Several years ago, I volunteered as a mentor in a school. Mentors were matched to only one student, usually of the same gender. Other students were forbidden from joining in our activities. The student I mentored did not have special educational or emotional needs. This was simply a service parents could elect to take advantage of for their children, if they wished to sign them up.

The little girl I mentored was adorable. It was an especially good match because she enjoyed drawing and doing artwork. We met once a week, around lunchtime. We quickly got into the routine of sharing lunch and promptly starting a project. We decorated boxes and made collages. Sometimes we played Mancala, but most of the time we loaded a table with craft supplies and jumped right in. I remember attempting to make candles during one of these sessions. We both laughed a lot because we simply failed and ended up with mush.

Mentors had to adhere to strict rules. We could use a classroom, but could not be behind closed doors. We also could not touch the child in any way. I do not have children of my own, so this rule did not bother me at first. However, I soon discovered that it can be nearly impossible not to want to hug an adorable child who is beaming with joy. I stuck to the rule. It was painful.

Over time, a boy who happened to be a classmate of my student began to approach us. He seemed to be a solitary little chap. He simply sat at a nearby desk and watched us. A teacher would inevitably scold him simply for being there and being a “nuisance”. He was not. Every time this happened, he looked down and silently began to cry. The following week, in spite of the scolding, he inched his way closer. The same scenario unfolded, with the teacher raising her voice and making it clear his friendliness was not welcome. This broke my heart. That day, I approached the mentoring program director to ask if I might be allowed to mentor him separately, or if a male mentor could be assigned. The answer to both inquiries was no.

Our stubborn little friend did not lose heart. The following week, he chanced an approach while no teacher seemed to be paying attention. I quickly whispered to my student and asked her if it would bother her to share a few art supplies with him. She was quite all right with this idea, so before anyone could intervene I gave him a pad and markers and invited him to sit at a nearby desk. When a teacher arrived, with her mouth already half-open to utter the usual commands, I immediately interjected and insisted he was no trouble at all. I think my gaze probably spoke more forcefully than my words. She hesitated, but stepped back.

A few weeks later, I resigned from this assignment. The scolding had begun again and I felt it was terribly unfair, especially since I was not there with the other students due to any special needs. She was an exemplary student, with good parents and all that she needed to succeed, including teachers’ good favors. This was not her fault, of course. She was simply a well-adjusted, adorable and confident child. However, I began to see our interactions as a great disservice to less fortunate, less favored children such as our little artistic friend. It made no sense to me not to be allowed to provide the same level of acknowledgement and attention to other kids. It would have been so simple to set up schedules so all children who wished to have a mentor would get their playful or artful hour over time.

A few days after my last day as a mentor, I received a call from the school informing me that the boy had requested to see me. Perhaps his parents had requested this. I do not remember. When I arrived, I was directed to the “time out” room. He was sitting at a desk, facing the wall. When I approached, he handed me a picture he had drawn, indicating that it was his thank you gift to me. I could barely speak. I wanted to hold him and tell him the world out there was not necessarily as nasty to little boys as he had sometimes experienced, but even hugs to show someone matters were not allowed, so I had to walk away.

Several years later, I heard that special school-based assistance had been requested for this boy, who was likely now a teenager. I heard that he had been bounced from one service provider to another and no one really had the time or desire to add him to their caseload. Once more, the adult world was failing him, perhaps at the most critical time of all.

There seems to be an unspoken rule amongst many adults and educators stating that the proper way to deal with “disruptive” children is to scold them and isolate them. In truth, it has been demonstrated time and time again in other, more progressive educational environments, that giving them loving guidance and attention is the most effective and logical approach. People, children, are “disruptive” for a reason. It is not necessarily intentional. Most of the time, it is an unconscious and very important means of communication. One must seek what lies beneath, not push it away.

I have prayed and wished this boy remembers how beautifully he can draw and I have prayed and wished he turned to this and that every stroke of the pencil or brush gives him the confidence to know with certainty that he is someone who matters as much as everyone else. I hope he cares enough to make a peaceful life for himself and I hope there is someone nearby who hugs him from time to time.

Slainte!

