Freedom, Ben Carson and Giving Thanks

On Thanksgiving the family sat around our table, toasted our collective health and happiness, and took turns saying what we were thankful for.

“I’m thankful that I can read,” said our six-year old, Abby. She just started Junie B Jones, her first chapter book, and she never rarely misses an opportunity to show off a little.

“I’m thankful for the moon,” said her younger brother, Noah. He’s recently developed an obsessive interest in outer-space.

“Good one,” said Natalie, my mother-in-law. “I’m thankful that none of our freedoms have been taken away, and that we can all sit here today and enjoy this lovely meal together with friends and family.”

Monty and I exchanged a look, a silent agreement to ignore the part about our freedoms “being taken away,” and to simply be gracious. But later, after dinner was over and people were watching television, a Ben Carson ad came on. 

“I have to say,” Natalie said, after Carson’s ad had played. “There’s something very likable about him. I think he makes sense.”

“Mom, no.” Monty’s voice had that overly-patient edge to it, like a dog-owner reprimanding his frisky puppy. So while I totally agreed with Monty philosophically, I couldn’t blame Natalie for her testy response.

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m not incompetent. I can pick my own candidate.”

Jack, Monty’s brother, busied himself by starting a tickle war with all the kids. I began straightening up. But Monty, who is never afraid of conflict, turned toward his mother and stared her down. “Ben Carson may seem rational, but he’s not. He’s compared Obamacare to slavery, and gun control to Nazi Germany. He thinks Muslims shouldn’t be allowed to be president, and that we ought to have separate, transgender bathrooms.”

Since Natalie is actually the one who taught Monty to embrace conflict, she scoffed and spoke over the frantic giggles of the children. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I know!” Monty grinned, obviously happy that his mother agreed with him.

“Women already have to stand in line far too long to use the toilet. If we’re going to build more bathrooms, we should just double the amount for females. Creating separate ones for these transgenders is a waste of resources.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” I interjected. “I mean… the part about more public restrooms for women.”

Monty shot me a squinty, exasperated look. After years of marriage, I knew exactly what it meant. Now was the time I was supposed to speak up and support him. I should convince his mother that she should absolutely not support Ben Carson.

But I went through this three years ago, when Natalie stayed with us during the 2012 election and Monty was working half a world away. During that time, she and I argued about Mitt Romney, and you know what it got me? A massive headache and mild digestive trouble.

“Thank you,” Natalie said to me, as if I’d just endorsed her own candidacy in the Iowa caucus. She turned back to her son. “You can’t take a few quotes out of context and let that define the man.”

“And you can’t take a 30 second campaign ad about ‘thinking outside the box’ and decide that he knows what he’s talking about.”

“I’m not! But the caucus is coming up soon, and so far, none of the candidates have impressed me. I might just pick the least offensive one.”

This leads me to what I’m thankful for. Of course there’s a long list: my family, my health, the ability to learn, the opportunity to teach, sunsets, Oreo cookies and lemon zinger tea while watching Scandal, and the fact that in a little over two months, the Iowa caucus will be over.

A lot of people envy Iowa for our unfair advantage in picking presidential candidates. Well, don’t. Even though I teach a class called 20th Century American Politics, I still get tired from all the competing voices. And then there’s the prospect of guilt. What if we choose the wrong guy? The whole country could blame us for setting that bandwagon in motion.

As for me, the democratic side of things seems pretty much sewn up (despite Monty's Bernie Sanders bumper sticker) But the republicans are still up in the air, with a lot of people undecided.

Natalie is one of those people.

Monty remains convinced that he can get her to vote Democrat, but when Natalie was his age she voted for Reagan. He was her first republican, and since then, she’s declared herself an independent.

“Who wants pie?” I asked.

Everyone but Monty and Natalie clambered upstairs, to pick between caramel apple and pumpkin, and by the time we returned to the TV room, their argument was over. Soon it was dark outside, people went home, and we all fell into a food coma.

The next day we did our Black Friday shopping, ate turkey sandwiches for lunch, and found ourselves speechless at the news reports of yet another Colorado shooting, this one at a Planned Parenthood.

“And mom thinks her freedom hasn’t been taken away,” Monty said later, when the kids weren’t in ear shot. “I think we need to redefine what freedom is, since we live in a country where shootings have become the new normal.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But if we can't do that, maybe we just need to rethink what we're thankful for.”

