The Dream

Once upon a time, in a land far away, before my reality, I fell in love with a dream.  It was a beautiful dream,

filled with a rainbow of wonderful emotions that danced across my sky.  The kind of knee weakening, butterfly in the belly dream that you don't want to wake from but would rather snuggle down under the sheets pulling the pillow up over your head to get lost in.

I got so caught up in the dream that it began to transcend my reality. I'd wrapped myself in the feelings of euphoria, bliss, excitement, happiness and love. But alas, the dream was but a dream and soon it

began to change.  The kaleidascope turned, the shards of colored glass tumbled, and the beautiful feelings were no longer quite so beautiful.  

Some sneaky little feelings, "disappointment", "heartache", and "pain" raked their fingers across my emotions. picking at them, leaving them raw and me feeling vulnerable. The feelings did this any time the dream began to lose shape, shimmering, wavering, it's substance tearing along the edges. Each time this happened, the dream became weaker, slowly losing it's hold over me. My conscious mind could no longer accept the fragmentation of the dream. It was time to wake up.

I can't say exactly how long I was lost in the dream but I was there an awfully long time.  I was held there by an innocent childlike wonder at all it's pretentious beauty.  A sense of awe kept me spellbound.  A belief that somehow I could make it all REAL lulled me with false promises. The dream had lured me in with beautiful pictures and lovely words.  I was totally caught up in the illusion.

I was both sad and scared to emerge from the dream, but as with many things, my emotional rubber band had snapped, catapulting me into action, thrusting me back into the real world.  On shaky legs, I stood gazing about, blinking my eyes against the  blinding light of my reality.  Silently, I took stock of who I'd become since my last visit here.

  

I didn't rush through my assessment. I took my time, reviewing how the dream had impacted me, asking myself if it had changed my reality in any way and questioning how I myself might have changed throughout the dream state.  I knew that I had evolved. I'd emerged from the dream with a new understanding.  I'd become stronger, wiser, less encumbered, more empowered.  I'd been and  had all I ever needed BEFORE the dream.  I could be and have so much more now. And so I emerged from the dream (reluctantly) confident, excited, knowing who I am and all I'm capable of doing. I have a new purpose. 

Funny thing about dreams.  They have no substance.  They're only an illusion of our altered reality.  Whereas reality...reality has meat.  It has substance.  It's the clay we mold to define our existence and we define it the way WE choose it to be.

Letting go of the rope

I repress alot of emotions.  Emotions that lay boiling just beneath the surface sometimes waiting to explode.

Nearly 5 years ago I was a healthy, vibrant, physical, energetic and successful woman.  A woman who was sure of herself, who knew what she wanted and could obtain anything she set out to acquire.  A woman without doubts, without fears, without limitations.

At that point in time, I'd made some major changes in my life and was excited about starting over again, about still being young and healthy enough to do so.  In the blink of an eye, all that changed.
 

Nearly 5 years ago a little girl lost her life and I was left shaking my fist at the sky screaming "Why? Why?" 

Though the accident was no fault of my own, the guilt I lived with (that she died and I didn't) wounded the very soul of me.  Before, my mind was a peaceful place.  Suddenly it became tormented with nightmares.  I'd wake up screaming in the middle of the night,  reduced to a mass of helpless tears.

I'd look at my body, a body then unrecognizable to me, and I'd shudder.  And then...then  I'd remember the little girls body when rescue teams pulled her from the wreckage.  Over and over my mind  replayed the sight of paramedics gently straightening her twisted little arms and  legs, smoothing the hair back from her brow.

I'd see the tears in a rescue workers eyes as my subconscious mind registered the mechanical whine of the jaws of life working to free her mother.  I'd see the little girl's eyes slitted open but unseeing.  I knew she was gone as soon as I saw her but at the time was too numb with shock to cry... my mind recoiling from the reality of death.  That was the one and only time I would ever see her but I will never forget her.

You'd think I would have been grateful that my life was spared. Back then I wasn't able to find that place of gratitude.  I felt sorrow for a young mother who had lost her daughter and would spend the rest of her days without her.  My heart cried for that mother, knowing she would never see her little girl grow up, finish school, marry, have a family of her own.  Of holidays missed, her first kiss.

I grieved too, for the teenage boy who had just graduated high school the night before and had a promising life stretched out before him.  His life would be forever changed by one tragic moment in time. By one error in judgement. 