Some people have a very acute sense of who they are and what they are meant to be doing. Switching direction is as matter-of-fact to them as turning a knob to open a door. Today, I met a confident, bright-eyed woman who is following her true calling. She studied law, but after only a short while working in this field realized it was not a path she wished to pursue for her entire life. She has been managing a gift shop for eight years. As she speaks of her work life and going to this colorful place every day, her gaze sharpens, and her entire countenance reveals one who is at peace and fulfilled.

It happens every day. Cops become signers, builders become poets, nurses become jewelers and actors become therapists. Accounts of such seemingly drastic changes in one’s career orientation often have one common thread: Though the direction is completely new, the steps taken to shift gear are usually free of struggle. Very minimal time is wasted on should's and if’s. One reaches a point where any internal argument or resistance is futile. There is nothing more to do but take action.

One might think that lack of the proper means or education could be reasonable obstacles to a career makeover. One might think that entourage, criticism, naysayers or just plain habit might be a deterrent. However, there comes a point where one’s integrity takes charge and gains momentum. In that particular state of mind, obstacles become markers that awaken the problem-solving, creative mind. When you know who you are and what you would love to do, it truly is like falling in love. Everything becomes vibrant with possibility, inspiration and joy. One becomes fearless and adventurous.

In the end, it is never about means or education. It is about passion. Passion is the ingredient that sparks the creative juices and leads one to find the means, the knowledge, the people and the opportunities to begin this new work. No great scientific discovery was ever possible without passion. In fact, I would venture to say that science is an offspring of passion, the passion for knowledge. So it is with a lawyer who turns to painting. The desire to know every bit of how it feels to apply pigment to the canvas and shape a scene with one’s own hand and eye is a scientific experiment in itself. It is the search for the accomplished work, that which materializes what was already known and had already taken shape in the mind.

Materialization, therefore, is the second ingredient on the path to recreating one’s work life. The curious mind begs to know “what will my idea look like once I shape it?” Once the idea for a new line of work or creative project comes to mind, once it takes hold and begins to germinate, it cannot be contained within the mind forever. It wants to venture out.

I like to experiment with new dinner recipes. Nothing fancy. Cooking is not one of my strong points and it did not take very long for me to discover that since I do not have a knack for it, if I venture to use an ingredient that was not originally listed, the resulting taste or texture may be rather disappointing. I think it is much the same with our life path. The right ingredients must exist, in the correct proportions, in order for the course we choose to unfold smoothly. We often mistakenly focus on fear and uncertainty as the main ingredients. This can turn passion and materialization into a very bad tasting mix. When we are in fear, we cannot see opportunities and creative ways to reach our goals. Being in fear is like repeatedly doubting that the loaf will come out right. We open the oven door and watch it collapse. How discouraging! We must stick to the recipe and leave fear on the shelf, to the very back of the shelf, out of sight, out of mind.

Slainte!

The things that surround us, the objects and pictures we carefully place around our homes, are constant reminders about who we are, what we value and, most significantly, how we grow and change. We might have loved Art Deco for years until we finally walk into the room we have filled with it and feel we are in a strange museum whose exhibit is not quite what we had in mind. Now, we long for the golden atmosphere of Van Gogh, for instance. However, while the things we bring into our homes reflect our tastes and values of the moment, the people who share those moments silently witness our evolution.

Vladimir and Alexandre were my children. Though they were of a different species - both were cats - I see no distinction. I sheltered and fed them, educated them about what was safe and what was not, kept them from danger, hunger and suffering, tucked them in at night and demonstrated my love for them every single day of their lives. I see adopting an animal much like adopting a child from another country. Though their language and inherent social rules differ from mine, as we grow together we learn a bit from each other’s culture and establish our very own ways of communicating.

I became very much aware of their role as witnesses when Vladimir passed away last September. He was 21. Alex had died seven years earlier, at 19. When I held my dead son in my arms, I felt a heart wrenching emptiness I had never experienced before in my life. Between the two of them, Vlad and Alex had accompanied my every adventure for twenty-seven years. They had witnessed all my victories and failings, my acquaintances and loves, my joy and rage. They had peacefully accepted every move to a new home and the move to Vermont from Canada. They had slept in my arms every single day. We had gazed into each other’s eyes every morning and every night.

