Ventilation, baby.

MMMM...world. Air. Spring. Sun. THEY'RE BACK. I don't think they ever went away, I just had vacated to another universe in my mind for awhile--and that universe was not all that great--- almost felt like the whole Being John Malvovich thing for awhile, but then again not really. Anyways-- I'm here and now that I'm back on the farm, EVERYBODY'S back. The rain, the birds, the geraniums are erupting, and I am at the edge of my seat waiting for the Japanese eggplant and the Kohl robi to shoot their bodies upright and glisten mightily. They are teaching me so much skill in how to posture oneself towards the sun, how to grow courageously, rooted, and to be confident. Sometimes I even imagine that all of them-- even the cosmos flowers, the broccoli florets and even Maze and Blaze the goats-- that the plants would uproot themselves and dance over to me with the goats and bunnies and chickens-- we'd all dance to Donovan Frankenreiter's "Free" and then roll down the mountain together. Welcome to Betty's imaginative world of life.

Speaking of Betty, I have had major bladder issues since referring to myself as Betty here in Appalachia. Is it a mind trick, body? I mean just because I name you BETTY doesn't mean you get to act like a old timey fart. Please, God, I don't want to wear Depends at the age of 23.

Spring also blows in a different sort of aroma in the whole hospital environment. I have had a couple of patients anticipating death pass away these first few weeks of spring, and it's such a different sort of graceful peace that tunes the room. I remember one sweet older woman who had passed through a grueling grips to breathe with continuous retractions and gasping with a 40% Venti mask on. From course chest expansions to a slow, teetering sort of calmness, her life seemed to have dissipated from within her own skin. Her body lied in an aching stillness as blazing sun rays peaked themselves through the windows, kindling light towards her form. It was re-illuminating each of her features-- as if the sun was tracing her being once again to her frame. The wind howled against the walls-- blown to shatter. The family, friends stared, hoping to see. And they must have looked for what might have been forever. Looking, looking. But we all knew. We just knew we didn't know. It's one of those seeing moments when they found jewels in the mud, stars in the sun, and sweetness in the salt water. The woman reminded me of my own grandma--- as she waded out her days in my room back in Georgia. Her personality dripping from her own sweat, speaking more than words. She was done chasing anything down, and the life force was freeing up inside her. The link between living and being dead thinner, and thinner until in her face and body and mere movement, you recognize finely the beauty of having come through.

Most of my good friends here are dead authors, just waiting for me, and actually all of us, to take their words to rewrite something out for a new generation. But one of my most special friends my grandma had told me about--- she used to speak at the university in Atlanta on her thoughts of life and how to live. Here is one of my most prized poems, as I remember it recently with these patients in these early days of spring. It's called "When Death Comes."

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Moment of Confession: I am a Junkie.

"Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure." -Rumi

Alright, I have officially come out. I'm an addict of the junkyard. I love old people, and I love trash. Not trash that is actually garbage trash, but rather old junk that just needs a little creative kick for it's sparkle and glitter and glam to shine back. This includes furniture and old sticks, trees branches, preserved dried flowers. I don't know how but these treasures somehow find me. I put myself out there, and WHAM-- they hit me. If you are a lover of the rustic/natural/vintage/thrift store/flea marketing, I encourage you to take a gander and totally steal these ideas. Reuse what's already been beautifully created. Restoration is a most glorious sight to behold. Beware though, finding treasures means you are always up for a wild adventure when it seizes you.

Here are some ideas:




These two are pictures of a found ladder made bookshelf, old sticks in the woods, and a futon and dried eucalyptus given to me by my farm friends. Seriously cheap, seriously fun.

Next:






On the left is a an old rusted stool turned nightstand. On the right are old crates found outside the bakery/antique store. Great storage. Working on sewing fabric to cover clothes soon enough.





Mmm...if you are a lover of flowers like me, let your souls soar for a taste of these. Drying flowers is super easy. Watch this video to see how ridiculously simple the process actually is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxVvjgI2YWw





And the mirror: $4 at Goodwill.













Other ideas....