Such thoughts defeated me. 

Back then I raged over the fact that I'd become as helpless as a baby where before I'd never needed anybody to do anything for me. I couldn't crawl, walk or wheel myself around.  I was angry  that I couldn't turn back time and undo it all somehow.  Perhaps change my schedule, drive a different route... I was filled with "what ifs".  What if I hadn't gone to the store first thing that morning.  What if I had left a little later.  What if I'd been in the other lane.  What if....

I hated the "thing" that I'd become, because it wasn't the person I was.  And I was scared. More scared than I had ever been in my life. Scared that I might not get any better. Scared I'd be trapped in a body I no longer recognized as my own. Scared that the horror of that morning would always arise at night to fill my dreams. I was trapped in my own personal hell.

I despised the weakenesses that kept me from being able to care for myself, do my own laundry, feed my pets, clean my house, wash my clothes, run, jump and laugh. I hated the body that seemed to have betrayed me.  I detested the fact that I could no longer find peace in prayer when prayer had always been my strength. I was angry at God. 

But that was all nearly  five years ago.  To be continued....

That old, restless feeling

I wrap myself in a tshirt worn by him, his fragrance tickling my senses as I curl up on the bed.  This shirt that's cut for a 6'7' body is too large for me and the fabric folds itself between my legs. I roll over, stretching a hand across the bed, feeling cold where the warmth of his body should be.

Night time is the hardest. Sometimes I wonder if he's ever coming home though  I know he is. It's just that he's been gone so very, very long.  I scrunch a pillow up under my head and lay staring at the ceiling, wishing the night away.

I can hear the wind rattling the outside of the house and unseen objects are blown up against the structure.  I rarely question living this far from town but then the solidarity creeps up and the emptiness I feel makes me restless.  I try to outrun the night but I can't hide from it's inky chill.

I toss and turn watching shadows dance across the wall, a beam of light reflected from somewhere outside.  The t.v. screen flashes a DishTV message at me but I ignore it. 

I press his shirt against my nose, close my eyes and breathe deeply.  It's the nearest thing I have to his touch and I revel in it...for the moment. I can almost hear the soft thudding of his heart, his slow, steady breathing, feel the heat from his flesh.  I swim in a sea of warm memories. 

Soon.  Soon he will be home.

Somebody should have told me...

I headed out the door this morning, a spring in my step, excited about hitting some thrift stores and finding some interesting items. My morning caffeine fix rushed through my brain and I fairly buzzed about.

I visited one store after another.  At each checkout I asked the same question.  "Do you have any discounts or specials today?"

The shocker came when I visited the last store and unwittingly asked the same question.  The cashier asked if I was a "Senior".  I laughed, shaking my head no.  Out of curiosity I questioned at what age they considered a person to be a senior.  When  asked if I was 50 I felt the blood flush through my face, searing my scalp. 

Why yes.  Yes!  I had  just turned 50.  When the cashier stated I qualified for the "Senior Discount" something inside me snapped and I wanted to yell "You take that back!  Take. It. Back.  NOW!  I'm not one of those...I'm not a senior...I'm not...I'm not... (dissolving in tears).

A quick mental picture of myself flying over the counter feet first planting one stiletto heel right between the cashiers eyes snuffed itself out before I could act.

I maintained my composure, graciously accepted my discount and scrambled to make a hasty exit, tucking my dignity between my legs.  After all, I did ask for it.  (How many times did mother warn you, be careful what you ask for?)

I sat inside my truck.  Stunned.  Surprised. In some sense even horrified. Many things ran through my mind.  I am now considered a "Senior".  I turned the key in the ignition and headed home, still in a bit of a daze.  I mean 50.  To me it was just another birthday.  No big thing.  But 50?  When the hell did this happen?

I dragged myself through the front door, shrugged my clothes off and pulled on my fluffiest bath robe. My feet found comfort in a pair of fuzzy old house slippers.

Shuffling to the bathroom I wet my hair and put it up in big metal rollers (the kind with the spiky plastic thingies in the middle-heavens only knows where those came from!), washed off my makeup and put on my anti-wrinkle cream while contemplating where I would find a donut to sit my poor old tush on.  I squeezed in a couple of kegels for good measure.

