Hero

First, I must say, this is not a picture of Kame. (In case you were wondering) It was a drawing commissioned by a dear friend, and drawn by a cartoonist I know through a website called Deviant Art. You can find more of her fantastic artwork here.

The picture is titled "Blushing", and it's an illustration from my own fan-fiction story titled "Anger Management". It illustrates a joke between friends "You know, you're cute when you're blushing.", and represents the idea of an Author meeting her hero.

Hamato Leonardo (In Japanese families, the surname comes first), the mutant Turtle from the illustration, is the leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, a familiar title to those who grew up in the '80's and early 2000's. Far from the goofy pizza-munching comic relief of the original series, later episodes and the fourth TMNT movie portrayed Leo as a driven, skilled and strong leader, with a singular focus: Protect and lead his family.

Leo has been a hero of mine for a long time. I told my husband once that he has "nothing to worry about" because his only real competition for my affection is a fictional mutant. Although I was joking at the time, the truth is, Leo does represent much of what I love in Ken, and is deeply intertwined with my commitment to my marriage. My fictional hero serves as a fantasy to retreat to when life is difficult, but he's more than that. He's also a strong reminder of what's most important to me, and the reasons I fight against all odds to protect what I hold dear.

Confidence and optimism mark the Turtles' lives. No matter what happens, they believe in themselves and each other. They take responsibility for themselves and for one another. They are brothers. Singly, they wouldn't last a week in a hostile and often dangerous world. Together, they can face any threat.

My dream for my family is not so different from the Turtles' lives. We may never face alien invasions or psychotic government agents, but we do battle against doubt, against the every-day assaults of the deficiencies, real and perceived, in ourselves and in our lives. We worry about bills (I don't know a couple who doesn't), about our kids, about the future. We fight against despair, against the encroaching fear that our children will not live up to their potential, that we will fail them in some fundamental way. We worry that we will go hungry and homeless in our old age. We worry that we might not live up to our own fullest potential.

For me, that means I worry that I may never publish a book. I may never achieve that pinnacle of success, that goal I've set for myself. Born to climb, I may never reach the top of the mountain. For Ken, it means he may never find paid employment in the fire service. Discouragement looms large when you've poured so much in, and received so little in return.

The truth is, there are no guarantees in this life. Children grow up to disappoint their parents. Parents pass away without ever making it clear to their children how very much they were loved. Effort goes unappreciated. Dreams go unfulfilled, goals unmet, people feel unloved. Sometimes marriages and even whole families fall apart under the stress of every-day disappointments.

In cartoons and movies, when things look bleak, it's the hero's time to shine. Leonardo and his brothers have faced defeat more times than I care to count, and yet they return, time and time again, to face new enemies, new threats, new catastrophes. What makes a hero keep getting up and going on, time and time again? Where does he find the determination to never give up, the courage in the face of adversity?

I have come to believe that it is not the ability to hold up under pressure that makes a hero. It's not courage or a strong character that makes one heroic, though those things certainly help.

Every single day, we get up and go about our routine. Every single day we are faced with choices, decisions that must be made. I believe that it is in these choices, each singular decision, that heroes are born. While the spotlight often shines on the heroes who defeat the bad guys with some brilliant inspiration of strategy in battle, the strength to make those decisions comes from long exercise of daily choices.

My husband has been facing a difficult time recently. Losing over 100 pounds is not an easy task, and yet he had to, to protect his health. The specter of re-gaining the weight looms large. He has faced down discouragement and defeat... and yet he is in the process of climbing to his feet, to face the giants once more.

He's made mistakes. He's been knocked down, he's stumbled, and there have been times when he feels there's no more strength to get up again. Still, no matter how many times he's defeated, he refuses to give up.

He is, and has always been, my personal hero.

~*~*~

contentment

A turtle in his natural environment....
A cat's scratching tower.

Kame seems confused at times. While my cats studiously ignore their scratching post, he regularly makes himself at home in the little cave formed by the carpeted base, burrowing into the bedding as if he believes he deserves whiskers and fur. In a foreign land, he has made himself at home.

