Author: Bev

I hadn’t slept much the night before and my day had been one of the extra busy ones.  So, the sofa and I joined forces for a late afternoon nap, which we sometimes do.

I was awakened by the telephone answering machine from an epic dream of a storm and a fire, which hubby and I nonchalantly conversed through.  I was in that degree of awake that I’ve experienced before where I don’t really know where I am and only vaguely familiar with who I am or what I’m supposed to be doing at this moment.

Imagine feeling like that all the time.  Then you might have a glimpse of the life of someone with dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.

This reminded me of our days teaching at a college in New Mexico many years ago.  The college sponsored various programs of community support, one of which was awareness of disability.

How to develop compassion?  Let’s step outside ourselves for an experiment in empathy.  Play a game called “If.”  “How would I feel if…?”

I recall seeing an unusual number of wheelchairs on campus, one day.  Then I became aware of lots of blindfolded people walking about with support persons and white sticks at the ready.

Then there were the workshops showing us visuals of how it is to try to see through a cataract.  It was truly a fog.  We were taught empathy through those programs, given the gift of imagining what it might be like “to live like that.”

I don’t know why Beatles songs frequently come into my mind when I write, but here we are.  “Imagine all the people sharing all the world…. You may say I’m a dreamer but I’m not the only one.  I hope some day you’ll join us and the world will live as one….” (John Winston Lennon, released 1971, Imagine).

I think, more often than we would admit, we imagine ourselves as someone else.  We wonder what we would do with the wealth of Bill Gates or Oprah Winfrey, the power of the president, the popularity and influence of our favorite celebrity, the admiration from the masses, like Diana, Princess of Wales, etc.

These are the exciting things we might imagine, a dream job, a dream relationship or dream adventure.  Who hasn’t imagined their dream car, dream house or dream body?

But what about imagining toward empathy: the nightmares of losing your sustenance, your abilities to think and reason, sing and dance or even ambulate; losing your child, your spouse or best friend.  Have you ever imagined how you would live if cast into poverty through no fault of your own; how you would cope if you must one day awaken to a life of constant pain or an addiction you can’t shake?

Do we ever imagine how we would handle the amputation of a limb, blindness, deafness, mental decline, paralysis and phantom pain?  Do we ever practice in our minds, being a social pariah, despised by many, having no friends or family or paralyzed with fear or anxiety?

Do you ever imagine “walking a mile in my shoes?” (Billy Connolly, Joe South or Atticus in To Kill a Mockingbird) Literally?  Again, with those exercises in empathy, I’ve walked in well-worn shoes of someone else’s who had a distinctly different gait, (feet tilted inward – pronation, versus tilted outward – supination), and it’s super weird, hard to walk.  The experience is a bit like wearing Asian wooden shoes or glass slippers, Cinderella.  Comfortable, it is not.

Several things not included in my birth plan way back in the day, was more than twenty-four hours of labor, a 3 a.m. walk through our neighborhood wearing my velour purple robe, carrying a wine glass filled with grape juice and assisted by midwives; oh, and greeted by a cruising police officer who escaped as quickly as he arrived.  I often wondered why I didn’t have flip flops ready, to support my severely swollen feet, for transport to the hospital with preeclampsia.  Then there was the emergency cesarean section.

 I wore my husband’s well-worn tennis shoes.  It was a rushed decision, and not my best one.  But they were the only shoes I could get onto my thickening paws, in a hurry.

I can’t really know what it’s like to be in your shoes, unless I imagine it.  I can exercise empathy, by trying to imagine what you’re going through.  Even then it’s not the same, but it’s close.

“I get it now.  That’s why they do that, say that, behave like that, feel that way.”  It doesn’t excuse them and I may not agree with them, but I understand them when I exercise empathy.

Try empathy, unless you’re a Narcissist, who cannot for the life of you, conceive of being inside someone else’s skin.  Then there’s God, who in Mary Fishback Powers’ poem, Footsteps in the Sand, carries us through the difficult times.  We could try imagining our way toward empathy by putting on some uncomfortable shoes, not our own and carrying some folks through their rough times; pretending we’re Jesus, just for a moment.

“It’s a matter of interpretation.”  Do we really speak the same language?  Or, is it imperative to rely on interpretations of what is said?

