one question.

Day by day, I find it easier (and more relentlessly truth-telling) to admit that perspective is everything. It is what keeps us or kills us, it is what changes situations from devastating to asking, what can we do about this? Perspective is, all in all, an opportunity. The choices ranging from one drastic end of the spectrum to another, we have the ability to seek the good in what is otherwise the very worst.

That being said, my perspective lately seems to falling short, which is more than putting it nicely. My original intent was to say that it blows, more or less colorfully.

I'm not blind to the goodness. I see it, often and always. In fact, most days, it is staring me dead in the face, finger pointed towards my chest as if to say, go ahead and deny that I'm here. See what happens.

I am not one to shirk the responsibility of counting my blessings. I do it whenever I have the chance, whenever I am reminded of them, in both small and huge ways. I am always, though often unseen to most, and only occasionally begrudgingly, in a grateful state of mind.

Despite this hopeful gratitude, common life invades. It is too obvious to say that problems will arise in even the most blissful avenues we occupy, and, even more obviously, the same goes for those areas for which we feign tolerance. But, with that opportunity to choose brightly intact, we must constantly guide and re-guide our minds to better things, to what we love, to what we cherish and honor and adore.

It isn't easy. In fact, I find it even more difficult than this fight I've being putting up against the current economy. In my elitist senses, I tend to believe my mind, and its negative influences, are prone to wander more than all others. I constantly find myself redirecting my mentality, over and over, each day I'm here. Like anything that tends to stray, some child following whatever it finds most interesting for the present moment, wonder-enhanced, I have to reach out, gently tugging for attention, and bring myself back.

My deviation is often not so innocent as the description I implied. It's more like running in place, always craning my neck behind me, making sure I keep ahead of myself and everyone else, being caught up in what others have achieved first, where I'm not headed, what I haven't done.

All of this, and I more than ever believe in the perfect timing of all things, that moments come together to surprise us, to equip us, to gently shove us along with even the slightest wince of inspiration, which is almost always more than enough. This particular sign of grace came to me via social media, an industry I have to believe that one day, if it doesn't already, rule the world. A video, retweeted by one of my favorites, Holstee, comes from the creative, honesty-seeking minds at Fifty People, One Question. The theme is, in each city, to seek fifty willing individuals to provide whatever answer first comes to them to the question asked. Simple brilliance; here is the take from Brooklyn, New York.

What I like best about watching this is that it nearly forces you to put whatever you're facing into, ahem, perspective. When we are able to choose the things we hope for, admit the things we've let go by, or realize (oh to realize) how lucky we already are, life feels simple. It doesn't feel perfect, but it makes more sense. And even if we have to fight to focus on such, it seems to me that it's a fight we can win, and a fight from which we can only grow stronger.

what i like to do.

I feel there's been an overflow of fluctuation lately: in the weather, in our moods (HELLO), in the way things are going, splitting off in an unknown direction at the last second, all tangled with that jerky feeling you get on the splintery tracks of some carnival ride, first up, then around, then suddenly you're upside down regretting the decision you made to get on board in the first place.

When things are going this way (and I suppose, in a way, they always-kinda will), deciding what would be most productive of me is an altogether difficult task. Unable to choose, the results are usually this: I scroll through half a dozen pages of job openings, understand less than 4% of them, apply for 1 that seems mildly attainable though not desirable, due to heavily encoded criteria description, the 2.5 hour commute from my high school home, the fact that I imagine the office to have fluorescent lighting, etc. After said train wreck, where I inevitably eat my weight in something like, I don't know, Cheez-its, I start wondering if my time would be better spent invested in something else. That something else always ends up being my own writing, which I assume would have to be more productive than obsessing, or despairing, over the lack of change on my horizon. Not always, of course, or forever. But one more week of silence, one more day when no one ever calls, not even to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," and I think there won't be enough pretzel wraps in the world to console me.

If you have ever spoken to me, even if only once, you would know that pretzel wraps are my comfort food of choice, an addiction that can only be properly explained face-to-face, with no apologies.

Anyway: it's safe to say that frustration can set in only if you let it. Only if you let it ruminate, only if you welcome it every time it comes by, demanding to be recognized and acknowledged and fretted over. All things I have become pro-ish at, these days. It's not constructive, of course, mentally or motivationally. It doesn't help. I suppose it doesn't always hurt, either, for the sake of argument. There have been instances where frustration is the exact push I need to continue the fight. When the frustration is from the fight itself, however. Well, then I'm stumped.

