Have you felt that line before? That line where nothing has changed, the exact same things are going on, but suddenly everything is different because it matters to you?
Backing up...I didn't intend to write this today. I have a whole long list of things to do and writing in my blog isn't on it. But I've been thinking so hard on this I just have to spit it out of my brain and onto paper, a piece of half-chewed gum, to get it out of my way for something else. Because I felt that line last week and now it's tripping me up. Something I thought I could step over, designating the difference between point a and point b somehow got bigger and bulkier and three-dimensional on me, not, apparently, a line at all.
You've felt it too, haven't you? There you are with someone or a group of someones, or maybe just by yourself, and you're doing something, or maybe you're not, and if you had a little soundtrack in your brain it would go something like this, "This is nice, I like this, I'm happy, this feels good." Then it's like something sits up and listens in, ears perked, "Ohhhh, you know what? I DO like this! This IS nice! Wow, I AM happy! And oh gosh this DOES feel really good. REALLY good..." And does that something then snuggle in all content and pleased with life? No it does not. It panics. "I want this to continue. What if it stops? What if it doesn't stop? What does this mean, that I like this? Is this okay that I feel like this? Hey, who gets to decide that anyway? Why wouldn't it be okay? But what does it mean? And what if it never happens again? It has to happen again. But what if I get hurt? And what if I get what I want? And what do I want? What does it mean that I want something I didn't know I wanted? What will this change? I don't want change."
This has been my soundtrack all weekend. I'm a little tired. The inner witness has been chiming in periodically as well, "Isn't that interesting that now that you care, now that it matters, you've become attached to outcome? I wonder if there would be a way to care deeply, to have it matter terribly, and still release attachment? Can you desire this and be clear about your desire, and truly feel just fine no matter how things turn out?" All of this internal conversation reminded me of a book I had read a couple of years ago called Open to Desire: Embracing a Lust for Life by Mark Epstein. He says in the beginning of chapter 3, "...desire forces us into a place where our usual modes of relating are upended, where success can only be found when...we risk making fools of ourselves. This seems to be one of desire's primary functions: to keep us off balance, in between, on the verge, or just out of reach." I want I want I want seems to go hand in hand with I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared.
It would be nice don't you think to let go of them both? Desire and fear right out the window; then we can all just be placid and satisfied. Unfortunately, it seems that I want I want I want and I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared also have a couple of important friends: I love I love I love and I live I live I live.
So I guess I'm just going to sit here on this line between point a and point b, off balance, in between, on the verge, and rest here a little. Because I DO love and I DO live and I DO want. And I AM scared. From Mark Epstein-"Touching desire, meeting and gratifying another's desire, lets us know God." God and me, we're just going to sit here a little. Get to know each other.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Joy and Pleasure
Somehow in trying to figure out what to write next I was thinking about stuff that makes me happy. I was reading over old morning pages for the last several months and was amazed again to see how emotions just flow over and through everything and are so powerful but change so quickly. It's like that old joke about the weather-don't like it? Just wait a minute. But often the things that really tweak my mental state into joy are little and silly. Here's a little list:
Wind
The hand dryer in the bathroom at our local grocery store. I swear I always go to the bathroom there only because I adore this dryer. When you put your hands under it, it blows mach force air at you so your skin does that funny rubbery thing and they dry fast!! Whoo.
Homemade chocolate chip cookies. There are some in the kitchen right now. Often they make me happy, then they make me a little ill.
Frogs
The memory of skinny dipping in Walden Pond after a Grateful Dead concert with my roommate and 3 strangers who were giving us a ride home to Boston.
A card I bought myself that sings "I've got the power..." when I open it.
Doing something well and being admired for it.
Odd bits of sensory memory of good sex that float up out of nowhere to take my breath away at the oddest times.
The cold plunge at the women's spa. It's freezing, it has a waterfall, I always feel exuberant and full of life after it. Plus I love watching the faces of the women in the hot tub as I stand for many minutes at a time letting the frigid water beat on my head and shoulders in complete bliss.
Flannel sheets on naked skin on those first cold nights of fall.
My little sandals that are yellow and orange and red with a big flower on the top.
The commercial that's out right now for the lottery with penguins and chickens hang gliding.
