I stood on my porch talking to my neighbor about the terrible state of the country.  My computer bag weighed on my shoulder.  I shifted to one foot and listened as he confirmed that he feels the same way.  Then I walked down the driveway and drove to one of my favorite haunts.

Tucked in the back of the place, I eat a healthy dinner, scanning my e-mail and social media for the laments of others.  And for a little good news.

The wide window lets the setting sun sear into the place.  It warms me; the air conditioning here works a little too well.  I drink my Power smoothie and think about the chores that I will either do or ignore when I return home.  A sigh runs through me.  Before I park the car for the night, I have to retrieve a prescription.  Words fail me when I think of the raging viral battle that my body endures.  But I breathe.  A friend’s brother suffered a devastating heart attack and life support sustains him.  The deaths this week in Minnesota, Texas, and Baton Rouge stand as a searing reminder of how fortunate I am, how petty the annoyances which I must navigate each day.

I have survived another day on earth.  My son texted a picture of a smoothie that he made in the machine that I sent for his birthday.  Tomorrow I will have coffee with a friend and make a home visit in the afternoon for one of my GAL cases.  On Sunday, Jenna Munoz and I will meet to pick art for September’s Beer & BBQ Benefit for SAFEHOME and Rose Brooks Center.  Afterwards, I will lunch at Brenda Dingley’s house and see her newly cleaned closets.

I have no grievances.    It’s the evening of the eighth day of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life Continues.

Whether or not you believe in a divine entity, this song might soothe your soul:

PS22 SINGING “LET THERE BE PEACE ON EARTH”

On 05 July 1991, a Saturday, I felt a curious sensation in my lower abdomen.  I called a friend who made her gentle way over to my apartment, the tiny two-bedroom place to which I’d moved halfway through my first trimester, after the grim loss of what turned out to have been a twin.  My house in the mountains could not  be reached quickly by medical personnel.  I did not want to risk losing the surviving baby.

Paula rubbed my back and eased me into the waiting rocker. You’re in labor, my dear, she said in calm tones.  I could not believe what I had heard. My son was scheduled to be delivered two days later by decree of my doctor, six weeks early.  Why labor now?  What could be wrong?  I rose and paced while Paula dialed the medical answering service.

How many minutes apart, Paula asked, phone to her ear, doctor’s voice audible from where I stood at the window, holding my side, looking out into the shimmering summer air.  When did they start?  I had no answers.  We drove to the hospital.

I labored til midnight with the Irish midwife Maura at my side.  Paula stayed until they decided to stop the contractions, which they deemed “unproductive”.  In the morning, Paula brought clean clothes and coffee, and home I went.

On Monday the crowd around me included my secretary, her husband who was also my law clerk, and my friend Joshua.  His cheerful Nigeria countenance kept the nurses smiling.  My law clerk Ron clicked a camera every five minutes.  Laura held my hand and journeyed to the labor room with me.  She scrubbed and sat beside me.  She never once let go of my hand until she reached her arms out to take my baby from the midwife, at 12:50 p.m. on Monday, 08 July 1991.

Monday’s child is fair of face.

Twenty-five years, eight schools, two hospitals, a heart condition, a summer of visits to the Mayo Clinic, and a whole lot of laughter later, my son stands on the brink of his life’s next chapter.  Masters’ Degree complete; letter of intent for employment signed; he lives far away though not beyond the reach of a text message.

At this moment I sit in front of the oval make-up mirror on my desk, remembering another mirror.  I gazed into my reflected eyes holding that little pregnancy test wand with its Clear Blue indication that I was pregnant.  I knew that I faced pregnancy alone but I did not care.  I had wanted a child for as long as I could remember, and I had no doubt that this pregnancy, unlike the others, would “take”.

My child has given me mountains of joy, flanked with some mighty anxious hours.  My friends call him thoughtful, intelligent, and kind.  I can ask for nothing more.  I’ve received notes, phone calls, and e-mails from people for whom he’s done service or with whom he’s spent time.  A mother’s heart sings when her offspring goes out into the world and treats people with gentleness.  I would not care if he made his living digging ditches as long as he is happy, and treats people with dignity.  In that regard he does not disappoint.

