Sunday, May 27, 2007


When I was in high school I was real active in the church. A big part of my life was the church. I couldn’t stand high school. If the surf was up, I was gone. I got Bs, Cs -- sometimes Ds. I graduated in ‘70. Integration had not occurred until my sophomore year in high school and my junior year was when black students entered our school. Lots of violence and fights - a pretty ugly scene. I was an advocate of integration, and became a target of white anger, of teachers’ anger. My graduating class was 250 more or less. It was about fifty-fifty black--white.

Our church was integrated because it was the only Catholic church in town. I remember in 9th or 10th grade, the blacks always sat in the black pews. There wasn’t a sign or anything. But anyway, the Monseigneur -- we got to church one day, and the front rows were roped off, reserved -- they were always doing that for the choir or something -- and during the homily he walked to the back of the church and escorted them up there and said never again. There were a few who left that parish never to return, but not many. Most people cheered. [Subject became tearful during this statement.]

I wanted to be a priest. So another parish priest and I became very close friends, and he told me that if I was going to make that decision, I needed to make it from an informed position. He taught me to meditate, we read parts of the Koran, the Bagavahd-Gita, of all these different spiritual books from all over the world , talked about them, discussed them. First time I smoked pot it was with him. Through him I met a lot of priests who were socially active. The Berrigans were active then. Some of them were fifteen years older than me, but somehow they had become involved. For whatever reason, he had seen fit to not ... He gave me strength to fight some of the battles I fought at the high school..I was working for true integration -- the ‘68 moratorium, we wore armbands to school.

I went to seminary and immediately had major philosophical arguments with the bishop. He didn’t appreciate my views on things. I lasted a couple of weeks. His was a narrow vision. Things like, in Catholic mass during the holy sacrament and the priest all of a sudden poof! turns the wine and bread into the blood and body of Christ, and I’m like, ok, this is symbolic, but no, they’re like no, we’re all magicians here and this is, really, the -- and I’m like, ok, let’s do a chemical analysis, here -- I mean, it’s not -- I can deal with that, that’s cool, but no, you’ve gotta believe that it is or you can’t be a priest. Pretty narrow.

I went to Thailand. My father got a job working [ ] there, and the whole family went there. I had graduated from high school, and at first I didn’t want to go, but he said if I went he could connect me with work. I needed money so I could go to college. I turned 18 in Bangkok. I had to register for the draft, and I tried to register as a conscientious objector, but I had trouble with that. Catholics aren’t exactly known for passivism.

I got a job working with kids in a summer arts and crafts, athletic activities thing -- I started going to monasteries and Buddhist temples and hanging out with monks. That’s where I discovered Buddha. I really got majorly attracted to it at that time, and in September when I went back to the states and going to school, I started really working hard on my conscientious objector status.

There was a lot of redneck activity at the college, not activism. It was a small school. We were demonstrating against the war.

I had friends in high school coming back in body bags. It was obvious to all of us things were wrong. And friends who would come back alive were just wacked out -- like this shit shouldn’t happen. In college, I met vets who had been over there and came back and were major screwed up or if they had their heads on straight, were wanting to organize marches and demonstrate against it. They were real militant -- the most militant anti-war people I met in college were vets. The coalition of people organizing were a real diverse group. There weren’t that many counter-culture types of people and we ended up gravitating together politically, socially -- the gay bar in town was a great organizing place because they didn’t want to go fight either. The vets and all the women-libbers I met -- a small core of people who had this one common theme -- plus drugs -- that brought us together. Not everybody in the movement was into drugs, but most of us were and it was a bond and one other thing we knew the government was lying to us about. We were able to see things more clearly. The media was all lies.

Being 16, 17 yrs old and having people you grew up with coming home dead, cousins, you know, you see them go off to boot camp and six months later they came home dead. I saw my parents as fairly empty --- work, come home, go to bed, you know. It just didn’t seem there was any depth. I mean, what good is our existence if we don’t make some positive change -- if all we do is muddle through, all we do is perpetuate what is already there, then what’s the good of having been here, if we haven’t some kind of positive growth. Ideally, when we leave this planet, it’s no worse off than when we came. To be so egotistical to think we’ve made it better is pretty lame, but most people don’t even think about it. I think the drugs kicked us out of our complacency. I think it showed us another reality -- a trite cliche, but true. When you can sit for hours on an acid trip and come out of it more clear minded than anyone could ever dream of, something has happened.