Friends who send emails just to say hi.
A big fat new book, much looked forward to, a cup of tea and a morning to myself.
Yummy life. Eat it up.
Wind
The hand dryer in the bathroom at our local grocery store. I swear I always go to the bathroom there only because I adore this dryer. When you put your hands under it, it blows mach force air at you so your skin does that funny rubbery thing and they dry fast!! Whoo.
Homemade chocolate chip cookies. There are some in the kitchen right now. Often they make me happy, then they make me a little ill.
Frogs
The memory of skinny dipping in Walden Pond after a Grateful Dead concert with my roommate and 3 strangers who were giving us a ride home to Boston.
A card I bought myself that sings "I've got the power..." when I open it.
Doing something well and being admired for it.
Odd bits of sensory memory of good sex that float up out of nowhere to take my breath away at the oddest times.
The cold plunge at the women's spa. It's freezing, it has a waterfall, I always feel exuberant and full of life after it. Plus I love watching the faces of the women in the hot tub as I stand for many minutes at a time letting the frigid water beat on my head and shoulders in complete bliss.
Flannel sheets on naked skin on those first cold nights of fall.
My little sandals that are yellow and orange and red with a big flower on the top.
The commercial that's out right now for the lottery with penguins and chickens hang gliding.
Friends who send emails just to say hi.
A big fat new book, much looked forward to, a cup of tea and a morning to myself.
Yummy life. Eat it up.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Just Us Chickens
I've been thinking a lot lately about what to write next, coming up with themes and letting them go, and just not really being struck by anything in particular. The irony of beginning a blog with the theme of getting lost and then promptly NOT getting lost very much at all has not been lost on me. It has made me think about it though, this piece of me that has been very much a part of my identity for so long that I had forgotten to question it, to see if, really, it still fit me. Oh, I still have no sense of direction; take me in a building, run me around a little and let me back out, I'll have no idea where I am. We have so many natural landmarks here that I'm pretty full of myself, throwing around north and south with the best of them. But I've still gotten lost to the point of tears when someone's given me directions to "just take that exit past the chevron station..." and it just hasn't been that simple.
What I have noticed though is that I've just been here for so long that I know this place, in a way I've never known any other place in my life. I never realized that when you're 18 years old 5 years spent in a single place seems quite long; when you're over 40 and just now noticing that you've lived that same 18 years rooted in one city, you start to think that maybe it was only reasonable to get lost so often when you never stayed put.
And I think when it comes to feeling rooted and learning my way around, I'm a slow learner. My brain was wired for other kinds of knowing, but feeling a sense of belonging, a sense of place comes slow to me. With that comes an almost endless searching for community, an obsessive need to "find" it and make it mine somehow, always questioning what it actually consists of. But today I was doing the dishes and looking out at the chickens and got a little glimmer of something.
Yes, we have chickens in the city. We used to have three, but Nancy died, leaving Bess and George behind. We got them when they were tiny chicks, picked out for their beauty and their egg laying abilities and they grew up with each other and with us. It's been interesting to us to watch their little community develop and realize that they have a whole complicated social structure all their own. They have different voices and different calls they use for different purposes. One call is a warning call for a predator, specifically a cat. When they're out in the yard and we hear that call, we know to go running to the defense of the flock.
Yesterday we had them back in the coop and were out working on the side of the house when we had a little visitor. Specifically, a little orange striped visitor, a local cat who is adorable and sweet and friendly....and whom we've had to chase out of the backyard when he's gone after the chickens. But the chickens were safe and the gate was closed so we were playing with and petting the cat. The chickens were going nuts, calling and flaring their neck feathers, spreading their wings, making themselves bigger. We couldn't figure it out; we'd call to them, we went out to the yard to try and calm them, but they were having none of it. We finally figured it out when we saw one chicken seeming to watch the cat's movement and realized she could see him through a hole in the gate. (The visual cortex of a bird, you have to remember, is much more powerful than our own.) Even then though, they were safe in the coop and they know that; we've seen that they understand the difference between being out and vulnerable, as opposed to inside and safe. A little more thinking and detective work on our part and we got it–we are part of their flock! They were warning us and trying to protect us. We're kind of stupid sometimes but eventually we figure it out.