I might have a lot with which to take issue in the hand that life has dealt.  But in the child that the Universe bestowed on me, I am well pleased.

Like many in the nation and the world, I’ve shed tears this week for other mothers’ sons, killed in seemingly senseless violence, apparently shot because they could not escape judgment based on the color of their skin.  That could so easily have been my child.  I’ve certainly had black boyfriends, men whom I respected enough to share a child, though fate did not take me down that path.  I have three black nephews, and the thought of their being so easily in harm’s way terrifies me.  But I am lucky, I say, with some irony.  My son is not black; he is white, and the several encounters which he has had with law enforcement have left him free and unharmed.

So here I am: A “boy mother” whose boy has left behind childish things to go out into the world and become a man.  A quarter of a century is long enough for him to shape himself.  He has done that.  In fact, with his quiet ways and thoughtful contemplation, he has also shaped me.  I am much the better for his example.

I’ve done my job.  I gave him what I could, what I had to give, though I view my offering as largely inadequate.  He has taken the meager stash with which I sent him into the world and given me back a bountiful crop.  I have no complaints.  He has done me proud.

It’s the eve of the eighth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Photo courtesy of Penny Thieme.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATRICK CHARLES CORLEY!

I read this in Stranger in A Strange Land so many years ago that I can’t remember when:

’Gratitude’ is a euphemism for resentment…The Japanese have five different ways to say ‘thank you’—and every one of them translates literally as resentment, in various degrees…English is capable of defining sentiments that the human nervous system is quite incapable of experiencing.

Heinlein, Robert A., Stranger in a Strange Land, Ch 1.  I subconsciously grafted the part about the Japanese without questioning it, though I later tried to substantiate it without success.   For years, I grappled with the idea that an expression of gratitude both invoked and bespoke emotions too complicated for humans to understand.  I wanted to be able to tell someone that I appreciated what they had done without hinting that I resented their ability to do what I could not, nor that I questioned the purity of their intentions.

It seems so simple:  I do something for you, without needing or wanting anything in return.  You indicate your appreciation.  Our dance continues without nuanced interactions.

But little of human intercourse actually flows without restraint.  You bring me flowers; I wonder what you want.  I fix dinner for you; you ask yourself, What did she forget to do now?  I say, I appreciate what you did, you expect me to gush, or use certain words, or pay you back by an action of equal merit.

It’s complicated.

Tonight I repaid a friend for three days of house-sitting.  I did not tell her in advance that I intended to do so.  We planned to meet for dinner, and when the check came, I snatched it away before she could flinch.  Wallet in hand, she pulled her brow into a frown.  I explained; and a smile beamed across her face.

She had done something for me with no expectation of repayment; and she accepted my offer as an act of appreciation.  She did not measure her house-sitting against my few dollars for steak pho and a calamari appetizer.  If she had, I would have fallen short.  The comparative nature of what each of us bestowed on the other did not come into it.

I did not resent her; I appreciated her.  Heinlein be damned.  A fine writer, but his cynical characters got this one wrong.   But I agree with this much: There are folks who cannot take an act of kindness without grumbling, without scheming to even out the balance sheet.  They sleep unsettled until they find a way to repay what they consider a debt.  Others settle into their recliners scowling; how dare that person have more wealth than I, and flaunt it to show their superiority?  Such unlucky souls see any courtesy as a deliberate effort to put them down.  Others interpret any thanks as an expression of resentment, espousing Heinlein’s small opinion of humanity.

I walk through the house turning out the lights, listening to the dog settle in her bed.  I wonder:  Which one of these sad folks have I been over the years?  I stand and watch the night sky at the back door.  I tell myself, Each of them, in turns.  I lock the door and leave the kitchen to go upstairs, grateful for the passage of time, happy that I’ve learned so much and come so far.  Humbled by the distance yet to climb; wistful — that in sixty years, I have gotten no farther than this.

As I dropped Catherine tonight and made my way to the Holmes house, Heinlein’s words came to the surface.  I softly chuckled in the quiet confines of the car.  When I got home, I found the Japanese word for “thank you”.    Old Robert H got one thing right — there are a lot of them:

ありがとう
Arigatou
Thank you

どうもありがとう
Doumo arigatou
Thanks a lot

ありがとうございます
Arigatou gozaimasu
Thank you (This is more polite than ありがとう Arigatou.)