They had been the observers of this weird creature who made their food from scratch and poured love into them with each embrace. Their every breath, as they lay on a favorite chair or windowsill, marked every moment of my existence like a pendulum. Their silent observation somehow confirmed to the universe that this being called Paschal’Simon was moving, breathing, creating, deciding, laughing, crying, working, eating, sleeping, evolving, changing and becoming something. With my dead son in my arms, I suddenly felt like a small creature in the forest that wakes up and yawns, but no one is there to witness its awakening, so does it really exist, and does it really matter?

Humans thrive on acknowledgement. The first thing a child does when he or she has drawn a picture is to show it to every adult and child around. Every single one of our actions is an extension of our thoughts into the world, a manifestation of our mastery of life and creativity. Indeed, every action is our manifesto. A manifesto is meaningful only if heard or read.

I suppose people who live in isolation have transcended the need for acknowledgement or perhaps they have learned self-acknowledgement. Is it an error to believe that our existence must be validated by the love and observation of others? Is it a dysfunction? It can certainly lead to suffering.

An image comes to mind: The tribe. Interestingly, though they interact at one time or another, a tribe does not need the acknowledgement of a neighboring tribe in order to function. However, each individual within the tribe most likely receives acknowledgement from his or her peers. Is it possible to be like a tribe entity? Perhaps all that is required is to realize that our existence is not meaningless if it is not witnessed, but it is certainly richer when shared.

Slainte!

There is a difference between making money and earning it. This realization came to me over the past several months as I peruse the various job search engines to secure employment alongside my personal ventures. In fact, if it were not for the personal ventures, as modest as they are, I wonder how I would fare in this shaky economy.

Moments, literally moments after signing up with CareerBuilder, JobLink, our state department of employment job bank and the likes, I was inundated by SPAM of one nature or another. In the course of each week, I have observed job listings pour in. These are supposed to be at least reasonably tailored to my profile. Instead, they are often up to 70% related to work-from-home scams.

Another aspect of this is the wide use of online recruiting services by employers. For many real jobs I have applied to, I have received a follow-up email informing me that in order to complete the application and be considered for the position, I needed to “click on the link below”, which link directed me to an online application on behalf of the employer. The catch? The agency that offers this service has a motive of its own: Gathering a list of contacts for college recruiters. In fact, one gets to the actual application form only after a college information offer pop-up. There is no way around it. The application cannot be submitted if all fields are not filled out. Then, the phone begins to ring. It is nine o’clock in the evening. A recording from the University of Phoenix comes on. I let the answering machine pick up.

A few days ago, I decided to investigate this system further. I found the agency that provides the online service to employers and discovered that their entire process is not disclosed. They come across as an honest to goodness method for employers to compile lists of applicants and qualifications to assist them in selecting the best candidates with greater ease. The next time this system popped up on my screen, I notified the employer and asked is they were aware of the actual process. They were as shocked as I was, and quite discouraged.

Back to the wonderful make $500 a week from home offers. Many are disguised, very well disguised I might add, as honest to goodness administrative jobs, including a specific office location. I investigated this also. In fact, I found one whose initiator was dumb enough to explain how the entire pyramidal scam works as a means to entice one to join his wonderful, moneymaking scheme for only $1.00, for a limited time only. According to him, I too could make millions by producing unblock-able pop-up ads, acquiring email addresses to my very own passive audience and duplicating the very steps and words he had used to get me to sign up at $1.00. In other words, he gave me all the reason in the world to not sign up. But I am certain many do, out of despair or a sort of momentary false notion that they are not capable of acquiring wealth in any other way, and that wealth is necessary in the first place.

Surely the people at the top of these pyramids probably make quite a few dollars, perhaps even a ridiculously high amount of money, simply by knowing how to network, network, network. Once the net is cast, it is much like fishing. The wider the net area, the more fish are likely to be caught in it. It appears that in today’s economy the phrase “fishers of men” takes on an entirely new meaning.

The thought of sitting at home and watching the dollars accumulate like dumbfounded fish in my virtual net while strangers’ mailboxes are invaded with my crafty emails and unblock-able pop-up ads does not appeal to me. Someone could very well demonstrate and prove that I could get rich overnight by doing so, I still could not conceive of putting so much energy in installing such a system when I could put the same amount of energy, and more, to selling a real, tangible product or service that brings some measure of value or real enjoyment to the persons purchasing it.

