Lake Lassitude

It is now the last hours of February and I am living in the southernmost point of Georgia, only a couple of miles from the Florida border. Yet a small town along the shore of Lake Ontario in New York that I visited in early November continues to be a part of my life and I still find is very difficult to write about my experience there. I keep re-opening the word processing document and can’t seem to get beyond the first few paragraphs, which as you will realize are pretty generic. There are some issues of the heart that come into play.

Located about a mid-point between Rochester and Niagara Falls, the town it is about a square mile in area and shape. The 2000 census pegged the population at 862, more than 98 percent white, and it is a fairly poor area with a per capita income of $16,300.

Named Lyndonville because many of its original settlers came from Lyndon, Vermont, it was originally settled around the 1820s. Today it is mostly farmlands. I am told that Amish own a significant part of the town and that when land becomes available, they are buying it. But the real estate market crisis has all but destroyed property values.

The main street is a couple of blocks long and features a laundry, gas station, grocery store, hardware store and a post office. Most people shop in Medina, a small town about 15 miles away and a fairly new Wal-Mart has also changed shopping patterns.

My purpose of going to Lyndonville was to do three things – meet someone who I exchanged messages with on a dating site for seniors, visit nearby Niagara Falls and head over to Cleveland to the Rock & Roll Hall of fame. It did not start very well.

To get there, I travelled up Interstate 81, which runs through the heart of Pennsylvania and New York in a North-South Direction. I had visited a friend on her birthday and left from New Jersey late at night, when I drive my best. There is less traffic and no sun glare. My route took me from Interstate 80 to 81 about midnight. Earlier in the day, I had driven from the Shenandoah Valley and by the time I got to I-81, I was tired. I pulled off at the first I-81 rest stop into the truck parking area – I was pulling my trailer –and took a nap. About 1 a.m. I woke up refreshed and continued the journey.

I am an old man with a weak bladder. And sometimes my diabetes causes me to be very thirsty. And so I drink a lot of diet cola en route. The result is that I stop at many rest stops to relieve myself. That night involved at least four of them. It was nearing dawn as I reached Rochester’s rest stop and turning off to Interstate 90 to a Western direction. I did my usual rest stop business and took Pup, the pup, for a walk. I was several hours ahead of schedule and decided I could do with another nap. I went to the trailer and the door wouldn’t open. It was semi-crushed. Looking around, I had discovered the front corner of the trailer was also crushed. My immediate thought was that a big tractor-trailer rig hit me. I park with them because there are not parking spots big enough in the car area. The height was about right. I assumed it was a hit-and-run. I called the police and they told me they couldn’t really help me. I had no idea where it took place, not even the state! I then notified my insurance company and they gave me a claim number and an agent specializing in RV collision to call later in the day.

So I was faced with a choice. Should I continue my trip? While damaged, the trailer was roadworthy. And I was about 100 miles from my destination. I decided to do so. But first, I had a greasy breakfast at whatever fast food chain had the franchise at the rest stop. It did not go down well.

So, upset stomach or not, I headed north again to Lake Ontario State Highway. The highway runs along the lake and is very scenic. I had hoped to see a sunrise, but the day was cloudy. I was told by the woman, whom I will dub “Lady” for this piece, to call when I reached the western end of the highway, which I did. I was somewhere near the entrance to a state park and called. It was late October and in that particular area, nearly all the trees had lost their leaves. Suddenly the inevitable result of an upset stomach hit me and hit me hard. I had to go – and the place to go was unobtainable due to the damaged door. I had to hide behind some bushes and went outside, leaving my mess behind the state park “welcome” sign, along with several sheets of paper towels normally used to clean my windows – especially the passenger side which the dog slobbers on.

Lady arrived less than a minute after I was once-again presentable. She had me follow her to a local RV dealer who could repair it, but it would take several months since the parts were custom made. He did, however, manage to loosen the door, making the trailer habitable. I also learned the damage was caused by a deer. There was some gore left. It was not a hit-and-un. I went inside and changed my clothes. At this point, I was severely sleep deprived and very upset. It was still early in the morning and I followed Lady to a local restaurant for a “real” breakfast.

