An Unlikely Cover Letter (Submitted)

My name is Leah Rosenzweig and I’d like to be your seller of ideas.  I will assume the challenge for the price of the opportunity to stand in the marketplace among other craftsmen and women, and perhaps, the price of a salary.  But I am most thrilled by the prospect of standing among the pretty birdhouses and hand-stitched tapestries with a cart-full of concepts.  I imagine myself positioned beside pedestrian-swarmed streets and shouting “Come, behold the unseen!  Tell me your ideas, your products, your marketable entities! My words will take something as banal as your sock and sell it to the world as if it were the loveliest prize!

Listen: ‘I have, in my possession, the loveliest white sock.  In its standard application, the sock would certainly belong on the foot, stretched and protecting its vulnerable skin, calluses and inclination to smell while fitted into the most burdensome of boots or sneakers.  The sock’s masked microfibers will clothe the tiniest or plumpest of toes in unimaginable layers of softness and warmth.  But don’t be fooled by its warming powers, the sock also allows for cooling in summer months.  Suppose you are partaking in a heated tennis match, the sock will allow flexibility, coolness, and breath to tuckered out toes.  A sock is also the ideal plan-B mitten for a child whose desire to run headfirst into an embankment of snow following a peaceful storm is too urgent a cause to waste time sorting for a pair.  The same sock can be used to warm a child’s rose-colored cheek when the game is over, when the snow is stomped-upon and tinted brown.  Buy this sock and you’ll remember it like I remember the socks I first wore after my first fall stroll down Charles Street with my boyfriend four years ago.’”

Although the sock may seem an exaggeration, it is the perfect example of how my mind constructs vehicles through which I frame something or someone, yes, even a sock, as desirable, beautiful, and original.  While at first, I feel I lean on vocabulary, sentence structure and wit, I almost always feel my mind drift toward a personal connection.  After all, this is how I won Second Place in Impromptu Speech the Pennsbury Invitational Forensics Speech Competition in high school (this is a true statement).  I was assigned a topic, and on the spot, I was able to draw in puzzle pieces from my own observations and life experience to create a wholesome speech that was both persuasive, innovative, and wholly my own.  I do this in my own writing now.  I believe my writing exudes confidence and a distinct style.  My invitational and personal style draws in a broad audience.  I don’t ever aim to capture a reader through entrapment or excessive hyperbole. Rather, I aim to sustain a genuine voice, one that tells the truth about a product, person, or idea, and tells it clearly, with a beginning, middle, and end—like a story.  This is the key to how I sell ideas:  I never alter or exaggerate; I just communicate well.

Image

Like the potter, I’ll write a small narrative essay or a review, and little by little, I’ll remember how a collection of poems on bullying reminded me of my days of feeling inferior, lost and alone as a starry-eyed middle-schooler.  I hold the cylindrical wad of clay and press the petal violently, yet gracefully.  Some ideas spit back and smack the wall, while others, create a personal, yet marketable review, a beautiful product that contains visible bits of myself.  Someone will spot the finished product in the marketplace among other similar beauties; they will sense, without knowing it, each particle of personality spreading news and ideas, continuing to create and exchange concepts, from the marketplace to the mantel.

Stream of Consciousness: The Middle

It is an occasion when a diner will ask his or her server anything about herself.  Rarely, do they open a door and whistle, beckoning my humanity to come out.  Here humanity, here boy.  It is rarely fun: bearing the “can I get’s?” and the “give me’s,” but then, as if out of some discreet pocket of air, I’ll receive a “What do you do?” and the heavens split right down the middle and light befalls us—an aura covering table 23.  Somehow, someone knew to ask what I do or what I want, what my passions and dreams may happen to be.  It is so brilliant that it almost seems to cancel out the following interaction that occurred at table 44 about two and a half weeks ago.

Father and daughter talk amongst themselves…

Father: “Should we ask, I don’t know.”

Lowly server (me): “Everything alright over here.  Are you all finished?”

Father: “Yes.  May we ask you a question.”

NB: This is all occurring after the gentleman told me that I should inform management that we have to do something about the room temperature maple syrup that causes the piping hot French toast to lower in temperature when it is poured atop the texas toast-y delicacy.

 

Me: Sure

Father: Do you have another job?

Me: I freelance write, which is my passion, but this is the only job I make money doing.  Why?