Bernie Sanders and Angry Sex

How well do you know the person you’re married to?

Last week, if someone had me this question, I would have said that I know Monty well. Sure, we have our ups and downs, but for the most part I can predict him. I can trust him.

But I forgot how subversive he can be. I’d forgotten that his passionate idealism, which is the very quality that made me fall in love, can manifest as a stubborn, petulant insistence to take the road less traveled. Even if that road is leading toward a dead end.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came home the other day and saw it. A sky-blue rectangle with large white block letters, Bernie, 2015, was plastered against the rear bumper of our Subaru.

It was the middle of the day. After a morning of teaching I had decided to pop home before heading over to my parent’s house. I spend every Thursday afternoon with my dad, who never fully recovered from his stroke, so my mom can run errands or just take a break. But when I saw the Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on our family vehicle I could think of nothing else. I rushed inside to find Monty standing at our kitchen counter, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which had to be for him because Noah and Abby were at school.

He turned when he heard me come in, and a smile lit up his face. “Hey,” he said warmly. “You decided to stop home for lunch? Want me to make you a sandwich?”

Monty works from home a lot of the time. He’s a very social person and I know he craves interaction, so I felt a twinge of regret, bursting his bubble, meeting his enthusiasm with irritation.

But I was upset.

“Why is there a Bernie Sanders bumper sticker on our car?” My voice was hard and my arms were crossed resolutely over my chest.

He wrinkled his forehead and then turned his back to me, ostensibly to finish making his sandwich. “I got that the other day. They sent it to me for donating money to his campaign.”

“Monty!” I stepped over so I could invade his personal space. He finished spreading the jelly and pressed the two pieces of bread together. “How could you do that, without talking about it to me first?”

“I need your permission to put a bumper sticker on my car?” He rolled his eyes, put his sandwich on a plate, and busied himself with putting the jelly and bread back in the refrigerator, the peanut butter in the cabinet, and the dirty knife in the sink.

“It’s our car! I drive it too. And you knew very well that I wouldn’t be okay with this!”

“It’s just a bumper sticker, Luce!”

“No, it’s not!” I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “You know I support Hillary, and you know I’m worried about her chances. So it’s not ‘just a bumper sticker’ – it’s a passive aggressive attempt to piss me off!”

He sighed and clenched his jaw simultaneously; I hate it when he does that. “This isn’t about you. I happen to support Sanders. Okay?”

“No, not okay! You liked Hillary in ’08, back when she was the underdog against Obama. And my God, you voted for Nader in 2000. You just want to be subversive!”

“So what if I do? It’s not like society is so great that we can’t use a little bit of subversion!” He closed the refrigerator door with his foot, and turned toward me, shoulders squared. “Besides, Sanders stands for what I actually believe in!”

“Oh, grow up, Monty! You know he has NO chance of getting elected! Supporting him is like handing Rubio, Bush, or God forbid, Trump, the presidency on a silver platter!”

Monty shook his head ruefully. “Do you even have any ideals anymore, Lucy? Or is it just all about winning? You tell me to grow up? Well that’s too bad, because you’ve gotten OLD!”

My jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you’d say something so mean!” I ran one hand through my hair and the other my stomach.

He stammered. “I didn’t mean old as in unattractive. I meant old, as in too conservative…”

“Never mind!”

I spun on my heel but he jumped forward and blocked my path out of the kitchen. “You’re not leaving until we resolve this!”

“You don’t get to decide that!” I pushed against his chest, but he was unyielding.

“You know I think you’re hot.”

“I don’t care about that. I want the Sanders sticker off our car.”

“How about I buy an even bigger Hillary bumper sticker and put it on other car?”

I shook my head. “No. We put it next to the Sanders one, so they’re side by side.”

“Fine.” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a sultry rasp. “But then we’re doing the same thing on both cars.”

I exhaled loudly. “Fine.”

I was very aware of the rise and fall of my chest, and how if I moved forward a fraction of an inch, my chest would be pressed against his. And then, because arguing can get us both riled up, and because I do actually care about whether or not Monty thinks I’m hot, but mostly because we were alone and awake, I let Monty kiss me. I knew what was coming when his lips parted, when he tilted down his dark head, when he reached out both arms to hold me.

