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A couple weeks ago – maybe last week? – I was lucky enough to go on a yoga retreat. … Well, it *was* yoga, and yoga *was* practiced, but also, it wasn’t yoga. It was a life retreat.
Considering that my life has been in a free fall for going on two years, I might say that while it was a privilege to go, I also *needed* it. Despite having at least three legitimate panic attacks prior to leaving and while driving to the retreat. Sometimes panic sneaks in through the tiniest of kinks in one’s armor, and a person finds herself at a turnpike rest area completely convinced she will be murdered in broad daylight.
Like I mentioned, I kind of *needed* the retreat.
When John & I made the decision to come back to Chester County, there were a million reasons. But at the top of my list was my yoga studio. I understand that this idea – of a place I pay to go to practice something I could easily practice anywhere on my own – might not fully make sense to everyone. But John had several concerns before our big move nearly two years ago – and sadly/ironically/hilariously he was right about all of them. I’d said that we could be happy anywhere (this based on the fact that I’d moved every few years my entire life and was still alive and well … failing to remember that the moves had been difficult, painful, dark, hard, sometimes terrible and rarely -if ever – happy). I think, in retrospect, I didn’t fully understand how to stay put. How to just live and be happy in one place. I had itchiness for change under my fingernails, tickling my brain, and because I’d never known anything different, I thought moving was what had to happen.
I was wrong. This was not the first time, it certainly won’t be the last time. But hopefully I will continue to learn and grow and get uncomfortable and grow some more. Only time will tell.
Anyway. What dawned on me the longer we lived in central PA was that I’d willingly walked away from a life that John and I had painstakingly built. For no real reason. Just because we thought we needed a change. Everything came into focus the longer we were up there, the unhappiness growing like a plague. I missed my studio, I missed my doctors, I missed the city, I missed Birds’ fans and the Schuylkill Expressway. I missed Amtrak trains to NYC. I began to understand that I missed home. And I’d never really known where that was before (see above re: moving every few years). But I knew in my bones that it wasn’t Bellefonte.
I don’t remember the exact moment when we knew we were moving. But it happened fast. And so many other things – really hard, grown up, life-is-effing-hard things – were happening simultaneously that my memories are foggy. But all of a sudden we were buying a new house and we’d sold the one we’d just built and we were packing and loading and preparing for the hardest move of our lives.
It was brutal.
Right before our current house was due to be finished it flooded. Our timeline got kicked back several weeks. I spiraled, not really sure how to keep on keeping on. When we finally signed papers, we drove directly from the closing to see “Deadpool & Wolverine” because I’d bought tickets the day they went on sale and we hadn’t anticipated the delay. It was a comedy of errors. When we began our move-in the next day, my body seemingly collapsed, giving out after months of running on adrenaline and cortisol.
The dates of the retreat hadn’t seemed that close when I’d signed up (something I’d vowed to do having missed several retreats the studio had done while I was gone). But then all of a sudden it was upon me, and John had to be in Pittsburgh for work so we’d hired a sitter to stay with Eli for the first time in his little life. And I hit the road minus all my meds (which came back to haunt me – WOOF!)
Anyway.
All of that to say that the retreat was scary for me initially. I didn’t really know anyone going and as I drove I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake. I worried about Eli being alone with a stranger and if he’d behave. I knew that I forgave him anything but that’s because he’s mine. I worried about John getting out to the Burgh on time. I definitely got a migraine that I still can’t fully kick.
But also. The retreat was a gift. It was beauty and open souls and nature and sharing and yoga and hikes. And it confirmed to me that my yoga studio – one of the three things John had been most concerned about leaving – was as important and special as he’d believed it to be. I just hadn’t realized. That when I’d gone to my first class back on April 2, 2018, that I’d also found a home. A place full of like-minded humans who fill up my soul each and every class. Each and every day.
I learned these past two years and even more concretely these past few months being home again, what a gift and privilege and frankly, a luxury community is. I spent four days connecting with incredible people and confronting truths within myself. It was gorgeous and sacred.
It confirmed to me – if I hadn’t known before – that I’d come home. That I was back in my community.
That this place – these people – were my home.