The drugs gave me strength some times -- to believe that change could occur. They whetted my appetite for spiritual understanding. That small amount of time I spent under the influence gave me such insights I wondered what kind of thing could I learn from a people who had been delving into their own brains for thousands of years -- what can they offer me. In Thailand I played around with opium a little -- and I started thinking there’s got to be a reason for this. If these people who are very spiritual occasionally use these substances for whatever reason and when I do I start having a calmness, a solidity of spirit I never had before, an insight, a vision -- then there’s something to it. It’s opening pathways that I didn’t know were there. I started trying to discover them on my own, through meditation, through diet -- all the other kinds of ways people have experimented with developing consciousness, or getting to another level. I’ve tried it all.

In college, I meditated frequently. I read, but mostly I had to work full time, going to school, being an activist. I never got C.O. status, but by the time I graduated the war was over.
I organized a huge march -- anti-war, anti-Nixon -- the biggest march ever in that city. I found out later the government called my father in Thailand and told him to rein his son in. I knew if I didn’t keep my grades up they were going to get me. The march was a huge success. They tried to stop it in a lot of different ways, but I got the ACLU to help us. You’ve got to understand that just outside of B--- there’s a small town by the name of L--- which the first two years I was in college still had a big billboard on the outskirts of town that said ‘nigger don’t let us catch you after dark in this town.’ It was the southwest clan capitol. Rednecks. We were young and foolish. We felt like this was where we were needed. When we were planning this march, a lot of us debated whether we shouldn’t just take the contingent up to A--- and take place in the big marches there, which were quite successful. But we decided to stay there.
In the African-American community on campus, they were mostly upper middle class and they were there to party, get their degree -- mostly as the first generation [of grads] in their families -- they were pretty straight. And probably somewhat afraid, remembering the early 60s demonstrations.

I graduated from college, built a camper on the back of my truck (1974) and drove all over the 48 states for three and a half years. I’d stop and work wherever. Two weeks, two months, whatever -- I laid carpet in NYC, painted houses in Boston, dug ditches in Florida, cut a lot of timber. I connected with Tall Mountain, a Navaho in Oregon on a timber cutting crew. We worked together on and off. He got me into the peyote society -- it further reinforced my belief that those substances used in the right way can really heighten a person’s view, improve vision. It was always an all night ceremony, we fasted before -- combined tea and the buttons.
I had started appreciating visual art being out west and around the Native American works. I had a canvas cover on my camper, like an old Conestoga, painted with all kinds of things. His brother had been killed in ‘Nam and we had a lot in common, and we were good friends. I wanted to ask him for a long time -[about peyote] but I felt it would be too invasive. So -- when the wind blows real strong you can’t cut -- it’s too dangerous. I was doing ground crew and he was a topper, and he trained me to top. On really windy days when we couldn’t cut, he’d climb up to the top of the tallest pine and tie himself on and yell and scream and then I started doing that. He said -- you’ve got to make sure you don’t drink anything for several hours before you go up, because you’re going to pee your pants, totally lose control. The tree tops would make a twenty foot arc -- we’re talking Ponderosa pines, or big Douglas firs that are probably a hundred feet tall. Doing it in a snow storm -- there’s no way you can experience a windstorm that intensely --- and, back to my Buddhism, you are so ‘at the moment’ -- there’s no past or future. We were just right there, every second. [What he appreciates the most about Buddhism is] ... to be able to be totally involved, to appreciate the moment, to find whatever strength and wisdom and goodness is there, instead of wishing you were somewhere else. I don’t think I’ve ever been so much right in the moment as I was with Tall Mountain. There is so much similarity between eastern religion and Native American. I went back with him a couple of times to the reservation and met his grandfather, and stayed with him. His grandfather lived way out in the middle of nowhere. He was a sand painter, not like the commercial stuff, but for healing. He let me watch a couple of times. Years later, when I watched the Tibetans do the same thing, I thought how trippy it was how many parallels there were in design, application, and use -- they’re both temporary and used for healing.

