Precious Life

A couple of months ago, as I was wasting my time dipping my gaze into one internet black hole after another, I stumbled upon a small gem. It often takes me longer than I'd like to fall asleep, and whoever it was (I wish I could remember) proposed choosing a poem, and reading it aloud just before settling into bed for the night. They said to choose just one poem a month, to allow time for the rhythm and message to settle into your brain. 

I found the idea intriguing; figured it was worth a try. So, one night I picked up the handy-dandy volume of Mary Oliver poetry (title: Devotions) that just happened to be at my bedside, and let it fall open to a random page.

Sometimes, random doesn't feel very random. Sometimes, the words on a random page are just the ones your heart needs to hear. Sometimes, I feel like the Universe has seen me, wandering a bit lost, and decided to give me a little affirmation, a boost, a hug, even. I am short on hugs these days.

I read the poem, 'The Summer Day', that night, and every night for the next thirty days. After a week or so, I barely needed to glance at the page, and instead of mulling over my day as I laid down, the words of the poem kept circling through my brain.

Who did make the world? And swans and black bears and grasshoppers - what beautiful diversity! Have I ever really seen a grasshopper? No, not the way she saw that one. Do I know how to be idle and blessed?  No. I don't. But perhaps I could learn to be. I am learning how to pay attention, and God knows I'm good at the falling down part. 

Yes, everything dies at last and too soon, both in my life, and in the COVID19-ravaged world outside my walls. I don't know exactly what a prayer is, but I pray every day anyways. My prayer has no definable words, it's mostly a yearning for Peace. I'm not even sure to what Source I direct the prayer, but my heart sends it to the Universe anyways, hoping against hope I will be heard.

And my life IS wild and precious. I can't see much in this fog I've been stumbling around in for the last year and more, but the days I am able glimpse the value I bring to the world are good days. I'll keep working on that plan thing, incorporating the concept of being idle and blessed. I think I'd like to be idle and blessed...

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? -- Mary Oliver

P.S. If you'd like to read the entire poem, click here:

https://www.loc.gov/programs/poetry-and-literature/poet-laureate/poet-laureate-projects/poetry-180/all-poems/item/poetry-180-133/the-summer-day/ 

I don't have permission to reprint the entire text, but they do...

P.P.S. It's working - I fall asleep faster than I did before embarking on this path.

Note to self: It wouldn't be working so well if the volume of poetry I'd picked up happened to be the one by Edgar Allen Poe, which is also in my bedroom. A great poet, yes, but his are not images I care to mull over as I fall asleep. Good to know for future reference.

Attic Work

Ah, the glamorous life of a retiree. Somehow, when I was picturing what life would be like post-paid-work, the picture of myself climbing over mounds of insulation in a low-ceiling attic never once crossed my mind. Go figure.

It all goes back to the new roof I had put on this summer. When they replaced the roof, they swapped out the old turbine vents for passive vents, then added some soffit vents, telling me the new system should be equivalent to the old. Wrong. My second floor was at least five degrees warmer on hot days than it had been before. On the hottest days, in a few spots, you could smell the superheated damp air seeping down from the attic.

I went back and forth with the roofer several times, trying to figure out what was wrong. Since I hadn't had this problem with the previous roof, I figured that missing turbine vents were probably the root of the problem. After several iterations, he begrudgingly agreed. He'd remove the passive vents and reinstall turbine vents, as long as I paid the material cost for the new vents. Grumbling beneath my breath, I accepted the offer. I mean, if they'd just done it right in the first place... Never mind. No need to go there.

Which left the question of the new soffit vents - were they doing what they needed to do, and letting air into the attic? I guessed not, since I knew the attic was full of blown insulation, and the roofer hadn't sent someone up there to make sure the vents were clear. I brought this up to him, and for only another $350, he said he'd send someone up there to check things out. This is where I drew the line. No way was I going to pay that much money for an hour's work. Mostly because I didn't trust them to do the job right.

Which is how, last week after the weather cooled, I found myself hauling out the ladder and a screw gun, loosening the attic hatch, and climbing up there to see what was going on.

As soon as I stuck my head into the space, it was clear why the venting hadn't worked. Sure enough, insulation was blocking the soffit vents, which meant there wasn't any air getting into the attic for the passive roof vents to let out. ("Told ya so!", chanted my inner two year-old.)