“Don’t read into what I said.”  I confess that I do this all the time.  In fact, if I don’t consciously stop myself, it is literally all the time.

“My life is an open book.”  Few of us can truthfully say this.  Most people are closed books and people like me are constantly trying to open all these books and when unsuccessful we resort to fictionalizing the stories that we get an inkling from off of the book jacket, the outside of the book.

I got to thinking about this whole idea of interpretation from a Facebook forward from Mindful Christianity.  In part, it goes like this: “Two people read the same Bible.  One sees….  The other sees….  Two people, one book.  One Book, two views.  The book is a mirror.  The reflection is you.”

For example, the third commandment (Deuteronomy 5:11) says in the old-timey KJV of the Bible, “thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”  Now, I grew up with the idea that swearing or some called it cursing, especially saying words like damn, and all of its versions saying Jesus or Jesus Christ, or God, as in Oh My God (OMG), was breaking commandment number three.

So, did the actor in the British drama, Line of Duty misuse the name of God when he exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and their wee donkey,” at a ridiculous answer to a question, under caution, an oath to tell the truth?  Did Will Ferrell’s character in Talladega Nights, blaspheme when he exclaimed in exasperation, or prayed to, “Baby Jesus?”  Should Protestants be up in arms at the line in Paul McCartney’s “Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…” in one of my favorite songs, Let it Be?

But “swearing” in this way, is not the same as swearing in an oath by God’s name and intending to break that oath, or is it? That is swearing falsely and breaks the covenantal law set out in Leviticus 19:12.

Is this swearing, and or a breach in the third commandment?  It seems, a matter of interpretation.  What is swearing?  Talk about swearing under oath, I borrow a line from President Bill Clinton, “it depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”

If we’re talking Bible, there are multiple versions or interpretations of this magnificent book. Why do you suppose that is?  Why do we need so many versions or interpretations?  Why so many divisions in the Christian Church?

What is fundamentalism?  Is it a type of interpretation?  Orthodoxy, or adhering to correct, standard, or accepted creeds is fundamental to one’s interpretation of the Bible.  Whichever creed you adhere to, possibly the one you grew up with, will color what you see in the words written in the Bible.

Now, back to interpretation, specifically.  Interpreters worldwide are not only fluent in at least two languages, they are empaths as well, so to speak. 

Not only does the interpreter translate words, they translate meanings.  In other words, we don’t just interpret language, we interpret culture, emotion, intent, tone, and attempt to bridge the exchange between two speakers/listeners.

Two people reading this column may interpret it very differently, depending upon what each sees in the mirror.  Either way, I hope it stimulates you to think deeper than today’s weather, but that is also open to interpretation.

“Some like it hot.”  Some like it cold, cool, or colder than now.  Others like it humid, but not too much.  Because of the basic tenet of interpretation, one can suppose that is why we have degrees built into our language, e.g., cold, colder, coldest, Autumn, Winter, or frozen tundra; warm, warmer, warmest, hot, blistering, and right out of the gates of hell.  Where I stand, on the weather, well, let’s leave that up to your interpretation.

You know how it feels when you’ve eaten too much; “I’m stuffed,” we say.  In movies I’ve heard Brits or Aussies say, “get stuffed” and it doesn’t mean to eat to overflowing.

Then there’s the stuffed animal or the stuffed-up nose.  A pillow is said to be stuffed.  There’s the overstuffed chair, sofa, or ottoman.  These stuffed things are luxury items, welcoming and comfortable.

We stuff turkeys and chickens with bread that is flavored with their juices and which in turn keeps the bird moist; a give and take of thanksgiving.  Some of us eat stuffed peppers and I am at this writing about to stuff some yellow squash with a cheesy goodness in gratitude for their bounty.

Blankets are stuffed with batting or downy feathers, and high-end pillows are stuffed with a mystery material that can be washed again and again and bounces back to its original plumpness.  My mom used to stuff pillows with nylon stockings that had seen better days; the last of those I inherited, having been discarded in the not-so-distant past.

These are just a few of the things we live with that are stuffed.  However, when I thought of stuffed in the context of this column, it was in the overly-full sense of the word.

These musings are mostly concerning too much stuff, clogging or cluttering my senses.  I’ve already been-there-done-that with you about stuff in various hide y-holes in my house; so, I will try to keep my aging brain on track and not repeat myself.

