#i usually only use my kindle for traveling to cut down on packing weight so it's always harder to judge the length of a book

[valoisfulcanellideux]

I've been re-reading These Stones Remember over the past few days, because I'm part of a fanfic server that hosts weekly snippet reading and commenting exchanges. Usually these are only for works-in-progress, but because the server's celebrating its 5th anniversary the snippets for July can come from a completed work, so I wanted to use something from TSR.

I've already chosen my full snippet (maximum of 4,000 characters allowed, which is two standard Discord messages or one Discord Nitro message) and people who know me will probably know which bit I've picked, since I've mentioned several times that it's my favourite piece of description in the whole story. (Yeah, it's that bit where the Great Caravan settles on the plains, with the ponies and the bucolic descriptions of the countryside. God, I love that section so much.)

But, we also have a one-sentence snippet day, and that's been a lot harder to narrow down, hence the re-read. I think I have the sentence I'm going to use, but in doing so I've come across so many other things that - thanks to well over a year now having passed since I wrote that fic - have left me thinking, Damn, I was really cooking with that! xD

I just got to the following section (behind the cut) and yeah. I really love this little bit.

Comfort was something he had learned to live without, through long years of wandering the world. He had bedded down for the night in hay lofts, in hedges, in shallow caves, in the arms of trees and at the feet of cliffs. He had struggled to kindle small campfires in the heavy dampness of fog, and fought to keep them alive through storms. He had weathered heat and dust, flesh-scouring sandstorms and soul-soaking downpours. This modern world had ruined his tolerance for suffering, had made him soft; the complaining of his back at sleeping on the hard-packed ground of the savannah told him that much, as did the pleasure he felt in having something as simple as a bed to sleep in. His had always been an itinerant life, even when he had appeared settled to all around him. Through all his years of teaching, he had lived out of an old camper van parked outside the homes of various acquaintances, with their blessing; showering at the university’s gym facilities, cooking on a small paraffin stove, and marking papers at night by the stored light of a solar lantern. He told himself that this was perfectly normal for a man born to those of a nomadic race. His people had travelled the desert before resting awhile at the Anthill. They hadn't intended to remain there for more than a few months, but then the Great Conduit was unearthed, and the Vigil had revealed itself. His people sank their roots into the hot sands, found a footing, and a home. What was it about the thought of having a place to call home that suddenly pulled so strongly at him? He had walked away from the only home that he’d known, undeserving of its comfort and unworthy of its shelter, the weight of the wrongs he had done bowing his shoulders and bending his neck. Unable to bear the gaze of his people, he had shamefully slipped away in the night, fully expecting the world to have ended him after a few days under the punishing sun, with no water or food. But the world had other ideas. It let him continue. It let him endure. It let him live an eternity with the knowledge of what he had done.

[maximoffvizh]

fic: running in the shadows

"I was raiding your campsite when I realized you have no food, do you maybe wanna come with me? I have lots of supplies" Zombie AU - prompted by @visionofscarlet​

The moonlight is silvery and sickly, breaking through the bare branches of the trees, shadowed into claws on the silent ground, and Wanda clutches tighter at the knife in her hand, holding her breath as she runs through the usual mental checklist of her supplies. Water in her backpack, enough for another two days before she has to travel to the river to restock. Food packs, enough for at least another two weeks, more if she’s careful about when and how much she eats. Bullets in the same beaten up matchbox. Gun in the holster at her hip, knife in her hand, another in her boot, another strapped to her thigh. First aid kit running low on bandages, but she scored another jar of anti-bacterial rub in that trade with Quill’s gang. Another gun was a small price to pay for being able to keep her wounds clean.

Cocking her head into the wind, listening, she can’t hear anything shambling in the dark, and dares to look around. By the moonlight, she can see the faint silhouettes of the city behind her, the crumbling buildings waiting for her. Whipping her head around at the small sound in the distance, she sees a faint billow of smoke against the stars, and curls her fingers around her knife, unsheathing it. Some other poor soul stupid enough to light a fire in the middle of the night and signal every smart individual for miles around.

Moving as silent as the shadows, she runs through the skeletal trees, stopping every so often to listen for the sound of shuffling footsteps, and reaches the knot of trees where the smoke is shimmering against the sky. It’s a good location, she has to grudgingly admit that. Downwind, near enough to a small, shallow pond that there might even be a chance of catching fish, and open enough to escape quickly. If only the poor sod wasn’t stupid enough to light a fire and open themselves up to raids.