At times, marriage feels like a foreign place to me. I am, by nature, a loner. If I am subjected to constant company, even of those I love, for too long, I become crabby and stand-offish. Time alone is not only natural for me, it's necessary to my mental health. So why is it that, when I'm alone, I long for my family's company? Why do I miss my husband when he goes away, knowing he will return soon? Why do I seem to always be wanting something other than what I have? Why do human beings struggle with the simple concept of contentment?

I believe that this world was created with a purpose. I believe that there was a grand design, a vision for Creation... and that somewhere early on, things went astray.

I believe that what we are searching for is the ideal, the perfection, the place where all the pieces align and everything falls into place.

I believe, if I don't give up, that my marriage will continue to grow, to heal, and to move in the direction of the ideal. I believe the plan is still in place, and that the world is still moving onward and upward. I believe... And so I will hold on.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

Hibernation

Recently, Kame entered a state of semi-hibernation. Three or four times a week, on the advice of our veterinarian, I dig him out from under his mulch and set him in his water pan so that he stays hydrated. He drinks deep, then immediately burrows back into the mulch. Though his odd habits and starvation diet worry me, his weight has remained steady and he seems as vigorous as ever.

There are times I wish I were able to hibernate. When things get difficult, when I'm not sure of Ken's heart, when my kids are fighting or Arek is having one of his legendary meltdowns, I want to pull inside my shell and disappear out of this world entirely. Sometimes I do "hibernate". I withdraw into playing inane games on Facebook, surfing the web, or searching out writing jobs that cost very little brain power, whatever it takes to numb the frustration and pain.

The holidays are a prime "hibernation" time. If the cold weather and icy conditions (dangerous for someone with a bum leg like mine) weren't enough to drive me underground, the pressure that comes with the holiday delivers a knock-out punch to my emotional equilibrium. I drive myself crazy at times, shopping with growing desperation until I feel everyone on my holiday list will be surprised and thrilled with the offerings I've gathered.

Why do I feel this awful, gnawing desire to please more strongly at this time than any other? Why is it so desperately important to get the "right" gift for my kids and husband? I could say it's because I love them and want them to be happy. That is a perfectly true and valid reason, but I feel as if there must be something more behind the almost-childish anxiety that drives me to surf the web obsessively, making lists and agonizing over a budget that always seems too small, particularly when it comes time to shop for Ken.

Ken's expectations are higher than my own at Christmas time. I grew up in a family where Christmas was a big deal, but the pile under the tree was often small. I learned young that while Santa brings some very cool gifts, kids like me don't get big-ticket items for Christmas. I didn't expect them then, and I don't now.
Ken grew up in a very different home. While his parents weren't millionaires, nor were they overly extravagant, he usually got what he wanted.

While it would be easy to accuse him of materialism, I don't think the conflict lies in the price of the gifts we exchange. Ken has never once tried to make me feel guilty for not spending "enough" on him. I believe that the pressure I feel comes from within, and its roots are older than the fifteen Christmases I've shared with Ken.

During Christmases past, my father would disappear into his room during the family celebration, refusing to participate. One year in particular stands out with vivid clarity. My siblings, all grown with children of their own, had gathered their resources to put together a gift box for Mom. It was an enormous box.

Mom exclaimed over the lovely gifts as she lifted each out of the box, impressed with their ingenuity and generosity. Finally, she took the final two items from that huge box. Tucked into a lonely corner were a bottle of cologne and a tin of Dad's favorite pipe tobacco, the only gifts for my father.

For the first time, I understood why Dad spent his holiday holed up in his room. He was hiding, avoiding the hurt and humiliation that came with being unwanted. He knew my mother's children wanted to please her. He never felt wanted... never felt loved.

Christmas is a time when Love came into this broken, hurting world. To feel loved... is it really such a terrible thing to expect that at this most joyous celebration we should feel loved by those who should know us best? Is it selfish to want to be included, to hope to receive some coveted trinket, to expect that something in that pile under the tree has your name on it, to know you've been invited to the party?

I think that wanting to feel loved is not a bad thing. Gifts are one way we convey affection, certainly, but the best way to feel love is to remember what real Love is, to invite the Babe back into His own party. For me, that means trusting Jesus to make sure my Dad knows he's loved as he celebrates Christmas in that shining City with the Lord Himself. It means letting go of the past and concentrating on creating happier memories for my children and their father.