It's a cute story, and we were touched by their concern, but is there really any deeper meaning there? Honestly, I don't really know. But I do know that I like the fact that I live here in this place with the companions who occupy the space around me, and I know that when push comes to shove I've got my flock behind me. They've got my back and sometimes that's enough.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
What I have noticed though is that I've just been here for so long that I know this place, in a way I've never known any other place in my life. I never realized that when you're 18 years old 5 years spent in a single place seems quite long; when you're over 40 and just now noticing that you've lived that same 18 years rooted in one city, you start to think that maybe it was only reasonable to get lost so often when you never stayed put.
And I think when it comes to feeling rooted and learning my way around, I'm a slow learner. My brain was wired for other kinds of knowing, but feeling a sense of belonging, a sense of place comes slow to me. With that comes an almost endless searching for community, an obsessive need to "find" it and make it mine somehow, always questioning what it actually consists of. But today I was doing the dishes and looking out at the chickens and got a little glimmer of something.
Yes, we have chickens in the city. We used to have three, but Nancy died, leaving Bess and George behind. We got them when they were tiny chicks, picked out for their beauty and their egg laying abilities and they grew up with each other and with us. It's been interesting to us to watch their little community develop and realize that they have a whole complicated social structure all their own. They have different voices and different calls they use for different purposes. One call is a warning call for a predator, specifically a cat. When they're out in the yard and we hear that call, we know to go running to the defense of the flock.
Yesterday we had them back in the coop and were out working on the side of the house when we had a little visitor. Specifically, a little orange striped visitor, a local cat who is adorable and sweet and friendly....and whom we've had to chase out of the backyard when he's gone after the chickens. But the chickens were safe and the gate was closed so we were playing with and petting the cat. The chickens were going nuts, calling and flaring their neck feathers, spreading their wings, making themselves bigger. We couldn't figure it out; we'd call to them, we went out to the yard to try and calm them, but they were having none of it. We finally figured it out when we saw one chicken seeming to watch the cat's movement and realized she could see him through a hole in the gate. (The visual cortex of a bird, you have to remember, is much more powerful than our own.) Even then though, they were safe in the coop and they know that; we've seen that they understand the difference between being out and vulnerable, as opposed to inside and safe. A little more thinking and detective work on our part and we got it–we are part of their flock! They were warning us and trying to protect us. We're kind of stupid sometimes but eventually we figure it out.
It's a cute story, and we were touched by their concern, but is there really any deeper meaning there? Honestly, I don't really know. But I do know that I like the fact that I live here in this place with the companions who occupy the space around me, and I know that when push comes to shove I've got my flock behind me. They've got my back and sometimes that's enough.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Magic Carpet Ride
Well, that's the first thing that came to mind anyway when thinking about this particular topic. I have a feeling this post might be a little brief and free-wheeling...
So I was thinking about life. Now that's a shocker. But really, I was, and what I was thinking was that in some ways it's like taking a yoga class. No, no...stay with me here. What I was thinking is that you come to class and step on your mat and class begins and you really can't leave. I mean, well, obviously, you can, unless someone has locked you in, but the thing is, mostly people don't leave. There you are, on your mat and whatever happens, whatever comes, you just stay. And maybe you do all the poses as illustrated by the instructor, or maybe you make adaptations, or maybe you just say, "Not today, thanks!" and hang out in child's pose to wait out whatever's going on. Often the class will contain poses that are challenging in some way, either physically or emotionally (being bored counts as a challenge!), and there will be poses you don't like much, and poses you like a lot, and maybe there will be your very favorite pose ever and you're so happy to be able to do it! The point is you're there for all of it; you have your reactions, whatever they are, but you're still there on your mat.