Still, even though I have yet to peruse the current openings today, due to other forms of hard and intentionally distracting work (I have spring-cleaned ALL THINGS), it's rarely an activity that has left me feeling hopeful, at least lately. I can't stop doing it, I know, and I won't, but what I want to believe is that other forms of dedication can remind us of what we're meant for, can inspire us to carry on through the wasteland.

That being said, when there are times I just can't bring myself to focus on what an assistant copywriter does (and no, it is never just "to copy-write" and it is never just plainly stated or explained), I have been doing my best to commit to my own writing. Which, yes, includes these particular blogs, which have saved me in more ways than one, but also my writing in other forms, in poetry, in feeble description of place, of heart, of real characters, of observation. As it turns out, writing this way is monumentally and often terrifyingly introspective. Even just jotting down a few thoughts in the morning, when your mind hasn't fully registered who and what you are today, will knock you back with their honesty, with the pure simplicity of the ways our brains can wander out and spill our guts, even before coffee.

I keep up this kind of writing for many reasons, and among them is so I can (continue) to find out what happens to the people I've made up. They're nowhere near from complete, of course, and it's a nice opposition to that feeling you have when you finish a really great novel, story, letter: you almost wish it didn't have to end, because you've fallen for the characters, for their charm and real voice and outright flaws. You want to know what else happens to them, and you scan the next (blank) page for any clues, you keep an ear out for rumors of a series. Despite knowing this sense several times over, I find the only connection of characters I ever appreciated were Salinger's subtle Glass family ties.

This is different, though, and hugely so. As far as I'm concerned, it can go on forever. I can write the eternal American novel. The only problem: the whole write-what-you-know card is a bit two-sided. Yes, it makes for believable prose and sincere story-telling. It also, however, forces you to tell your truth. And as it turns out, people, my truth doesn't allow me to constantly create sunny fictional characters or situations. It happens that the written life, when done honestly, is a difficult one.

Sometimes I find myself stopping for a break, or for a day, and wanting to walk away from these people, and these places, all of which are a combination of my imagination and my reality. Sometimes, they're really really awful. Sometimes, I see a lot of myself in them, which is really no different than the latter statement. It's hard to see yourself in printed black and white. It's a tough realization that what you know, when all put before you, is a less than perfect gospel. It's an irony, that you write to avoid your other commitments, and it turns out that those commitments and problems and roadblocks have surfaced in your story, have fueled the plot, have invaded your personalities, and here you are, trying to describe the exact feeling you daily fight, trying to find a synonym for yourself. What you put down, whether you like it or not, is a version of your own experience, suffered and joyed through the eyes of the person you've literally bequeathed it upon, this person you've both blessed and cursed all at once.

What. A. Circle. As one of my (current, and perhaps always) favorite songwriters, many of which happen to share the same namesake, Ben [Kweller], drawls: I don't know what to do, but I know what I like to do. So, there you have it. I like to write, and I don't know what to do with it. So I write to escape that predicament, and the stories I concoct end up echoing the way things are. So maybe I'm not writing a story about a girl who wears a visor and systematically hates the way the world works. Maybe I have.

The point is, it's all leaning in the same direction. Whether I write to avoid work, I work to find writing, I find hope and frustration in both. Maybe, in my own writing at least, a little more hope. Not because finding my exact sentiments on a screen in front of me is necessarily comforting. But it has forced me to change my perspective, ever so slightly, it has made me engage from an outside view, from the creator's eye, from the one pulling the puppet strings. So make it all perfect, I want to say. Fix their problems, solve the criminality of it all, tie up the loose ends, make everyone live happily and blissfully. But how then, I have to ask, will they ever learn?

several learned things

The only thing to do, when there is yet to be no sense of news or spark of change, is to keep going anyway. The moment the discouragement prompts you to give up is the exact time to brush it off, and push on. 


This entry is only to briefly outline the few things I have found myself learning this week; pretty tough lessons in all, but ones I will learn to cherish I am sure, some later rather than sooner. 


