Thursday, April 16, 2015

Grief Story #4 contributed by Jade Sawyer

Fourth installment of the community grief story project.

Grief Journey
By Jade Sawyer

Thank you all for bearing
witness to this journey…
concentric, or is it a spiral? I know
it wasn’t linear.

The first huge bolder of
pain was coming home from school
to find no one home but my
brother, who was acting really
weird. It was obvious that he was
clueless as to how to explain what
was going on.

In pieces, like a torn sheet
of tissue paper, things were sorted
out to me. The state police had
come and taken Mom to the State
Hospital, not for what she did
wrong but for what she wasn’t
doing: a catatonic state where she
had just broken down and was no
longer functioning.

Back then a police person
had to transport and sign in a
patient. I would have told you she
was gone for about three weeks
but it was more like two and a half
months. I was numb, I can’t tell
you who cooked or shopped or did
laundry. The central hub of our
lives was absent and none of us
were very functional.

Three years later, my
father, the light of my life, had his
first heart attack. I heard
pedestals crashing. First Mom and
then Dad. I knew I couldn’t count
on either any more as main
supports. Dad rehabbed, even
played tennis but three years later
died from a massive heart attack.

The first time I was taken
to the daughter of the doctor, a
family that were strangers. I
FAMILY. The 2nd was the longest
40 minutes of my life.

Ironically, I was in the living
room of the house where my best
friend’s family used to live before
they moved. Gone were the easy
chairs and the memories of making
forts & having popcorn watching
Disney. No, this had formal and
cold d├ęcor, and I suffered a very
long wait. Once again I had been
dropped off for protection but
felt more like abandonment to me!

Finally my mom came in. Her
face matched the white drapes (I
knew what she was going to say and
how hard it was for her.) “Your
dad’s gone. The last thing he said
was, ‘give my love to Janie’.”

She became horizontal after
that. When I describe her that
way in a 12 step meeting, someone
will inevitably come up to me after
& say, “Thank your for putting it
that way. My mom was horizontal,
too.” Mom never really recovered
from Dad’s death. Friends & family
were there for us for a while but
support eventually falls off. I don’t
know who shopped, cooked or
cleaned. I do know that at some
point each day mom would cook
herself a steak and then not long
after eating, she lay back down on
the couch.

My two oldest brothers had
gone on to college and I eventually
had my license. My 3rd brother and
I would just check in as to who
most wanted/needed the car and
head out. “Jet” I used to call it.

Sometimes I still do that. Rather
than stick around until my
responsibilities are met as a
householder, I jet out!

I stayed numb for a really
long time. When I was in my first
summer school towards a master’s
in teaching, two of my three
brothers showed up at a dance
where I was celebrating my 21st
birthday. Gary, my favorite, came
in and I was totally exuberant and
just a little bit drunk. He asked me
to come outside and there was
Alan, #2 brother in the car. It was
a quiet, beautiful summer’s night
but it soon darkened with Gary’s
explanation as to the purpose of
their trip. They had driven all that
way to tell me in person that Mom
had died from her drinking,
complicated with the heavy
medications she was taking. My
oldest brother found her at home,
having passed a few days back.

Before Mom died, loving
adults had counseled me to “Go on
with my life, pursue educational
dreams.” I had stayed close by
home, turning down some schools
with more status but also more

My undergraduate school
was a blast. Fabulous teachers, a
full scholarship, and spoiled rich
kids who knew how to party !! I
would go home on weekends, check
on mom, and often borrow the car
for the weekend. Super stressful,
difficult classes gave way to
fraternity “mixers.” Lots of alcohol
and my sorority mixed with one of
the fraternities. Trust me I’m not
the sorority type but that was how
people found their niche, status,
and alcohol!

Now, I was to be careful
because sometimes my dad would
drink too much and at the end Mom
became a late stage alcoholic.

When I found cannabis, there was
a match made in heaven: stuff all
my feelings, enjoy music, dancing
and change from “a 3 to at least an
8”. The major stressors of my
senior year fell away and I was
able to maintain the grades I
needed as a scholarship student.

FAST Forward to 1984! I
decided (or God did) that it was
time to get clean. And in 9/14/2014 
I celebrated 30 years.

This is a big deal but I tell
newcomers just don’t drink or use
and don’t die!