As to the overstuffed brain, it can manifest as a boiling cauldron, threatening to scald anyone who comes too close.  Or, our cluttered senses can resemble an off-kilter pinball machine with metal balls bouncing off the edges of their confinement in an unrivaled clatter.  Some of us unplug that dastardly machine when the clutter begins to clatter.  We shut down.

Can you imagine the overwhelming work of Santa Claus?  All those deliveries, and with an important deadline looming.  No wonder the poem says that Mom and Dad, a rather busy couple in their own right, had just settled down for a long winter’s nap, when out on the lawn there “arose such a clatter.”  Of course, this guy would arrive with some noise, probably emanating from his overstuffed brain.

Have you ever had too much to do; too much going on, not to mention overthinking?  There’s even initials these days for too much information: TMI.

TMI usually refers to when someone over-shares what one normally or customarily would consider private information.  We say that this person has no filter; a subjective assessment.

But in this context, I’m thinking of TMI as literally so much information rattling around in that cartoon bubble over our heads, that we begin to be befuddled.

When your mind is stuffed, the whole atmosphere surrounding you feels full; like helium in a balloon. Should the balloon be pricked, you might bang from one surface to another untethered to solid ground.

We say that someone with an overly-full mind is, spacey; unable to concentrate, focus, or settle down to earth.  Some things just have to be “left up in the air.”

I think perhaps I unclutter my brain onto you all.  Each week I share some of the stuff that would otherwise have contributed to a serious clog in my brain.  So, thanks for listening and being my plumbers.

I’ll start off right at the bat with, I’m into acceptance, except when I’m not.  Oh, and there’s the concept of acceptable.

This is a missive with more questions than answers.  Can you accept this?

So, acceptance is in one sense, to accede to. To accept or receive, accommodate or reconcile oneself to.  Acceptance presumes that what you’ve got is not necessarily what you want.  “It is what it is,” comes to mind, and that is acceptance.

I have taped to my computer monitor a sign that says, “Do what you can.  Accept what is.  Bee happy.”  This is a reminder to myself, to calm down my predilection to try to fix everything, to control everything.

Were you ever deemed not acceptable as a boyfriend or girlfriend?  Were you not accepted into the first college of your choice?  Do you accept the trajectory of your life?  Have you accepted one job offer over another?  How about compliments?  Do you accept them or dismiss them?

Is acceptance the same as compromise? Is compromise a bad word? Concession is a synonym of compromise.  This whole concept, I think, is akin to a mutual give and take, to reach a satisfactory middle ground, a path that is deemed minimally worthy to live on, but acceptable compared to at least two options, neither one of which we can fully agree to.

Or, is acceptance acceding to “whatever,” fate serves up?  What is existentialism and is it opposed to faith, belief, or hope?  If making a meaningful choice in an irrational world is existentialism, then I accept it. However, this in my mind does not void faith, belief, or hope toward a more rational, common-sensical world to work within.

Maybe acceptance is a kind of exchange program between anxiety and peace, struggle and relinquishment, the status quo and change.  Acceptance may be necessary for moving forward in life.

The definition of acceptance as, “the state of being accepted or acceptable,” reminds me of “adequate” which is not always enough.  Adequate, like “competent,” is clearly more than acceptable if on a bad day you feel below average or under par.

Another definition of acceptance is “the act of receiving what is offered.”  Who’s offering? Is it easier to give than receive?  Scripture would have it that it is more blessed to give than receive.  But is it easier?

The reason, I surmise, that it is easier to give is a matter of control.  You’re in control when you’re giving to others.  Allowing others to give to you or help you in any way may be a matter of pride.  You can easily receive, only with the assistance of humility and acceptance that you too are a mere mortal.

“You’ve been approved,” is a more than acceptable reply to any application.  Approval is yet another definition of acceptance. 

Receiving a stamp of approval in all manner of endeavors, including your very personality, may never be offered.  Why do we need the approval of others?  Many of us have for a lifetime, unsuccessfully sought the approval of someone or some group.  Even the nouveau rich are unacceptable by “old money” standards.

I wonder what the origins of the concept of approval are.  Is acceptance ancient?  May it have originated in the Garden of Eden, the Modern Age, the advance in productivity through the Industrial Revolution, or were Hunters and Gatherers competitive and judgmental, disapproving some and accepting others?