Xoxo, g
and so it is
My internal dialogue is tired. But like all internal dialogues, it also never stops. My day time thoughts slip into night time dreams and back again, over and over, days and weeks slipping by. It’s the middle of September already. The middle of September last year feels a world away. We lived in a different house, a different town, a different place. We prioritized different things. We had people in our lives that are now gone.
It was a different life.
I keep waiting to feel relief … from something? anything? everything? … but relief never comes. Hours seemingly disappear and suddenly it’s dinner time. I haven’t showered. Or done half the things that were on my To Do list. I’m exhausted. A migraine is lurking. I can’t catch up.
I think maybe this feeling will never stop. I will always be pushing to feel caught up, to catch a breath. I forget that two years ago things *also* felt hard. I forget that my rose-colored glasses and nostalgia don’t serve me. I feel sad. I miss my mother.
We moved home because we missed home. Because we didn’t know for sure it was home until we weren’t there anymore. And now we are back. And I am racing to make up for lost time. I am continually surprised – nay, shocked – at the changes that happened in 18 months. It simultaneously feels like we never left and also like we’ve been gone for decades. Time is trippy, weird.
I talk about writing. I fleetingly think about reading. But I can’t keep up with life, so no writing happens. No reading happens. My fatigue governs my days, as my clothing piles up in my cluttered “I’ll get to it this week” closet of horrors. Haha. Things that used to feel easy or routine are a heavy lift. I talk to myself out loud ~ “You’re okay,” I say repeatedly. I say it, but do I believe it? My knees buckle underneath me, I stumble and reach for anything to steady my steps. I am defeated, my inner dialogue says. I have lost. I look at my reflection in the mirror and fail to see anything positive. I see the fatigue, the pain, the weight gained. The creases around my eyes and forehead. The evidence that no matter what my inner monologue says, time keeps marching forward. I am forty-four. I look it.
I look tired.
I am happy to be home. I am happy in this little life that husby and I have carved out for ourselves. Me, him, our Tiny Terrorist dog Eli. I know these things. I reach for them when everything else feels overwhelming.
Xoxo, g
Here today
Last year in August, hubs and I were preparing to host guests for multiple weekends. We’d worked long and hard to make sure each guest room was practically perfect in every way. It’s funny to be repeating the same action this year – moving into a new house – while having a completely different experience. Boxes sit unpacked in hallways. Random assortments of ‘things’ piled on top of other ‘things’ sit in closets, in bathrooms. I have lost all ability to human. I am struggling to surface, to survive. There is nothing resembling ‘thriving’ at the moment.
I’m not sure if my body was running on adrenaline for seven months or if I was just handling stress better (I’m pretty sure it’s the former) but I have crashed and burned, skidded out spectacularly like a wrecked car on a race track. Even the things I held onto – the things that got me through the dark, cold early months of this year offer little solace. I don’t have the energy or focus to get to yoga every day. I can barely get out of bed sometimes. Is this an MS thing? I wonder too often. I blame my disease because it’s easier – because it makes sense to others, and honestly to myself. When the truth is that I’m just bottoming out. The stress has been too much. I have arrived. My body is done fighting.
We have reached the final destination. We have no more storage units or PODS or belongings tucked into my father’s house. We are here. Eli is here. All our stuff (and there is a tremendous amount of stuff) is here. And my body and my brain are done.
Yesterday I found old writing and I have fallen into a deep trance – enamored with this former version of myself who wrote so well. Who so elegantly evoked such strong feelings from decrepit old me. Who was this sad young girl? Did she not know she was brilliant? How did I so exquisitely waste all her talent? It makes my heart sad.
I am tired. Bone deep tired. Exhausted. Fatigued.
This is a side of MS I work hard to avoid. But it has enveloped me. I hope – as husby and I work piece by piece to put our life back together – that I somehow also manage to heal myself.
Xox, g
And so it goes
“Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” ~ John Lennon
Or in our case, life is what happens when everything around you crumbles.
I don’t know what we were thinking in December. I can’t really remember that far back. Maybe we thought it was our first Christmas in our new house (exciting!) or maybe we thought it was the beginning of a tradition. I can almost guarantee we weren’t thinking about where we are today, less than three months later. We weren’t thinking it was our last Christmas with Alan (John’s dad). We weren’t thinking it would be our *only* Christmas in our new house. We weren’t thinking about dementia or Medicaid or over half million dollar homes.
