Intricacies: Part Seven

Turdus migratorius

Fear arose from the feathered chest, rising and falling, the heart beating as if it wanted to burst into the palm of my hand. Just seconds before, the bird hopped about in desperation, evading the jaws of an old dog determined to catch it. Its wings begged to fly but never found the strength to do so. And so I found myself there, crawling through the grass and scooping the animal into my hands, the hens screaming above me. The fledgling resisted and then softened, collapsing on its side and nestling into my palm. The tuft of soft, white hair upon its crown was strewn about, disheveled, and its feet gripped my fingers. Its eye squinted and then closed, and I walked. I walked until a fence separated us and then I walked some more. When I squatted down among the trees, the songbird lay still for a moment, only opening an eye to peer up at me. And then, as the screams of the grown passerines rang in my ears, the baby robin stood to its feet and sprung forward into the greenery below.

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Intricacies: Part Six

Ardea herodias

I had approached quietly, the toes of my boots dipping into the mud along the river’s edge. I was sure the heron had sensed my presence long before I came into view, though he acted unaware. He stood still on one leg with his neck outstretched, peering down into the water as I navigated the bank. The stillness was interrupted by my own doing: my left foot catching on the uproot of a fallen oak tree splayed out across the river, the leaves still green. I froze and met the heron’s gaze, which had suddenly left the rippling current and landed on me, leaning against a large rock, with my foot still wedged in the root bed. His glowing, yellow eyes stared intently. Standing on two feet, the heron squatted, as if considering taking flight; its wings rose slightly. But, after a moment, the heron’s stature relaxed, his head turning and revealing a sharp, pointed beak and upon his chest: long, flowing feathers. 

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Intricacies: Part Five

Dryophytes versicolor

I often sit quietly, watching as it moves about the enclosure in the evenings. I have witnessed leaps from the water bowl onto the tallest pothos leaf and I’ve seen the engulfment of wax worms and meal worms and moths and flies. I have watched as it nestles down into the protection of the water bowl when my face approaches too quickly and too closely to the glass. But, never before now, have I witnessed the cannibalistic nature of a frog ingesting the entirety of its skin.

It began with a rhythmic lurching motion starting at the base of the stomach and flowing upwards into the throat. This was repeated over and over and over as the creature released the outer layer of its skin, encouraging it forward toward its head. The long gathering of skin slid along the shoulder and neck as the frog continued in this labored movement. Meanwhile, the corner of its mouth stretched and pulled as the epidermis was sucked inward. He swallowed repeatedly and with great effort. And then, within five minutes, the last of the skin disappeared into the belly of the beast. The grey tree frog sat proudly upon the rotting log, momentarily, before diving into the depths of the water bowl and disappearing into the shadows. 

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Intricacies: Part Four

Cosmos sulphureous  

It didn’t take but a few days for the green shoots to poke through the surface of the soil and begin their journey above ground. And since then, the two rows of soft, curled sprouts have turned into a magnificent display of fiery oranges and yellows, known as ‘bright lights’. Surrounded by others of similar stature, the tallest stem reached nearly two feet into the warm air before it began to flower. Early in the week, the terminal of the stem had parted, making way for the growth of a small, round bud. It began as a darker green ball, hidden between the pinnate-formed leaves, and soon developed an apricot tone as it stretched and grew. And then, one morning, a flash of orange reflecting through the window caught my attention. Bursting from the center of ten perfectly aligned petals was a bundle of florets covered in thick, yellow pollen, and a small bumblebee hovering just above. The blossom swayed slowly whenever a breeze approached, and then it settled back in place. As the petals opened further throughout the day, two other buds peered outward from the stem. I studied its movement, as did the bees, while awaiting the arrival of our summer made of blooms.

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Intricacies: Part Three

Donax trunculus

It was a rather bizarre sight when the edge of the wave receded back into the ocean and the foam soaked into the sand. Within seconds, two small shells that had been perched beside my right foot disappeared. I watched as a third shell, pale orange in color, wriggled about for a moment and then sunk into the brown abyss. Intrigued, I knelt down and hunched over, watching as the creature moved below the surface of the earth. Another wave soon approached and I kept still, seawater bubbling around my ankles and upward onto my shins, and the bright shells swirled beneath me. But, as the wave withdrew from where I knelt, the clams settled and revealed themselves. I held my breath, unmoving. And then, one by one, the coquina clams disappeared into the protection of the fine Carolina sand, just as they had done a million times before.

