A Little Greenery

Can someone explain the mechanics of installing a hook in the ceiling from which to hang a potted plant? How does one tell where to safely install the hook? In particular, how can Julia be sure to avoid tearing a hole in her rental apartment's ceiling? She does not ever want to exchange text messages with her landlord about a ceiling damaged by her own hand. These are the times I need a Bob Villa in my life.

Beautiful, leafy, dreamy, hanging plant project on hold for reasons mentioned above, I've taken to the pretty little succulents that have been popping up everywhere. They're cute in their tiny-ness and look hearty enough to possibly survive my being their mom. So off I went to bring home a cute family of succulents. But every one I picked up, be it at a bodega, nursery, or Trader Joe's, a leaf would be broken or there'd be a funny-looking bruise like someone had accidentally squished the tip of it. Alas, I'd walk out of the store succulent-less, but usually with a pint of ice cream in hand. You know, because ice cream tastes good in times of sadness. And joy. It's an all-occasion food, really.

I know what you're thinking: It's a plant! It will heal itself! But truth be told, this kind of thing bothers me. It just does. I've become much less neurotic (I think the kinder word choice here might be particular, ahem) over the years, but every now and again, I pull one of these nutty numbers. 

And then my sister showed up with a ton of a heck of a lot of them, potted in fresh soil and all. I hope they stay alive. My track record with plants is kind of spotty, but I want to change that!

Tonight, This Feeling

10:21 was a fine time to be walking home tonight. I mean, it wasn't just fine. It was fiiiine, said with a long and pronounced Southern drawl or whatever you can muster up to fully appreciate the need for emphasis here. Golly, is it beautiful out there tonight.

I want to record this feeling that I'm experiencing right now and right here. I can't explain it, other than to say that there are thousands of poofy clouds scattered against the moon at this very moment, a moon whose light I'm convinced is keeping the neighborhood birds chatty at this hour. The sky and the moon and the birds aside, what is exceptionally beautiful, the thing that is doing me in right now, is the sweetly perfect air. It's that just-a-touch chilly night air that arrives before spring fully unpacks her luggage and stays a while. Do you know it? She's here tonight, and she caught me off guard with her scent because it colors every city differently and it had been so very long since I've experienced a spring other than New York's. The cool night air is impossible to describe, but I can say that it smells like... here. And it is wonderfully delicious. And calming.

On those days when I need to dig deep and find my strength, I'll come find this post, close my eyes, and bring myself back here, to tonight's walk home.

Let's Take Autumn, Fold It Up, And Tuck It Away In My Pocket

You know, to keep me zen and centered when, come January, in the bitter chill of winter, I'll be forlorn and depressed staring at my ashy, ghost white legs, wondering if I'm using the wrong moisturizer because one's legs surely shouldn't ever be this dry, no matter how cold temps drop outside?

Providence, Rhode Island

Sunday. 3 November. 2013.

It wasn't until my twenties that I began to notice the pretty of autumn. Up until then, fall held little value other than signaling the first term of school and field hockey practice. The physical metamorphosis happening outside was more of an annoyance, what with all the lawn work that came with the season. Do you know how annoying it is to locate a field hockey ball that rolls into a patch of leaves caught on the fence lining the sideline? High school problems: they are serious.

My mother's parents, my maternal grandparents, came to visit the States exactly once. My mother grew up on a farm a couple hours outside of Seoul. Knowing this, I did not, for the life of me, understand why my grandfather flew such a long distance and, as a man of few words, when asked what he wanted to do, said that he wanted to go for a walk.

A walk.

A walk?

I had absolutely no interest in strolling outside to admire the scenery. I mean, the trees? Aren't there trees in Korea? Branches and leaves? Grass? Yawn, dude. Yawn.

Oh, the simple minds of ignorant pre-adolescent know-it-alls.

Now, every year around this time, I look up at the vibrant firetops of the trees, how they perfectly blot themselves in front of the city skyline and think, oh, I bet weh-halabuhji (Korean for maternal grandfather) would have loved this. He would have adored a November walk on the East coast. There's nothing quite like it.