In the 12-step community,
one both sponsors newer people
and has a sponsor. I’ve lost several
…first a wonderful woman with a
brain tumor that was cancerous,
MY ACOA sponsor. When I woke
up and started working AA, my
sponsor in that program died after
just a few years of our working
together. I just lost Mary TW,
who had over 40 years of sobriety.

As I age and grow in sobriety, my
own mortality becomes more and
more apparent. I try to simply
wear it on my shoulder, like a great

My best AA friend just died
three years ago and we were both
good teachers for each other. I
miss her very much. She thought
she had beat bladder cancer having
had a brilliant doctor construct a
new bladder for her but the
cancer reoccurred. A small circle
of us would meet at her magical
home in Cheshire and have
gratitude meetings!

The greatest privilege was
to sponsor a newly returned
woman, a “retread” as she called
herself. She found she had a brain
tumor after falling, and losing her
speech. She completed her 4th
step, one that can be a long and
arduous process, in 48 hours. She’d
always say, “love and light, that’s
all there is !” I got to sit with her
on a nearly daily basis post
surgery. I’ve never been clearer
that I was exactly where I was
supposed to be doing exactly what
I was supposed to be doing. The
tumor was in that area of her brain
where speech function occurs. She
became embarrassed and only
wanted her mom, myself and her
housemate, who was working full
time, to be with her, so I carried
mornings, daily.

Her surgeon got as much as
she could and then shared only half
truths with her post op. I let her
know closer to the truth, as we had
a pact that I wouldn’t dress
anything up. I didn’t share exact
things but did let her know that it
was likely that the tumor would reoccur
at some point.

The surgeon told my friend’s
mother, and a few of us, that
Marilyn would seem normal and
then after 6 months, go down hill
really fast. It was much shorter
than that- more like a month. I
was able to literally orchestrate
people from her church to come in
pairs, only five minutes each, or
less, to say goodbye and/or
express their love.


She passed the morning of
my expected return from a
conference at the coast. Her
mother, too didn’t arrive in time,
which her mom described as “just
like her.“ So many teachers have
agreed to come into my life to
bring their lessons and when it’s
time, they cast off their bodies.

I still miss fishing with my
dad, rowing the huge boat for him
as he said (it scared the fish
away), gardening with my mom,
reading the big book with Marilyn
and cracking up as we identified
with some of the descriptions and
characters - probably the most, my
spiritual connection with Susan.

What I know now is that
when I am missing someone, that’s
his or her presence. That they are
with me. Spirit has brought me to
here to CSL and the wonderful
teachings, treatments, and classes.
As Holly Near says in one of
her songs, “My past has brought
me brilliantly to here” !!!

Friday, April 3, 2015

Grief Story #3: My Grief Story by Jill Scheidell

Third installment of the Community Grief Story project.

My Grief Story
By Jill Scheidell

I have been very fortunate in my life to have my parents until I was 50 years old. 

My mother passed 4 years ago this July. She had a series of heart attacks and strokes starting 4 years prior to that. The heart attacks were first. Then she had a stroke while my dad was in the hospital for a knee replacement. 

She was so worried about that surgery. She knew a number of people that had bad experiences with knee replacements and my dad was in his early 80s. He had a heart attack after the surgery and was still in the hospital. He was out of the woods, so to speak, so she went to an evening meeting of a club she belonged to. She needed a break from the hospital and knew seeing her woman friends would be just the ticket. 

While at the meeting, she had her first stroke. Thank goodness she was with them and not at home alone. They got her an ambulance right away and she was taken to the same hospital that my dad was at, Sacred Heart downtown. I think this was the beginning of my grieving. 

I remember going from the 4th floor where dad was to the 6th floor where mom was for a week. Having to tell dad who was recovering from a heart attack that mom couldn’t come visit because she was admitted for a stroke was a very hard moment. I remember asking the doctor to be there in case something happened after he heard the news, we were all just speechless. My dad kept asking when he could see her. They finally wheeled her to his floor 4 days later and it was the sweetest reunion. She looked so disheveled and out of it, and my dad just held her hand and smiled, so happy to have his sweetheart near!

My mom’s personality changed dramatically from then on. She didn’t seem to have the ability to listen but she talked nonstop. We all knew it was from the stroke and the doctor told us to be grateful that this was the only change, as many people become paralyzed and bed ridden. She could walk and talk and function normally. But I missed the talks we had before, the ones with give and take. The mom I knew was gone and I was angry and frustrated. 

