A Way Out

Four inch heels impeded her progress to the entrance of the building, and November winds whipped the tail of her overcoat, whispering of winter.

A Mercedes passed, piloted by a man clutching a cellphone. She shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other. The bag contained her life; a carefully detailed, pored over, poetically enhanced regurgitation.

Most days, she hardly felt the weight of it. She carried it, and cared for it, guarding it against intrusion from any but the most accepting eyes. On long, lonely nights, it provided comfort, just by being there. It offered proof of her existence and answers to questions; in hopes they might be asked.

She crossed against diesel fumes, and hurried up concrete stairs, hoping the winds wouldn’t “undo” her. The weight of glass and steel paled in comparison to that of the artificially warmed air that greeted her upon opening the door. She hurried through the anteroom and breached a second entrance, while her eyes scanned the landscape for an alcove leading to a bathroom.

Satisfied that her morning ministrations had survived the crossing, she shouldered her burden and struck out, in search of a receptionist.

She left her name at the desk, and surveyed the glass-enclosed space for a seat, choosing a chair opposite the desk in an unoccupied row. Her cellphone trilled, giving her something to do with her hands. It was her son, home from school. “Just checking in…” She smiled in appreciation of the sound of a young boy’s voice, knowing she hadn’t much longer to hear it.

Her smile faded quickly as she pocketed the phone and lifted the tote to her lap. She glanced at the receptionist’s desk as she removed a document from the front pocket of the bag. A striking young man approached; his carefully manicured hands striking the desk twice before he unleashed his artificially whitened smile. The receptionist, at once bored, and barely breathing, reacted as expected by reciprocating. A conversation ensued, uninterrupted by the approach of a second visitor.

She shifted the paper from one hand to the other, uncrossing her legs, and re-crossing them in the other direction as she watched the trio. The young man bent over the counter, reaching, as the receptionist giggled and the visitor cleared his throat. They answered with laughter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while adjusting his cap.

“Ahem…” She wondered why he thought it would work, this time.

The doors behind her yawned again, sending a blast of cold air through the empty chairs, and an arc of reflective light after it. Irritation marred her painted features, as the receptionist tilted her head. The second visitor moved to block the light, giving his name, before turning.

She plucked at a dog’s hair, caught in the weave of her skirt. She checked her watch. Metal scraped against linoleum. A sigh escaped him as he sunk into the synthetically covered chair, and warmth, generated by the proximity of his body, told her he was near.

It was her turn to clear her throat as she cast her eyes past the reception desk in hopes of spotting her prey.

“Ain’t love grand?”, he started.
She looked up, before meaning to, allowing him to lead her eyes back to the desk.

She smiled and shifted the paper.

“Whatcha’ got there?” He shifted against the firmness of the seat, pulling his jacket together and turning, slightly, in her direction.

“I have to get this document signed…” She held it out, slightly, before training her eyes on him.

“And, you?” She lowered her hand, moving slightly in her seat.

“Meeting with a client. I’m a writer.” His voice carried pride.

“Oh? Really?” She smiled as she let one hand drop to the bag on the floor at her feet.

“What do you write?”

“Ad copy, mostly. And, I blog.”

“Really? Great!” She re-crossed her legs, wishing she had taken off her coat.

“Are you a writer?” His eyes, behind his spectacles, were kind.

“Oh, I write…some. I have a blog.” She shifted the paper, again, watching as it moved from one hand, to the other.

“Cool! Where are you? I could look you up!” His voice carried enthusiasm.

She laughed, self-consciously.

“It’s not public.” She said quietly, before clearing her throat, again. “I mean I’ve been working on it, off and on, for about a year, but only one person has access to it.”

Confusion, as it crossed his features awakened her insecurities, giving her pause.

“Why?” The word was spoken softly.

Her eyes searched the multi-faceted linoleum at her feet as she considered the question, and, as she turned them on him, spoke before she did.

“I don’t know…” She stopped, as he pulled back his head and shifted his weight. “It’s vulnerable, you know?” Her voice trailed with the last syllable and she mentally berated herself for her weakness.

“But…” He started quietly, before sitting up taller in the inhospitable chair. “Isn’t that the point?” The words were direct, and clear, and spoken by his entire being; and, his face, earnest.

