I knew it would not last. Not forever. A long time, yes, and if we never rest from our careful watch over every sign, then it could last a very long time.
These are the opening lines of a story I am telling. I started it in 2012, finished a horrible rough draft in a month during the NaNoWriMo challenge. Then I dipped in and out to edit in the following years, but never enough attention to put it into any real better form.
Late last year, though, I caught myself in a state that allowed me to revisit the story and to begin a serious recrafting. I got as far as three thousand words.
Then I was spun away again, by duties, obligations, and the soothing dark depths of ink and paint.
I am beginning to realise that I sometimes use painting as an escape from writing. I conjure up the images so I would not have to say the words, even if only on paper.
I am somewhat afraid of my words. I find them too strong sometimes, unforgiving, not holding back. Stinging, solid, and sharp at the same time when they slam into me, breaking skin, breaking bones, breaking heart.
I am afraid of the story being shaped by my words. It feels too true, notwithstanding the presence of dragons.
It is the first story I dare to tell, pulled from the strange forests of the world hidden inside me. So much of myself scattered in pieces across the chapters. Too many provoking thoughts. A lot of hidden hurt in broad daylight. A lot I have not even yet admitted to myself, but only observed. It is a story that is also a wish. A thesis of a world presented to the universe. Could it be? But honestly, really, it all boils down to: could it be me?
I am babbling in this post. I have not been open for the past week. I have been clogged up and blinded and out of breath, as mundane mortals tend to be. For a while I lost my bearings and I was walking around in circles, knowing I was lost but too tired to care. Only for a while.
Something in me finds a way, without fail, to shake me awake, trip me up along that empty cycle of days. A jolt that arrests my heart. A memory. A fairy tale. A dream laboriously stitched together and fed into my sleep. When I am particularly poisoned I am given prophecies. Glimpses of possible future paths if I get myself out of the rut I am stranded in. Promises of joy, promises of love.
I will go back to the story today. Despite my inner terror of it. I will endure its flaying scrape over my soul-skin. It begs to be told. It needs to be told. For reasons known only to itself.
And I can feel that it is transforming even as I come towards it. Eager to show me what it has been up to. How much it has grown, how thick and strong and deep its roots have become, how much it needs to be helped to burst forth into leaves and flowers and sweet, sweet, bittersweet fruit.
I am feeling the edges of loneliness today. The story can sense it, and in response it opens itself up to me, coaxing me to let myself curl up in its searing warmth, never mind the scars afterwards, to find comfort and hope in its possibilities. It urges me to write my way into an ever-after, because sometimes it is truly the only way.
You'd think it would be a dire sad situation but I actually had one of the most creatively and satisfyingly productive days of the past four weeks.
The saga dayjob report was finished Tuesday, sent out in advance to local client by Wednesday, presented on Thursday via a telecon meeting (the main clients were in Europe). By Friday the adrenaline pump subsided and I was a plain simple creature who could only do the most basic things although by evening I was beginning to perk up.
Normally I would have had a small celebration, especially a little Artist's Date, for getting through the dayjob wringer and surviving once again. But remember that paycheck that was withheld before Christmas? It won't be released until next week and by this time my pockets and my wallet are empty. My dad and my sister (who has recently started employment with an office job) filled in the household expenses that I could not cover. (I don't want to hold grudges but that delayed paycheck really caused me (and other people) too many inconveniences.)
ANYWAY, let us look at the bright side of Things.
I didn't have money so all errands had to be put off (vet visits, groceries, bill payments, family days, etc.) I was under house arrest. Being in a city, there was nowhere I could go for free. Not in this town. Not where I can hang out and linger in safety and comfort while I read or write or paint without having to shell out cash so I can stay. No well-designed parks or forest walks. No seaside or lakeside or babbling brooks. No tree-shaded benches along the street. Heck, there isn't even a proper quiet well-stocked public library like the ones I see in movies or read about in books. Everything in this city is commercial, noisy, crowded, and price-tagged. If you don't have cash, it's hard to find a more peaceful, safer place than your own home if you want to do the things I want to do (except the nature walks --- I can really only do that in my imagination.)