I did not step away.

Instead I met his embrace with enthusiasm, though I was still angry. Soon we were tugging off each other’s clothes and taking out our aggression in the most fun, if not the most healthy, sort of way.

When we were done we laid together on the kitchen floor, sharing the peanut butter sandwich Monty had made earlier.

“I’m still idealistic,” I said. “I care about way more than winning.”

“I know.” Monty kissed me softly on the mouth and I could taste his peanut butter breath.

But I wasn’t so sure myself. It’s easy to make claims. It’s not always easy to believe them.

How well do I know my husband? About as well as I know myself.

Five Reasons to Fear Camping and Donald Trump

It was a Thursday evening. We were driving home from eating out, and we couldn’t find a radio station that didn’t have talk about the presidential campaign. In Iowa we are bombarded with it early, and even a political junkie like me can feel overloaded.

Monty switched the radio off. “Hey,” he said casually. “We should take the kids camping.”

I shuddered. “Why?” I demanded, as if he’d just suggested that we sell our kidneys on the black market.

He raised one eyebrow and glanced my way. “Because it would be fun! Because we could get away and have some family time. I thought you loved camping.”

I used to. But middle age has made me cynical. Or maybe it’s the 2016 presidential race that’s done it. Or maybe it’s all Donald Trump’s fault. Because though we did “get away” over a few days at a nearby state park, I couldn’t help but make comparisons between camping and The Donald.

1. No Flush Toilets/ Nothing to Lose

At first it wasn’t so bad. The “waste” had been removed shortly before we got there, and the potties were filled with clean-smelling chemicals. But after days of use by dozens of campers, well… stench happens. You can hold your nose, you can use hand sanitizer, but pit toilets are still kind of scary.

Of course, we use them because we don’t have a choice. Is there anyone out there who wouldn’t rather flush their waste away? Flushing and camping can be mutually exclusive, and meanwhile, we can’t hold it in indefinitely

But in the campground of life, Donald Trump has his own private potty. It no doubt smells wonderful because it’s been flown in and freshly cleaned every hour. Trump has options so he doesn’t need pit toilets just like he doesn’t need the presidency. This means he can poop all over any issue, whether it’s immigration or Megyn Kelly, and he still comes out smelling clean.

2. S’more Expectations

Somehow children always know about s’mores, and if you’re camping, they’re going to expect roasted marshmallows between two graham crackers with a bar of chocolate thrown in.  This happens at night, naturally, when the potential damage from their inevitable sugar rush is at its highest, and when you won’t really notice the dirt-coated marshmallow that is stuck to your child’s face, hands, and clothing, until morning.

But I have to admit, s’mores are yummy. That’s why they’ve endured. The tastiness factor outweighs the sticky mess that they cause. Just like Donald Trump.

Well no, not exactly. All summer, pundits have projected that Trump will burn out, like a marshmallow shoved into the fire too quickly, erupting into flames and falling into the ashes in a goopy, charred glob. That obviously hasn’t happened, but it’s not because Trump stays away from the sticky, messy issues. He’ll say whatever he wants, and that’s too delicious for many voters to ignore.

3. Big Tent Politics

If it’s hot, it’s roasting inside your tent. If it’s cold outside, somehow the air inside your tent is even colder. There’s never enough room for everyone to sleep comfortably, and if it happens to rain, forget about it. I don’t care how waterproof your tent claims to be, you’re going to get wet.

And then there’s the security issue. Tents don’t have locks but they do have zipable doors. You’d better hope that there are no axe-wielding crazies running the campground. Because let’s face it, if you’re sleeping in a tent, you’re a little bit crazy too.

But people love crazy.

And here’s the thing: Republicans have been struggling for years with how to make their party the party of “big tent politics”. In other words, they want everyone to feel welcome even though their stance on the issues only serves rich, white men. Donald Trump has found a way to fix that.  With Trump, issues are irrelevant because his crazy factor is so entertaining, just like the horror movies you know will give you nightmares.

Trump is the equivalent of the axe-wielding maniac you imagine as you’re trying to fall asleep underneath that canvas ceiling, but he’s actually forming the perfect, killer soundbite. He’s an expert at adapting complex issues into five-second slogans that will make sense to the masses, even though, if you really stop to think about it, they sound crazy. Just like, if you really stop to think about it, sleeping in a tent is crazy too.