Here is a window with no wind found next to a random shut-down building. How to find a beautiful cottage quilt? The Geris seriously have quilts coming out their ears-- I have never seen so many in my life. The collage on the right is an easy way to hang those posters without the frame. I just put fabric behind the poster, added some random weeds and then an old wooden frame on the other side with dried lavender on a slice of wood. Dried lavender is like light to a room. It brings the aesthetic as well as the fragrance. Sheer delight.

And last but not least....my treasure of all treasures:



Something I have never understood in my life is how we have to have a pretty white porcelain tank take up so much room for our human bodily waste to tunnel itself through. It's strange for my brain to probe. So, because flushing every time you void wastes 2.2 gallons of water when already 1/3 of the world doesn't have access to clean water, it doesn't quite make sense why we kind of make this thing of a weird sort of porcelain golden calf thing. So, in response, I have laid out old Spanish moss around and on top of it to try and recreate it's natural "appeal." It's no whole in the dirt-- but trust me, you will piss in pure peace of mind. :D

"Buy, buy, says the sign in the shop window; Why, why, says the junk in the yard."
---Paul McCartney

Press on in the world of junk dear friends! And may your imagination and creativity soar as you give and care for others amidst the process.

Observatory. Perspective.

When I got here to the big WV, i had lots of interesting ideas rolling inside of me to try out, to infuse, to dare. If there is anything in this sweet world of activities I love, it is fierce competition--I don't care if it is Irish rugby or a sweet chokeslam by the Undertaker at the infamous Wrestlemania. Either way, there is something that is unleashed within when solid competition results in some ephemeral sort of victory. It simply awakens us (hence validated by the popularity of something called....ESPN, is it?) Anyways, I had a couple of choices: 1.) Join a wimpy league of sorts of older post-primal multi-gender wannabe athletes who would rather reflect on their times of physical vitality than actually push themselves to something of value. No thanks. 2.) Attempt to coach. Spread the fierceness and hunger to the little ones and let the holy rage leave them drooling through their vastly young, youthful nights.

Here I am three months later after a basketball season with 9 and 10 year old boys left aghast, quite stunned. Fierce can hardly convey what when on. First, the boys laughed at the sight of their coach, being that a sophisticated and quite amiable young woman would dare to usher them into the long-awaited hoop dreams of intense basketball elite-hood. I didn't think they could handle this. I infrequently screamed, "Get hungry boys!" Well those little rascals understood that dis here Wo-man was gonna work their little tails and have so much fun they'd pass out with pure delight. To sum it all up briefly and nonetheless perceivable, we ended the season with our biggest success as this: The boys understood the difference between offense and defense. This was huge-- though it was not all the fierce intense insanity I'd hoped for, and though it was exhausting, it was finally attained. We ended the season shooting on the right basketball hoop. And, they came to understand and respect the feisty wit of a woman in the realm of sports. It was like, Boom-shakalaka, boys.

So to celebrate our crazy wild, intense season...I loaded the boys up for a run to Cicis--the place of many bathroom runs and the sketchiest (if even real) pizza ingredients known to man---we played with the claw machines and i whooped tail on ice hockey. I wanted to ask them if we could hang out after season and play, but, I, uh, knew I couldn't. I just knew our time of insane competition had come to an end. Fun at the heart of it, but done. They just showed up, played with their hearts, smiled just to hold a basketball, and life was simple.

On my way home I started to get really carried away by feeling this awry sort of sorrow for them. That soon enough they'll reach adolescence-- they'll start feeling more accepted by society for trying harder at intellectualism and their sports and impressing the ladies; they'll begin the neurotic tendencies of trying hard to be good, to be happy, to try whatever it takes to be at home in their own reckless, wild souls. I even look back as I tried so hard-- as a person, as a Christian. Tried to think great thoughts, tried to reconstruct long words and tried to give big hearty advice with great wisdom. But the truth is, everyone, somewhere, somehow-- 8 years old or 98 years old have come to grips with the shattering love of life, love of God at some point. The rest of our crazy, unwinded trails take off to somehow convert that loaded mystery that encountered us into words, lots of words, then the studying of those words and blah, blah, blah, blah. And then so we try to put this love thing into our lives. We try and try and try. We say, "Hey you, love, I'm trying to put you in my life here. Woulda just do that for a second?" Over and over, trying and trying. We think with our minds to try and understand our minds. We try to control ourselves with ourselves. We pray, honestly from our hearts, but end up just trying to listen to ourselves pray prayerful words. We push words to love, but our own wretchedness loves the splendor of the way our love looks rather than love itself. We try, and we suck at trying. Where is it in us where we become like the children again, to respond to life and love as unthinkingly and unknowingly possible without a mere wince of the eye? Maybe, yes, it is good to "know", but maybe not to know in the sense of understanding. Even as I'm writing this I feel this ache of slander that's been torn out. Noooo!! Seek, try to understand hence your "Faith may dwindle"!! That's what's been shoved in my brain into the afar abyss--- But this is how it is with truth. It keeps shocking us.