And it seems to me that we're born, and then we're just here, and a bunch of stuff happens and we react to it, and we adapt to it, sometimes we flow with it, sometimes we fight it, and sometimes we sit it out, but we're still there in the room on the mat. All of that other stuff is just stuff happening-inside, outside, all around-but our presence in the room is unchanging, until the class is over. We are responsible for whatever we do on the mat, but we can let go of everything else. The mat, the floor, the earth beneath us, the air in the room or in the outdoors, the breath of the other people there with us, it all contains us and supports us so we don't have to do that part. And we have no control over what poses the teacher will teach, or what the other students may do, so we don't have to worry about that either. And we've shown up already by being born, so really we just have to ride, and leave when it's over.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
So I was thinking about life. Now that's a shocker. But really, I was, and what I was thinking was that in some ways it's like taking a yoga class. No, no...stay with me here. What I was thinking is that you come to class and step on your mat and class begins and you really can't leave. I mean, well, obviously, you can, unless someone has locked you in, but the thing is, mostly people don't leave. There you are, on your mat and whatever happens, whatever comes, you just stay. And maybe you do all the poses as illustrated by the instructor, or maybe you make adaptations, or maybe you just say, "Not today, thanks!" and hang out in child's pose to wait out whatever's going on. Often the class will contain poses that are challenging in some way, either physically or emotionally (being bored counts as a challenge!), and there will be poses you don't like much, and poses you like a lot, and maybe there will be your very favorite pose ever and you're so happy to be able to do it! The point is you're there for all of it; you have your reactions, whatever they are, but you're still there on your mat.
And it seems to me that we're born, and then we're just here, and a bunch of stuff happens and we react to it, and we adapt to it, sometimes we flow with it, sometimes we fight it, and sometimes we sit it out, but we're still there in the room on the mat. All of that other stuff is just stuff happening-inside, outside, all around-but our presence in the room is unchanging, until the class is over. We are responsible for whatever we do on the mat, but we can let go of everything else. The mat, the floor, the earth beneath us, the air in the room or in the outdoors, the breath of the other people there with us, it all contains us and supports us so we don't have to do that part. And we have no control over what poses the teacher will teach, or what the other students may do, so we don't have to worry about that either. And we've shown up already by being born, so really we just have to ride, and leave when it's over.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
Monday, February 11, 2008
Hey, whose path is this anyway?
It occurred to me to wonder, as I wander on and off this path I'm on, getting lost and finding my way back, whose path is this really? And is it marked, or am I wandering around in a featureless space with little animator goggles on that are creating some kind of reality for me? Kind of like the 21st century version of Plato's cave?
What brought this up for me was a question from a yoga student: She felt that there's some kind of ideal out there for each pose, and isn't that what we're trying to reach? She has a dance background, like me, and comes from that concept of trying to get to that one exact perfectly correct and beautiful placement. I have a couple of issues with that: One is, it was exactly that kind of noble goal that brought me to an entirely unhealthy way of being in my body, treating it like a prisoner of war that was holding out on me, and two is, I think of yoga practice as kind of a special science experiment where objective curiosity and observation is crucial, and having too much goal in there skews the results.
So I was thinking about all this later, and thinking about how often we easily slip into wanting someone else's ideal life. Kind of like that ideal map of a pose, there's also an ideal map of a life out there somewhere and that's the one we want for ourselves. I remember talking with my neuroscience professor once either close to or right after graduation and feeling almost sick with envy. Her life just seemed so damn easy in so many ways because she had a very singular focus, and because of that focus her career path was laid out in a nicely marked straight line for her. She had never strayed from it and she was entirely happy. I, on the other hand, felt like I was scattered all over everything and every step I took was taking me down some kind of Dr. Seussian trail, in no particular direction at all.
Now, twenty years later I look back and there's still no straight line back there behind me, but I've had a really fun life. I love my life and I love my body–the way they are. They still both take me by surprise sometimes and I like that. Don't get me wrong–I still sometimes yearn for something more, something clear, something easy, something perfect. I do think there's probably an ideal out there for everything, something we're striving for, but I think it's unique to us individually. So there is no perfect essence of Triangle Pose; how could essence of Triangle ever take into consideration my own beauty, my own unique quality? There is only the perfect Triangle Pose for me today, right now, this second and it's the very pose I'm doing. And my path is uniquely my own, correct only for me, and I fill it the best way I can.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
What brought this up for me was a question from a yoga student: She felt that there's some kind of ideal out there for each pose, and isn't that what we're trying to reach? She has a dance background, like me, and comes from that concept of trying to get to that one exact perfectly correct and beautiful placement. I have a couple of issues with that: One is, it was exactly that kind of noble goal that brought me to an entirely unhealthy way of being in my body, treating it like a prisoner of war that was holding out on me, and two is, I think of yoga practice as kind of a special science experiment where objective curiosity and observation is crucial, and having too much goal in there skews the results.