A cup of weak, watered down tea sat cooling beside me taking the place of my usual double espresso while images of "Maxine" danced in my mind.

In front of the mirror, I opened my robe and much to my surprise I didn't see a "Senior" standing there.  My breasts are still perky, my butt cheeks aren't sagging, my belly still looks pretty darned good.  I continued to stare in confusion.  My mental image of "Senior" just wasn't fitting the image reflected back at me.

I checked my teeth.  Thankfully I won't need polygrip, polident or any other denture grip because I'm blessed to still have all my own natural teeth.  I looked at my eyes.  Yes, there are a few "character" lines (I refuse to call them "crows feet") around the outer corners but my eyes don't droop and I don't have bags under them.

My mouth looks fine.  A couple of smile creases at the corner but nothing major. Definitely not any "road maps" crisscrossing my face.  Thank heavens.

With a final assessment of myself in the mirror I had to smile.  All in all, I look pretty danged "hot" and, if I'm going to be a "Senior" at least, by George, I'm a sexy Senior ;-)

                                                           

 

Last days of Summer

I lay in the warm sun-kissed grass with the wind gently stirring, the sun glaring off my lashes.  I shield my eyes with one hand as I watch the clouds dance across the sky.  Soft puffs of cotton candy.  If I stick my tongue out, surely I can taste them.

Laying here, I have one ear turned to the sound of rustling leaves.  A sure sign the deer are traveling through the pasture and a clear indicator  the season is changing.  Fall is right around the corner.  The air is more languid, life has slowed down to a slumberous crawl.  A fly buzzes lazily nearby and dogs bark in the distance.

There's not much definition to the clouds today.  No fluffy bears or puffy dragons. A jet shoots by overhead leaving white streaks in its wake.

I roll over on my belly, propping my chin in my hands.  I'd hoped to recapture a childhood memory of calling out cloud shapes.  Oh look!  There's a monster!  Over there!  It's a clown!  A boat! A kite!  Whatever tickled my fanciful imagination, if I looked hard enough, it would be there.

I remember wonderful summer days doing this very same thing with my sons when they were little.  Each of us excitedly vying to be the next to find a really cool cloud.  Laying here makes me drowsy and I let my mind float back in time.  I drift away...slowly....with a small smile curving my lips.

Out of the darkness there came a light

During the darkness, before the doctors and God recreated me, I could find no relief from the torture of my traitorous body.  Unable to walk, to wheel, to move I sank into a dark depression trying to will myself to die and failing miserably.  I was denied what I craved most.  An eternal end to the mental and physical suffering.

Thrust against my will into the world of the living, surviving, the recovering, I grew angry.  Angry with God, angry with circumstances, angry with myself.  That anger got me nowhere.  Eventually I entered a state of resignation.  I resigned myself to fighting my way back.  Apparently God wasn't done baking me yet. 

Day by day I forced myself to get up, get moving.  It was hard to do trapped in a body I didn't recognize.  My physical self had betrayed me.  It was no longer ME.  Not the me I'd known all my life.  The me that was physically fit, active 24/7, energetic...this new physical self had lost tone.  The muscles had collapsed on impact.  The bones no longer worked as they used to work.  I cried over the loss.

Unable to find relief from pain I began to experiment.  Doctors remedies weren't doing the job.  In my incapacitated state I had plenty of time to lay around and research.  Experimenting was more challenging, but it drove me, carrying through those dark days.  And then, at the edge of the darkness I saw a light.

The light came in form of a young boy.  A burn victim.  He became a candle, lighting my way, drawing me forward.  His pain became my own.  I wanted to absorb his pain, to help him find relief.  And in some small respect I did.

By the time I encountered "Christopher" I'd already experimented for quite some time and had begun marketing my own bath and body product line.  Everything I created was based on purely natural ingredients.  These creations I had used on myself and were the very things that had brought me relief.  They were my own natural therapy.  Christopher was my opportunity to share with others.

I packaged up some bath items that I thought would help soothe him and shipped them off.  Thus formed an ongoing relationship that has helped me on my own journey back.  It's truly amazing that such a huge gift could come in the form of such a small person.

I thank God for sending me Christopher.  Little Christopher became the candle that chased away the shadows cast in my darkest hours.  A beacon on storm ravaged shores...Thank you Christopher.