I knew I was unhappy. That was certain. Every day was a heavy lift, from getting out of bed in the morning to caring at all about what happened during the day. Depression is like that – sadness is like that. Pervasive, consistent, ebbing and flowing.
Anyway, I couldn’t even tell you the timeline of how things happened. But we confessed to each other that we weren’t happy. We daydreamed about moving home. And then, somehow, we made it happen? We drove down and looked at houses. We found a builder (our old builder, nonetheless) building beautiful homes close to where we used to live. We sold our current house (in about 36 hours which was WILD!). We have movers booked. We have a plan. It feels good. Life feels a little less … awful.
Because amidst all the moving decisions and day trips in snow squalls and disappointing house tours, we were dealing with something that had no silver lining. And it feels a little too raw and too real to even write about. Because death is final. Because everything that happens leading up to death and after death is confusing and heartbreaking and desperate and never ever enough.
The entire fabric of our lives changed shape in nearly every single way. It has been a brutal start to a year.
But out of that darkness has come a true appreciation and understanding of what home is. Of what support networks look like (and their utter beauty). I don’t think I ever knew before, but I know with absolute certainty now, that home is Chester County. And our life, the one we spent seven years building, was not worth leaving. I’ve heard people use lots of different words in regards to the decisions we’ve made recently. But I can promise this – I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. Deep in my soul, in the fiber of my bones, I know this is the right decision. And even though it has been exhausting and will continue to be hard and stressful — there is no other stress I’d rather have than the stress of fighting for my home. Fighting for our life and for what brings us joy.
17 novembre 2023
Fifty years.
On this date in 1973 my parents got married. Five years ago was the last time we all celebrated together. Now, when I look at that picture, I can see how sick she was. But when you’re in it, you don’t have any concept. It’s all-consuming, all around you and then, when it’s over, it’s like the air being sucked out. You can’t breathe, you aren’t sure what to do.
And it comes back to this, the most simple of truths – the only way out is through.
And perhaps we will never be through grief. I still have nights when I sob myself to sleep. Missing my grandmother who died in 2007. Missing my mother who died in the final days of 2018. Missing the people who made me inherently me. Tired and scared of navigating this life without them. But without any other options.
So I choose to celebrate this day, the dawn of our family. The joining of Penelope Jane Allan McLeod of Edinburgh, Scotland to Louis Francis Simone of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania United States. They got married at the Park Shenley – Jennie J would have it no other way. My mother wore a quintessentially 70’s gown with a fur muff, her bridesmaids in pink and deep maroon. My mother had a magic about her, in the curve of her smile and the twinkle in her eye. She lit rooms up with laughter and conversation and every person felt special because of her and to her. She and my Dad made a handsome couple, and were always up for fun, adventure and new experiences. My Dad tells stories now of the road trips and open windows and Allman Brothers playing on the stereo. I think of my young mother, a new wife in a new country, and I wonder at how she managed it all. I watch my father, nearly five years alone, still fulfilling all her wishes. Still keeping her alive in every way he knows how.
Once upon a time, I thought everything was so simple. There was a right way and a wrong way. It was black and white. But age and life experience have taught me that life is all shades of gray, but rarely if ever black or white. There is nuance and choice and perspective. Marriage isn’t one thing or another, but rather all the things, rolled up and shaken about. Life is heartache and loss as well as happiness and triumph. It is all the things.
When my parents got married all those years ago, they had no idea what they would build. Dave and I weren’t even glints in their eyes. They were adopting a puppy and playing golf and laughing and living and stumbling and getting back up and trying again. And now we are here, living testaments to who they were as parents and as people. Picking up where they left off, and doing our best to make them proud.
I can’t imagine having better parents than mine.
Cheers to my Mama and my Dad. Cheers to the forty-five years they had together and cheers to the day, fifty years ago, when they promised forever. Thank you.
10 octobre 2023
Every time I think I’ve gotten myself caught up I glance at my calendar and realize – with sinking finality – that there is no break in the action coming any time soon.
And in so many ways thats a great thing. I get to see two of my bests this weekend, revisit my high school days and share it with John, I get to see my brother and sister-in-law and then a family Thanksgiving (a little early but when people live on different continents you make adjustments). Then more friend time and game time and then another (different) family holiday, more friends and cooking and football and then all of a sudden it’s December and we have tickets to see John Mulaney and birthday trips and work holiday parties and then … it’s next year. Whew!
