Traveling Full Circle

Monologue of Grief series

I was inspired to start Project60 after seeing Laurie Anderson's film, Heart of A Dog. I wanted to mark my 60th year with something meaningful and connected to my art, hence the 60 paintings in six months chronicled by various forms of writing and painting. While I generally think age is a number, it does stand for something. I'd like to think the years have informed me, and the trade off for getting older is aquiring  a degree of wisdom, maturity and perspective. Time is difficult to quantify beyond counting birthdays and recalling events that mark the passages. What does 20 years really feel like? Or 10 or 30? Is time really flying by? We cannot clock it with a stop watch. I flip through photo albums, thousands of pictures on my computer, stockpiles of paintings and years of words compiled in journals and my unpublished book. Are our lives reflected in these collections or in the memories stored in our heart? When I look through the vast amounts of stuff that chronicle my life I realize how much I have forgotten. Paintings I painted, words I wrote, special moments, and people who meant a great deal at that time. I am grateful for the reminders; however, it is jolting to realize what the years bury to clear space for new experiences and people.

My mother Louise Gerstenblatt

When I sat in the theater at the Portland Museum of Art after watching Anderson's film, I had no idea I would soon face her same losses. My mother died at age 90 in late July 2016 and then my beloved Golden Retriever Pepsi at age 10 of cancer in December 2016. Those losses defined and altered my life. There is no recovery, just recalibration. I abandoned the Project60 blog and began the Pepsi Diaries blog the day she was diagnosed with cancer. http://pepsidiaries.blogspot.com The cancer came out of nowhere, on a night I was schedule to give a lecture at the university with Muhsana Ali on community art practice. We worked together for over a decade in West Africa, Mart Texas and now Portland Maine. Pepsi was breathing hard and would not get up. I rushed her to the emergency vet and called Muhsana and the curator as I frantically drove, tears streaming down my face. I am not coming I said, you can handle it and then hung up. If I had not brought her in she would have died. She had a pericardial effusion as a result of a mass on her heart that was inoperable. We began chemotherapy, acupuncture and other holistic treatments; however, we were warned it was terminal either way and the goal was to get more time as long as she was not in agony. The chemo was stopped three weeks later since the cancer spread to her lungs. From that point forward our efforts were focused on her comfort and being present and grateful for each minute. I eliminated all but the essential and stayed by her side. She was nearly normal five of the six weeks, with the exception of increased overall coughing and episodes of coughing up blood. The last week she slowed down dramatically and she then stopped eating. I slept beside her on the floor in the bathroom, living room or wherever she found a comfortable spot. I was told she would let me know when it was time and she did, with grace. How is it I never thought she would leave me?

Pepsi by the sea

Me and my girl 

I continued to write to Pepsi in the form of letters in the Pepsi Diaries blog. I began a series of paintings titled Monologue of Grief. I joined a dog cancer Facebook page and read the same story over and over. I posted my blogs for people who felt my feelings. Many said my blog posts expressed what they felt but couldn't say. It is not a happy club but we understand and support each other. I am so grateful to have my two other Goldens, Pearl and Pandy, and I love them with all my heart. But I want Pepsi back. I am not done writing to her. Perhaps it is my way of holding on, though I know she is still with me. We are an always and forever team. There is no return to "normal" life. This loss gutted me, reframed my perspective in ways large and small. I have retreated and removed the nonessential. Now I am careful about what is allowed back in. Her loss has made me realize not getting things isn't the worst possible outcome. I have little tolerance for bullshit and could take or leave most people with the exception of cherished family and friends. Sometimes, while listening to people go on and on about some inconsequential crap, I want to look them dead in the eyes and say Ask me if I care, but I haven't completely lost my decorum.