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Intricacies: Part Two

Begonia aconitifolia

I suppose the creature is rather skilled in camouflage, considering I have yet to catch sight of it. Yet, a handful of the begonia leaves are left with the traces of small, hunger-driven bites. I hardly noticed it at first, as the edges of the leaves naturally form in soft, swooping curves until they taper into a point. The marks only become visible when examining a singular leaf closely, revealing the concave, jagged half-moons along the perimeter. It’s likely a caterpillar of some sort, or perhaps a pesky tent worm. In that case, this destructive consumption will likely end soon, giving life to an emerging creature that will find its winged life to only last a week, and possibly even less.

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Intricacies: Part One

Bombus pensylvanicus

The glint of sunlight off of her wings catches my eye as I lay in the grass, reading. The bee floats, meandering slowly about in the warm, dry air, and pauses at the sight of a blooming white clover. She hovers and then rests upon the outer edge of a petal, where she swipes upwards, collecting little bits of yellow dust. Then, moving on to the next petal, and the next, she slowly makes her way around the entire flower, meticulously foraging and ensuring no little particle is left behind. As she lifts off, pollen leaves a dusting upon her stiff, black and yellow hairs. Her wings buzz, carrying the weight of her gathering in the basket-shape of her legs, or corbicula. She does not rest but for a second, seemingly glancing kindly at me, before the summer breeze draws her back to the hive.

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Six Months Later

January 2nd 2024

The world is a much different place - more clear, more quiet, and more easily understood than it used to be. But, I have learned that it is a dangerous misconception to assume that the world around me needed to change in order to find happiness, to grow or to start over. So, I wonder:

Did the world really change all that much? Or did I?

…

Celebrating six months of sobriety today. If you think you can’t make it, think again.

-M

Syzygy

Oak Island, North Carolina

December 2nd 2023

Syzygy (/ˈsɪzədʒi/ SIZ-ə-jee): is a roughly straight-line configuration of three or more celestial bodies in a gravitational system. The term is often applied when the Sun and Moon are in conjunction (new moon) or opposition (full moon).

My toes dug softly into the Carolina sand, brushing against the sides of your feet, as we sat and watched the sun begin to rise. To the west, the remnants of a full moon sank lower in the sky, and to the east rose a glowing fall sun, warming the sand upon which we sat.  Small waves began to break as they approached the shoreline, and we watched as a flock of pelicans sailed just above them, and then soared higher into the distant horizon. We spoke slowly and listened intently, leaning upon one another. We wondered about life and love and the way the sun and moon moved together as one through the sky above us. We saw the light of these celestial forms, acting in syzygy, and it was beautiful.

And then, we fell in love. 

Talking to Myself

October 24th 2023

Hello and welcome to Talking to Myself. If you are new here, I am excited that you have made the decision to follow my writing journey. For those of you who have been here since day one (there are only 8 of you, so you know who you are): thank you for being here and supporting me along the way.

A year ago, my opening post on this blog was an introduction to what “Talking to Myself” truly means, and why it is important and meaningful to me.

A lot has happened in the last year.

I am still working through what the past 12 months have looked and felt like, so we will get there. For now, here is a brutally honest re-introduction of Talking to Myself:

I still remember the first time I told myself an elaborate, highly detailed story and wished so desperately that I had written it down as fast as I told it. I had spent the better part of an afternoon riding a razor scooter in circles on the driveway of the house I grew up in. I told the story; speaking the words and thinking the thoughts of multiple characters simultaneously. I was twelve.

The older I got, the more I recognized this deeply engrained ache and long for storytelling. I started a personal blog in high school that I filled with angsty, depressing poems, shorts stories, music lyrics…I wrote down the things that I felt and things I longed to feel. I wrote about my heartbreaks, my wins, my goals. I wrote about hating myself and others. I wrote about being angry with God and myself. I wrote down the things that I was not able to speak out loud, for talking to yourself is not how you make friends in high school.

I may not still be walking this earth, had I not learned how to talk to myself. Working through things in my head helped to an extent, but I never found peace in the burdens I held or the mistakes I made until I sat with myself and talked things through. This did not begin happening until recently.