Currently, Eli is away at Puppy Sleepaway Camp (aka training) and we are both enjoying sleeping in while simultaneously maniacally stalking the social media pages of his training facility. We miss our Tiny Terrorist.
There are also men putting up a fence around our back yard which will be a nice surprise for TT when he gets home next week. I have a project list an arm’s length and rather than do anything, I’m sitting and trying to type using my left pinkie for the first time in nearly five weeks. I have a doctor’s appt this afternoon and John & I meal-planned for the first time in weeks, so I know what the plan is for tonight (which really takes a lot of pressure off). I’m starting to feel … settled? (Shhh, don’t say it too loudly, it could get jinxed!)
This move has been incredibly character-building (aka hard as f*ck). We are nearly at the end. Rosehilll is sold and we only have four more guests (and four more times cleaning and doing laundry for people I don’t know – what a relief!)
I might be getting on a plane in less than 365 days to go see my fam bam in the UK and that fills my heart with happiness. Eli might come home and not boop me in face which would be a huge win. Hubs is adjusting to his new work role after the big shake-up at the start of the fiscal year. He has a week of hunting planned with his boys visiting and crashing at the house for early rises and daily treks around local, public lands. (The joy he gets from his trail cam is a mystery to me but I love it for him).
I realized that all the things I thought I wanted to do when we lived in Chester County have changed now that we live up here. I’m working on figuring out who I want to be in this era of life (to reference, for no apparent reason, Taylor Swift). I think I’ll be okay.
I didn’t know if I’d ever get here. I’m glad we made it. I don’t know how, but as Robin says (often) in her rides, the only way out is through.
And we’re getting through.
Xox, g
3 octobre 2023
I’m really stubborn. Often to my detriment. I mean – just, stuck in my ways, fighting every inch against change stubborn. I have to really marinate in new ideas, chew them up in my brain, twist them inside out.
And then, when I begrudgingly accept change, I feel better for it. Because I came to my conclusion the old-fashioned, hard won way. I accept that maybe, it’s not the easiest way. But I need to see things from all angles. Make sure I believe what I believe because I chose it knowingly and with understanding.
I’m not a great debater. I ask a lot of questions but I’m not looking for a painful argument. Just like I don’t shop to shop, I don’t argue for arguments sake. I have friends who love a good debate for no reason (“let me just play devils advocate for a minute” is never my favorite sentence) but me? I’m out.
I want to discuss ideas. I want to hear different points of view. But I am gathering information, not trying to convince anyone or sway anyone. That’s not my jam. Some years ago I read a sentence (or heard, I can’t remember) – Everything you believe is because someone said it to someone somewhere sometime. And since then, I’ve questioned everything I believe.
Some things are harder to let go than others. We are raised with baked-in ideas and morals and values. Everything that forms our worldview was taught to us – either deliberately or by example. We are observant as children, collecting data to understand our surroundings, different things making different impressions.
I was raised by a mother who told me – explicitly and tacitly – to never have children. She said to live my own life, have my own adventures. Having children did not need to be a part of that. I did not need children to be complete. In fact, having children would forever render me second and she didn’t want that for me.
Which, honestly, is still kind of a radical point of view – even in 2023. Society tells a much different story, and so many women, my elders, my contemporaries, probably think I’m “less” for not being a mother.
But does that matter? Should it matter?
Or does it only matter if that is what I think of myself.
It’s an interesting thought to ponder. Does what anyone thinks of me matter – in regards to anything – if I don’t buy in?
I saw a social media post by a friend recently and in it, she self-identified in a way I have NEVER seen her. Like, kind of blew my mind a little bit that she saw herself that way. But it made me think – does my opinion even matter if that is how she sees herself? And my answer to that is – no. My thoughts and opinions don’t matter. In *my* world, she is different than how she described herself, but my world shouldn’t matter to her. Just like, in reverse, her views of me shouldn’t affect who I believe I am and how I choose to exist in the world.
I’m not sure what this blog post was about, but maybe stream of conscious writing.
Xox, g
2 octobre 2023
Sometimes I feel as though life gets distilled down to very clear delineations between YES and NO. Not in a basic kind of way but rather a life-affirming kind of way. YES, this is important. NO, this is not. YES, I should care about this and put the time in or NO, this isn’t helping. I’ve had a few of these moments of clarity in my life – disease being one, death another. Everything, for just a moment, comes into focus and it’s abundantly clear what’s worth it and what isn’t.