どうもありがとうございます
Doumo arigatou gozaimasu
Thank you very much

どうも
Doumo
Thanks

ありがとうございました
Arigatou gozaimashita

This is a past tense version of ありがとうございます Arigatou gozaimasu. This expression is used when you thank for something that has been done to you, for example, you can say it to your teacher at the end of a lesson, or to your host when you leave a house party. Also the past tense version is the one to use when you write a Thank you letter.

すみません
Sumimasen 

恐れ入ります
Osoreirimasu

You can use すみません Sumimasen to thank someone when you want to acknowledge the trouble that someone has taken for you. What you’re doing is “apologizing” for having made someone go to the trouble for your benefit. (It doesn’t matter whether you asked/wished for it or not.) This is a form of politeness!

*****  Another expression that means Thank you in Japanese is 恐れ入ります Osoreirimasu. This is not something we casually use every day. Rather, it’s a very polite expression preferred by business people when talking to their customers.

For a longer explanation, see the site from which I took these HERE.

I saw a lawyer in court today whom I have not seen for a long time and don’t know very well.  I said, How are you, sir, and he replied, I can’t complain; you?  I smiled.  I’m smiling still.

It’s the evening of the sixth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  I have early Court tomorrow, so this blog entry covers the morning as well.  To my friends Sandy and Chuck:  Good day to you, my dears.  Hug each  other for me.  To my friend Catherine:  Thank you.  I appreciate what you did for me.

Life continues.

Ever the frizzy-headed gypsy girl.

I drove my customary route to work yesterday, albeit an hour late.  Along the east side of Broadway, the usual morning retirees strolled up the path near the fountain.  At the red light, I watched an overweight woman struggle to stay upright on a city bike.  She surrendered, jumping to the sidewalk.  As I moved through the intersection, she parked her bike in the docking station and continued down the street on foot.

Joggers flanked the mothers with their strollers.  At ten o’clock the heat index had already skyrocketed.  I saw a woman with her baby strapped to her chest.  She lifted her knees higher than the lithe young man at her side.  I drove by, silently nodding, thinking, Never could I have done that.  Way to go Lady.

Before the strip of park ended, I spied a homeless person with his cart of belongings.  He lifted a jug of water to his mouth.  Despite the fog of summer settling around him, he wore the weight of many jackets on his shoulders.  Even with that shroud he seemed insubstantial, barely holding any flesh on his bones.  He trudged towards the Cancer Survivor’s Memorial, pausing to let a pair of old folks  holding hands skirt around him.

I made the turn north of my building to circle round and park in front of the office, squeezing the Prius in between a tan Mercury and a Land Rover.  Its silent motor fell into deeper stillness as I pushed the power button.  I sat motionless for a few minutes, listening to the ringing in my ears.  I had been awake since six a.m. and had not yet used my voice.  My eyes fell closed.  I let the dullness of the roar inside my head overtake me.  The luxury of a long holiday slipped away.  My week would begin as soon as I opened the door.  I gathered my strength before reaching for the handle.  As I swung my feet onto the asphalt, a bird rose from the sidewalk and soared into the blueness of the summer sky.

Today my voice seems less rusty, more available.  I pad around the house, grateful that it’s the middle of the week.  I’m getting by.  It’s the sixth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

This early-morning, wild-hair selfie goes out to my friends Genevieve, Penny, and Rebecca. They know why.

I’m going to violate one of my son’s rules of writing and lay out my message rather than hiding it within an anecdote.

It’s no secret to anyone on the planet that I stepped into a depression two years ago and have been wallowing there ever since.  I remind myself that what I feel stems not from “depression” but “situational sadness”, what social scientists used to call “a normal reaction to an abnormal situation”.  Death, divorce, distance.  The three Ds of my life adding up to Doldrums and Despair.

Before all that began, I started down this public path of self-improvement, and I stayed on it.  I know this has led to some uncomfortable reading.  But I had determined to reach my best self.  My motivation shifted, but my determination never flagged.  So on I went.  My mood sank and I wavered.  Nonetheless, I persisted.