So I stayed home all Saturday, from early morning to late evening. I painted, finally. Found the groove where I left off before the dayjob project took my hours away. Because I did not have to be anywhere else, and because I did not have the option in the first place to be anywhere else, I let myself sink deep. And somehow, despite the seeming limitations of my material realities, I found myself very much free and open and expanding. While my outside was a lot of things that most people would find poor, sad, even dismaying, my inside was actually a landscape waking up to Spring, bursting forth with blooms and infinite shades of greens and blues, shimmering and sparkling in the sunlight, and revealing traces of magic in the moonlight.
As I sat there, making art, I felt joy. The kind that you feel when you're aligned with what you are and with the flow of the Universe, the Greater Design. I felt the weight of Things: the emptiness of my pockets that was also empty of power to distract me, the layers of paint on the canvas, the world being born in my mind's eye, following the compass of my spirit, flowing out of my hand. I felt the Otherside, the hidden beneath the grittiness of daily life, the flipside of my mortal capabilities. I felt at peace, precious moments of true calm, of being without fear or worry, of feeling my feet standing solid with faith. I felt the true road stretch before me, for a few minutes unobstructed, superimposed over the trackless depths of a forest I have yet to pass through. I felt blessed. I felt grateful. I felt hopeful.
I realised and appreciated being "cornered" this way, being put on "house arrest" by sheer lack of money (the one thing that's supposed to make the modern world go round). Instead of being limited, I experienced freedom. There was nowhere else to go but towards the Call. I made art, I tuned in to the rhythm of creation, I planted seeds, I nourished ideas. It's all invisible though, all happening inside, no one else could see the fireworks.
This is called Queen Of A Heart. I'm getting the hang of working with sequins.
This piece is still in-progress. Three days now, the longest I've ever spent on a single work. 20 x 24 in.
The risk (and seeming madness) of it all rubs at me constantly. What about the future? What about when you get sick, or when you get older? You are alone. You have nothing. You are not ready for anything. You insist on all these plans that are not where the world is going. You are unrealistic. You are impractical. You are selfish. You think what you are doing is important. That it will make a difference. It's all illusion. It is all in your head.
No, it is all in my heart. It is all in my soul. That is all that matters now. And the world is going towards destruction for the sake of profit so I am going instead in the direction of creation, and preservation of nature and life. I will add my single count to the minority who can discern the real path to survival, growth, and evolution. It is not an illusion but a vision. A prayer. My life is an action, a shift, a small change.
I used to live by myself, when I had a high-paying job and could do so. One of the things I loved most about living alone was having my very own kitchen, set up exactly according to how I cook.
Cooking fed not just my body but also my creativity. It helped me train myself into taking better pictures, and also led me towards a more positive and optimistic perspective. How can I stay cranky while surrounded by the mist of a simmering dish? It also taught me how to appreciate the little things, the small details, because the way to a satisfying dish is a litany of small steps. I can cook fast but I never rush. There is a natural rhythm to peeling and slicing, epiphanies slip in while waiting for something to boil, even pacing the grocery aisles looking for ingredients is an exercise in serendipity.
I loved the idea of NOURISHMENT. I cook old favourites and new discoveries. I like my food to offer familiar comfort but to also evolve and open up ideas. Flavours can inspire, take me to places I've never been, hint at stories.
When I moved back in with my parents (because I was stubborn enough to insist on creating a creative work path for myself), I missed my kitchen. And I missed cooking. My mom's kitchen is everything that discourages me from cooking, the opposite of how I had set up my own. I cannot find the rhythm nor the pockets of precious peace. Also, I cannot afford to cook for myself again yet. Ingredients for recipes go second to art materials. I still need a bit more time to gather a bit more funds.
I had once planned to set my own kitchen corner somewhere in my parents' house. I am thinking perhaps even a roofed over space in the backyard will do. I still have my stove, and my cooking pots. I just need a separate space, with my own pantry. When I have funds. (It is a bit sad it always boils down to money. If I were in the country I could hammer myself a space with wood found in the nearby forest, or the good ol' farmer in the next farm could offer to fix something up in exchange for tending the chickens, or something of the sort. Here in the city, everything has to come from a shop, exchanged with money. And everything so expensive.)
Today I started dusting off my cookbook collection. I was doing it before I realised that I was doing it. I need to cook. I need to approach the cauldron again. Rediscover the magic in herbs and spices. Revive another space where I can find calm and inspiration.