I'd come prepared. I was properly dressed, covered from head to toe, except for my cheeks - long sleeves, long pants, hat, goggles, breathing mask, gloves, headlamp. I had baffles to clear the air flow, screws and an impact driver to hold them in place, and a rake to move the insulation around.

Using a couple of handy boards left behind by my electrician, I took a deep breath and started body surfing my way across the attic, making sure I had a good base so I didn't put a foot wrong and add 'fix the hole in the ceiling' to my to-do list. A good core workout, I told myself.

I'd scouted the soffit vent locations from outside, so knew about where to find them, and by turning off my headlamp, I could see a glimmer of light making its way inside where each was trying to do its job. I made my way to one after another of the three spots, raked piles of fluffy stuff out of the way, kinda-sorta put a baffle in place, and moved on. I gotta admit - my work wasn't pretty. It wasn't precise and it wasn't clean, but I didn't care. I don't think anyone's going to go up there and check it any time soon, and I got the job done.

Since I was up there (what the heck), I took some time to see if I could figure out why the smell of the attic had been coming down to the second floor. Once I'd wormed my way to that area, which, of course, was at the far end of the attic, the issue was clear. Someone had pushed the insulation to the side to do some work, and had forgotten to push it back - there was virtually no insulation covering that part of the ceiling. It took just a minute, using my handy-dandy rake, to fix THAT problem, and I was done.

I turned around and surfed my way back to the access port, stopping to rake a pile of insulation across all the bare spots I encountered as I crawled along.

As I climbed down the ladder, I checked the time. It had taken me a little over an hour to do the job. For once, my time guesstimate for a job had been spot on. Thinking about the $350 I hadn't paid the roofer, I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Who says I can't make the big bucks!

Since the hot days have passed for this year, I won't know if the problem has been resolved until next summer, but I'm not concerned. I'm pretty sure I got it fixed. That's one down!

No, don't call me to see if I'll check your attic. No, not even if you'll pay me the big bucks. Just, no.

Building a Gate

So. As part of my big remodeling project, I took down part of the fence surrounding the back yard. When I did so, I set aside one section of the fence to build a gate between the remaining back fence and the corner of the garage. I put the fence section out of the way, behind the garage, and added an item, "build gate", to my to-do list.

That was six or seven years ago, and the to-do item has moved from list to list to list. Each time I moved it, I'd think, "I should really just tackle the gate. I can't imagine it would take that long." The fence section has stayed right where I put it, but weeds grow up under it, and every time I'd have to yank it free it from its green tangle, and clear the mess underneath it, I'd think, "I should really just take some time and make this into a gate. It wouldn't take too long."

Then, I'd move on, and forget about it until the next time.

I've been bound and determined to get to the bottom of my outdoor to-do list this summer, and a couple of weeks ago, I decided I had time to build the gate. I started right after breakfast - it ended up taking four whole hours to complete, including the time it took to make two trips to the hardware store.

Every time I do something like this, I scratch my head. I mean, I know it wasn't a high priority, but I let the project take up head space for SIX YEARS before I did anything about it. Because????

I suppose it's because there's a part of me that's a master at procrastination. I got it from my dad, who used to pull similar stunts. He'd let something go for ages, finally tackle it in an afternoon, then stand there looking at it with a half-smile on his face, shaking his head at it. The practice drove me nuts, and I swore I'd never be like that, but here I am, half-smile, shaking head, and all.

And, I gotta admit, I wouldn't have felt nearly as righteous, getting to cross "build gate" off my list if I'd finished in a more timely fashion. I wouldn't have brought up the mental picture of my dad's smiling face - a face I dearly miss. 

I'm trying to be kinder to myself these days, so instead of dwelling on the part where I procrastinated on a simple project for half a decade, I'm going to try to focus on the second part - the part where I DID get it done. I will hold to the image of my dad peering down from his comfy perch on high, shaking his head with a half-smile, and saying to his brothers (who are lounging in their matching comfy perches), "she's done me proud."

I hope so, Dad. I really do.

NYT Crossword Puzzle

When I was a kid, there was a phrase that was the gold standard for someone's intellect. If someone was exceptionally sharp, people said of them: "She solves the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle each week. In ink."

