Dolce Far Molto

Il Giardino dei Cedri Internt'l School, Rome

I wrote to about ten international primary schools in Rome yesterday, explaining that I am an American teacher on sabbatical, studying Teaching English as a Second Language, and that I would love to visit, perhaps help out at their lovely school while I am in Italy learning a second language myself.  My fantasy is that this will provide me with a fresh lens on teaching, an immediate community, language buddies, people to party with on New Year's Eve.  In my reverie, I am at once so exotically transported and so warmly embraced, I may never return...


I mailed them about two in the afternoon, 8 p.m. their time. Sprang out of bed too early this morning, spurred by the hope that my box would be full of electronic braccia aperte...nothing yet.


Helen Keller advised, "Life is a daring adventure, or nothing at all." But I've lived more of the life Thoreau warned about, one of quiet...well, not desperation, but comfy stability. Married at 21, lived in the same city all my life, chose the professional safety of teaching which, though really kind of a cubicled skydive, is at least an approved form of free fall for women.  So the sabbatical, and my month in Rome, are my once-in-a-lifetime walk on the wild side.


Not that there's any real peril involved.  My school is required to keep a position open for me; my reduced salary will suffice now that the kids are done with college; my husband will probably join me for a week or two, and Rome is pretty bite-sized.  Many of my teacher friends seem envious, wonder aloud, "Why haven't I done that?"  This is mostly wistful rhetoric, though, delivered with bemused smiles and teasing allusions to Eat, Pray, Love (I respond that, since I will not go on to India or Indonesia, my travelogue will be titled Eat, Eat, Eat.)  Though one friend shook her head in both concern and admiration, murmuring, "That's a pretty big risk you're taking, there."  Cool.


Why did I choose Rome?  Despite the allegations of Liz Gilbert wannabe-ism, my crush on the Eternal City predates her premeditated and heavily advanced call to impetuous adventure by decades. Even before my husband and I took our first trip about six years ago, the allure of Italy's history, romance, sensuality, food and pace was magnetic -- how could I not love a people who coined my life's philosophy, "Dolce far niente" or "How sweet to do nothing"?  The language itself, one of the few world's tongues actually chosen by its people over other dialects because of its aesthetic appeal, was a huge turn-on in my second-language-themed journey.  Our trip -- walking daily and casually through ancient ruins and cobblestoned markets, stopping for leisurely outdoor lunches with vino alongside warm Roman office workers doing likewise, absorbing the music and poetry of their conversation in a way I understood  although I could not translate -- just made me fall that much deeper and harder.  I could have chosen stunning Florence this time, and I will stay a night or two, but I want to live in the city I visit, not as a tourist.  Rome is familiar enough now that I can forgo the Colosseum tour and the Trevi coin-toss and meet a friend for a movie and make dinner for us both afterwards.

The flat on Trastevere's Via Garibaldi

The Almost Corner Bookstore

After much investigation, I found my cutems apartment through a Roman broker with a website.  It's a studio in Trastevere, the funky little Greenwich Village-like neighborhood across the gorgeous Tiber River.  It's less expensive than apartments in central Rome, has a full kitchen, internet, washer and drier, and the photographs seem warm and homey.  It's a block away from an English-language bookstore called The Almost Corner Bookstore, owned by a chatty Irish expat.  Also in the neighborhood is a movie theater that shows films in English on Thursdays.  On Craigslist I found a neighbor who gives Italian lessons, including field trips to the supermarket and the like, for 14 Euros an hour.  As I said, my husband is due to come for at least a week or two.  I've got to get off here now and practice my Rosetta Stone Italian some more (I wonder how you say "insanely psyched").  Twenty-seven days, ventisette giorni...it's starting to feel real now and I'm almost set.


I'll keep you posted about those collegial open arms in my inbox!

The Stories of Christmas

Allen Say's Tree of Cranes, one of my many favorites.