I have very low tolerance for this sort of scheme and invasion at a time when so many people are looking for real employment and honest ways to support themselves. Paying $1.00 to learn how to run a moneymaking scheme does only that: It teaches one how to run a scheme to make money. It does not provide the experience of truly earning one’s keep by offering talent and skills to a business, employer, team or project; it does not provide one’s audience or clients with the experience of acquiring an inspiring book or a beautiful object, or receiving valuable services. Making thousands is one thing, earning each dollar through skill, labor and service is a privilege and a way to grow. A dollar earned this way is worth thousands.

Slainte!

If someone were to say, “describe yourself in one sentence”, most of us would not know what to highlight and what to leave out. At first, we think we can spontaneously jump in and confidently announce “I am ….”, but we stop short. Anything we say must be scrutinized, censored and trimmed down to the bare essentials, without leaving out any critical bare essential.

It is much like preparing a long journey for which we are allowed only one suitcase. We want to fit enough clothes to change and feel refreshed every day. We want to include our favorite lucky charm, stuffed animal or object. We make room for the books we are certain we will read while traveling, special shoes for special occasions, maps and so on and so forth. Everything in that suitcase is linked to our identity, to our sense of what makes us feel secure and complete. If it does not close, our minds go reeling into an exercise in elimination of the items least likely to be missed or, more accurately, least likely to make us feel lost and incomplete should we not have them.

So what is it that we are, in one sentence? Are we our accomplishments, our credentials, our qualities, our accumulated wealth, fears, things, toys or offspring? How do you wrap all of it in one sentence without missing a beat? Better yet, what feels like it does not fit? I could say, “I am a rocket scientist”, but cringe at every word because though this may be what I have become, deep down inside I know it is not all that I am.

So the process of elimination begins. It requires honesty and courage. Opening a suitcase with rocket science textbooks in it may feel more proper than revealing, for instance, a bundle of beaded bracelets in the midst of creation. But ha! The colors, the shades and feel of each bead, the feeling of utter fulfillment one experiences at the very sight of this work in progress seems so, so much more authentic than the rocket science paraphernalia.

In these times, when technology, information and all manners of professions exist that were inconceivable for generations not so long ago, one tends to feel not sufficiently accomplished without a good job title to throw after “I am”. This is sad. It is sad because, and I am certain of this, many of the people who can place a significant title after those two words cringe when they do it. This has been acquired at such a cost. Their pain is silent. It is the pain of a child who has been told that being authentic comes second to being somebody. The child’s spirit knows the truth.

What is in your suitcase? Did you dare bring the real stuff for your journey?

Slainte!

This morning, I found a very interesting question on the Windows QnA forum. Someone asked, if you were king or queen of the world, what would be your first decree? My first hunch was to answer what follows: That we shall develop a barter system in every land, whereby people would freely share their skills and talents with neighbors and more experienced folks would mentor each other's children. Every adult would be someone's virtual grandparent, everyone would become a teacher of a trade or profession upon graduating from their own studies, and the palace would hold an international library for all to access. After a few moments, I realized that what I had just described was a web of interconnectedness much like the Internet, only in person. This leads to a second realization: It is not possible to have a world without laws.

My reply and others I read on the forum had one theme in common: In our imaginary kingdom, everybody would have access to something for free, everything, every joy and right would be at hand, equally accessible to all. Is not this the basic premise of all kingdoms and the basic promise of every government? If such free access to "good for all" is our desire, can we not live without conflict? Moreover, how do we resolve it when it occurs?

At first glance, in a world where we share knowledge and tools, where elders naturally mentor the younger generations, one would think that conflict might not exist. In fact, one might think that the criminal mind itself could not prosper. It seems almost certain, or at least probable, that crime might drop in a society where sharing and supporting each other were key elements of daily living for everyone in every community. However, conflict is inevitable because not everyone interacts in the same manner. Some days we do not feel so good; we want to be left alone or we went to bed too late, or we are not quite done with a neighbor's tool and irritable when someone else needs it. The concept of a society-wide barter system lends itself to an illusion of instant harmony without rules. Yet even a tribe, where everyday activities are deeply intertwined, operates around clearly defined rules. There cannot be any sort of interaction without rules, implicit or deliberate.