The Times has changed along with the rest of the world, and it is no longer required to use ink, or any other physical marking device to fill out the puzzles - they have an app. As a retirement gift to myself, I bought me a subscription.

When I started working on the puzzles, two years ago, I could pretty much always fill in Monday's grid with no problem. Tuesday, I could do with some help from Google, Wednesday and Sunday were a bit iffy. Thursday, Friday and Saturday were beyond me. (The puzzles start with easy ones on Monday, then get progressively more difficult through the week, with Sunday's puzzle being a larger (thus taking longer to reason through) version of the grid, at the difficulty level of  Wednesday puzzles.)

Well, practice helps, and over time, I've gotten better and better at solving the puzzles. I do use Google to help me along, but I have rules for myself. Because the crossword puzzle is so popular, all you have to do is type in the clue, and the answer will pop up. I don't look at those sites, that's cheating. But I figure looking up the winner of the 2012 Best Actor award, or the MVP player in the 1994 World Series, or any other answer I could look up in my non-existent set of encyclopedias, is fair game. I figure this partly because the help guidelines from the NYT say this sort of lookup is OK, and partly because I'd never solve the end-of-the-week puzzles without the help.

Like most apps out there, this one has a hook. If you solve the puzzle, without having the app help you by checking for wrong answers, on the same day the puzzle is published, you get a gold star. If you check your answers partway through, or do the puzzle later in the week, you just get a blue star. And, it keeps track of your consecutive gold star days.

Not that I'm competitive with myself or anything, but this challenge is tailor-made for me. At first, I had only two day streaks (Monday/Tuesday puzzles) in my column. Then, those Wednesday puzzles started to be solvable, and my streak made it to four days.

One magic day, I was able to work my way through a Thursday puzzle; Friday and Saturday fell under my power shortly thereafter. (There is obviously a trick to these things...) My winning streaks got longer - 8 days, then 14, then 30! 

I started a new streak in early January of this year. I was able to figure out puzzle, after puzzle, after puzzle. Quite proud of myself, I was, and I made it 146 days before my brain just wouldn't work through a Friday puzzle. I tried doing it that morning, got stuck. I went back to it in the afternoon (usually a good way to work through a stuck point) with no luck. Later that evening, I tried again - same result. I went to bed with my shoulders slightly slumped, defeated.

I checked the answers the next morning - the clues hadn't been so devilishly difficult after all, my brain just hadn't been thinking right. *sigh*

Saturday's puzzle fared no better, but I was able to get back on track Sunday morning.

Since then, I've been watching that streak count creep higher and higher. 30, 50, 100 - I was on a roll. This past week was the real test. Friday's puzzle was the 146th one I'd attempted in a row.

It was touch-and-go there for a bit - but I prevailed. The successful completion of Saturday's grid brought me over the top! Quite pleased with myself, I am.

I mean, I'm not on the level of those geniuses of old - I have yet to complete a Sunday puzzle without help from Google, and I'm a long ways from filling in the grid without backtracking at least one answer - but I'm still thinkin' I'm better than the average bear (to quote Yogi).

I'll keep at it. Perhaps, someday, I'll solve the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in (the modern equivalent of) ink.

 Hey. A girl's gotta have goals. Wish me luck!

 

October Morning

I'm pretty sure October morning light has magical healing powers.

I woke up in a grumpy space this morning. I hadn't slept well, and the only reason I got out of bed was because I had a headache and wanted to take drugs. My dreams had all circled around images of loss and loneliness; they were filled with stress and fear. I woke up with tears in my eyes, and it took a bit to convince me that the losses were just a dream. No ill had befallen those I love during the night.

After I took my headache drugs, and since I had a bit of momentum built up, I reluctantly got dressed and went downstairs to give the cats their morning drink of water and to get some breakfast and coffee. ("In that order, always in that order", say the cats, who race ahead of me down the stairs each day to jump into the sink for their morning treat.) 

With food and medication, my headache started to retreat, and so I decided I had enough energy for my morning walk, sad mood notwithstanding. As I walked down the front steps, I met up with one of my neighbors, out walking her dog. We fell into step, and started exchanging life updates. When we got to the corner, we stopped and chatted with another of the neighbor ladies for a bit. The cool morning air and cheerful company proved to be good medicine, and as I moved on after dropping my neighbor at her front door, my outlook started to brighten.