Footsteps approached her chair, and she hastily collected her bag while smiling in his direction. She watched him watch her.

“Thank you…” She efforted to bring her voice above a murmur as she pulled the heavy, oaken door closed before clicking her way down the hallway.

“Hey, kid!” It was the man.

“Yes.” She spoke through a smile, as she shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other.

“Walk you out?” The bounce in his step repeated in his eyes as he led the way out of the building.

Fruition…

“There is a freshness to the air, this morning….” These words began an email from a friend, whose status as an Irish expatriate rendered him unable to vote, but no less concerned with the outcome.

Our daily wake-up call, and the question I was eager to answer, greeted as expected, by juvenile shouts of joy. And his exuberance; as he detailed his plans to enlighten his middle-school friends with, “I told you so…” The image of a visage, flush with responsibility prompted my cautionary tone, as I encouraged my son to enjoy the victory quietly and gracefully, with a sense of community.

And, the ensuing, excited text message, “My bus-driver is mad. The kids are yelling “Obama”, but I didn’t do it. She says we can’t talk until Tuesday.” And, my answer, “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

The sob-clouded voice of a local radio DJ, openly wearing the label “Lesbian” in hopes that others like her will find un-closeted comfort, describing her reaction to his words of inclusion;

“It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled.”

A friend’s exuberant voice over my headset, as he describes a recent conversation, fraught with “pregnant pauses”, with his McCain-supporting brother, and the grace he was proud to offer.

The long-legged stride into my office, by a Republican hard-liner wearing a forced smile above his alligator-embossed shirt, and his cheery “Congratulations!”. And, as I swivel, my response;

“And, to you, too!”

“Oh, you mean the senatorial race…”

“No! I mean, you are an American, too. This is a great day for all Americans!”

And, an email from a Dutch friend, followed by a message from a German friend:

“Indeed it is true: in the USA fairy tales can come to reality!
We watched our TV during this night and early morning: of course CNN, but also 2 of our Dutch stations had a full-covering 9 (!) hours programme of the results of your election (what illustrates that not only “the Americans” were interested in the outcome).
We are so happy with the clear outcome: it will be Obama for the next 4 years. No doubtful 49.5 % versus 50.5 % but a huge non-arguable victory for Obama!
We sincerely hope, that he (and his administration) will soon get the opportuinity to show that he (they) can do better than your today’s president. Not only for the benifit of your country, but also for the other “inhabitants” of our world.”

“Hi, thaaank you for this mail after talking with us. You know me thinking like you! – and one of these days I will come over to meet you, so stay healthy and in good condition, so are my wishes for you. We got up this morning at 4 am to bring Marlen to the airport sur looking to the TV to see that B. Obama made it – that made us lucky and happy. This will be very important for your country and the relationship again between USA and Germany! (that`s what I want to come up again after these long 8 last years.) Marlen should be between GB and your continent, we two tried not to be sad like all these times but like ever we didn`t really made it.”

And, the artificially-cooled memory of watching, with interest, an aged black man, whose love for my father thwarted a punishing sun, as he withdrew remnants of the previous night’s dinner from a grease-stained brown paper sack while he perched on our back stoop.

And, Kathy. As integration creeped slowly into the deep south, we were bussed across town to a new elementary school. Kathy had skin the color of creamed coffee surrounding snapping dark chocolate eyes. It was difficult for me to understand why something as simple as skin pigment could render a person “less than”, and I defied my mother’s admonitions right up until the day we moved away from the city. Understanding, through experience, came easier to Kathy. I never heard her voice, again.

“Four years ago, I stood before you and told you my story, of the brief union between a young man from Kenya and a young woman from Kansas who weren’t well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to.
It is that promise that’s always set this country apart, that through hard work and sacrifice each of us can pursue our individual dreams, but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams, as well. That’s why I stand here tonight. Because for 232 years, at each moment when that promise was in jeopardy, ordinary men and women — students and soldiers, farmers and teachers, nurses and janitors — found the courage to keep it alive.”

The Journey

I am discriminating. I can be hard to please. I am slow to trust, as years of failed promises have left me skeptical. I have to remind myself, sometimes, to see the light hiding behind the darker surface. I tend to set very high standards for those who would court my trust. I want answers, answers that make sense, and I do my homework.