On my first bike

I have been traveling to the past lately. Thinking about the places I lived and who I was then. It feels like watching old home movie reels, crackly and fragmented. The child running free along the shore, awkward teenager wishing she were in the future, young woman walking the streets of Jerusalem, riding buses to think in Tel Aviv, scribbling poetry and prose, painting on any available surface, married and giving birth to my children and years later a rebirth of myself as I painted at China Camp, the Greek Island and South of France. Later Copenhagen and West Africa. So much urgency and energy. My children growing up though my missteps. Me falling down and getting up. Men I needed to define me. Bend, bend, bend, until I broke. And still I had no idea of all that was still to come. Bends in the road and corners to turn. Surprises. Liberation. Love remixed. When I was in my late thirties I spent Yom Kippur at an Orthodox Synagogue in Avignon France. I leaned my head on my elbows as I looked down from the balcony where I sat with the women to the men praying below. For some reason I thought about how I would never get to do everything I was capable of artistically. I thought about ceramic sculptures, etchings, books, and large scale canvases that might never be created. I wasn't particularly upset at the epiphany, just acknowledging the inevitable. Who gets to do everything they want anyway? I recall the woman I was then, driving around Provence in my tiny rental car through villages and vineyards. Stopping at the side of the road to sketch the landscapes with my soft pastels, even at dusk when the light was waining. I drew by instinct and emotion. A solo traveler covering vast territories.

Copenhagen circa 1998

When I began this blog and project, my intention was to complete 60 paintings in six months. That was the easy part. When I left Greece in June I had already reached that goal. I have always been prolific, yet despite the stockpile of work  I feel as if I am never working enough. Not for the sake of quantity but the hunger to create. How could it possibly be enough? It's like how could there ever have been enough time with Pepsi? I wanted to make a statement with Project60, in a similar way that Anderson did with Heart of A Dog. Perhaps create a seminal work with multi media. I recorded video to possibly incorporate; however, once I returned from Greece I had to deal with my mom's illness, her death a few weeks later and then Pepsi diagnosed with cancer in October. My hope was to use the vantage point of turning 60 to encapsulate the past and present with a forward glance. After all, we live in the contradiction that the list of possibilities is never exhaustive but time is finite. That day in Avignon I would never have predicted at age 56 I would get my my PhD and become a professor. It was not on my radar. What else can't I see now? New destinations, people who will become significant, and works I will create.

My PhD graduation, University of Texas at Austin

Jonathan, me, Rena and Tommy Davis 

My artistic path has been atypical. A few months back, a woman in my Pilates class who is having success exhibiting her work complimented the paintings I posted on Facebook. She said something to the effect of your figurative work is really developing well. I thanked her and then she asked me where I "trained". I must have looked at her with some bewilderment, and then as if she overestimated my art education, asked if I had taken "classes". This particular woman has been fortunate to come from wealth and be able to dedicate herself to things other than worrying about paying bills. I told her I had "trained" at San Francisco Art Institute; however, I have been doing this my whole life, since I could hold a crayon. The figures I posted were many years old, not in the development process. A similar thing happened in 1994 when I was part of a group show at the Richmond Art Center that included some well known artists, including Roy DeForest. I was nervous and excited. Paintings and windows from China Camp with poetry and images would be shown. I remember rushing to the gallery after work to give my input on installation. The other artists looked the part in their paint splattered clothes, chatting among themselves. I wore a dress, blazer, and heels. They stared at me as if to say who is this person and why is she here? Later a friend confirmed my suspicion, she knew one of the artists and they asked why I was included in the show. I hadn't gone the BFA, MFA, then teaching art at the college level route. I had to fight for painting time between working full time and raising my kids. I had no residencies, grants or outside support. But I had a burning passion and imagination that could not be denied. I had China Camp and Folegandros and France and Denmark and Ghana and Senegal. I had my kids and interesting people who enriched my life with their stories and friendship. I rose above a troubled childhood. Somehow I managed to pay the mortgage. I worked in jobs that revealed narratives far different and more difficult than mine. I had nature and magic and tenacity, laughter and adventure. When the Artists in Residence Program brought students from the public school to see the exhibit at the Richmond Art Center and do an art project, it was my windows they choose to replicate. Windows made of cardboard frames and clear plastic panes with poetry and images drawn by the children lined the walls of the student exhibition. The curator called me to come see the magical array of windows. I stood there reading the poetry, admiring the drawings. We looked at each other and smiled. He asked if I still felt I didn't belong in the show.