For the sake of my marriage, of my family, it's time for me to come out of hibernation. It's time to acknowledge the hurts that have gone before, and to remember that this world is still broken, even today, and will remain so until the Babe returns in all His completed glory. It's time to look the brokenness in the eye and dare it to bite me, because this is Christmas Present and I am not going to waste a single moment of the joy of Here and Now regretting what is Done and Past.

It's time to celebrate Christmas.
This one's for you, Dad.
~*~*~

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."
(Luke 2:11-14)

Anniversery

I haven't opened with a little anecdote or comment about Kame this morning. Some wounds are just too deep to patch with a metaphor, and too painful to make light of or draw into perspective... yet.

A year ago, my husband traveled to Los Vegas without me, ostensibly to attend a friend's wedding. He went alone, or so I thought, until I got The Call, from an old girlfriend's husband. "Did you know...?" No, I didn't.

A year later, I find myself searching for perspective in the whirling chaos that phone call left behind, and falling short.

Robert Frost wrote:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

***

The Call was the culmination of everything that had led up to that point. We'd been dancing around each other, with bitterness and resentment creeping in but unwilling to face things head on for so long it felt like we were two nations in a cold war, playing at peace while bolstering our defenses and building secret stockpiles of ammunition. Vegas felt like the first salvo in what could become an all-out war, depending on how I responded.

It was two days before Thanksgiving, and I was in a frozen wilderness, the accusation and my husband's confessions ("yes, he saw her there") and denials ("nothing happened") sounding in my ears, staring down two paths, one marked "Stay", the other marked "Go."

Which would I choose? Both looked difficult. Jagged rocks protruded, threatening destruction. "Go" was a downhill slide, filled with hidden dark pits of Loneliness and Desolation. War would be inevitable, fighting over custody, support... I hated the thought of what we once had changing into something twisted, of looking into a once-loved face and seeing only frozen resentment looking back.
I knew, from walking with friends as they traversed the path, that it could lead to smoother land, perhaps a whole new adventure, but the way was treacherous and fraught with dangers, and I would walk it alone, holding only my childrens' hands.

"Stay" appeared smoother, but I'd been injured on that path, betrayed by the one who should have been at my side, loyal through life's journey. Staying meant believing his regret was sincere, believing he was telling the truth, though at the time I had my doubts. It meant taking the chance that we would fall back into our cold-war patterns, that history would simply repeat itself and that battle was inevitable whether I wanted it or not.

I stood at the fork in the road, undecided, frightened, in pain so deep I thought I'd never find my way out again, and despaired.

Frost chose his path:

Then took the other, as just as fair
And perhaps having the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

***
The two paths... Rather than choose, I ran away, fled to a friend's house, a temporary sanctuary. I received advice, spent hours talking and crying... and in time, made a choice, although I was uncertain and afraid.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

***
Staying was one of the most difficult, and one of the most important, choices I've ever made. I could say it was because of the kids... In fact, at the time, my commitment to staying was limited. It will be eight years before both our children are in college. I reasoned that it's difficult enough to navigate through this world, without the stigma of a broken home hanging over one's head. My children, at least, would be spared the scars of battle.

I kept the first for another day, knowing I might change my mind, might regret my choice... but now, a year later, way has led to way. We have grown and changed in this journey, and I doubt if I shall ever go back.

I have chosen my path. I have taken my road, made my peace, and though the going is sometimes rough, I believe I have chosen the better path. Only time will tell for sure.

~*~*~

"But Ruth replied, "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God."

-The Book of Ruth 1: 16
(NIV)

The jungle

Sometimes Kame finds himself in tall grass. Sometimes he positively seeks it out, climbing his way deep into brush where he can hide from whatever perils a turtle's mind can imagine lurk in the big wild world outdoors.

What is it that drives him to explore? What makes him so intent on traveling, so resistant to being held back by anything at all? What keeps him moving forward?

Kame is a very stubborn soul. He is determined. He is tenacious. I wish I were more like him.