I basically blathered about how sorry I was about this and how I needed to get settled at a nearby RV park. She offered me her back yard instead and I accepted. We ran a hose and electric cord from her house and I settled in. After the nap I had needed for since early that morning. I detached the trailer from the truck and Lady took me sightseeing. She is a photographer and the area is one of great beauty. Yet I was struck by how desolate it was. There are many farms. She lives in an old farmhouse with several acres of uncultivated land in the back. You can see the lake from where I was camping; it was less than a half-mile to the shore.

We wound up having a nice dinner together. Lady turned out to be a really, really lovely woman. When we returned to the farmhouse, we spent some time talking together in the trailer.

We decided to go together to Niagara Falls the next day and did so.

Niagara Falls is an incredible sight. But it has been photographed so often, it was somewhat of a disappointment. It was a sort of “déjà vue” experience. However, I was very impressed by the torrential Niagara River. Looking out, you could see where it had uprooted trees on the banks and dragged them downwards. I could understand the “real” fear daredevils had. The chance of surviving the drop off the falls was one thing. The chance of surviving the violent river is nearly impossible.

There is a contrast between the river at the top of the falls and the bottom. The water becomes very slow moving and tranquil after the violence of the fall. While it would be impossible for boats to ride above the falls, the tour boats like the Maid of the Mist enjoy a smooth area to float in. I had hoped to take a boat ride, but they were closed for winter year. The day was mild but too often ice forms on the decks and piers, rendering it too dangerous.

I thought how the route of the water resembled a sexual climax and realized why it was so popular as a honeymoon destination.

Anyhow, the route back took us through more scenic areas and we decided I would cook dinner that night. As we ate, we talked quite a bit. As I got to know Lady, I realized that there are many issues that pushed my buttons. Yet, she is a wonderful woman and I was incredibly attracted to her.

In the morning, I woke up to realize that I had run out of propane. It was cold and the heater had gone off. We went to a local Indian reservation where it was cheaper and I also filled the truck with gas. After reconnecting the tanks, I decided to take a nap. Sometime later Lady was banging on my door smelling gas, waking me up and saving my life. It turned out that I left one of the stove’s burners at the minimal setting in the expectation of re-heating some food. When I re-connected the propane, it caused a leak.

I decided it would be too risky to leave that day, as I had no idea what the impact of the gas leak would be on my driving, though I did re-hitch my wounded home to the truck.

A day later, I headed back along the lakeside highway and into the Interstate highway system. But it was daytime this time and I reached my apartment in Port Jervis as the sun was setting. I went to bed and stayed there for a week, depressed and trying to figure out how I felt. I still don’t know. I suppose I never will.

Homeless, but feeling at home.

I am now officially homeless, I suppose, but I am at a RV park in St. Marys, GA. St. Marys is about five miles above the Florida border and I will be here until late March. Last year, I stumbled on Crooked River State Park and spent about ten days there. It was warm and I just let myself soak in it after a nasty winter. There was a small RV park across the way and I stopped by when I needed a part. They didn't sell parts but the woman I talked to, Cricket, was extremely kind and gave me directions to several places.

I wanted to stay at Crooked River a little longer, but my site had been reserved for the weekend. So I decided to go across the street to the RV park and as Cricket registered me, she told me to be sure to attend the Sunday night pot luck supper. As I settled in, Cricket's husband, Bill, asked me why I hadn't attached my hose and sewer lines and I told him that I had just purchased the rig (a very inexpensive and old trailer I was trying out) and hadn't a clue how to use the water system and was afraid I would screw something up. He spent several hours teaching me how to use it.

At the pot luck supper, I met a number of people and learned much about the RV lifestyle. I knew that it was something I would eventually want to do.

From there, I went on to Lazydays in Florida, the nations largest RV dealer, and purchased a new model which was more to my liking. The queen size bed sure beat the bunks in my first model where I had laid a board across them and tossed on a full-size mattress.

I also stopped here on the way back up to New York and again was made to feel very welcome. Bill and Cricket also talked to me about workamping and showed me some web sites.

I spent last summer at a campground near my home and made a decision to become a nomad at that time. So I gave up the apartment and am spending a month here in Saint Marys before moving further south.

When I arrived, however, I was saddened to learn that Cricket had died last weekend. Bill has been wandering around the campground like a lost child and I immediately went to him and gave him my condolences and shared a couple of things about Cricket. Bill, a merchant marine sailor who was hurt on his last cruise to the Middle East last summer, has been forced to retire. Right now, he is trying to figure out what to do.