The first, and one I am oh-so-blessed to daily realize, is the little ways we can be shown support by the people we love. Whether that is the mention of our names, the reminder that they are thinking of us, or the ability they have to make us laugh, even at the cursed hour of 4 am, when we are on our ways to the work we dread: 


A picture message received to me from my cute Colin, of an excerpt from a coffee enthusiast's blog called My Daily Coffee. The blogger, Mike, photo-documents each time he enjoys (or despises) an espresso, from specialty shops to airport terminals. My favorite truth so far being this:

Oh, Mike is funny. And he is right. And though LAX is surely not among the reasons why, I have started to miss Los Angeles. 


Another small lesson comes from the change (or lack of change) we can feel with each passing day, how one minute everything comes rushing back as no different than it was ten years ago, that we are the same people, that we haven't learned a thing, that we haven't grown at all, that the world has turned on its tilt and we have stood still on it. Still, despite everything, despite what feels inflexibly invariable, I came across a funny picture while scanning through old albums. Me, on my sixteenth birthday (the sweetness of it debatable), coming from my very first job (of course, at a coffee shop, the enterprise that seems to have temporarily sealed my fate), wearing the same awful pants that I wore to my current job, up until they were recently deemed anti-dress-code.

Oh, little girl. If you only knew now how much you would now love and now ache. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't recognize this person anymore, any more than she might recognize me. But the irony of it killed me only slightly, and only in the best possible way. 


The last lesson worth mentioning, and probably the biggest, comes from the book I just started reading by Lauren F. Winner called Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis. I know, I know. It sounds self-helpy, as it must, but the fact is any and all books are of self-help to me. I can learn almost anything, the most surprising of things, I can find a connection or a truth or meaning in those pages, in any pages: I can be reaffirmed, reminded, challenged, hung to dry, brought to tears. This book in particular, however, was brought to me in a much more mysterious way, in a moment I can't explain, as it practically fell from the shelf to my hands. 


Winner's caustic sense of faith begins to falter, more or less, when she realizes her marriage is failing. It's not a memoir, she states openly. Rather, it is an admittance, it is a struggle penned by honesty, and one she hopes will resonate with others feeling the same sense of loss: loss of self, loss of direction, loss of meaning of it all. Only several chapters in, I find myself constantly thinking, I get that, Lauren. I feel that all the time. I think, in a way, eventually, we all do. 


Still with much farther to go, in numbers of pages and otherwise, so far her words have found their way in and made my heart break, not only with a common sadness but with an understanding, with the relief that someone else has felt this way before. Hearing it (or reading it) has brought me a reassurance in which I had lost belief. 

"Some days I am not sure if my faith is riddled with doubt or whether, graciously, my doubt is riddled with faith. And yet I continue to live in a world the way a religious person lives in the world; I keep living in a world that I know to be enchanted, and not left alone. I doubt; I am uncertain; I am restless, prone to wander. And yet glimmers of holy keep interrupting my gaze." 

I don't know what it means, always, to nurture our faith, to remind ourselves that better things come, to choose perseverance, to stand strong, to think positively, to focus on our blessings rather than our burdens. All in all, I am not the best at any of these things. But I have been grateful for the written reminder to try, and the small joy of yet another book I can't bring myself to put down. 


That being said, all things are as they were a week ago. I am ungratefully employed and I am on the search, today and every day, until I find the door hanging open, just wide enough, to let me in. I have a feeling, a rather strong one, that moments such as these, will be the ones to carry me through. 

the middle

"Middles might be said to be under-theorized. There is an abundance of work on opening and closure, but very little discussion of what comes in between. This is obviously because the theory of the middle is taken simply to be the theory of the work as a whole. Beginnings and endings are marked points within the work, but the middle is just the work itself with those points lopped off. There is, however, perhaps more to be said."

These words were spoken by Don Fowler, an English classicist, said to be a pioneer in the area of modern literary theory, the thought of literary theory's beginnings an entry entirely unto itself. None the less, I find myself, upon reading these words, over and over again by now, stopped still in my tracks, back to the wind of the world, finding the truth seeking deep, flowing forth, being real.

It's true, we seem to have no time or tolerance for the process of things. We are either excited to begin a new project, a new chapter, a new book in life, a new idea, or we are itching for the end of it, we are counting down the minutes, we are thrusting ourselves into the next moment or movement before we have completed our current stage, we have ignored every and all good (and bad) signs in order to get ahead, we are cheating ourselves a little, racing for the finish line after cutting through the woods or tripping up others along the way.