Funny thing is, last night I started reading Women Who Run With The Wolves, and here I am puttering towards something so domestic-sounding as cooking. But we all know it is really more than that, right? A woman in the kitchen is not at all domesticated or homely. A woman in the kitchen is someone tapping into one of her true inner powers of transformation, manifesting in so many ways.
Let the cauldron bubble.
A journal is not just for writers. A journal does not have to be just writing. It is not just a Dear Diary thing filled with secrets or a repository of gripes -- although it can be that, but it can, and should, be also more than that.
I have always kept some form of a journal since I was in high school. My practice had always been spotty. Surges of intense filling out of pages and then long periods of nothing. I accumulated quite a lot of unfinished notebooks, empty pages yellowed with time. My life had often felt uneventful, sometimes even unworthy.
I started with rules I picked up from no one in particular - that writing was the only option. That every entry must take up more than one page or else it was not a "valid" entry. That it had to be neat. That it had to be secret, in fact, because somehow it would contain things that one was not supposed to think or feel, like love and anger and hate and fear. When I read them I would feel shame and embarrassment, and even more awkward with myself. Or I would feel bored, and horrified with the smallness and meaninglessness of my life.
In 2012 I read The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron and was introduced to Morning Pages. It did not take me long to modify it and turn it into what I called Daily Pages. The way I wrote journals changed in many significant and dramatic ways since then. The journal became an aid and an ally to both my daily life and my creative life. It became a refuge and an anchor in the midst of every kind of storm I had to weather through. It took me to places I never knew existed within me, and it was also a safe place where I can examine my own life and discover its own gifts, powers, and meanings, and thus taught me, eventually, to become the person I love and trust (I have also learned to accept and forgive my old, often foolish selves, and I have grown to love them too).
How Daily Pages/ Journal-Keeping Works For Me
Daily Pages can be done at any time of day, as long as it is done at least once a day. It can be a short or long entry. It can be more than once a day. It can be written, drawn, sketched, painted, calligraphed, collaged, photographed, or any combination of these.
It has to have its proper space -- meaning I have to have a dedicated notebook or sketchbook for it. And it has to be something I can imagine being found when I am dead and gone and people would marvel -- not just because it looked pretty or interesting but because it would undeniably be a work of art on the self. It is the record of a life that has been examined and explored and given meaning. It is the witness of a life that dared to live by design instead of by default. I have to give it its rightful power -- to inform and to inspire, to set an example, perhaps. I have to treat it with respect -- meaning its purpose and authenticity. When I write on the pages it is not for show, but to show, to express, to share. Lessons and wisdom. Experiences and epiphanies. Not out of righteousness, but out of love for a certain way of living, out of joy, out of generosity.
It is a place that I shape with my hands - with words and images. It is a world in itself. It is a portal. It is safety. It is a refuge. It is a mirror. It is both kind and harsh. It is a time-traveling machine. It is where I create myself, among other things and pieces of art. It is a map. It holds and will hold all the X's that mark all the spots you will ever need to find.
I used to work a lot with "borrowed" images and words. This meant cutting out photos and magazine pages, and copying quotes. These were very useful for providing way-signs, inspiration, and guidelines. But a point came when I knew it was time for me to give back and to figure out my own and to express my own. Alongside the borrowed pieces I now have my personal contributions -- my own drawings and words, my own sketches. This has translated well into my paintings too because I am now able to construct and translate the images in my head whereas before I could only approximate with cut-outs and poorly-modified imitations of already existing works. I realised I want to have my own unique voice and style. It had frustrated me for quite a while. It was a very long process and when I was employed I rarely had time to really get into it.
I have only ever achieved this "identity" with my poetry but my daily pages helped me expand this creative self into other mediums. Soon it led me to the realisation that I want my poetry illustrated. And then it led me to that mad dare to myself to write a fantasy novel. And then to try watercolours. And to resurrect a fascination for calligraphy and lettering.
It may seem like a short time, since 2012, to have suddenly achieved many realisations and to have acted upon them. But I was unemployed (by choice). And for a while I had a bit of money to allow me to spend days figuring things out (and then there was no more money and I had to figure out how to juggle a dayjob with a creative life). But do not think it was easy. In many ways, grappling with my selves on the pages caused me frustration, despair, depression, rage. The patterns of my life terrified me, pushed me to the brink of wanting to escape in various permanent ways. I ached, I was in pain, I wept, I cursed.
