September 26, 2015

Sometime in Late September

    Today is the first day of fall, the weather has cooled and the leaves are floating down gently here and there. September is in full finery, sporting warm afternoons and cool evenings. Now is the time my garden says goodbye to summer, with a few last flourishes of flowers and a slow transition towards winter.
   Here, in Pennsylvania, as in many places, it seems we have two very long seasons, winter and summer and then there are the two others, spring and fall, that rush in and spend themselves far too quickly. The days are gentler and soothing to the soul and I want to enjoy every precious moment.

The yard is now in deep shadows even in midday.

   I spent this morning in the garden, cutting back hostas with crumpled leaves and draining the champagne tub and turning it over to wait through another winter. This summer was unusually dry, with only a sprinkle or two for all of August and many of my plants relied on the water saved in my rain barrel and the water in the pond. The barrel is completely dry and what water remained in the tub has been used to soak the perennials one last time.

The champagne tub is closed for another year.

   Here and there a summer flower remains. The busy knockout roses are in their last flush of bloom, the fourth this year. In a few days I will deadhead the last of the buds and rose hips and prune the bushes back. The moonflower gave up one last giant bloom and the cone flowers have been cut and set into a vase to fatten up the goldfinches before they begin their migration.

A bit of lamb's ear that I started this summer.

   On the front step I have replaced the ferns with mums, adding a bit of purple this year. In a couple of weeks I’ll incorporate a Halloween decoration or two. Summer is over and it’s time to buckle down and get back to work on my next novel.

The last moon flower.

   It has been a quiet summer. We did not vacation away from home until September, on our wonderful visit to New England. My husband was busy out playing his guitar professionally and privately and we were able to spend time with our closest friends. Nearby Philadelphia has been busy preparing for a visit from the Pope while many of the local residents head in the opposite direction to avoid the crowds. We’ve been told to hole up as if weathering a snow storm. That sounds to me like the perfect time to write.

A final knockout rose.

   Thank you to all of the new readers I had here last week and to my faithful visitors as well. I love the opportunity to bring you into my garden, my home and my life to share a moment every week. I am thrilled to read your comments and emails. Please come visit again!

September 20, 2015

Before the Parade Passes By

   This past weekend my husband and I took a trip up to beautiful New England to attend his 45th high school reunion. The class of 1970. You might gasp and think, surely no one was alive then! Not only were they alive in 1970 but many of them they are enthusiastic and energetic and very much still kicking today. The entire experience was delightful. As a fly on the wall at their gathering I was afforded the opportunity not only to partake in the celebrations but also to step back and observe as well.
    The eager reunion attendees met first on Friday evening in a local eatery and watering hole in beautiful Guilford, Ct, the town where they had all graduated those many years ago. At first it was a bit tentative for us, although my husband attended Guilford High School for a couple of years, we don’t visit up there often and he needed a few minutes to recognize old familiar faces. That did not last. Soon everyone in the crowd, and there was certainly a large turn-out, was shaking hands and embracing one another. Even wearing my name-tag that read, Guest, I was as warmly greeted as the attending classmates. The affability was more endearing than I can express. I cannot recall ever being in a group of folks where I was welcomed so completely.
    I grew up in Southern California, far from sweet New England, in a city where I never once felt I belonged. I have lived all over the country and even after many years still do not feel as if Pennsylvania is quite home to me either. More and more I share my husband's feeling whenever we visit his beloved Connecticut. The people we joined this weekend all showed me the true reason he often speaks of “going home”. They are a genuine group that treats everyone like family. In that charming town we found a collection of old friends from a generation that prided themselves on being their own people. They respect one another for their differences. They have now seasoned that with a gift of long lives and experience. I never met a nicer group. At age sixty-plus they are survivors of the best kind. They still are a generation of love.
   In between Friday and Saturday evenings of socializing and reminiscing, the class joined in the town parade, thanks to some admirable planning by the class organizers. While two other reunion classes hired a flatbed for riding, the sturdy and determined graduates of the class of 1970 walked the entire route. I will long consider that simple, hometown parade one of the high points of my life.
    They met at nine in the morning, a short distance from the town green, took up their position and prepared for the parade. The group had a nice Ford Mustang and great spirits. In that hour before the parade actually began there were jokes and smiles and warm remembrances. 

Old friends.

Tie-dye shirts for the parade.