(Christopher's mom, Lynn, is an ebay seller, Blue Diamond Products.  It was on ebay that we first encountered one another and I am forever blessed in having met her and Christopher, albeit, it was all online.  They may never know the huge impact they have had on my life....)

Another man done gone!

I flew into the dental office like Marie Laveau, hair streaming wildly behind me, eyes flashing sparks of pain, long nailed fingers pressed harshly against my mouth.

I'm sure the dentist heard screams of "Another man done gone" as he looked at my wild appearance. I was in and out in record time! A simple replacement filling turned into a complicated extraction when said dentist shattered the tooth.

I lay writhing in the dental chair, my back arching, as two dentists pried at my tooth using my face for leverage.  My nose was skewed toward one eyebrow, my lips mashed painfully against my teeth. A passage from the song Marie Laveau flashed through my mind:

"Then Marie started mumblin', her fangs started gnashin'

Her body started tremblin', and her eyes started flashin'"

Amidst the dentists curses and mumbling I wondered if they were feeling fear...Mentally I was zapping them into hellfire.  Grrreeee!  ANOTHER MAN DONE GONE!

Now, a couple of Lortab later I sit here typing, one eye swelled shut and the entire right side of my face marching in time to native drums.  Lortab inspires inertia and my fingers drag along the keyboard.

 

I'm not Erma Bombeck

I'm not Erma Bombeck and I know as you read this, you're sitting  in stunned disbelief.  It's true though.  Sure, we have many qualities in common.  Our quirky sense of humor, our flair for writing, our disastrous and sometimes not so disastrous encounters with day to day life.  We even sport a similar hairstyle and hair color!

                                                                         

                                                                            Erma Bombeck Pictures

From childhood I would pour over her stories, each new story feeding my hunger for her to write yet more.  To me, her writing was like mind candy and I couldn't get enough. Her written escapades left me doubled over with laughter.

Whereas she found fortune in her writing, I'm yet waiting to be discovered.  Come discover me now.  As i find my personal muse again you won't be disappointed.

Chocolate milk and toast

One of my favorite breakfasts is sitting down to a frosted glass of chocolate milk and a couple of crispy slices of toast.  It's not even that I really like chocolate milk, it's the memories the chocolate milk and toast bring back.

Chocolate milk and toast take me on a journey way back in time.  To a time of self discovery. A time I was a teenager struggling to find my identity, learning how to love life, live life and how to thrive.  It was a time I was closest to my oldest sister who is no longer with us.  A simpler time.

It was a time of tanning in the back yard, using the garden hose to cool off and  moisten our bodies.  Of flipping over ever 15 minutes so we could "bake" evenly, front and back.  Of laughter and nonsense.  Of squishing our bellies together with our hands and cracking up over how it made our bellies look like a baby's butt.  There's nothing quite like a sun kissed body!

It was summer days full of Knots Landing, Dallas (we loved to hate J.R.!) and the Eagles.  Cruising around in a '64 pea green cougar, rocking out to Heart,  The Eurythmics, and Kiss.  Singing at the top of our lungs (usually off key) with the windows down, the sun streaming in and our hair blowing itself into long tangled knots. Later, during more mellow moments, digging on Lou Rawls.

Ahhh, the memories.  I say my sister is no longer with us, but that's not entirely true.  She lives on in my memories and the special moments that we shared.  She's the sound of music playing on an old radio in the front seat of a '64 cougar...she's the soft laugh that ends in a hiccup and a sigh when I hear something funny.  C'mon sister, let's go for a ride...

Feeling a little melancholy today...

I am a thrift store junkie and a dime store diva

I'm totally addicted to thrift stores and bargain stores.  I've found everything from Rolex watches to Egyptian gold rummaging through these little digs.  Today I ventured out to do a little rummaging, looking for wall hangings in a Tuscany style.

I have an eye for putting things together, for blending colors and design.  In minutes, I can have a cart filled with an unusual assortment of items that individually look unimpressive, but as a whole become something interesting and colorful.

Most often I don't really know what it is I have in mind when I set out, only a vague idea of what I want to accomplish.

Each of these items were found at different thrift stores, none of them coming from the same store and yet, each one with subtle variations of the same color schemes. 

                                                                                                 

 Two small wall hangings

I particularly LOVE this clay vase!  A bit on the primitive side but it appeals to me.  Grouped together, the colors in these items flow smoothly. 