The peyote church has changed somewhat with the introduction of Christianity. There was a peyote society before the peyote church, the church being mostly christina. The heart of it was still there, which was focused on -- [be here now]

I’ve been to some marches [on Indian rights] and written letters and sent money. The trip was a wonderful time, just me and 2 dogs. I was working with state forest service up near Boulder and a log rolled over me. I tried to stop a log coming downhill toward my crew. I jumped in front of it and tried to stop it with a peavy and it just took that peavy and threw me back and rolled over me. I was out of it, they took me out of there in helicopter -- torn up cartilege, broken ribs -- I couldn’t work forestry any more, so I started substitute teaching. I had my certificate. I ended up taking some graduate hours in special ed and got a job working in northeast Colorado for a program - rented a farm house way out in the prairie and traveling around working for this cooperative of 13 very small rural districts. K-12 -- every kind of manifestation you could think of -- autistic from school-phobic to out of control, physical, emotional, sexual -- 72 kids. (‘79, ‘80, ‘81 -- every classroom had a computer, satellite linked -- these farmers didn’t want their kids to lack anything. The most phenomenal thing I’ve ever seen in education. I was impressed they were in their kids. I did that three years and met K--- at a conference.

We moved here . I kept working on graduate hours -- over a hundred -- in three different fields. [my thought process in deciding to live so far out in the country is that]... teaching is very draining. In order for me to be able to do what I want to do, it drains me emotionally. The only I know to replenish that is to be totally by myself, without anything extraneous going on. The woods is where I meditate -- I need solitude. I love where I work - in spite of bureaucratic problems, I feel I have more freedom and flexibility to be who I am and teach the way I want to teach. And that’s true of where I live -- to go swimming naked, or sit in my garden and smoke a bowl -- I can do that and no worry about who might drive up. Both of these things are very important to me.

Regarding spirituality, [in high school when I planned to be a priest] I was ready to be celibate. If one’s spirituality is not a daily moment to moment type of existence, then why ascribe to any kind of spirituality? If it’s not totally integrated into everything you do, then it’s a farce, a dressing -- not your core, not who you are. So yes I’m Buddhist, yes I’m a quasi-practitioner of some Native American philosophy, yes I’m Hindu -- I’m part of every teaching I’ve ever experimented with or read or appreciated -- If you can’t read a holy book and grow from that, then you’re not reading it, you’re just looking at the words.

Issues I’ve actively worked on in the last ten years: incinerator, helping raise money for people in Nicaragua while our government was trying to kill them, Native Americans for a clean environment, NOW demonstrations for reproductive rights, money to Greenpeace, Sierra Club, wrote letters, Amnesty International -- we were members of PFLAG -- I actively counsel gay kids because I know they often have nowhere else to turn -- we’re vegan -- no dairy, no eggs. That grew out of my Buddhist philosophy -- I first became a vegetarian in college, but I still ate dairy. then fifteen years or so ago I went vegan. It always kind of seemed somewhat hypocritical -- in order to keep a cow in milk, it has to get pregnant, and then you’ve got calves -- but then ice cream was real hard to give up. Now it’s not so bad, there’s rice dream and soy cheese -- kind of political, very much spiritual -- I couldn’t disconnect parts of it. Spirituality is part of my political activism, part of my dealings with the kids and other teachers -- If we cannot treat each other with generosity ---- the Buddha once said, everyone is enlightened except me, and they are all there to teach me something about life. It’s up to me to find out what that is -- some people are hard.

When I surround myself with kids -- how can I not be optimistic? The way I see is that maybe I don’t change their lives, but I at least allow them to see that there is someone who genuinely truly cares about them. It’s like the troubled kid who won’t listen to my advice -- it’s not like what I say or do is going to turn him around. I’m not so egotistical that I think I’m that important. My hope is that someone else down the road will give one more little pebble, and later, someone else, and sooner or later maybe they’ll have enough of those pebbles that they have something to hold onto -- at least I have added to and not taken away from. I really see it as very valid, because -- we all know we hear truths and the first time, maybe we say, oh yeah, right, but then the second time, maybe we say well maybe there’s something to that, and that’s true of all of us. Those things build up in us, and sooner or later they register. I love them and give me so much love back [tearful] Some of them have never seen unconditional love.

Occasionally I get on that list of Who’s Who in American Teachers -- two or three times -- I was nominated for district teacher of the year a few times -- not much official, but a lot of my colleagues express appreciation for how I reach the unreachable kids -- like, they see kids working on my projects after school, on weekends, who skip their regular classes -- that without that, they wouldn’t see these kids have any ownership with the school whatsoever. They become invested -- [discussion of art, civilization, and visual arts being the first thing a society does and the thing that lasts when everything else is gone.]