The Christmas season has officially arrived. Thanksgiving leftovers have worn out their midnight snack welcome; our long national Black Friday is in full swing, and the song of conspicuous consumption rings in the crisp, wintery air.  But me, I just want to bury my nose in a book.  Or my pen in a blank journal. Even some store catalogs like American Girl, London Fog, Lands End, have a definite narrative, thematic appeal. The Yule urge, for me -- stronger than ever this year because of all my paper-writing, blogging, the pensive stretches of sabbatical time -- is all about story. I want to read "The Night Before Christmas" in Italian, write vignettes of my own childhood memories, light candles and crack out "Amahl and the Night Visitors," or consider thoughtfully the modern implications of "Away in a manger, no crib for his bed..." Isn’t December, very  naturally, the most literary of months?  Just as the cold and barren outdoors nudge us toward an inner, more communal and introspective pace, so does the year’s end sharpen our urge to think deeply, carefully, about ourselves and each other, with the help of the written word.  And, in need of distraction from the long, descending dark, we escape into a month crafted largely by story.  It has, it seems, ever and everywhere been thus.  The ancient Hindus had Diwali, brightened the frigid night with oil lamps and an epic poem celebrating the joyous homecoming of Lord Rama after 14 years of exile. Romans comforted and diverted themselves with Saturnalia, full of solstice song, silliness and stories of Saturn, the God of Agriculture, who himself returns after annual banishment.  And we have picked and borrowed from the traditions we dismiss as quaintly pagan, to patch together our own mid-winter mythology of cyclical abandonment and reunion, and human victory over celestial darkness .

The Decembers of my childhood were rife with seasonally specialized books and letters, lists and lyrics, poems and promises.  The old favorites were dusted off as my mother plunked down her semi-annual bottle of rye whiskey on the kitchen table and read the words we knew by heart, of The Night Before Christmas, or The Gift of the Magi, waxing fascinatingly philosophical and deliciously, pompously maudlin as she wet her whistle throughout the evening.  At the homes of friends, party-goers were supplied with the words for Christmas carol sing-alongs, which they hummed, then murmured, finally belted as the egg nog was refilled. Of course we kids would write letters to Santa.  These were pored over with the greatest of care, full of avowals of yearlong best behavior, and modestly phrased but coyly acquisitive wish lists for the loot we had come to expect as a rare over-indulgence, our hush booty.  Along with the cookies and milk left for Saint Nick, we wrote more intimate, chatty notes, with tidbits of family news, and friendly thanks, in advance, for his largesse.  On Christmas morning, the three of us took turns reading “Santa’s” jocular, all-knowing response.  There were New Year’s Resolutions on the 31st, with promises, to ourselves only this time, to be better than we knew we’d been cracking ourselves up to be.  It was a season lived in a fiction, with a healthy dose of self-inspection, all supported by a seasonal quaff of affection.

I hope for us all a good, truly peaceful winter. May the month be shaped by the quiet, contemplative urge to think, the joyous urge to regale, and the bright, warm moments to share your thoughts and tales with those you love best. And may you all be gifted with the time and peace to make an honest promise you’ve been good (because goodness know, you have), and a lifelong resolution to be better.  

I wish you a December of story: magical, redemptive, diverting. I'm off to order a moose-hunting vest from Cabelas, stirred by the fantasy, but smug that I will wear it hunting handbag bargains in Rome.

P.S.Here is a link to an interesting Italian take on 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. It's a little jarring at first, but stay with it. Even the subject of Christmas had some grit to deal with -- it's all part of the package.  


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZON08Ynqt0 

Below is the written Italian translation. Buon Natale!

Notte Prima di Natale ('Twas the Night Before Christmas)

Era la notte prima di Natale e tutta la casa era in silenzio,
nulla si muoveva, neppure un topino.
Le calze, appese in bell'ordine al camino,
aspettavano che Babbo Natale arrivasse.

I bambini rannicchiati al calduccio nei loro lettini
sognavano dolcetti e zuccherini;
La mamma nel suo scialle ed io col mio beretto
stavamo per andare a dormire
quando, dal giardino di fronte alla casa, iunse un rumore
Corsi alla finestra per vedere che cosa fosse successo,
spalancai le imposte e alzai il saliscendi.

La luna sul manto di neve appena caduta
illuminava a giorno ogni cosa
ed io vidi , con mia grande sorpresa,
una slitta in miniatura tirata da ott minuscole renne
e guidata da un piccolo vecchio conducente arzillo e vivace;
capii subito che doveva essere Babbo Natale.

Le renne erano più veloci delle aquile
e lui le incitava chimandole per nome.
"Dai, Saetta! Dai, Ballerino!
Dai, Rampante e Bizzoso!
Su, Cometa! Su, Cupido! Su, Tuono e Tempesta!
Su in cima al portico e su per la parete!
Dai presto, Muovetevi!"