Shock. Then another. Then another. Until I'll I wanna do is escape that heinous rhythm that makes me feel powerless and nothing, but entirely loved, entirely at home, and somehow, impossibly possible.

"Great things are done when mountains and men meet."

These mamas of mountains meet my literal mama and dad. My favorite thing in the world is to bring people here, let the silliness of life surface and then "mountainize" them! The effect of mountainizing the "commoners" (aka non-present living Appalachians) is always, always worthwhile. It's this sense of feeling their physical bodies working with the mountain, the gaping closeness of the wild wind, they can sense the expanse of height, but can't yet see it. They get nervous, unsure of what to anticipate, then they ramble, ramble ramble, asking questions then SHABAM-- they're there. They've arrived to the summit. Then we're all so fiercely pumped to feel like we're on top of the world, letting the wildness of life have its way through us that we skip and frolick around like giddy little goats excited to be alive, excited to see, simply excited. Surprisingly, this is exactly how it occurred with my favorite people in the world-- mis padres. I find that the moment when your parents stop being the ones who gratify all your wants and needs, and you can see them as people, individuals with wild pursuits, outlandish stories, and the very hearts that out poured love and more love into that kindred soul of yours, you have just swallowed a big chunk of wisdom and received your first pair of big girl panties. You know life is a crazy type of beautiful when you, along with the ma and pops, can scurry around like 5 yr olds in a sweet love that reminisces of when you actually were 5 years old. Playing is this rush of love, this rush of goodness. It's the things like saying "Shut up" or randomly tackling a loved one that says "Hey, I like you." It is this insane comfort of knowing that they know you, you know them, and that's enough. Nothing more, nothing less. When I see them again, I remember all their weaknesses and follies, and yet their hard work and their sacrifices shine as brightly as the rays of light radiate. But it's almost in their absence I capture them fully, while in their presence I further along our celebration of being together. Here I am, this physical, grown manifestation of their shared story, their shared mystery communicated in living form to the rest of the world. And this love takes root in me, inexhaustible, always there, resonating warmth, reminding me and the world I see of this special beauty.

On the other hand, here are some current mind thoughts. It's the baby goals in life that make all the difference anyways.

1st goal: inside life ALWAYS reflected outwardly. This means: When betty here is feeling messy and disorganized (which is always), the outside must reflect her accurately. This right here may be the reason why I have made few friends thus far (except the jolly ole geris), BUT my hope is to be authentic and open, receptive to people. You can't pretend to look pretty, make up and the like are no fool. This has been encouraging thus far, and I have never felt more free doing else wise.

2nd goal: Time is all a metaphor. Not a fan of clocks-- I feel like they are a routine outlet sort of "fun sucker" that makes your life have to be "orderly" and god forbid "on time." I am a professional, don't get me wrong, but time is not my God. Adventure contradicts the sheer constituents that time has to offer. When unsure, go for the wild-- the sun dial you made in third grade. (If you need one, I can make them-- $10 dollars a pop too pricey?)

3rd goal: Remember what a day means. Sometimes, when I have a couple of days off, and none of my 3 friends are off either (Eh, I may have a total of 4 new friends), I always try for one day to do nothing...not even sleeping. But in doing nothing, I'm always doing something. These are some of my most fun. I always thought when I wasn't doing something, I was missing out on life, not "learning." Untrue. A true learner somehow awakens in a moment and feels like a cornea transplant and a pair of new lens were applied within-- this explosion of vision, of understanding, illuminates what went undiscovered prior to awakening. The world opens up like a big giant snow globe where fragmented pieces start attracting their way towards each other to form the big picture. Or a little picture to later on create the big picture.