Father: Because we were just talking amongst ourselves and wondering how you could possibly make enough money as a waitress to live in a city like Washington, DC.

So these things sometimes happen.  I almost rather they are outright into heir debasement of me rather than closeted, discreet, huffy breathed, and blaming me for an undercooked something or other.  That guy tipped me about 40%.  It was the worst I’d ever felt about an overtly extravagant tip.  So back to “Here humanity, here boy.”  There is something very important that comes forth from being thrown into a life state that allows for expression, only if it is stifled by the impetuous wants and needs of others.  And believe it or not, regardless of how one may read my general tone, that something important is not boundless heaps of cynicism.  No, it is an achy urge to devote one’s time and efforts to extracting and encouraging the revealing of others’ humanity.  I want to name every face, or better yet, allow every face to name itself to me.

Odd as it is that the very people who cause me grief each day have helped me to want to aid and assist others in feeling whole, it’s a backwards recipe that certainly works for me.  It was in feeling suffocated that my truest loves in life arose to the front of my mind, battling off ideas and goals that had once held precedence because perhaps they looked better or would help me to move on more swiftly to a better post graduate degree program.  It’s not that bad—the middle—the mental or even physical place in which everything is a maybe, every move is impermanent, and every waking hour comes with something unexpected, unwanted, or unplanned.  I like the middle, at least more than I thought I would.  Yes, it is in the middle that I have regular panic attacks over rent payments, bemoan my erratic work schedule, and fight with my mother on the phone, but it also here in the middle that I can take a long walk in trail of sunlight I’d otherwise not be able to bask in until it was well faded, within a clump of bustling, uniformed workers; it’s here that I can submit a poem to a journal, fingers crossed, wondering and hoping that maybe this is the middle’s end, at least before the next middle, the next time I decide to thin before I do, to consider, to stop somewhere between this and that—whatever this is, whatever that is, I don’t really know, not now.

Wildness

Sometimes I think about myself as a tiny child, wild and messy and conquering things, climbing stairs on all fours, beating my chest, yelling geronimooooo as I’d hurdle off of furniture and fling myself down railings like a happy, yet controlled little beast.  I lose my wildness constantly just as I lost it when I came to an age of reason, as if such a thing really exists.  The only thing I’ve reasoned since then is that to be under control is overrated and while listening is good, some listening is just an admission—to servitude and docility.  But to behave is often to don a cloak of little color, to be, as it were so grossly marked and wrongly defined some time ago, an adult.

Behavior is an oddity, because surely the Capitol Hill Moms Society, many of whom I wait on at the restaurant, forcibly smiling and placating their snotty, animalistic, screeching children, sort of like this: “Hi, buddy!  Oooo look mac and cheese!! Tasty!”  But I think of the moms who sport expensive accessories and flaunt Obama 2012 bumper stickers and disproportionately large bike racks on their Honda Fits and dress their kids in Fair Trade beanies and dark wash jeans and baby Toms, I think of them and their odd techniques, their definitions of how to keep a child, how to make the child do, say, be.  They are so wildly mistaken.  This is where it starts; it starts at the women who pretend their doing something of benefit for the future generation.  But here’s the thing, those who revolutionize don’t form public policy from a social studies textbook.

If the Capitol Hill Moms Society keeps pushing behavior, then from where does the wildness come?  And when it comes, will kids be afraid of it?  Will they say: “What I this I feel?  This master morality, this inclination toward the Thelma and Louise?  Why do I feel as though the edge of the cliff, which I was once cautioned to turn from, only begs me, ‘come child, this is where you say yes to life.’”

 

There are times when the reward reaped from a risky, unpremeditated action is so grand that the act itself does not even skirt the baseline qualifications for misbehavior.  Let’s take a cripplingly bad hangover.  You’re eyes don’t want to open, your body aches and your esophagus brims with bile and other unsettling remnants of glucose.  You feel like there is an oversized snail swimming about your insides to and fro emitting a fermented slime that causes a feeling somewhat similar to being stretched out against a slowly turning, upright wheel, limbs hooked tight to the edges, eyes fixed open to a blurry edifice you’ll never reach.

