Tribute to Gram

     

     Growing up, I saw my grandparents frequently. They were not abstractions, but a tangible part of my life. My first thirty-three Christmas Eves were spent in the warmth of the home my grandfather built in Trevose, PA. The Christmas tree with handmade ornaments, the stockings with the names of the five grandchildren dangling in front of the fireplace and piles of gifts tucked away in a back bedroom dubbed “the middle room” made the atmosphere festive.  The chatter of lively discussions, plentiful meals with desserts (hopefully) made by my aunt Kathy, the smell of coffee in the kitchen and sight of children running around and cats scampering by—this is the stuff that visits were made of. Gram sat in her spot on the couch beside the table and lamp. From there, she held court, laughing, joking and teasing. Quick-witted and at times, self-deprecating, no joke was lost on her. Her presence was strong, her beauty never fading with the years. The sparkle in her eye remained. As my parents, my brother and I were leaving each time, she would hold my hand as I hugged her goodbye and would ask, “Will you ring the phone?”

    “Yes,” I replied, vowing to let her know that we had gotten home safely by dialing her number upon our arrival in Pottstown. I’d let the phone ring once and hang up. That was the signal. No one had cell phones yet.

    “You promise?” She reiterated, looking me in the eye and lightly squeezing my hand.

    “Yes, I’ll let you know.”

     “Okay, get home safe.” She smiled, letting go. 

*

    My brother, grandmother and I all were born in May. Gram jokingly would remind us that she had a May birthday before any of us and therefore, hers was the most important. She might not have been joking. She had a knack for remembering birthdays. Once, she inquired if I knew whose birthday it was on that particular day. I did a quick mental scan of the family, but could think of no one who would be celebrating. “Oh, it was . . .” She muttered the name of someone I had never heard of. 

     “He sat behind your aunt in elementary school,” she clarified, naming a random person even my aunt didn’t remember. 

      It might have been a birthday card that inspired Gram to start writing to me. I can’t remember—in fact, I can’t remember a time when she and I didn’t write to each other. She was my first pen pal. Her letters played a role in igniting a passion for writing that has been a constant, guiding force throughout my life. When I was homebound with Lyme disease for twelve years during my teens and young adulthood, her letters brought great joy and laughter to an otherwise dismal time.

     During the later years of her life, I wrote to her every one to two weeks. Four days before she died, I Googled “how to draw a turkey.” Thanksgiving was nearing. I sent her a quick message with my mediocre turkey sketch. The caption read, “Meow.” Even at 94, she would get the joke. She never stopped getting the joke—or writing. The day after she died, my aunt Pat told me that she found one more letter, addressed and stamped to me—presumably, the last letter Gram wrote.  The person who wrote me my first letter composed her last letter to me. Life comes full circle.

*

     When Gram was a child growing up on Wister Street in the Germantown section of Philadelphia, she had a wealthy neighbor. Gram was the child of a baker and a homemaker who each had been the children of immigrants. When Gram was young, the wealthy lady who had no children took a shine to her. On occasion, she invited her to come with her to a horse farm in the country for the afternoon. Gram recounted tales of fancy lunches and playing on the grounds. She loved running around, loved the open space and freedom. 

     Years later, the farm was sold and became George Washington Memorial Park Cemetary in Plymouth Meeting. This is where, beside her husband of 67 years and with her parents and sister and daughter, she will be laid to rest. Though we miss her terribly already, Catherine May Ernst Jonik, known to me as simply and exquisitely Gram, is finally free, finally safe, finally home.  

Listening to The Music in Me: How Not to Fall Back

In several conversations during the past week or so, I have been noticing a striking pattern manifesting in the lives of different people at the moment: the battle between the past, present and future. At times, the past can revisit like a gentle breeze, offering whispers of remembrance, but it can also take the shape of a rabid dog whose jaw locks firmly around one’s leg, fiercely attempting to pull one back. The intent is not necessarily to injure, but to hold on, to take away precious life energy from the present to feed itself on what it no longer possesses: you.