Even though I don't know why I'm here in West Virginia, I feel like I've already received a transfusion of it's blood. We've developed this sort of relationship, kinship of sorts. It's roots have nestled their hinges down to my roots, my own evolution not far fetched at all from the rippling spirit that exists here. My DNA double helix is taking an inclining to deese har Appalachian chromosomes. I see it, changing me, and I like it...a lawt. To the mountains and beyond!

I like it spicy, not ICY.

“In the depth of winter I finally learned that there within me--and there within all of us-- lay an invincible summer.” -Albert Camus

Well, I can't say I feel any better coming in after running outside my apartment, kicking the snow, grabbing the ice and breaking it, cursing at the downfall of sleet and ice and everything else that makes the body shiver to the bone. It's got me. Those damn winter blues have driven me to madness (and most certainly not for the last time). I thought about flinging random snowballs as cars passed by, but thought that may be a little too extreme for the moment. Winter drags on and on and on, makes the soul bitter, like DEATH that pervades the exterior somehow takes over the interior, too. I'm angry at you, Winter. Winter brings out his rawness that may have eclipsed past all those "learning, growing, and harvesting" seasons. My own heart has witnessed the most terrifying things just in this past week. The unexpected deaths of patients, children, and the raging, terrifying effects of sexual abuse of an infant. The cruelty of this harsh world seeps into reality, revealing its hidden heartache. Death comes without an itinerary, no need to explain-- just bruise, bruise, bruise the inner heart, again and again. The only friends of compassion to give are my own pitiful tears. I drive home from work crying with Neil Young's "A Heart of Gold" on repeat. Even the baker down the street saw my puffy face and scorched red eyes, and offered a meager solace, "It all gets us sometimes, honey. Keep it trucking." This of course, brought the river of tears back as I shook my head and tried to conceal my weakness as I thought, Basketcase betty--back in town. Death came knocking without their consent. No sense to make of it. Nothing else to offer. Nothing else to give. Only in the fragile, heart-wrenching depravity of death, can a mere glimpse of grace, of life, be found. I hate it, and yet am reawakened amidst it all at the same time. Chesterton, who wrote The Man Who Was Thursday, speaks words that somehow makes sense to my soul. He writes about Syme (the main character), who explains his thoughts on the man who was Sunday and eventually comes to say, "Bad is so bad, that we cannot think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain evil could be explained." I know exactly what he means.

To the future.

Yesterday, 12/30/2010 was a huge day. Not for me in particular, but for the world. My guess is that this day was like any other day, ordinary and yet extraordinary all at the same time. A secret was let loose to the United States of America, a message unraveling extensive unity for the world, its establishment of refreshing peace, and by God, hope brothers and sisters, HOPE. I have my unending issues and trials to mire the ignorance within me almost constantly. It hurts me to see the way we live, so haphazardly, so unconsciously, without realizing our ordinary, daily, simple choices deeply, deeply matter and infinitely affect the world around us. So when a secret of such is made known, ripened to the ears and hearts of those around, knowing in the solace and yet joining of our souls, that the celebration of life is, actually, resounding.

In April 2009, President Obama daringly projected a proposal to not only attain a treaty with Russia concealing nuclear weaponry, but to secure all vulnerable nuclear material within four years. Let me repeat this with a bit more clarity, Obama is aiming at taking every created and established form of nuclear material TO BE SECURED, MAINTAINED AND LOCKED DOWN WITH SECURITY. (Using all caps just to reemphasize the balls-iness of this proposal). On December 30, 2010, over 100+ lbs of uranium was removed from the territory of Ukraine and brought securely to a maintained location. This material is enough to detonate two large nuclear bombs. Now why would a nation who put endless remarkable time and energy in obtaining this material be willing to oblige to its removal? Yes, there is recognition that this material is harmful. Derr. Ukraine committed itself to the international committee last year. Really, though, what's at the heart of their willingness? Don't they want the power and control of national protection? Quite possibly, as part of the international committee, an understanding that the fewer places this material is located, the better off the world is. Too simple? Too ideal? Obama helped to initiate the bringing together of 46 countries to address this global issue at the Nuclear Security Summit awhile back this year. The majority of nuclear material is dispersed in 35 countries around the world. 19 countries have been secured. 16 more countries to go. The goal at hand to bring it back to the United States and Russia where it began and secure, protect this material. This is all held in secret, due to the intense potency of such material.