Leggere come foglie portate da un mulinello di vento,
le renne volarono sul tetto della casa,
trainando la slitta piena di giocattoli.

Udii lo scalpiccio degli zoccoli sul tetto,
non feci in tempo a voltarmi che
Babbo Natale venne giù dal camino con un tonfo.
Era tutto vestito di pelliccia, do capo a piedi,
tutto sporco di cenere e fuliggine
con un gran sacco sulle spalle pieno di giocattoli:
sembrava un venditore ambulante
sul punto di mostrate la sua mercanzia!

I suoi occhi come brillavano! Le sue fossette che allegria!
Le guance rubiconde, il naso a ciliegia!
La bocca piccola e buffa arcuata in un sorriso,
la barba bianca come la neve,
aveva in bocca una pipa
è il fumo circondava la sua testa come una ghirlanda.
Il viso era largo e la pancia rotonda
sobbalzava come una ciotola di gelatina quando rideva.
Era paffuto e grassottello, metteva allegria,
e senza volerlo io scoppiai in una risata.
Mi fece un cenno col capo ammiccando
e la mia paura spari,

non disse una parola e tornò al suo lavoro.
Riempì una per una tutte le calze, poi si voltò,
accennò un saluto col capo e sparì su per il camino.
Balzò sulla slitta, diede un fischio alle renn
e volò via veloce come il piumino di un cardo.
Ma prima di sparire dalla mia vista lo udii esclamare:
Buon Natale a tutti e a tutti buona notte!

Over the Puddles and Thru 2nd Ave Subway Construction!

We walked to my sister's house yesterday for Thanksgiving dinner.

Well, we took a cab the sixteen blocks since it was raining, but that doesn't pack as much dramatic punch.  To most folks, neither statement has any sort of punch at all.  But for my entire adulthood, I have lacked the kind of easy, reliable community that having relatives within walking distance represents.  I'm a pretty dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker living in a typically arms-length high-rise.  I'm fond of some of my neighbors, we chat warmly in the elevator, but we do not drop in for tea.  Most of my friends don't even live in the city (and no, Burbswannabe Bay, Brooklyn doesn't count).  My mother moved to Florida the moment she stopped working (apparently it's a law for retired Jews), and my brother and his family live in Westchester.  My sister was an hour's drive away, too, until this fall. Visits took planning, an occasion, a cake, maybe even a new sweater.

Now, if my nephew's printer is on the blink, he can and does drop by.  Or we all catch a flick on Friday night on a whim.  No holiday, no pastries, no Sunday best.  I have my sister back. This -- no overstatement -- has changed who I am.

You see, my sister and I go way back. Kathy looms large and close in my rearview mirror, and I can't imagine having survived my childhood without her. Just a tad over two years apart, we shared a room for most of our childhood. We fought, as all siblings do.  Sat on our beds and kicked the snot out of each other for five frenzied minutes, only to embrace each other, blubbering declarations of love, minutes later.  We were always pretty different, but there was an intense feeling of yin-yang twinship between us right from the start.  Kathy was thin, curly haired, mathematically inclined and prone to anxiety; I was chubby, silky straight, literary and spacey.  She met our various injustices with firm, sometimes fiery frankness, where I was the teary people-pleaser.  But we needed each other all the more for our differences, balanced and complemented each other in ways that helped us feel level and whole in our very chaotic little world, and provided us with a sheltered island of two. We played together constantly, elaborate, often fantasy-based games that embraced both our real identities and our need to escape them.  Doing the wash at the neighborhood laundromat, we were really "Wessy (the way I, the spacey younger sister mispronounced Leslie) and Suzanne," the wildly wealthy sisters with a separate room in their palatial home for every conceivable need -- one for makeup, one for rides, a swimming pool room -- and very little need for parental supervision.  Playing in the waves during our Rockaway summers, we were shipwrecked orphans rising bravely above our sorrow to build ourselves a lovely new beachcombery existence. We performed, vicariously, through our dolls, who embodied whatever pop stars we were enamored of at the moment, as they sang and danced and bowed to thunderous applause, their frilly baby curls and ribbons bouncing.  We shared unspeakable secrets through code words that were invariably mutually understood.  I snuck Kathy food when she was sent to bed without dinner for having done a slapdash job of setting the table, and Kathy sensed -- sensed specifics without my saying a word, not a code -- when an awful trauma had befallen me, and went to bat for me though I asked her not to, and though I knew she put herself in jeopardy.