Recalling old times.

 Smiles and characters from a special generation.

An interview with the local news.

A bit of pre-parade planning.

My husband in his parade garb.

 Almost time to begin.

Who's driving?

How to get folks from the 60's to follow? Little powdered donuts, of course!

The parade marshals hard at work.

     Just before the marching began I ran ahead and took a collection of photographs and was able to watch the town parade.
   Along the tiny streets of the center of Guilford, surrounding the town green, the residents had collected. It seemed that half the town took on the role of spectators while the other half was marching. It was quaint and historical and a true slice of perfect Americana. There were simple floats and jugglers. In traditional New England fashion they marched to the beat of fife and drums. 

     There were young couples arm in arm driving their tractors, a new generation of American farmers. There were children with fiddles, delightful elderly ladies from the historical society and a baby that looked as if he was driving a tractor trailer, clapping and cheering out of the cab window. I can imagine he will be a part of the parade for many years to come. I saw proud boy scouts and a town band. I was part of a delightful celebration and I felt included.

 A group of lovely, local ladies beside me cheered and clapped and thanked the local firefighters as a rather large collection of engines rolled along. The ladies were so enthusiastic I was moved to thank them for sharing their love of their home town. All of it made me feel as if, for just a little while, I too was home.

The best cheering section at the Guilford parade!

    Eventually the class of 1970 appeared. They strutted along with smiles and hometown pride and I was thrilled to be, not only a witness, but in many ways a participant of their celebration of life and their love of living.

     This weekend I too went home. I was welcomed into the arms of the fine folks of the Guilford High School class of 1970. They gave me a bit of their hearts, their lives, their heritage and their love of home. I came back to Pennsylvania with a little bit of New England in my heart. Long after the parade is over I will hold that memory in my heart.

September 18, 2015

The Knabe

     As long as I can remember I always wanted a piano. Although there was never one in our household while I was growing up, nor did anyone play a musical instrument, somehow I got the idea that a real home should have a piano. I had visions of families gathered around a beautiful upright, in the parlor of course, singing ragtime tunes or holiday carols, laughing and imbibing and enjoying one another’s company.
     A piano. It's not like any other instrument. Unlike a violin or guitar, even the smallest of pianos cannot be tucked away in a case or put into a closet. A piano is part of the family. This fact did not deter me from wanting one in any way. In fact it was even more inspiring. A piano is hard to ignore and a big part of a home.

     Over the years I gave up on the idea of buying one. Besides the size and the space required, I also knew that pianos are not cheap. It didn’t help that I never played a piano and it was awfully frivolous to purchase one simply to fit some silly idea I had of old-fashioned family life. Like many dreams, a piano was best left in the bucket list I knew I would never fill.
     Then one day it happened that my husband and I visited the home of one of my sisters-in-law. Her place is always warm and delicious, filled with romantic and unusual collections and in her beautiful tea room she had a magnificent piano. I didn’t think she had won the lottery so I asked her about her lovely piece. That conversation changed my life.
     She pointed out that pianos are big and hard to move. They take up a lot of floor space and many people who have pianos never learn to play, There are apparently many folks who want to get rid of them. For free! Didn’t my little ears perk right up when I heard this.
   And so, I started hunting for a piano. I got on Craig’s List and eBay and picked up a few newspapers and, lo and behold, there they were. Pianos galore! Some were massive, dark, lurking Victorian monsters and many were sadly and badly abused. This is when I decided to speak to an expert. I could not buy a piano on looks alone.
   My husband, the songwriter, knows a fellow who happens to be a piano tuner. What luck! I spoke to him in length and he gave me some rules about choosing a piano. The most important had to do with a piano staying in tune. It had to be within some range of being tune-able. My husband had his guitar tuner to show him how badly out of tune any piano we looked at might be. If it is too far out of tune it may take many sessions to get it right or, worse case scenario, it may never be able to be tuned at all.
    I also learned that they are an instrument that can be fussy. Like me, they don’t like to be too cold or too hot and don’t thrive well in too much humidity. I get that. They won’t do well against an outside wall, or near a heat source, in too much sunlight or in a damp basement. That rule was easy since the place I wanted to put my piano fit the bill nicely. It also should be somewhere where it would get played. A lonely piano, put away and never played won’t do and I had a good location to fill that need as well. My first rule was just that it wasn’t ugly. My husband’s was that he would be moved to play it. These rules seemed easy enough.
    I got online and researched movers, in order to be well prepared when the right piece came along. I learned another rule: never move a piano yourself. It makes good sense to have a pro handle your piano and save you a trip to the emergency room. And his fee will likely be less than the cost of repairing whatever damage occurs when that heavy piano gets away from you. The works inside make them very oddly balanced and quite dangerous to move. I priced a mover at less than $300.
    I went back to Craig’s List. In about two weeks I saw it. The little Knabe (pronounced NOB-BEE.). She was originally a creamy white and had been abandoned one Sunday afternoon in front of a musical conservatory in nearby Philadelphia. They had simply left it at the curb in front of the gate to the parking lot. I made an appointment with one of the teachers there and one evening we went to check it out. I was very excited.
     The piano was sad. I liked the light color and loved the size, but it was terribly chipped and it was filthy. My husband was less than excited. He played a few pieces on it and checked the tuning. It was out of tune but it was within the acceptable range.
   We had a discussion about my husband’s rule and he said it didn't invite him to sit down and play. I was in love. After a good discussion I convinced him I could transform the piano into something he could love too. I knew it was ambitious but I hoped. We hired movers.