But because I persisted, and I did not give up on it, the pages started to heal and help me. It started showing me ways through. It started giving me clues to solutions. Within that painful process I was also being taught to See, and to Know, and to Discern. If you do this you have to Stick To It Until The Sh*t Clears.
Now when I read my journals I feel a sense of safety and reassurance. The patterns in my life now make up a map by which I could navigate my days, with better awareness of my strengths and weaknesses. Writing my Daily Pages has become so ingrained in my routine that I feel untethered when I don't do it. And it is easy to do now because I have my rules impossible to break -- even a single sentence can be a Daily Page, a single word if that is what it takes for me to write something down. And usually, in the end, I actually manage a decent amount of writing done because I give myself every chance possible and no excuses.
What I Actually Write About
Anything, really. But that is no help if you want a specific point to start with. So --
- a "report" of what happened in the day and how I felt and thought about it
- an outline of what I intend to do for the day or the next day or the next week, and how I feel and think about them
- threshing out a problem or a puzzle that I need to resolve, including decisions I need to make; this often takes more than one entry and spans more than a single day; the act of writing it down helps clarify elements of the situation and lets me see possible solutions
- ranting; and this often leads me to a realisation that I cannot keep doing it without doing something about it
- an account of my dreams during the night; these often become creative seeds for poems, stories, and paintings
- an account of real-life dreams and how I think I could achieve them; these are often repeated exercises as circumstances and opportunities change
- at-the-moment thoughts and feelings that I sense to be significant or connects to a previous matter tackled on the pages
- ideas for creative projects and how I think I can do them, the materials I need
- fears and doubts, mostly about where the money will come from for the next month
- prayers addressed to the Universe or whichever divine being felt close at the moment
- a mind sweep, during which I pour on paper every single thing that I need/want/must do in order to de-clutter my head; then I often sort through them and realise what's really urgent and what's just white noise
- thoughts and feelings on specific subjects that called my attention for that day -- very varied, from books to people to philosophical statements, to memories of things past, to random observations
My Current "Web" of Daily Pages
Since I have been an avid practitioner of journal-writing, I evolved it in ways that would make it nearly impossible for me not to write. I now work with a "web" of writing/note-taking/event-capturing platforms that I collate and put together in hard copy (essential for review, reference, and record-keeping) -- so in my tiny studio I have a collection of notebooks plus binder folders with printed hard copies of writing I do by computer, phone, or tablet.
- Journal Notebook (Recommended : Leuchtturm1917, Copelle Grid, Alunsina Handbound, Traveler's Notebook a la Midori)
- Planner Notebook (Recommended : Leuchtturm1917, Moleskine)
- Manual Typewriter (output trimmed to paste into journal notebooks, or filed as is into the binder folder)
- Twitter (for the sudden, short, snippets, output linked to collect in Evernote)
- Evernote (which collects posts from other social via IFTTT, and also serves as a writing platform)
- iAWriter (distraction-less writing app, output copied into Evernote)
- OmmWriter (distraction-less writing app with nice ambient music, output copied into Evernote)
- Hanx Typewriter (distraction-less typewriter app in iPad, output copied into Evernote)
- Instagram (output linked to collect in Evernote)
- Blog (sometimes blog posts stand in for the day's entry especially if I feel strongly about it, each post copied into Evernote)
So this is what is working very well for me now. Let me know how you do yours.
This year's planner is free from The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Good thick paper and lots of space to make notes on. But naturally, I like designing my own instead of simply working with the default. And while I love the brand, I don't need it over-peppering my pages.
The general idea was to visualise the themes I want for the year -- they mostly have to do with my creative journey and also my quiet quest for my beloved. The images are gathered from various sources, with Pinterest being most invaluable. Putting them together on a page strengthens my vision of what I want and keeps me focused. Every day as I open this notebook I pass through the pages and am reminded of what I am working towards. And more than templates or cliches of success and satisfaction, I have made it a point to capture as much nuance and flavour I could for my kind of fulfilment. Hence the strong traces of magic and nature thread through everything.
Soon there will come a day when I don't need to borrow so much from what others have done, because I will be able to capture and create my own images, which means I will also have the TIME to do so, which means I will have sufficient money to keep myself from having to put in time for the kind of work that derail from my true journey.