Down and across the street to the park I went, my mood improving with every step.

Soon, I was questioning why I'd ever been grumpy at all. Here I was, it was Monday morning and I'd gotten to sleep in. Again. When I did get moving, I didn't have to rush through my coffee. When I met up with the neighbors, there was no need to rush through the chance meeting - no  Monday morning Zoom call was waiting, there was no boss to wonder why I hadn't yet gotten online.

Nope. It was just me and the cool, clean, October morning air. Though the sun was bright, the light was softer than it had been just a few weeks ago. The trees in the park were starting to get dressed in their fall colors, and most of the people I met on the path looked like they were also enjoying the day.

I stopped several times just to breathe and enjoy the beauty of the trees, the feeling of the air quietly caressing my hair and skin, the gentle warmth of the sun on my face.

By the time I got home, my grumps had (thankfully) dissipated for the day.

I lost my grumps, but I never did find my ambition. My to-do list is still languishing on the table, waiting patiently for me to look at it and choose an item to tackle. Eh. I think it's not happening today. (Except for this blog post. This, I'm getting done. That counts, yes?)

Today is a day to stop and appreciate ephemeral beauty. There are not so many of these magical October days that I want to waste one being task-focused and grumpy and lamenting all the hard things in my life. I mean, the hard things are there, but so is the magic - and since I have the ability to choose where I want to focus my energies, today I chose to stop and notice the magic that Is.

I'm thinking I made the right choice.

Windows: Complete

I did it. It took a little extra courage to talk myself into tackling that last window, but it's done.

As I said last week, I was nervous about the task. I'm not sure what was at the root of the hesitation. I'm not actually afraid to be on a ladder at that height, but I had managed to convince myself that chances were good I'd forget how to behave on a ladder and then I'd fall off and no one would see me, and I'd be lying there for days in pain and you know how it goes and I don't need to lead you down that road.

Rather than wasting time trying to talk sense into myself, I persuaded a friend of mine to come over to watch me do the work. He had two tasks - to help me to set the ladder, and to call 9-1-1 if I managed to come crashing down.

It took just a few minutes to set the ladder in place, and with him comfortably ensconced in a patio chair within eye- and earshot of the broken window, up the steps I went. I'd arrayed my tools within easy reach on a table just inside the window, so I grabbed the heat gun and chisel, and set to work. 

The work wasn't hard, though my arms did protest the part where I needed to hold the tools overhead for the hours (OK, twenty minutes) it took to ease out the broken pane. The work wasn't hard, and the day wasn't hot, and I was in the shade, but I was still sweating mightily just a few minutes into the project. Nerves.

I stopped to breathe several times, and managed, each time, to remember to bring the heat gun down without pointing it at anything that would get hurt by the blast from the nozzle. Slowly, carefully, I got the broken window out WITHOUT breaking any of the adjacent panes. See? I can learn!

I set the new pane into place, and, though still nervous, managed to place the glazing points without damaging the new glass. (Glazing points are little metal doohickeys that hold the glass in place until the glazing sets. As I learned while working at the castle, getting them set is a prime place in the world of window repair where glass gets broken and you get to get extra practice finding the proper angle of entry for the buggers.)  *Whew*

Nerves now at ease, it didn't take long at all to get the glazing in place, the window washed, and the storm reassembled.

See? There was nothing to be afraid of. Or, there was, and there's no harm in taking some precautions to lower risk.

This last window was a lesson in why it's OK to admit I'm afraid and to ask for help. Because I knew Ian was sitting there in the driveway, I was less nervous about the project. Because I was less nervous about the project, my arms were steadier. Because my arms were steadier, the work went more smoothly.

Here's to good friends, those who are willing to help us even (or especially) when the only help we really need is moral support.

Working on Windows

Over the past few weeks, I've FINALLY been tackling some of the items that have been hanging around on my needs-to-be-done list for waayyyy too long. One of the items on the list is to replace the cracked panes several of my windows have been sporting for several years.

Even though I got quite a bit of practice replacing window glass last year when I was working at the castle, I still got nervous when approaching the task.

But avoiding a task because I'm nervous about tackling it has yet to yield me the desired result of getting to mark the work completed, so this past week, I gathered up my courage and climbed out onto the roof. I started with the easy one - the window with just one broken pane, easily accessible from the porch roof. 