It's no one's fault, really, that we have grown to think this way, that we have been trained to expect immediate results or that we feel so caught up in what's coming that we forget to consider the importance of right now. We fret, and freak out, over the next ten years of our lives, totally missing what's before us, completely unaware that today is the stepping stone of tomorrow, of those next ten years or twenty, that without going forward with now, without self-awareness in the present, we will find ourselves in the same place later on, or always, we fear.

I'm not denying that it sounds like a load, especially when I am the the queen of waiting for the future to hurry up and get here. In all our impatience, we are demanding marked posts of accomplishment, we are expecting omens or warnings or welcomings. It's too bad that in our frantic search for these things, we are flat out missing the actual direction for which we seek. Would it be so crazy to wonder if the sign is the middle itself? I know, I know. Tell that to a dying man, wandering in the same circle, in the same desert, sure by now he will never make it out alive. Tell him that to find your way forward is to stand still, to embrace what seems to be destroying us, to find peace within the darkest part of our journey. It's not what I want to hear, either. And it might not even be true, at least from every perspective. But just in case, in the scenario where the valley is perhaps not our permanent dwelling place, but the place where we might be formed for the next part of moving forward, rather than our usual ultimatums, perhaps we should only stop and ask: what then can we learn from the wilderness?

hats off to you

Alright. While I don't necessarily believe in retractions, in print or in LIFE unless you are truly and deeply remorseful, I would perhaps like to make an amendment to an earlier discouraging statement I made about bad shoes. (See this entry for details.)

Rock-bottom is more like a branded baseball cap. A brimmed accessory (and now mandatory uniform requirement) to further confirm that yes, this is my real life, yes, I do still have the job of a high school student and the resume to prove it, and yes, facing your nine-hour work day just got monumentally more difficult over the inclusion of a mere head adornment, a physical and embarrassing reminder of the fact that you aren't exactly going anywhere fast.

I know, I know. As I discussed with a dear co-worker the other day, perhaps it isn't the worst thing in the world, or the end of it. But don't let anyone guilt you out of the sore points in your life. No, I'm not saying it would be better if we all dwelt on our hardships and pouted in the face of all the things we disliked about living. But the second someone tells you it could be worse, even though they MIGHT BE RIGHT, my favorite comeback is sure, but things could also. be. better.

Even though the hat, may it be damned, symbolizes a whole lot freaking more than what it looks like, there is a point in all situations where we face a choice. In my particular instance, I was faced with three (yes, three) options, all of which were, pardon my dictation, total shit. No option promised me any reward, any compensation for what has been endured, and all I wanted was some confirmed sense of gratification, whether now or soon coming.

Well, tough, said the world, tucking the cap snug onto my head, not an easy task considering the mane of hair which I daily wrestle into submission. Tough and tougher.

Even though the heart of me, the piece of my being that keeps this whole thing going, beats RUN:RUN:RUN, over and over again, and even though of all options before me escaping seemed like the most doable one, the one I had the best chance of surviving, the one I could see the instant benefit to, my feet, somehow momentarily separate from the rest of me, were planted firm where they stood.

Why stay, I wanted to ask them. What for?

Well, certainly not for monetary compensation, the rest of me concluded. Sure, a paycheck is a paycheck is a paycheck, but it's not as if I'm making millions in order to counteract the flaws in this siren-clad system. Decency? Surely not that, I scoffed. I mean, look at me, I could say, pointing in any direction to my uniform resembling a Catholic school boy, this apron of awkward length, and of course, this newest addition to my humiliation, the hat. Not for the experience, not for the reward of learning, right? If this isn't going to assist me in getting where I want to go, if it isn't going to push me in the right direction, or perhaps any direction at all, WHY STAY, I demanded of myself. Why stay.

Okay, okay. While I do believe in a time and a place for all things, and that knowing there is always a point when it is acceptable to stand up and say ENOUGH, the truth is, running away from what we label as "suffering" or "difficulty" isn't the always the answer. At least, not the instant one. Though we all have tolerance of different levels, sometimes what gets us beyond suffering is the way we get through it, not the way we back away from it. For most people, you will know when you have reached your limits, and I was sure I was at the brink of mine, at the very ends of the earth, dangerously close to falling off the edge. Though I don't expect everyone to understand it, it was probably the first time in my life (in my life? really?) that I wasn't on my own side, that I had no faith in my ability to conquer something, to get past an obstacle, to brace myself to walk headfirst through the fire.