4. Bugs

Nobody wants a mosquito bite, especially since they carry the threat of Lyme disease. This is why, when you hear a mosquito buzzing around, you swat it away, you spray on more insect repellent, and you definitely pay attention.

Meanwhile, ants and spiders, while annoying and occasionally dangerous, are much less illusive and easier to ignore.

The comparison here is pretty obvious. Donald Trump is the mosquito. We keep thinking he’ll go away, but it’s been a wet summer and he’s still around. Jeb Bush, Scott Walker, Rand Paul and all the others are the ants and spiders. Their bites may ultimately carry more venom, but they’re also boring, predictable, and easily forgettable.

That is, until one of them bites you. But that hasn’t happened yet.

5. Just Redeeming Enough

Despite everything, I actually enjoyed our camping trip. We gazed at the stars and told stories instead of watching TV; we swam in a lake and hiked in the woods. Somehow food always tastes better when cooked over a campfire, and most importantly, I could forget about the rest of the world and enjoy quality time with my family.

Would I do it again? Maybe, if no other vacation options are available.

Speaking of options, while there’s an abundance of Republican candidates, none of them are exotic destinations. Would you rather vote for Ted Cruz or Donald Trump? Would you rather visit your in-laws in Cedar Rapids, or go camping?

I have to say that camping sounds like more fun.

*****
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Carly Fiorina and Choice Feminism

So last month I went to Cedar Rapids for the Iowa Women’s Leadership conference, where the key note speaker was Carly Fiorina. Like many politicians, Fiorina has been spending a lot of time in Iowa lately, and even though at that point she hadn’t yet officially announced her presidential bid, she wasn’t going to waste a speaking opportunity in this coveted state.

But I didn’t go to the conference because of her. I went because my cousin-in-law Robin, who is a two time reality TV star and small business owner, was also scheduled to be speaking about personal journeys, which was the conference’s theme.

“You have to help me,” Robin had demanded, when was first asked to speak.

“What are you talking about?” I replied. “You’re the superstar. I’m sure you’re a much better speaker than I am.”

“Nope. All I do is let cameras follow me around. I don’t plan what I’m going to say and I don’t have to say it front a group of people who are waiting for some deep, life changing message to come out of my mouth. That’s your territory.”

Even though I doubt that my community college students expect life changing messages from my lectures (and they’re disappointed if they are), I still agreed to help her and I also signed up to attend the conference so I could be there to cheer her on. It was fun. We drove down together and we went around to the various speakers, where we also got to know some of the other women who attended.

One woman, named Rachel, cuts hair at a national chain store but she dreams of moving up the ladder and managing her own salon. “I got no maternity leave when I had my kids, and they won’t give me a set schedule, so childcare is hard to arrange, and they pay me basically minimum wage. As a single mother that’s really hard.”

So Rachel was excited to hear Carly Fiorina’s key note address, where she talked about how she went from secretary to the first female executive of a Fortune 500 company. I’ve heard lots of “choice feminists” support Carly Fiorina, and the idea that feminism has changed with the times. After all, everybody is free to choose their own path, and having a choice is always empowering.  It’s not the system that needs to be changed; it’s how we work within it.

“Anyone who wants to harness the full power of human potential, of both men and women, needs to focus on building a meritocracy,” Fiorina said in her speech. “…a true meritocracy where people are recognized, paid and promoted, not on how long they’ve been there, but what they produced – women will rise to the top – not because women are better than men, but because they have half the human potential.”

This is how she explains away our need to establish rules for equal pay. If we just focus solely on performance, there will be no need for employee protection.

But here’s how I see it:  In the eighties, some feminists took offense when men would open the door for them or pull out their chair. Women worried about the implication, that they were incapable of opening the door on their own.

But now, politicians are equating that idea with the idea that some women, like Rachel, actually need real help. We’re not turning Rachel into a victim by giving her equal pay, or maternity leave, or the opportunity to advance in her career, and the insult isn’t the offer of help, it’s our refusal to see that because we still work in a patriarchal system, some women need it.