Live model painting in Paris, 2002

Once I asked a master artist to mentor me. He agreed to look at my work and after some thought said he couldn't teach me anything, what I did could not be taught and he didn't want to interfere with my process. I was disappointed, I wanted a teacher, perhaps a fellow traveler to navigate and collaborate with. Creating is such a solitary and dense experience. I could easily fall off the face of the earth if not for the realities of life beckoning me. I straddled the fence for years with a foot in the practical and the other in my creative world. In retrospect it all seems so bewildering and enormous. I have an exhibit at the Jewish Museum next spring themed on journeys; geographic, spiritual, developmental. My first scroll will be included, as well as a window or two, with a sampling of paintings on paper and canvas. An artist friend joked with me after seeing the abundance of my work that it will be a challenge for the curator to select pieces for the show. I told her this is not the half of it, there is more work in California. I get overwhelmed by myself and have no idea what the hell to do with it all. If someone would back a truck in the driveway and hand me a check with the right amount of zeros, it might solve a few problems at once.

Senegal and Ghana series exhibit at University of New England, 2014

Jeanette, me and Erica

I feel ready to wrap up this Project60 and blog. Letting go is not my strong point but here goes. In a small torn cardboard box is 406 pages of the book I wrote and completed in 1997. I shopped it around and got some positive responses. I never pushed it any further, life got busy as it always did and there were new paintings to work on, kids to raise, a day job and the next trip to Greece or France for unfettered time to work on my art. When people asked me about the book I told them it felt behind me already, though it gave me the most wonderful year and a half of rapture writing it. I packed it away and didn't look at it until this year. I scanned through it today and felt amazed by my life some twenty years later in the rear view mirror. I want to tell the author there is so much more to come. Heartbreak and glory and redemption. Your children will survive and thrive. You will become best friends and remarry the father of your children in an act of love and friendship that defies the notion of romance you desperately sought for so many years. Some people will drop out of sight but others more worthy will emerge. You will move away from your children twice and eventually land back in New England where you began 60 years ago. You will become an adult child without parents. New adventures continue and you will return to your beloved island. You will mentor many students who go on to do great things. You will give your heart to a Golden Retriever who will unexpectedly and abruptly die and render you grief-stricken. Luckily two others will remain behind to comfort you and together you will rebuild life in her shadow. Love will always be a double bind and hard to resist. The complicated flawed mysteries will remain unsolved yet worth investing in. We will travel full circle when all is said and done. But until then, enjoy the ride.


Post Script
Pinole 1997

In my daughter life
I needed to fly away
far and fast

In my mother life I felt frozen
cemented in an inexplicable
frame of time

In my woman life I looked through the bars
of a self imposed prison cell
I hid the key that would release me
but found it when I was ready

In my art life I became all that I feared I would be
not held back
no shadows to run from
sunlight filtering, exposing me

In my whole life I quilt together all the pieces
embossed by past and present
loose threads safely tucked
into fullness

My son Jonathan and I in Monterey, 2004

My daughter Rena and I in York Maine, 2014

Abstract Reality

What if what I see isn't there?

I pour myself into colors, thick texture, unnamed forms lightly tempered by lines. 

I am not very interested in representing any particular reality. 

Instead I am lured by splashes of color, mysterious journeys to places in my head and heart that I have absolutely no idea how to get to. Or how I got there once I arrive. 

I sometimes wonder why I am painting such uncertainty.  

Am I wasting perfectly good paints and paper with no guarantee? 

That's about as easy to answer as Am I wasting love? 

All that risk and we still dive deep.

While I was painting today I had an urge to travel to Paris just so I could shop at the Sennlier Art Store. 

The clerks wear white coats and the old wood floors creak when you walk on them. 

You can gaze outside the large windows to the Seine across the street. 

I would absolutely travel 7 hours and a 40 minute Metro ride to pull out drawers of pastels and oil bars in every conceivable color and size. 

Walk up the spiral staircase and caress reams of paper. 

Close my eyes and inhale rapture.

Then sit at a cafe with my Sennlier bag and smile at passersby. 

In case you are wondering why I am writing in poetry and not prose. 

Constructing paragraphs feels too tedious. 

I want to do more with less. 

Which is strange because I love meandering through dense forests of words threading together sentences but something inside me stops short these days.

If I had to guess I would say I lost my threshold for enormity when my mom died. 

My sense of time has been altered. There just isn't as much of it.

I suppose I am still reeling from the fact you never see someone again.

I wonder how to hold onto her and let her go. 

Where does her essence reside? That much debated place I have no real opinion about?  

It is all so abstract. The only concrete thing is the wall I am up against. 

Ticking clocks. Blank paper waiting for me to commit.

Swells of color receding and rising like the ocean tides. 