There’s no one sitting in the camp, and she moves around the fire, enjoying the flickers of warmth over her skin. Making a mental note to search for more clothes, now the winter’s coming. She’ll avoid lighting a fire if it kills her, even the soft crackle of the kindling reminding her of the wild eyes of the creature that tore into the centre of the camp, her shaking hand sending the bullet in a wild curve, Pietro’s hands around an axe suddenly losing their grip, the sickening crack of his head against a rock when the creature tackled him, and her own screams when she watched rotten, yellow teeth rip into her brother’s chest.

Next to the tiny tent is a backpack, a dark blue that blends in with the night, and she unzips it, picking through the weapons inside. A slingshot, a pistol, a knife, and an assortment of rocks. She takes everything, making space in her own pack for it, sure that the slingshot will be useful for hunting, and even if she doesn’t use the knife she can trade it for more bandages the next time she comes across a gang.

The first aid kit is pitifully bare, only a few band-aids and a bottle of ibuprofen that chokes up a scant few pills inside. It seems almost too cruel to take so little, and she sets it aside, picking through the pack for food. Finding nothing, a few crumbs clinging to the lining, an empty can of beans, the silver edge jagged, probably cut open by a knife. Not a single piece of food, or any water bottle.

Her body seems to sense the sound before she hears the snap of a twig, and she pulls out a knife and spins to hold it at the throat of the man behind her. He drops his armful of twigs with a cry of shock, his eyes wide and trying to focus on her hand, and she pulls out the gun and presses it to his stomach. “Not a sound,” she hisses, and he nods, eyes gleaming with the threat of tears. “Who are you?”

“I...I...”

“Hurry up, tell me who you are and what you’re doing here, or I slit your throat and take over this lovely little campsite,” she snaps, and he lets out a whimper when she presses the blade harder into his throat. “Who are you?”

“I’m Vision,” he whispers, blinking at her, a tear spilling over and leaving a silvery trail down his cheek. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“What does it look like?” she asks, and he shakes his head, fear in his eyes. “I’m raiding your camp, princess. You’re pitifully unprepared. A slingshot, a few band-aids, and no food?”

“I got attacked by a gang last night,” he says. “Some big guys with guns. They took most of my weapons and all my food. I tried to scavenge the store in the last town, but there were...” He shudders, and says, “those things. I just found some stale crackers right by the door and ran.”

“Are you travelling alone?” she asks, releasing some of her grip on the knife, a thin line of red left behind on his pale skin. He’s too thin, she can tell just by looking, even though he’s wearing plenty of layers. “And tell the truth. Is there someone out there pointing a gun at me?”

“I’m alone,” he says, voice hitching over the syllables in emotion. “Are you?”

“I make a point of travelling alone,” she says, and lowers the gun, though she keeps the knife pointed at him. “Why aren’t you in a group? Seems like you’re not doing that great by yourself.”

“I...we were living up at a farm outside the city,” he says. “I’m not really a fight, but up there...there was a hospital nearby. I was a doctor...before. And we could get medical supplies and grow our own food and I was researching. I thought maybe...there could be a cure. But...two weeks ago the...the creatures came. They killed everyone. I barely got out, and I just kept running.”

“Where are you heading?” she asks, and he glances away from her. “Tell me. Give me a reason to not just leave you out here. That smoke will draw someone else to you before morning.”

“I...I heard about a place in the mountains,” he says. “A fortified compound. And they’re looking for doctors to help. I...I’m trying to get there.”

“I give you until tomorrow night before you wind up dead and left for the creatues,” she says, and he winces. “Maybe I’ll leave you with your slingshot. You need all the help you can get.”

“Where are you going?” he asks, and she can’t help but shiver. Thinking about the times when she had that dream, when she wanted to get to the fortified compound, when Pietro insisted they would make it. Up until he held up his bitten hand, a plea in his eyes, and she raised her gun to his forehead and pulled the trigger.

“Nowhere,” she says, and pulls the knife away from his throat. “I’m just trying to survive.” She sighs, and pulls the slingshot out of her pack again. “Take it. Maybe you can learn to shoot squirrels and get yourself some meat. You’ll die when the cold hits if you don’t put on some weight.”