The drug war -- we can’t stand up and say look I’ve been smoking pot for 30 yrs and I’m still a productive member of society. As much as I wish I was as strong at meditation as I need to be to center myself, at this point the only thing that can get me to that point in any reasonable amount of time -- and unfortunately, time is an element -- is pot. I can go sit and meditate and become calm and centered, but it doesn’t stay with me nearly as long as if I go take a couple of hits and then just sit. Everything slows down. unfortunately, just like with so many things in American life, people don’t know what moderation is. I have friends who smoke 2 or 3 joints every day, starting with breakfast and it’s like, duhhhh --- you can’t function that way. I feel it can be abused. We can choose to use it as a spiritual element, or sometimes as a party element, but it’s the overuse that gives credence to maintaining the drug war -- I mean, who gets written up in the paper being arrested with pot -- the ones with guns, and money, and crank -- that’s what the unsmoking public associates with pot.

You can abuse sex, religion, alcohol, tobacco, your friends -- or you can use things wisely. Moderation. If you choose to engage in these activities, do it with some sense of balance. Of course, play is very important and pot can help even us hard working, serious people remember how to play.

Monday, May 21, 2007


Subject and I sat on her deck in a backyard shaded by an enormous spreading oak, surrounded with purple petunias and occasionally interrupted by the raucous cries of mockingbirds as they dive-bombed the family cat. Born 1954, raised in LR.

I graduated from high school in ‘72, so I was pretty young in the late sixties. The ‘60s impacted me in the ‘70s. The last couple of years of high school I would sit on the back steps and smoke pot, hanging out with the hippies -- my best friend was into that culture. When I graduated, I got married and moved away. My first husband and I went in with friends and bought land in Madison County [Arkansas]. We were very young and idealistic. We went back to the land -- that was our little commune. We felt like society was crumbling. We were born-again Christians at that point. We had been living together in a house in Little Rock, and we wanted to do something, but we didn’t know what. One of the guys who was living there had this religious conversion and came home and told us all about it, and we went, "Oh wow!", so we went in that direction for awhile. We decided we were either going to buy a bus and take off around the country, or get land. One of the women who was living in the house at the time met somebody who had some land up here, and we came up to look at it, and bought it. A real spontaneous thing.

We were looking first for whatever would come our way, but then, it was ok, things are pretty crazy out there [in the world] let’s go find a place out in the country and live out there.
Idealistically, in a very youthful idealist way, we thought we would live off the land, build a house, eventually clear land, have a garden, all that. Reality set in pretty quickly. We had no money, maybe a few hundred dollars between us. We thought we were going to buy eighty acres -- it was $75 an acre -- but after we moved in, we found out that the front 40 had already been sold, so we had no road access. We had to walk through the woods to get to it. We dragged lumber, built platforms for tents, lived in tents, dragged beds a quarter of a mile down a mountain -- in the rain, I remember E and I dragging this mattress down this hill and stumbling over a dead dog - we called that Dead Dog Trail, and that’s how we got to our land from there on out.

There were four tents, and we had this little area with an open cooking area where we did our cooking and set up housekeeping. There were springs around, and we would haul our water down. Everyday we’d haul one of those big igloo things of water down. It was a good thing we were young. It was a very hard way to live, but we were very happy. We loved it. Truly an adventure. We lived there through the summer until October, at which time this wonderful old man, Glen, who lived out there by himself came and got us and said you guys are going to freeze. It was cold at night -- we were driving into Fayetteville everyday to work -- the girls worked -- the guys were supposed to be building a house and we were working. So Glen came down and saved us, moved all seven of us into his house for the winter -- two dogs, three cats -- plus we adopted this other gentleman who had lived out there all his life -- another wonderful character. Glen must have been in his sixties at the time -- used to make moonshine, lived in the house that his father had built when they came from West Virginia -- it was a trip. He was great.
We lived there through that winter, made friends with the neighbors. I ended up with a lifelong friend who was his niece. I helped her with her chickens.

I think it became obvious after awhile that we’d never have enough money to build a house. We let go of that idea, then things started breaking up - people decided to go back to Little Rock to earn money, and ended up staying there and getting divorced -- we moved to Fayetteville and had a baby. Then we moved back out there, and lived in another little house out there for awhile -- in a house down below the woman who raised the chickens. Stayed there for awhile. Ended up finally back here. Being out there always felt right. It always felt true. Part of it. The Christian part got all convoluted, and I rejected it completely, and for a long time I didn’t have any spiritual faith at all because of that awful experience. It took me a long time to come back to some spirituality. The belief I had must have been a belief in nature, a connection to God and nature and what was real that never really went away. That was always part of what stayed with me -- still does.