The only clean and decent place on the entire piano

  At the conservatory wanting a home

     We emptied the dining room and rolled up the rugs and waited. Late on the prearranged morning it arrived. I was terribly excited. A couple of burly men moved it in efficiently and we paid them and sent them on their way.

I made him pose with the piano

     I cried. It surprised even me. My husband must have thought once we got the thing home I was disappointed. Not at all. I had a piano. Until that moment I never admitted to myself what it meant to me. I was completely overcome with emotion. I had a piano in my house. It was home.
    Then the work began. It was a mess. Most of the piece was once covered in some kind of light veneer, cellulose, or something. There were hundreds of chips and everywhere there was a chip it was black underneath. But before I even got to the chips there was the dirt. Below the dust there were fingerprints and spilled jelly, drink rings and eraser shavings. Wherever the Knabe had been it also had clearly not been played or even opened in years. I started cleaning.
     It took two days and countless decisions about how to be gentle and still get the job done. Once it was cleaned up it helped but it was still a terrible mess. My husband still was shaking his head. I had to figure out some way to restore the finish. It had to be within my skills and cheap. And in the end my husband had to want to play it.
     I decided, after a restless night, to paint the chips. I couldn’t strip off all the finish, whatever it was, so I thought I’ll get paint mixed to match, small brushes and swabs and fill in the chipped places. Since you can’t take a whole piano to get the color matched I took part of it. I took off the top, a lid about 36” by 16” and carried it to the paint store. It was a curiosity to the mixing fellows, but they talked finishes with me and gave me their very best, most wonderful paint. I bought plenty, just in case.
     I headed home and got out the swabs. For two hours I dabbed and dotted and redabbed and dotted and touched every chip with paint on one narrow side of the piano. The color did match perfectly and you could not tell where the finish ended and the paint began but it was going to take forever. There had to be a better way.
    It occurred to me that if you couldn’t see the paint anyway, why couldn’t I just paint it all? Would that be sacrilege? What would become of the piano if I didn’t restore it? Junkyard maybe. I had to do it. I carefully took off every piece I could see that was removable, cleaned some more and painted each one very, very carefully. The only place I did not paint, nor did I need to, since the piano had not been opened, was underneath the keyboard cover. It was fine and original and the lovely gold decal was perfectly intact. The piano gods smiled on me that day.
    I waited impatiently for the paint to dry and before my husband got home I put a scarf over the top and added some candles and some love. When he got home he was shocked. I must admit I was myself. The piano is lovely.

 Cleaned and painted and skirted
 A piano with a new life

    And so, my Knabe gets played every day. It gets played every morning and some evenings as well. It gets played when I have a houseful of musicians for dinner and at Christmas while energetic grandchildren dance about. And when they bang on the keys too hard my husband reminds them it's an instrument and not a toy. It is home, my piano, and I often walk by and make the keys tinkle and love just having it there. 

Thank you for coming!

September 12, 2015

What's In Your Closet?