So I was thinking about all this later, and thinking about how often we easily slip into wanting someone else's ideal life. Kind of like that ideal map of a pose, there's also an ideal map of a life out there somewhere and that's the one we want for ourselves. I remember talking with my neuroscience professor once either close to or right after graduation and feeling almost sick with envy. Her life just seemed so damn easy in so many ways because she had a very singular focus, and because of that focus her career path was laid out in a nicely marked straight line for her. She had never strayed from it and she was entirely happy. I, on the other hand, felt like I was scattered all over everything and every step I took was taking me down some kind of Dr. Seussian trail, in no particular direction at all.
Now, twenty years later I look back and there's still no straight line back there behind me, but I've had a really fun life. I love my life and I love my body–the way they are. They still both take me by surprise sometimes and I like that. Don't get me wrong–I still sometimes yearn for something more, something clear, something easy, something perfect. I do think there's probably an ideal out there for everything, something we're striving for, but I think it's unique to us individually. So there is no perfect essence of Triangle Pose; how could essence of Triangle ever take into consideration my own beauty, my own unique quality? There is only the perfect Triangle Pose for me today, right now, this second and it's the very pose I'm doing. And my path is uniquely my own, correct only for me, and I fill it the best way I can.
copyright 2008 J. Autumn Needles
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Map of the World
When I was in college, we had a tradition of senior will night, a time close to the end of the year when all the seniors in the house would will their belongings to underclasswomen. As a sophomore, I was willed a map of Europe by one senior who had spent her junior year abroad in Switzerland. She knew that I was headed for Scotland the following year for my junior year abroad so she left me her map. She had had her map up on her wall all year with stick pins in it for all the places she had been on her year abroad, so when I received it, it still had her pinholes in it marking her journeys. I was tremendously touched by her gift and reassured by it; it was a tangible symbol of the possibility of making this venture for myself, and returning from it with new stories and new experiences, and maybe some pinholes of my own to add to her map.
I had a soft spot for maps anyway, being a bear with very little directional sense (see blog title). Maps for me were a secret weapon and I believed there was magic in all the little blue river lines, crinkly mountains, different-sized dots for different-sized cities. Whenever I had to drive anywhere, I would listen politely to the directions given me, then go directly to my map and plan out my own route in great detail. When I did make my journey to Scotland for the year, and from there out into the rest of western Europe, I tried to get a map of every place I went. Those became my tokens of success.
Recently a much younger friend was moaning about how she wished she could just stop everything and just figure things out. If she could only have some time to figure things out. I had been listening, I confess, with some irritation, hearing a lot of "oh, poor me", but when she said that I had a little flash of compassion that trailed along with my own memories of feeling exactly that way, oh about 20 years ago. Having that sense that somehow, if I could just stop long enough to plan things out, I could create my own map to make my life clear from this point forward. There would be no more confusion, or feeling like events were somehow overtaking me, or that I had only limited control over my direction. No, I would have a map! Something I could actually hold and refer to that would have little lines and labels on it helping me find my way. I would never feel lost again.
It was only as time went on, and I just kept living my life and finding my way without the map, making pinholes for new experiences and labels for places I didn't want to visit again, and somehow, without ever actually being able to stop everything to figure it all out, figuring most of it out anyway, that I realized that that's how it actually works for everyone. Now all these years later I wouldn't want to stop my life and get off for a while. Even when things are hard I know I carry my own map to get me through. And mostly, I know I have found the place I want to call home, and the places I want to keep exploring, the people to share it with, and I don't really need to stop everything because I know I have what I need. I also know now that I have the resources available to me to cope with whatever comes, even if it turns everything upside down.
Listening to my friend though, I wished I could somehow will her my old map with all my pinholes, to show her that she will find her way and that everything will be all right even if she can't find a way to stop the world. She will find her way like we all do, creating her own map and her own set of directions.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
I had a soft spot for maps anyway, being a bear with very little directional sense (see blog title). Maps for me were a secret weapon and I believed there was magic in all the little blue river lines, crinkly mountains, different-sized dots for different-sized cities. Whenever I had to drive anywhere, I would listen politely to the directions given me, then go directly to my map and plan out my own route in great detail. When I did make my journey to Scotland for the year, and from there out into the rest of western Europe, I tried to get a map of every place I went. Those became my tokens of success.