Is the opposite of acceptance into a group or status, rejection?  Not many of us would prefer rejection, if the group is worthy.

We all want to be chosen, favored, the most loved one. When we have not been obviously accepted, a scarcity mentality or fear kicks in, “there isn’t enough approval to go around.”  Well, acceptance is not finite and even though some people have been readily approved, that doesn’t mean all the rest of us are rejected.

Rabbi Sacks (Not in God’s Name) reminds us that when others are loved, we are not in turn, unloved; and to be blessed, no one must in turn be cursed.  God’s love doesn’t work in such opposites and nor does the acceptance of most people. 

Acceptance is particular and specific toward others, according to our personalities, character, and calling.  We are accepted for who we uniquely are; not as a matter of degree (less or more).  We each have our own blessing and we don’t need someone else’s blessing.  The choice of you does not mean the rejection of me.  I may not be chosen, but neither am I rejected. 

I accept this.

Well, it happened, poison ivy got my spouse in earnest about a week after me.  So, the saga continues, plus one.

It has been said by roughly half the population that “man-pain” is felt much more deeply than “woman-pain.”  I’m just sayin, this has been the case since the beginning of time even in spite of the whole childbirth thing.  Oh, but in a day when medical schools are beginning to refer to breast-feeding as chest-feeding…. I just don’t know where to go with this….

I’m trying to keep the whining to a minimum, at least publicly, but for mercy’s sake!  “Misery loves company,” is attributed to English naturalist and botanist, John Jay (1627-1705); a naturalist, who might know a tad more about the misery associated with plant allergies than most.  So, I want to thank those of you who have shared your stories having at some time in your life felt my pain in the aftermath of this creepy, crawly, stinging, burning, irritating allergic malady.

After a five-day stint on a steroid, which sort of eliminated the blisters provided by my own excellent immune system, I developed a sore throat.  I nearly collapsed at the possibility that I may have passed on some virus, any virus, to my senior-plus loved one whom I have been visiting daily for several months.

However, my common sense established that the temporary sore throat was a result of my lowered immune system’s inability to fight off my regular allergic reaction to among other summer culprits, our once damp basement, now fortified by an immense dehumidifier and fan.  I work out in that space when the outdoors is inhospitable via humidity, storms, or heat in excess of the lower 80s, all the while singing at the top of my lungs to my playlist.  Thus, the scratchy sore throat.

It is not a good idea to work out in the basement wearing one of my “Covid-masks.”   My dumb thought was to exchange the minuscule retention of my own carbon dioxide trapped in the mask during my work out for the potential of breathing in vestiges of leftover mold from the depths of the cement block basement walls, during exertion.  There was a half-day of severe allergic congestion following that bright idea.

Right when I thought I was on the downhill slope, I discovered a sore patch on the back of my neck, right at the hairline.  Hubby sprayed this new line of poison with his friend, calamine.  And a sort of secondary red and stinging allergic reaction, not worse but equal to the blisters, appeared on my mid to upper arms, both arms.

I have discovered that if you can’t find rolled gauze in the store, 4×4 gauze pads can be cut in half, unfolded and they work similarly as the rolled stuff (soaked in boiled Jewel-weed stem broth) to serve as your wet/dry dressings.  Did I say that my husband is totally enamored with calamine in the spray can?  And I’m liking a bit of cornstarch baby powder, as I slowly heal.

I have been doing my best to not cross contaminate with myself or my spouse, so towels, wash cloths, bedding, and clothing; in short, everything I touch, has been washed daily.  After doing laundry so often for the last three weeks I wouldn’t be surprised if our water provider either made a special visit or sent an urgent phone call to our residence asking why the uptick?

I wondered if the new, or ongoing, I don’t know, feeling of irritation on my skin, which literally feels like gentle but constant contact with an unused dryer sheet, might have started a new allergy from said laundry product.  I even replaced my lifelong habit of using these and tried using a benign tablespoon of white vinegar in the wash and a baseball sized aluminum foil ball in the dryer which does not, as promised, prevent static cling.

In the near future, I guess I’m off to purchase wool dryer balls.  No holds barred here.