When I started out on this journey called marriage, in my mother's kitchen one evening, as Ken took a knee and offered me a heart-shaped ring, I didn't know what we were signing on for. The lawn looked smooth, the soft grass green and inviting. I never imagined a jungle beyond its borders.

Our future was secure, safe. White picket fences and a neatly manicured flower garden lay in our future. Fat, happy babies playing in the sun. Perhaps a dog. A cat. We would, of course, be happy. Isn't that how life works? You work hard, you enjoy the satisfaction of building a home and family together, and grow old to enjoy the fruits of time well spent and lives well lived?

I never imagined, in those first heady moments, the catering firm going out of business mere months before the wedding. I never guessed at my niece abandoning her family and embarking on a teenage folly, taking her two-year-old son and joining a traveling carnival and leaving us not only heartbroken, but one bridesmaid and one ring bearer short for the service. I never could have imagined scrambling to find a new venue for the reception when the hall we'd chosen closed with only two months to find a replacement.

Nothing could have prepared me for the briers and brambles that sprang up almost immediately, the normal, day to day conflicts that began to grow, to encroach and soon to choke out the first heady infatuation.

We forged ahead, diving headlong into the jungles of parenthood, ready (we thought) for adventure. We'd read our map and this was the way to go. Our path was leading in the expected direction. We were on our way to a house, a dog, 2.5 kids and a minivan. Our course was set and we knew exactly where we were going.

Except we didn't know that the path through the jungle is fraught with danger. We didn't know a two-year-old could throw tantrums that left even Grandma and preschool teachers with twenty years experience baffled. We didn't know a child could be as stubborn, as tenacious and as incredibly fierce as our red-headed tornado.

We didn't know we'd have a second child before our first was out of preschool. We didn't know our eldest would go on to continue throwing violent temper tantrums well into elementary before falling into a depression which took a year of counseling to counteract. We didn't know how hard being parents would be.

As I write this, I am tired... further than tired, I'm exhausted. We've been through two years of counseling with our second child, as he's exhibiting a temper that rivals even his sister's, and a similar lack of control and maturity relative to his age. Tonight, my ten-year-old sat in his chair at the table and sobbed because he had to take his dog out and he didn't like what we had for dinner.

He's often tender and gentle and kind, and I hope he will, one day, understand the value of relationships, but tonight he sat in his chair and asked us to get rid of the dog he begged for two years to own. He claimed we "don't care about" him. He took all our efforts, all our love and care and consideration over the past few years stamped it into the dirt with his complete rejection of our love.

Sometimes I think God gives us children so we can experience His pain.

We've been wandering through this jungle for so long, sometimes I wonder if there is a way out any longer. Still, I've seen glimmers of sun through the brush, rays of hope shining through as our first child develops into the beautiful young woman she's meant to be. We've talked to other parents who assure us that the wilderness has an edge, and that life beyond the borders of adolescence can be peaceful once more. I pray it is so.

Tonight, I am tired. Tomorrow is another day. I will pick up my machete, take my husband's hand, and walk on. The only way out of this is to stick together and keep moving. We'll find our way, in time.

*~*~*

I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

The Psalms of David, 121: 1-2 NIV

Don't fence me in

One of Kame's favorite activities is climbing. Wherever he is, he seems to believe there is something better, something more, on the other side of the obstacles in his way.

Sometimes, I think my determined little terrapin friend has the right idea. Other times, I feel fenced in, trapped, as if I can never escape the choices I've made over the past twenty years. Walls... sometimes they seem unscalable. Fencing me in... holding me back.

Watching Kame climb, I realized that if an awkward little turtle, wearing a heavy shell, laboring away with his short legs and stiff plastron, can manage to get into the amount of mischief Kame manages to find, I should be able to overcome a few inconveniences.

When I was seventeen years old, two weeks before I turned eighteen, my father passed away. Cancer slipped in like smoke, winding its evil way into our lives. I knew, early on, that something was wrong, but I didn't know what. I tried to get him to see a doctor, to talk to Mom about how weak he felt, how sick he was, how he hadn't gotten out of bed much lately, how he was always "sick to his stomach", but Dad... Well Dad was a proud man, and I believe he knew, right from the beginning, that he was dying. He didn't want endless poking and prodding. He wanted a peaceful exit, a quiet walk into that good night.