One day last week, I woke up suddenly with a thought of certainty that I *had* to give away or sell the keyboard I had stored in my closet at my parents’ house. I hadn’t thought about the keyboard in years. It was tucked away behind some other items and wasn’t particularly in my scope of vision even accidentally. But, my dream was clear: let go. But, I countered in my head, that keyboard meant a lot to me once. I saved up my own money as a teenager for it. I wrote songs on it. I dreamed of being a musician with it. I would sit in the dark on early mornings before anyone knew I was up and with the dawn cracking through the curtains, play songs that said things out loud to only my ears—things that could not take shape in words. It had served its purpose and yet, I had held on to it, hiding it away in case I would need it or want it again. A lot of us do that with things, people and old ideas or beliefs about ourselves or the world. “Let’s just keep that for a rainy day…” But instead of it being an umbrella to protect from some future experience one may not want or a tool to drive out the clouds of loneliness, apathy or boredom, it becomes a metaphorical way of filtering the sun all the time. And, it is exactly that kind of self-imposed distillation of light that prevents one from coming into fullness.

When talking to a friend yesterday, I had a revelation. Upon hearing my tale of the keyboard, she noted something similar, having recently given away her prized art desk to a young artist who is the daughter of someone she knows. As a teenager, my friend wanted to be an artist. Though we didn’t know each other then, I wanted to be a musician, but life had other plans for both of us. It occurred to me that my single desire to pursue music as a child initiated a series of incredible, direct and indirect synchronicities that lead me to living in Brooklyn twenty years later doing something completely different—to a place where I could find the happiness and connection that was what I truly wanted all along anyway. It wasn’t that I was supposed to be a musician—it was that having that dream got me closer to where I could come into my fullness with all of the parts of myself (some of which I am still discovering). The music in me has never stopped, but relentlessly has called to manifest through different gifts than I had the capacity to understand as a child.  All talents are simply the paths upon which we are called home to ourselves.

Since this event, I have been going through a few other things from my childhood that I kept stored away at my parents’ that I now realize I have no use for—and never will. Trying to hold on to a past in any capacity—besides being an exercise in futility—is a way of abandoning all of the work one has done to be who one has become. In my experience, it zaps life energy on multiple levels—emotionally and physically. But, instead of admonishing that rabid dog or begging it to let go of me, I’m thanking it for the days it was my pet and simply sending it on its way back to where it belongs. It is out for blood, but it can only stay as long as one allows. I’m resisting the pull to return to being someone I am not, to living a thousand half desires, to consenting to spending any moments of my days with people who want to direct my path for a benefit that is not my own. (Sometimes, those rabid dogs travel in packs.) It’s not that the past was horrible to me—parts of my past were amazing and wonderful—but it is merely that I believe with all of my "believingness" that the present and future are where the gifts unknown are.  I don’t cling to certainty as much as I once did.  I’m willing to close my eyes and hold on to the string of the balloons that are lifting me towards the horizon where dreams and love and joy and freedom originate to begin with. Whether it is about letting go of possessions or the past itself, the journey I’m witnessing right now in my life and in that of others around me is ultimately one of opportunity and of being true to the best of one’s self.

What Falling Leaves

There is a subtle shift that occurs every year as we near the end of August and return to the time of harvest, of falling acorns and cooler temperatures. Much in the way that the thought of summer sent a force of elation through my veins as a child, Autumn now holds the same promise for me. I have come to understand transitions all too well and what it feels like to live in a space between the known and the unknown. I struggle to find contentment in the mysteries, especially when they impact my daily life and how I move through the world, but I feel no desire to blame the mysteries themselves for the shape of my life. In fact, what I do not know has come to hone my life as much as the known has.

Two long years ago, my life changed dramatically in the span of thirty minutes. Before, I was generally happy with my life, moving forward with my education and career, though at times overwhelmed with an over-active social life and a greater than usual helping of desire to do everything I could possibly fit into twenty four hours. Having more than one job, putting myself through school, soaking up all the art, music and culture I could find in NYC, traveling the world and ultimately, pushing my body to comply seemed normal to me. The thought of not finding a way to do something I wanted to do (even when that something was everything all at once)-- no matter how impossible or how long it took—was alien to me. It simply would not have occurred to me. Being basically a type-A/over-achiever was not just something I reveled in, it was deeply imprinted in my bloodline. I realized that there were other ways to live a life, but I didn’t realize there was another way for me to live my life.  In hindsight, I can entertain the possibility that it would have to take something drastic happening to slow me down. Indeed, there were hints. In Brooklyn, I live on a street that also has a firehouse. Whenever I was dashing off somewhere, the firemen who stood outside would say hello as I whizzed by. One time, one of them yelled after me, “Hey, slow down!” The irony that first responders were telling me to slow down was lost on me. And, so instead of seeing the yellow lights—if there were any, the signal before me unexpectedly changed to red.