Besides daily oatmeal baths and cleansing showers, calamine lotion is my caregiver.  Cousin Vaughn suggested a novel application method utilizing a farm-grade spraying apparatus filled with said calamine.  A shower in it sounds good to me, about now.   I’ve tried all manner of home remedies.

Thank you, Harry for the Jewel-weed reminder; something else important that I forget from year to year.  Thank you, Bernie, for the tip for prevention, so there is no next time.

Thanks to Layne and those others who have prayed for me, some of whom are covert in your pleas on my behalf.  And, toward Eleni, who created a soothing mix of essential oils which are balm to my appendages and her prayers balm to my soul, I am always in a state of thanks and love.   I am receptive and grateful for all of your feedback and thoughtfulness.

I will always love the outdoors and this hiccup in the space of time will not deter that.  In fact, my step count on Fitbit testifies that my outdoor work has commenced, as usual.

It remains a Covid-crazy year folks and this is a summer to remember, at least in my neck of the woods. I’m personally looking forward to Autumn.

Have you heard the saying, “no good deed goes unpunished?”  Or, “kindness brings its own punishment,” credited in 1927 to Marie Belloc Lowndes?  And in 1938 Leo Pavia gets credit for “Every good deed brings its own punishment.”  Well, however you say it, I have a case in point.

I was performing a good deed for a beloved family member.  It was my idea to clear her pine grove of long overgrown weeds, shrubs planted by squirrels or birds or the wind, and vines, some of which had grown up the pine trees, toward the light of day.  I aimed to have it looking “park-like” for her.

After one long day, and then another, before the sunset on day two, a familiar rash began to appear in earnest up my forearms and around my ankles, oh my!  Just the day before I said to my companion in crime, “Does this look like poison ivy to you?”  Don’t we have a way of dismissing some of those impressions that we kind of knew in the back of our minds, were relevant and that we should have heeded?

Have you ever done something dumb, foolish, or heedless, and said to yourself just after you did it, “I know better than that!”  Oh, to turn back the clock and listen to your own sense.

That’s me, and poison ivy.  We have a hate, hate relationship.  Why do I get it every year?  I know better than that.  Poison ivy, oak, or sumac are best prevented than treated.  I know that too.

I’m of a certain age, and I know better than this; and I’ve known it for quite some years.  I declare every year that I will wear long sleeves and long pants when excavating weeds and overgrown areas of our own property or that of family.  But when summer comes around and the temperature heads toward 90 degrees my plans seem to vanish into vapor, very warm vapor.

I like cleaning up those overgrown outdoor forgotten places.  It gives me a warm and cuddly sense of satisfaction.  But, thinking of “no good deed goes unpunished,” I got instead, a crawling, and oozing sense of foreboding around day three.

I’m aware that my skin is sensitive to plant oils, even green bean plants send me right to the shower or I feel eaten alive.  So, one could expect that exposure to known poisonous plant matter would inspire allergic fallout, right?

The ER doc said, “I’ll admit, you’ve got an impressive case.”  That was on day six, when after a cool bath in soothing soft soap, the oozing, blisters and spreading gunk had become too much for the buckets of calamine lotion, alcohol, and hydrocortisone cream to affect.  I even tried applying dastardly smelling cider vinegar, to no avail.  At wits end, and bordering on tears, I needed professional help; even if they could only say “there, there, you simpleton.”

Now, all you young kids out there, “do what I say, not what I do;” and know that “prevention is better than cure,” especially when it comes to poison ivy.  Even with the compassion and the medicines from medical professionals, it feels like forever to heal from a bad reaction to poisonous plants.  At least three weeks….

The 1959 Coasters song, Poison Ivy, compares its titled, itchy malady, to measles, mumps, chicken pox, whooping cough, all of the diseases of the time yet to be vaccinated away, and the common cold.  “She comes on like a rose but everybody knows…She’s pretty as a daisy but look out man she’s crazy…Late at night while you’re sleepin’, Poison Ivy comes a creepin’ around…She’ll really do you in…You’re gonna need an ocean of calamine lotion…”

My case was the muscle car of cases that skipped the itch and went straight from touching the plant to a myriad of blisters that burst on their own, procreating in multiples, alongside indistinguishable clusters of sores.  A little itchy rash this was not.

You know, we often don’t appreciate those body parts that most of us possess until they’re inoperable for some reason.  Then wowzah, we value how much they do for us, in their covert mechanization’s.