     Although the temperatures are still in the ‘90s and my poor lawn has gone beyond dormant and looks like a hay field, my calendar says that summer is coming to an end. My husband has once again found his favorite football channel, namely, Red Zone. It's a channel that "summers over" with quiet elevator music, very Girl from Ipanema, and is off the air until the games begin. When football season strikes it switches over to a lively, handsome, young fellow who manages to call all of the games almost simultaneously. He jumps from touchdown to touchdown, showing all of the most exciting plays, until, finally, late in the evening, they sign off and the elevator music resumes. It’s like my husband has found a football roller-coaster. When it switches off it feels as if the ride is over and you step back onto the platform with wobbly legs.

     I don’t mind, in fact I think it’s a little sexy. Men find different things interesting than women. It's what he looks forward to this time of year. It's his autumn. Personally I’d rather think about clothes. Soon the heat of summer will dissipate and I can actually get dressed again. Not dressed in some t-shirt that wrinkles even in air conditioning and hair that needs to be pulled up off the neck just to keep from perspiring too terribly, but autumn fashion. It's the best. Somewhere in the clothing calendar between clammy, clinging bras and down-filled coats, there are sexy sweaters and suede boots and snugly scarves to drape seductively around shoulders. There's a blush in your cheeks that does not come from melting. I adore fall.

     Unfortunately for my bankbook it is also the time of year I love to shop. Maybe I’m a sucker inundated with all of the back-to-school hype. No, I’m not going back to school and I certainly am not moved to buy clothing in the new styles that seem to have that, “I found this in the laundry basket” look. That's for the young. This is the time of year my eye is caught by a lovely camel coat or practically anything suede. To avoid being in debt before the holiday hype, which happens earlier every year, I find what I need to do is shop in my own closet. This year I will do that with a twist.

     In January I decided that I would get my clothing organized and took on a challenge. At that time I removed everything from my closet. I donated anything I knew I didn't want and rehung everything back on hangers backwards. I felt like I had too many clothes and nothing to wear. The plan is that once you wear something you put it back on the hanger the right way. At the end of the year you seriously evaluate everything that's left hanging backwards. It was pretty simple and easy enough, once I had emptied out the closet of course. I made the investment in some velvet hangers which were not too expensive really. Instead of keeping a plethora of plastic and wire and store cast-offs, I decided that if the hangers were consistent I might get back a few inches of precious closet space. It was worth every penny. That simple thing did reclaim space. I certainly needed it. I have come to the conclusion that the ladies of the ‘20s, when my home was built, didn’t possess very large wardrobes. Either that or slender flapper styles took up little closet space. Whatever the thinking, my closet is as wide, and not much deeper, than its door. 

     Now, the last purge in January seemed a good idea at the time, but I missed some of the things I gave away, in fact I still do. Those cute high heels that I only wore when I worked outside of the house, the ones with the adorable bows at the heels, are gone forever. I hadn’t worn them in ages, but I still think of them now and again. But, I can’t do that. I have to be realistic and responsible. This takes planning. So, before I even open the closet door and begin the partly-exciting and partly-depressing project of sorting out my clothes, I have to get my mind right. I tell myself things like, “There’s probably clothes in there you forgot you had!” or “Maybe you’ve added a new piece that will look cute with something you already owned and now that it’s fall it will be new again!” Perhaps, if I brainwash myself, the experience will be invigorating and I really will enjoy it. Then there's that hanger challenge thing. It hasn't been quite a year, but enough seasons have passed that I should be able to see a pattern in the backward hanger test.
     As I geared up for  this closet sort out I recalled a conversation I had with a friend years ago. I was modeling at the time and she stayed with me a couple of days. When she saw the inside of my closet, she commented that I keep a wardrobe like a "Parisian".  I had no idea what she meant at the time, but it came back to me the other day and I looked it up online. I was amazed how on-the-money she was. It seems that the women of Paris are quite famous for their pared-down, essential style. How nice. It's always a pleasure to know that I'm not alone in my methods of madness. It also made me realize how far from that style my closet has roamed.