A while back, I posted the ten things never to say to someone facing tragedy.  Today I’d like to share “the best advice I’ve gotten for dealing with sadness and grief”.  “Get help” did not make the list, by the way.   Talk-therapy works for some.  I have tried it a few times over the last forty years.  For various reasons not worth recounting, it’s not my cup of tea.  It works for many, but not for all.  Nor did taking a course appeal to me, or joining a group.  I won’t belittle any of these recommendations.  If they work for you, marvelous.  Certainly, employ those techniques.  I recommend them to many of my clients.

So what is working?  Two things:  Water and exercise.  Yes!  Drink water; and move your butt.  I’ve heard these two admonishments off and on over the years from doctors, family, and friends.  I’ve even given the same advice to others.  But after the last two years of intense and sometimes maudlin self-reflection, I’ve decided that drinking water and exercising critically impact my ability to unleash my inner joyfulness.

I started drinking more water in earnest again two weeks ago when a scary cardiac episode turned out to be dehydration.  As always happens, my efforts tapered after a week.  Then last weekend, my son said, “Mom, are you drinking enough water?”   He’s big on water, that one. After a gloomy exchange, he texted me in all  caps, DRINK WATER.  I grabbed a glass and kept it filled all weekend.

As for exercise, that’s just common sense.  If we sit and stagnate, our limbs grow rigid, our hearts close off to the world, and our minds shut down.  I know about vitamin D and sunshine.  I vaguely understand that movement stimulates the production of endorphins, those natural opiates.  Perhaps the effect lies in the purely physical.  I think it’s more.  I think when we lose ourselves to the motions of exercise, our mind and whatever flicker of spirit or soul dwells within come to that focus as well.  We harmonize our being.

So here I am:  Effectively Monday, the first day of my workweek after the holiday.  I ache in every fiber of my being from yardwork, closet-cleaning, and laundry.  I pushed myself to add regular time to my stepper routine this weekend.  I drank so much water my back teeth floated.  I started the weekend in an ill-concealed funk which exploded on Sunday during a phone call with my sister.  But I pushed through.  (I give Joyce partial credit for listening.)

The Key to Happiness?  Well, find your own —  happiness lives inside of you, and only you can release it.  For me, drinking lots of water and moving my body enables me to quiet my troubled mind and let the rays of joy begin to  pierce through the muck that’s settled on them.  For you it might be dark chocolate and binge-watching chick flicks; or hours of reading Sara Teasdale outloud.  But the key exists; and you can find it.  Don’t look for your joy to come from outside.  It dwells in you behind a shuttered door that only you have the power to open.

It’s the fifth day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

My newly-weeded hostas.

When I consider the freedom afforded to me by the mere chance of my having been born to the daughter of a woman who immigrated from Austria and a man whose family came from Syria, I realize that nothing about which I might be drawn to complain matters.  Think of what America brings us:  Roads on which to drive; letters dropped in a box tacked to our houses; schools for the education of our children; clean water, unadulterated food, a helping hand at the end of a three-digit phone call.

Today none of us can complain.  Tomorrow, I might go back to whining about my foolish lot in life, but for at least one day, my tongue falls silent.  Thank you, America.  And God bless each and every one of you, wherever you are.  It’s the 4th day of July, 2016, the 240th birthday of our nation.  Life continues.

A READING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

In October of 2001, I had an oral argument in Washington D.C. on behalf of a client who then was in the United States Army.  He met me at the airport in full uniform, and took me to the Pentagon.  I did not have a camera and could not take pictures of my own, but many photos captured the image of the flag then draped over the Pentagon as a symbol of our continued strength in the face of our enemies.  I have not forgotten that sight, nor the incredible emotion which rose within me as I stood next to my client.  He saluted the flag and we remained there, for some time, in absolute silence.

Lady Liberty, Thank you. Thank you for everything you have done for me and for my fellow citizens.

Read the Story of the Pentagon 9/11 Flag Here.

All of us seek the company of people who will understand our essence and still love us.  We walk in varying degrees of fear that anyone seeing the truth about us will laugh in derision or hurl in disgust.  I am no different.