The fact is that part of what makes life worth experiencing (even the parts we wish we could skip over) is the fact that it challenges us. It expects us to cave, so we shouldn't. We can be more surprising than that. I would like to be more surprising than that. We should be faking life out, we should be coming back with vengeance, we should be as strong as we claim (and hope) that we are.

I don't know. I don't feel any sense of relief or reward, not yet anyway. In fact, I feel mostly the same. But I am hoping that facing it, this literal and metaphorical fear of mine, is the beginning of something better, if nothing more than a new way of viewing things, or of viewing myself. The second you do the thing you were convinced (and everyone will tell you so) you could not do, the world is wide open again. It can feel pretty good to know you are stronger than you give yourself credit for, even when the situation is staring down at you, snipping at the rope from which you swing. I just remind myself, when I can, when I'm capable: Don't let go yet, don't let go yet.

waiting out the weather

Question, world: When did having happiness and having everything become interchangeable?

I do, often terribly, try to practice patience with our headstrong, speed-driven planet. I find that our particular age is one of instant-everything. We are instructed, from the womb onward, to expect all things IMMEDIATELY. We gripe over waiting a few minutes in line, we snap viciously at those who (we say) have wasted our time, time we would have likely only spent anxiously tapping our feet elsewhere, eating while driving while making lists while moving while texting while breathing, everything requires being scheduled in or out, nothing unplanned is acceptable, nothing that takes over an hour is bearable. And I find that, most awful of all, we can be guilty of such behavior even when we don't want to be, even when we don't agree with or want to be a part of it whatsoever. It's why we scold ourselves for wishing for free time to do, well, whatever the hell we want, and why we constantly berate ourselves for not completing our to-do lists, always ever-long.

I know that it seems crazy, counterintuitive, non-sensical, and strange compared to that particular culture of calamity, but our happiness is choose-able, and not necessarily able to be tied up in that monstrosity of a mess, should you dare to believe it.

It should be known that I myself am a massive failure in this regard, and do often, if not daily, forget that I have the eternal option of both happiness and discouragement. It's tough, though, since the world we live in that thrives on tearing you down, that operates on the rule that everything is inadequate, you are never quite up to par, the standards will always hang out of your reach, etcetera forever and ever.

This ties in to the current hunt for employment BECAUSE going out into the world is like blindly walking into a massacre. It is brutally unfair. It has no choice but to let you down, and it is meant for a fighting spirit of only the strongest sort. That, coupled with everyone's impatience that you get on with already, that you hurry up and be something, and no wonder we're feeling beyond frazzled, out of our heads, and disappointed with ourselves. The fact is, we're being thrown to the proverbial den of lions, and everyone is here for the show, standing on the edge of the pit peering down as if to say, Hurry it up already, give in our get out.

It's more than easy to develop an attitude of defeat in conditions like these. Why not, really. Even if happiness is our choice and we know it, how could it even seem possible to flow in that direction when all of our circumstances dictate the opposite? Could it really be that we are not our surroundings, we are not made of what breaks us, but rather we are the stronger (yes, STRONGER) result of having been broken?

I get it, though. After enough is enough, we start to get a bit riled up, somewhat upset, our distress turns bitter and we're frankly feeling permanently pissed off. Right? By that point, it only seems appropriate that we form a fighting stance, push everyone out of our way and announce,

"Okay, so I've learned my lessons here. Now what?"

Well. Chances are we aren't as ready as we assume, or presume, to be. If we're demanding a way out as soon as things are no longer to our liking, we have probably yet to absorb the truth that is there for us, we have most likely not yet found the real reason for that particular burden. We probably, though I fear to say it, have much farther to go.

The fact is, learning isn't meant to be easy. And fighting the frame we've been trained to operate by, ie. now now now, is a difficult thing to suddenly give up and start denying. We have to renounce our need for instant gratification? We have to realize the world has indoctrinated us to bypass life and always want more? Well. That, my friends, is going to be tough.