It got to where when the phone would ring my family would see it was her on the caller ID and not answer because she would keep whoever answered the phone for at least an hour. That broke my heart to see my family react in this way. The grandma they knew was so different. I tried to tell them that this was just a result of the stroke, and they understood but they felt like she was a stranger. I longed for the days before the stroke. I felt it was my duty to listen and give her as much time as she wanted from me. She had been such an attentive and caring mom, I owed her that. But it was very hard. No more heart to heart talks, just endless listening. 

I felt guilty, she was here but I wasn’t enjoying our time together. There were moments here and there where she would ask a question and actually listen to the answer, but it was as if her brain just couldn’t slow down to listen, she just wanted to verbalize every thought she had right when she had it.

She had a few more strokes until she had a final big one, and we were told there was nothing they could do but keep her comfortable. We agreed to have her stay in the hospital and pass away there. We never thought she would go first, my dad was eight years older than her. She lived for a week, they said she was gone and couldn’t respond or hear us. 

We witnessed a miracle when, one evening, my dad bent down to kiss her and she puckered up and kissed back. From that, my dad wondered if there was something more we could do. They assured us the damage was too severe. We made sure a family member was there round the clock. She passed away and left my dad alone.

From that moment on my focus was on my dad and his needs and helping him to deal with his pain and sorrow. He was a loner and didn’t keep in tough with friends. I was the daughter in town; my brother lives here but had many family issues going on. Among them a daughter on drugs who stole from family, she had stolen my mom’s wedding ring before she passed and pawned it, which really broke my mom’s heart. So I didn’t want to ask them for help unless I really needed it. All other sibs were out of town. My sister and brother-in-law in Medford were a big help when they came to town, and we talked a lot on the phone about issues. Other sibs were out of the state.

My mom had been the social one and planned everything they did with her woman friends and their husbands. I wanted to be strong for him. There were so many things she handled that he didn’t know about so we started to figure them out and I took over a lot of the tasks. He was so down it was easier for me to just do it. 

I kept telling myself that I had already grieved her loss because it felt like she had been gone for a while. I was kidding myself. I think I didn’t want to feel the pain so I just stuffed it down using the excuse of being strong for my dad. I also remember one evening around Christmas when my kids and husband were asleep, I thought, and I sat near the tree remembering the good times when I was a kid with my mom there and I just bawled my heart out. I was finally letting it out, and my youngest son who was about 12, came out from his room and gave me a big hug and said, “Mommy, please don’t cry.” I immediately felt I needed to pull it together for him. I wish I would have done it differently and explained to him that this is a natural part of grieving and it’s okay to cry and mommy would be okay.

My dad lived 3 years past my mom. He had hospice at home and it was a totally different experience, really beautiful. I’m so glad we were able to grant him his wish to stay at home as long as possible and not die in the hospital. I feel really good about the last years I spent with him, no regrets at all. We became very close, and I became comfortable with just being present for him and not necessarily having conversation. He wasn’t much of a talker. 

In the beginning I was always trying to fill in the space but I came to see he enjoyed just having the company. He was my step dad but they were married for 40 years and I considered him my dad and called him that. What a wonderful man he was to marry my mom with 5 kids. I am so glad I could give back to him at the end of his life. He used to apologize all the time that he needed help and I would say I’m glad I finally had the opportunity to do it for him. He really changed our lives in the best way when they married. He gave us stability, taught us about the simple joys of nature through gardening and camping, and was always there when we needed him.

I really believe that they are nearby and are angels for us now. I talk to them often and ask for help sometimes when I have an issue to turn over to the universe. Sometimes when I feel the need to cry but it won’t come, I watch the DVD we made for my mom’s service and that always helps me to let it out.

I have really appreciated this class; it feels totally safe to share everything here. So nice to have places like that. Thanks to everyone that was here and for sharing your feelings, comments and stories. I feel this is a great help, and I now realize that this will be ongoing. It’s like a wound that slowly scars, and the scar may get fainter but it’s always there. I want to apply what I have learned from Science and Mind and live in appreciation, but acknowledge the pain and offer myself compassion. I think it is a life’s work, and I will continue to work on it.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Grief Story #2: A Poem and a Letter by Julie Lunden

The second installment of the Community Grief Story project.