Each painting is a prayer. I whisper to her make this right.

She would shake her head and tell me to do what I am meant to do.

Go to Paris and buy pastels. Or China Camp. Or Greece. 

Wherever. 

Whatever it takes.

Paint abstracts, old buildings, nudes, landscapes. 

As long as you are my daughter the artist.

Living Without You

You never told me how to live without you. Or how sadness lingers. 

I thought I would be so relieved the missing you wouldn't matter. 

No words came after the stroke. I tried be inside your head. 

We gazed into each other's eyes. 

Sometimes we surrendered to silence.

I kept telling myself you had already left me, it wasn't the whole you anymore so when you died I would have less to mourn. 

I am irritable these days. If you think I didn't suffer fools gladly before you should see me now. 

I stare out in space and try to make things matter. 

I see endings. Slippery slopes and edges. Screeching halts.  

I almost drove to your facility today so I could feel myself closer to you. 

I wanted to walk to your room and stop short of entering. In my mind I could see the faces of the nurses looking at me with concern so I decided against it. 

Instead I put the old basement window on my easel. I sobbed while applying color on glass, rubbing oil bar in my eyes. 

I have wanted to write about you with my foggy brain. I thought it would take longer. 

Maybe I should wait but today I nearly went to see you at your nursing home even though you died.

There are healthier responses I am sure but I don't seem too interested in them.

And I have no desire to "talk" to "someone".

Can you imagine that conversation? 

What if I told the truth?  How we were as mother and daughter?

How colors become vibrant and muted at the same time?

The truth looks different in the rearview mirror. 

All that aside - and there is a lot to put aside - I feel badly.

I became cold when the pain was too much. I sidestepped you, overlooked you. 

Not because I wanted to but the hurt was more than I could manage. 

I didn't like being angry but I was. 

I wanted to be more forgiving. More prone to higher ground.  

Your shortcomings as a mother made me think of mine and if my children would be able to forgive me. 

Honestly I could see why they might not.

After all, I wasn't terribly forthcoming with compassion until you had your stroke. 

By then it was too late for us to talk about it. And now talking feels very disposable and something I can do without. 

Try telling that to people who cannot see the lines I draw in the sand. 

I wonder if you would be happy to know nothing feels the same without you. 

That I often think of you as an electric and beautiful young woman, a mother with her three babies, an accomplished nurse, artist, friend to many, and beloved grandmother. 

In our last days together I want to believe you knew I saw you as someone other than my mother.

As I laid next to you our sadness faded and love swelled. 

Maybe I am spinning my own tales but you might have known you were leaving and wanted us to have that.

You were a mother until the end.

Making sure I had more of you to hold. 

So perhaps you did try to tell me how to live without you. 

I Loved YOU So Hard I Broke

I Loved YOU So hard I Broke

Dear Collective YOU

I am looking backward

to the intensity

to what gives so much

to all the stock I put in YOU

The infatuation, the electric charge, glances in passing, small lines that form a semi smile

fingers laced together and skipped heartbeats and breath taken away

To the thoughts of what happened and what might have been

So many words written about us

Sometimes in small cursive with a grease pencil covering large pieces of paper

But that’s not what I am dwelling on at this moment

I am thinking about how the end is the beginning and the beginning is the end like a T.S. Elliot poem in Four Quartets

He actually was right and not just artistically confusing

On the precipice of infamous beginnings and endings that are really endings and beginnings I turn my head

And see YOU

Away from me

Holding my stomach in, measuring myself, inventing new and better ways to be me, thinking how I can be more

always so much more

so YOU will not leave

Even though I only asked once and that was in a whisper, barely audible

almost to myself

It was an airport for God’s sake

We both know how that worked out

Speaking of beginnings

My father told me I would get married

and be taken care of

I was already outlined by his shadow

not realizing I was the one doing the taking care of

Cultivating an art

Icing on the cake

Using assets

Being creative and interesting but only so smart

(because it is OFF PUTTING TO BE TOO SMART AND A GIRL)

I lost a race in 5^th grade on purpose to boys

I was a fast like the wind sprinter

Did I realize what I lost that day was more than a race?

