Wild ride

January 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

I stand in the wind at the casco and watch. Here in Patagonia where trees take on the shape of the elements, grow in the direction the wind blows, or simply refuse to start and let the seeds scatter to a more tranquil land.

I can not share with you all I see as it seems on the surface still and not yet within, not yet absorbed into that deeper place where words are found and stories born. There will be time. I feel the soaking in, warm and gradual and rich as the summer sun browning my shoulders that have never been so exposed in January.

Start and stop. I stare at my words like unfamiliar faces. Hard to describe what I do not yet understand. And yet, that is exactly what I must learn to do. Describe a life not with the depth and perspective of intimacy as I have for my own life and feel for my mountain. But as a storyteller, nothing more than the impartial observer, happy to share a tale. And what a wonderful tale this is. The story I am here for.

Though are we ever truly impartial? Can we observe the world around us without becoming a part? I do not believe I can. Fortunately, I have learned to love this woman before we even met. As such, her story will be told with a loving touch, a knowing grin, and eyes wide from amazement. (She is helping me work on the humor part. Not my strong point, but one more of hers.) This is the story of a woman with MS? Oh yes. But her story is so much more…

Now is the time to absorb, and I am saturated. Spending my days pouring into the life of another to gather stories like seeds, and hold them tight as to not let them blow away. And still the wind roars, and sheepskins hung along the fence to dry flap like thin flags on a pole, and gauchos ride in proud and handsome on their beautiful horses, people coming and going, most of whom don’t understand a word I say and of course I do not understand them which is very frustrating place to be, and the sound of hammers and saws and rooster crows and barking dogs and local gaucho rap songs tangle about me in the twisting winds. More distractions than an artist’s open mind can figure out a place for on the table filled with bounty and ready for the feast. So hungry for silence yet wouldn’t miss all this for anything. And realize I am so absorbed, I forget to look back. Forgot back “home” there is cold and snow and familiar faces, my horses and cats and just one quiet rooster that doesn’t wake until after I do, and a language I can understand, but none of that matters here and now. And that is the best place to be.

Let the writing begin. Why I am here. Why we were brought together.

(And yes, Jorge did stay on that horse…)

Old rocks and new
sand worn from wind
and time, so many

millennia of relentless
elements overbearing
softened and smoothed

to a treeless hillside
void of
shelter as the lightning

touches down near and
the low bushes smell
of burning oil, we

curl our shoulders
forward and tilt our
head down

as rain hard as stones
drips through my saturated
hair and down my

still pale from
the northern hemisphere’s
winter forehead and

into my gringo blue
eyes and must be
brushed away by

a crumbled rag dug
from my pocket
the last place

I can find
dry and warm
and familiar.

A turning point

January 18, 2013January 20, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

(photo of me taking photos of this beautiful land, by Golde Wallingford)

A shift in the winds. Perhaps it is the smell of horses. The grounding ritual, if I may be so bold to give it that name, of shoveling manure. The smell of a horse’s neck and soft touch of the silky spot under the mane. Doesn’t matter where you are. That side of the equator or this one. The smell remains the same. It does not bring me back there. But lands me here more solidly. Funny such a simple thing like smell or shoveling can complete you.

Arrived. Adjusting. Settling in. A beautiful world. Beautiful people. Overwhelmed with love and light, tears and laughter, constant noise from early morning roosters to the late night barking of dogs, people buzz about like harmless flies, music, crickets, birds sounding like a pond full of frogs, the pounding of horses feet on packed gravel, and a language I am trying so hard to understand.

At times I am a window, looking out, quietly absorbing, soaking it all in. Let it shine.

And then the gift of rain. Smelling of a different earth. Patagonian soils. Old and rich and proud. Arid mountains, expanding views. Here at the casca, so safely tucked into the trees as a home in winds should be, shading arms enwrapping. Sweet, sweet rain. Cleanse me of the past and pour me into the future as I float on the languid waves of here and now, these rolling hills as big and wide and open as the sea.

Rain, the song as sweet as the smell. Fat, swollen, heavy drops falling by the bucket full, each one dancing to its own wild rhythm upon the metal roof, rolling together to the puddle on the sandy earth just before my dusty boots, kicked out before me as I sit on the stump of wood under the eve just outside my new front door.

How funny to finally check in on the computer and remember back “home” there would be snow. It would be cold. How funny to consider how little time I have looked back. My apologies to those I love. Change is both overwhelming and self absorbing.