Last Thursday I had my second colonoscopy/endoscopy. The first one was brutal. So going into the second I wasn’t just skeptical, I was scared. And scared little me gets defensive, bullish and all around not fun. When it was all over with, and I drifted up out of my anesthesia haze, gripping John’s hand as though a lifeline, my first thought was confusion. How did I get into a different room surrounded by different people? But my second thought was of relief. Yes, of course the clock starts again at that point, counting down to the next colonoscopy, but it’s a very very long timer. It’s a five year timer. Possibly seven. Because the colonoscopy was good. Even better than the one four years ago. So thats a good thing. And in that moment, I was through it.
But now here I am. Wondering about that clarity. Wondering what my next steps are. Wondering.
I think I’ll finally finish my 200 hour teacher training. Perhaps also finish the philosophy course. Consider doing the 300 hour. I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep working every day to eat better food. Drink more water. And get quality sleep. I’ll probably still binge TV shows, and buy tickets for Marvel releases at 9 in the morning the day the tickets go on sale. I’ll continue to drink chai lattes. And I hope travel and smile and be grateful for this little life I lead.
But what does that look like? This I don’t know. This, I have to build from the ground up. All on my own.
Xox, g
19 septembre 2023
I woke this morning to cool air, soft blankets and the sounds of construction. I didn’t mind. Someone (Eli) had slept mostly quietly through the night. And woken with his Dad earlier than me. This is a small (perhaps medium-sized?) miracle as we are working on crate training and we are all (John + I included!) terrible at it. Eli – for all his manic energy, pouncing and jumping – is an excellent snuggle bug and fits perfectly between John + I most nights for at least a few hours before retiring to his own bed for the majority of his resting time. It works well for all of us, as we have crafted our lives this way – hubs and me and puppy. The dynamic shifted – in some ways dramatically – from Lucy to Eli but both have moments and traditions that fill our hearts (& memories) with untold joy.
In a few moments I’ll hop in my Volvo crossover (which we almost traded in this weekend but that’s another story for another day) and drive down to our local coffee shop and get John a brew and me a chai. I will smile driving past Talleyrand Park because its beauty is untold and just grows from season to season and I will have a moment of true contentment. Because the road to here has been awful, very bad, painfully hard – and sometimes it’s hard to remember and appreciate all the good.
Like open windows and birdsong. Crickets and peepers to drift to sleep to. And a beautiful house that fulfilled so many dreams.
A year ago John was away at NIH. I was home alone, with no obligations because my Dad & Lenny were enjoying themselves with friends on HHI. I got Covid. It was pretty awful for a full 48 hours. By the time John got home he’d decided that waiting a year from Lucy’s death to consider another dog no longer worked for him. Eli came home with us that Saturday.
He was eight weeks old so all his quirks and challenging issues now are pretty much completely our fault. But I was still sick. And we had already been feeling fidgety in life. Little Eli Emerson was just along for the ride. When we decided to sell our house in Chester County (a place, may I remind you, we thought we’d retire to eventually before making it happen much sooner than anticipated, so we loved it there) and move permanently to Centre County … well, because, there were myriad things we didn’t anticipate. Honestly we had reasons to do it. A lot of them. Mostly valid. All still more or less true. We just didn’t anticipate everything that would fall out from underneath us as the journey progressed.
Anyway, we did all the things that go along with moving. We cleaned (sometimes things that might never before have been cleaned – like the baseboards in our stairwells), we de-cluttered and staged. We left for weekends and Open Houses happened,. Two weeks, and a lot of blood, sweat and tears later, we had a cash offer and a close date. We’d done it.
Sort of.
After the selling came the moving and the storage units and the logistics of John working from home in our tiny Penn State house. It became about taking care of Eli while we spent Christmas in France with my brother and his wife (a trip we booked after Lucy, but obviously before Eli). It became about figuring out how to survive, endure. And sometimes, it became about making biscuits.
We put a (substantial) deposit down on new construction in December and we waited. And waited. The building process didn’t start until the second week in March (more on that another time because it elevates my blood pressure in unhealthy ways). By which time I was fairly certain we’d made a colossal mistake. I was miserable, trapped, sick. Eli was insane. Life felt impossible.
