Mere Mortals: Take This Life.

Once again I'll refer you to this post if you have no idea what this series is about. This is the fourth installment.

Track Four: Take This Life.

Before there was even a chance I could see your face. A whole life projected through my eyes, in my mind, a story worth living at a lumbering pace. What do we do now? How can we live now? I'm still bleeding but my hospice must depart. What is home when I've lost my heart? Fiction fills holes in my tattered and torn soul, I can't let it go simply because your absence makes it so. I know life is pain, but let me believe in these lies, let me defend perfection in my mind. What do we do now? How can we live now? I'm still bleeding and my hospice must depart. What is home when I've lost my heart? Hold me, hit me, thank me, scold me. I can't see what I've done wrong. Please don't ask me to move on. Please don't ask me to move on. Please forgive me.

Just before Christmas, 2010, myself and the band guys went to the now defunct Burton Theatre in Detroit to see Black Dynamite, a "blaxploitation" spoof. "Black-comedies" (African-American comedies...not to be confused with dark-content-comedies) are about the only sort of movies we can convince our drummer to spend his time viewing, so we went with bells on knowing he'd be super jolly to see this. As the previews started I received a picture-text from my wife of a positive pregnancy test on ye' old flip-phone. We hadn't been trying, but we hadn't been not-trying, regardless it was still a surprise! I called her and we gushed over the phone for a bit. New worlds and futures opened right up before us. Two weeks later she experienced some discomfort and bleeding, we went to the doctor to investigate. Surely enough, our suspicions were true, she had miscarried. It is amazing how quickly we can build visions of the future in our minds and emotionally attach to those ideas. In an instant, we were right back to 'normal,' but with a giant vacancy in our minds, and so we mourned what could've been. 

Nearly four years ago my wife, Candice, took a job with a company that photographs newborns in local hospitals. Primarily she provides photos of precious, squishy, wrinkly little babies in baskets, but more regularly than we wish, she's asked to perform "demise" shoots for parents who've lost their baby through complications. With no real script to follow or procedures on how to handle these instances, she approaches parents with her own understanding of their loss, and with a natural grace she captures beautiful images of their child. Then hours, or days if they're lucky, parents have to return home with their vacancy. In the grande scheme of things, we had it easy. I cannot imagine what it must feel like to go a full nine months only to say to 'goodbye' upon delivery. 

We have a beautiful four and a half year old little girl now. Her conception was wrought with fear and reaching the safe zone of twelve weeks was grueling. We continually hushed ourselves when we'd start talking about the future, uncertain that future would come. But with time, and a lot of knocking-on-wood, it came. It is hard when dealing in such uncertainties not to blame oneself for doing something wrong. It is hard to accept that sometimes there are no reasons for such loss. Even though our kid is alive and well, we still blame ourselves for any complications she has. Did we take enough vitamins when she was in the womb? Are we setting appropriate boundaries? Are we encouraging the behaviors we like to see enough? Are we doing what is best for her? Are we unconsciously repeating habits we hate? Are we failing her? Are we forgiving her trespasses? Will she forgive ours? ARE WE FAILING HER? I've been reassured by parents I love that the fact we are asking such questions means we're probably doing better than we give ourselves credit for. But the fear instilled, and the self-blame instilled from the child we lost, prior to her, still rears its ugly head.

This song stands with those who've lost, in an instant, their ideas of what the future looks like and the grief that comes with having to let go of what could have been.

(If you'd like to read more about the sort of work photographers are doing for those experiencing this sort of loss, this is a great article.)

(photo stolen from Pinterest.)

Mere Mortals: Swallowing Sand.

As I did with the second installation of this series, I'll again refer you to this entry so you know what in sam-hell I'm babbling about with this third portion. 

Track Three: Swallowing Sand.

I can't explain to you how fucking scared I am of being right. With my own eyes I've seen horror perched in the corner beckoning my soul. With my own ears I've heard the whispers of the lost, wishing they’d only listened to me. The clerics are weak, the scholars blind, no one will seal your fate, no man, nor mind. Believe with me and we can be free. I need this relief. Together we’ll dismember clocks and burn the calendars, smash the hourglass and scatter Time’s sands. We’ll walk into the sunrise hand in hand. We’ll walk into the sunrise hand in hand. Deep down you must feel some of what I feel. My blood is yours, you must somewhere inside know this is real. I can't lose you. Believe with me and we can be free. I can't lose you, believe with me.