I can't wait to get them all put up, but for now, it's time to relax, put my feet up and contemplate my next little adventure.

I only wish my friend Lindsay could have taken the photos for me.  Speaking of which, if you have a love for fine photography, check him out here  Lindsay Donald

To tweet or not to tweet?

I've just set up a Twitter account but I can't seem to make sense of what's going on there.  Everybody's following somebody (somewhere) and it all seems to go in absolutely no particular direction.

Why is it that the first person to "follow" me lead straight to an XXX site?

How do you follow a conversation on there?  I haven't been able to make any sense of the "chatter" yet.  I can't even seem to find where all these conversations originate.  Is it just me, or is there some kind of method to this madness?

High Speed Technology....NOT

If it weren't for my phone card I wouldn't have internet access at present.  Even as I should be thrilled I can get online, some mornings I feel like this:

                       



Pingomatic Directory

Claim to fame or walk of shame?

Today I've been busy promoting my blog. I don't know how many of you are familiar with all the means of getting pinged, zinged or badabinged out there but I'm utilizing those avenues that I'm familiar with.  This post is just a confirmation that I own this blog.  You may now tune back to your regularly scheduled programming.  Thank you.

FGFUGDQ2RJCG

Blogging with abandon

I've been a blogger for many, many years.  I can recall a time when I blogged with total abandon, writing about anything and everything and enjoying a loyal following of other fellow bloggers. 

Those were the days.  A bunch of nonsensical fun.  Each blogger writing in a style unique to them.  The variety was like my own personal smorgasboard where I could feast my eyes on whatever written diet of words I desired on any given day.  Or I could gorge myself on ALL the varieties at once.  Manna from heaven!

Lately it seems I've lost my muse.  So I search.  I read.  I visit other bloggers seeking inspiration.  While I haven't quite found where my muse is hiding, I have found some fascinating individuals who rekindle my love for writing and stir the smoldering embers of writing with abandon.  Take Annah for example, at When Red Means Go.

She's a little risque, totally off the wall, but I completely get her sense of humor!  She's blogging her way to "famosity" and makes no bones about it. I do, however, think the whole "eating kittens" part is a bit of a sham, but shhhh, we won't mention that!  I laugh at the thought even as I hide my "kittens" from her keen eye.  (Forgive me Annah, I tried to email you for permission but this crazy system wouldn't allow me...grrr)

And then there's Geri, a military wife and mom to two kids.  Her life is never dull as she dances dangerously with her cats, takes on the principal and coaches like a bulldog and waits anxiously for her husband to be deployed.  There's never a dull moment around her house!  You can visit Geri at http://justmedefyinggravity.blogspot.com/ .  You won't be disappointed. 

I'd like to find my sense of "abandon" again.  As I tumble in and out of one blog after another I feel I should bring a gymnasts mat.  Sometimes I laugh so hard I fall to the floor.  Other times a post is so outrageous it makes me swoon.  Never, however, am I ever bored!

For other fantastic blogs check my list of blogs I follow. 

Frog man

I just watched my husband do the naked, drunk, frog man walk from our R.V. down to the house that we're preparing to move in to. Mind you, he is not a navy seal or anything military related. The only things he had on were his flip flops and a cocky smile. No pun intended.

      

As he high stepped over the thigh high weeds and grass I thought I'd snap some pictures but I saw how white his hiney is and I don't think the flash on my camera works too well against that kind of white...

Why is it when you take a man out of the city and drop him in the country he's suddenly Rambo gone commando? A little rumble in the jungle? His primitive side, (along with his back side) begin to show.  Just him and his "boys" enjoying the cool night air.

Zeus the goose

My savannah cat, Zeus, loves the water. It's not uncommon to hear shrieks coming from the bathroom whenever some unsuspecting soul steps into the shower or slinks into a warm bath. Even though I give fair warning, some people just don't listen and if Zeus is allowed in the bathroom he believes it's his right to join you in the tub.

We'd brought Zeus up to spend a week with us in the R.V. at Shawnee lake. I wasn't sure if he would be as excited with such a large body of water, but I put him on his leash and harness and off we went.

The initial introduction to this foreign body of wetness was met with hissing, scratching, flailing legs and horrible howls.  After a quick dunking, Zeus settled right in and was curiously swimming with me and the little one.