     Eventually I admitted the truth to myself. The most difficult part of the project is not doing the closets at all. Doing it would be an expedition of discovery. I’m certain I do have things I forgot I had from last year’s cooler seasons. I’m sure there are things in there that I passed over that I will see with new eyes. And there's that hanger test as well. I don’t own that much clothing, (let’s not talk purses here please), so it won’t take more than an hour or so. Maybe a bit longer.
     In reality the very worst part of taking out the fall wardrobe is the self-imposed dread. It’s all in the procrastinating psych-up. I know that fact, but for some reason I am compelled to go through the process just the same. For far longer than it will take me to rediscover my clothing, to pull it all out and lay it over the bed, for much more time than I will spend taking bags to Goodwill, I have to think about it. I’ll have to take a bunch of deep breaths, look at myself in the mirror, flex my muscles and get cracking. That’s the part that makes it really difficult.


     On Labor Day I stopped the madness and I just did it. I took everything out and sorted it. Everything that was facing the right way on the hanger went to one side, the backwards hanger clothing on the other. If I felt kind of of "eh" about anything facing right, for example I had worn it but wasn't thrilled, it went into the backwards hanger pile. I have sorted out my closest at least once a year for a very long time. This time was really enlightening. I have to say I was very surprised.

     What fell into the not-so-hot and unworn pile was anything brightly colored, cheap or ill-fitting. There were also those fad pieces that I thought I wanted in the store but weren't me once I tried them on. What fell into the favorite stack was mostly neutral, black, white, grey and some shades of brown. They were the things I bought in better stores or with good names in second-hand shops. As I expected, there were things I wore often, my basics. They are the things that mix-and-match well and go with the other things I kept. They are more traditional and feminine.
     I looked at everything. The right hangers almost all went back into the closet. I set aside a few pieces that needed repairs, but not too many. The backwards hanger pile, with only a couple of exceptions, such as the evening gown I wore to my daughter's wedding, went in a donation bag.

The sorted closet. The bins hold scarves and hats. The little wooden box contains a shoe polish kit.

     I looked over the refilled closet and was relieved and enlightened. Now it only holds what I like. I can pull out anything and wear it at any time. There's nothing left I would drag out when searching for just the right outfit, try on and toss aside. There's nothing that does not fit my body or my style. All the rest, now off for donation, were only the things that I kept to make myself feel like I had tons of clothes. I did, but they were things I never liked and did not wear. Another lesson I learned is that your clothing should be who you are. It should reflect what makes you feel amazing and confident about yourself. Many of the pieces I gave away were never me from the start. I almost always bought them when I thought I needed something new "just because" or if I had a book signing or other event where I thought I needed to look better than me. When I did that, what I wore was not me and I was not comfortable. Your clothing is your skin. It should augment who you really are. It doesn't matter what style you are, as long as it's your style. No matter your age, or your gender, or what your wallet holds, if it's hanging in your closet and it's not you, if you can't wear it as your personal"uniform" send it off to someone who should be wearing it. If that means you have two outfits that are the real you then you have a really roomy closet and the perfect wardrobe... for you.

September 5, 2015

Know When to Fold 'Em


      When I began this blog it was partly at the suggestion of friends. They’d be able to see shots of the myriad of projects I was taking on at their own pace because I know to most onlookers my creative energy can seem like a blur. At that time I also had written a book and had many short stories and another full novel in the works. I was not published yet and my children were grown and had started establishing their adult lives on their own. I researched blogging sites, browsed through my collection of photos and sat down to pour out my everyday events. I was ready to become embroiled in blogging. As with all projects I take on, it was with complete abandon.
      One of the first things I had to do was choose a name for my blog. Hmm... That was a puzzle. Then I thought, hey, I'm just embarking on learning the lovely and challenging art of bobbin lace. I'll call my blog PolkaDots & Pillow Lace. I like polka dots and I can use that in the background, or something, and then chronicle my experiences as a burgeoning pillow lace student. Yeah!
      I jumped in. The next challenge I faced was that, even though my mind was filled with fantastic visions of how I would tell my story with blogging, when I actually sat down and started writing for the world it was different. I choked. Now I look back at my early postings and it's very evident. It was not at all like writing a novel. My novels were not written for the world as much as they were written for me. I was the hero and the heroine and every character having a life in my imagination which I poured out onto paper. That is still basically true of all my novels. Blogging is not at all like writing a book.