There was, of course, a caveat.  You learned it in middle school, high school, too.  You learned that drinking coffee, that taking a cold shower are merely fabricated remedies, and do not, in fact, “heal” a hangover.  You learned there’d be no real cure but time, perhaps interspersed with a few healthy dry heaves and a 12-pack of ginger ale.  But you were caught in celebration last night.  It was 2:30 am and you needed that shot of bourbon.  You were pursuing a wildness that is both real and necessary to your being.  For our dry-bellied friends, the un-imbibers, that may mean reaching out to a long-lost someone or beginning a relationship with a word or a cute, unimposing shrug, or attending an anime convention because they really like anime and it does and should not matter whether a parent or a friend is condemning of the wild act.

The hangover takes place in many forms.  Often, it feels remarkable—snails don crowns and sprinkle fairy dust throughout your insides.  It is only when facing the general public, those who sit on thrones and wag index fingers and grimace, that the bile may erupt.  There is rarely any component of the wild act to be feared.  It is the dawn, what one should encounter upon waking, that throws us, that bars us abruptly before we hit the road and elicits in our minds a montage of things that could go awry.  Often caught between I want to and I would want to, if…, we lean toward what we deem to be a comfortable choice, a choice without repercussions, when in actuality, that safety, that comfort, is a fear of committing that which we were taught not to do—not to borrow trouble, nor test waters, but rather watch them ripple gently, unperturbed, just simply performing a stationary dance, like the human breath, or the feline purr.

Behavior is a highly scientific, and, what’s more, medical term.  It conjures up thoughts of labs, monkeys, mice on wheels.  You must behave; you must not misbehave.  It is highly detached from our being, and merely a step within our daily activity .  But wildness, wildness is a component of myself, not merely my actions, but my whole self.  Often, though, it is an unrealized component.  For me, wildness was something I’d subdued and even barred off for years as I focused on “being good.”  I stayed the course of what I’d perceived as goodness: not drinking, not smoking, not having sex, not talking about sex, not talking about much of anything I was thinking about, getting good grades. Before I continue, let me clarify misconceptions before they begin to occur:  There’s nothing wrong with exhibiting traits that are classifiably “good.”  What there is something wrong with, though, is aiming to please and get through life, unmarked or unbruised, to an extent where one begins to wholeheartedly dismiss a large component of self that actually craves the seat of the pants, the skin of the teeth.

It’d be a seamless anecdote if I brought in the time I went bungy jumping in Nepal and detailed the mind-numbing freefall.  You know the anecdote: AND THAT’S WHEN I FIRST FELT TRULY IN TOUCH WITH MY WILDNESS: WHEN I TOOK THE LITERAL PLUNGE, OFF THE BRIDGE AND INTO THE UNKNOWN.  But truthfully, this is not when I first confronted and embraced my wildness.  There was no first time, it simply happened, because as I grew and mere goodness left me with only more questions, I gradually allowed wildness to be, pleading it to come forth from the recesses of my soul.  Recently, I’ve felt the hangover more frequently than I had for years.  I am not often happy, but I find that when I am, it results from moments, events, or conversations in which I am deeply in touch with my wildness.  I am discussing unorthodox business ventures, I am drinking pitchers of margarita, I am not as quiet as I used to be.

I might spend an evening cracking jokes, inserting dry humor into already uncomfortable conversations, singing loudly, discussing the benefit of having cats in ones life.  And to boot, I might do this all shamelessly.  This is wildness.  As a young adult in a world of questionable, questioning young adults, I am stepping out, consuming, risking the hangover, the mind warp, the high, the decline.  And although I’m swearing and discussing bodily functions, I am not misbehaving.

I am wild.

I am reflective as I ponder how I will one day “teach my children” to act.  How will I teach future sprouted generations of me how to bar natural inclinations, how to sit still without going crazy, without suppressing a need to dance.  I have no idea.  I don’t know if I can successfully execute the best of all worlds, without being perceived as a mother who dresses in kimonos and hair curlers, keeping a home brimming with fumes of marijuana, decked in finger-painted murals.  How will I raise small humans, fully in touch with their wildness, without losing my mind?  Perhaps they will have to spend a few years sitting still, for my own sake, at the very least, but I will tell them each day about how the day will come when they’ll be in the corvette hair waving in perfect follicular patters, like a miniature tunnel of fall leaves, and then, then they will spread their arms, let go of the wheel, and invite wildness to take hold.  Then they will say yes to life.