So yeah, I wasn’t the louder applauder at Fiorina’s speech. The same can’t be said at Robin’s speech, though. She was so nervous before she went on; she kept biting her lip and rubbing her hands against her dress, which was light blue, sleeveless with a gathered skirt, and painted with a pastel map of the world.

“The dress is cheesy, isn’t it?” Robin glared at her reflection back stage, and she looked panicky and pale.

“Not at all. It represents what you do and who you are.” I placed calming hands on her shoulders. “Don’t worry. Just go out there and be yourself. You’ll be great.”

Then I left her so I could take my place in the audience. Soon Robin came out and stood at her podium, and while she started out shaky, her confidence only grew and by the end she had commanded the room.

“I am not shy about admitting to my mistakes,” she said. “I’ve made a lot of them. But when you mess up on national television, the world responds in one of two ways. They either love you or hate you for it. I’ve experienced both. And now, it is my goal to let my missteps empower me, to love myself for all my flaws and foibles. Life is difficult enough anyway, why not forgive ourselves? It could be the first step toward forgiving each other, and then maybe, we can give and receive the help that everyone, at some point, needs.”

****

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Plastics

Around six years ago Abby was a couple months old and I was still trying to acclimate myself to motherhood. I had heard the horror stories: you’ll never sleep again, your sex life will die, you’ll lose your sense of self, you’ll always keep that extra ten pounds, and your nipples will harden and crack like dirt during a drought.  I was also given wonderful promises: you’ll finally feel complete, you’ll understand your true purpose in life, and the love you’ll feel will surpass anything and everything you’ve ever felt before or will feel again.

Every mother I met had a story to tell or an opinion to share and I was shocked when I’d look in the mirror and still see my own reflection staring back. Motherhood was not a total transformation, not for me. I still liked reading about 20^th century politics, I still cared about showering and combing my hair, and when Monty sneezed I was usually cognizant enough to say “Bless you.”

I was still me, more or less.

“Nobody ever talks about how hard motherhood is,” my neighbor, Eileen told me. She always had her youngest son, Atticus, propped up against her hip, and he’d tug on the strap of her tank top whenever he felt like a sip of breast milk, as if he was the customer and she the self-service buffet.

“Actually, pretty much all I hear is about how hard it is,” I replied. “I mean, of course it’s challenging, but I guess I was expecting the first few months to be worse.”

Eileen nodded her head while Atticus suckled. He was about to turn three, so he was huge, five or six times the size of Abby, who I held against my own chest. She was swaddled in a blanket and had just nursed, but I could hear her whimpering. Whether she was still hungry or needed to be burped, I was not sure.

“Well, that’s great. And the love you feel for your baby makes it all worth it. But you’re not at the really hard stuff, not yet. Like, have you decided whether or not you’re getting her vaccinated?”

We were in Eileen’s backyard, where they had a chicken coup so they could harvest the eggs. There was also a hand-built playhouse and I’d heard that Eileen’s husband had made it from oak. Eileen’s daughter sat in that playhouse, coloring on construction paper with crayons made from recycled candles. Crayola and coloring books, especially Disney coloring books, were not allowed.

“Umm…” I stuttered as Abby began to fuss more loudly, so I put her abdomen against my shoulder and began to pat, trying to get a burp out of her. “Why wouldn’t I get her vaccinated?”

“Because there are other options,” Eileen said, her voice rather soft. “And that’s the hard part. You have to funnel out all the sound and the noise and figure out what’s right for you and your family.

Atticus finished drinking his mother’s milk and pushed himself away. Eileen put him down, wiped her dripping nipple with the hem of her shirt, and covered herself. But when she looked up she saw that Atticus had found a toy lying on the ground.

“Atti, give that to Mama.”

“No!” Atticus stamped his foot, looking like a defiant little rocker, with his long, blond locks and black hemp t-shirt.

“Babe, that toy was supposed to be thrown away. Please give it to me.”

“No! I want it!”

Eileen’s mouth set into a grimace and she leaped towards her boy. He tried to squirm away but she wrapped herself around him and pried the toy from his grubby fingers. Atticus howled, bereft, like someone who’s just lost his soul. “But I want it,” he moaned.

She held out the toy to me. “Here, would you like it? I thought I’d gotten rid of all our plastic toys, but I guess I missed this one.” She waved it, trying to get me to take it. “If you don’t mind chemicals, you should take it.”