A Poem entitled
by Julie Lunden

He didn't wait for me.
I thought he was my buddy.
I hurried to be with him. Only him.
He didn't wait for me

They said, “He's resting. See him in the morning.”
A neighbor woke me with the dawn.
“He's gone,” she said.

He was supposed to wait for me.
Now, I'm lost.

My friend. My buddy.
My mentor. Gone.
Daddy didn't wait for me!

I have been lost these past fifty years.
Perhaps someone will find me.
Maybe I will find Me.

Dear Family,

Those many years ago, I didn't know what I was feeling beyond the shock of losing my beloved Daddy.

I distanced myself from every one of you because, as I now know, you all lied to me and then left me to flounder: confused, fearful, threatened, insecure. I've spent my entire life being angry at you—collectively and individually—for the lies. 

“Your dad is getting better;” “He is going back to work the first of the year.”

Instead, you, we, buried him in a tomb in New Orleans. I can still hear the coffin slide across the cement floor, a grating sound of solid against sand.

You told me, “Be strong for your mother.” She, and all of you, should have been strong for the children, for me.

Up until that time, January 1959, as a family you guided me, planned my life, provided security and guidance, were caring, and gave me a safe place to grow.

In the catastrophe of Daddy's leaving me, there was no one to take my hand, to acknowledge my sadness and confusion. To this day I don't know how I came to be standing outside the circle of mourners surrounding the “city” of tombs. It's too bad we could not have stood together, supporting one another in the love and spirit of C.B., father and husband.

Because of my feelings of abandonment, I left home--did not write, call, or make any effort to visit. I learned then I could not trust anyone.

Now—these sixty years later—I choose to believe and live that a family is a circle that shelters our pain and delights in our joys. We can laugh together, cry together, and just hold us together and become “strong, freer, and more powerful.”


Monday, March 23, 2015

36 Tips And Tricks For Writers, plus Why I Like Writing Conferences

First things first.

The best thing you can do for yourself, as a writer, is to WRITE.

Yes, yes. You've heard this a million times before, and I'm pretty sure the Universe will continue to send you this message. Eventually you'll start wondering why you aren't doing it, and you'll go ahead and flail through your next book project. 

It's worth it.

The second best thing you can do for yourself is invest in going to a writer's conference. I go to two per year, volunteering at both so that my cost is very low. Conferences serve writers in a multitude of ways. Different writers want different things out of going to them, and most are extremely satisfied with the results they get.

Here are the reasons I go to conferences:

  • Networking with other authors and "book people" gives me a sense of belonging. I'm with my tribe. This borderline euphoric feeling I get carries me a good four or five months before I'm planning to attend my next conference.
  • Networking with other authors occasionally rewards me with paying clients for my freelance editing services or manuscript reviews.
  • I get to serve my community through my volunteering.
  • I get to meet famous authors! Which, I have to say, is both exciting and fulfilling. And it really gives the famous author a kick, too! We're all people who crave adoration and external validation, after all. (Well, at least I am.) And, at the end of the day, reminds me that I'm an author, too. 
Gail Tsukiyama at the Wordcrafters Conference keynote address.

  • I like supporting fellow artists, and when I buy their books and get them signed, and spend a few minutes talking with them, it just really toots my horn. Plus, it reminds me that there is a person behind these books we casually download to our reading devices or purchase with a click off Amazon. Or even buy from our favorite independent bookstores. A person wrote this piece of art and put sweat and tears and time into it. It humanizes the experience for me and pulls me into the reading in a different way when I remember that.
  • I learn new stuff. Always. Even if it's just looking at a problem in a new way. Which is pretty cool in and of itself.
Case in point:

On Friday of the Wordcrafters Conference in Eugene, Oregon this past weekend, during the lunch program, fellow writers were asked to write down their favorite Tips and Tricks for the writing life. They were posted, quaintly old-school style, on notecards pinned to a cork board. I thought you'd enjoy seeing them. Maybe one or two will have a lasting impact on you and your writing life.