I am tempted to say that I would have made other choices that fateful day—I would not have gone to CA, I would not have spent the day in the horrible desert, I would not have walked through the cactus garden, I would not have gone to that restaurant, I would not have ordered what I ordered, I would not have driven passed the first hospital I saw believing I would be fine, I would not have not known I was having a severe allergic reaction, I would not have accepted the medications that were used to save my life even though they played a role in my body fundamentally changing, I would not, I would not, I would not… Had any of those events been different, my entire life might be different right now. But, it is not and it is pointless to play the “if only. . .” game.  It is easy to assume that my life would be a whole lot better and easier and everything-er, had I not developed a pretty complex food allergy problem and autonomic nervous system issue that has caused over 20 health care practitioners to utter some version of “I have never met anyone like you.” It was amusing when I used to hear sentiments like that from friends and boyfriends for other reasons (I just assumed that maybe they didn’t get out too much) and it was gratifying when I’ve heard professors say that (“What? No other student has ever contextualized Sherlock Holmes and Immanuel Kant in the same paper? Well, okay, but that was kind an obvious way to go… “) and at times, it was embarrassing when bosses would say that (“How can you possibly teach math so easily when you still can’t figure out how to load paper into the copier correctly?” “Uh, I am better at abstractions than practicalities?” True story.) But, it is a whole other ballgame when people who are supposed to know how to help you with your health are at a loss. And, it might be easy to lapse into being depressed about such a thing, but I never seem to take the easy way in anything and don’t consider that an option—especially, if it’s not going to yield the kind of life I value.

Instead, I again have recreated my life. My scope of the world is smaller than it was two years ago, but my focus is far sharper. I move more slowly, but the trade-off is that I see a lot more along the way and let others see it with me. Facing down life and death having a tussle about you in the same moment is a potent antidote to being afraid of any beautiful or not-so-beautiful parts of yourself.  I don’t wonder about my purpose, I don’t have many lingering doubts about my worthiness or my ability to bring love and beauty and joy and passion into the world through me, though remember with compassion what it was like when I did wonder. What I have gained for all I have lost has been clarity, hope, and an awareness of grace—we’re all in the midst of the unknown in some capacity or other.  It is a bit like waking up in the middle of the night disoriented and not knowing where the lamp is—but sensing that there is a sliver of streetlight chasing its way through the curtains at the foot of your bed and instead deciding to turn your gaze towards that.

This not to suggest that I don’t feel levels of discontent given my present circumstance or that I do endeavor with all of the resources afforded me to change it, but it is to state clearly that I have discovered something powerful and potent about the human experience—it is possible to hold within more than one conflicting thought or emotion and to choose which one one wishes to focus upon, even if more than one is present. There are moments when I catch myself saying or thinking, “I want my life back,” but I know deep down there is no going back—only going on and eventually, maybe coming full circle. Like the seasons transition from Spring into Summer or Summer into Autumn, I am the same and yet have been changed by what has come just before. There is only going forward from this point, from this season, from this week, from this day, from this hour, from this moment. My task then becomes not to fight the seasons, but to move through them with as much honesty, gratitude, love, humor and passion as I can—knowing that this time in my life, too, will change.

Provenance of Heart

Cloaked in the cover of night, the amber street light illuminated my path as I dashed home through the darkness mere hours before the dawn would break. Fearless and fast, my steps were filled with the kind of lightness that only joy could bring. On any given day, I would wear several different masks that shaped the hours of my day by allowing the different sides of me to emerge more authentically than ever before. Mornings would find me teaching English and Math to adults. The afternoons were filled with writing until it was time for yoga. And, the evenings and late nights would find me with both my camera and my heart in my hands at some of NYC's lower east side's best music venues surrounded by two of the things that have made life worth living: music and friends. After a lifetime of hardcore searching, I had found them: my people. The creative minds, the underdogs, the artists, the people who fought relentlessly not merely to walk down a path, but to create one, those who created not because they just wanted to, but because they were wholeheartedly driven to.