My body changed

I sweated out so much longing hot flashing

Stopped holding my stomach in

and banging my head against the wall

trying to more of everything

All that wonderfulness

left flat with exhaustion (which is actually a good thing)

emptying my insides out

Hoping beyond hope

If only

If only

If only I had let myself win that race and turned the corner in victory

You start to think about your mother differently

I’m so sorry

I had no idea

My daughter thinks I sound depressing

I get it because I thought ending up alone like Nadia was a death sentence (hey P remember when we rolled our eyes in superiority)

Then I found new horizons and realized dreams that needed energy I used to dole out to YOU

I can still love YOU I say but differently

It’s still love to me

And it’s everywhere

In subtle and vibrant colors

In trees gently rustling in a warm afternoon breeze

In the faces of my children

In my doggies

In my no longer talking mother

In friends who don’t give up on me

In courage I wish I had

In grace and humility and letting go

In what’s given and taken

In forgiveness

In all of YOU

  

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do: Brexit thoughts from the Island

When I first heard the news I was stunned. I knew it was close; however, in the end I thought the vote would be to stay in the European Union. I checked Facebook and saw all kinds of dire warnings from people, particularly Americans, drawing parallels to Trump and his racist xenophobia. While I painted later that morning I listened to the BBC to get a closer perspective. The news program interviewed a wide range of people, experts and perhaps more interestingly, three university students – two from London (stay) and one from a more rural area (go). I also polled a few of the island friends (Greek and Danish) to get their take on it. The responses were mixed; however, the Greeks have a sour taste in their mouth for the EU and Euro given the economic crisis that lingers and continues to have a serious effect on their country and wellbeing.  For more detailed results, go to this link: https://ig.ft.com/sites/elections/2016/uk/eu-referendum/

The BBC program exposed a schism and frustration in Britain that feels vaguely familiar to the one in the US – from my perspective – and I think the data bears me out. First, I am not an economist. And while I include economics in teaching my social work courses, I am not an expert in the complications of markets, currency, and trade. I will say that I have had grave doubts about the Euro and the EU since the currency was introduced. I was in Paris as it was rolled out, visiting my daughter who was living there for a study abroad in a sweet little studio in the Latin Quarter. I predicted a disaster not based on my expertise in economics, rather, a knowledge of culture, history and people (not the politician types). I simply could not see how countries so diverse and steeped in their history and culture were going to unify in this system and worse, a common currency. In the US we face a constant battle between the federal government and state’s rights, which is notoriously contentious, therefore, this was going to be an even bigger challenge. I was in Denmark when they voted not to join the EU the first time, and though they later reversed this decision they maintained their currency (as Britain did).  

I find that listening to people and their stories explains a lot. I am fortunate to travel in the US and abroad, and not in a touristic circle. Striking up conversation is an organic process and people are very willing to share their stories.  It also helps not to surround yourself with people who think exactly as you do. I have some passionate discussions (to say the least); however, I also maintain close relationships with many friends whose worldview and experience is polar opposite to mine. We share other common interests and values, which is enriching and keeps life interesting. I travel on buses, planes, boats, and on foot. You are bound to cross paths with interesting people that way. In fact, on a short plane ride from Copenhagen to Brussels many years ago I met one of my best friends, Yvonne Christensen, and while our lives are quite different in many ways, we are joined at the hip in many other ways. And this is just one such story, my life is filled with magical encounters, both brief and long lasting.

Back to Brexit. Listening to the university students on BBC program I was struck by the dissonance between the Londoners (stay in EU) and the student from a rural area (out). The Londoners had no real contact with anyone different from them, or outside of London. The other student had a more diverse background being at university; however, his life and experience was not that of a Londoner. The gap was considerable. It was like they lived in two different countries. I thought about how many people in the US consider the Midwest “fly over country”, as if the only worthy places are the East or West Coast, and more specifically, LA, San Francisco Bay Area, New York, DC, and perhaps cities like Seattle and Boston. Okay, Chicago is OK if you fly in and out. It is like no place in between exists and the people that live there are from another country.  The only time they or their states get any attention is during presidential elections and politicians pander to them in condescending unauthentic ways. For the most part they are discounted by the political elite and are a bargaining chip or stepping stone for their representatives playing the DC game. Having lived in rural states in New England. While living in Austin Texas I started a community development program in a rural town, where I worked for 4 years and know something about people off the elite grid. I certainly disagreed with many of their political views; however, we came to respect, trust and know each other in meaningful ways. We worked and built stuff together, and came to tolerate differences while focusing on solutions to make life better for everyone in the town. I learned a lot from them and I think (hope) it was mutual.