The last two presidential elections were, for me, at best, painful, and, at worst, devastating. In my opinion, George W. Bush’s shortcomings are plain for anyone to see, and his cabinet, nothing less than dangerous. Sadly, the Democratic Party failed to offer up a reasonable alternative, and though I voted for the man I considered the one less dangerous, I did so half-heartedly, at best. My reticence, however, did nothing to appease my disappointment and embarrassment in our electorate.

The 2004 election was particularly hard to swallow. John Kerry was not an exciting, or even hopeful choice, but the alternative was unthinkable. Our country had been in free-fall for four years and every misstep I had ever imagined, combined with those no one could ever have foreseen, to create a recipe for disaster; and still, many eagerly vied for a place at the table.

I remember dark hours immediately following the election, and the utter hopelessness filling those days. I remember sleepless nights punctuated by tears of frustration, and I remember my decision. In the fall of 2004, after America spoke, I made the decision to disconnect. I turned off my television and changed my pre-sets. Top-forty radio, instead of National Public Radio, now fueled my commute. Novels replaced the newspaper at lunch, and a click to my homepage now revealed carefully crafted, voluminous lines of internet jokes, sent to me by my former mother-in-law. Life lessons, and the accompanying character traits, had taught me how to insulate; to protect.

As you might expect, I was slow to board, as our most current election geared up…

Rudy Giuliani, and his handling of one of the most traumatic events in American history, warranted a second look. Arrogance killed his candidacy, early on.

Mitt Romney showed promise. As a businessman, he had shown remarkable financial acumen, and even two years ago, as those in the know began to scrawl upon the wall, I could see the merits of that trait. Honor, though, and party loyalty prevailed, as he threw in the towel in order to increase the chances of his party rival.

And, then there were three…

In 2004, I pinned my hopes on one John McCain, still, at that time, a true maverick. Karl Rove had other plans. Most of us easily saw through the allegations of impropriety surrounding the ethnicity of McCain’s daughter, completely unaware of backroom negotiations which would ensure McCain’s exit, leaving Mr. Rove’s candidate alone on the Republican ticket. In my despair, I looked forward to 2008, when “Maverick” could ride, again.

The face was the same; the voice familiar. The rhetoric, however, markedly changed. Need had removed the teeth from his message, and the 2008 incarnation of John McCain in no way resembled the man I once admired. Desperately, I turned to the other side of the aisle…

A feminist at heart, I really wanted to support Hillary. Admittedly, her handling of her husband’s repeated infidelities had left a sour taste in my mouth, but it was her shrill rhetoric that provided a barrier I could not jump. I listened, eagerly, for meaningful words that would invoke confidence, or even hope, and heard, instead, the cry of a fish-monger’s wife. I was not unhappy to see the odds piling against her.

The very idea that a man named “Barack Hussien Obama” would entertain the notion of being elected president of a country wrought with fear labeled “Muslim”, struck me as ludicrous; and I said so, to anyone who would listen. But, as the months ticked by, and his opponents became less and less desirable, I was forced to take a second look.

During this time, a good friend smilingly presented me with an Obama bumper sticker. He didn’t insist; he offered, through a face bright with hope. Feeling bereft of alternative, I accepted the offering, placing it in my carry-all. It rode there, under a succession of lunches, for several weeks, until a bright Saturday morning several weeks ago.

I accompanies me, now, on my commute, as it rides my back right bumper, and, today, the sight of it inspires pride in our journey.

Wanting…

He bent to kiss her, before drawing back…

“Is this what you want?”

His chest heaved; convexly filling her…

An Intangible Difference

“No other national election has evoked this kind of emotion.”
As a form of explanation, in the heat of the moment, during a discussion of politics, these words rose to the surface, and sat on my tongue, while I considered their veracity. My mind ticked through previous elections. Images grossly akin to Halloween masks, strolled across my mind’s eye; Reagan, Carter, Ford, Clinton, Bush I and II, and I realized I had felt passion for my candidate during each of these contests, as well. The words remain unsaid. And, still, I consider them…and have come believe the words to be true in an intangibly unsettling way.