When closing finally arrived (construction was not complete yet … WTF) I was still on the fence. I knew that time – life – everything only moved in one direction. And that direction was forward. So I had to just get on with it – movers again and painters and contractors for various projects we felt we wanted to do straight away. But I spent most of my free time (which, to be fair, wasn’t much) wondering what hellscape I’d landed in. And couldn’t escape.
Everything – and I mean everything – felt hard.
Sometimes, it still feels hard. John’s company, and in turn his job, completely changed direction and focus and in their mess, John found himself in a completely new job, new duties, new products … the list goes on and on. We are still in that and it has been incredibly difficult. But here’s the silver lining for all those Pollyanna types – unlike at the start of Covid when John lost his job – right now, he still has one. With benefits and retirement contributions. Everything else has been flipped on its head, but that’s still true. And for that we are grateful.
I took a vicious fall a few weeks ago. That’s been challenging. For my ego, for my health, for my happiness. My yoga studio up here isn’t what my studio used to be. I miss that. More than I ever thought possible. I miss my friends, I miss my flow. I miss the community. That is a wound that is not currently healing well.
Eli is still a maniac. Jumping and chewing and just generally being more enthusiastic than I can always handle. He leaves for boot camp in a few weeks (hence the crate training) and John and I are both hopeful and terrified. I hate the idea of him being away from us but I *love* the idea of him learning some very helpful skills (like not jumping on people and knocking them over… to start).
But this past weekend we had no guests. We had no home football. We just had us and our house and coffee dates and movies and NFL. We slept in. We opened windows. We cooked dinner. It was -in a word – blissful. Everything we hoped moving here would be it was. Even if only for a few days. Just a whisper in the chaos that is currently life.
The Giants had a miraculous comeback. The Steelers won because their defense was rock solid (or at least T.J. Watt was). Penn State won away. We fell asleep with open windows, votive candles flickering their last flame. For a brief moment, it felt as though we’d come out the other side.
Xox, g
28 juillet 2023
I’m sitting in my office. I am surrounded by piles and piles of ‘stuff.’ Upon first glance it’s just papers and books and seemingly unimportant junk that has been carried from house to house to house. But it’s still sitting here, drowning me, because when I take the time to go through it, there is meaning; there are memories on each page, in each piece of battered memorabilia.
I have reached a stage of paralysis. I’m not sure what to do next. Where to focus. Everything feels overwhelmingly difficult and expensive. Life feels unfairly hard. I am on the verge of tears daily … they fall down my face routinely doing seemingly simple things. How did I get here? I wonder, my lips quivering, my hands shaking. How do I get out?
But that’s the real challenge. Because I didn’t accidentally wind up here. I have made the choices that got me here – every single step of the way. I have been searching, aching, wondering where I will find that illusive ‘something’ that will fill me up. It continues to allude me.
I knew when we made this choice that I would be walking away from so many things. I knew that no matter what, I would survive. Because I’ve been doing this my whole life – packing everything into boxes, unpacking it. Beginning again. What I didn’t fully realize until this move was how much I didn’t want to do that anymore. How very much I was searching for home.
Where is home? How do I find it, how do I define it? Is it where I was born? Is it where I last was? I’m not sure. I think I know. I think I’ve figured it out. But knowing that doesn’t change the fact that home isn’t here. Here is where I live. It’s where all my stuff – good, bad or indifferent – now resides. Piles of it. Stuffed into closets, piled in corners. I feel defeated, moving slowly from morning to afternoon to night, not sure what the point is, not sure what I’m doing or more importantly why.
I have sat here, watching the construction, the crazy idiots flying up the street and dodging all the other vehicles and stacks of 2x4s, the neighbors walking their dogs laboriously through the thick, oppressive heat. I have asked myself again and again – what do I want? What am I doing?
I’m 43. I’m just kind of faking it through life. I haven’t done anything noteworthy or extraordinary. What is my plan? What is my endgame? Because a lot of life feels really pointless at the moment. How is it fair that I only get it in retrospect? How have I never learned to get in while I’m in it?
Eli is losing his mind and John has work calls so right now, in this moment, I’m going to take my insane dog for a walk. He’s exhausting but at least he provides purpose.
Xoxo, g
D5 Creation