I... I wanted my dad. I wanted him alive, well, and taking me fishing. I wanted to hear him laugh. I wanted to see him bouncing his grandchildren on his knee. I wanted his hugs... I wanted his approval.

Of course, what I want and what life hands out are quite often two very different things. Dad got his peaceful slide. Mom took care of him with tenderness I'll never forget, and I, well I was like a third wheel, always seeming to be in the way. Regret and hurts and grief piled up, building a wall between me and my hopes for the future that I thought would never come down.

The wall has loomed large lately. I have wanted my father more in this past year than I have in all the twenty he's been gone. In the past, grief was an obstacle, a wall I couldn't climb over. It seemed endless, stretching to the sky.

A character in a movie I love runs off into the distance, measuring the length of a hedge that has suddenly appeared on his turf. "It goes on forever!" he comments, before disappearing into the distance in the opposite direction. "It goes on forever this way too!"

Grief can seem like that, a never-ending wall stopping forward motion.

It is time I climbed the wall. It's time to move forward. Like Kame, I am learning to climb, despite the load I've been carrying, despite everything in my way.

To that end, I've applied to attend SUNY Binghamton's Winter Session, beginning in January. I've also entered NaNoWriMo, a writing challenge which will be in full swing by the time this blog entry is published.

Lesson number four for marriage, and also in life: obstacles are not walls, they are challenges. Life is an obstacle course and we can only truly live if we keep on climbing, keep on growing, keep on moving forward.

Breaking out of the victim shell

Kame is getting ready for hibernation. Being a wild-caught turtle, he doesn't understand concepts like base board hot-water heating and full-spectrum UVB lighting. He's doing what comes naturally, burrowing deep to hide from the upcoming winter.

Ever have one of those days? You know the ones... when nothing seems to go right... when the entire world seems to be against you, and all you want to do is pull yourself into your shell and hide?

I've had a year like that.

It would be easy for me to pull into the Victim shell, to build myself a fortress of self-righteous anger from which I can point my finger and blame my husband for everything that's gone wrong. I could stomp and toss my head and cry... And sometimes I do. Some days it seems as if I'll never stop crying. Self pity is an intoxicating drug, insinuating its way into my system, dulling my senses, easing the pain, and stealing my energy, strength and motivation.

And so we come to the second rule of a healthy marriage: Your sense of self-worth can not come from your partner. For too long, I looked to Ken for approval. If he came home in a bad mood, I assumed I had done something wrong. If he were unhappy, I was unhappy. If something was bothering him, I jumped to the conclusion that it was somehow connected to me, that I had done something to upset the balance of his universe.

I made it my duty to keep him happy, and when I wasn't able to keep him happy, resentment began to grow. I was working so hard for his sake, why wasn't he appreciative? Why wasn't he praising my efforts, why wasn't he loving me the way I thought I should be loved?

I was putting pressure on him, on our children, on myself, to preform the dance of a happy family the way I thought it should be choreographed, and when one of us was out of step I became angry, sullen and resentful. For Ken's part, he began to withdraw, spending more and more time away from us, pouring more and more of himself into his volunteer work, his hobbies and his job. Communication between us became more and more terse and tense. Intimacy became stilted, and I began to feel suffocated.

I can't imagine what Ken was feeling during that time. Anger? Resentment? The same stifling pressure that was stealing the very breath from my life? All of the above, I'm sure.

We were on a one-way trip to disaster, and hibernation was looking better and better every day. Thankfully, God had other plans.

Life, unexpected

"Whatchoo lookin' at, Pussycat?"

I adore this picture of Kame, and our daughter's cat, Tat. She was curious, and Kame, well, he's being his usual unflappable self. Nothing seems to disturb this little turtle. He is fearless.

A popular country song suggests "If you're goin' through Hell, keep on goin', don't slow down, if you're scared, don't show it... You might get out before the Devil even knows you're there."

Sometimes life throws us for a loop. We're suddenly presented with something so big, so frightening, there is no natural response. All we can do is stare it down, and hope we can bluff our way through.