As I've surpassed ten years now at my job, I've seen many faces come and go. Whether it be coworkers, managers, or simply customers, I've seen a lot of faces, and I've seen a lot of changes. I'm not the kind of person who is out to meet new friends at every turn, but sometimes customers stand out just enough to warrant a genuinely warm greeting and inquiry into their life every time I see them. Jane (not her real name for reasons you already know) is one of them. She complimented my organizational qualities during our interaction and said she sought me out because my, what I would call OCD-ness, impressed her. One day she asked me if I was a church-going man, I told her I'm not. She explained that she got a "sense" I was, and I was only one of a few she got that "sense" about at our store. Hearing something like this is always strange to me. I suppose I might hold myself in a manner that echoes my upbringing, or that perhaps in some sort of pseudo-clairvoyant way, she got a "sense" I was of her tribe. I get that in theory. I have "senses" about people here and there, which I then quickly scold myself for having because what do I really know about this stranger? Judging books by their cover is a dangerous practice...but the gut is also wise at times. Over time she started to ask me questions about whether I'd experienced anything supernatural lately, an itch, or a inclination, because she'd been praying for me. I always chuckle and say: "not yet." 

Soon after she developed a comfort with me, perhaps because of my temperament, or perhaps because she needed an aspiringly patient ear, she explained her daughter is dying. Not only is her daughter's complication untreatable, but she's also a non-believer in the afterlife her mother ascribes to. She is not 'of the faith.' Which means Jane will, in a matter of time, lose her daughter physically and metaphysically. I now try to keep conversation light, but can't un-know the things I do about her faith and her daughter, so I ask how she is. Nothing is ever better. Nothing is ever easier. But she still has faith that it will get better, that it will get easier. 

Years ago, when I was still in college, my grandfather passed away. I was still a faithful guy, but becoming skeptical of certain aspects of Christianity. Mainly, that everything had an answer and a reason. I remember, as we were gathered for a family dinner amidst the funeral arranging, my mother saying something along the lines of "I'm just happy to know he's in a better place." In my arrogance, I challenged my grieving mother as to whether that was true. It was an ugly utterance and a miserable time to voice such sentiments. I still beat myself up for it. The idea in those moments that the person you just lost is no longer with you and that you'll never see them again in any capacity is an unbearable thought, surely even to those without belief in an afterlife.

The weight of believing your beloved, the fruit of your womb, your one and only child will leave this world prematurely and be banned from the heaven you aspire to, perhaps even condemned to the very opposite, must be crushing. While I don't share Jane's faith, I feel with her, I imagine the impending loss she's coming to terms with, I mourn with her. In my own way I pray her faith moves mountains and she receives the miracle she's waiting for. I hope Time's sands will scatter and she never has to let go or say "goodbye."

(photo stolen from: http://www.strangehistory.net/2013/05/04/12136/) 

Mere Mortals: Mouths to Feed.

So I don't come out of the gates with some reading that makes zero sense to you, you can gather the context of this series of posts here. If you already know where I'm going with this, read on...

Track Two: Mouths to Feed.

Will you look me in the eye? Will you call me by name? As the winter is closing in my pace adjusts against the wind, racing toward the setting sun, my past I can't outrun. It's hard to watch you live in love. If only you knew my loss, could learn of loss. I once found pleasure in the smell of fire, broke bread with old friends who'd always inspire, sat long and contemplated desire, but I've made my bed. I chased my demons into the darkness only to find a home in hell. Will you look me in the eye? Will you call me by name? Will you see the me I used to be? Youth is wasted on the young. If only I could go back to that moment and hold my tongue. Catch the butterfly long enough to breathe its beauty, then crush its wings. Then perhaps you wouldn't have to feel anything. Just a smile and a nod without pity's encroach. Please feel nothing, for I am not of this world, I am this world.

In the few years after the housing crash of 2008, NPR was chock full of heartstring-plucking stories that regularly focused on what might be characterized as "regular people" who in one fell swoop lost everything and wound up becoming the previously unthinkable: homeless. Hard working middle-classers were losing their jobs left and right and consequently losing their homes too. These stories put a scent in the air, so thick it was almost visible, that reminded us "regular folk with stable jobs" to give thanks for what we had. I'd hear customers regularly say things like: "hey, just be thankful you have a job," or "you've got some job security here, people will always have to buy food!" There was a palpable sense of fear and it was hard not to succumb to it. Creative endeavors for many of us were trumped by clinging to our steady paychecks and workplace provided healthcare plans. Too many had lost too much for us to take these for granted. For the first time the lines were blurred, any one of us could wind up homeless. 