Image

In the meantime, though, before I create new life, I’ll stack building blocks onto my own.  I’ll trust myself, ridding my mind of the harrowing fear of misbehavior.  For I’ll know, it is the fear of remaining stationary, of being without being, that is most threatening to a full and flourishing life on earth.  I will break open the lock box and be as the great god of wine: a little brunette, freckled Dionysus: unafraid, close-mouthed, fixed in an unrevealing smirk, open-eyed, wild.

……Therefore I am

“Why do we wake up, roll over in bed, and suddenly enact our own miniature one woman marionette show?  Why am I, like a machine at work, moving toward this table of individuals I’d usually glance over, smiling and staring doe-eyed and beginning: ‘Hi folks!  Good evening! How are you?’”

My least favorite combination of too-often employed words is: YOU THINK TOO MUCH.  If there’s one form of expression kids and even adults are taught to not do too much of, it is to think.  Even feeling is permissible in large amounts.  The other day I was at it again, outpouring too much, so really any bit of, my thoughts.

The given response: “Leah, you think too much.”  And all at once, I felt totally full of rage, my perceptions of humankind surmised to something altogether negative.  Not only have we no more “Great Thinkers” or even the tendency to employ the term, honor the individuals, but we no longer cherish, admire, or merely regard thought as essential.

I think a lot, and although, as in the “you think too much” incidents, it may be marked characteristically perilous, it is my most favored trait.  I am most fully alive when on my own—executing a mental dance, praying over supposed scenery, which really shows itself to me as just another component of myself.  Aloneness is where the dance happens.  And I am pretty good at being alone.  I did it often as a child: usually in the “running away” format (to the backyard, in the grocery store, at the mall).  I loved a lot of humanity, sure, but my truest love, from very early on, was a world with which I would forever acquaint myself, and rarely produce any clear-cut decisions.

Philosophy was an obvious program of study for me, but again, my mere interests would herald “realistic” responses and naysayer’s jabs positing the things I loved as “dead” or “dying.”  But I didn’t care.  Even absurdist philosophy was all about living and life.  It encourage rebellion in the face of a barring universe.  It encouraged intelligence in the form of action.  Even in a seminar room, I was feeling like Sysyphus—preying on my truths, aware and in admittance of a world I am consistently ceasing to conceive.

I find myself wondering when being an intellectual became pretentious.  When Camus distinguished existentialism from pretentiousness and established thought as an act of claiming one’s freedom rather than a muted, loathsome passivity he was regarded an intellectual.  So, I guess I, too, am (shamelessly) an intellectual.  As my good man said:

An intellectual? Yes. And never deny it. An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. I like this, because I am happy to be both halves, the watcher and the watched. “Can they be brought together?” This is a practical question. We must get down to it. “I despise intelligence” really means: “I cannot bear my doubts.

I am a thinker.  Thought is my breath.  How else is one to live?

What it did for me I’ll never forget, but what it did to me in the moment, I’d like to try to forget. I bring you a post and general topic I’ve wanted to tackle for awhile: Leah Writes on High School

“True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.”
― Kurt Vonnegut

(I’ll come back to Vonnegut, but part of me is still thinking I just let Kurt get some words in there before me since he tends to have a way with thoughts that most cannot express).

*Begin romanticized imagery and language now*

I was a proud 17-year old that fine day on June 6, 2009.  My skin was a deep shade of fake brown, my hair made as straight as I could get it, and I looked in that mirror and thought, “It’s over.” Pause.  Now, as the tears welled up I went from one version of, “It’s over” to another.  It was over.  High school was about to be finished.  I was sad.  I’d never make the morning drive again, hear the bell ring, I’d never experience any of it after that day.  But then I remember that moment when I realized, on a different level, “It’s over.”  Everything I’ve faked, felt uncomfortable with, struggled through yet triumphed through, everything I’ve hurt, everything that’s hurt me.  This is all over.  That is one of the feelings I will never forget.  Knowing that some of the hardest years were about to be put away and if I wanted to I could lock it all away and recreate it.  I could tell my kids I was the prom queen, that I dated lots of cool guys, that I made so many amazing friends.  Now I know I’ll probably just tell them that I ruined a play when I was 15, skipped gym class almost every week to go “meet with teachers,” and was most intimidated throughout my four years by my biggest bully: a 70-something year old choir directing nun.  But still, I thought that was it.  And liberation day only marked the very beginning of a long process of realization and understanding of what exactly went on from 2005-2009.