When I found out my scoliosis had progressed further and required surgical intervention, one of my only coping mechanisms was staring at myself in the mirror and, through tears, telling myself that everything would be okay. I found myself in this same place, inches from the mirror, several times in the years that followed. At my lowest of lows, I knew that it was my own self that understood best.

Other coping mechanisms that I developed were not nearly as healthy, and many of those I carry the burden of to this day. It is hard to tell your friends and family that, as a 15-year old, you bought prescription pain-killers from peers in school. It is even harder to carry that secret, and the dangerous progression of that, silently throughout the years, until one day the truth comes out for everyone to see.

In Talking to Myself I explore what it means to discover the most authentic “you” in the midst of suffering. I share my perspective on chronic pain and depression, and the debilitating effects that is has on a young person’s life. I hope to share, in the most honest and raw ways possible, what looming addiction and helplessness look like. I hope to lay out my life with the intention of making someone else feel heard and understood. I am not a victim of the things I have experienced, and neither are you.

I am so glad you are here.

~ Maddie

Of Cherokee Waters

September 6th 2023

I crouch down on a rock along the Watauga’s edge, the toes of my boots dipping into the river, and I feel your grip on my shoulder holding me steady as I reach down into the water. The trout wriggles about for a moment and I slip the palm of my hand under its belly and around its fins. I hold the fish firmly, bringing it upward, just slightly breaching the surface of the river. As the water runs between my fingers and over the body of the trout, the vibrant colors of its scales shimmer in the evening sun. Its gills flap steadily, and its glassy eyes peer upward into mine. I am captivated by its beauty.

The shutter of the camera clicks as you snap a photo over my shoulder. I reach into the rainbow’s mouth and carefully pull the hook from its lip. I submerge it fully and it hesitates for a moment, suspended in my hand and re-acclimating to the current.

And as quickly as it gracefully appears, the trout vanishes back into the rocky shadows of the river.

Of a Life Once Lived

June 20th 2023

In the summertime, we stayed in a house along the coast of Lake Michigan. Here, we spent our days frolicking through the sand and in the warm lakewater. We often laughed until we cried and we lost track of time. We were young then.

I remember an afternoon, when we dragged the old canoe off of the deck and down through the dune grass into the water. We climbed in, bringing along nothing but a bottle of water and the clothes on our backs.

We paddled under the hot sun, some three hundred yards from the shoreline. We observed seagulls diving around us, catching minnows and young bass just below the surface of the lake. Small, wispy clouds would come and go; a rest from the rays that shown down around us and upon our skin. We were cooled by an occasional breeze.

We continued for quite some time before we realized that, along the shoreline, the homes were no longer visible, and we were met with a distant woodland view. The National Forest lined this part of the lake, and apart from the squawks of seagulls, the only sounds we noticed were those of the paddles cutting through the soft waves.

We laughed and chatted for awhile but eventually we found ourselves quiet and still.

Peering over the edge of the canoe, I noticed that we were floating just above limestone bedrock and large Petoskey stones that decorated the floor beneath us. Northern Pike swam around us, the sun glinting off of their backs and tails. They were neither calm nor afraid of our presence, and they swam in comfortable solitude.

When we pulled up to the beach, we were met with a wall of evergreen trees. As we tiptoed through the rocky sand, I felt tiny in the site that I stood and yet, I was reassured by the way the world held me in this place.

We sat for a while, side-by-side. We skipped stones. We watched as sandpipers picked at the corpses of crayfish, as gentle waves brought them ashore. We laughed at each other, and we embraced one another. We were wildly unafraid.

The sun dipped low in the sky and, unaware of time or space, we climbed into the canoe and pushed off of the shore. I turned around and bid farewell to the untouched peace of the trees. 

The sun and dusk converged, and soon a darkness overcame us. Our only guide was the North Star, until soon, light shining through the a-frame window of the home came into view. We paddled quietly, water rippling around us and lapping at the edge of the canoe. The bow scraped the sand as we landed, and we stepped into the shallow water. We bounded up the walkway, our skin softened by the lake water and tanned by the summer sun. We were young then, and nothing mattered but the trees and the lake and the sand between our toes.

Thoughts From The Inside

May 26th 2023

How kind of them to paint a wall brown, so as to not force constraint upon us within four white walls - so desolate. We must feel comforted by this intentional distinction and yet, my eyes remain frozen ahead, searching desperately in a sea of white for even the most minuscule speck that may distract from the emptiness before me.