I've never known hard times. I'm lucky that way I guess. But I do know the struggle of not knowing what to say or how to actually help those who are chronically in need. It is paralyzing at times. My good will over-ridden by my fear of being a sucker. I imagine most well-intentioned benefiters of luck have experienced at one time or another a situation where they thought there was a real chance they were helping someone, only to see the same person the following week, saying the same lines, with zero recollection they gave you that very line barely a week ago. 

Last week while driving we passed someone holding a sign that said: "Shelters full, any help appreciated." I looked at my wife and just asked, "how CAN we help?" Social media has done a pretty good job at providing information of where you can refer someone who needs shelter for the night. I even screen-capped the info on my phone, in case. But when the help that is instituted isn't enough, what do we do then? I wondered if our couch would be helpful. I wondered if giving more coats or blankets would be helpful. I thought about Eugene again and his relationship with my father. I thought about Julia. I tried to imagine what either of them might say if given the chance. 

This song is an attempt at empathy. It's about trying to wrap my head around the chain of events that can lead to and perpetuate homelessness. It's an attempt at trying to see individuals. It's an attempt at letting go of the experiences that have hardened my heart to those in need. It's about opening the discussion about how I or We CAN actually help. It's about trying to become a better steward of humanity. 

(Timothy Schmalz's "Homeless Jesus" photo stolen from this article.)

Mere Mortals: Capsized.

I've been on a hiatus. Having not posted since August makes me a little warm under the collar, like I'm letting someone down. Not that there is any expectation I keep this thing up, but having had a decent run so far with the little expectations I put on myself in the first place, a little shame creeps in when I re-browse my past posts then look at the date today and realize it's been five months since I've said anything on here. Though my absence was for a good reason. My band, Great Reversals, did, for us anyway, the unthinkable! We wrote and recorded an eleven song record! Prior to this the most we could muster was five songs at a time, those were the first five songs we wrote. Every release since has been in the two to four song range, all of which took a long time to write and release. An LP was unthinkable, but the riffs kept coming. We went from five or six songs kicking around to a solid eleven in a year! Hell, we even wrote a twelfth song in the studio for another split release! We're on fire! Writing lyrics for all these songs was a task, but they're all mine. Besides some edits and rearranges here and there every song on the record is my words. I know there are a billion bands putting out a billion records and a billion lyricists writing a billion songs and I'm just one more on the heap, but I'm proud none the less. Our previous releases have been pretty lyrically collaborative, so while I've felt proud of those, I haven't felt as much pride as I do in this one. 

We've decided to allow the songs and lyrics on the record to speak for themselves for this release. What that means is that in the past I've written explanations in the liner notes for each song, it's a pretty traditional thing to do in hardcore bands who value their message or ideas as much as they value their music. There's heavy debate at times about whether this adds to or takes away from the art aspect of the project. There is certainly value in allowing the listener/reader to take from the songs what they will without guidance. We've been inclined in the opposite direction in the past, understanding that this aggressive music is a peculiar form of expression and that poetry, which is what I think most lyricists are shooting for, can leave many in the dark if the idea behind the poetry gets muddied in the delivery. I mean, "you can't even understand what they're saying!" More than anything this tradition may be rooted in trying to persuade our moms and dads that we are actually saying something of value. So here we are at what I'd call a happy medium. The record itself won't have any notes about the songs, save a small essay about the general concept of the record. But I've decided I'll do a series here to jump-start the year by expounding on each song one at a time. Perhaps you have no interest in what the band is doing, I get that, but at least I'll be able to show you what I've been working on.

The record is titled: MERE MORTALS. I'll explain that choice at the end of the series. 

Track One: Capsized

I could've been born from pain. I could've been conceived in hate. I could’ve been created with a craving in my veins. Consider me lucky, in a cold and callous world, consider me lucky. I could've been raised knowing nothing but war, trafficked in a world we abhor, or forced from home only to wash lifelessly ashore. For all that could've been I still sleep through days and squander nights too insecure to take the reigns or aspire to great heights. Painfully aware that everything I cling to will be torn away. One single moment, it could all end. In one single moment it will all end. All the could've-beens will be no more. There will be no alternate realities to explore. I'm lucky to have known so little woe, but can't escape the shame of the world’s pain that I'm lucky enough to ignore. In one single moment it will all end.