Unlike the windows in the castle, which I was able to remove from the walls and set on a table to work on in comfort, I had to do this one in place. Turns out, it's not as much fun to shatter the broken glass when I know the shards are going to fly out everywhere and skitter across my finished floors to land where I would eventually find them with my bare feet. *sigh* Breaking the glass was one of my favorite parts of the job. 

Taking a few deep breaths to calm my jitters, I got out the heat gun and started removing the softened glazing with the broken pane in place (instead of getting to just whack it with a hammer). It worked - I was able to loosen the pane enough to break it out in more-or-less controlled sections. (More-or-less is as good as I get some days.)

Except for the part where my glass measurement was 1/4" too short because I'd tried to measure the opening before removing the glaze, it went pretty well. (And what's a project without an extra trip to Joe's house to cut myself a new pane of glass in the correct size?) Three hours later, I finished the last bit of glazing and gave myself a pat on the back for a job well done.

Emboldened by my success with the first window, I tackled the second one last week. This one had two broken panes, but I wasn't worried about it. After all, I'd gotten the first one replaced without problems, right???

Turns out, if you press too hard on the chisel, trying to rush things a bit instead of letting the heat gun finish its work first, you can flex the window frame enough to break the formerly intact pane of glass next to the one you're trying to replace. Who knew?

Fortunately, I only had to learn the lesson once. At least, I only had to learn it once that day. Newly cautious, I managed to get the three panes of glass replaced without causing any further damage. *WHEW*

Two down, one to go. The last window will not be accessible from the roof, so I'll get to practice my broken window removal skills while balancing on a ladder twelve feet off the ground. I gotta admit, I'm nervous about it.

But I'll gather my courage, face my fears, and take it carefully. It's the only way it'll get done.

Goodbye, David

Goodbyes are always hard for me, and some of them raise downright complicated feelings, which makes them even harder.

David fought his pancreatic cancer to a draw this last week. (I stole that phrase from someone. I wish I knew who it was, because I like it. He didn't lose any battles; the cancer definitely didn't win. But the contest has definitively come to an end.) Most people, once they find they have this type of cancer, die within a year. He lived almost three, beating the odds one last time. (Grit was his middle name...)

I first met David some thirty years ago - he was the photographer at my step-brother's wedding. He and my sister Maria hit it off as he was taking photos at the reception, and started dating very shortly thereafter. The first few years of their relationship were good, at least from the outside in. They got married, had a baby, settled in a house in the suburbs.

But their relationship couldn't stand the strain of the drinking - his, hers, theirs, whatever the combination. The alcohol-fueled sparks eventually led them to a bitter divorce. He went through some rough years after that; dark years where alcohol came and went and played a large part in damaging his relationships.

But time has a way of healing even deep wounds for some people, and so it worked for David. The last few years before he got sick found him back on his feet. He had his drinking mostly under control. He'd found a good partner, and did his level best to mend his relationships with his kids. He had steady employment, and worked once again to create a good home for himself and his wife, who I know only by reputation. (Juliann and Connor tell me she's good people, and they are rarely wrong in such assessments.)

Because he was not kind to his children during those dark years, I was angry with him for a long time. But when he found his balance and worked to change, and his children forgave him, my anger also dissipated. I cheered him on, even. Not everyone gets a second chance at relationships, and he didn't take his for granted.

I find it both sad and ironic that he'd finally gotten his stuff together and, poof! The margarita truck hit. But, it's also the good news part of the story. He died in a good emotional space, surrounded by people who loved him. He had time after he found his way out of the dark to mend a lot of broken fences. He was able to enjoy a bunch of good days. And that's nuthin' to sneeze at.

 Rest in Peace, David. 

Bonus Days

I bid goodbye to my oncologist this week.

It was an oddly bittersweet appointment. I like Dr. Sheehan; I chose her because, if my cancer came back, I knew she would carry her compassion and empathy along as she walked the path with me, wherever it led. Well, my cancer hasn't come back (yet. I can't even think the previous sentence without adding a qualifier.), and since I'm not going to go back on any hormone therapies, we are done.

She gave me a hug at the end of the appointment. I left feeling like someone had just rudely yanked my security blanket away. It's been comforting to know she had my back. Now, I'm on my own???