I’m going to begin at a place with which most of us are eerily familiar: the exterior.  If anything makes preteen and teenagehood easier, it’s wearing the right things and looking the right way.  Some of us don’t always do this.  Okay, some of us have never done this, even when they’ve tried.  Alright, let’s not beat around the bush, I was a disgrace.  I was just coming out of a summer spent at Shakespeare camp (I’m warning you, when it rains…….) where I experienced my first kick of being fully convinced that I was some sort of free-spirited hippie and had all the rights in the world to wear whatever I damn well pleased.  I wasn’t dressing myself in clothing I liked, I was like a statement-making bulletin board–I would continue this for years and years.  So, my favorite look included a random ass t-shirt with a belt around the thinnest part of my waist and many beaded necklaces, usually bought at a thrift shop (trend-setting-14-year-old-leah), accompanied by some like patchwork jeans or jorts.  And the best news was, I didn’t even enjoy these get-ups.  Splendid.  THEN, I did something, I did something to my beautifully-fresh, young, freckled face that would define me for the rest of high school and even the beginning of college (until I could at least escape from anyone I’d known during these dark times).  I developed the worst trademark for myself.  Alright, I’ll tell you, I essentially spackled the holy hell out of my naturally pink lips with yellow-y concealer (for men, this is women’s under-eye cover-up makeup).  No worries, though, this eventually morphed into a trend of glopped-on light colored-mood ring, opal-y toned lipgloss.  I applied it so many times a day that in retrospect I am able to say that it was absolutely obsessive-compulsive.  I carried it in my skirt pocket at all times, along with, uh, nothing else, and I sometimes went to the restroom for the sole purpose of applying my lipgloss.  Looking back, this is the defining factor for why I now know that I was not okay.  A simple overly-regimented lip treatment may not seem like that much, but when I play a matching game with vivid memories of lipgloss mania and significantly negative life events, well, it all seems to play out as one awfully harmonious transformational time in the life of leah.

Image

I remember freshman year, though, as also being one of the most beneficial years of my entire life.  Although they may not be so present in my life anymore, I established my first ever real group of friends.  This would forever change then entire course of my highschool years.  For the first time, I was going to dances and going out on the weekends with friends.  Things were looking up, even though I was looking like the makeup aisle at CVS gone wrong mixed with a bad Limited Too ad.  Then…………..my friends started dating and I started, um, going to bed at 11 instead of 10.  The relationship bug infected most if not all of my friends, but the fact that I seemed incapable of heralding attraction at this point wasn’t the biggest worry of mine.  In fact, looking back, I was much more apathetic towards guys and relationships than I gave off.  The biggest annoyance and scarlet letter-like mark of loserdom was the fact that I was one of the very last girls to have her first kiss (Ok, this is, in fact, quite the opposite of the scarlet letter, I understand that a little hormonal prude in Urban Outfitters jeans and a flannel shirt who had never dreamed of being kissed was not nearly the same as a guillotine-going adulteress).

While that did eventually happen for me at a whopping sixteen and a half, I’ll always remember the year that followed with mixed feelings.  This was the year I lost myself big time.  Sure I could say that I was both swarmed in and surrounded by non-ideal relationships, but the truth of the matter was that I was a sad teenage girl who, unlike many, did know what she wanted out of life (and on top of it, had already been through many things people twice her age would never experience) but was too afraid to push everybody out of the way and go get it.  There are times when I still wonder what would have been different if I had lived this particular year-a year where I simply went from static to downward sloping- differently.  But I lived it in such a way that I followed blindly, I conformed my beliefs and attitudes to those around me, and frankly I rarely vocalized in the way that many know me as being infamous for now.  I had also taken a year-long break off from singing, something I’ve only now become comfortable to express my love for and embrace.  After a period of time with a nun who, all jokes aside, jolted my confidence, which was already in the tank, into the damn ground.  I believed I was both incapable and unsuited and I turned away from a form of expression I loved, and like I said, have only been able to rejuvenate within the last year.  Out of that open elective spot where I’d usually be singing, though, came the opportunity to embrace another talent.  It was through my creative writing class that I’d meet one of my best and most influential teachers: a spunky young lady who taught me that the metaphysical stuff I was writing was not weird, but was in fact pretty cool.  I credit the 50% of my current college major that is writing to her, and honestly, I credit some of my sanity to her as well.  Writing was the silent weapon of my self expression, particularly as I was not expressing much of my true self in the vocal sense throughout my entire third year of high school.  I tried to write poems about love, family, stories about friends and nature. But what came out instead were some of the best things I’ve ever written and ever will write: several stories about losing loved ones, vague poetic pieces about what it was like for me growing up, poems about the “picasso pieces of my mind,” a screen play about an alternate cyber universe, almost anything escapist, and finally, a final piece that I was supposed to read at the unveiling of the 2008 creative writing class literary magazine.  This one was a stream of consciousness reflection about a car accident I had been in just 2 months prior that was still having great impact on me.  As I shall breeze by details, it wasn’t so much this reading that was my penultimate test of strength, but it was stopping some friends at the time from blackmailing me via recording my reading.  I’ll never forget putting my hand out and telling them “NO.”  I don’t care how small it was.  I had done it.  This had meant something to me.