If it were easier to post, I would share more with you. The trip, tips on travelling with a dog, beautiful new friends beginning with Barbara in Buenos Aires, and here our dear Ginny, like the sister so many ask if we are, and Golde and Jorge and little Milton who is happy to play with my dog, the horses, the air, the culture, the language, drinking mate and taking siestas (I have learned are the best time for finding a rare moment quiet enough to write). The hardest part is losing my solitude. That is hard indeed for the intentionally lonely soul.

I am not big on looking back, though I want to share stories and details and parts of this story that I think you might enjoy reading. Where does each day go, as we sit down for dinner at the hour I used to turn in to bed?

It will come in time. Patience is the greatest lesson here. At least the most obvious. There are others. There will be more. More important? I try not to judge, only to learn and do.

The internet may or may not be working, and the power outs regularly. A reminder of my adoration of living off grid, and gratitude that we can connect over the internet at all, in Colorado and here in Patagonia.

This is what MS can look like.

To watch Ginny up on the horse today. Exhilarating to see. And to imagine the joy, the cup overflowing within her, being in a place she belongs, comfortably, confidently. Seeing her energy rise. Her posture resume. One could say a queen upon her throne, but without the airs and pretention, and in fact, a most earthy act indeed. The Phoenix with wings which the horse has given to us. Beautiful indeed. An awakening. A slow and gentle healing, if for no longer than the time in a place this woman feels a home, her self. In the saddle. And yet, I feel it is longer lasting than that. There is more. She is brighter, more alive. I see an improvement already in her, and I wonder how far she will progress in this positive directions. I am pushing her. Doing less for her on one hand. Standing up to her (I say with a smile, for we are two strong women that at times will butt heads in the most graceful way, with power and words, as we women are known to do). Forcing her to find more strength within, for I know there is plenty. Challenging her creativity. Encouraging her to walk more. To focus more (how like changing winds she can be). To keep direction and keep it positive and get things done. There is so much to do. I am thinking she should draw. Where is that peach with the leaves? She wanted to draw that. Creativity heals, she says, and she knows.

Enough. For now I sleep. I cannot absorb it all. Sleep allows time and space to soak it in. So here I am, typing away as my sweetie breathes deep and warm in the early stages of the deepest of sleep beside me, and I prepare to close down this fantastic tool called computer, and return to the most primal state I can. Sleep, wrapped around my sweetie.

The beginning

January 7, 2013January 7, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

like leaving a lover

on one hand

and with the other

holding onto my hat

as we dive down into the wind

Since Solstice

Sometime just past noon, the cabin is drained, power shut down, everything put away well enough. Food scraps and the remains of the cookie jar set out for the Steller’s jays, magpies and pair of ravens that will have to make do without us for a while. Another pack rats caught in the trap under the house tossed out into the snow. Christmas lights taken down and put in away in the attic. Four boxes of food for a friend in town clean out the fridge. And everything we’ll need for nearly four months away, piled and packed into the toboggan sled hooked behind the snowmobile.

Funny to be so bundled up in down jackets, long johns and thick winter boots. We’re heading towards mid summer. Such is travelling to the other side of the world. People do it all the time. I never have.

I’m not going to say deep farewells this year. I’ll be back soon enough. Long enough. I’m in no rush. Leaving behind the worse snow we remember. Bad snow. For us that means: not much. Better that we’re not sticking around wishing for something we do not have. Elk tracks down on the reservoir flats make it look like a feed lot without fences. They coyote are loving life. Feasting on snowshoe hare that are also abundant this year. Their advantage lost in low snow.

Just past two weeks after Solstice and you see the difference. Already I feel the sun stronger on exposed flesh. My hands without gloves for the first time this year. Nose and cheeks, weathered and creased skin at the corners of eyes and lips and it feels so good. It feels. I remember last winter in northern Washington where the sun held no power of touch during the deep of winter, filtered by mauve light under the soft inversion.

Last night I stepped out to walk with the dog under the brilliant and unlimited depth of our night sky to say farewell. I will not see the same constellations for nearly four months. And although I’ll be a in “remote” location, I can only guess it won’t be this many miles away from another light, another human being. But it is our altitude that brings sparkle and luminescence to otherwise emphatic black. It is this altitude that brings us closer to touching the skies.

And tonight I watch the sky on fire in the coldest place in the Lower 48 as we drive through Alamosa and the San Luis Valley.