I am really enjoying this place. We had a pot-luck supper and I mashed some sweet potatoes with marshmallows and the people, especially the owner's kids enjoyed them. Many of the people who were here last year are here this year and I have been invited to campfires and card games. At the campfire, people shared how they dealt with the legal aspects of being homeless and I learned much. Most of them have different political views from me, and I don't really discuss politics. The most appealing part of this campground is the physical layout. All the sites are pull through and concrete. It makes leveling the trailer quite simple and I set up everything in less than an hour. I am right across the street from the clubhouse and its hot showers with unlimited water. There is decent space between the sites and as I write this I am looking at a palm bush.

It is quite a contrast to the campgrounds I had been staying at thus far. The first site was in Winchester, VA and is decent for overnight and weekend camping, but there are no pull-through sites and the road is gravel. The people are professional, but not very friendly. When I was there last October, some friends visited my site for a moment to see the trailer and someone came to them and told them they had to register as guests. I had to explain they were simply dropping me off. Earlier this month, I had an issue with them because they shut off my water while I was away getting the truck repaired. When I asked why, they told me I shouldn't park on the grass. I hadn't. It was the tow truck jumping me. I was pretty ballistic for a couple of days and won't go back there.

And I was then at a state park in Santee, NC. The people were friendly and the ranger gave me a site with an absolutely stunning view overlooking Lake Marion. But there was no TV or Internet and in a remote area, cell phone service was iffy.

So here I am, staying for a month. I love the birding that is in the area, and I will venture to Cumberland Island, a national park in town, later this week. The park's "summer" schedule starts March 1. The weather has been changing from day to day. I arrived here to 83 degree sunshine and a gentle breeze. However the last couple of days have had nearly constant rains. Just about 30 miles to the south, the Daytona 500 stock car race had been postponed for the first time in its history due to the rains. It rained most of yesterday but they got the race in. There's still a little residual rain but the forecast for today calls for it to end later this morning and we'll be back to the 80 degree temperatures by tomorrow. Being along the coast, the warmth and rains have brought out a lot of misquitoes but my activities yesterday involved laundry, car maintenance and shopping so I wasn't bothered too much.

So why am I spending such a long period here? Location, location, location. Since I am only a few miles from the Florida border and five minutes from Interstate 95, I can do things in Florida without paying the tourist taxes that can increase the cost of camping by 30 percent. So I expect to do some day trips and spend some overnights at friends. I then will move to Lazydays for some complementary free days at their place co-inciding with spring training baseball and then the Florida Keys and splurge a few days before heading to Oregon.

So, what's new with you????????

Why me God? Why not Mike?

It’s not just a life, it’s an adventure!

I should know better by now than to worry about things. I keep forgetting God has a plan for me. And sometimes it’s just to tell me “lighten up Michael.”

Could there be a greater catastrophe than to have a vehicle breakdown while on the road? As I started “Hail and Farewell Journey 2012,” it wasn’t a very encouraging start. In fact, it was no start at all as my truck battery apparently crashed. I had spent the morning loading my trailer and as I got in the truck to move on I told Pup, the pup, “it’s time to rock and rooooollllllllll” and turned the key. Nothing happened.

Now let’s think about this. I have just handed over the keys to my apartment and have left it. Officially I have no home. It's my first day as a full-time RVer. And my vehicles are parked in a fire zone. It is uncomfortable. Way more than uncomfortable. It is raining and threatening to snow and I need to get on the road so I can arrive at my Northwest Virginia campground at a reasonable hour. Anyhow, I go across the street to the mechanic who I have become somewhat friendly. Jeff is honest and has brought his mom and dad into the shop. Mom handles the books and Dad is a pretty fair mechanic on his own. I tell him what’s going on and he sends his dad to help me.

We figure out the apparent cause of the dead battery – that the battery serving my RV trailer had died with the lights on and that it then drained out the truck battery. It would not start with a battery booster pack but did with the truck. As we looked at the gauges, the battery is charging (and so is the trailer battery when I reconnect it).