While I've written before (specifically here) about feeling lucky to have grown up where, when, and with whom I did, the words for this song came out of seeing the Syrian refugee boy, Aylan Kurdi, who washed ashore in Turkey last September after his family attempted to sail to the Greek Island of Kos. Abdullah Kurdi, the surviving father of the boy, lost his two sons and wife in this single trip. Listen to his testimony:

"The Turk [smuggler] jumped into the sea, then a wave came and flipped us over. I grabbed my sons and wife and we held onto the boat," Mr. Kurdi said, speaking slowly in Arabic and struggling at times for words.

"We stayed like that for an hour, then the first [son] died and I left him so I can help the other, then the second died, so I left him as well to help his mom and I found her dead. ... What do I do. ... I spent three hours waiting for the coast guard to come. The life jackets we were wearing were all fake. ...

"My wife is my world and I have nothing, by God. I don't even think of getting married again or having more kids. ... I am choking, I cannot breathe. They died in my arms."

A few weeks ago my wife and I had a discussion with my folks about the state of our faith and thoughts on faith in general. I did my best to explain that I can't wrap my mind around the idea of 'blessings.' If I were to try and summarize my parents' faith, from what they've reiterated over the years and stated again in this conversation, it would boil down to a sense of feeling God's blessings through their faith. In their experience, and they've experienced many hard times as well, God has provided time and again what they've needed to live the life they've wanted to live. My only rebuttal to that is that while they are lucky enough to feel that, people all over the world, many living in faith as well to their god or one by another name, are suffering losses we can only imagine, praying to be able to live the life they'd like to live. What about Abdullah Kurdi? Can you imagine what he's feeling? What about Aylan Kurdi? A child, the least of these? Where is his blessing? 

Last week a friend and I were talking faith, she mentioned that in travels she's met people who seemingly have the least to be thankful for but have the largest faith. Is it possible that faith is simply being genuinely grateful for what you DO have? Is that where the idea of blessings comes from?

While some may call it a blessing, the fact that I'm able to sit here writing lyrics and writing essays that are too long about what my lyrics are trying to say in the bloggosphere, is sheer, utter, stupid luck. I know I need to be more grateful for it, and really, I need to do more with it to help those less lucky. For I could've been born from pain, or hate, or born with an addiction feeding through my veins. I could've been born in a land that only knows war, trafficked into slavery, or, like Aylan Kurdi, lived three years just to wash lifelessly ashore. But instead I sit here wondering about my place in the world, in the comfort of my warm home, with my beautiful wife and child, asleep in their beds, knowing that at any moment something could upend all of this comfort, but likely wont for some time. Consider me lucky.

(Turkish shoreline image stolen from www.aljazeera.com)

"No Donny, these men are nihilists. There's nothing to be afraid of."

This morning at work I entered the break room with an empty stomach, scanning the counters to see what crumbs might be left of the morning fixins. I happened upon the last half of an Everything Bagel, Cha-Ching!!! (Remember when that was so popular people even had crew-neck sweatshirts with it on them?) The sweetest little coworker anyone could ever have meekly said she left that half "just for me." After making a joke about destiny or serendipity or something of the like, I said, "Well bless your heart for leaving it!" To which another person in the room replied: "Isn't that kinda mean?" Now I've heard my father say bless your heart my whole life, and he hasn't a mean bone in his body. So, naturally, I say it because he's said it, and he's said it with sweetness. How could the words mean anything else? Evidently there's a whole separate understanding of this phrase that uses it to call someone an idiot in a southern, kindly sort of way. We had to get to the bottom of it, so naturally we turned to www.urbandictionary.com for answers. Sure enough, the first definition is this:

This is a term used by the people of the southern United States particularly near the Gulf of Mexico to express to someone that they are an idiot without saying such harsh words. 

It goes on to give examples that lean heavily on the redeeming end of it. Kind of an "it's not their fault" sort of tag for someone who's deficient in this or that. I asked my dad if he'd ever heard of this usage, he'd not. Perhaps as an Atlantonian (I just made that up) he was a tad too far north to be taught such a particularly insidious angle on this particular colloquialism.

As a spry and naive eighteen year old I was introduced to a whole new version of the Christian faith at Calvin College. With Dutch ancestry and flowery acronyms, I walked into an intellectual and dogmatic system that seemed so much heavier and rigid than everything I grew up with. The most controversial tenet of Calvinism is "Predestination," or the U in its TULIP acronym, which stands for Unconditional Election. Simply and harshly put, Unconditional Election says that every human who has lived or will ever live on Earth has been "elected" by God to either receive or not receive the ability to have faith in God. This election is the foundation for Predestination. Predestination is the overarching idea that if God has chosen some to have faith and thus salvation, God must also have chosen others to not have faith, and thus condemnation.