Now in a hotel. With TV, pizza and wings and the dog on the bed between us.

on one hand

how quiet

without the call

of the coyote

on the other

TV and traffic and the buzz

of central heating

oh yes, the adventure begins

Do I call this Day One of this adventure when I feel our life is always an adventure and even this one, I’ve been working on for months? How about Day One of this chapter?

New beginning

January 2, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Here’s to a new beginning. Today and every day we choose to see the newness. And here’s to being a part of it, not just watching it pass by.

A new beginning
today, as every day.
Is it any different?
the crutch of familiarity
balancing
inevitability of change
when so much around is changing
solid ground moving beneath still feet

The act of choosing

Today I choose here. For now.

The sound of the pot of water on the wood stove hissing into dry air. Breathing. My husband’s, my son’s, my dog’s, my own. I can make out each breath, underscored by the sound of a purring cat. Is this what the world sounded like in the womb? Or the sound, perhaps, of drowning. And then there is nothing more.

Though maybe there is touch. My dog’s cold nose against my hand waking me. My husband so soft and warm, his back to me. I roll towards him and fit just right. He doesn’t stir but settles into the comfort he is now so used to.

The little things please me today. Time with my son. We don’t need an elaborate celebration. Save that for those who need a thrill. There is no need to put on airs for more. We have plenty.

It’s not like you wake up one morning and sit up in bed with your feet on the cold floor and say to yourself, “Oh my, I changed!”

No. It’s slow, steady, deliberate. Think molasses. And yes, chances are that means thick and messy, too.

Two weeks into my seventeenth year I boarded a plane for France and stayed there for a year. That was almost thirty years ago. To pay for the ticket, I had spent the summer working as a camp counselor at the local Y, caring for 18 8-year old boys, shuttling them around by subway between the boroughs of New York City, holding the door that wanted to keep closing open against my skinny little back until all my skinnier little kids were safely on board or off. When I returned back to my parents’ apartment, nothing was the same. You don’t go backwards, do you? You can choose to do something over, try it again, that sort of thing. But the same? Really… never. Something is always different. Though sometimes, of course, that difference is pretty profound.

At what point did I change? Maybe when I was still working as the camp counselor and my superior had taken mescaline that day we were schedule to take the boys to another borough, and I knew it was up to me to take care of the kids by myself, and it didn’t cross my mind I could not. Maybe it was when I boarded that plane alone and was flying across the ocean at night, and saw darkness I had never seen before, and found such peace in the hum of massive engines pushing steel through the black sky.

I don’t know. We usually don’t know when we go through change. Only upon reflection do we figure it out. So what can I say? Maybe tomorrow I’ll look back at today and wonder. But I don’t think I’ll have it figured out for a while. And I’m finally starting to get this much. Maybe we never know. That mystery thing. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

Confessions of a mountain mama

December 29, 2012December 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

So yes, travel… But first, life. The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about. I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet. Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations. We don’t take them. So what am I doing? Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded. On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me. For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind. This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us. Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away. I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb. My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me. Otherwise, I would not go. I’m really not interested in such frivolity. Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about. Now I love what I have. But still want to experience more. Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character. Embrace it all.

All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?). Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it. None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good. What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me. For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part? The rest might seem like boring details in comparison. They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things? (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before? You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real? Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about? Really, take a minute and think about it. Maybe write it down so it’s clear. Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like. I’m glad to listen. It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother. Nothing has created me more. I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.) I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for. I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion. I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion. I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before. After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say. We’re three equals now. There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more. More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start. For travel will change you. Not tourism, but travel. Going to be, not just to see.

My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact. Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed. I am waiting. Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming. Maybe this isn’t the time. Make the time.

Writing. Sharing. We all have gifts. I believe this is mine. I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together. Some of you have seen that, or figured that out. This is my thing. Sharing stories. Maybe just images. Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me. Or inside, deep within.

This makes no sense, I know. This is no explanation for where I am going. Though maybe it is. In a round-about way. I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there. The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes! It’s six below zero (-21C) without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one! Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind. Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

Fine tuning point and purpose

December 27, 2012December 27, 2012 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

when I wake I
remember what
is outside I love
but in my head
is not where
I want to be

You know I never meant for this to be a travel log. Quite the contrary. It was always meant to be about home. Building home, making home, home making. Homesteading. But it’s not, is it? Though I think it was four years ago when High Mountain Muse first began. Seems long ago and far away now. Though the view outside the window looks just about the same as it did back then. Maybe less snow this year. That’s a problem. But I don’t want to discuss that today.