But as I have always said, there is a Timeliness to Things. I just have to be patient, and to stay true, and to do what I can within each day that is given to me.
Dream-traveler, Cartographer of Missing Worlds, Finder of Ways.
I am a seed of Hope, rising from ashes.
I am the exception to every broken rule.
I am Story Teller, Magic Wielder,
Wanderer and Wonderer.
Collector of Coincidences, Seeker of Serendipities.
I am a lover of Thresholds and Portals,
of Parallel Possibilities, of Diverging Paths (I took the one less traveled by...)
of Long Courtships and Labyrinths.
I have a penchant for patterns,
and distorted circles, dizzying spirals (Fibonacci-flavoured), and of course,
the symmetry of honeycombs (something queenly about it).
I can be lured by ephemera, especially those still carrying
the ghosts of bygone times, and by pretty glittering, shiny,
shimmering Things (but not that which is every girl's best friend -- how utterly...common).
I mean the flash of sun on water, of raindrops and dewdrops and teardrops,
the sparkle of yet unnamed precious stones, scented with earth and liquid fire,
the flicker of stars in the deep pools of night-sky eyes,
the pinpoints of light caught by a grain of sand,
or stardust on the skin beneath a full silver moon,
and of course, that unmistakable aurora of magic, lingering on the edges
of a breath, of words, of fingertips.
I am kindred to both Shadow and Light,
to both Order and Chaos,
dancing along the eternal tightrope of the Golden Mean.
Queen of Marvels,
a universe being born.
As the old year drew to a close I found myself finding new ways to make my art. Paint and inks, graphite and charcoal, are all well and fine but my desire for tangibility demands the solidity of objects. So I added ephemera and sequins. And somehow I discovered that I had begun to gather in Things Lost and Found. Mismatched and misplaced pieces take on new meanings and purpose when placed within the context of the world I am striving to bring into this reality.
Timeliness is as much a key to the flowering of Things and the movement of Stories as the clarity of why. A close connection with our selves allow us to sense this timeliness -- the capacity to be patient and to stay still, as well as the ability to take action quickly can make the difference between a Thing unfolding as it was meant, or disrupting the flow of our very lives. Of course, even delays are sometimes woven in as necessary to the process, but oftentimes we can also be the hindrances to our own progress. I can attest to my own stubbornness, and my own fears, that have once constrained me to such a degree that I stifled all that should live and flourish within me.
Resistance to the natural flow of days and the rhythm of my own spirit only caused me pain and severe discomfort. My spirit becomes ill, and my mood becomes dissonant with everything around me. I turn bitter and cruel. I am poisoned and I poison others. I lose the ability to discern the right decision, everything becomes a battle, everything becomes a punishing effort to accomplish.
But if I let go and trust my sense of how Things should fall, then I experience calm, and peace, and the right kind of control -- enough to keep myself steering toward my True North, but also remaining open to the synchronic flow of the Universe through the creation of my Story. I must keep open to the aid and helpers sent along my way, the messengers and the wise beings, the clues and the signs.
Yesterday was the Time for me to welcome the Dream King again. To let myself sink into one of his Stories. In doing so I found the gifts of this particular Story arriving at the right moment of my life. I discovered echoes of my self among the magic-steeped pages, and most importantly, echoes of my creative journey. I felt that I have received a silent nod of approval, and also that I was bestowed a map to decipher as I go deeper into my journey.
These illustrations break away a lot from traditional comics and that movement resonates with me. The colour palettes, as well as the moods and tones, are relevant to my attempts at capturing a whole world onto paper and canvas. Of course the most important thing is that I am ready for this now. A day earlier and I would have missed all the clues. A day later and I would have been too distracted by the coming week.
Along this flow of Things is the realisation that I would like to begin my offering of artworks as original, singular pieces. Perhaps later I will decide to offer prints and multiple copies or pieces of an applied designs. But that would be later. I would like to begin with unique pieces. One of its kind. There may be a thematic series, but never the exact same version of a subject. I wish to highlight the idea of there being only one, and either you really want it or you don't, either it's meant for you, or it's not. I like the idea of chances -- will you be able to decide on time before someone else claims it?
This idea is further reinforced by a revisitation of one of my favourite illustrated books, The Merchant Of Marvels and The Peddler Of Dreams.
This book was also the creative seed for the previous post/poem, Queen of Marvels.