My grandparents' visit was a long one, overlapping a chilly March when there was a freak snow and ice storm that closed Philadelphia schools for a full week. That was the second and last time that I would spend time with my grandfather. I've visited his grave once, more than a decade ago. He's buried at the highest point of a mountain, one that is so steep that the only way to descend is to side step with your feet perpendicular to the slope of the mountain. I bet at this time of year, he enjoys a sweet, breathtaking view.

Some Summer

I wish you could see this photo spanning the full width of this page.  It looks magnificent splayed across my gigantic home computer screen.  It's a little less dreamy on my office monitor, but still, I can't stop staring at it.  

This is the view of a rather sedate Grand Central from the long weekend.  As it often does on long holiday weekends, the NYC was pleasantly less congested than usual.  Still plenty of traffic and pedestrians and buzz to keep you on your toes, but less enough bodies so that you don't brush against too many sweaty shoulders to get to wherever you're going.  

Then again, there was that one incident walking through that street fair in Chelsea.  A couple's granny cart wheel clipped my bare heel.  The owners, a young couple probably in their mid-twenties, flung up their arms and shook their heads in bored annoyance as to why someone would walk into their cart.  My reaction was similar, dramatically throwing up my hands and giving them a dirty look.  They seemed to have missed the fact that their cart hit my heel, which would mean that they ran into me, not the other way around, because people, even we eclectic ones in New York do not walk backwards through bustling street fairs.  Also, bare skin vs. metal?  Even if it had been my fault, the decent thing to have done would have been to stop and ask if I was all right.  Instead, they kept right on walking and me, like a child, fought the urge to chase after them and yank –hard– the girl's long hair.  I was pissed.  I thought it might bring me some closure, you know?

It was hot.  We were caught in the middle of a steaming street fair soaking in our own sweat.  And boy, was I cranky.  

Hi, summer.  I see that you've arrived.  Welcome.  

Grand Central Terminal.

Friday.  1:27 pm.  5 July.  2013

Eggleston

There is a set of amazing, new-to-me photographs on view at the Met right now.  This William Eggleston fellow, do you know his work?  Because his photographs stopped me in my tracks.  His tones are remarkably vibrant, saturated, and crisp.  His subjects are muted, but not as reserved as you'd think; they are not so intense as they are real.  His images capture so much of what I associate with America, its people, its places, its iconic materials.  How is that possible?  According to the plate next to this print, he took this the year I was born, but far away in another part of the country entirely.  Louisiana was no Pennsylvania, I'm sure.  And yet, the table caddy branded with the familiar red Winston logo brought me right back to the days I slunk away at my parents' Germantown dry cleaners.

I'd frequently be sent around the corner to fetch my dad his cigarettes.  One day, even though the lady recognized me, she sent me back to get a signed note from my father giving permission to let his daughter make the purchase on his behalf.  The handwritten paper slips worked for a while, but turned useless once the law forbade sales of cancer sticks to minors.  My lazy pops had a hard time registering this turn of events when I came back empty-handed one day.  But it worked out in the end because when he went, he'd sometimes stop by the Gold's Gym next door where they had a freezer full of real-fruit frozen treats.  On those days, he'd return with a strawberry for me and coconut for him.

At the Met. (Pardon the graininess.  Photo taken on my phone.)

Carry On

I know this sounds unimportant and trite, but I am impossibly tired right now.  I feel hungover and if I'm honest, a bit loopy.  I was up until 3:30 working late on Tuesday night and then working late again until 5:30 last night.  Not enough sleep is a bitch, yo.  I don't remember the last time I sunk into my pillow as the sky woke up. This must be what it feels like caring for a newborn, only add to that your lady bits healing and your breasts feeding that newborn and well actually, no, I guess I'm wrong - that's probably much more trying than my current state of exhaustion.