The other day a customer came to shop at the store with their obviously cancer-ailing child in tow. A faithful friend of mine mentioned to a non-faithful friend of mine that hardships like this make it seem impossible not to believe in God. He said, "I'm just throwin' it out there." To which my non-faithful friend replied, "And I'm throwin' it in the trash." To one, thinking as a parent, such trials are proof that God exists, to the other, scathing proof of the exact opposite.

Back in June an article made its way into my Facebook feed entitled "Don't believe in Evolution? Try thinking harder." It highlights a new paper written by Will Gervais that asserts belief in Evolution may be primarily linked to one's cognitive style of thinking. But the human need for certainty and purpose declares war on the uncertainty and purposelessness of Evolution, and gives faith and Creationism strength because of their seemingly clear answers. Gervais' findings assess that all people intuitively reject Evolution, but that some cognitively analyze in such a way as to override this intuition. The grey area lies in how to assess the co-mingling of the intuitiveness, cognitive analysis, and social-cultural impressions which produce either typically God-fearing-Creationists or typically faithless-Evolutionists. As if we didn't have enough to think about in discussing belief-system differences already!

What is truth? What is absolutely true?

Well, depending on where you are, where you've come from, when you've come from, what you've experienced, what your ancestors experienced, and now according to Will Gervais what sort of cognitive inclinations you have, your truth might be absolutely different from everyone else's. And there-in lies the rub. To my friend who threw it in the trash, I tried to convey that the only reason either of them declared what they did is because of their time and their space. There it is again, time and space. I don't want to venture too far into Nihilism or Relativism here, but how is it that so many people can live and die with their versions of absolute truth? And worse, how is it that we can take these ideas of truth so far as to declare we know that a god has chosen some to be privy to belief systems that secure eternal paradise for their souls and some be pre-determined to eternal condemnation? Even worse, how can so many witch-hunt and holy-war for their versions of absolute truth? How can we not see that our understanding of truth is the cumulative result of so many factors?

If I grew up anywhere else in the world, to any other family, or in any other time period, I would likely be absolutely different than I am. That's about the extent of what I can pretty confidently declare absolutely true. That's not much to shape a life after, but I'm trying none the less. Bless your heart if you live comfortably amidst life's uncertainties, but if you're simply incapable of that and have to make it known you've discovered the truth, well bless your heart.

When rock is criminal, criminals rock.

There is no single album that has been more in constant rotation for me than Clutch's "Self-Titled."

Yesterday, it turned twenty years old!

Neal Fallon "wails and moans" through all twelve vocal tracks with a grumble that reeks of whiskey and hard times, never missing a moment to turn a clever phrase or expound on a religious diatribe. Tim Sult is the soul of the this endeavor, writing blues riffs for metal heads that weave and tumble and play with each other, each riff defining its song and becoming instantly memorable. Dan Maines though for me is the true master of the album. Me having stumbled into alternative music from bass-head Hip Hop leanings, his bass lines are the album, the first thing people notice, for good reason...his bass lines. Jean-Paul Gaster drums, it's a great performance, but is out-shined for me by everyone else. Perhaps that's a drummer's job, to hold it all together in the background. Maybe.

Clutch was my first concert, in 1995, at the Phoenix Amphitheatre in Pontiac, Michigan. To this day my buddy hates me for seeing Tad open the show, having no clue who Tad was and not being very impressed. I went with the infamous Scobie boys, both having their terrible long hair, shaved underneath, riding around in a two-door Plymouth that smelled like morning breath at all times of the day, the multiple gas station air fresheners having no effect. They introduced me to things I'd never heard of, and would never have heard of. I bought, rather, my mom bought me steel-toed boots for me to go to the show in, in case of a mosh pit rough up. I had no clue about anything at this point, especially not mosh pits. I remember pointing out some giant skinhead looking dudes to Eric and Steve, which they quickly squashed and tried to help me play it cool. Evidently Clutch, for whatever reason, had an actual Nazi-skinhead following in Michigan, which was notorious for its intimidating presence at their shows. Apparently that sect of people were pretty prevalent in the nineties throughout all sorts of music scenes. During Clutch's set I was forced into the mosh pit during their infamous rager "Binge and Purge." I fell, but seven hands immediately helped me up. It was invigorating! I was hooked.

