tamarjacobson

Living in the moment slows down my pace. I notice more things more clearly. I begin to focus. I hear noises that would otherwise slip into the background when I am thinking forward or looking back to the past. I hear Mimi or Oscar as they lap, lap, lap water out of the bowl at the far end of my study. I notice a gurgling sound in the pipes as steamy water is pushed up into heating units. I feel my finger tapping on the mouse as I click on and off words that I am typing into the computer. I observe a twinge of pain shooting through my right shoulder blade and sense a burning in my eyes. I start to cough and notice that. Breathing in and out in a deep sigh, I relax into my seat and continue to tap away at the letters on my keyboard. Being in the now takes away all that anxiety of trying to prove myself, and helps me appreciate this very moment I am sitting in. Things that are beyond my control slip into oblivion where they have been all consuming just minutes before. I breathe in one long breath and sigh out an even longer one, and I notice a smile forming on my lips. It feels good. I feel good. I search for that twinge of pain in my right shoulder blade that I experienced a few moments ago, and notice that it has melted away. Eyes are clearer now, burning has subsided. Sitting in the moment reaches deep into my lower rib cage and that area inside my body is massaged and warmed by the slow breathing in and longer sighing out. I regain a sense of being – of my Self that had become invisible and blurred by anxieties, fears and all manner of uncomfortable feelings. I pull myself closer to the top of my abyss that was almost pulling me back to a lower ledge – one that I recognize. I had been there before, and it was dark, cold and lonely. I sigh deeply and the smile on my lips widens. I feel a little giggle of pleasure rolling around inside. Peace in this moment of sitting in the now. The abyss abated. As I lift my head to look around me, the room seems welcoming and full of plants and pictures, knicks and knacks that envelop me with calm. Images of pictures have sharpened into clear focus. I stop typing and stretch my arms up to the ceiling with a large yawn. So much of life is about patiently waiting – about keeping on keeping on.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Burn out …

Climbing out of an abyss takes a long time. It entails tearing and scraping in the dirt. My fingernails become filled with soil from clawing and scratching my way out. At times the way is slippery and steep, and it is easy to slide back down uncontrollably. Then I have to start all over again, sometimes from much further down than I thought. It is frustrating and challenging because mostly it is in the dark. The way is lonely and cold with only the tiniest glimmer of light at the top to guide me. When I find myself sliding backwards down the slippery slopes it fills me with despair and longing. Will I ever find my way out? I become exhausted and sit down low in the hole and wait to catch my breath. And then, from somewhere deep inside I gather strength to begin the treacherous climb again. Often fear rises up and blocks the path. It grips at my heart and bites me behind my eyes. I stop dead in my tracks and breathe deeply in and out, out and in, as Swami Ji taught me so long ago. Quite a few friends and mentors, gurus and counselors have reached their arms down to pull me up. Each time I took their hand, I managed to make it closer and closer to the top.

Lately I realized that I am already peering over it. My hands are holding on to the ledge and with one strong swing of my leg I could hoist myself right over the top and stand on the high ground looking out across the vastness of the land. There is so much light everywhere and it feels warm and safe. These last couple of years I have been shedding much baggage along the way. It had been holding me down, pulling me back again and again into some of the deepest, darkest crevices of my abyss. Sacks loaded with feelings of shame and unworthiness. Bags packed with feelings of marginalization and victimization. But it seems that I have been unloading all these packs, leaving bits and pieces down behind me. As I peer down into the darkness, I can almost see their shapes and forms glistening in the rain. How strange. They are so small now. I wonder why they used to scare me so.

Yesterday, at the end of a phone call with my aged mother, there was a pause. And then she stated intentionally and clearly, in a way I had not heard before. "I love you, Tamar," she said. I told her that I loved her too. Shutting down the phone, I went out for my walk in the cold morning air. The sun shone through the bare trees, and on the remaining clumps of snow out in Carpenter Woods along my way. After about half an hour of walking energetically up Wayne's incline, I realized what she had said, and how taken aback I was when she spoke those words so clearly and unconditionally. Indeed, it was as if I had been waiting for them to be spoken exactly like that for a very long time. And when it happened, it felt just right. It was peaceful. I walked along the road bathed in light. 

Lately, I have made a number of stands for myself. In the past, this would have terrified me, and I would definitely have stumbled and fallen back down into my abyss. This time, though, with each stand, I seemed to approach the opening of the hole I have been in for what seems like all of my life. With my mother's words to me yesterday, I felt like I was pushed almost right out in the open! 

Will 2013 see me actually heave my leg up and over the rim? I wonder. At least now, clearly in front of my eyes, I have an image of what could be. I know what it might feel like – standing tall and strong out in the sunlight looking across the vastness of all the land – a welcomed part of it all, included and belonging, warm and safe. I think I might know what to reach for this time. 

Well, now I have two kittens in the house and am faced with early education challenges. I find myself confronted with situations that require attitudes and behaviors from me – many, which I suggest or expect from the pre or in-service teachers I instruct or mentor. Naturally I understand that a kitten is not a human child. Or do I?

I wonder.

These little creatures were raised for many weeks in a large cage together, the remaining duo from a litter of six. Mimi is sturdy, strong, and healthy. She is rambunctious and smart, eats voraciously, and constantly is at play with everything she can lay her paws on. Oscar is tiny, tender, gentle and fragile. He seems to wobble as he wanders cautiously through the house. My sister, Sue, described him as wearing his "battle dress" as he slinks around prepared to defend himself at any moment from any in-coming danger, namely his sister, Mimi. She charges him and urges him to rough and tumble, but he refuses and subsides into the background. Often we find him hunkered down next to one of the heating units, and he sleeps, it seems, all day and all night. 

I go in and out of parental panic. Should I intervene on Oscar's behalf? Or discipline dear little Mimi? And what does that mean? "To discipline Mimi." Can one really set boundaries for a cat? For example, what happens when I am out of the house and they learn to live together, which they have done already in their earliest kitten hood within the confines of their cage. At times I adore Mimi as she runs around with her red ball chasing and tumbling with it, and then running towards me with her little bandy legs, carrying the ball in her mouth expecting me to throw it for her to "fetch," again and again. There are times when I experience frustration when she charges her vulnerable, little brother, while understanding, at the very same time, that they have to work out their own dynamics and power structures, as two cats living in the same house.

And there I go again and again – round and round, confused and anxious, not knowing what to do! 

True enough, it surely presses all kinds of personal buttons to see Oscar as the underdog (cat?), a victim to marginalization and working hard to be invisible – out of Mimi's range. I have to admit that I find myself identifying with him. And, on the other hand, that feeling makes me as mad as a hatter. Because I have been working on myself in therapy for years in order not to feel like that. Indeed, I have made a conscious decision to take all kinds of emotional stands for me recently, and no longer feel like a victim. No indeed. Just the opposite. I feel empowered and so much more confident. I realize, too, that dear sweet little Mimi is not the "bad guy (girl?)." Just a little kitty with developmental needs of her own.

And so, I conclude that Oscar's cat behavior, as he works within the power structure of his relationship with sister Mimi, has absolutely nothing to do with who I am, nor how I perceive myself.

Wow! Therapeutic opportunity!

Perhaps finding these two cats was the very thing I needed to remind me about my Self and how I view early education. Which is, that our own emotional development affects how we relate to and interact with children and families.

Plain and simple.

We have an awesome responsibility to work on ourselves psychologically, when we develop relationships with other human beings …

… hm …

… or cats for that matter.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Attention getting

This morning I was reading through past blog posts, when I came upon this one titled: 

An interview: me to me 

It was written seven years ago to the very day.

Reading it, I realized three things:

1. Just how much blogging and my blogging community has changed;
2. How much I still love writing – blogging in particular; and,
3. Good grief! I am heading into my eighth year of blogging.

1. In 2005, I received 18 comments for that blog post, from a steady and constant group of fellow bloggers. We were, indeed, a community of pioneers, supporting one another through all kinds of writing challenges as well as life experiences. Sadly, I am reminded that at least one of those people, commenting on that piece, has since died. In blogging, I discovered a place for self expression, where I could try out all my writing skills to share immediately with a group of cyberspace friends. I even dabbled in Haiku! Eight years later, most of my companions from that time have either moved on, or joined a much wider community through Facebook. Nowadays, if one or two of the old guard stop by to read a post on my blog, which they found announced on Facebook, they make their comments directly to my Facebook page – if at all. 

2. From time to time I wrote about the experience of writer's block; here; and here. Nothing new in that, as so many writers are blocked from time to time for all kinds of reasons. Mostly, though, I love writing. In fact, recently I realized that not only do I not want to stop writing, I really do need it! For, through writing I am able to explore and uncover pieces of myself that I did not realize were lurking in the crevices of my mind. In addition, it helps me clarify feelings that are confusing and uncomfortable. Just a few days ago my sister and I were chatting about our childhoods. She described playing with a kitchen set when she was a child, which excited her for future cooking experiences. Suddenly I remembered that I had played at being a teacher when I was a young child. In fact, the idea of grading or, rather, "editing" someones work had appealed to me at a very young age. I had taken some of my story books and written all over them making corrections and comments, like, "Well done," or, "Try and do better next time." It was not so much the imparting of knowledge that engaged me in the role of teacher, but rather, the ability to edit someones writing! Blogging seems like the perfect venue for me. While I love writing books and articles, columns or letters, and even personal journals, blogging seems like the perfect balance of journaling, self reflection, and sharing with the public my written expressions of things as I perceive them. Feedback used to be immediate, and, more often than not, supportive, thus helping me build confidence as a writer, as well as practically supporting me to improve my writing skills. I suppose that is why I continue to blog while writing books, and even with the waning of readers and feedback. It is the act of writing out loud in the blogosphere that gives me so much satisfaction and joy. 

3. And so, here it is. Eight years later. In a few days time it will be my eighth blogging anniversary. And whether people stop by to read this post or not, I have enjoyed looking back on my writer's blog. Most likely I will continue to tap away at the keys of my trusty computer companion – usually early in the morning, but sometimes at different times of the day when the urge to write a post just bubbles up spontaneously from hidden corners of my brain. In a way I miss the old blogging community, whose members were spread out all over the world discovering a brilliant new way to hook up, communicate, and share our stories. But recently I discovered that I have always been a kind of loner, a type of introvert, and suspicious of any club that would have me, even though, at the same time, I yearn to belong to a loving and supportive community. Such is the complexity of being human! Indeed, blogging, for me, is a wonderful way of combining all those worlds together. I can still be a loner, while at the same time, share my stories and writing expression with the entire world community – mostly, without ever seeing or even hearing from anyone out there!

Alone in our library on this bright, cold, winter morning I look out through large, wide windows at a white blanket of snow covering bare trees, bushes, and Ada's little grave under a withered chrysanthemum nestled up close to the garage. Silently, I raise my coffee cup and make a toast to eight years of blogging – and still going strong.

I love the early morning.

Even before dawn has a chance to light up the night sky.

I love the silence, which surrounds and envelops me while Life Partner sleeps, anyone, who might be visiting is asleep on the third floor, or even when I travel away, friends or family members sleep on into the morning. It is as if I, and I alone own the new day. It is a time just for me.

Cats are hunkered down close by as I sip my coffee and reflect on past feelings and future plans. 

The New Year is on my mind as it beckons just two days away. This past year, like so many others, has been filled with personal, political, and professional happenings, accompanied by so many emotions that I am finally allowing myself to feel. It has been a busy time, and as I reflect back I realize how quickly it has all gone by, or how moments are already forgotten, or stored away to think on for another time. I am already making travel and presentation plans for 2013. I wonder where I will be this time next year, or what I might be working on professionally and psychologically by then. This cycle, marking time as I do from year to year, is constant and reassuring as I bid farewell to the past, and move on towards the future. Life changes and shifts, yet all the while remaining the same in so many ways. Reading over past blog posts I am reminded how my psychological issues seem to change ever so slightly, and I almost feel as if I have not moved beyond anything at all. 

I don't think I will be making any resolutions for this coming year, just two days away. For, lately, I think of life as a continuum, continuing and flowing from one moment to the next, in and out of days and months, and into yet another new year. I am grateful to continually uncover layers of my Self in therapy, allowing me to see more realistically who I am, what I am capable of, and most importantly understand more clearly what I feel. I do not fear grief as much as I used to. For, I realize it will always accompany me as I leave behind then, or move beyond now. For example, this past year I have said goodbye to my son the child, discovering him as a man. I have bid farewell to the perception I had of myself to uncovering someone I am learning to like, worthy of making an effort or taking a stand for. Letting go of perceptions and expectations of friendship, or the notion of family.

With each farewell, letting go, or moving beyond, there is some sadness in the loss of habits and illusions created to defend a seemingly defenseless and lonely soul. Life is, as one of my advisors used to say, "All about grief." And as I allow myself to become more and more aware of my feelings, my experience of joy and happiness is deepened as well.

And … well … my lonely old soul is just not so lonely any more.

I was never the popular girl at school. I had one, or maybe two friends, but mostly I stayed to myself and slunk around trying to be invisible, a little like my new kitten, Oscar. I envied popular girls. They seemed to be so much more confident, smart and pretty than me, and everyone wanted to be with and like them. In particular, I remember one popular girl in high school. She teased me and called me names, especially when her group of groupies gathered around. Mostly anti-Semitic type names. It hurt to the core, and I tried to keep out of the way when I could. Even as I think back to those times, I feel a surge of anger. I wish I had had the strength at least to ask someone for help. But, I think I might have been ashamed, and as I still do, probably thought they were right about me, or that I had done something, just by being me, to deserve their scorn. As I reflect back fifty years ago, I still feel those painful feelings as poignantly as I did then, as a young teenager in my old Rhodesian high school. High school was not a happy time for me. Mostly, I felt threatened and afraid, but, more importantly, I felt that I could not match up to all those people ever so much more beautiful, confident, and smarter than me.

Lately, I find myself confronting all those past, painful emotions once again. They have been welling up almost daily since my trip to Italy in October, where I was faced with similar kinds of behaviors and reactions from a person I thought had been close to me. It was devastating for me, and those feelings have remained with me until now. It surprises and dismays me to experience such ancient emotions now at the ripe old age of 63! As soon as I sense a twinge of anger at having been treated badly, that old shame floods in as it used to when I was a young girl back in Africa, struggling to fit in, find a place, or feel belonging. The same old ancient shame that the person was right about me, or that I had done something, just by being me, to deserve their scorn.

Everyone needs attention and acknowledgement. It is not something to be ashamed about. As I look at the inner child in me, as a teacher or counselor, I understand what I needed and did not receive as a child. The more I learn these things about myself, the more I realize how critical our relationships with young children are. Especially with regards to neglect. Young children need attention from us in order to learn about their identity and self worth. When they are quiet, or try to make themselves invisible, we need to seek them out, and remind them how valuable they are to us. There are many children out there strutting and showing off their smarts and talents. That is their style of seeking acknowledgment. They know how to snatch up the attention they need from people around them, probably having learned at an early age to compete for their parent's acknowledgement, just as withdrawing children learned to keep their heads down, or stay out of the way of the unpredictable or violent rages of their parents.

Still, it is remarkable, really, how such old habits and ancient feelings still affect me when I am becoming as old as the hills. When I look at myself objectively and realistically, I see an accomplished older woman, who contributes to improving the emotional lives of so many children and their teachers around the country. I write, teach, and give presentations and workshops all over the nation, even internationally.

And yet, when someone is mean to me, I collapse in a heap, as distraught as I used to be when I was thirteen or fourteen years old!

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Resolutions

Who knew? I have discovered that anger blocks my writing.

Or rather …

I should say: shame about my anger blocks my writing.

What is it with this anger thing?

As an early childhood educator, I know cognitively and emotionally that anger is simply one of all of many feelings human beings experience. It is not good or bad. It just is. Indeed, anger is necessary to feel, in order to make a stand about being hurt. I teach teachers about accepting children's anger and helping them to express it productively. I write for teachers about learning to recognize and accept their own anger, while, at the same time, helping them to express it productively.

And yet …

When I sense even the smallest twinge of anger in myself, for any kind of injustice large or small, I immediately become ashamed and blocked – paralyzed in any kind of action, developing headaches, and even becoming depressed.

Thus …

… blocking myself in expressing it.

Thus, becoming unable to write. 

And so, I think I am developing a New Year's resolution.

I want to allow me to become my own supervisor – a friend to my Self. I want to look at myself from a distance, as if I would a fellow teacher, a family member, child, colleague, or friend, and treat myself as I do others. I want to teach myself how to accept my anger, while at the same time helping me to express it productively. 

I realize this will be difficult, for very early in my childhood I learned to feel ashamed of just about any of my emotions, especially anger. Indeed, shame creeps up and into me almost immediately, thus blocking me from feeling angry, or, and this has been a most amazing discovery lately, even joy and pride at my accomplishments! Unlearning what I learned in my earliest childhood will be tough indeed. For, as my therapist reminds me, undoing "brainwashing" ain't easy. Especially since I have discovered, I was a diligent student when I was young, and what I was taught to feel, stuck – stuck hard and deep!

So, this coming year, 2013, starting this morning, I am going to take my "inner child" by the hand, and gently and compassionately help little "tamarika" accept that she is, like all other humans, allowed to feel uncomfortable feelings – especially, and including anger.

At the same time, perhaps, drive away the dark shame that blocks and binds me to ancient, early childhood fears.

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Blimey, what a year that was

Dear Ada,

This morning, as I was taking out the garbage, I glanced over to the area where we buried your ashes almost two months ago. The chrysanthemum we planted over your grave has been cut back in preparation for winter, and all the leaves raked away. It looked bare and cold, especially because of gray skies and chilly winds today. I thought of how I miss chatting to you about what I am thinking or feeling. Indeed, I miss singing to you. You seemed to like that so much, especially when I whistled a tune. You would start following me about, chirping and responding so sweetly. 

I want you to know that a lot is going on in our house lately. You see, I brought home two new kittens. I think they would have driven you crazy, because you had become older and quieter and, at times, I noticed you hopped up the stairs slowly with jumps and steps that were almost painful for you. I wonder, had you already developed some kind of arthritis? The kittens are called Oscar and Mimi, and they are very busy racing around inspecting each and every item. They chase each other up and down the stairs, under couches and cupboards. Sometimes they rough and tumble play with a wild type of aggression that makes me want to weep with worry, until I realize, as Diane from the Kitty Adoption Team (KAT) told me recently, "All kittens do this."

Dear, sweet Ada, Oscar and Mimi adore playing with little toy mice, soft colored balls, and they especially love running after a laser beam, a red point of light, which I can shine on anything. Of course, over Thanksgiving weekend, Gilad and I both thought it was a bit mean to have them chasing after a light that disappears as soon as they achieve their goal of finding it, sometimes jumping high in the air to try and catch it in a corner of the wall. But, I have discovered that they get quite a bit of exercise that way, and they seem to enjoy the task. 

I miss you at night, Ada. You slept at the foot of the bed, tucking yourself into my legs and feet, adjusting to fit in whenever I rolled over, or moved in my sleep. Lately, I wake up suddenly and search out in the dark for the form of your soft, furry body. Each time I realize you are no longer with us, I feel an emptiness, a type of longing and loneliness that makes me weary to the bone. Not tired enough to fall back to sleep, but fatigued from the ache of missing you. This morning, at four o'clock, I had managed to fall back into a fitful sleep, when I heard a little warbling type of chirp. It was so soft I almost did not hear it. I looked down and noticed little Oscar staring up at me from the floor by my bedside. I smiled down at him and said quietly, so as not to wake up life partner, "Good morning, little fellow. Do you want to come up?" Oscar sprung up like a teddy bear as the "Jack" from a Jack-in-the-box, and slipped under the covers, pressing his soft body up against my side. I held him in my arms and we slept together, deeply, for about an hour or so. When I awoke again, he was playing with my fingers with his paws, while gently nibbling on my wrist. 

By that time Mimi had also come upstairs, and the three of us went down to the kitchen together, me as slowly as you used to be, Ada, and Mimi and Oscar, bounding and tumbling like the two toddler kitties they are. As they slurped up their food with an energetic hunger, delightful to behold, I stood close by sensing the pain of yearning for you subside slightly into the background. Ah, sweet Ada, my darling old friend. I will never forget you, you know that. But I want you to know that you taught me how to love openly and unashamedly, and now Oscar and Mimi will inherit all that knowledge and emotion that you helped me develop and enjoy when you were alive.

After Mimi and Oscar fell asleep in the dining room, each on a different chair, just like you used to do when I would leave for work each day, I went up to our study and checked my email messages. There was one from Diane. She had written to cheer me on as a response to my grief and despair these past two days. She sent me this poem, which, although it is written for dogs, seems extremely suitable for you, Ada … and me.

[Click on the picture to enlarge]

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Becoming includable

Quote of the day:

Every once in a while I make a list of my obsessions. Some obsessions change and there are always more. Some are thankfully forgotten. Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released. I have my writing groups make lists of their obsessions so that they can see what they unconsciously (and consciously) spend their waking hours thinking about. After you write them down you can put them to good use. You have a list of things to write about.

Natalie Goldberg, 1986. Writing Down the Bones, Page 38.

A list of guilty pleasures: Tamarika, November 2012.

Spirituality in the morning when I light incense and candles. Spirituality on my walk when I see robins playing in the trees. Spirituality when I walk past the Unitarian Church on Lincoln Drive amongst the speeding cars as they rush from work to home and back again. Spirituality when I sit in a large church listening to the choir singing through to the roof tops, an organ blasting its tune alongside them. Spirituality with the animals who live side by side with me in my home, noticing their habits, the way they communicate with me and each other, their chirping, growling, moaning sounds as they prance and run, settle into a seat or even dash up and down the stairs. Spirituality in community when I feel the warmth of belonging with others. Belonging is a guilty pleasure – it eludes me time and again. Just when I sense that I am together with people then again I feel apart and so alone. Spirituality in community. Being noticed. Singing at the piano as I accompany my song. Singing with my son as he plays to back me up in more ways than just melodies. Weeping with joy, or longing seem to be one and the same. Writing a list of guilty pleasures and not knowing where it will take me. Lifting my head from the page and noticing the sun thinly stretching across a chilled morning sky. Christmas cacti falling down with fuchsia and pinkish white blossoms, like a waterfall of color and indulgence. Meditating alone in my room remembering chanting mantras softly to Ada as she struggled to push her aching body into a corner of the wall in the hospital room. Chanting washing over me and the little animal settling into a sphinx like pose, allowing us to help her sleep for an eternity.  

This year I regret not having written a "count down to Thanksgiving" as I have done in past years. In fact, I realize that the last time I wrote anything on this blog is well over a month ago. How strange that the writer's workshop I attended last month has rendered me speechless. I guess so much poured out of me during the week at Villa Lina, that I have dried up. Or, on the other hand, am I in shock? After all, I learned so much about writing and me while I was there, perhaps I am simply processing the experience. 

Self expression is tricky indeed. I find my voice, or discover self expression through writing, while, at the same time monitoring myself. It seems there is always some kind of gate keeper sitting on my shoulder watching over what I say, even when I journal in private. I am never sure what it is I really feel until I plough through different versions of me. For my self was formed so many years ago, and depended on beliefs, attitudes and behaviors of significant adults in my life from way back then.

Prompts that Natalie Goldberg gave us for writing exercises helped me find my voice, at times startling me at how authentic I was. I realize as I write this now, that it was surely because of the support I received from the instructor, as well as the small group I worked with each day. Indeed, support is essential for me. Me, who always prided herself in going it alone – who avenged herself by never needing anyone. Am I surprised? Actually, I am relieved to discover that I am "stuck here being human," as my therapist suggested to me recently. In a way I have had a kind of revelation about writer's block. For, I cannot write if I am not being authentic or true to my feelings and the core of my self. I am most prolific when I shed my ancient gatekeepers, who peek over my shoulder censoring what I write.

Going forward, I think I will prop myself up with support – reach out for those, who support and encourage, and keep away from those, who pull me down. Even as I know they don't mean to drag me with them into their insecurities or competitions they are waging with themselves, I find myself drowning as if to bolster them through my pain or feelings of insignificance.

Indeed, I have found much encouragement along the way already – all throughout my life. So, as much as I prided myself for being able to "go it alone," I must have been reaching out all the while without acknowledging the need. And in these days following Thanksgiving, I am really grateful to the people, who blew wind into my wings, and so many times gave me the support I yearned for. 

Lately, though, I sense an unusual stirring within, because I find myself thankful for my own persistence and courage in confronting my discomfort over and over again, as I struggled with lack of confidence, and, often, terror and guilt at acknowledging my accomplishments.

And, yes. I am going to keep on keeping on …

A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Sense of self -part II

Seven years ago at Tamarika: Giving thanks (update)