In years past, my choice of candidate was usually accompanied by a sure feeling of being “right”. As I considered the men running for President, the decision was a simple one, based on my beliefs and life experience.

“Do you want what’s hiding behind curtain “A” or curtain “B”?” Monty Hall’s face leered under a battered fedora as he spun a shiny black cane.

“Curtain “A”!” My voice rang true with the force of my convictions.

“Is that your final answer?” The question came in the form of endless, expensively produced commercials touting the merits of the one not chosen.

“Yes! That is my final answer!” And it was.

This time around, when asked the question, I find my voice wavering as my eyes search a distant point in the room, and my chest fills with a need for hope. And, therein, lies the difference.

The need for hope; not a full-blown, fist-clenching, flag-waving hope, but a need for hope. A look out the yawning door of an airplane, just before the jump, with the sincere desire that the parachute will function when called upon. That first tentative, pitch-black step away from the side of the bed towards the spot on the carpet where the dog might be sleeping. The catch of breath, when the numbers are called, as the ticket shakes inside a needy hand. The look on the face of one beaten down, afraid to trust an outstretched hand.

As my octogenarian friend frequently laments, “I’ve never seen things this bad.”, I realize it’s no wonder so many of us are uncertain. Nothing in our life experience has prepared us for our current condition, and our beliefs have been challenged by almost a decade of half-truths and outright lies told by those in whom we were forced to rely. We are the ones beaten down, afraid to trust.

On Tuesday, I will stand in line for hours, with hundreds of others in search of hope, and the mere presence of the crowd, as I scan it, will invoke these words:

“In God We Trust.”

In Gratitude…

You stormed into the room with an affable smile in your pocket, to be exchanged for an irascible grin, or a menacing scowl at the turn of a word.

You educated.

You elucidated.

You enlightened.

You hungrily took the bait, and, we watched for the occasional, sun-lit, glimmer as you played the line as far as it would go until; releasing, you hung back to give others a chance at the fight.

And, you encouraged.

You championed your causes, often alone, until; persuaded, others joined you, hoping to be warmed by your light.

You enveloped.

Your words evoked the tip of a felt fedora, or the raise of your eyebrow, or the click of your tongue; and grown women giggled, even as less talented men shrunk in your wake. And what a wake it is…

You are a force; a force of incredible power, giving to others without motive, and at great cost. You might have been a Priest…as,

You elevated.

Lessons Learned…

I never had much use for homework. Fortunately, I was able to soak up enough information in class, that my lack of ambition only tripped me up occasionally. I did have to take Algebra I twice, and Geometry was much more interesting the second time around. You will notice a pattern…

My parents never queried me on my work habits, preferring, instead, to remain oblivious as to how the grades were accomplished. All of my book reports, and class projects, were completed without their assistance, or comment. Our job, as children, was to attend school and make the grades. Theirs was to write checks and take a turn in the carpool line.

Much to my chagrin, things had changed by the time I had children.

My second child has a mild learning disability which affects reading comprehension. He is also male. This is a formula for disaster.

We were fortunate to find a tutor who was using her experience as fodder for her thesis, and thus worked gratis. Every morning, an hour before school started, our footsteps echoed against industrial tiles and concrete walls as we stumbled in. And, every evening, after the dinner dishes were done, he would pick up his flash cards as I laced up my sneakers, and we would walk. I never thought to measure the actual distance, but I know we logged many miles, walking in circles around our block, as he called out the answers while burning off his “boy” energy. As we tired, we turned, in tandem, into our drive and slumped into a wooden swing strung between two sturdy oaks. As I reclined against the arm-rest, he pumped his legs in time to his responses. This is how we made it through phonics, and the second grade.

Fast forward, over a decade. I have moved my family from a sleepy country town to a burgeoning, metropolitan suburb in hopes for the very best in opportunities, and education, for my youngest son. The curriculum is demanding, and those long, circular walks now seem like a walk in the park.

In first grade, at the age of five, he was directed to construct a musical instrument. I pored over online documents in search of the simplest example, in hopes of carrying on my parents’ tradition of limited participation. I finally settled on a percussion instrument of Native American heritage, which required hours of winding yarn around 2 sticks discarded by the towering pines in our backyard. My son wound for about 30 minutes before restlessness overcame him, and his pudgy, 5 year-old hands could do no more. The rest was up to me. The result was a haphazardly wrapped trapezoid which, when rubbed between 2 hands, made an occasional clicking sound.