After the marriage split up and I was living in Fayetteville, I became more of an activist. I was in school, and I joined ACORN. That’s when it was first forming here. I was a helper in getting that organized. A good friend of mine was the organizer. We were working on getting sales tax taken off food and drugs -- we were trying to get people into the organization. The main group in Little Rock had been working on poor people’s problems -- housing, jobs -- social justice. I also became a member of the board of legal services at that time -- partly because I was poor and there was stuff going on -- like, I don’t have any money and these people are trying to tell me I can do something, I can have some impact. I know at lot of my work then was because of how it would impact my life, but from that grew the bigger picture that ok, there are a lot of people out there who need help, and somehow if we all do it together, it might have some impact.

I was going to school, working two jobs, and had the baby. It was hard for her, and it was hard for me. I wanted to go to school. I had never considered college when I was in high school, because my parents were such a mess, and I knew that wasn’t a possibility for me. At that point in my life, I wanted to figure out what I wanted to do. I went for a couple of years -- the government was very helpful -- as a single parent, they put me through school -- paid for day care, helped with housing -- that was my consciousness then, like oh, there are programs that can help people help themselves. Then after a couple years in school not really knowing what I wanted to do, I went into the two-year nursing program. It was very intense, but wonderful, and for me, on a personal level, gratifying -- I was a good student, I found out I was good at science, and that I could organize myself and learn how to be a professional. I had always thought I wasn’t good at science, but I found out I loved botany, biology, anatomy and physiology -- it was something I could grasp, not like quantum physics or something -- you could remember it -- how the body works -- I loved knowing that -- it was miraculous to understand some of that. But I never wanted to be a nurse -- never -- it was a career -- I could support myself and my daughter, which is the reason I did it. It was a shame in some respects, but it was realistic.

I met E right before I graduated. I had always wanted a good relationship. My daughter was five when we met. I started nursing about the time we decided to stay together. I worked the first year in oncology -- I was charge nurse 3-11, one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. I didn’t realize until I quit with an esophageal stricture from stress what it had done to me. At the time, I just put one foot in front of the other. I learned nursing skills I probably wouldn’t have learned anywhere else, and it was amazing in the perspective that it gave me, and I cherish it to this day because I did see several people die, remarkable people, a remarkable experience. My job was to push morphine, keep them comfortable, relieve their pain. The connection with those people was amazing, to see how people rise to the occasion when they’re dying and who they become. It was phenomenal. I can remember several patients very clearly. For the most part, I can’t remember anyone whose spirit didn’t come through for them. It was more enlightening than depressing, although it was sad to see people have to suffer the way they did. But in the midst of their suffering, they gained something they might not have any other way.
At the moment, I’m reading the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, and whenever I read it, I remember those people. I keep coming back to what that experience was for them.

I got pregnant, stayed home, and had K--. When she was 4-6 months old, I went to work at City Hospital, very part time. Geriatric -- a real eye opener. Some people I’ll never forget, and a good perspective on aging and how hard it is for people. Nursing can make you kind of bitter, or it can open your eyes to the way people are and you can see the goodness. I think mostly that’s what I took from it. I came to the understanding that I’m not a floor nurse. I don’t deal with sick people well, not a real caregiver type, but what I came around to in nursing was that I did like the science of it, and I ended up in surgery. You put them to sleep and you do all the mechanical stuff, and it was fascinating. That’s where I ended up spending most of my time in nursing.

I got involved in fighting a disposal incinerator at the hospital, because I had a child in day care there and the incinerator was right next to the day care. The stack wasn’t very tall, and they were burning stuff while the kids were out on the playground, and I figured this couldn’t be good. It seemed to me a silly situation. Why didn’t all the hospitals get together and have one incinerator somewhere away from people -- I mean, weren’t they polluting the air in the city where they had to live and try to keep people healthy? It seemed crazy to me. And didn’t they need scrubbers and all that? When I started looking at all the paperwork that had been done, and all the legalities, it was just that they slipped through a crack that enabled them to do it that way which was really stupid. All I was able to do was get them to raise the stack and quit burning during day hours. I had the soil analyzed at the day care, just to make sure there weren’t dioxins in it. The soil analysis came back ok, and that appeased me a little bit, but it still seems like a dumb thing.