As the years went on, despite some adult distance and one larger falling out, we continued to nurse each other through child woes, health scares, job aggravations. And of course I grew to love her family, madly. But Kathy and I no longer played, or grabbed a cup of Starbucks and window-shopped in the grown-up version. And though our bond, our shared spiritual umbilical cord was not severed, neither was it nurtured, not enjoyed, nor taken for lovely granted.

But yesterday, we took a cab to my sister's house. We stuffed and schmoozed and laughed, a lot. We did take a walk, after dessert, met up with another friend and her dog, passed so close to my house that my husband decided he would head up and get ready for work tomorrow while I sauntered back to my sister's. I may stop by for coffee and polish off the whoopie pies tomorrow.

I have a community now.  A casual, no-big-deal community. Pretty big deal.

I Am Thankful

Pumpkin whoopie pies, ready for Thanksgiving.

I am grateful for the big things:  a good, good husband of 32 years in whose company there is still mutual hum and buzz and easy goofiness; two smart, deeply beautiful daughters who care to make the world a better place and make me inexpressibly wonderful meals; my sister and her family -- my best friends, now neighbors; kind, interesting friends who bring out the kid and tolerate the crank in me; a job I very nearly love, but more so the sabbatical from it; the voice and desire to speak for those with less to be grateful for; the gifts, from my parents, of creativity, intelligence and resilience; the gifts, left at my door in a wicker basket, of optimism and engagement. 


But the big things come and go: I have a tiff with my husband, a friend moves away, the job market blows, my voice is not heard. Then and always, I am thankful for a good cup of coffee and the morning paper; the poetry of the seasons; a smile from a stranger as we overhear the same funny kid; my breath as I walk the streets of this theater called New York City; the breeze over the river or rustling the trees when I've had enough of the circus; the pleasure in giving someone a hand, a seat, a shoulder; the world’s mundane but constant, breathtaking abundance. 


Happy Thanksgiving.

Thankful for Étienne

Every Friday morning I meet with Étienne, a fourth-grader at a public school in Manhattan.   He's not very tall, agile and wiry in his crisp uniform, always ready for me with a broad, sweet smile.  He has the stuff I've given him out on his desk -- the French-English picture dictionary, the story book in both languages, his work folder. At first he was tentative, despite his cheeriness, walking by my side, not engaging with anyone or anything in the hallways, a questioning, uncertain expression on his face. He had only a few words in English back then, and didn't attempt to string them together. As time went on, I noticed a change in his movements first.  He began to jump out of his seat even before his teacher and I had a chance to say our good mornings.  He would dash ahead of me in the hallway, touching walls, doors and bulletin boards as he ran, in the proprietary way of a kid who feels at home.  He began to greet adults, who knew his name.  "Can I play on the computer?" he asked quickly this visit, as I stepped out to return the room keys to the A.P. Étienne will tolerate the simple pattern readers I bring him, but vastly prefers, and handles at least as well, books at a much higher level with good, strong story lines to carry him along. I had been reluctant to do the one-on-one tutoring, required by my TESOL program, with a real beginner. How could I talk to him?  What would we read?  I now realize that language beginners, especially children, can be the easiest and most rewarding to teach in many ways. They live full, mostly unself-conscious lives, immersed in their new language and culture, they soak everything up, and ask who wants to play freeze tag.  I doubt I can claim credit for much of his development, but it doesn't hurt, and it's all a great wonder to witness.