The spiritual nourishment I receive from being around artistic creations of all kinds extends beyond what words can convey, but I know that I am not alone. The subtle peace found circulating in the air in a museum or gallery, the euphoric energy of a live concert or the intellectual stimulation of seeing a play all offers a kind of energetic exchange. We are recharged not only by the experience that pleases our senses, but by the knowledge that direct channels to the most authentic parts of us as human beings exist. And, if we choose to be open to it, standing before a child's latest messy fingerpainted piece of tattered construction paper is no less magical than gazing at the Mona Lisa.  Though vastly different, both come from similar places within the human heart-- the need to create and express are seeds that ripen and bloom differently for all of us depending on our innate talents, our destinies, our choices and on how we have been socialized.

There is a term used in the art world to explain the place of origin for a work of art: provenance. I believe that if we chase the trail of breadcrumbs back-- or forward-- far enough, the provenance for the works of art that we are leads back to a singular place. We come from a source that is endlessly abundant in all we can imagine and galaxies beyond that. Science has made many wonderful advances, but it is still playing catch up in many ways and a part of life is beautiful because it is mysterious, not despite it. Perhaps, though, understanding the source of art is the same as appreciating that art comes through us from a greater source.

After my life dramatically and instantly changed (yet again...) a year and a half ago and much of the relative normalcy that I had established for myself had disappeared, what remained without question was the clarity and life-sustaining desire to share my art and words with the world. It took leaving my life-- almost completely and not metaphorically-- for me to come into myself and to embrace my path as an artist fully. I  am fairly certain that I did not choose this path as an artist for myself initially-- it was one that I was born into this life with, but I absolutely choose it now. And, that kind of surrender is a little like the bliss of catching the gaze of a stranger across the room and discovering that he/she is your beloved.  Every time I am writing or capturing an image with my camera, I feel life pulsing through me and gliding out into the world, continuing on its way to reach wherever it is meant to travel. As artists-- and as human beings-- we don't get to hold on to the love that seeks to shine through us, but merely to honor its presence for as long as that ultimate guest is willing to stay. And, in spite of continuing, rather enormous challenges that have moved into my life, I view my work each day as merely to be the best hostess to the powers of creation that I can be. And, to dance with the force that is the provenance of both the art and heart of us all.

Why You Should Support Independent Artists

Now that the holiday season is in full swing, we all are being bombarded with one word: "Sale!" It began with the kick-off on Black Friday with plentiful deals trying to convince people-- sometimes, strangely successfully-- that they need to get up at 3AM, haul themselves down to the local mall or store and camp outside in the cold in order to buy things that they probably don't need anyway (wants and needs are very different things). To be clear, I am not against capitalism or even commercialism, but I do believe that as a society we would be far better off  if we questioned our purchases more regularly. Do I need this? Do I truly want this? Can I afford this? Will I want this in a month from now? A year from now? Does this align with my values from an enviromental and human rights standpoint (a lot of things sold in the US are made in countries with questionable positions on these topics)? Does this item add beauty and joy to my home and my life?

With these thoughts in mind, while you are looking for that special gift for that hard-to-buy-for special someone in your life, I invite you to choose somemthing different this year: support local and independent artists.  Everything from handmade jewelry to music by indie musicians (of all genres) to prints of photography can be found online and at local craft fairs. Choosing the path of an artist (or often more accurately, being chosen for) is not an indulgence or an easy endeavor. It forces artists to encounter  uncertainty on a daily basis, to come face to face with all of the things that other people can effectively push away. For many artists, confronting the bigger questions in life is necessary in order to go farther and create new works. We are asked to see beauty that others miss and report back to the world to remind us all how fortunate we are. We are asked to bring forth something that did not exist previously and without which, the world is a little poorer. And, at our best, as creative beings, we are all asked to appreciate what is around us and to find new ways to love over and over again.  This is not merely the task of the artist, but the most basic work of being human. The artist merely reminds us through his or her creations that this is what we are here to do.

Has a painting or photograph ever taken your breath away? Has a song reminded you of a particularly joyful event or been with you when you needed to cry? Have you ever worn something that was hand-made and felt your perception of yourself and how you look go up a notch (and not even because of the compliments you received)? Has a book moved you so deeply that you found yourself reading a specific sentence over and over again? If so, none of these instances were accidents. They added something to your life because someone else-- someone that you may never have met or will meet-- had the courage and perseverence to heed a deep inner calling and to tune out the voices both from within and from the world that said that what they have to offer was not valid or worthy and to still offer it not just to you, but to everyone. This is no small feat. But, it is a vital one.