For Christmas last year, my son heckled me until I gave him a list of an assortment of gifts that  I really wanted.  A small knife, curved, light-weight, perfectly suited for my spastic hands.  A pair of soft bedroom slippers such as he used to purchase for me in his boyhood. I forget what else; a list of five or six came tripping off my tongue.   You know the type of things:  We won’t purchase them for ourselves.  When they wear out, when we cannot use them any longer because they have broken or stand in tatters, we secretly hope that someone will walk through the living room, notice the problem, and silently replace them.

Here no one walks through the living room; here no one sees.  My son came to Kansas City a few days ahead of Christmas and asked, What do you want for Christmas?  I shrugged.  I demurred.  But he insisted, so finally I told him.

It’s not that I cannot afford to buy a paring knife or bedroom slippers.  Of course I can.  Even if I have frantically put myself on a budget for a week or two, I could acquire those objects.  But who buys things for themselves without feeling guilty?  Someone might but not me.  Besides, what’s the point?  So i can open the package and squeal, You shouldn’t have, into the empty air of a loveless living room?  No, better to go without than have the stark reminder that without asking, without that out-of-town, grown son arriving on my threshold, no one would think of these small requirements.

So I padded around the house in an old pair of socks until that happy chance, and now, six months later, I still slip my feet into the lovely pair which Patrick gave me.    The exact kind I wanted, in a color which perhaps quite by coincidence, matches my favorite robe.

And someone got them for me, someone who wanted to do something sweet and nice, and who knew that it doesn’t have to be a large thing, or a life-long boon, or a grand gesture.  Just the perfect exact thing, and done not for any personal gain but just because I will be pleased.

Pleased:  Despite my deficiencies, despite my failures, despite my struggles, despite my grumpiness and my days on end of being physically incapable of speaking due to overwhelming sadness.  Despite the fact that I gave so little to my son during his childhood that I cannot understand why he does not resent me.  We have no wealth. He grew up without his cousins, without a father, with a mother who got sick all the time and never managed to earn to her potential.  How can he even want to do anything but run away from me?  And yet he does.  Not only does he continue to honor me as his mother, but he strives to find the  kindnesses which make me happy and do them at every chance.

Isn’t that what it’s all about, in the end?  Just this:  Human beings doing for other human beings; and getting it right.  Not buying an expensive gift to make the giver look generous, but searching  for the  ten dollar pair of bedroom slippers from Target, because the recipient wants them.

Our sons, our daughters, our wives, our husbands, our lovers, our boyfriends, our girlfriends, our mothers, our fathers.  Each of them waits in a state of eternal imperfection, for the moment when you reach out and do the one simple act which will calm their fears and ease their eternal fear of inadequacy and abandonment.  That’s all it takes.  Just that.  Nothing more.

It’s the third day of the thirty-first month of My [Never-ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Today Jennifer Oldham Bertrand, a local designer, posted a live video with advice from her son.

Say HI.  Smile.  Don’t stare.

Jennifer’s voice tells the story of her son being the subject of stares in a restaurant.  She gently reminds him that it is possible to be hyper-sensitive, to think people stare when they might just be looking at you.

But Winston knows, and I know, the difference between a stare and a look.

I have struggled with this concept for my entire life.  Just a few days ago, a girl of ten or eleven cranked her head clear around to gape at me, then leaned to whisper in her mother’s ear.  The woman joined the gawk-fest and my stomach dropped.  I usually suggest to children that they close their mouths and stop staring.  Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s not polite to point at people, I’ve been known to ask.  But this child’s mother behaved as badly.  I trudged away.

Smaller children cannot be blamed.  They will often approach me and pat my legs.  Do you have an owie, I’ve been asked, many times.  I bend down and thank them for their gentle touch.  I got hit by a car, I explain, even though that’s a bit disingenuous.  So always look both ways.  Their eyes grow wide.  I will, lady, don’t worry, they assure me, and toddle off.

It’s still difficult for me to endure stares.  I should be used to it, but no matter how thick you want your skin to be, the disgusted and mesmerized faces of people who stop to watch me struggle through a restaurant continuously sadden me.

How much worse must it be for Winston, who just wants people to say hello and smile at him?  I remember struggling down West Florissant on the way home from church.  My mother caught a group of boys behind us, swinging their arms and making monkey noises.  She chased them clear back to Jennings Station Road while I stood miserably on the sidewalk.  Just say hi.  Smile.