I must admit that at first, my anxiety over his limited English made me feel very clumsy, like a teaching novice. I tried and abandoned several techniques I'd read about, such as Total Physical Response, which had him moving around the room, up and down from his seat, in response to my increasingly complicated but pointlessly bizarre directions, and song lyrics meant for a younger child.  It's not that this method, and others I tried, were totally without merit.  But they weren't me, and as patient and accepting as he was, I knew they weren't Étienne.  I thought about the ways my own children had learned English, and how I had taught my mostly native-speaking fourth-graders. I decided to use some combination of a natural but simplified conversational "mother's" approach, and a scaffolded but close to grade-appropriate style of instruction. Our sessions now follow a pattern not unlike the literacy block in a classroom.  We have our own "morning meeting" where I tell him a bit about what's been going on with me (my daughter's bad cold, a trip I took to Washington, D.C. with some old friends).  I ask him how his week was. He invariably answers, "Good!" with an energetic nod, but when I ask him what happened that was interesting, he just as consistently thinks, shrugs, and chirps, "Nothing!" I then read him a story, a good, predictable story a bit above his level.  Étienne almost always reads along with me, his volume increasing as we progress.  Folk tales are a favorite, and he loves Caps for Sale.  We wag our fingers and stamp our feet and make monkey sounds and laugh.  He reads to me next, usually from a not-too-challenging book he has enjoyed as a read-aloud, or from very basic patterned readers.  We do some science or social studies, and his teacher has been very helpful in finding appropriate books for him about the topics they are covering. We spend some time on word work, paying careful attention to the spelling patterns that are new and tricky to him. We end most sessions on the computer, where he can practice word work or guided reading as he sees fit, with a degree of independence and a feeling of play, with me still gently but more quietly at his elbow.

Étienne's language explodes weekly, but it is still pretty concrete.  He has nonetheless managed to tell me, at first one hesitant word at a time, a lot about himself.  He came to this country from Haiti in May, and has talked about his mother, five brothers and two sisters.  He has not mentioned his father, and I have not asked.  He has aunts and cousins in Haiti, but his grandparents died.  He likes New York, but he prefers Haiti.  He lives in Brooklyn, and makes the long trip in to Manhattan each day by car because his mother works nearby.  He can read in French, though I don't think he's going to win any awards for it, but he absolutely loves good books and stories.  He also enjoys books about gadgets and dinosaurs, and already had a best friend at school named Nico.  He is temperamentally inclined to be positive about his new life -- this bodes well for him, and is not always the case -- but overall he says he feels things are hard and wishes he could be back home. I don't ask why.  I wonder sometimes what his life was in like Haiti, whether any of the country's relentless trials drove his family to relocate here.  I wouldn't probe, even if I thought he could knew or could explain. Is it a mistake, am I sending him the wrong message, by avoiding tender topics?

I decided today, though, that I wanted, needed to get to know him better as a person.  The information I'd found so far has been as concrete as his language ability, but I was missing some important abstractions.  I also want to ask questions that are open-ended enough that he can be dark if he wants to.  I want him to feel known and understood, and I am also interested for purely human reasons.  What did he enjoy doing most in his free time?  What were his dreams, favorites, fears?  I made him a picture questionnaire, which he noticed immediately as I opened the folder.  We'll get to that in a minute, I assured him, although I was just as eager to dive in.  After story time and guided reading, I slid it out and toward him, and his eyes lit up. As I began to explain, he interrupted with a knowing nod and blurted, "You can give this to me for homework!"  I was impressed with the length and confidence of the sentence, and I could see that his request was born of savoring something juicy for later.  I was a little deflated about having to wait till next time to deepen my understanding of him.  I somewhat reluctantly started word work, where we sorted words with the long e sound into piles of "ee" and "ea" words.  When we came to the word "team", Étienne said, "Like in basketball!  I'm on the basketball team."  "Do you like that?" I asked. "I want to be a basketball player!"  he said, his eyes dancing.  We talked next about Thanksgiving, the history of it, how it's celebrated, and he informed me that they celebrate Thanksgiving in Haiti.  We listed things for which we were thankful, and again he mentioned playing basketball with his friends. He also told me he was thankful for the, like, twenty cousins he would be visiting in Boston for Thanksgiving.  But he hates long drives, and his little brother likes to bother everyone, to make trouble. His mother would get mad at them all and just be in a bad mood and that would make his brother act up even more.  Oh, that sounds like my family, I laughed!  

I hope he enjoys that homework questionnaire, I thought, but we are doing just fine getting to know each other -- abstractions, darkness and all-- without it. And what I know about Étienne that he would not be able to say, but that is perhaps most important, is that he is a strong, happy, resilient young guy with a zest for life and a balanced honesty.  He will be fine, he is fine.  And he is helping me at least as much as I am helping him.  I will be a better, more trusting Teacher of English to Speakers of Other Languages, and more confident in my own journey through second language learning this year, for our work, our play, together.  