She starts to walk away, but some twinge of guilt makes her glance back at him. Trying to add the twigs to his fire, sad face lit by the flames, and she sighs and turns back. “I can get you out of the gang territories,” she says, and he looks up at her, eyes suddenly lighting up. “I got a friend who leads one. He’ll trade us in some medicine, maybe some food, if we give him weapons. He’s tough but he never stiffs on a trade.”

“You’d really take me with you?” he asks, awestruck. “But you...you really seem like you know what you’re doing! Are you really offering to...protect me?”

“Gods know why, but yes, I am,” she says, and he smiles. It makes his eyes light up, blue like the summer sky she hasn’t had time to enjoy since she buried her brother and ran before her anger drove her to murder the family they’d been trying to guide. “Put that stupid fire out and get your pack. We can get back to the city borders by morning and sneak in at the guard change.”

“Thank you!” he says, all enthusiastic like they’re not living in the middle of the apocalyse, scrambling all his belongings together. “Oh my goodness, thank you! I know you’ll be able to get me to the compound! Then I can help!”

“Keep dreaming, buddy,” she says, slinging her pack higher up her shoulders. “By the way - my name’s Wanda.”

[wolfsgravity]

aaaaaa semi-coherent self-insert stuff below. watch me be unable to keep a tense throughout because I have dumb bitch disease and don’t feel like heavily editing

A number of years has passed since the fall of Demise, and the Surface... no, Hyrule, I must remember that name now... is a beautiful, prosperous land. I am of the first generation born in this newly reinhabited land; my parents hailed from Skyloft which sits above the highest clouds. I can’t imagine such a world. I enjoy the land beneath my feet. My parents, now advanced in age, often speak fondly of giant birds and endless sky, but I feel fond of the wildlife and the forest around me. Stories say that Hyrule stretches into far mountains and vast desert, but I’ve never traveled too far out of my village. It’s small, right on the edge of the forest proper, and everyone has a role to fulfil. I act as a fill-in for tasks that require more hands on any given day. I’m not the best at many manual tasks, in fact I’ve been shooed away from farmlands when offering my help, but people do enjoy my company for the sake of talking. I’ve been told I have a heart with the kindness of Hylia herself, and I’ve chastised many who have said so. I do not wish to be compared to the Goddess or Zelda, I’m just a simple Hylian that likes to lend an ear and a hand wherever I go. Maybe the storied history of this land wouldn’t be so fraught with danger if more beings were so compassionate.

Today, I am searching the brush in the forest for tinder in order to kindle fires. I am on my own for this one, having decided with my friend that more land covered would bring more firewood. We separated early in the morning, and now the sun was near its zenith. I had no way to tell how far I’d gone into the woods, and the voice of reason in my head told me I should be wary. The land was still half-wild, and I was not the most fit for battle or survival in a pinch. But a whisper in the wind told me to keep moving. A darker thicket lay ahead of me and, with only a ember of fear in my heart, I headed towards it. Denser trees meant more fallen branches, I reasoned.

I squeezed through a pair of trees, silently bemoaning my size as my tunic got caught on some bark. My village was plentiful with food, and I never could turn down a kind invitation for a shared meal. Most Hylians were pretty slim, I had to admit, but nobody seemed to treat me differently for my size, except to comment how popular I must be to share in so many meals. It was always in good faith. Carefully, I un-snagged my clothes from the tree so as not to tear them. 

It was then that my ears, attuned as they were, heard something unusual. It sounded like a groan, maybe? It didn’t sound like an animal, it sounded like a person in pain. I wasn’t sure who would be out this far into the forest, but my mind’s eye imagined a neighboring Hylian having lost a battle, or an intelligent surface species in pain, so I rushed forward without hesitation, not taking note that the trees that had been so tightly packed suddenly spaced out to a much more open configuration merely steps into the thicket.

Within minutes, I reached a concave section of otherwise flat land, curving down to... I wasn’t sure what to think of what, or rather, who I saw.

I quickly took note of several things at once; this at least looked like a person, with skin like alabastor for most of what I could see, but they were curled up with their knees to their chest. On the side they laid on, their hair partially covered their face, obscuring their eyes and nose with just a hint of their even paler lips peeking out. As I was approaching the crater, my soft shoes made little noise, but I brushed against some dried leaves near the mouth of the hole.

Like a wounded beast, the person in the center shot to alertness. With astonishing quickness, they stood to full height, eyes sharply taking me in. I was frozen.