When a young sparrow lands on the windowsill, his shadow pulls me from my alienated state and I turn my head slightly to face the umber wall. I watch as his head undulates in inquisitiveness. The passerine carries on in this rhythmic state, and I wonder how he perceives The Inside. It must be that, to the sparrow, I lay alone in a curious white abyss, unmoving and untouched. Maybe he is drawn to the simplicity and stillness…

…but I question why a creature as free as this chooses to waste another moment looking inward on a place such as this - cold and colorless. This momentary trade for something far less beautiful exhumes panic and anger from within me.

I beg you - do not sacrifice your access to vibrance, nor air to breathe without regard, for the sake of curiosity. There are some inflicted with the inability to make that choice. 

And then, with a soft flutter, he was gone.

On the St. Joseph: Part 2

February 18th 2023

Over the next few weeks, the sun began to shine slightly more than before, and the ice became more and more transparent as the layers melted away. Most mornings before school, I peered outside at the bundle and recorded how much still remained above the ice. Each day, it sank further below the surface. 

Before we knew it, April was upon us and the last of the ice that hadn’t broken away and floated downriver lodged itself against the shoreline and came to rest. It had been a week since the last time I caught a glimpse of the tree and I found myself anxious to drag the canoe out from its hibernation place. So, we did. 

The tangled mess of chicken wire and rope, now nestled on the mucky floor of the river, still appeared as it did when it laid on the concrete basement floor. The loose branches swayed slightly with the current. Sun flickered off of the tale of a largemouth bass who swam cautiously. Curiously. 

… 

For the three summers that followed, my father and I fished the greatest bedding spot in the entire river. In the afternoons, others would gather on the water, reeling in bluegill, sunfish, bass, pike…muttering under their breaths, wondering what mess brought such a colony to the river.

Some nights I took the canoe out, tossed the anchor down into the depths and waited. As the wind stilled, the water followed behind, settling like glass. Sitting in the canoe, I witnessed bass surfacing as the mayflies hatched off the water. Bluegill constantly danced where the setting sun left a shadow of my father’s canoe. As the night sky rose above me, I was often greeted by the moon and rocked to sleep by the soft movement of life that lay intricately designed below me. 

Last Christmas, the tree stood untouched through New Year’s Day. The needles at the ends of the branches began to brown and evict themselves, sprinkling the tree skirt and carpet below with tiny brittle pins. I vacuumed twice before I finally walked through the living room without getting one lodged in the bottom of my foot. Maybe it was three times. Three was your favorite number. 

On the St. Joseph: Part 1

February 17th 2023

Three days after Christmas in 1986, my father spent the early morning hours tearing off the bulbs, tinsel and various trinkets that adorned the Christmas tree and tossing them into boxes. We had cut the tree on Flowerfield not three weeks prior and although my stepmother was set on keeping the tree up through New Years, they compromised. 

He dragged the pine through the living room, into the kitchen and down the stairs into the basement, where it joined those from the previous two years. He laid them on a bed of chicken wire, old scraps of screen doors and tattered rope from the barn. Numerous bugs spun webs, built nests and settled down in the dried, brittle branches. When it was decided that the third tree was sufficient, the ropes were fastened tightly, pulling the layers of wire and screen into a cocoon-like form around the pines, and a mix of brown and green needles sprung outward through the openings. It sat overnight. 

A dense fog settled the next morning, and the sunrise felt more distant than usual. I watched from the windows as my father shuffled through snow drifts, tugging behind him the notable formation he had created. The trail thinned as the distance between our home and my father grew greater. Soon, I could hardly make out a dark spot in the fog where he stood. For a few moments, it dissipated and became invisible.

The air around me grew silent and I became so aware of my own breath that I felt its warmth seep from my nostrils and onto my lips. With each breath, a small white cloud formed on the glass before me, and as I watched it come and go, my father found his way back into my view. I focused on him.

He drudged back across the ice and through the trench the trees had dug behind him. Soon his boots clunked their way up the stairs, onto the back deck and the door creaked open.

“You see that, kiddo? Now, we wait.” His voice was proud with anticipation and filled the room. A smile broke out across my face. Now, we wait. 