Maybe I’ve lost my way. Maybe I’ve changed direction. But look! Here I go. I’m changing again.

After our adventure last winter battling the Empty Nest syndrome by flying my own coop to Northern Washington, I was pretty sure I was ready to return, settle down, stay a while. But it seems I am not done. I can’t blame the Empty Nest syndrome any more. I should be over that. (Or does one ever really recover?) Maybe it’s just Itchy Feet.

But I think it’s more. It is about life. About passion. About a wild desire to experience life, full and rich. About tasting life, not just reading the recipe. And diving in. Not just touching your toe to cold water and being afraid to dive in.

I’m diving in.

Time to think about packing now. We’re two weeks away from launching. I hope you’ll join me. Sit back, tighten your seatbelts, and enjoy the ride.

But first, I’m here. Now. And that’s still the best place to be. (Especially with our son here with us!)

hold steady the camera
to the mountain
my muse
and breathe in another shot

ingrained

chiseled somewhere in
there where I am
reminded of
the smell
of crumbled aspen leaves
and pine sap
spruce bark
and the odor of the bull elk
who left his bed of melted snow
to silently blend
into pale trees
and wood smoke wafting from
the cookstove chimney
lingering out on pasture
where the horses should be

ingrained

Trying not to write is like morning without coffee. Very incomplete, but without the headaches.

On these trees

December 22, 2012December 22, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

The rhythm of movement. Lost in thought, and trying not to think. Just observe. The beauty and silence of the early winter on the mountain. Over cast sky and hills flattened without shadows, broken by dried bunch grass and the leafless cinquefoil poking through thin snow. Speckled hillsides where we expect by now to see smooth white. Don’t think about the continued drought. Don’t think. Just observe.
Cold hands. I struggle to press the shutter with my mittens on. As clumsy as boxer mits. Such contrast to the delicate subjects before me.

~
Dead trees. And dying ones. Sending out their last sap in a losing battle.
Beetle kill. Part of learning to see, finding the beauty in the beast. Getting used to it. Living with it. Knowing the tell-tale signs. Pin holes, loose bark, dried and heavy sap runs. This is Cutting Edge science. They look for answers. I wish they had them. I am learning to see reality. We are seeing changes yet undocumented, not yet understood. We learn to live it, not analyze it. We use our eyes, our heart. We listen to the falling needles on cold ground in spring and brush a tiny black beetle off our shirt in early summer. We walk trails silent from the layer of needles spread out before us like sand leading the way to the beach. Needles that once were shade. The view is opening.

~
It’s big, hundreds of thousands acres around me, but I am going to look close.
Some days it gets to me. Looking up at the rolling hillsides of brown blue spruce. Looking closer, say, at one pin hole or piece of slipping bark, is easier.

~
Living in a land I used to think was one of the last to be affected in this country, kind of like the late bloomer. Behind the times, if I may say. But now we find ourselves ahead of the game. Water issues. Drought. The aquifer drying up. Farmers paid not to grow. Entire forests dying. This is the forefront. There is nothing to refer to except for today.
We learn to listen with our eyes, our hearts, and let the so-called experts spit in the wind. Hopefully not too close to you or me.
I’m a dark timber kind of woman. A wood sprite of sorts who hides in the big heavy trees where my spirit is free and soars. I found my grandmother wisdom in the old growth fir, and my passionate bliss among the vanilla scented ponderosa pine. I’m not a silken bark aspen kind of lady putting out a fanfare of garish delight one season, and letting loose my leaves for half the year. That said, I have grown to love a hillside blending one into the other. That is Colorado.

~
At last count, Colorado lost 17% of our aspen. The aspen, some say, will be replaced by the conifer. They said that before the conifer began to die. Now some say the aspen will replace the conifer. I say no one knows. Such claims bring false hope. Can’t the land be beautiful for how she chooses to be? Ah… but are these changes her choice, or her reaction to our changing world?
All we can do is watch them slowly die, a quiet death, without fanfare. It doesn’t take a scientist to tell me. It only takes my eyes.
I see it. Plain as day. Plain as death.
Perhaps it is meant to be a mystery after all.
Have I lost my way again? What happened to quieting my mind and just observing?
How hard it is to just breathe.