If I can borrow any tool I want, how long can I keep it? If I can teach my neighbor a new language, how much of my time does he get? If I agree to pick up groceries for another neighbor, by what time should I do so? Every action, every tool borrowed, every offer to lend a helping hand leads to questions that help define how we interact. As we formulate answers to these questions and agree upon a time, place, manner of doing, we establish rules, or laws. This is inevitable. It is also inevitable that someone will infringe upon a neighbor’s right, not respect his or her part of an agreement, or hurt someone else. It is inevitable that someone may feel left out when a neighbor happens to lend more often to X or Y. This may lead to theft, injury, insult. Then, one must ask, How do we deal with this? The answer, simply, is make more rules, come to agreements, establish laws.

I used to know a man who had a saying about laws: “If you do not like the law, don’t break it. Instead, work on changing or improving it”. The laws of conduct and rules we establish in our society are the building blocks, the foundation of our daily lives and freedom. Yes, I said freedom. I do not believe there can be freedom without rules. Freedom needs structure. Otherwise, it is simply a big society-wide accident waiting to happen. So back to my barter-based kingdom... it would inevitably evolve in the same manner as any other society, with the same rules and laws, very much as a small body of water one tries to contain eventually overflows and branches out into brooks and rivers. It cannot be contained and there is only one direction for it to take, naturally.

Slainte!

I added images of compasses, sextants and harps to my web space today. Then, I spent delightful moments staring at them. If I were to describe human genius and its ability to give shape and form to the universe, I would say, "Look at compasses, sextants and musical instruments". They share many fascinating traits, all very closely related to the vastness of the universe itself, all representative of the process that leads from an apparent "nothing" to the germination of an idea, followed by the materialization of an object, rippling back into the universe through its very use.

The compass, sextant and musical instruments were born from an instinctive awareness. The observer grasped the concept without a single piece of complex technology in hand. From that one moment of "knowing", his mind began to ask questions, each question leading to an answer, an idea, and a new, expanded concept. Creative minds cannot help but create. Creative minds cannot help but fashion the objects they imagine; take pieces of familiar materials and assemble them in such a way that the idea becomes an object one can hold. This object is the proof, the giant "Ha Ha!" The creative mind wants to cradle its creation.

Compasses, sextants and musical instruments create an invisible ripple effect. The harp string sends out a vibration we call sound, or music. It exists to make music. The compass and sextant also ripple out into the universe whenever they enable the observer to expand his awareness beyond the horizon. In fact, they are designed to direct the awareness with high precision, just as the harp is tuned to give a precise sound.

What these instruments accomplish is very complex. They are the culmination of centuries of history, living, questioning, and asking how to make invisible concepts visible and tangible. The result is a series of objects so intricate, so detailed, so complex in design and function that they are imbued with a beauty only nature can match in its intricate design of flowers and creatures. I do not drink, yet when I consider this, when I spend time admiring our ability to create such masterpieces, I feel intoxicated. I see the passion of a creative mind in each of these objects. One cannot create such beauty without loving each moment of the process. Then, I ask why so many of the objects we create today, even much of the architecture of our dwellings, appear so devoid of passion, so square, so not fully vibrant? Do we know too much? Do we understand so much that some of the wonder of creating is gone?

Maybe this is why compasses, sextants, musical instruments and similar objects and tools are so beautiful. They were born of wonder, pure wonder, pure amazement. That initial point of wonderment cannot be repeated or, rather, it can never be felt quite in the same manner or quite with the same passion again. Therefore, we collect compasses and sextants, and make music, because somewhere deep down in our bones we remember, and we do not want to forget.

Slainte!

Several years ago, I was hired to provide in-home care for the elderly. The program I joined had been established to allow seniors to remain in their own homes instead of going to assisted living facilities. This concept was fairly new at the time. The individuals we cared for needed help with meals, outings, getting to appointments, sometimes bathing or they simply wanted company. This was a challenging experience.

When I first joined, I assumed I would be expected to attend some training sessions. Instead, I was provided with a video overview of the services and a booklet to take home and read. I admit that the booklet was very thorough and actually very well thought out, but it was not like hands on experience. I had also assumed I would be shadowing for quite a while before I would be allowed to be left alone with a client. I shadowed for one afternoon. I personally felt ready and prepared to face the challenge. I had chosen to do this, after all. I also felt confident because this required one to be reliable, honest and dedicated, all traits I strongly believe in applying to my daily life. I also felt I was mature enough to take on such a responsibility. It did bother me, however, that I, a complete stranger, could be sent into the homes of vulnerable people, some with health issues, without any specific training.