This holiday season, I encourage and invite you to put your money where your heart is. Find items (or even ideas-- giving to a charity that resonates with you in the name of someone special is always an excellent gift) that support the things you want to increase in the world. Somehow, armed with the knowledge that the top 5% of the population owns more than 50% of the wealth in the US, I tend to believe that maybe we don't need to increase the prosperity of multinational corporations with every purchase we make. This isn't to say they don't have a place in our economy, they do. However, there is also much to be said for supporting the little guy or gal, as well. (*However, if you do happen to be in the 5% of the earners in the US and you're reading my blog, can I just say that, my, you're looking lovely today? Have you lost weight? That's a beautiful... uh,  wait, where was I? Oh yes...) So, when doing your holiday shopping, consider what you are really buying and what you are really wanting to give.

If you happen to be looking for art to give and want to inspire someone you love with beauty they can see year-round (while thinking of you), please consider checking out my prints for sale: http://www.shootlikeagirlphotography.com/ There are a plethora of NYC/Brooklyn images, as well as nature and flowers and  photos taken all around the world, including in a Slovenian castle and along a canal in Venice. Notecards will be available soon!

Lastly, my wish for you is that instead of thinking of the word "sale" when thinking of the holidays, you will remember the meaning behind the season and will be bombarded with the word that describes what we are truly celebrating: LOVE!

Tribute

As I heard my mother's voice say the words, it felt like a bad dream continuing. I was still asleep, but must have instinctively known that something was amiss because before I was fully awake, I said, "What? What happened?" It was then that she said, "Pop died." No matter how much one prepares intellectually for the day when a love one will pass away, no efforts suffice to dull the pain in the heart when that day actually arrives.

I never thought that a 92 year old man would be one of my best friends, but during the last three years of his life that is exactly what my grandfather came to be. He was in excellent health until he was 89 years old when he fell. When my parents, grandmother and I went to visit him in the rehab home where he was staying temporarily, he was having a difficult day. Towards the end of our visit, he started to tear up, but was visibly suppressing it. My grandmother, aware of the mentality in which he was raised where men don't cry-- or at least not in front of anyone-- promptly said to us, "C'mon, let's go and let him be for now." As I walked out, something drew me back. Outside, I asked my parents and grandmother to wait for me. "I have to go back. I can't leave him right now," I said.  I walked back down the long hallway to his room and sat down beside his bed. I told him that I understood that he was upset about losing his mobility and that I knew how hard it was to have a body that doesn't always cooperate. And then, I sat with him while he cried. There was nothing else I needed to say or do in that moment and nothing else that could have been more gentle and powerful. Sometimes, the gift of presence is enough.

From that day on, I began calling Pop every day. It began as a way for me to cheer him up and break up his day--- even after he healed enough to return home. No matter what I was doing, I found a way to call him at a specific time of day. Even when I was teaching in the evenings, I would tell the students that we needed to take a five minute break. They would see me take my phone and walk out of the room and one once inquired who I was calling. I told her and then, they began asking how he was doing-- cheering him on in his recovery and wishing him well from afar. There was no one else I would have thought of calling during those classes and the thought not to call him never occurred to me.  Other times, I would call him when I was running to yoga class, on my way to my own classes after I returned to school as a student myself, when I was doing laundry, walking on the Promenade in Brooklyn neighborhood or en route to shoot a concert. It became one of my favorite parts of the day, a little ritual that was very grounding in the midst of my busy New York City life. A year and a half after the calls began, the tables turned. Faced with my own serious health crisis, Pop became my cheerleader, talking to me to wish me a better day.

By all accounts, I am a mutt that has come from purebreds. From each branch of my Irish, German and Polish heritage, I have gained specific traits and gifts through which I feel the whisperings of my ancestors edging me on with a single directive: "Live, Love." My grandfather's parents came from Poland. His mother immigrated as a seventeen year old orphan-- alone. While she was on the boat coming to the US, someone tried to steal her single valuable possession: her family's silver. Instead of letting a thief get it, she tossed it overboard saying that "if she couldn't have it, no one could." In addition to her spunk, her possessed a fierce love of and loyalty to her family-- something that she instilled deeply in her children.