I am fully aware of how ridiculous my reaction is. My primary care doc will continue to check the cancer markers with my yearly blood work. My OBGYN will make sure there are no lumps growing on my chest. And, if something does come up, it's not like I can't call her up and get back in the patient rotation.

So, I'm working to get past it.

I have seen a lot of positive changes in my health since stopping the aromatase inhibitors some ten months ago. Just in the last two months, I've had to cut my fingernails TWICE because they were getting too long. That hadn't happened in a decade - one of the side effects of the assorted treatments was to weaken the nails. For years, the minute they grew at all, they would rip and tear. Forget about using them to try to pry up the edge of a sticker - the sticker generally won, which says a lot about the formerly sad state of my nails.

My energy levels are better, my weight is easier to control. No small gifts, these.

Some side effects will probably never go away. I'm pretty sure the balls of my feet will be numb-ish for the rest of my life. 

I still miss my breasts. these plastic replacements might look good, as long as I have clothes on, but I'd take my old saggy originals any day. Those gals had sensitive nerve endings, which makes the current dead zone across my chest hard to live with, even now, almost a decade later.

Back when I was first diagnosed, I frankly never thought I'd be alive even five years later. I've started to think of the days I am living now as bonus days.

I don't have to work, I'm healthy enough. I have a pile of things I want to (re-)learn, to see, to do. It's been almost two years since I retired, and I am still working on the top levels of  the pile, which I consider to be a good thing. I'm still struggling with trying to figure out how my days look, but am ever so grateful I am here for the struggle to exist.

I am starting to plan, however tentatively, for days more than six months out. I am gaining some confidence, though COVID-19 is NOT helping, that those plans might even come to fruition. Who'd'a thunk it?

Good Is.

Holding On, Letting Go

I thought I'd managed to control my yearly bout of sadness over Mom's death quite well this year, thank you very much. The beginning of September approached, and I was just fine.

Then, just before I left California, I felt an ominous bump arise on my lip. I've been getting cold sores since I was a young girl; as an adult, there's a direct correlation between unacknowledged stress and the appearance of one of the yucky lesions. This time, I couldn't figure out why it had chosen to make an appearance. I wasn't stressed; I was having a great visit. Surely, the latent virus had made a mistake.

Then, I looked at the calendar. Probably, it was not a coincidence that the sore arrived on the anniversary of the date of her death. Probably, it was not a coincidence that the 20th anniversary of 9/11 was just a few days later.

Sure enough, as I dug inside for insight, grief began to bubble - my personal sadness amplified by memories of a bright blue sky on a perfect September day; the day I watched in disbelief as I turned on the TV just in time to watch the second plane impact the World Trade Center, my mind struggling to make sense of the images on the screen.

I remember stepping outside. I looked at the perfect sky, free of jet trails. Tears flowed freely as I cried for all those killed in the attacks. My heart skipped a beat or three as I tried to imagine the many ways our world had just abruptly changed course. I was frightened, and rightly so. 

This poem surfaced for me on Instagram this week (W.S. Merwin):

There is no reason 
for me to keep counting
how long it has been 
since you were here
alive one morning

as though I were 
letting out the string of a kite
one day at a time
over my finger 
when there is no string

The words brought me to tears. No string? No string.

The connection I long for, still, was severed 44 years ago. The course of history was changed by angry men with boxcutters 20 years ago. There is no reason to keep counting.

Yet, as evidenced by the cold sore, count my heart does, whether I will it or no.

I've cried a lot this week; my sleep has been unrestful. I have been overwhelmed by the legacy of darkness stemming from the 9/11 attacks, the ways the world has hardened and become less kind in response to the terror.

But. And yet.

I went to a neighborhood picnic on Saturday, and fell in love, as we waited in line for ice cream, with a three year-old pixie. Her bright smile, framed by the sparkly orange and green ninja turtle mask painted on her face, was impossible for me to resist.

I went to a jazz concert in the rose garden in the park on Sunday. The air was warm, the breeze was cool, and carried on its breath the perfume of the flowers all around us. The (properly socially distanced) people were relaxed and enjoying the evening. The live music filled some empty spaces in my soul; spaces recordings, however good they are, rarely reach.

Beauty Is.

Today, I have a renewed resolve to do what I can to be on its side. It's a selfish resolve - I do so like my days better when I see the Beauty that's always there when I remember to look for it.