Dressed in my suburban mother costume, I placed the carefully constructed, delicately woven, instrument in the bottom of a large box for safe-keeping, before sitting it in the backseat of the car. The special care we had taken with his hair, forced my son to hold his neck straight, arched, and away from the back of the seat, in hopes that it would remain in place. We were on our way to the presentation of the instruments.

Reluctantly handing him the box, we parted as he made his way, through a throng of students, to his classroom, and I turned towards the cafeteria, and the display area. As I walked among the tables, my heart skipped a beat as I realized my mistake. With one manicured hand placed over my mouth, I read the history of the mandolin before inspecting the carefully carved wood for juvenile imperfections. There were none.

At the next display, I tested the tautness of animal skins stretched across wooden tom-toms, and found no failing.

The next velvet draped table, featured eight, expensively etched, crystal glasses holding carefully measured amounts of variously colored liquid. A silver-handled, rubber mallet rested, luxuriantly, next to each one. Display boards, featuring computer generated graphics, blocked my view of the next table.

So…you wanna play hardball….

By fourth grade, I had adopted a new strategy. When the teacher assigned a report on The Revolutionary War, in which the student was to dress the part, I eagerly anticipated our role assignment. Thanks to Ebay, my son channeled Samuel Adams resplendently dressed in period costume, complete with powdered wig. As he traversed the hallways, no teacher was immune to his charm. It didn’t matter that he left out most of a paragraph of his report, as he stumbled over his presentation in true nine-year-old form. He dressed the part, and for that, he garnered a large, red, “A”.

Our next assignment was a scientific experiment involving, of all things, earthworms. Harking back to my upbringing, I sent my ten-year-old outside into the gardens with a shovel and pail. Southern drought had apparently chased the slimy creatures further underground, forcing my use of a larger shovel. We were expected to test ten. We settled for eight.

Camera at the ready, I set up shots of my son among carefully placed worms, rich, brown dirt, and apple pieces.

After all of the data was collected, my son watched as I arranged photographs amongst cleverly engineered graphics on a display board. I would settle for nothing less than another “A”!

Fast forward, again, to today. I am sitting in rush-hour traffic, which due to our herculean, hurricane-contrived gas shortage, is decidedly lighter than it was one month ago, and my cell-phone rings.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m working on mean, median, and mode. I added the numbers and divided, but what do I do with the remainder?”

Silence.

“I called this kid I know, who’s in honor’s math, and he said I should make the remainder a fraction. Is that what I do, Mom? Is that right?”

Continued silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

I can still see her face, curtained by God-given, red hair. Tall, and pale, she stood before the class and gestured her freckled arm towards the gibberish she scrawled across the chalkboard.

I probably should have paid more attention…

>Lessons Learned…

>
I never had much use for homework. Fortunately, I was able to soak up enough information in class, that my lack of ambition only tripped me up occasionally. I did have to take Algebra I twice, and Geometry was much more interesting the second time around. You will notice a pattern…

Much to my chagrin, things had changed by the time I had children.

My second child has a mild learning disability which affects reading comprehension. He is also male. This is a formula for disaster.

At the next display, I tested the tautness of animal skins stretched across wooden tom-toms, and found no failing.

So…you wanna play hardball….

Camera at the ready, I set up shots of my son among carefully placed worms, rich, brown dirt, and apple pieces.

After all of the data was collected, my son watched as I arranged photographs amongst cleverly engineered graphics on a display board. I would settle for nothing less than another “A”!

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m working on mean, median, and mode. I added the numbers and divided, but what do I do with the remainder?”

Silence.

“I called this kid I know, who’s in honor’s math, and he said I should make the remainder a fraction. Is that what I do, Mom? Is that right?”

Continued silence.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

I can still see her face, curtained by God-given, red hair. Tall, and pale, she stood before the class and gestured her freckled arm towards the gibberish she scrawled across the chalkboard.

I probably should have paid more attention…

A Fork in the Road

The World History class was required for my degree. I have no particular interest in World History.