This is huge. Even when I went to bed that night, my crazy 50 yr old roommate came home at 3 am to wake me up, make sure I had heard the news. She hugged me, we high-fived, and then she said, "The shit is happening, Beth!" The shit is happening. And it is some paramount, awesome shit.

There is just one word I can sense in a way that some how streams forth the essence of this great achievement: COMMITMENT--not as an obstinate trait to persevere towards a goal. But this is bigger, largely encompassing in a greater capacity. This is commitment to collaboration. Bipartisan feelings and opinions are put aside. Nationalistic pride at ease. General dialogue arises, and globally, our minds are activated. We see each other, our nations, our world, on a larger scale. In the United States, I think there has been a impending reminder that a representative democracy implies that our government is a vessel to reflect the values of its people, the values hidden at the heart of its people. Obama happened to bring about beginning of this proposal to conceal vulnerable nuclear material. But who really was responsible for this initiation, this coming of time and ultimately, peace?

Maybe it was the widow down the street who had fostered 46 children from various areas of the U.S. Maybe it was the young couple who welcomed people onto their farm to learn to live sustainably in mindful actions of the Earth and its future. Maybe it was the prayer group that met for five hours every week to pray for the needs of its community. Maybe it was the nontraditional student who awakened at 3 am to study six languages, so dialogue and understanding between cultures could be created. Maybe it was the Peace Corps volunteer in Russia whose heart was to live amidst the youth of this culture, encourage their hearts and build relations. Maybe it was the guitar player whose lyrics brought messages of justice, messages reiterating the importance of human rights. Maybe it was the writer who challenged the people to awaken to consciousness. Maybe it was the young, wild at heart girl who built an interactive community of kids from all different socioeconomic classes to play and learn together. Maybe it was the math teacher at an high school who went to each of his kid's football games, encouraging and mentoring them through their journeys of life.

At the heart of these people, it all began. The commitment of ordinary, global citizens all over the world to see with open eyes. To seek justice in the community. To invest life in another. To see past the self. To commit to a life that exceeds one bottled up of little comforts and luxuries. Our communities make up our world. The local and national governments are continually changing, erupting new policies to further aid the changing times. I say with great earnesty: the responsibility is ours. Let me say again, THE RESPONSIBILITY IS OURS. And I say to you with great encouragement, participate collectively in the experience. Think and act mindfully. Engage in the world wholeheartedly. The ordinary is where the future of the common good of man exists. May this be our gift to the future.

No Name Blog Entry.

Snow. Beautiful glistening snow here in Appalachia. I don't know how or why, but every time I step out from my front porch into it's softly flowing serenity, I sniff the air only to hear in my mind the smooth, suave voice of Michael Jackson speaking to me, "I'm a lover, not a fighter." I giggle a bit, questioning why I hear Michael Jackson's voice so vivid, so audible. I find that I don't really even like that word, SNOW. Too bland. I think I'd rather like to call it "Feather dust." Much more fitting as to its actual substance, rather than what it appears to be.