Married to my grandmother for over 67 years, Pop was extremely devoted to his family and to maintaining the rituals that brought family together. I have spent every Christmas Eve since I was born in the same place: my grandparents' home. And, as death brings with it the flood of memories, I remember with aching fondness so many of the little moments, the tiny private things that happen within a family and through individuals that create a distinctness, a unique definition of "home." 

My last memory of seeing my grandfather was just recently, a few days before he died. After a brief hospital stay three weeks ago, he was moved to a rehab home where it was thought that he would recover enough to return to the home he shared with my grandmother. As my parents and I were leaving after visiting him, my father told him to look out his window and we would wave from the car as we were driving away. I saw his figure watching from the illuminated window, waving as we waved back before driving into the darkness. And, it was he who stayed in the light.

The Stories of All of Us

From the time of the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest known written story on Earth for those of you who slept through high school English classes, the art of story-telling has been a pivotal element in how we humans have wrestled with the eternal questions. Though the details of lives have changed through generations and by geography, the same basic questions seem to remain throughout all cultures and times. Concepts of love, loss, faith, purpose, health, family and belonging echo throughout the ages. And, though Abraham Maslow would diagree (he was the dude who theorized about the heirarchy of needs), these are as vital as tending to our physical needs.

I was reading an article recently from Scientific American that was truly was fascinating. The gist of it was that there was evidence found in caves in South Africa that indicate that humans whose cognitive abilities more or less mirrored our own existed about 164,000 years ago. The kicker is that, due to climate changes, most of humanity had gotten wiped out and that the human race as we know it likely are descendants of only six hundred individuals who hung out in these caves. Six hundred people changed the fate of history and facilitated us continuing as a species. I'm pretty sure I know six hundred people and if the fate of humankind were totally in their hands, I might be a little worried.

And yet, while these people lived very different lives from our own and would stand in awe of cars, computers and iPods, they gazed at the same sky. It's not a leap for me to imagine that after they sought sources of nourishment and shelter, they looked for means of connection and ways of communication. Somewhere along the way, art and the oral traditions began to emerge and be passed down. I believe that there is something inherently rooted in our biology at this point that knows the value of creating, of sharing what we know, of what we question and of what we dream.

Our stories are us. But, we are not merely our stories. Like most people, I could tell a thousand tales of amazing, beautiful, heart-breaking moments from my own life, but the totality would fall short from even beginning to adequately define me-- or you. Every individual interaction shapes and reframes our stories and when we are at our best, offer inspiration, comfort, joy and hope-- and remembrance to each other. Knowing what it felt like to walk along the Seine on a cold Autumn day, gazing at the Left Bank doesn't make me able to touch the greatness of those who went before--- like Picasso, Rimbaud or Matisse, but being there reminded me of my own unknown potential that always begins with stepping onto the path that calls to you-- the one that won't let go. Knowing what it's like to run down the side of a mountain in Colorado as a nine year old with my father and brother leaping somewhere between the dusty, brown earth and the wide open sky didn't just give me a taste of freedom, it gave a permanent remembrance of it, one that echoes in my cells just through recalling the story. Knowing what it was like to be tossed around in the Atlantic off of the coast of North Carolina during hurricane season didn't just offer proof of Mother Nature's power, it left me with a sense of tangible awe of my own vulnerability long before I would learn that during the years of the "stillness." Knowing what it was like to hike down the Grand Canyon on a hot July day didn't just give me a taste of true thirst, the knowledge that those donkeys probably do come in handy and the insight that the middle of summer may not be the best time to go hiking in AZ, it offered the sweet reminder that what goes down, must also come back up. Standing in the Sistine Chapel, before the Mona Lisa, in Freud's waiting room, in the bedroom where Mozart slept or high above Piazza San Marco didn't just leave me with photographs and postcards, but deep inner souvenirs that left me richer in wisdom, humility and grace-- and the knowledge that it is not up to us to decide the effects our work will have. It is simply up to us to do it whole-heartedly.

Our adventures, struggles, and triumphs bring us the ingredients for our stories and while it is doubtful that the eternal questions ever will be answered definitively, it is up to each generation to ask them and to live as if it were possible to wonder and to know. By sharing the tales of our quests, we discover fire for the second time-- over and over again.