Recently a much younger friend was moaning about how she wished she could just stop everything and just figure things out. If she could only have some time to figure things out. I had been listening, I confess, with some irritation, hearing a lot of "oh, poor me", but when she said that I had a little flash of compassion that trailed along with my own memories of feeling exactly that way, oh about 20 years ago. Having that sense that somehow, if I could just stop long enough to plan things out, I could create my own map to make my life clear from this point forward. There would be no more confusion, or feeling like events were somehow overtaking me, or that I had only limited control over my direction. No, I would have a map! Something I could actually hold and refer to that would have little lines and labels on it helping me find my way. I would never feel lost again.
It was only as time went on, and I just kept living my life and finding my way without the map, making pinholes for new experiences and labels for places I didn't want to visit again, and somehow, without ever actually being able to stop everything to figure it all out, figuring most of it out anyway, that I realized that that's how it actually works for everyone. Now all these years later I wouldn't want to stop my life and get off for a while. Even when things are hard I know I carry my own map to get me through. And mostly, I know I have found the place I want to call home, and the places I want to keep exploring, the people to share it with, and I don't really need to stop everything because I know I have what I need. I also know now that I have the resources available to me to cope with whatever comes, even if it turns everything upside down.
Listening to my friend though, I wished I could somehow will her my old map with all my pinholes, to show her that she will find her way and that everything will be all right even if she can't find a way to stop the world. She will find her way like we all do, creating her own map and her own set of directions.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
After Long Silence
Lots of times I sat down to write in the last 2 months and found I had nothing really to say at the moment. Good thing I'm not writing on deadline! I'm still not sure what I have to say right now as this year ends. Actually as I sit here and think about it, silence seems appropriate as we come to the end of this year's deep dark and begin the climb into the light of the sun.
We're heading into what our country names the new year, and yet other people give that honor to other times. For myself, I've always found the descent into darkness at Samhain (Halloween) to be a more appropriate time to shed the old and prepare for the new. But one thing that has always struck me about pagan reckonings of time (and frustrated my Scorpio desire for something with borders) is that every season and every celebration is not so much about itself captured in a moment, but about the transition happening at that time. Always moving from something to something else. Even as you grasp at something to celebrate and honor, it's already gone, moving to the next thing.
Tis the season of shoulds. Yes, at this time of year we move directly from the shoulds of Christmas into the shoulds of New Year. Now is when we set our compass (and our course) for the future and yet it strikes me as a particularly bad time to do this. Swept up in a storm of everything we ought to do, everything we have to do, everything we really should do, how can we possibly get our bearings and find true North? Maybe using the guilt of everything we didn't do? I don't think so.
So maybe it really is time for silence. A walk in the cold to listen. What gift does this particular shift of season have for you? What gift do you need to bring into the light of the new sun? Where will this year take you? Let it speak to you.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
We're heading into what our country names the new year, and yet other people give that honor to other times. For myself, I've always found the descent into darkness at Samhain (Halloween) to be a more appropriate time to shed the old and prepare for the new. But one thing that has always struck me about pagan reckonings of time (and frustrated my Scorpio desire for something with borders) is that every season and every celebration is not so much about itself captured in a moment, but about the transition happening at that time. Always moving from something to something else. Even as you grasp at something to celebrate and honor, it's already gone, moving to the next thing.
Tis the season of shoulds. Yes, at this time of year we move directly from the shoulds of Christmas into the shoulds of New Year. Now is when we set our compass (and our course) for the future and yet it strikes me as a particularly bad time to do this. Swept up in a storm of everything we ought to do, everything we have to do, everything we really should do, how can we possibly get our bearings and find true North? Maybe using the guilt of everything we didn't do? I don't think so.
So maybe it really is time for silence. A walk in the cold to listen. What gift does this particular shift of season have for you? What gift do you need to bring into the light of the new sun? Where will this year take you? Let it speak to you.
copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles
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