This morning, thrilled that it was finally Friday but unable to scrounge up the willpower to act like an adult, I did something that I'm rather shameless about sharing here: I opted out of my daily shower in exchange for fifteen more minutes in bed.  That all the senior folks were out of the office attending a conference several time zones away was all the justification I needed.  When I finally stepped into the shower tonight, I turned the knob to the maximum hot water setting.  I drowsily leaned against the tiled wall.  After a few minutes, I turned my back to the water and sat down in the tub.  It felt odd sitting there facing the back wall, but I was off my feet which felt heavenly.  Before long, I closed my eyes and let the steaming stream pelt my back.  I massaged my neck, in the best way one can manage on her own.  I could have sat there all night.

And now that I've deliberately stayed awake for as long as I have, midnight is finally near, which seems like a reasonable time to turn in so that I might awake refreshed, bright and early for my day tomorrow.  Saturdays are my hardest days, but they are also days when I witness a lot of good people doing good things.  Especially this week, with all that's been going on, it seems right that this is how my week will end.  On the train home tomorrow evening, I know I'll be spent and maybe even unusually quiet from the tiredness, but I'll also have spent the day being reminded that among humans, as ruinous and harmful as some may be, there are also those, too, that carry on with the radiance of love and kindness and respect.

Entrance to the Met.

A Man I Knew

Madison Square Park.
Yesterday.  7 April.  2013

I was so hurt last week.  You probably were, too.  The news of Roger Ebert's death left me a heaping pile of aching in a way that felt almost unnatural.  This is so often the case with me, that I remain oblivious to how strongly I feel about someone, or an experience, or an opportunity, or an idea, until our time together suddenly expires and the closest I can get to that goodness again is by reawakening memories.

I can't articulate why I'm grieving the passing of a man whom I had only ever known on a screen, and most recently and more memorably, via the written word.  This was a man who produced work so satisfying and accessible, his essays so full of humanness (is that a word?), that he'd carry you into, out of, and back into your very own senses.  How could you not fall for such a man, for someone whose work exuded such depth and candor?  I loved how this writer shared his own love story with us, the fact that he married later in life, to a woman whom he admired for her strength and wits and intelligence and beauty.  I loved how this husband who had lost his voice to cancer blogged a love letter to his wife last summer {+}.  I loved how eloquently this professional film critic navigated the impossible range of human needs and emotions, with a clear conscience and sure footing, no matter the topic or political or cultural climate.

It had only been a couple days since his last blog post had scuttled across my screen, his announcement that the cancer had returned and that he would be taking a step back, taking A Leave of Presence {+}, as he so cleverly called it.  A Leave of Presence.  This phrase, it's just so wildly beautiful.  I had grown accustomed to his way with words, the uncomplicated tone and cadence of his prose.  I will miss it.  I will miss him.

I Could Live Here

I spent my afternoon at the Met today.  The special exhibition wasn't keeping my attention, so much so that I was considering making a run for the exit.  Luckily, as I started scooting around all the grannies (seriously, so many sweet old ladies today!), a painting stopped me in my tracks.  I couldn't place it at first, but it looked so familiar, I couldn't walk away until I did.

You see, this piece lives in the Musee d'Orsay.  I had last seen it in person maybe, ten years ago?  The image had stayed with me all these years.  There was something about the woman's facelessness, about the wind pulling on her white dress, and the lightness that surrounded her.  Do you ever see something and then suddenly feel like you haven't breathed in a while, but don't realize it until that very moment?  And then you start breathing?  That's what seeing this painting again did for me.  I inhaled slowly.  And then I smiled.  It felt good to reconnect after all this time, even if we were an ocean away from where we first met so long ago.

On my walk home, some good news arrived in my news feed. The Met had announced earlier in the day that they will open seven days a week starting in July.  This is big, people.  Huge, for me at least.  Now when I have a rare weekday off, the Met will always be an option.  What a wonderful gift to the public.

The Met {+}.  NYC.
2:08 pm.  Today.

Love Song

"She's married to the simplest man on earth. To her, he's the best man in life. He stammers. Mm-m-m-m-Mmmarie. For her, it's a love song. She loves the sound."

~ Elle, on her sister Marie
Copie Conforme {+}

What the world labels a speech impediment, a woman hears as her husband's love song. This aching purity of love, it is humbling and touching and beautiful. It is what keeps our spirits whole.


NYC. Today.