“Who dares approach the Demon Lord Ghirahim?” the being, I would assume being Ghirahim himself, asked. Cold rushed into my limbs-- demons had been driven out after Demise, hadn’t they? My mind went into reflexive mode. 

“Remee. Remee is my n-name.”

The demon’s dark eyes, black in the shade of the trees, took me in with both cold calculation and fiery determination. He was silent, and I looked away from his face to get a good look at what might be the last being I saw. 

His skin was mostly a light grey, but his arms were pitch black. Jagged lines of the same darkness seemed to reach across the exposed regions of his body, like some sort of spreading disease. He was dressed very strangely, the white clothing was tight to his skin and exposed enough to almost be indecent by Hylian standards. There was something at least a little beautiful about his outlandish appearance.

“You’re lucky to get so much of a glimpse at my radiance,” he stated, making me tear my eyes back up to his face. He looked torn, but between what I couldn’t tell. “You were polite enough to answer my question, which gave me pause. I should have slaughtered you on sight.” I gulped, the cold fear in my arms and legs spreading futher into me. “You’re one of those...” he snarled his next words, malice dripping from his tone, “sky inhabitants.”

I shook my head before I could reasonably stop myself. Why was I trying to argue with a demon? But Ghirahim’s malice shifted very slightly into curiosity, head tilted. His eyes shot from my eyes to my pointed ears back to my eyes. “You have similar characteristics to the sky maiden.”

“Well, I mean, Zelda--” he let out a growl at the name, making my stomach turn, “er, uh, sorry, sh-she did come from the sky, like my parents a long while ago. B-but I was born on the Surface, a couple decades ago, and there’s quite a few like me.”

I watched Ghirahim shift his weight and take a step up from the center of the hole, just one step towards me. “If you aren’t sky inhabitants, what are you to be called?”

“H.....Hylians.”

I bowed my head as I saw fierce anger flash across his eyes. “Oh really, must you all take your name after your precious GODDESS--” he slammed a foot on the ground, startling me to look back up. He was a handful of steps closer, and in my right mind I would have backed up. There was still distance between us, but his temperament should have pushed me back. “--who caused my MASTER’S UNTIMELY END, not once, but TWICE?”

His hands raised, and for a second I feared for some sort of magic attack. I flinched. When a moment passed without my feeling anything, I opened my eyes.

In front of me, now almost within arm’s reach, stood Ghirahim. The decline of the land still kept him a few inches shorter than me, but had he been on even ground he would have been taller. His hands were gripped in his hair, the pitch skin contrasting with the sheer white. The cracks of darkness seemed to have grown across his chest and up into his neck and face. His eyes were wild, darting this way and that, a manic sort of desperation seen in the dim light. And though he could kill me, probably would kill me... I felt my heart shatter a little.

A Demon Lord without any master or suboordinates. Alone, lying in a pit in the ground, unaware of the world around him.

“I’m sorry.”

The words seemed to ring out in the tense silence. Ghirahim froze, his eyes swivelling to look me in the eye. I could almost see his mind come back into focus as he stared me down.

“You’re... what?” his voice came out as a whisper, with no real tone or inflection.

“I-I said I’m sorry. You’re hurt--” he made a sound, neither dismissive or affirmative, maybe surprised? “--I just... I dunno, I hate to see...”

“... Hah... What could you possibly gain...” as though in slow motion, his arms returned to his sides, “...from showing... softness at a time like this...?” Then, almost to himself, he said, “I could kill you now. I could seek out and destroy every last one of your kind. Yet... you apologized... to me....”

I felt an icy grip on my heart. I knew he wasn’t just grandstanding, and for a few beats I felt I had possibly doomed Hyrule. I heard him huff out a breath through his nose.

“I’ll let you live. Conditionally.” He tapped a finger to his chin, mulling something over. “You’ve appeased me. Do not take this as a kindness. You will serve a purpose yet. Come back to this place in a few day’s time, and I will spare you. If you don’t I will assume you as fair game and hunt you down. I happen to be very tenacious when I need to be.” The demon looked around, as though taking in his surroundings for the first time. Then, turning on his heels, he waved his hand. “You are dismissed. Do not disappoint me.”

I slowly backed out of the thicket, squeezing back through the dense trees at the perimeter. On my way back to the village, I used a knife I usually saved for cutting loose branches or chopping through tall foliage, marking the way to Ghirahim’s den in a way that I would remember without giving him away to the rest of the village. I wasn’t sure who I felt I was protecting from whom at this point, but I knew that, for now, it’d be best to do as the demon said. 