My biggest involvement has been raising three kids, both of us working. We kept land E had in Winslow, and we worked on it when we had money to spare, went there with the kids to spend the night and hang out. That’s always been part of keeping sanity in our lives. We had our mid-life crisis together, he got out of real estate, I got out of nursing, and we opened a coffee house. That was pretty much out of the blue, not something we ever thought we’d do. I was burnt out with nursing - I was working full time in surgery, and what I realized was that I couldn’t strike a balance -- I was on call, would work all night, and have to go back the next day. I had one shift where I had a realization. I had worked all day, all night -- about 22 hrs straight - my final surgery was with a skin retrieval team from Little Rock who came up to work on this cadaver and take the skin off of it, after I’d been up for nearly 24 hrs, and I was by myself with them in the room because the patient wasn’t alive, so you don’t have to have a support team to keep them going, so it’s just me and these two guys skinning this patient, and I’m thinking this is the twilight zone. I don’t want to do this anymore - this is too weird for me. I’m going to do something else with my life. That was some sort of turning point.

So it took awhile, but we opened the coffee house, which was very energy and time consuming, and then we had trouble with our landlord, so we opened another place, sort of to protect ourselves, and it’s kind of gone from there. Once we opened a business with our name on, it was a wonderful opportunity to become involved, because people thought differently of you somehow -- I’ve never wanted to be in a spotlight -- but Friends for Fayetteville grew out of an awareness of several people at once -- serendipitous -- oh, Fayetteville is growing, things are changing -- we didn’t like some of the stuff that was going on and thought we might have an impact -- if we could get together and talk about it.

The original people involved were planners, architects -- people from the university -- activists that had lived here a long time, who had seen the changes and saw the direction things were going and were concerned, didn’t want to lose what we had here -- we’ve addressed traffic, widening of streets, where the main arteries will be -- how you want things to grow and develop -- we got tagged as an anti-growth group, which is not true, because it’s obvious things are going to grow. You can’t stop it, it’s just that you want it to go well and be planned, maybe leave a few trees, keep it a nice place. We had community meetings where specialists would come and answer citizens’ questions about what could be done, how things had been done in other places - we researched other cities that had a lot of codes, like Boulder and other small college towns that had grown a lot, to see how they had done things -- like making a green belt along the by-pass, creating an overlay district, which brought all the property rights people out of the woodwork and started an uproar, which seemed pretty unnecessary, but I guess that’s how politics work. The extremists pop out on both sides, and something in the middle will happen. We were a good mix, able to work together. We’ve always been an inclusive group and that was always the goal -- we’ve been able to get a lot of help. The city government was grateful, because there had been no citizen group speaking for planning and doing things well.

I am very hopeful because of my kids, because of kids I’ve seen come thru the coffee house, customers and people I’ve met; there’s good stuff going on out there, good kids that we’ve raised. I’m really proud of them, I think we’ve done a good job -- they’re our hope. For example, my oldest daughter - she is a very spiritual person in a way that I really respect, in a very realistic way, and has a lot of energy -- she’s going to do something. I’m not sure what, but I’m sure she’s going to do something. She’s very centered. I think what we’ve done for our kids is raise them respecting them for who they are, empowering them --- we didn’t necessarily get that [as kids]. We had to find it. Once we got it, we understood that’s what needed to happen. I think we’ve done it. Lots of my friends have just wonderful kids. If there’s any hope at all, that’s where it’s going to come from.

The other part for me is that I’m really personally hopeful because I have found some spirituality for myself -- it came from a lot of trial and error and fire, letting everything go, thinking it was all a bunch of bunk, and then coming back around to it -- it’s been honestly attained, not because somebody told me how to believe but because I got it myself, and I trust it. I believe that what matters is what we put out there, and that we can choose to approach things from a negative viewpoint and think that this is bad, and there’s all these bad things going on, or we can choose to see things from a positive point of view, look at the good stuff that’s going on and if you’re putting the good energy out there, it’s going to add to what’s already happening. It’s a choice -- we can all make a choice about how we look at the world. If enough people choose to look at it in a positive way and have an impact and make change, I don’t think there’s any limit to what can happen. There’s so much good stuff out there. I see such a potential for good things to happen.