My first client was a sweet woman who had had a stroke. She could no longer speak. I was also informed that she was rather confused. My job was to come in early in the morning, prepare her breakfast and make sure she did not stay in bed since the doctor had specifically instructed that she be kept active and engaged for several hours a day. We were also to take walks together. She was a bit shaky, but enjoyed that. The first morning I was there, her daughter met me at the door and went through the morning routine with me. She indicated she had explained why I was there to her mom, but that she was crying and did not want to face her situation. She eventually got up and sat to eat her breakfast while we became acquainted.

What do you say to someone who cannot respond and does not seem to understand what you are saying in the first place? How do you know what she wants or needs? I was strictly instructed not to let her go back to bed until late afternoon. How do you convince an adult, your elder by many years, that she must go by your rules in her own house? This was so difficult. I was not prepared for this. One needs proper training. I sat at her table with her every morning. While she ate, in silence, I tried to say a few interesting things to her, ask yes/no questions. Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I was questioning the wisdom of trusting ill-informed, ill-prepared individuals to such responsibilities with absolutely no oversight right from day one. Was this fair to the clients? Was this safe?

I wanted this sweet woman to be home as much as anybody else. She did recognize her home, her things, her own pace and routine, but I questioned this even further the morning I arrived and she had already been up, had placed the water kettle on the burner, and had gone back to bed. The kettle in question was made of plastic and was the type that needs to be plugged in, not placed on a burner. It was melting. Fortunately, it appeared I had gotten there only moments after she had placed it there. I stormed down the basement and looked for the breaker box to disable the stove and avoid another incident. I could not find it. I later contacted my employer and asked them to notify her family. We were not allowed direct contact with the family.

The other side of the coin remains a fantastic journey. I met this woman at her house many more times. We took walks to a nearby park or made puzzles together. She showed me the many family pictures in her living room. We had breakfast and lunch together every day. Sometimes we sat in her backyard and listened to distant trains or watched pollen fly and surround us. She could not speak more than a few discombobulated words. Making a sentence, even a very short one, was impossible for her. Yet, weeks after I had left employment with this agency, I had a rather shocking realization as I related my experience to my husband. I remembered going to the park with her and her telling me about the nearby school we could see, how she had gone there as a child. I remembered her showing me her family pictures and telling me who each individual was and when the picture was taken. I remember her asking me to go to the supermarket and telling me exactly which one. She did not speak any of this. Where did I get such memories?

My next client was another sweet woman. She had not had a stroke. In fact, though she was 97, she was much sharper than me, even had a far better memory. We watched Wheel of Fortune together, though she would mostly listen because her eyesight was very limited. She looked at me and giggled and called me a twit when, one time, I could not find an answer that was actually a French word. She was adorable.

On my very first day with this client, however, my ability to do this work was put to the test once more, and again I questioned the wisdom of putting such responsibilities unto individuals who are truly untrained strangers. I had been informed that I would have to assist this client with her shower. In my little, scared mind I thought, "They probably mean I will set the towels nearby and make sure the water is at the right temperature and then I only need to be nearby, in another room, while she is in there". To make sure we were on the same page, I asked her to let me know, specifically, what assisting with her shower entailed. She was sharp, but very frail. Helping meant being there and helping her in and out, doing a bit of back scrubbing, drying, and holding up. A bit? All that sounded more like a lot to me. I was terrified.

I am not comfortable with seeing other people undress, even people of my own gender. I have always been unable to change in front of others in a locker room. I am a very private person. However, while one moment I felt my presence was an invasion of this little woman, within instants I felt it was a privilege to be able to assist someone in such a vulnerable moment. My immature side thought I would be very disgusted. I was taken aback by my actual reaction. Seeing this frail, white, soft human body before me and having to support it was the most humbling experience I had ever had. She was beautiful. I think this was the first time I actually found a human body utterly beautiful, in the sense of a masterpiece. This body had lived, struggled, loved, toiled, overcome and, finally, was withering away. This was a parchment, telling the story of an entire life, and she trusted me to hold this fine material and not break it.

She came out of the shower with her mischievous little smile on her face. I asked if I had helped her appropriately. She replied, "This shower did me good, like a good shower should!” She indicated I could step out for a while. I went to her living room and cried.

Slainte!