  1. Find your way, but WRITE!! [Editor's note: See?! I told you the Universe would bring it up again.]
  2. Recharge your batteries--attend Nanowrimo, Wordcrafters, Willamette Writers meetings. Talk to other writers. Listen, too!
  3. BIG FUNKY HEADPHONES. Even if you don't listen to anything, people are less apt to interrupt you.
  4. When at final edit, read sentences backwards. It will make errors spellcheck misses--as well as missing words--pop out. Otherwise, your brain fills in the right word and you miss it.
  5. Make a binder with divisions for each chapter, then write your ideas for each chapter on Post-It notes and file with the chapter.
  6. Write On! [insert "hang loose" hand symbol]
  7. Don't worry about it. Just get it down on paper.
  8. Read a lot. Take on the inspiration and write soon after reading a great one. Take on the song and sing, too. [sic]
  9. Write first thing in the morning when you're still kind of sleepy. Ideas will be less censored. Your editor will take less hold.
  10. Select a piece of music which really resonates with you, your current piece of writing, and play as you write, as a kind of theme. Inspiring music!
  11. Think of the worst possible thing you could do to your particular character and DO IT.
  12. When receiving notes or feedback, keep in mind the source (person) of the feed back. It may or may not be total crap. Or it might be just the idea you've been searching for; your key.
  13. Eight minute walk every two or 1 1/2 hours during writing.
  14. There are only TWO kinds of writing. Writing that works and writing that needs work!
  15. Drink and buy books!
  16. Give each scene a title, and use your software's table of contents to help you keep track of your scenes. Make the title as descriptive as possible.
  17. Get off your phone and Facebook. :-)
  18. See yourself doing it.
  19. Write your heart.
  20. Turn off the T.V.
  21. I like writing in the company of other writers. It forces me to focus and there is someone present to bounce ideas off of.
  22. Don't edit until later.
  23. Write a minimum of 2,000 words a day, but never on Sunday.
  24. At the end of each scene, imagine a puzzle piece. At the beginning of the next scene, imagine a piece that fits it.
  25. I listen to thunder storms on Spotify while I write. No lyrics or rhythm to distract me and I can block out dog and kid noises.
  26. Schedule my writing. I have a standing appointment with myself at 10 a.m. every Tuesday and Thursday. I write at other times, too, but I always keep my appointments.
  27. Journal every day.
  28. Pause during moments of passion to capture the feeling of the experience in words.
  29. Dial up the tension! In every scene, infuse it with tension. If in doubt, add ninjas or zombies...pirates are okay, too.
  30. Enjoy distraction to prevent concentrating too intently.
  31. Talk to your characters in print. Ask them questions. Count the words in the word count.
  32. Don't turn off the T.V.! You'd be surprised how the "perfect" word will pop up.
  33. Get in a writing group!
  34. Do not over-plot or over-edit on the first draft. Even if you think that your first draft is horrible, just get your thoughts down. You will have another opportunity to edit.
  35. For a time, become the character. Act as he or she would act, be in the places where the character would be, dress like the character.
  36. "Write drunk. Edit sober." ~Hemingway

  •  And lastly, another reason I love attending conferences is sometimes I get to see my own book on the conference bookseller's shelves. Bonus! 

Monday, March 16, 2015

Be Life! Be Alive!

This is the first in a series of Community Grief Stories I've collected from students in my Healthy Grieving class.  Please welcome Deborah Benson with our first installment. If you have comments for her, please add them below.

Death is to Life like the night is to the day
Birth is followed by decay                           
Like the day ends with dusk                           
So our bodies rust and turn to dust

Life is the day like Death is the night              
Like night flees by dawn’s first light              
Death is followed by rebirth                        
So the Universe is full of mirth       

Light nor Dark can exist without the other   
So neither Life nor Death can exist without each other                                           
At dawn we go to the Sky Father               
And at dawn we come from the Earth Mother                                                          
By that irony our immortal souls seem not bothered.        

Several months ago, I found a lump in my breast. The doctor who examined me last week informed me that at this stage, it is more likely to be cancerous than benign. Even after preparing myself, I find that I am sliding into grief all over again. And in that grief, the Muses have come to visit, gave me this poem, and left their sister, Melancholy, behind to keep me company late at night when I can’t sleep due to the pain in my breast.

I have had Parkinson’s disease for the last seven years. I applied a positive attitude to it as I came around to accepting it and what I had to do, the changes I had to make, in order to have a good quality of a life. It may have worked too well. I have come to appreciate life for the first time, enjoying it in the moment and savoring every day the sun rose like never before in my life.