Tips and Tricks: Angel-wing Begonia

January 22nd 2023

I woke up this morning to the sun shining through my blinds and filling my room with warmth. Days like these are a blessing during the cold, winter months and I like to imagine that the plants around my home appreciate them as much as I do. When I moved to North Carolina, I began to realize how different my houseplants react to slightly warmer temps and significantly more sunshine in the wintertime. Farther north, I noticed that most of my plants produced little to no growth during this time, especially when only 15-25 minutes of sunlight are recorded during the entire month of December - yikes! Some plants are highly adaptable to their environments, and with the right amount of care, will survive colder weather and less sunshine. One of these plants, which has become a favorite of mine, is an Angel-wing Begonia.

---

Angel-wing Begonia

Native to South America (sub-tropical & tropical climates)

Bright indirect light (65-75 degrees Fahrenheit)

Perennial (red and pink flowers)

1-10’ in height

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In September of 2021 I was gifted a cutting from an angel-wing begonia plant (see below), which was potted in a small terracotta pot.

September 2021

When I moved to NC, the plant had about 7-8 leaves on it, and as we approached winter, I expected to see a small amount of growth on the plant. I placed it the corner by a westward facing window, and made sure that it received bright indirect light during the day. I watered the begonia once a month, and typically only a couple cups of water. Much to my surprise, the plant slowly began to push out new growth from two stems and within five months, was around 18” tall. In March, I decided to repot the begonia into a significantly larger pot with good drainage and enough room for the plant to push out more roots. I created a soil blend that was slightly more acidic and airy, to mimic that of a tropical environment. This blend consisted of one cup perlite and one cup orchid mix to every 10 cups of indoor potting mix. I watered the plant throughly and until water ran out of the bottom.

March 2022

Angel-wing begonias have the potential to grow up to 10 feet tall, when given the proper care and maintenance. That being said, they can also become leggy and sparse if they do not receive enough sunlight or if they are not pruned regularly. I first noticed this around 2 months after repotting my begonia, because two stems rapidly grew upward and outward - the plant appeared unstable. I recognized that the continuation of growth in this way would cause instability and possibly a plant that could grow out of control in a household setting. Eventually, if left alone, angel-wing begonias will stalk and become more tree-like.

May 2022

In May, I decided to prune my plant. I dug up the courage to cut the stems in half, just below a node where a leaf was, and propagate them. I placed the two cuttings in a large vase of water, which I kept on my windowsill for 6 weeks or so. Roots first appeared on the cuttings after 3 weeks, and rapidly grew after that.

June 2022

Meanwhile, the places on the plant that were previously cut calloused over, and pushed out new growth from the nodes beneath them. While my cuttings propagated, the plant naturally filled itself out. After 6 weeks of propagating (changing the water every week), the cuttings were ready to be planted with the original begonia. I removed the entire plant, and repotted it in the same pot, with the cuttings included, and watered thoroughly. The plant appeared more full and extremely healthy.

July 2022

I allowed the plant to grow for 3-4 months during the summer, which produced another 2 feet of new growth. I found that the plant liked to dry out almost completely before watering again, and during the summer I was watering the plant every 4-5 weeks, or when the top 6” of soil were dry. In the winter months, this may be slightly longer. Begonias do not typically droop when dehydrated, and often times the first sign of the plant needing water is pale, thin leaves and a stunt in growth. When this begonia is receiving sufficient indirect light, proper water intake and warm temperatures, I typically see new growth every few days, even during the colder months.

October 2022

My Angel-wing, which started as a cutting a little over a year ago, is now reaching 5 feet tall. Every other day, a new leaf pokes through along the stems, and there has even been new growth pushing through the soil at the base. I attribute this amount of growth to the pruning and propagating process, and am continually amazed by the plant’s ability to regrow itself stronger than before. I have since added a stake, for stability purposes, and cut off unhealthy leaves as needed. I plan to prune the plant again in the spring, and will continue to monitor its health and growth. Angel-wing begonias can live indefinitely indoors, with the right care, and I hope to bring mine along in whatever journey life takes me.

January 2023

“ Choose only one master - Nature.”

~ Rembrandt

The Little Dipper

January 15th 2023

One night in January, I drove out to your favorite spot on the lake. It took me eighteen minutes instead of twelve for my heart felt lethargic. It had snowed quite a bit, but the clouds cleared and the moon was full.

I walked for a few moments through a large powdery mound, which promptly filled my boots. No one had walked there before me. I had worn crew socks, polyester, and they quickly froze along my ankle bone. It was dark and the only light was that of the moon and a row of houses, which reflected dully on the snow crossing the lake.