[nookishposts]

Keepers

I decided many years ago not to have children. I love kids and love spending time with other people’s kids. Children’s choirs with those reedy innocent voices never fail to move me to tears. I was a summer camp theatre arts teacher for a number of years, and I am often the first one to get down on the rug with a wee one learning to crawl. The smell of baby, especially a sleepy one nestled against my chest is the breath of heaven. My choice has nothing to do with kids themselves and everything to do with me. I come from a swamp of family health issues: cancer, heart disease, diabetes and far too many incidents of serious mental illness resulting in a lot of suicides. I felt neither prepared nor compelled to parent , especially given the possible inheritances, and because I had so much growing up of my own to do. At 58, I have no regrets about this. My sister also chose not to have kids for her own reasons. So, effectively our parents contributions to the gene pool will die when we do. If I have any regret at all it’s that my Mum didn’t get the pleasure of grand-parenting, but thankfully she fully supports our choices. I have friends and acquaintances in this world who are absolutely awesome parents, raising kids who will definitely make this world a better one. I am delighted to support those efforts in any way they ask.

Part of the mid-life reflection involves considering legacy; I think some of us will admit to wondering what effect our lives have had, if any at all. Will we be remembered or will our brief tenure on the planet quickly disappear into the ether? We are just minute pinpricks on the greater pointillist picture of Time anyway, so what does it matter?

What got me thinking about this was the process of packing to sell a house, stuff in storage for 3 months and then unpacking it at our final destination. We had done what we thought was a major purge before squirrelling things away, but as we unpacked I found myself thinking : why the heck did I keep this? We all seem to retain some momentos of special times in our lives and that’s understandable, but I came across an awful lot of boxes that had not been opened since we moved to Winnipeg in 2009...for 10 years they’ve just been hauled around next to the necessities of pots and pans and winter boots. Why keep them at all? Watching a bit of Marie Kondo with My Beloved, didn’t help, in fact I found her downright annoying which is not usually like me at all. I guess it felt like she challenged things I wasn’t ready to face.

Some of those boxes I know for sure I will never let go of; the one with the Fair Isle sweater my Grandma made for me, my Grandpa’s service medals, and the first piece of jewelry gifted by a family friend when I was born (Does anybody even remember Sarah Coventry bracelets?)

There are boxes pertaining to my former schools and places of work and trips I’ve enjoyed, volunteers gigs that were impactful, bits of inherited china that I don’t imagine I will ever use: I can admire fine bone china tea cups and saucers, but since I have muscley massage and gardening paws (whereas my sister’s hands are slender and delicate despite being hardworking ) I tend to drop things. My klutziness is legendary. Every one who knows me has a story of how graceless they’ve seen me be. Not everyone you know can achieve a paper cut on their tongue licking a Christmas Card envelope. But I digress.

It is dawning on me that in a way, those boxes validate the person I was becoming. High school year books are full of sentimental awe and angst; look at those hairstyles and remember how we were sure we were “all that” and then some. Achingly fond memories of dances and all night conversations, cheering from the stands wearing school colours with great sense of belonging, the first terrifying day of Grade Nine weighed against walking across the graduation stage such a few years later. Same with college and university; who was that passionate being with boundless energy for learning,who slipped so easily and with such ferocious idealism into 30 years of feminist marches and human rights campaigns? What happened to that young woman who in spite of hating airplanes flew by herself all the way to Australia and back looking to answer some big questions? Or the crazy theater student who performed street mime and Shakespeare, dressing from the second-hand store in androgynous suits  carrying a guitar everywhere, hitch-hiking between small -town pubs. Or the one who took a summer to hike the entirety of the Bruce Trail from end to end. It turns out she’s in boxes among the t-shirts and the handbills and the polaroid photos. She in the boxes from the YWCA as Aquatic Director, WUM as a Housing Counsellor, Gomorrah’s as a bookstore employee, The AIDS Network as Director of Volunteers. And in the endless boxes of books; about massage and gardening, and eco-living, and spirituality and cooking and favourite novels by authors whose stories generated both laughter and sense.

But what do I do with it all?