So I am sitting here trying to find the silver lining to perhaps dying within, say, one year if the cancer has spread too far, in stark contrast to the ten years I had hoped for to keep walking under my own volition with just the Parkinson’s disease. It is hard to wade through the stages of grief as I try to face my own death coming so much more quickly and yet try to live what I have left of life to the fullest. At first, I felt that it wasn’t fair, but now I think that it just plain sucks. It is like crashing into a wall where the dreams I did have left were the first casualties, besides the books in my personal library.

When I speak of my anxiety over surgery and the treatments afterward, the phrase I keep hearing from others—“There will be light at the end of the tunnel”— only leaves me chilled to the bone, not reassured that I will do fine. The metaphor is far too close to that dark and long tunnel where I lead those lost spirits that have sought me out on Earth through to the Light. That tunnel is none other than what humans see in near-death experiences.

Perhaps the worst is yet to come—I will have to tell my two grown children that I am once again struggling with a disease, but this time I may die. How does a mother tell her children that she is dying? I may never see my grandchildren grow up unless I were to pop in as an angel to watch over them, but then the “I” that they knew, or could have known, will be gone, never to hold them in my physical arms. The greatest emotional pain right now is that I have never seen my second granddaughter and may not be well enough, or alive, to be there at the birth of my daughter’s third child as I had planned.

It’s not my death that I fear; it’s the letting go of such a rich and joy-filled life I have finally found that hurts so much.

Be life! Be alive!

~Deborah M. Benson

Monday, March 2, 2015

Grief Unites Us

I've been teaching a class on Healthy Grieving for the past month and today's class was the epitome of why I do it. And why I'll continue to teach this class at different places around my city, for different sets of community members.

Today was Essay Day. The assignment, two weeks ago, was to write their story down. We'd spent the previous four weeks telling our stories, and sharing healthy grieving tips, and talking about how other cultures mourn losses encased in rituals, but this time I wanted it written down.

For a writer it doesn't even need to be said that writing things down helps us process our emotions and figure things out. But this same catharsis and self-reflection is available to anyone who chooses to write down their thoughts and feelings about their grief, their mourning, and their loss.

Everyone in class opted to read their essay aloud and the variety was so interesting. Some wrote poems; some told their stories enveloped in non-fiction fairy tales. Some told theirs in chronological order; some read stories in the future tense.

One woman today even surprised herself with an anger she didn't know was there. She'd written her story in the form of a letter to her family. She didn't have any emotion while writing it, but when she read it, she cried. She cried for the little girl that had been treated unfairly and was made to grow up way too fast.

I've asked my students for their permission to share their stories with you. Each week--starting next week--I'll include a new grief story from among them.

It is my belief that when we read of others going through similar experiences as ourselves, that we feel a kinship. We feel part of a tribe. We feel less isolated.

And in a world of go-go-go, smart phones, and texting at dinner tables, we need all the tribe we can get.

Please check back for a new grief story each week, as well as my personal blog posts about gardening, permaculture, travel, or my author journey.

And leave comments! I love to read them.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Hand-written Letters

Today, despite wanting to work on my manuscript, Herbal Junction, I will blog. It’s been far too long and there are so many blog posts running through my head these days. I suppose that’s the good news. Eventually they will make it to the blog and all will be well.
I actually sat down to work on Herbal Junction but saw–as I uncovered a spot on my desk to work–a European glass dip pen I purchased for myself years and years ago. I love it. Cobalt blue, teal/turquoise, red, and a clear nib. It feels good in my hand, even if it is a bit scratchy when I write with it. The shopkeeper said if the nib ever bothered me or got too dull from use, I could take a bit of sandpaper to it. Maybe I’ll try that and use it even more.
Photo on 2015-02-13 at 09.56 #2
It had been awhile since I used it, and it was so pretty looking at me, that I immediately caved in and pulled out a green hummingbird notecard and wrote to my mother.
Photo on 2015-02-13 at 09.55
Emailing and texting are far more efficient, but I still love hand-writing letters to my family and friends. It was a rare and wonderful treat to myself to begin the work day, and I just wanted to share it with you.
Photo on 2015-02-13 at 10.02
What little luxuries do you afford yourself?
Leave a comment below. I address all of them.
Have a happy day!