Excellent advice, Winston.  Thank you.  You listening, world?  Just say hi!!!  Smile!!!

Thank you, Jennifer Oldham Bertrand and Winston, for reminding us that it takes precious little to make a difference.  It’s evening, 02 July 2016.  I might sleep late in the morning, so take this as my Sunday message and have a lovely day tomorrow.

A MESSAGE FROM WINSTON.

It’s 10:30 a.m. on a rainy Saturday.  I have written my blog post, exercised, eaten yogurt (which I expect to regret) and sent a few emails, including one to Andrew Starr in response to his message about my son’s upcoming 25th birthday.  The dog has been let outside (first) but not yet fed as her dog food container holds only a broken pieces of food.  I have consumed 1.5 cups of yesterday’s coffee (the coffee bean canister reflects the same sad condition as Little Girl’s food storage bin).  I’ve consumed the last of the blueberries.  I stood on the porch in the rain.

On Facebook, I wished an old friend Happy Birthday and sent the same greetings to one of my nieces.  While I trolled aimlessly through the newsfeed, three videos caught my fancy and found their way to my page.  My legs tingle from eight minutes and 212 complete rounds on my stepper.  The NYT morning briefing held only drama and mundane references to sports events about which I have no concern, so I gave it a miss.

Two days before the anniversary of our Nation’s Declaration of Independence.  I know that I have been blessed with many things, including the amazing fortune to have been born in the United States of America.  The current climate worries me; I see no realistic option for a successor president, including the one I favor who seems less viable each day.  But my faith in our nation endures.  My belief in our system carries me.

Yesterday my neighbor’s grandchildren crossed the street to sit on my porch and tell me about themselves.  Abigail is four; Josie two.  Their older sisters, Madison (10) and Aubrey (14), held their little sister’s hands all the way over to my house.  I took them upstairs to see the drawbridge to my closet.  We played with my huge Lego collection, a leftover from my son’s childhood. They took turns on the Stepper.  Then they left, with two little hugs for Corinne.  I cannot believe that I never once thought to take a picture.  I hope they return.  My heart sang every moment of their visit.

My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining brings many moments for quiet contemplation. But I have no time for such indulgences today.  Closets wait to be cleaned.  My basement vibrates with clutter.  Cupboards hold piles of pictures shoved away for stronger times.  I’m here.  It’s now.  Life continues.

This morning my feet seem nimble, even sure.  I trod down the steps and let the dog outside.  With the kettle boiling and the egg cooking, I open the door to let the staleness out into its sister air.  The stench of my locked house mingles with the heady fragrance of the morning dew.

The news blasts into the room with tales of death and woe.  The times when I’ve been injured flood into my mind and I think, yet here I am, unscathed.  Lumpy, scarred, and tender but alive.  I pour the coffee and breathe the freshness that has found its way to the kitchen through the open door.  My life careens in plunging peaks and valleys but I march on, fumbling, weak, unsure but still going.  Talk of Istanbul, talk of Orlando, a photograph on Facebook of my friend Beth’s son who died from one vicious careless action.  There but for the grace, I think; and put aside my work for just a few moments to sit on the porch.  Gratitude overwhelms me.

It’s the first day of the thirty-first month of My (Never-Ending) Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

“There But for the Grace”
By Wislawa Szymborska

It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened sooner. Later.
Nearer. Farther.
It happened not to you.

You survived because you were the first.
You survived because you were the last.
Because you were alone. Because of people.
Because you turned left. Because you turned right.
Because rain fell. Because a shadow fell.
Because sunny weather prevailed.

Luckily, there was a wood.
Luckily there were no trees.
Luckily there was a rail, a hook, a beam, a brake,
a frame, a bend, a millimeter, a second.
Luckily a straw was floating on the surface.

Thanks to, because, and yet, in spite of.
What would have happened had not a hand, a foot,
by a step, a hairsbreadth
by sheer coincidence.

So you’re here? Straight from a moment still ajar?
The net had one eyehole, and you got through it?
There’s no end to my wonder, my silence.
Listen
how fast your heart beats in me.

Translated from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh