and a friend whom I hadn't seen in person in a long time messaged me to ask if I was coloring my hair again. Not accusatory, just curious. But now I feel the need to explain. Because if you've been reading this blog you might remember that I made kind of a big deal out of growing out my gray hair last year. And you all were and have been very supportive. So here's the deal.
I did grow out the gray hair. All of it. It took about a year. The sides were almost totally white, which I loved. And I think a lot about growing those back out. But the rest of my hair wasn't silvery white. It was a pretty dull brown, streaked with gray. Sometimes I was okay with this. Sometimes I even felt fierce about it, like I was doing something pretty badass.
But honestly there were quite a few bad days, too, days where the Voice of Shite really had his way with me. I would not sleep well or be stressed out and the dark circles would be bad under the eyes or my skin would feel particularly sallow or I'd notice other signs of wear and tear on my body, and then also my hair would look dull and--even though I know it's a cultural construction and not terribly feminist or brave--I would feel old. Where the white was coming in around my face, especially, my hair looked thin and I felt pretty washed out.
I noticed that I started to refer to myself as old. I also noticed other weird social hiccups, as in we would go out with new friends and I would feel the need to explain away or apologize for my gray hair, right off the bat, and to just casually mention that I was 40. In case they were thinking that I might be 60, I guess? It was like having a cosmetology version of Tourette's.
[Clearly there was something else going on here, some other deep-seated insecurities about making new friends in a new city, occupying my new position of "authority" or "seniority" at work, turning 40, that manifested in an obsession with markers of age and trying to figure out where I fit in the larger system of women's identities.]
So on the bad days I was feeling and even acting some cartoon version of "old." Very often I could talk myself out of these feelings because 1) I don't like how we think about "old," generally speaking, especially when it comes to women, 2) most of the time I think I still looked pretty good [confirmed by looking back at pics of that time], and I was aware that I obsessed about my hair/appearance much more than anyone else did, 3) lots of gray haired women I know are super sexy and confident, and why shouldn't I be too, and 4) it was a practice of self acceptance that frankly I was craving and still crave.
Alas, the dull days started to win. I found I was thinking about the hair more than I was not thinking about it, and I had grown the gray out so I could think about my appearance less. I talked to my stylist and she put some low-lights in my hair, just to give it a bit more definition. I liked how it looked. I felt better. I felt a lot better.
But then, you know, I was getting low-lights every six weeks. And I correlated these little touch ups with feeling better.
So then, you know, why not just start coloring again.
I texted my gray-goddess friend N. and whined to her for the umpteenth time about having a bad gray hair day and she finally had had it with me and essentially said, color it, don't color it, who cares?
Right. Who cares. Perspective.
Went back to the stylist, said let's do it, and she took me back to a pretty tasteful brown with highlights, thank you very much.
But at some point I won't keep coloring. At some point I'll get tired of the monthly appointments or cost or I won't like how the color looks anymore and that will be that.
Here's what I will say: The value of that experiment was that I found out that something I thought I had to do--coloring--wasn't compulsory after all. I can make a different choice any time. And it was a good lesson in accepting something about my looks I wasn't always happy with. When the gray starts to peek through now it just doesn't feel like a big deal, although for the moment I am happy to go and get them colored over, too. It wasn't easy, but doing this allowed me to break some rules I had for myself, and serves as a reminder that I can break them again, when I'm ready.
Presidential election time is fast approaching, and heavily on my mind. A friend on social media recently wrote a post about how she felt disappointment with the current presidential nominee candidates. All of them. Not one party in particular, just all of them. She stated that she was considering abstaining from the vote unless a candidate came out of the wood work that offered a better choice for her. I feel her pain. Rarely in a presidential election or really any level of election for that matter, have I found a candidate that completely espouses every political, social, moral, theoretical or religious belief of mine. I normally choose a few issues I'm primarily concerned with, and vote for the candidate I find most likely to have an agenda similar.
That being said, sometimes a candidate is so terrifying. Sometimes the idea of their particular style of governance, their bigoted ideas are so frightening, I'd vote for the other candidate just to keep them out of office.
It's the lesser of two evils.
Many people disagree with me, and the idealist in me recognizes the validity of their arguments. Voting for the lesser of two evils fuels the fire of a broken two party system. Recognizing other parties or writing in candidates challenges that system, and in the long game may even change it (I've voted green party for crying out loud). The realist in me says, "This hateful, bastard is going to be the leader of the free world if we don't stop him."
I didn't respond to her post. I spent time thinking about it. Far be it from me to tell someone what to do with their lives, or their civic responsibilities. Far be it from me to tell someone how to vote.... But I'm going to anyway. I think you should vote. I'm not talking just to my FB friend here. I'm talking to you. I think you should vote in every damn election you have the opportunity to vote in. I think it's a privilege denied to many, a privilege people fought for, were beaten, arrested and killed to give you.
I also think that sometimes a candidate is so scary, so full of misogyny, racism, and xenophobia that you should vote for the other person. Even if the other person running doesn't embrace every political ideology that you do. I think you should vote for the other person because you have an obligation to this democracy, an obligation to help keep it from those that seek to or just, would, destroy it. I'm not saying this just because it's scary, I'm saying it because in order to preserve the most important foundation of this country, (We hold these truths to be self -evident that all men [women, transgender] are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of Happiness), you might have to pick the lesser of two evils. If you don't, if you sit at home and abstain to make a point, most of us might not hear it, but we will hear the radical, bullying rally cry of those willing to vote for the scary guy.
I was reading Anthony Doerr's All the Light We Cannot See, as you know, and it's so amazing. I notice that he describes over and over again the Linden trees in Paris, in Germany. I don't know what Linden trees are, or why this detail sticks out. I'm barely able to identify the most basic of trees, usually, and I often read mostly for plot and not symbolism. But for some reason, I notice the linden references, and briefly wonder about them, briefly wonder if they are like Proust's madeleines, some special key to memory:
And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on change whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die.
And no, I have not read all of Remembrance of Things Past. I tried. I couldn't do it. But I think Proust's point there--and why this passage has become cultural shorthand--is because memories are so often locked away for us in our material experience of the world rather than in a narrative form. They recover things for us we didn't know we had lost, or in the case of All the Light, things that are precious but soon to be lost. For Proust, cookies, for Walter Benjamin, books, for Doerr's book, lindens. For Doerr himself, pebbles. Smells are where my memories are. Lindens have a strong smell. Particular. Lush. I know this now because just days after I finished Doerr's book I was wandering the deeply satisfying aisles of the co-op. I had a few extra minutes and so meandered the self-care area, picking up bottles, weighing them, all those promises of responsible beauty and health, glowing skin, purity, rich plant pigments, musk. One set of beautiful bottles caught my eye and I went over to touch, to smell. Perfumes. Gorgeous, all of them.
One of them: Linden.
That smell put me right back on the sidewalk outside the restaurant where I worked in grad school in Claremont, California. Evening, after my shift. The nights must have been warming up, and summer was coming, and I was free and outside and young and totally full of possibility. Growing up, I rarely left the ten-block radius surrounding my house unaccompanied. So to be outside, at night, alone, independent...it was thrilling. It was leaving on an airplane by myself. It was packing up my car and moving to another state. It was me doing this, whatever you think about it. Don't get me wrong. My twenties were terrible too. They were filled with bad decisions and heartbreak and poorly handled responsibilities and inadvisable life choices. But they were also punctuated with glorious moments like this one, on the sidewalk, at the start of summer, looking up at the stars, breathing in linden, citrus, sage. I smelled my wrist again, there in the aisle of the grocery store. And: though I can't prove it, though I could be making this up, that smell also took me to my great-grandmother's backyard. Lilac does too, but linden...light filtering through shrubs and tall bushes. Lazy dust motes. Digging in the dirt. Her reading in an aluminum chair. I could have been six or seven? Was there really a linden tree there? Could there have been? Finally, this morning--I'm reading the most recent issue of Orion Magazine, an essay, worth reading in full, aptly titled "Naming Happiness":
One Saturday morning while we walked that waterside path, my mind straying, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Something random, or so it seemed, had trespassed into this highly ordered landscape. It was a falling leaf, riding a gentle, spiraling current to the ground, scuttling to a stop. It was yellow and freckled with brown. The edges curled upward. It looked sort of like an elfin canoe.
A linden leaf. Tilia america. I know this only because I looked it up.
I know any of this only because of Doerr, and that little detail that emerged from the power of that book, and then the chance happening upon the perfume bottle, and then this Orion essay, which deals with the importance of naming that which we do not usually think to name. Linden. There are questions I can't answer, details that remain locked away. Was I in love on that one evening in Claremont, or recovering from heartbreak? Was I alone? Did I have short or long hair? Was I going out to meet friends, or was I heading home? Did I recognize the sweetness of that moment? And in my grandmother's backyard. Was I happy? Did I understand why I was there with my grandmother and not at home? Did I sense already the need to flee? Here's what I do know: that smell reminds me that I was loved, early on. And later, that having the freedom to go is delicious. The experiences of being held and moving on--the twinned forces of my life, there in the buds of the linden tree.
Nolie walked in the door after school last week and she wouldn't make eye contact or say anything and we knew something had happened. That kid is usually talking a mile a minute and physically bouncing off the walls and she just went straight to her room for her half-hour of isolation and screen time.
I was on my way to yoga but I stopped in her room. "Do you want to talk about it?"
No.
"Okay. I understand. But we're going to talk about it later."
More silence.
Later, Addie goes to music class and so E. and I are home alone with Nolie and they are snuggling on the couch and I'm sitting nearby and we're just chatting. I ask her again what happened, and she shakes her head and says she doesn't want to talk about it.
Uh-oh. Big pain in there.
I tell her she has to. She can't keep it inside. Whatever she has to say we are here and it will be okay.
She buries her face into E.'s chest and begins.
On the bus ride home, Nolie always sits next to an older girl who she really, really likes. This girl (who seems to us also to be an awesome girl--cool style, big personality, quirky kid) has been great with Nolie in the past; she has complimented her on her outgoing personality and smarts. And Nolie, being the youngest kid, is also super-excited to be noticed and included by an older girl.
But apparently, on this day, the two of them started talking about bodies, and this girl (who happens to be tall and thin) remarked that not only did Addie and Nolie have different personalities, but they also had very different bodies, and that Addie's was tall and thin, and Nolie's was...
fill in the blank.
Nolie filled in the blank.
Or, rather, the Voice of Shite filled in the blank, with one word: fat. Your sister is tall and thin, and you are short and fat.
Nolie couldn't say the words, and she said her friend didn't say the words, but she knew how the blank got filled in. And how that blank got filled in turned my bright, wickedly funny, beautiful, smart girl into a dull penny convinced of her own worthlessness.
[Please note: we don't blame the girl, at all. This was more thoughtless than malicious. It happens.]
E. and I froze, looked at each other. E. hugged her tight, and I took a deep breath.
If this had happened a year or two ago, we most likely would have just showered Nolie with affection, told her she wasn't fat, told her how beautiful she was. And those things would be true.
But I have recently been receiving some education in the school of Body Positivity, and though I'm really new at this, and struggle with my own self-concept sometimes, and the Voice of Shite has his own way with me still, I knew there was a way to talk about this that didn't 1) deny the pain Nolie felt at this encounter, 2) didn't reinforce the idea that "fat" is something bad or shameful, but merely a descriptor like other physical descriptors, 3) might help Nolie see us the way we see her, which is to say she is beautiful, she is a light in our lives, she is a integral part of our family unit and identity, and 4) acknowledges that all of us look different on the outside and that is not a bad thing, that is instead a very, very good thing and it is part of what makes humanity so breathtaking and extraordinary.
Easy-peasy, right? Kill me now.
But not so hard, either. I had Angie and Amy's mantra going through my head--"All bodies are good bodies, all bodies are good bodies"--and said that first. Remember, Nolie? Remember how we believe that? That there are so many bodies in the world, and we think they all have worth, regardless of how they look, what they can or cannot do?
Nolie nodded a little, but still sniffed, and burrowed into E. a little deeper. The Voice of Shite still felt like it was telling the truth. Not mommy.
So then I reminded her about the Voice of Shite, and how for women especially the Voice of Shite is super clever, and makes us think he is telling the truth about ourselves, but actually he is always telling us lies. And you know how we can know that? Because the Voice of Shite feels bad. It constricts us, shrinks our heart space, robs us of our sense of self. The truth, on the other hand, feels like light and freedom. It makes it easier to breathe. It feels like love.
So which feels true, Nolie? That you are fat, and fat is bad? That if you don't look like Addie nobody loves you?
Or: All bodies are good bodies? That you are surrounded by love, that your body does amazing things every day, that you and Addie are different people with different lives and paths of possibility spool out in front of each of you in totally unique ways? And that your beauties are indeed different, but no less amazing because of that? And that beauty isn't the most important thing, anyway--that there are so many other ways to be of value in the world, that you are intrinsically of value regardless?
We agreed the second choice felt a lot more like the truth.
And there, before my very eyes, re-emerged my daughter. Instant transformation: giggling and doing headstands again, sure of herself and her body and her place in our lives. She's going to get yanked out of that safe space a bunch of times in her life, right? And I'm still learning what to say, how to model radical self acceptance and love, how to be in front of both of these girls and with myself. I've messed this up in the past. But this path feels like a much better way of doing things. This feels like the truth.
I was at the yoga studio a few weeks ago and ran into somebody I went to college with. He was talking to someone else but we made eye contact and nodded and he looked like he was going to say something to me but I blanked on who he was and looked away, so he dropped it. At least I think that's what happened--it all took about 1.8 seconds, so who knows. He left a minute later and by then I had thought of his name and remembered where I knew him from, and I dropped him a line on Facebook later to apologize for being weird. We weren't best friends or anything, but I didn't want to communicate that I didn't care, either.
This happens to me all the time since moving back here. On the one hand, I know it's just par for the course, and that it's impossible for everybody to remember everyone, especially after not seeing someone for twenty years. Awkward interactions are going to happen. So I try to cut myself some slack, and if I don't remember someone, I try to say so and have a good interaction anyway.
But in the back of my mind this forgetting thing causes a lot of anxiety. And it's mostly around the fact that there are these gaping holes in my memory where I seem to have lost whole chunks of my life, for no good reason I can tell. More importantly, I've lost memories of people, or time with people I really loved.
This loss is exacerbated by the fact that I have a lot of good friends and family who have what seem to me to be eerily precise memories for fantastic quantities of detail--names, faces, events, jokes, lyrics, movies. They remember their third grade classmates, or the neighbors they lived next to in junior high. They remember boyfriends and parties and hijinks and teachers and outfits. And they remember just way more than I do, both in terms of quality and quantity.
It's not like I have nothing. I have some very strong, very pointed memories from the first 35 years of my existence. It's just that there aren't very many of them.
What is going on here?
It's not that I'm dumb, right? I mean, I retain all sorts of crazy information for work and for writing projects. I'm good at some kinds of trivia. I recognize faces and voices (though if they are out of context, it's often very hard to place them). I also have a fairly impressive ability to take in and process an enormous amount of information and detail in a very short time frame. I'm a fast reader. I can process visual information like a boss. I get concepts. I have a decent intuition. I'm quick at a lot of things.
I just don't retain long-term.
If I'm not using information on a daily basis, it is very likely to not stay in my head. For example, I rarely need to mail things for work. Maybe once a semester. But whenever I do have to mail something, I have to ask our administrative assistant the procedure for doing it, because I've forgotten. The process is frighteningly simple, but when I try to reach into the recesses of my brain and remember how to do it, I can't. It freaks me out that I have lost the ability to do such a goofy thing. It is so embarrassing. I can laugh it off as Nutty Professor stuff, but it's something more, too.
I wish it was just how to send letters that was at stake. This is where the shame and sadness come in. Because I also lose whole chunks of friendships. Romantic relationships. Family experiences. I remember impressions and feelings, writ large: junior high=painful; high school=exhilarating; grad school=total confusion; delivering babies=awe; raising small children=boring. And so on. But the details are often just gone. Another negative side effect, I think, is that it becomes easy to forget WHAT A BIG FANTASTIC FUCKING LIFE I'VE GOT TO LEAD. I mean, really. It's been amazing. So what kind of jerk am I to forget?
Deep down, I worry that I'm missing these pieces of my life because I am narcissistic, and my narcissism prevents me from retaining details that aren't useful to my ego. But that explanation doesn't feel like the truth, or not the whole truth, anyway. Having these memory gaps is so excruciating because the people in my life are so important to me, and when I can't remember something that was important to them, or a connection we may have had, or even some way that I've hurt them, it's terrifying and sad.
I've also wondered if maybe I'm so future-focused that I don't fully take in the present moment? Do I set too many goals? Am I always just looking for the next big thing?
Maybe. But I feel like I live my life deeply, and often very much in the moment. I value friendship, and connection, and joy.
Nor do I think there is some childhood trauma that I can't recall that is making me lose these other parts of my life. My growing up wasn't perfect. Sometimes when I think really hard about those years, and try to put the story together, it doesn't make sense. I wonder if I inherited a tendency to leave out the unpleasant parts, and family dynamics enabled that, probably. But I don't think there's some unrecovered memory holding me back, either.
I guess I wonder if these things are lost because I have let them be lost. I don't go back through old pictures; I don't tell old stories. I have a canon of life events I remember, like everyone else, but maybe I have just rehearsed mine less.
That's probably why it has always been important to me to blog, here and elsewhere, and why I missed it a lot this last year, while I was finishing the other big writing projects I've been working on. I used to print yearly books up of the blogging I did, and I'm so glad--the girls have been reading them, and telling me back the stories that I wrote about a life we lived but that I had already forgotten. Maybe that's why I write. Maybe that's why we're all drawn to record--to post our pictures, say something funny on Facebook, whatever. To prove we were here, and are connected, and haven't forgotten.
*I had even forgotten the term "memory holes" was from Orwell's 1984. Oy.
We had the happiest holiday break....after such an intense, punishing fall, it was pretty much all E. and I could do to pull Christmas off and then spend very much time in our jammies. It took me the first week of break just to stop panicking. I didn't even know I was, to be honest, but then I would find myself standing up in the middle of hanging out with the kids or watching TV and feel like I'm supposed to be doing something only I can't remember what it is. Then I would sit back down, bewildered, and nervously check the apps on my phone. It was only last week that I really settled down into a slower rhythm--which, delicious!--and marveled at how little it can really take to fill a day if you let....time....slow....down.
Of course, when I asked the kids last night at dinner what they thought of break they both said they were bored and I said good, you are having a typical human-child experience in the United States of America and that boredom will lead you to greatness because you will want to flee my boring house and build your own daring and beautiful life on your own, as I did, and as all the generations before ours have. At which statement they rolled their eyes, picked their nose, and cleared the table.
Cretins.
Anyway, one of my tasks today was to reflect on how I might transition back into work tomorrow with some semblance of grace. We are going up to Idaho City to soak at The Springs this afternoon--one last little bit of sumptuous luxury before the great hamster wheel of work and school starts back up tomorrow--but before we go, and at the risk of adding to the millions of New Year's listicles out there, I wanted to give you some little gifts that won't require much of your time or money but which might help you ease back into your own post-holiday routine with a little sparkle and joy.
Here we go, in No Particular Order.
1. We watched a lot of the last season of The Voice (on Hulu) over the break. Which reminded me of how much I love Pharrell Williams, who is the moral compass of that show and is an ARTIST. You might be annoyed by having to hear "Happy" on the radio all the time, but check out N*E*R*D if you haven't already. So amazing. Anyway, I looked him up on the inter webs again and I've been watching this video pretty much every day. It takes my breath away. It is my anthem for 2016.
Plus, he wears jeans with an Adidas logo on his butt. Awesome.
2. Do yourself a favor and sign up for this. It's free, and it changed my life this year, could change yours.
3. You probably already readAll The Light We Cannot See, I was late to it, but it is taking my breath away right this very moment. Go to your public library and check it out, get on the waitlist, borrow a friend's copy. Just read it.
4. Speaking of self love, if you're on Facebook and aren't signed up already, why not ask to be admitted to the Boise Rad Fat Collective? Even if you aren't fat? Or even if you are fat but are afraid and ashamed that you are? Or if you'd just like to stop being at war with your body, regardless of what it looks like? Or if you want to stand in solidarity with your sisters and brothers who struggle with body shaming? Or if you want to learn more about thin privilege? Or if you want to understand what it really means to "love yourself," a phrase which has always mystified me but that now no longer rings empty?
If you need a little taste of what body positivity (and bravery and feminism) look and feel like, you can always check this out:
In fact, if you haven't seen it yet, take two minutes, get your kids and loved ones, and watch it or the longer version together.
And as someone who has for most of her life given herself lots of dietary rules to live by and for many years hasn't been able to sense what her body is feeling until recently, and who had lots of negative self-talk always going on in the background, often without even realizing it, I also give you 100% permission to not diet, to not count calories, and to seek out things that feel good instead of things that make you feel guilty or ashamed. I got a Fitbit for Christmas and I love it because I love data and metrics and movement. But the first thing I did was disable the pounds tracker and calorie counter. Because fuck that noise.
5. If you happen to have a little cash, and you're like me and love habits, rituals, daily practices, and badass female mysticism, you could consider dropping some dollars on one of Danielle LaPorte's daily planners (and while you're at it you could sign up for her free periodic emails, which I also love). I used to be like planners, what? That's what Google calendar is for! But then I read up on them and I love this so hard. A great way to start your day.
6. Podcasts. Podcasts, podcasts, podcasts. If you're into podcasts yet, can I recommend them heartily? They are great for listening to when you're out walking or hiking, and I especially love how they have transformed how I feel about doing chores. There are podcasts for every dang thing, but the ones I love are
Serial (duh)
Reply All
Start Up
Mystery Show
Surprisingly Awesome
This American Life
NPR Politics Podcast
The Beautiful Writer's Podcast
Big Magic
Dear Sugars
But there are thousands more that you could try out, almost always for free, provided you have a way to stream on your phone or laptop.
7. This is kind of a small, dorky thing, but two little self-care practices that I love when I'm feeling stressed out are to a) put a pot of boiling water in the stove with some essential oils (I like Rosemary) and stick your face over it for a few minutes. Super soothing. Unless you're claustrophobic. Then maybe not. Or, again, if you have cash to drop, b) order a tuning fork in Ohm. Bang it against your hand and then hold it to your ear. I'm someone who is super-rocked by sensory stimulation all the time, and I find these two things really grounding.
8. Even if you don't like to draw or think you can't draw, check out Drawing and Painting Imaginary Animals from the library and mess around with it. Nolie and I went out and took pictures of funny ice shapes and piles of rotting leaves and then drew animals based on them. Super fun, and it will remind you that you can create something and not just always consume what other people have made.
9. And then there's this. This won't take just two minutes, unfortunately. This might take some time. It might elude you for a while. But I think it's the most important thing to think about if you want something in your life to shift.
It's this: Find some way to develop a sense of reverence in your life. For me, it's been going to St. Michael's Episcopalian church every Sunday, even though I'm not Episcopalian (or haven't been, anyway), I hate getting up in the mornings, and I have generally had a healthy distrust of Christian religions. But you know what? It is awesome. That place is filled with love. They have a serious heart for social justice there. I crave the rituals and responses like the earth craves water. For whatever reason, spending that hour there on Sunday mornings has made every other part of my life better.
Butthere's lots of ways to get at reverence--religion or spirituality is just a more direct path, in my view. You can ask: what inspires awe for you? What kinds of rituals do you have? When do you connect with something larger than yourself? When do you find yourself at one with other humans? When do you feel at peace, and how can you make that happen more? Do you need to do something new, or recommit to something that's always been in front of you?
I have a sneaking suspicion that reverence is the key to happiness, so this is worth thinking about.
10. And finally. If you're still with me. Sign up to get these little nuggets of inspiration delivered to your inbox every day. I read them every morning. Some I like, some I love, some are transformative, like this poem:
Beannacht: A Blessing for the New Year
John O'Donohue
For Josie
On the day when The weight deadens On your shoulders And you stumble, May the clay dance To balance you.
And when your eyes Freeze behind The grey window And the ghost of loss Gets in to you, May a flock of colours, Indigo, red, green, And azure blue, Come to awaken in you A meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays In the currach of thought And a stain of ocean Blackens beneath you, May there come across the waters A path of yellow moonlight To bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours, May the clarity of light be yours, May the fluency of the ocean be yours, May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow Wind work these words Of love around you, An invisible cloak To mind your life.
Isn't that a great blessing? I wish it for you. I hope you wish it for yourself. Happy New Year.