I’m talking about my arms, specifically my forearms.  What to do with my arms?  Covered with blisters, I had held them, using my now quite muscled traps, in an inverted U, not a jazz dance move by the way, until a familiar burning sensation took over my shoulders and I had to find a new position.

There is an expanse of happy functioning skin on the top outside of each arm.  I’ve tried every possible use of that clean skin but those positions just don’t fit into my repertoire.

Years ago, I heard something quasi-medical that one shouldn’t sleep with one’s arms over your head, that it adds stress to the heart.  True or not, I trained myself to avoid that sleeping position.  So, now it’s hard to get comfortable like that.

So, wet/dry dressings helped post ER night one, but again I’m not so comfortable with wet, aside from showers, pools, and places where wet is a clear requirement.  From humidity, to rain, to being splashed, dunked, dampened, or squirted on, I’m not terribly keen.

My spouse happily banished me to the guest room to cope with what we’ve come to lovingly label “our very own Bev-Ebola.”  This is the closest thing we could think of to call the nasty blistery, red rash clusters, outside of a fictitious name from a movie, called Contagion, Outbreak, Pandemic or some-such horror film, by the way.

My next strategy for sleeping was to bathe in calamine lotion, let it dry well and slip into bed, or better described as a senior-leap as far to the middle of the bed with a soft mattress, as I could without the assist of arms.  If you’re laughing too hard right now, try scooching onto a soft mattress without the assist of your arms.  I wrapped a clean hand towel gently over my arms so as not to brush them accidentally.

Don’t get poison ivy, my friends. “Do as I say, not as I do.”    

 

In a 1639 book of English and Latin proverbs, John Clarke wrote, “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”  As with all proverbs, they only tell part of the whole story.

There are always exceptions to correlations, such as those in this proverb.  For example, what about the night-owls who are healthy, wealthy, and wise; or the unhealthy, poor, and foolish people who get up at dawn and go to bed before sunset?

Don’t we all want to be beautiful, wealthy, healthy, know-it-all, famous, and slim?  In reality maybe we’ll be one or two of those things.

I can hear some of you exclaim, “speak for yourself, woman.  I’m all of those and more!”

If the facts be acknowledged, we don’t really want all of those things, exactly.  Maybe if we clearly possess one or two of them, let’s say, health and fitness, what we want is for our life to have purpose, and meaning; to be loved.

Wasn’t it the Dalai Lama who said, “if you find a meaningful job, you’ll never work a day in your life?”  I know it was he who said, “Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck.”

How many times have you wanted something really badly, even desperately?  And, you were nearly devastated that it didn’t materialize for you.  Been there, done that!

Perhaps not getting that thing, situation, occasion, etc. was lucky, as the Dalai Lama said.  Or, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.  A step to the side of the path you were trodding, an alternative course may have been the divine plan all along, as opposed to your well-plotted course.

About that desire to be one of the beautiful people, let’s rethink that.  “Beautiful people,” in the popular sense, love to complain about their physical beauty getting in the way of their other attributes.  All they’re valued for is their obvious beauty, negating other perhaps more lofty traits.  What else, they ask?

Wealthy people live in some fear that they are valued only for their money.  “What if I lose all of this?” They are at constant risk of being taken advantage of, exploited, and live primarily in defense of what they “have.”

Slim people, fit people are, well sticks in the mud of a planet filled with frustrated and envious, not-so-slim beings trying with all their might and their money to be them.  If you want to be envied, being slim is one path to your goal.  However, slimness does not wholeness bring.

“Know-it-alls” are given that moniker of derision, because they’re disliked for their font of knowledge; something slightly different from wisdom.  In fact, “knowing it all” is an illusion.  Humility, a more beloved characteristic, is associated with the the best of knowledge, wisdom.

Fame, or to be known by multitudes.  Do you really want that?  What happens when you want just a moment of privacy but all of you, your time, and your space, is filled with those who want to see and know more and more of you?

Being known is ever so slightly different from being seen.  Being seen verges on the point I’m attempting to make, that living a life that has meaning, is the primary want of most human beings.  We want to be acknowledged, seen, valued just for being who we uniquely are; not for our beauty, fitness, wealth, knowledge, or build.

• I see you, my friends.