That bastard of procrastination has crept up on me these past few months. And with the weather as it is, nasty habits of having me rush everywhere seem inevitably dangerous. Just the other day, I was running late to dinner, and just as I approached the driveway, I wiped out on a mighty large piece of ice. Busted it. I went into work the next day with a torturous ache. I was explaining my fall to a fellow staff member, how I laid in the ground after slipping and just enjoyed trying to eat the feather dust ("snow") with no hands, and how tasty it was. She stopped her fidgeting with an oxygen mask, suddenly narrowed her look at me and breathed that "sigh" breath. I got nervous. Was I rambling? Was I telling one of those dumb stories that she doesn't care about when she is trying to look and act like she does? Her pause as she looked at me seemed to transcend time and elapse through me an entire lifetime. "Let me ask you something, Beth," she framed. Still, though feeling vulnerable, no detection was made whether an unsuspected wrath was coming or a crude shriek of humor. "Yeah?" I hesitated. "You're fresh out aren't you?" Baffled, I had no clue. "Fresh out of what?" I replied. She retorted, "I could smell you from a mile away. You're fresh out of school. Newbie to life." What the crap was this lady talking about? Quickly, still in her presence, I tried to recap our short-lived interaction to see what in the world would give her leeway that I was "fresh out." Should I be offended? Pissed? Laugh as if it was funny? She began to exit to leave the room when I grabbed her arm and said, "I'm sorry but what do mean 'newbie to life?'" She cracked a side smile, one that was cocked with half-ass sincerity, "Oh, you'll get it when you're my age." No offense to her, but I didn't feel like waiting 30 years to figure out why falling on a piece of ice and eating snow somehow generalized me as a "newbie to life." I'm 23 years old, and by God, if something has not throbbed my soul and heartbeat, I need to check my pulse. Over and over and over again. I tried to brush off my irritation with the whole engagement, but I was left hauntingly ailed within. Number one, I hate being generalized, but number two, what kind of characteristics did she think being "fresh out" entails? Ignorance? Arrogance? Naivety? Lack of experience? All of the above? Pissed. Yes pissed I became.

So, at first, thought wreaked havoc on my mind. Yes, school gave me unequivocal amounts of knowledge, all enabling memorization and accumulation of facts. I knew things. Great. Grand. Exciting things to know. Doesn't mean jack squat though if not somehow put to life. But the outward journeys to Oregon, New Mexico and now West Virginia, paralleled with new discoveries inwardly, was, subconsciously, an attempt to let the real education happen. No preconceptions to life--however it was suppose to happen. Meet people, love people, give to these people, respect and cherish the God in these people, live life with these people amidst all our differences. To let creative streams flow with the most enchanting form of creativity:learning, and to do so together. Experience. Knowledge with experience breeds wisdom. From all this experience, I had to come to an honest grip and understanding of the nature of my hungers. I remember one night in Oregon I wrote down in closing to my journal-- in question of my time there-- open-ended, unanswered. "Do I have a hunger to love? Or just a love to hunger?" Maybe this is what the conversation with the respiratory therapist was to bring out, to assess my thoughts and experience, or rather my lack thereof.

Human hunger. In all its forms. These driving appetites surface all the time. But what to do with them? The physical hunger-- the need to survive with sweet nourishment. Social hunger in deepest desire of community, of understanding, care, love. Emotional hunger-- to be known. Affirmed. Accepted as designed. Mental hunger-- to be intellectually stimulated. Sexual hunger-- suppressed or not-- to know someone intimately as humanly possible. And then I think why do any of these hungers even have to be categorized? One simple hunger pervades all: the hunger of the soul.

And then I go back to the dreams embedded in the memory. Longing for adventure. The unknown. To explore without inhibition. The dreams always wanting themselves to somehow be "attained." Attain. Attain. Attain. Go. Go. Go. Strive. Strive. Strive. We're too concrete-minded as a society. Something does not have to be felt to be real. What I think I really hunger is not just attaining the dream, but in essence, we hope that the dream will somehow deliver its ultimate fulfillment. What was that hunger of the soul yearning for? Intangible, but recognizable. Felt, though indefinable. Verbalized and narrowed, though inexact. With the radio music on, an old Christmas carol of long ago sang soft melodies into my heart as I listened, "I wander as I wonder out under the sky..." Yes, yes of course. WONDER. The enchanting reality of wonder to take us over. and over, and over, again. As human beings open to God: To wonder, to behold, to forget the self and offer it up, this, yes this, is WORSHIP.

There is no conceptual mind to wonder. In the perpetual rest of the human heart, it fully and wholly exists. As the permanence of changing takes hold, I don't care if I am a newbie to life forever as the wonder permeates my soul as stages and experiences of life build on and from one another.

Think about this time of year. Next Saturday, beloved Christmas, the movie that has been playing for over decades will shine itself again on the television screen. Many, like my dad, will eagerly await its showing. It'll probably be his 100+ time seeing it. Doesn't matter. It's a chance to remember, to behold, to see, to watch, and to never, never forget. Cheers to life. Cheers to "It's a Wonderful Life."