My Beloved and I were laying in bed recently, chatting sleepily as we recounted our day. One of the questions I keep hearing lately in social media is : “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”  Both of us admitted that we would take only what could fit in a knapsack and travel the World. Which, given that we have spent 11 years looking for the right place to settle down, and have finally found it, is deeply ironic. 

I could not fit all of those boxes into my knapsack. The weight of it would crush me. So why, as an armchair traveller am I holding on to them now? I am not a hoarder by a long stretch. But I suspect I have to a need to prove to myself the existence of my being. People with children see themselves looking back at them through the eyes and hair and mannerisms of their offspring, even those not biologically born to them. Grandchildren increase that evidence exponentially and carry the torch forward casting their light into those generations to come. No boxes required. Perpetuating existence proves itself. The stories will survive.

My task now is to decide if I need to hold onto momentos that prove the moments that made me. When I managed a thrift store, I used to wonder at the treasures that came through the doors when somebody decided to clean out an attic. Wartime photos, first edition books, delicate china and silver engraved with initials, diaries, wedding dresses, inscribed jewelry....the sale of those special pieces helped keep the doors of a food bank open and the kids after school programs running, but sometimes it felt sad to me to be putting a thrift store price on something that had once been so precious to someone else. We are collectors, but we inevitably outgrow those collections and the kids and grandkids may not see the same value in what we’ve saved as we did when we carefully boxed things away. 

Nobody else is going to want keepsakes from my schools, my travels and my jobs, and they are of no practical use to me now except perhaps as kindling for a bonfire on a starry night. Better they be incinerated in a communal act of warmth and light, perhaps with storytelling, than go into a landfill. There are family heirlooms I will eventually find other homes for among my cousins and their kids I suppose, as they aren’t really wholly mine to dispose of.There are lots of other things that will never mean anything to anybody but me. And as long as I can remember to tell the stories, I suppose those will pack nicely into the knapsack as I travel into this next phase of life as a self-sustaining steward of the Planet. When I can no longer remember the stories, the reminders won’t matter anymore anyway. Best they be dispersed now to do whatever good they might for someone else. Or is that an excuse to just hand off the responsibility? I’m not completely sure. 

I am too old to really need the proof that I have lived, and there’s a lot of living yet to do. The accumulation of non-practical stuff needs to stop, and space for new experience needs to be cleared. The garage attached to our home has been converted into a very large workshop space, insulated and heated, with windows and outlets everywhere. The previous owner had amazing tools in there and created amazing things. But we have filled it with boxes. There are 3 giant Tupperware bins of music CDs alone. At least 6 of books. We have more duplicates of tools than we know what to do with. More artwork than we have wall space for. Camping gear that may have reached redundancy now that we live surrounded by woods and 3 minutes from a lake. Things don’t define a person, they never have. But I lulled myself into thinking I needed validation through proof. I have no children or grandchildren to inherit the proof of anything. My ancestors stories will continue through the rest of the family and I can help by  being one of the ones committed to writing them down.  Electronic storage takes up way less space and is more accessible than a box in an attic. It’s an easier inheritance to manage.

Of course there will be those things I will choose to keep simply because they please me. I’ve a collection of small indigenous carvings of animal spirits that give me great joy to handle. I still have my massage table because I can still do that work if called upon. I will likely get rid of most of the linens that supported it as a business, maybe  see if a young masseuse might like some of the books and tools to help set up their own practice. Inevitably, certain things will end up in the bins of a thrift store. The workroom will get emptied and become once more a place of creation; shelves for things we’ve grown and preserved in our gardens, space for my Beloved to set up her loom and spinning wheel. A corner for my desk and a designated spot to see if I can put my money where my mouth is as a writer, to finish a novel and assemble a collection of musings. There needs to be space for Marie Kondo’s idea of “sparking joy” to come from within and take form. Who knows how much travelling we will do, and the various forms that might take. We’ve spent 11 years coming to this place with a very specific way of living in mind and the incredible joy in being here will carry us forward. Joy need not be a collection of inheritances or things amassed; I think I have decided joy can be an acronym for Just Open Yourself. It will not matter if I existed after I am gone, only that I lived in a way that honours the opportunities while I am here now. Those boxes are filled with reminders of amazing past moments, but I hope I am the distillation of those formative gifts, including all of the people and places that challenged me to shed one more layer of shell in order to grow. There is nothing to prove. There’s only what the sum of yesterday can offer today, and if I’m lucky, a series of tomorrows. It all fits in a knapsack.