Papa Steinbeck

The words below are not my own.  They are cut and pasted from a January 2012 Letters of Note blog post {+}.  The letter is from Steinbeck: A Life in Letters {+}.  It's a heart warmer, fitting for a day like today.  Happy Valentine's Day, y'all.

//

In November of 1958, John Steinbeck — the renowned author of, most notably, The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, and Of Mice and Men — received a letter from his eldest son, Thom, who was attending boarding school. In it, the teenager spoke of Susan, a young girl with whom he believed he had fallen in love.

Steinbeck replied the same day. His beautiful letter of advice can be enjoyed below.

New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First—if you are in love—that’s a good thing—that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second—There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply—of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it—and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone—there is no possible harm in saying so—only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another—but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,

Fa

The Dance

Matisse at the MoMA {+}. 3:43 pm.  Sunday.  10 February.  2013.
Does anyone else get sad thinking about what life would be like without blissfully spur-of-the-moment MoMA visits?  Or echo-y strolls through the Met's Greek and Roman wing after nightfall?  I don't know how or when I'm going to leave this city, but my mouth quivers at the thought of the emptiness I will inevitably feel when it happens.

If you've been meaning to go, go now.  I will even bring you.  And if you want to go alone, that's cool, too.  Just go.

The Lovely Pomegranate

Before the time of my brothers, my sister and I would sit next to our mom and patiently watch her crack open one of these guys.  We three would sit on the floor looking down into a big bowl.  On the floor sat a newspaper hoping to catch the inevitable scarlet spatter that escaped the bowl.  Sometimes, a neighbor would be over, one of uhmmah's girlfriends, and the four of us would share.  This is the memory that pops into my head whenever I see a pomegranate.

This, and the story of Persephone.  The goddess of the underworld sounds like a powerful title, but Greek mythology actually holds that Persephone was kidnapped by Hades, the god of the underworld.  She was tricked into staying there...because she ate a few pomegranate seeds.  The gods struck a deal: Persephone would split her time between the earth and the underworld.  Her mother Demeter, the goddess of fertility and harvest, objected, but nothing could be done.  And so, when Persephone is with her husband Hades in the underworld, Demeter sees to it that the earth doesn't produce crops, but once Persephone is reunited with her mother on earth, the lands become fertile again.  Hence, the ancient explanation for the cycle of seasons.  Perhaps also, the ancient belief that the pomegranate had contraceptive properties.

If you have the opportunity to get your hands on a whole pomegranate, please do so, if only to learn what it looks like before it's sprinkled on your salad, or reduced into a sauce for your chicken.  Be patient, handle the insides delicately, and maybe you will be rewarded with two bountiful cups of ruby red capsules like this one yielded.

Smitten

I couldn't tell you what it's like to fall in love or be in love or fall back out of love, but I can positively tell you what it's like to be smitten.  Can't stop thinking about it.  Can't imagine life without it.  Can't fall asleep without scrolling through those beautiful images just one last time.  Ok, maybe just once more.  But then I'm really going to turn off my bedside lamp and go to sleep.  I mean it.

It's happened.  I'm a wee bit enamored with Instagram.

I think what put me over the edge were these stunning image sets of all things wintry, both rural and urban.  For all the bleakness I associate with dark winters, Norway's snowy forests and landscapes are breathtakingly airy and bright.  It's magical, all that winter against that piercing blue sky.  And Germany, too - there are some fantastic images from Berlin.  What is it about Europe that's so attractive?  Instagram is stirring something within that I didn't mind missing until now - a reminder that I once yearned to leave everything behind to explore beauty in places far, far away from where I called home.  It's possible to fall in love...I mean, be smitten...with the lure of the unknown again.

I'm still pecking at my iPhone like a grandmother would learn how to type for the first time, but if you have an active Instagram account, I hope to find you before my infatuation wears off.  My handle is (how'd you know?) @juliaipsa {+}.

  
Images from the weekend.

Interlude

Many people have the misconception that New Yorkers live in grand spaces with high ceilings, expansive views of the twinkling city, and open penthouse terraces.  Yes, some one percent-ers have all that and then some, but the majority of us without trust funds or seven-figure salaries do not.  We cram ourselves into small, dark apartments in whatever affordable area our salaries can accommodate.