I believe there is a real and significant difference between wanting what's best and being willing to work (and wait) for it. I mean, we've all cut corners in one way or another. Two-in-one shampoo + conditioner, we own car-ready cell phone chargers, we make meals of frozen food, we bargain shop, we speak in initials and abbreviate slang, for God's sake. But there are, truly and GLADLY, some things that only time can marinate, only a bona fide valley can prepare you for, and only humility can teach you.

If the only thing you can gather from it all is that it's okay to go a little easier on yourself, that doing your best is not always everyone else's version of "best" (alright, in fact, it never is), that being focused on something doesn't drop it on your doorstep, but the vision is the first step of any and all reality. Lose that, and you risk the hope to keep it going.

The antsy side of me, the side that has been trained to expect all places to be equipped with drive-thrus (oh, heaven help me, goddamn the drivethrus), for all things to be at one-click access, that being put on hold is outrageous, is ready to start moving. I'm not sure, that despite even these heavy realizations, that fact will ever change. I feel that we're allowed to be ready for revolution, that's part of it, the very first, perhaps the beginning of it all. But the preparation matters, too. And if there's a reason for it, then I suppose it would be best to sit still (can you imagine?) and start listening. When all other options seem hopeless, and hopelessness is one hard fight to master, despite all things before us we can sit up, hands cupped to our ears, waiting to hear the hum.

Update (9:03 AM): Today that hum came in the form of what I have to believe was mercy. One phone call, and things are looking up.

perspective knocking.

As it turns out, the whole when-a-door-closes-a-window-opens adage bears some significant truth.


The windows, however, might be small, perilously shattered, looking out onto an unidentified landscape, a horizon that seems more sinister than inviting.


Or, according to a recent dream of mine, the window could be placed directly above the door that seems forever locked, just out of reach, in an empty room with no object to assist you in reaching the dangerous height of said window.


Honestly, my dreams can terrify me, but sometimes they are so comically and contemptuously obvious that I can only wake up with a smirk at my brain's own lame attempt at symbolism. (Lame only on occasion, though. For the most part, my dreams certify my insanity.)


Still, if the fact is that the opportunities are there, and we are just standing around beating our heads or our hands against the same shut door, then we could benefit from taking a step backward, and seeing what else is around us. If anyone knows what it feels like to assume you have exhausted all options, the last thing on your list being to come up with another strategy or life assessment, trust me. I could write a book on the subject, and chances are that I someday will.


The recent window I've discovered in my own life is that place, though it may seem to have its hand in everything, is mostly irrelevant. It's helpful in certain scenarios, sure, it puts you nearer or further in terms of miles, but what you have where you are is up to you. I have lived in this particular area of New Jersey for most of my life, the beginning half as a kid growing up, and now, mostly not of my own choosing but of a need for a roof over my head, and two parents who are willing to give me one.


I think we can both oversimplify the idea of home as much as we can stress it to a point of becoming near meaningless, piling so much responsibility on it that it crumbles and cracks under the weight of our expectations.


As an aspiring writer you might think, well New Jersey can't be all that bad, right? It's New York City adjacent, it poses opportunities in Pennsylvania, there are even some major magazines based in this state (who knew?), etc. All true things. And even though I've been lately mulling over the idea of a giant move (I mean cross-country huge), and getting really excited about, well, who knows what exactly (but I mean, majorly and seriously excited to see new areas and get lost and re-find my favorite coffee shops and parks and start a new job and LIVE), there is still something to be said for the ground I meet with every day, with the way things are right now.


That being said, it seems that every time you breathe deep and do your best not to worry, to accept a little bit, to try without making yourself crazy, new ideas begin to grow. New discoveries are made and your eyes are opened to the same things in a way you never thought you'd see them, and suddenly, just as you thought everything was destined to stay the same for just a while longer, things are moving on again.


I would be more than prepared to move out into the world, were I given the real and right opportunity to do so. If I was told to be ready any minute now, packed up and be on the road tomorrow (or TONIGHT), I could do it, no questions asked. The fact that the world is big and we're given time to explore it is no coincidence. And neither is this unmistakable feeling of not yet being grounded, of thinking day and night on the ways to move about, to see things bathed in newness, to taking, you know, the less-traveled path. 


Still, in the meantime, there is nothing that stops us from imaginative ways of making our current lives equally exhilarating, wherever we may find ourselves. For all the things we might believe are only mundane, for all the things we assume have no chance to surprise us, we might find ourselves someday soon crawling through that wide-open window to a place we never really knew.