People on the island (and Greece) feel burned by the EU. Austerity has made life unbearable for many, particularly away from the islands where tourism is still bringing some economic vitality. A Greek friend is not sure how much will be shaved off the pension he is soon to begin collecting. Most friends claim to be paying higher and higher taxes yet see no direct benefit, in fact, quite the contrary. Folks I talk to are unmoved by the British vote to exit the EU. They are skeptical and disgruntled. Some are hoping Greece is next, or feel the time passed for them to leave the EU. Some Danish friends visiting the island were not in favor of the exit; however, they had criticism of the EU and their policies, large bureaucracy, and pace of implementation (too fast). This is not a new discussion for us when it comes to the EU, we have been talking about it for years. My take as an outsider has great limitation; however, from the beginning I had a difficult time seeing it work given the social, historic, and cultural differences.  And while I am aware that some of those spearheading this exit in Europe are of the right, anti-immigrant, and xenophobic, I am not certain that is what moved all those voters in favor of exit. Anti-immigrant factions have been gaining traction for years across Europe. There has always been some degree of fascism in Europe for centuries (as in the US). The unraveling of the Middle East beginning with the invasion of Iraq (thanks George W Bush) and more recently Syria, coupled with those sailing in death boats from Africa for political and economic reasons have hit Europe hard. A much longer blog would be needed to delve into the havoc caused by the West in many of these countries and the legacy of colonialism. All these confounding factors have been brewing over time and now we are seeing the culmination of misguided policies, regime change wars, and the refusal to deal with complexity and unanticipated consequences.

So here is where I land with all this and connect it to the United States. I have no idea how Britain’s exit will impact world markets (one Greek friend had a few choice words for this), recessions, trade, etc. What I do have some thoughts on is the inability of the political elite to understand the lives of everyday folk. A quick glance at the map of Britain and what areas voted for and against is telling. The political elite are tone deaf and dance to a different master, and then act surprised when people act up or throw support to an outsider like Trump spouting all kind of craziness, who capitalizes on people’s fears and ignorance. Then there is my hero Bernie Sanders, a long standing Democratic Socialist who no one thought had a chance in hell (including me) exposed the corruption of the political neoliberal elite in the Democratic Party. Sanders proposes real system change using a bottom up movement, a political revolution and raised huge sums of money from average folks proving you do not need to sell your soul to be a contender. The political upsets of this election cycle tell us something, if we happen to be listening; however, from the Democratic party (which is all I will speak of) we see a refusal to step up and be bold, rather choosing business as usual (BAU) as evidenced by the platform committee voting for TPP, fracking, and backing down from an explicit position on the $15 minimum wage. The House of Representatives Democrat sit-in for a gun bill that is not really very good, yet they have offered no such action on poisoned water in Flint, the killing of unarmed black people, gun deaths, student loan debt relief, tax reform, and single payer health care among others. Where was their backbone and spine to fight for these issues? Why not sit in after Sandyhook or San Bernardino or the other mass killings? I have a thought though, perhaps seeing the hunger and thirst people have for real change and bold action inspired by Bernie Sanders prompted them to do more than yap about thoughts and prayers. The timid Democrats have done nothing but cowered to the Republicans with a deer in the headlights look for years.

We live in polarized nations. The Brexit vote was close. The US is nearly divided down the middle. People do not feel heard and they are tired of the BAU on all sides from political elites more concerned with pandering to special interests than their constituents’ needs. People are hurting. For those who are beaten down, feel left behind and are so mired in a cycle of poverty there is little chance of escape, hope is a rare commodity. This can give rise to scary people like Trump as well as a man like Bernie Sanders. As it can give rise to referendums in favor of a hasty exit that people do not fully understand the consequence of. We cannot continue to disregard “fly over” land or cling to single narratives. The message to the political establishment has been made clear though, change or you will not last, of which such a demise may possibly lead to better, new systems that respond to the needs of the many and not the few, or it might plunge us into further disarray and division. There is enough disillusionment to go around. Breaking up is hard to do, yet coming together is even harder. I am hoping we can manage for all our sakes, but then again, the Greek island light can shine a more optimistic spin on just about anything.   

Be well and more to come.