I am thankful for Étienne. Sono grato.

All Blogged Up

A few friends have asked recently why I stopped blogging. Very few, actually, which is probably just a function of the fact that this extremely low self-monitor gal tends to attract guarded friends with firm boundaries.  And others who seem patiently to appreciate me with only the broadest conditions.  But it served as a convenient discouragement when the going got complicated.

What derailed me first was that I couldn't, or had chosen not to, write about others in any real depth.  None of us lives in a social vacuum, but it didn't seem fair or wise to share the details of other folks' private lives, even if they had an inextricable impact on mine.  I'd read a true, cautionary tale in the NY Times magazine of a young writer who was catapulted to legendary blog fame, and just as quickly thudded from grace because of her propensity for including the gory details of her relationships in her entries.  I've included the link to the article.  It's long, but interesting if you have some free time:

http://tinyurl.com/38p63u2

The compelling focus of my life at the time -- it should probably be the compelling focus of any life at any time -- was interpersonal, and included woes.  What to do?  I could sidestep the daughter struggling bravely with transition, the extended family wracked by relentless, near insoluble crises, the complicated friendship that had come, it seemed, to a declarative end.  I could write about the wonders of Portland's pervasive green-consciousness instead -- which, by the way, was really deeply wonderful.  But the elephant in the room had stolen my pen and scoffed at my travelogue.  I went back to just living my normally complicated but slightly less examined life.

Another sort of related block had to do with my own life complications.  I had started my blog as an ambitious and celebratory sabbatical agenda-setting, but things weren't quite unfolding the way I had planned.  I know, and I'm usually the first to holler, that conflict and the unexpected make for better writing.  But this muck just seemed mundane, and I was NOT going to allow my glorious sabbatical to be seen as the stuff of everyday frustration.   My grad school classes were more than a little disappointing, either too academic and theoretical, or a rehashing of things that I, as a literacy coach, know well enough to teach myself.  My days, which were often unscheduled until the evening, had tended to bog down with unengaging course work and a bit of (resultant?) undisciplined lethargy.  Bike riding in all but park trails turned out to be a nightmare.  The days I spent tutoring second language learners were fun and productive.  But the two schools I was working in and hoped to learn from and be awed by were, respectively, vastly inferior to my own school, or too cool and trendily excellent to allow me to stray from my self-contained ESL room to walk amongst them.  Seriously.

But, there were two bits of awareness dogging the corners of my avoidance all along.  One is my Achilles heel habit of all-or-nothing perfectionism.  If I couldn't write a superlative blog about a superlative sabbatical, it wasn't worth doing at all.  As I once admonished someone who wouldn't talk at a gathering because everyone else was too boring, I'd become the most boring person in the room in my refusal to engage with close enough.  The second tiny beam of light was that things had a way of becoming more interesting when I really attended to them.  I have difficulty with mindfulness, with presence, and tend to live in my head.  But when I get in the habit of writing I live a more wide-awake life, to borrow Lucy Calkins' phrase. I am on the look-out for material, for meaning, and it doesn't take perfection or melodrama to provide that.  We can "see the world in a grain of sand," or in a pointless debate over difficult material with charming classmates, or in an autumn bike ride.

So I ride my bike on New York's park trails, which is imperfect but close enough.  It's actually pretty breathtaking.  Although I've known there's a promenade along the East River, about a block and a half from my home, for 24 years, I'd never considered biking on it until last month.  You can take the trail just about all around Manhattan, but a staircase with a unwieldy bike chute has limited me so far to the few miles around my neighborhood.  But no matter -- the river glimmers, the leaves put on a life-cycle show, folks walk their babies and bulldogs, or smooch on benches, I fly by and absorb it all.  On a chilly day last week, the brisk wind whipped icily over the river, and the trees went up in flames.  It reminded me that loss can cut deep -- my kids' transitions, my family's crises, my doomed friendship, the dream sabbatical, the election -- but it also may be,  as the poet Rumi said, "clearing you out for some new delight."  So I came home from my bike ride and scribbled down this haiku:

Autumn Bike Ride

Wind whips the river's
Gleaming daggers, brash leaves hail
Death's sting, and promise.

See you, in gloriously mindful imperfection, soon.