The professor, a bespectacled, soft-spoken man; dumpy, mousy, and pastey.

Within a week, unheeded, I was bringing a Bible to class. As he methodically dissected human history from it’s very beginnings, he hearkened back to that holiest of texts, debunking fiction after fiction until the leather-bound volume in my back-pack became akin to an early incarnation of Aesop’s fables.

And he never raised his voice, or spoke in tongues, or gestured wildly, or challenged, or questioned. He stated facts, eloquently, quietly, and intelligently.

I aced the class. He changed my life.

I remember, as a child, following my mink enshrouded mother into the sanctuary and becoming aware of countless pairs of feminine eyes taking her measure. Inside my child’s brain, the experience felt incongruous.

I remember sitting and listening to my ancient Sunday School teacher recite, by rote, long passages of contradictory verse, and as I sat, looking at the faces around me for some sign that I wasn’t the only one who suspected we were all part of some kind of wild mind-bending experiment.

I saw lots of things…

I saw rapt eyes over gaped mouthes.

I saw girls whispering, posturing, and primping, and boys, doodling or dexteriously fashioning paper footballs whose mitered edges never really resembled a football, at all.

I saw lots of yawns.

But, I never saw real doubt.

I didn’t dare to interrupt Dr. Dick’s diatribe. I sat, obediently, until creativity, in the form of a more adventurous friend, suggested we skip Sunday School. A local shopping plaza absorbed the time, until our parents came to collect us, none the wiser.

Later, as an adult, I began what has been suggested to be a genetically inclined quest for knowledge. My father, you see, while seldom attending church, has spent his life in study of various relgions and spiritual dictates.

I began to read and study religions of all types.

I read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover, finding some solace in it’s words, but more interest in it’s story.

I have read several different versions of the Bible, ranging from King James to New World, as the highlighted pages of my current, more traditional, volume will attest.

I read, with interest, L. Ron Hubbard’s, “Dianetics”.

I have studed Daoism, Buddhism, and currently own two translations of the Tao Ching; one stays at home, the other travels with me. This poetic text has served me well in times of unrest and insecurity…

After over 40 years of research, and soul-searching, and education, and experience, I have reached a place of comfort.

As I sit on my patio, early morning light dances between green needles in the towering pines that surround my landscape. And birds, whose very existence attests to a power greater than that enjoyed by any man, dart to and fro in my periphery. As I breathe the soft, clean air of daybreak, I know, deep in my soul, a loving power. A higher power. A wiser power. A driving energy that exists within every living thing.

And this knowledge imbues in me a respect for all creation; from the smallest insect to the largest mammal.

And it soothes me, with the surety that deep within each us is a voice, full of reason, full of love, and flush with wisdom.

Our impetus is to listen; to listen and to hear, to allow this rich wisdom to permeate our consciousness and guide us, without restrictions imposed by those who would control behavior in an effort to create a monochromatic society, without traditions imposed by those soothed by sameness, without dictates that would keep us from recognizing our true potential as fellow holy spirits.

>A Fork in the Road

The World History class was required for my degree. I have no particular interest in World History.

The professor, a bespectacled, soft-spoken man; dumpy, mousy, and pastey.

And he never raised his voice, or spoke in tongues, or gestured wildly, or challenged, or questioned. He stated facts, eloquently, quietly, and intelligently.

I aced the class. He changed my life.

I saw lots of things…

I saw rapt eyes over gaped mouthes.

I saw girls whispering, posturing, and primping, and boys, doodling or dexteriously fashioning paper footballs whose mitered edges never really resembled a football, at all.

I saw lots of yawns.

But, I never saw real doubt.

I began to read and study religions of all types.

I read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover, finding some solace in it’s words, but more interest in it’s story.

I have read several different versions of the Bible, ranging from King James to New World, as the highlighted pages of my current, more traditional, volume will attest.

I read, with interest, L. Ron Hubbard’s, “Dianetics”.

After over 40 years of research, and soul-searching, and education, and experience, I have reached a place of comfort.

And this knowledge imbues in me a respect for all creation; from the smallest insect to the largest mammal.

And it soothes me, with the surety that deep within each us is a voice, full of reason, full of love, and flush with wisdom.