About a month later the record came out and I bought it at the original Record Time at Ten Mile and Gratiot on cassette. I still have the cassette. It's battered and bruised from getting stuck in "uncle" Kevin's conversion-van tape deck after I forced our youth-group to listen to it on the way to a weekend getaway for church.

I've always had a morbid curiosity about just how many times Neal Fallon says "Yeah!" throughout the album. And now, in honor of its birthday and to pay homage to the record that has repeatedly, for 20 years, astounded, baffled, and inspired me, I will give you that "Yeah!" count. But there were terms for declaring a "Yeah!" a countable "Yeah!" I picked only "Yeah!"s that were not lyrically relevant. For instance, the line: "When I talk-talk on a C.B. yeah I scare men," from The House that Peterbilt wouldn't have a countable "Yeah!" Only celebratory or filler "Yeah!"s would count. Also, there are many moments throughout the record where Fallon double tracked his vocals, making, I imagine, intentional echoes of himself. So, I figured, if it meets the above criteria AND my ears hear it and my singing along would vocalize it, it counts. Boy I've built this up.

The grand total of "Yeah!"s is 42.

Seven Jam alone has fifteen, with Space Grass pulling in twelve. Three tracks have zero "Yeah!"s Forty-two is a lot! But not really as many as I expected. But it could be the most "Yeah!"s ever found in one album, that's something.

All these years and I still don't know what Fallon is talking about much of the time. It's funny how my lips say things at certain points in songs but I know I'm not actually saying what he's saying. In fact, at some of those moments I'm not saying actual words. It'd be funny to catch that on tape. Don't do it though, I'd be embarrassed.

If you haven't dabbled in this record, maybe try it? Maybe you'll love it too.

True and Appropriate.

A few weeks ago I got wrangled into looking at a link entitled something like 'The most popular tattoos of 2014.' Lots of line drawings, geometrical shapes, angel wings (really? still popular eh?) and text phrases, the most popular of which was "this too shall pass." The origin of the adage goes back to Medieval Sufi poets. Its tenure thereafter has plenty of folklore about kings and rings and the eternal torment of sad and happy men alike. The modern reclamation I think leans heavily on the relief from woe more-so than balanced perspective amidst grandeur. A friend recently posted about a hardship she was dealing with on Facebook, and almost like it couldn't not be there, amidst the comments, someone wrote "this too shall pass." In this instance, it seemed snide, patronizing, and devoid of wisdom. Almost the same as saying: "you'll get over it."

We're raising a three year old. A strong willed three year old. That's a term people use now. She's had a hard week. Well, maybe we've had a hard week, she's probably pretty okay. Many of our tried and true tricks are wearing off and need to be re-tooled, which is a dismal realization when we're in the throes of meltdown city. Until this week I feel like I've been able to keep a pretty good perspective on how affected she is by her age. She's trying to find her way, understand how the world works, and assert a sense of control. This makes sense to me. But she's found some buttons I didn't quite know existed. In my most deflated moments I start wondering about grim possibilities: What if she's ADHD? Did I do something that makes her fear me? What if these are signs of her being a future troubled teen? Worry! Worry! Worry! But she's three, I can't forget that. Plenty of time for all sorts of revelations, good and bad, that I probably shouldn't start worrying about now.

The other day on the NPR show, Fresh Air, Terry Gross was interviewing two of the three girls who escaped from kidnapper Ariel Castro's home in Cleveland, in 2012, after nearly ten years of captivity. Presumed dead, the world was shocked to hear all three of these girls, now women, were alive and still in Cleveland. The interview was nothing short of devastating to listen to. Chains, rape, pregnancy, garbage-can toilets...ugly, ugly stuff. To hear these women speak of their attempts at returning to 'normal' life, their courage, their perspective, was just incredible! With the help of a journalist turned close friend, they have a memoir scheduled for release. I wonder if this too shall pass ever entered their minds as they endured their crises.

As one of the stories goes, an Eastern Monarch assembled a band of wise-men and tasked them with the job of creating a phrase to reflect upon which should be "true and appropriate" in every situation for all of time. Though I think we can agree it's overused, you know, twenty-somethings all over the country are tattooing it in Hebrew or vintage type-writer fonts, it still holds weight. Flippantly posted as a clever quip or solve-all without any compassion behind it, this time-tested combination of words can seem coarse. But when I strip away my petty grievances of it being so 'emo,' or 'pop,' it still cuts through to the truth none of us can escape. Truly, unequivocally, all of this, our fears of failure, our traumas, our petty judgements, will come to pass. Depending on the moment I suppose that may inspire joy or sorrow, hopefully more of the former.