My very soul aches to move forward. But first, at this very moment, I must take myself off the magical road and ---
finish that dayjob report. (Such a devastating disruption, I know.)
And when he is, Things tend to come into sharper focus, despite the fact that their edges shimmer and flicker, being that they are mostly dreams, following the illogic of dreams, and riding the stormy seas of Sleep. (There are many kinds of Sleeping -- but that is for another Story.)
There is Time, and then there is Timeliness.
And always there is the Story, with its Unfolding, and Chapters, and Small Deaths, and Small Beginnings.
There is time, in its usual pace and pattern. Then there is Time. Weaving and wobbly. Spiral and labyrinthine. Permeable and translucent, really. Always dripping with anomalies and aberrations, always stained with magic, barely hidden yet rarely noticed.
The question of When is at the root of all tales. Even the ones that only we can tell.
The question of Why Now has only one answer. Because it is When it must.
Once again upon a Time.
There was a King.
And there was I. An overlay of possibility. A sliver of thorn stabbing through the cold. A knife of light through the mist. A trick of the Night. A gift. A hidden hope. A truth waiting to be spoken. A dream of a Dream.
I was a desert that sprouted nothing until the King Of Dreams came to me.
Partly in mortal form, a hint of himself, enough but not sufficient. Not for having.
Then mostly he scattered himself in pieces for me to follow, crumbs in a mighty forest, within a vast mythology being born, chained to this time and space, this particular shade of night.
Since then I have been haunted by skies and constellations, stammering in the language of stars.
I have looked for him in the dead ends of too many love stories that never were.
There was a time I escaped into the blissful oblivion of being simply ordinary, in a perpetual loop of make-believe wakefulness. I traded my sleep for money. I stopped seeing the night sky. There was only eternal daylight and flickering screens and the prisons of powerpoint. I convinced myself that it was enough. That it was all there ever would be.
Until I could not do it anymore.
Then I fell into a deep sleep. There were no dreams. I was dead. I was a shell of myself. I was a ghost.
I was once again a desert, this time littered with bones and streaked with the ashes of hope.
But there were seeds, from long before. From the time when the King of Dreams allowed me a glimpse of something he made me forget immediately after.
The seeds stirred.
I woke and I was someone else becoming.
I gave birth to poems and paintings and half-finished fairy tales. I am not yet done. There is a grand event yet, for which everything else has been preparation.
I am myself again, almost, somehow. A truer self, perhaps.
I still cannot remember that which I was made to forget.
But I can feel the memory twitching, somewhere close.
Images from The Sandman Overture, The Deluxe Edition.
I knew this already, but I had to learn it one more time. A dayjob lesson.
It is this: spare small hours spread out throughout a period of time. Do not ever pour it all in a few intense days -- it knocks down down everything else and drains the creative spirit. Make the dayjob work as small and almost inconsequential in a day rather than allowing it to chomp off pain-full whole days, no matter if it were only six days or one. Better have it chopped up in tolerable pieces across ten to fifteen days.
The assumption here is that I will also no longer take on projects I do not feel 100% happy about. It affects the whole equation.
Because right now I have to do an intense few days of report-writing for a project that from the start I did not feel very comfortable with. I can deliver the requirement, of course. But it is the kind of project I usually take when I am short on cash -- a desperate project. And I want to be stricter on myself about losing faith that way. True, the advance money came in handy. But I am also certain that a better option would have presented itself soon enough.
Anyway, now my move from the old year to the new is slightly marred by the dragging across of this unfinished report. (Addendum lesson: Finish all projects by the second week of December, and don't take on anything new until January. That way I don't need to have anything hovering over my head like a dreary stormcloud during the holidays.)
On the other hand, this one last hard lesson WILL serve me well. And better that it occurs now, to be part of the old year.
I have sent off my experiment snail mail a couple of weeks ago and two have been confirmed delivered -- one in Australia and another in the UK. If everything goes well I can do a trial run of the shop with a few small items. That would be a good addition to 2016.
I have given artwork as gifts to people this year, as made possible by certain alignments of the stars. It was not quite random, but also a response and a reciprocation. These people have done things they may or may not not have fully realised as great blessings to me -- as great as replenishing my well of hope and faith, and keeping my spirit alive.
I plan to send out a few more, within the first quarter of the new year, as the magic moves me.