Seeing solstice

December 21, 2012December 21, 2012 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Learning to see. Not just what I want to see. But what is there before me. Real and raw. And then find the beauty within, hidden as it may be at times.
Lessons learned looking through the lens.

(this inspired by the work of Harold Reinisch on his blog Okanagan Okanogan.

Light. Such a fascinating subject to focus on. I’d like to learn to capture a person’s light. Few opportunities present themselves here and now. There will be time. In the meanwhile, I turn to the mountain. Even on these days of long nights, with falling snow and white washed sky.

Learning to see. I’ve spent years here looking from afar. Now I find myself zooming in. Looking closer, deeper, slower. Does this have to do with age, patience or simply perspective?

The intimate point of view. Am I bringing you in there with me? Into the trees, a little lighter now than last year, sparser now with needles fallen from the dying spruce, and bare aspen trees tipped over and piled like match sticks in places. Seems like a new one across the trail each time we take our snowshoes through the trees. A nice place to sit and rest.

The camera – teaching me to slow down, maybe even stop, look closely, see the details. Breathe into an intimate gaze. I have seen the landscape. Know the view. Coming home from a snowshoe yesterday and my mountain, my muse, is spread out before me like a naked model, tempting, teasing, taunting. I lift my camera, held my breath and really look. I had taken the same picture before, I was sure. Probably more than once. Same snow, same light, same time of day on this very same day in December. I do not press the shutter and move on.

Learning to look close, close enough to touch, to feel, to smell and taste. To share that taste with you. Leave it sweet and bitter on your tongue.
It takes patience for me. Like being aware of my breath. A walking meditation.
Finding light on the darkest day. A metaphor for living.

After the even zero of winter’s mornings

December 18, 2012December 18, 2012 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

the weight of cold and clothes
slows us
down, lifting
bundled legs over
snow covered rocks
advancing up the
seemingly silent stream

a white ribbon running
through a white land

from her banks
she is silent still but
up close she
continues to sing

then suddenly she is
open, loud and
rushing from
a black abyss

broken

upon her smooth
surface, or gives
way beneath footfall
leaving breathe caught
mid way and
heart pumping a little

louder

we listen to find
our way, the stronger
she sings, the thinner
the ice, the closer we are
to rushing waters
and her secrets
chanting below
each hushed step
of snowshoe on powder

untouched

but for the occasional
criss cross pattern
bank to bank
like summer’s spider webs strung
tree to tree

in warmer days as we
come to the creek
and brush silk from our
sweaty cheeks
as we find a place
to cool and escape

now no more than an easy
crossing for
coyote and shoeshoe hare and

dog that turns wild on days like this
and allows us only
brief sightings
of brown fur and

domesticity

he moves silent as
the river, stealth
through dark timber
in his own world yet
never too far from
where we are

then just as suddenly
by our side
and we slowly progress
up stream together
while the waters continue
their muffled flow down
beneath each

uncertain step

I would also like to share this. It is beautiful.

The following was written and shared by “Yourothermotherhere” as a comment. I think you will see why I felt this should be shared in a post. Thank you, for your words.

it is about you
because your eyes
belong to you
and where you stand
the view is unique
to you

but it’s also about me
because you are more
than your eyes

you are heart
and soul
and mind

that all long to connect
with others of the same
creator
creations

an infinite gallery
of beauty
seen through
eternal beings

What I’m trying to say

December 16, 2012December 16, 2012 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

a scene from a snowier winter, what we’re still waiting for…

some days I see
nothing new
the same
blue bird in bluebird blue sky
and yes it paints a lovely picture
but what I need to see
to share
and what you look for
long for
is somehow

something more

the breath of the sparrow
last year’s grass standing stiff as straw
breaking the endless white hillside
into soft waves as the wind catches
stirs and deposits
obstructed by no more than
a blade of dried grass

the tell tale tracks of the
coyote catching
the snowshoe hare, white fur
scattered on snow like
heavy grains of frost

pin holes and chipped bark
on the broad rough side of
the blue spruce
that has scattered its needles on
the fresh snow below
pick-up sticks played as a child

the orange wash of the lightening
sky spilled across the flat white
of the horse pasture
now cleared of tracks
calm as the sea on a day
when the wind holds
its breathe

it can’t just be about me
and the pretty world
I live in
and all I can do is
hope
that what means something to me
might mean something
to you

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