In the past ten years, Ken and I have faced down a tornado that destroyed our neighbor's home and dropped a tree on our roof, our kids having trouble in school, leading to a year's suspension for our fourth-grader and major health issues which have necessitated sweeping changes in our lifestyle.

It's little wonder, under such assaults, that we began to come apart at the seams. With Ken's election as Fire Chief for our local volunteer department, two kids with seemingly continuous appointments, practices and meetings and my own dedication to becoming a published author, we were wearing thin. The stitching that held our marriage together was beginning to unravel, and we were falling apart.

We forgot, for a time, the first rule in marriage: Turn upward and inward in the face of adversity. No matter what it is you're facing down, nothing, and I mean nothing, is more important than your relationships, first with God and second with your spouse. Never forget that this person is your partner, your team mate, your support system. You promised "for better or for worse". Unfortunately the worse comes harder and faster than you can imagine, and if you're unprepared, it can sweep you off your feet.

When Ken and I faced a new threat, it nearly broke us apart. Rumors were flying around the fire department, that he was stepping out with a young volunteer who happened to be our long-time babysitter.

I found the stories laughable. I've known the young woman for most of her life. I was (and still am) confident that he thinks of her as a sort of surrogate daughter, not a potential fling. Infidelity was the last thing I was afraid of. I thought my marriage was on solid ground, that despite our troubles we were committed and had been in love, and would be again. I believed the chaos of raising children was temporary. I believed that the history we'd built over the first fourteen years of marriage would be enough to keep us together. I was deep in Egypt, lounging along the proverbial river.

Ken was not having an affair with our babysitter. He's made mistakes, as have I, but his heart is strong, and loyal. He's often flippant in conversation, leading people who don't know him well to assume his values are less-than solid. The truth is, he's a passionate man who gives his all to the things he believes in. Once upon a time, he believed in me, in our marriage, our family and our future together. When that belief wavered, life came crashing down around us.

The house of cards has collapsed, but almost a year later, we are rebuilding. The process has been long and painful and it's not over yet. We have a long way to go before our marriage can be called truly healthy, but we'll keep on going.

We will face this, and all our Devils, and we will get out alive.

Introducing Kame

Meet Kame. (Pronounced 'Kah-may')
Handsome little guy, isn't he? Kame is my Eastern Box Turtle. Or rather, I should say, I am his human. We've been cohabiting now for an entire season.

More than through the a passing of Spring to Summer, and entering into the early part of Fall, Kame has accompanied me through a season of life, and has become intertwined with my journey in ways I never expected.

In May 2010, my husband Ken traveled over twenty hours to go on a hunting trip, because the turkeys in the midwest are, by some estimation only understood by avid (obsessive!) turkey hunters, superior to the turkeys here in Upstate New York.

Box turtles are common where Ken was hunting that week. He'd seen several around the lodge before he found Kame bumping along the edge of the door. When he opened it to see who was knocking so insistently, Kame came right in and made himself at home. Knowing how much I adore turtles, Ken decided to make this determined little guy a part of our family.

Ordinarily Ken and I are adamantly against removing an animal from the wild. Wild-caught animals often do poorly in captivity, and it's cruel to take them from the environment they're familiar with because it's difficult to give them everything they're used to in a captive situation. Kame, however, is more than just a "cool animal" that Ken brought me home as a pet. He was a peace offering, a gift of understanding and acceptance from my husband. His entrance into our lives represented a small step on the journey we've been on this past year, toward reconciliation, rebuilding and healing after the near-disintegration of our marriage.

I hope to record, in this blog, some of our story, interspersed and intertwined with tales of my favorite fictional Turtles and snippets of day to day life, with all its messy, chaotic joy.

I once reviewed a book that opened this way:

“I found a pen; another person found a scrap of paper; a third person, the words. “Dead End,” we wrote and left it on the side of the road for the next traveler to find and perhaps turn around in time.” -For Sarah, by Annie Harmon

This year, conversing with friends through various media, I have become convinced that in writing notes for others, we begin to understand our own journeys. Perhaps, through these musings we might travel together for a time, and learn from one another along the way.