AND tenor are unavailable)

and I handed it in. Well, our band teacher had a crappy method of assigning instruments and rather than giving an avid musician the instrument of choice, she opted to give the "cool" instrument to the "cool/sporty" kids that were in the grade seven band class. sigh. Apparently my fourth option was the flute. So, grade seven, I tried to learn to play the flute. When grade eight rolled around, the question on the first day of classes was a little different. "Does anyone want to change instruments to try and learn a new one?" Oooooo... pick me! Pick me! Nope. Shockingly, she didn't pick me. And so, by the time my turn came around, once again - all the saxophones were taken. Yup, so in a stage rebellion, I chose the oboe. Finally, in the ninth grade, the final year at the school, two things changed.

1) I had been asked to try out for the senior basketball team and thus, finally became a sporty/cool person myself

2) the rest of the truly cool/sporty people realized that our teacher knew very little and dropped out of band for the alternative... art.

It also helped that the first band class day of grade nine, I marched into the bandroom and said, "Look. My uncle is going to lend me his saxophone because clearly this school does not have enough. Just let me play it already!"... turns out, I was the ONLY alto saxophone player in the band. True story!

Well, the Christmas of grade nine came around and it was the last present to be opened. It was a small box and my mind was boggled... I had already gotten more than I needed... when I opened it up, it was a mouthpiece for an alto sax. Me, being dense, smiled and got all excited because it meant that I could take "my" mouthpiece to school and not have to use the chewed up ones that the school provided. My parents were dumbfounded. Finally, my dad walked around the corner with a familiar sized case... and lo and behold, inside - was an original Conn (one of the finest makes from the "good ol' days)... and it was mine. I loved it - played every day - literally. And when the year end concert came for our grade nine band, my band teacher stood up and introduced the closing song by saying, "I have waited years to be able to play this piece, but I never had a saxophone player capable of playing it. Now I do." It was a sax solo in which the band did nothing but support/chord behind me. My Conn made it sound like gold.

Shockingly, a similar story occurred at the end of grade 12, whereby we were on a band tour in the maritime provinces and playing in a huge festival. My band teacher stood up and said, "I introduce you to our soloist,.... "

I took my baby to church tonight to practice for the Easter Triduum music. (You learn that when you graduate, there are very few places one can play a band instrument...and so, although I am not a part of the church community by any means, I get to hang out and goof off with my Conn). I got all the way home from the church, went to grab her out of the car, and realized that she wasn't there. I panicked. Raced back into town, looking on the roads in case she fell out (of a closed window?! Don't know what I was thinking... or if I was thinking...). Nothing. The church is no doubt, locked up. Calling one of the guitar players, whilst completely out of breath, she tells me that she has a key and if I can swing by and pick it up, I can use it. Race over to her house, get the key, take the shortcut back through the graveyard, almost hit an elderly, retired priest on an evening stroll in the dark, unlock the doors, trip on the stairs, and finally... see the outline of the case - right where I left it.

You might think that the moral of the story is that one should never leave their beloved more than an arms reach away or in safe keeping, but in fact, the moral of the story is that one ought to be more like Saxophone Sue (the lady with the church key), who gives of herself (or belongings) to save another's evening entirely. Dear Saxophone Sue... tonight I give thanks for you and your heart of willing... open to sharing what you have, to enable another.

Rosalind A.

So, as per the previous post, the first person I wish to speak about is Ms. Rosalind A.

I started work at 8am this morning at a nearby college and in order to get there the required 15 minutes early, meant that I got there with exactly... 42 minutes to spare. Picking up a requisite steeped tea and a free copy of the newspaper, I checked in early and sat. And waited. At half past nine, the program organizer came in to inform the four of us that toddled in that due to a booking error, we were actually no longer needed. Yup, spent the paid three hours of work reading the paper, drinking tea, and attempting the two crossword puzzles in the paper.

On the ride from the local college to the University, we were at the last stop the bus makes before it crosses the river, and on got Ms. Rosalind A. Wearing pressed black slacks, black pointy shoes with lace up the front, and a red sweater zipped up to the level of the tucked in scarf, she was gorgeous. Not gorgeous in the "I wish she was 40 years younger", but more so in the, "silver hair, cut in a stylish manner, back sitting straight, leather gloves holding onto a leather folder, embossed with her name in gold in the bottom right hand corner" gorgeous.

When she got off the bus, she walked as someone in their 70's would walk: stiff legged, slightly bent at the waist, and with small steps. But, walking mannerisms aside, there was something about her that one couldn't help but be drawn to.

It wasn't her impecable sense of fashion, nor the hair perfectly styled with a small clip holding her bangs back, but rather - it was the way she carried herself. It was evident to anyone on that bus that she was flooded with both grace and self-confidence, neither one out of check. Her gently formed wrinkles and bent knuckles told a story of lived experience in which her hands were always very much a part of her work and her face, quick to show the emotion that sat underneath it.

We didn't speak, just acknowledged one another by that simple-stranger sort of smile one gives another as if to say, "I see you, have a nice day, thanks for holding the door".

So today, on this trying-to-be-spring like day, I give thanks for the quiet, graceful, aged lady on the bus... better known to the rest of the world as Rosalind A. ---------.

A New Start: Lent, as defined by my terms.

Well, it has been a jello week; you know, the kind of week that barely seems to hold together long enough for you to reach the end? The kind of week that, if you're not careful, will jiggle out of your control and stain the white carpeted floor? You get the point. Over the past week, I have been told in just about every way that someone could be told - that doing some reflective reading, quiet contemplation and attending a worship service - is simply "not enough" to mark a fresh start and a long journey back to the path of the righteous.

In lay men's terms, the message is this: "Look, you screwed up. It's going to take a lot more than miniscule efforts to make things right."

Rrrrrrright. Well, at first my thought was that the Lenten season would be the ideal time to start the process, however... I clearly got the start date wrong. It's what track athletes call the "false start". To be honest, I'm not sure if I got the timing wrong or the lane wrong. I'm thinking it was the lane. What I mean to say, is that maybe it was wrong of me to think that I could just quietly attend weekly, evening worship and slowly start to build up the courage to talk to people. I thought that my ducks were lined up and that after hiding in a hole for a year and bit, things would have blown over. Or, at least enough so that I would have a chance to let the roots grow into the ground before the wind decided to blow.

Uhhh... nope!

So, in true YoungSeeker fashion, I have opted to rebel. Not that this concept is novel one - it's something that has been a theme my entire life. Anyway, here's how.

Rather than trying to fit my path into the church seasonal calendar, I am starting my own Lenten season. And, rather than confining it to 40 days, the only upper daily limit on the season will be 364 1/4 days x 40 years. And, rather than giving something up or adding in a prayer practice, I shall instead, daily reflect on the people I meet and how I wish to emmulate a piece of them in my life so that I will once again, in the eyes of others (and hopefully God) be "good" again.

Some might jump to conclusions and say that this is a poor practice because I was made to be an individual - unique, Godly, and self-sufficient... Or, alternatively, may point out that this is not an "approved" spiritual practice and may distance me even further from the church I long to call home... however, to these people, I would simply raise my hands in exhaustion and share with them the comments/happenings/challenges over the last week and illustrate that I truly, do not have a better idea.

And, so begins the journey of finding something to aspire to in at least one person I meet, witness, or exchange pleasantries with every day from now, until... well, I don't know when it will be until... let's just wait and see.