That is why, when the sun fills my living room for roughly, about twenty-two minutes every late afternoon, if I'm lucky enough to be around when it happens, my heart stops.  Six days out of the week I'm working at this hour; I rarely have the chance to see something so natural as the sun coming through my window.  In fact, if Pablo hadn't been on the table a mere foot away when I walked into this sun-soaked room yesterday, I wouldn't have even bothered with this photo because it would have taken up too much of my precious sun time.

I wish the front door to my apartment would open to the beauty of this spirited city and the back door to the warmth of the calming sea.  Until then, I'll enjoy small glimmers of each every chance I get.

You wouldn't believe how many pairs of shoes are stuffed inside that closet. 2:29 pm.  Friday.  23 November.  2012.

Gentleman

I stepped onto an uncrowded train today.  By uncrowded, I mean that all the seats were filled and only a handful of people needed to stand.  A man jumped up.  "Would you like a seat?" he asked.  "Oh, no, I'm all right, but that's very nice of you, thank you."  He remained standing.  "Please, take my seat," he offered gently again.

What's happening?  Where am I?  Is this Manhattan?

People here aren't typically generous with gestures of this sort.  We are entirely self-absorbed, consumed by our next professional deadline and the consequences of last night's terrible date, rarely about the standing girl on the train.  And even then, it is only because she just stepped on your foot and didn't bother to apologize.

But I had been careful not to step on anyone's feet.  I cautiously glanced at the newly vacated sliver of bench.  The cynic in me half expected to see spilled juice or sticky crumbs.  But no, it was clean.  I preferred to stand, but it would have been in poor taste to refuse at this point.  "Are you sure?" I asked.  He smiled.  "Yes.  Please sit."  So I did.

Even before both cheeks hit the bench, a brassy passenger declared, loudly enough for the entire car to look up and notice, "You are a TRUE, TRUE gentleman."  He screamed TRUE so it seems appropriate to write it out in caps.

As I sat, I remembered a friend from way back when.  For five years, every time we walked into a classroom, left the cafeteria, or got into his car, he always paused and held the door for me.  I was always first.  Always.  I don't have a friend that does that anymore, but gee, would it be nice if I did.  Because when a stranger offers his seat or waits for me to step off an elevator first, I'm reminded how the smallest of gestures can often be the kindest.

Thanks, stranger man, for standing all the way to 59th & Lex.  Your gesture was as warm as the view of yesterday's setting sun was spellbinding.

The view from the Met {+} rooftop.  NYC.
6:04 pm.  Yesterday.

A Good Motto: SEX + COMFORT

I pretty much live in flats.  With the concrete streets I pound every day, mine get beat up pretty quickly.  It's no bueno.  Tired of parting with pair after pair every few short months, I started shelling out for slightly nicer flats last year.  It was worth it.  They're more comfortable, look nicer, and last longer.  More importantly, they make me feel good.

I recently discovered Matt Bernson {+}.  Hold one of his handcrafted shoes in your hand and you'll delight in how substantial and lovely they are.  His flats have made a wonderful first impression on me, someone who usually scoffs at these kinds of things.  Carved several times over into the rubber soles in tiny, all caps, block letters are: SEX + COMFORT.  It's an odd motto for a shoe brand, but I bet reading that made you crack a smile.  I love the cheekiness.  If something so trivial as the words on the underside of these shoes make me chuckle so, maybe I should consider filling my closet with Matt Bernsons.  Because you know what?  I deserve to surround myself with things that make me smile.  We all do.

Mmmm...Muffin

Today, I choose muffin.  Apple season, after all, is upon us.  There will be plenty of time for gala and granny and golden in the coming months.  But muffins?  They go stale and I just can't have that.

Antony Gormley

Antony Gormley's Domain Field.  Photo from {+}.

Sometimes I wonder about artists.  How do they find the time and energy for anything else in their lives when their heart and soul and mind and hands are pre-occupied with the important task of conjuring things like this?  Humans are amazing.