Occasionally he would paddle out and give one of us a little loving head butt then realize his paws were no longer touching bottom and swim back in to safer places.

After a short while of swimming, skipping after minnows and ferociously attacking water weeds until he was certain he'd killed them, I decided he'd had enough for his first time out and took him to shore.

I dried him off with a towel and he sunned himself for a bit. Drowsy, Zeus was ready for a nice little nap. I watched him as he slept, marvelling at how much he resembles the wild cats. His head is more cougar shaped now and his eyes have a definite exotic slant.

It's crazy how much I love this cat, but I do and he's one of the greatest gifts I've ever received.  If he ever dies I think I'll have his head and tail stuffed and turn him into a purse.

Slip sliding away

When my two sons were small we saw something on t.v. that got us really excited. It was the hottest part of summer and we were looking for ways to cool off when we saw a commercial for the Slip N Slide.

Looking back, I question my sanity as a parent. Initial impressions said this device would be great fun but I really didn't think beyond what my eyes had seen on that blinking t.v. screen.

Off we went to purchase this amazing instrument of slippery summer fun. Joyfully we toted it home. Following the manufacturers simple instructions, we were able to create our own personal nirvana.

Triumphantly, we stood back to admire our handiwork. A long, yellow snake of plastic stretched out flatly before us, water shooting gentle streams inviting us to have some fun  !

Wheeee~ Look at me!

                                        

Just look at that face in the photo!  How could any mother not be excited?  For hours we ran and jumped, our bodies arcing through the air and landing with a resounding "thwack" on the wet plastic.  One belly flop after another as we slid the length of that slippery yellow snake. We wiggled and we squiggled and we laughed out loud! 

How could I know that this harmless seeming device was, in reality, a device of torture? 

As I tucked the boys in bed that night I prided myself on being a good parent.  We'd had a wonderful day of fun, sun and laughter.  The following morning told it's own tale as I rolled out of bed, moaning and groaning and clutching my body.  Oh the deception! I couldn't sit up for days. 

Who in their right mind could ever think that body slamming yourself onto solid ground for endless hours with only a thin sheet of plastic between you and the dirt could be a good thing?  For me the end results were similar to having somebody take a wooden plank and hit me in my  belly with it .  Over and over again.

He's got the look!

Three days ago, my FABULOUS husband walked through the door sporting a short haircut and a cocky grin....my baby's come home.  Finally.

Symbollic hair

I'm sitting here at a lake in central Oklahoma watching the clouds roll by and the wind whip the trees. It's hard to believe just 4 years ago this month I met my husband. And fell wildly in love.

I've debated the wisdom in writing this post but realized anybody that knows me and my husband already know that we had a little hiccup in our matrimonial menu.

This morning started out wonderfully, both of us in a fantastic mood, laughing, smiling and joking around. My husband grabbed a quick shower and for me the mood changed immediately. It changed because of the hair.

Tto me his hair has become a symbol. It's symbollic of the man who could not just walk away from me, our marriage and everything we'd ever meant to each other, but run. As far and fast as he could. A man who could callously tear my heart in pieces and continue to run. A man I found I didn't know. A man with long hair.

His hair wasn't long when we met. He kept it short and well groomed. When he left, he began growing his hair out. To me it is a sign of his rebellion. A symbol. A reminder that he left, turning my world inside out with his leaving. A sign that he could easily do so again.

It's not that I think his hair looks bad long because it doesn't. He's beautiful to me either way. And though it's just hair and I really should let go of these feelings I find it hard to move beyond them. It's as if, in keeping the long hair, he's withholding making that final commitment to be fully back in this relationship. A foot out the door per se.

As I watch him flip his wet hair back from his face, smooth his hands over it and plaster it down with Bed Head styling gel, then spray it with more Bed Head product, I feel something inside me disconnect.

So I wait. And watch. And hope that one day he will walk through the door, his short hair neatly combed and the incredible smile he always wore creasing his face once again.

Life is a Highway

I've heard the expression Life is a Highway and I tend to disagree. It's more like a back country road filled with bumps, potholes and unexpected twists and turns. Much like driving at night with your headlights off and not being able to see what's directly ahead of you. So much more exciting than the highway where everything is clearly marked off in advance and you can see your destination just ahead.

Life is not for the timid. It is to be driven and explored and held in awe under all conditions.