Image

I came back senior year confused as ever.  I felt overripe and overdone, like I was long ready to leave, like nothing made sense, like I made no sense to anyone.  But, I was starting to make sense to me.  I was starting to grasp the fact that I was damn weird, ready to leave from day one of that last school year, and uncomfortable about past choices I’d made mainly because I had just spent 3 years fairly aware of myself and my desires, but never voicing any of it aloud.  And I am one vocal mother effer.  I remember focusing really hard on school that year, focusing on getting into schools.  I started dressing in ways that I genuinely loved.  I loved my style, my hair, my makeup now looked like it belonged on a human being, although there was still a lot of it.  My relationships, though, were fizzling out and I hated it.  I hated it mostly because I felt it but I tried so strongly to force everything to feel okay.  I felt like I was growing up in double time, and I felt like everyone else was not.  On the bright side, I felt an inexplicably strong pull toward a university that I visited on a whim, a place where I’d go one to meet a partner for life and 3 to 5 outstanding lifelong friends.  I had no idea what was in store for me, yet I had an idea that there was something that was next to come.  I had “This can’t be it” syndrome.  And I felt confused and angry and wished I had spent my last 4 years differently.  But I didn’t.  But you know what?  At least those 4 years of unassured angst and insecurity were over and done with by age 18.  Most don’t get that lucky.

Image

So I stood on that day of graduation and honestly, I was sad, yes.  But, most of me took a deep breath and thought, “I got through that.”  I remember being so thankful for experiences, friendships, classes, teachers, but I was happy to be finished with that old skin, a hard shell that just wouldn’t crack until I left my mom and sister crying on August 23, 2009 and stood in front of a university chapel where I’d play an ice breaker in a circle that literally beheld some of the best gifts I’d ever known and gifts I had never known: a few people who helped me be me and who loved me.  And you know what Vonnegut, I’m getting closer and closer to that day when I will wake up and realize my high school class is running the country, but let’s rest assured that the other members of the graduating class of 2009 will be waking up to know that the one running the country, as least in a not-so-executive-branch kind of way, is me.  And on June 6, 2009, I thought to myself for the first time ever, “I got through that.  I can do things.  I can do big things.”

Image

So no, I’ve chosen not to use my men in black mind erasing tool to disregard all thoughts of anything high school because 1) they don’t sell those on ebay and 2) even if I had them, I’d still keep these memories.  I’d even keep the one of me slipping on a wet floor and crashing into the wall of the cafeteria in front of the seniors freshman year, or the missed cue during opening night of the play sophomore year, or the intense embarrassment in realizing my first kiss was a well-played set up of events because some young ladies don’t realize that it is in fact not normal to make the boy wait 1 month to kiss you after you’ve initially started dating, I’d even keep the worst ones, the fights, the tears, the last time I ever talked to her and her and her.  I’m not letting these memories go away.  They are such a critical part of me and let’s face it, they’re the ones that’ll matter most to the four years I will always remember as the time wherein I developed most, during four years where it seemed like nothing took place in me at all.

Years later, that is what I am most inspired by: the silenced version of the now very audible me.

peace, love, and ongoing musings about things that are forever impactful on one’s life,

LR

Image

We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face… we must do that which we think we cannot.Eleanor Roosevelt