I heard a motorcycle in the distance. It made me frown. The trees stood tall on the shoreline, full of perseverance, except for a young one, whose branches hung low, heavy and overpowered. Seven bright stars watched over me. 

“If anyone would understand loneliness, the moon would.”

~Delia Owens in Where the Crawdads Sing

Falls of Neuse: Part 2

November 9th 2022

After a short while, I stood to my feet and began casting. The rhythmic sway and flick of my wrist caught the attention of The Heron and he watched as the caddis floated back and forth through the air before settling in an eddy and swirling in its wake, taunting whatever lay beneath. He remained in poised observation until I sat down for a rest and to gather my thoughts. Only then would his focus return to the swirling countercurrent below. 

We took turns in this way for what seemed like a couple of hours but soon the sun grew higher and increasingly more indomitable above us. The Heron, having more success than I, took off into the air and with several flaps of his wings, disappeared over the treeline and out of sight. The world soon became eerily still and quiet in his absence. 

Having never fished alone on a river such as this, I felt thankful for his presence, often reflecting on the eb and flow of our movements that day on the Falls of Neuse. His poise and knowledge, as I have come to understand and appreciate, is something even the masters of the river would envy. When I return to this place, I wait in silence, longing for his return.

Falls of Neuse: Part 1

November 8th 2022

I found myself hiking for a short while, mumbling to the birds and pondering the day, when I came upon a small clearing where the conditions were favorable. A handful of large rock formations emerged slightly from the surface of the river and the trees did not lean too far over the river’s edge. I wove through a narrow , thornbush-ridden pathway and out into the open space. It was early spring and I knew the white bass were biting.

I had barely finished tying a small caddis fly on the line when the beat of Blue Heron wings cut through the quiet morning air. He landed a few yards away on a downed tree that bridged between the embankment and a large rock; smoothed over and polished by the cold river rapids. The Heron navigated the rotting branches meticulously until he reached the rock form and came to a calculated stop. Water rushed around the rock and its disposition created a small eddy; a common resting place for trout and bass. The pools made fishing conditions favorable, for The Heron and myself alike. I admired his stature and filmed him briefly as he stood unwavering, peering into the eddy below. Periodically he would flinch, as if the temptation of a catch was too great but the moment was not quite right.

Rocks & Rituals

November 2nd 2022

As a child, I was always digging in the dirt, creating habitats for caterpillars of all kinds, and most importantly, collecting rocks. My brother and I would smash open stockpile rocks from Wedel’s just to find hidden treasures, which only ended up being small amounts of quartz. Around age five, my mom finally broke down and bought me a jar that I could use for collecting stones from different trips we took and crystals I bought at gift shops. She told me that I could only ever have as many rocks as what filled the jar, and no more. So, I filled it. 

My rock collecting didn’t end during my childhood. On family vacations as a teenager, I polished hundreds of Petoskey stones with wet/dry sandpaper and walked the shoreline for hours in search of things to add to my collection. To be honest, I've had to buy a few more jars. This has always been somewhat ritualistic for me, in the sense that I find peace in collecting rocks and imagining the journey they’ve taken to arrive in the shape they are, with the fossils they’ve collected, and how they’ve landed on the beach in the same moment I've walked along to discover them. 

More recently, I have become fascinated by the relationship that stones have with clay, and the process they pass through to be weathered away and pressurized and eventually dug up somewhere to be processed as usable clays. I envision a project; one where I create stoneware rocks of different shapes, sizes and with varying marks and blemishes. I roll them around together to add scratches and chips, creating a sense of authenticity. I sit in a garden, and watch from afar, while a young child, possibly my own self, fills a container with the rocks I created. Her toes wiggle periodically, and her small hands work tirelessly to fill the jar. It begins to rain, and what were believed to be solid rocks begin to weather away and pool at the base of the jar. She never rests or ceases to collect, because despite the clay running between her fingers, the stones are still there. They have simply taken on a new form.

It’s the epitome of my childhood, and it’s beautiful. 

“The path leads to the end, as all paths do. I've had some rocky paths and dead ends, and decisions that led to disaster, and others that led to love and passion and poetry, to excitement and adventure. All I can do is embrace them all and move on.”

Marc Hamer in Seed to Dust