It was a turtle with a blue head and legs and a green shell. It had big, black eyes and a friendly smile, but the remarkable thing was the tiny baby turtle that rose from its back, identical to its mama except it was faceless, entirely green, and completely reliant on its mother for everything. There was no separating the mother from the baby; I couldn’t even decipher where one began and the other one ended.

Atticus pounded his fists on the ground, and then turned his dirty, tear-streaked face towards me. “But I want it.”

Top 2014 News and New Year's Resolutions

So 2014 is over and mostly I feel astonished that time goes by so quickly. Sometimes I want to press the pause button, and savor life while my children are young, while I know health and happiness. But there’s no such thing as a pause button for real life, and I’ve come to learn that adulthood is mostly is about savoring the best moments and getting through the rest. Meanwhile, there’s always room for improvement, always forward steps that can be made, so that the moments to savor will outnumber the rest.

Sure, a lot of it is out my control, but I like to believe that everyone makes an impact no matter how small, and before I write my New Year’s resolutions, I always look back and take stock. 2014 was just like any other year, I suppose, in that our mistakes were numerous and there’s still a lot to learn:

• The conflict in Ukraine caused thousands of unnecessary deaths, displaced millions, and now things between Russia and the U.S. are as strained as a long-distance relationship.

• The Malaysia Airlines flight 370 disappearance was tragic and I can’t imagine what the passenger’s families are still going through, but CNN went crazy with their 24-hour news coverage, and all the conspiracy theorists have emerged from the dark basements in which they live.

• Speaking of dark, the rise of ISIS is terrifying, but what’s even scarier is that we can’t resolve our own issues here at home. The heartbreaking deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, and the violent protests that followed, makes me wonder if this county has forgotten progress.

• Certainly, we ought to have the power of knowledge in this digital age, but the spread of misinformation during the Ebola outbreak was like a deadly virus itself.

• Oh yeah, the Republicans took over the Senate. I would have seen red if I hadn’t totally seen it coming.

• At least Obama is now free to do what he wants, whether it’s an executive order about immigration or laughing at Congress as they sue him over healthcare.

• Still, all this makes me wish for simpler times, like say, the 1980s, when Bill Cosby was the world’s best dad, life could be laughed at, and problems could be solved in 24 minutes while wearing a fabulous sweater.

What have I learned? What do I resolve for next year? Read on!

1. I will be brave.

There isn’t much sniper fire here in West Des Moines; okay, actually there is none that I know of. I’m lucky that I don’t need to hide behind a barricade every time protesters and security forces clash, and my little conflicts are silly in comparison. Still, if I encounter a student in need, if I am backed into a corner of incompatible opinions, if I need to stand up for someone who can’t stand up for themselves, I’ll do it.

2. I won’t rush to judgment.

Sometimes, backing away can look like charging forward, and raising your hands in resignation may be misinterpreted as an act of war. I’m not immune to jumping to quick conclusions so I resolve to listen to the people in my life and turn down the reactive voices in my head.

3. I’ll try not to panic.

The world is a scary place. Planes fall into the ocean and deadly viruses claim innocent children. While brave medical workers remain unruffled in the face of danger and sacrifice, others are blinded by fear. Maybe a hero is a person maintains their vision in the face of adversity.

4.When I lose, I’ll still act like I’ve won.

I mean, I won’t be obnoxious about it. But come on, enough already. There’s only so much reaching across the aisle you can do. Sometimes you have to surrender the fight but that doesn’t mean you have to surrender yourself. I’m looking forward to the next two years. A lame duck can be a powerful duck.

5. I’ll speak out when I have something important to say.

A woman shouldn’t have to wait to say what’s difficult until there’s a dozen other  women ready to back her up. We shouldn’t cower to the rich and influential, but we do. In my little world the rich and powerful include work superiors and bossy neighbors, but I resolve to remember that my voice can be just as loud as anyone else’s.

On this New Year’s Day, I braid my daughter’s hair, read a story to my son, eat crab dip with my family while watching football on our big screen TV, and lay my head against my husband’s shoulder as we pause, however briefly, to savor the moment.

The only thing left is to my keep my resolutions, and to wish you and yours peace, power, and perspective for 2015.