Getting ready to make a great video in pillow lace

      It just so happened that not long after beginning this blog my first novel was published. Needless to say, I was completely distracted and threw myself into that experience, which I am still very much enjoying, and hope to for a long time to come.
      Over time, though, I have received messages and emails from people who came to visit this blog and wondered what became of the Pillow Lace part. In hindsight I probably should have named the blog, My Life in Words, or The Strange Things That Take Up My Time, or some such thing. Ah, well, I live and learn.
      So, when I finished writing my latest trilogy I vowed to get some lace into my blog. Not only did I want to get in some postings related to pillow lace, first I had to learn it properly. I just had not taken the time. In the last few weeks I have thrown myself into it daily and a few little lights have gone on in my mind. I can now say that I understand the basics of pillow or bobbin lace.
      Great! So in my overachiever fashion I thought, don’t just take the experience of learning and post some hints and a bunch of photos, why not go next-level (like I tend to do) and do this fantastic video to accompany my blog? Gosh, that would be impressive.

      I was wrong. This is where the title to this blog begins to make sense. The idea was nuts. It's not the first nuts idea I have ever had, certainly, and herein lies the greatest pitfall of boundless creative energy. I have had to learn when to fold ‘em and walk away. I need to recognize when it's time to move on.

The beginning of making lace

     In all of life this is tricky business. I took on the challenge of learning bobbin lace and I did it. Video blogging however is not my forte'. I did make a few videos, badly. Yep, I make a mess of some things like we all do sometimes.
      Now I must step back and ask myself if my venturing into video blogging was a mistake. I know it was not. Video blogging is just not for me. Can I do it? Yep, especially if I buy plenty more batteries for my camera, have the patience to wait for all of the processing and uploading involved while I check the computer every three seconds to see if the darn thing is done. And if I thought I got shy writing this blog it does not compare in any way to how I felt talking to myself in front of a camera. A camera that was zoomed in too close, or not close enough or with lights too bright or the wrong angle or that fell off of the tripod I had assembled. Nope, my blood pressure didn't like that hobby at all. The videos I eventually made were not my vision and we won't even talk about the outtakes. I really do swear far too much.
      When I was young, many moons ago, like many children of the fifties and sixties I decided I wanted to be a musician. How sexy I would be with my guitar and a beautiful voice. I would be the life of the party and everyone would gravitate towards me wanting to hear my melodies. I could write tortured love song or lyrics of protest so that I could change the world. I would eventually meet other accomplished musicians and eventually be like Barbie in a glittering evening gown moaning out a sultry torch song in a smoky club. So, I started singing to myself and picked up a guitar.
      I practiced whenever I could, putting my nose to the guitar grindstone every day while my fingertips ached and I tried to build a better voice. I learned a dozen chords and cut back my fingernails, all the things I needed to do to reach my dream.
      I worked hard, but over time I learned that I was no musician. The drive and passion that was needed to do it well, not just well enough to satisfy my standards but to have a good, well-practiced, professional sound, was not in me. While I was fingering chords late into the night I really wanted to be sewing instead. Even had I been very good, and in all humbleness I never made any dogs cry, no amount of talent made up for the work I would need to do to be good. Not just a musician because I wanted to call myself a musician, but to be good and real. It was not for me.

I'd rather be making lace

     Was it a mistake? Not at all! Sometime later in my life I met my husband, a real professional musician. Now I can enjoy my love of music and he does the work. He is driven to do that and has been since he was a kid. He has a love of the art that inspires him to play the same song a hundred times if need be, until he knows the chords and the key and the words without paper and he can stand up with pride and interact with an audience. Now when I see him doing all of that I know what price he has paid to be good at what he loves. I never got to the point where I was a really good musician but I learned an appreciation for those who are and I applaud every one that is driven to do their best at what they love. A true artist is someone who has earned that title. I now know that applies to great video bloggers as well.
      As an artist at other things myself, experience has taught me that I cannot create everything I want, that I need to pick and choose. There is not enough time or skill or patience or talent for everything. While I was cursing my video camera I really wanted to be writing the next chapter of my upcoming novel, or making lace and not trying to focus a camera onto myself while I talked about it.
      So this week I am reminded that life is about choices. It is about trying what you think you might love, so that you recognize it when love comes along. It's about putting what time you have in life into those things that turn you on and setting aside the others that are better left to someone else. It is about learning and sorting out what you've learned, undeterred to try something else next time. It's fine to be a Jack-of-All-Trades, but maybe it's more important to be a master of what you love.

One of the things I love.
     Thank you for visiting me. Whatever you have come seeking I hope you have been inspired. Always stay inspired and please come again!