About That

Here's the thing.  I have, erm, an odd little first-world problem.

You know when you have your heart set on something really nice and special?  A little taste of luxury?  And then, if you're so lucky to finally have it come into your possession, whether by your own hard work, or maybe through the generosity of someone in your life, or hey, maybe even thanks to a piece of plastic with a high interest rate, you can't get enough of it?  You're smitten.  Obsessed, even.  It's constantly on your mind.  It becomes your newest BFF.  As it most certainly should, gosh darn it.

I am the polar opposite.

When something nice comes into my possession, I usually need a minute to catch my breath (because it's usually a gift and catches me by surprise) and then just stare at the pretty in front of me.  I can barely bring myself to touch the item, nervous that I might somehow tarnish its pristine state.  I am not that person who clenches a newly acquired item with her chubby little hands and slobbers all over it immediately.  Instead, I admire from a distance.  And I wait.  And wait.  And wait some more.

The problem is that I can wait an eternity.  And never actually use it!  It's just that it's so...nice.  And extravagant.  How can I make room in my frumpy, plain little life for something so spectacular?  Indulging in anything beyond the practical washes me in guilt.

I've decided that this is not ok.

When I finished a bottle of conditioner this week, I went to the hall closet to retrieve another and spotted a set of my favorite hair treats.  I had forgotten about my delicious Bumble and Bumble seaweed line.  This shampoo and conditioner were the single big ticket items I had once allowed myself.  I stopped cold turkey when I lost my job, unable to justify twenty dollars for eight ounces of shampoo.  This pair hiding in the closet was courtesy of my sister who found them in a Duane Reade.  She proudly rolled in the door that day announcing, "You won't believe who carries Bumble now!"  You see, back in the day when I first discovered Bumble, when it was still relatively unknown, I whined about how difficult it was to find retail locations that carried it.  To see them at a NYC chain as ubiquitous as Duane Reade was something of a big moment.  Despite my sister's kind gesture, I felt like I didn't deserve them and directed her to return the bottles.  She refused.

So here I was staring at these two precious things.  I snapped open the conditioner cap and inhaled.  The scent was just as I remembered: pure, clean, sea-y, and well, like my own locks from a time before now.  I moved the duo to my shower immediately.

I think it's high time to start taking in the luxuries I have.

Welcome to my bathtub. It's so good to see you.

Merry August

Let's talk about Christmas.  Because it's August, if nothing else.  Specifically, let's talk about the expressions of everything good that the holiday season evokes and how their existence is evident in the [almost - read on for my take] everyday, not just the cold days of December.

Christmas is, to be perfectly rosy-cheeked about the situation, pure awesomeness.  There is a mindful re-focus on the celebrated components of what builds and drives fulfilling lives: family, community, love, warmth, grace, kindness, humility, forgiveness, acceptance, and joy, to name a few.  It is an annual tradition where individuals reconvene to showcase these pinnacles of our society's value system.

I'd like to say that these elements are present in each of our daily journeys, pocketfuls of posies anywhere and everywhere just as long as you look for it in every situation, but nay, I can think of several cases where this simply isn't true.  This is probably because I witnessed humanity's worst sorrows as the child of a pastor and his wife.  Churches lend support to congregants in difficult times; if you're spearheading those efforts and thrown deep into the trenches of it, your children can see a lot of the ugly, too.  My parents didn’t buffer any of that.  Part of that is because they are Korean, part of that is because they are who they are, and part of that is because I am their oldest.  From too early an age, I learned that it's tricky to see the good when the bad is all around; sometimes, it's impossible because it's just not there.

  At the start of one holiday season, what would turn out to be my last home before I moved to New York.
Rittenhouse Square. Philadelphia.
2004.  12 November.

What I have learned is that in times when there is no joy to be had, it isn't always necessary to break the impossibility of the situation by conjuring something that balances out the darkness.  Sometimes, there is a great deal of merit in staying in that moment and waiting for it to pass.  Why?  Because it always passes.  It does.  And the resilience required to get to that next point is what makes the next happy moment even brighter.

I hope life is good for you all out there.  If it isn't Christmas now, it will be soon.