And so finally I’m on the road. I gassed up and took a quick stop at my RV dealer to pick up a couple of parts and then headed to Winchester VA. Along the way, I took a couple of rest stops and the truck started up right away. I arrived safely at my campground, and after a good night’s sleep I meet my friends, Carol and Jim, for lunch. Carol, the absolutely most beautiful girl ever to grace an 8^th grade classroom, has had a wisdom tooth removed and is having her first solid meal in weeks. We have a nice time and I give them parting gifts. God willing, I am heading to Oregon later this year for the summer and after that, who knows?

So I drive back across the street to take care of some things and then go to move my truck into a parking area. It does not start. The manager of the campground tries to jump it with a battery pack. No good. I call Jim and Carol and they return to take me to the nearby Wal-Mart where I purchase a new battery. I figure that perhaps the battery has a bad cell and since it’s five years old anyhow, it’s time to change it anyhow. Of course it does not start.

Jim and Carol have brought me a local phone book with the name of the mechanic they recommend. He is also the local AAA tower so I figure things are great. So I call AAA and discover my darling ex has cancelled my account, which was due to, expire at the end of the month. Darling ex, when you read this, I hope you are enjoying your moment.

Anyhow, by this time we have figured out that it is either the starter or the solenoid and in the case of a Dodge truck, they are attached. As night continues, I check out the warranty I purchased with the truck. It expires in 7,000 miles so I figure that it will last at least until I reach Oregon. It covers the tow and has a $100 deductible with any repair. Whew! I also discover that my car insurance also covers the tow.

In the morning, I call the shop and the tow truck comes. Again, it won’t start with the battery jumper; again it starts with the jump from the truck. I follow the tow truck into town and things start to turn around. The woman who logs in the cars moves me to the top of the list since I’m on the road. And the insurance verifies I am covered. The mechanic looks at it and, of course, can't find anything wrong since the starter is working at the moment. I tell him it's one thing to be stranded in Winchester, VA and quite another to be stranded in the Arizona desert or the Everglades to please replace it. He laughs and tells me it will be ready about a half hour after the part arrives.

So I walk a few blocks to MacDonald’s for breakfast and try to relax. I am still fuming and full of self-pity. Why God? Why do I have to have a breakdown? What did I do wrong? Are you punishing me for going on the road again? Etc. By now, I am raving a little and the manager, a kid, asks if I'm OK? I can tell it is clear to him that I would be better off not being here.

Despite saying grace as well as making demands, God isn’t answering me. But he will in a few minutes. As I return to the garage’s waiting room, I meet my third West-By-God Virginian.

Now I am certainly not going to judge the people of an entire state by the only three people I have met from there. But the three I have met are quite colorful characters. The first gentleman was, for lack of a better word, a hillbilly. He dressed like Pappy from Little Abner, except a little more ragged, and he chewed tobacca and had a drawl unlike anything I ever heard. His beard was long and untrimmed.

He was my camping neighbor and was en route from workamping in West Virginia to Florida. Every morning, there was an empty case of Rolling Rock outside his door. I shy away from drinkers and did my best to ignore him, but I had to walk my dog and we talked a couple of times. This was in October of 2011 at the same campground. We had a freak snowstorm that shut down much of the east coast and we both spent time helping our neighbors digging out. Nice man, but very different from me.

The second West Virginian I met was the daughter of a family that moved to the hills while her father was working for the government. Now she is fairly sane and has lived near Lake Ontario for years. But when she was a child, her mom got into a gunfight with some of the neighbors. It seems momma didn't like hunters and she threatened them with a gun, demanding they get off her land. The hunters had been hunting on that land for generations and late at night, they started shooting at the building. "Come and get me," she screamed t them, shooting back as her daughter hid in her bedroom, covered by her mattress. Thereafter, she was known as "Annie Oakley," and many years later while traveling through West Virginia, I found an Annie Oakley Road near where she lived.

But the third was the most interesting one. Now this ole boy appeared to be in his mid thirties. His dyed blond hair was receding and he combed over the bald spot. And he spoke with that “twang”. And as he talked to me, I knew why God wanted me in that garage. He wanted to entertain me and, at the same time, get out of my self-centered righteousness mode.

Seems that the man had his tires slashed and couldn’t get off one of the lug nuts to change it. Not only that, but his girlfriend’s tire was also slashed. Turned out that, by golly, she had a date in court that day to fight over child custody with her current husband. Now the good ole boy figured that “his” girl’s husband didn’t want her to get to court. So he’s a figuring to stay up tonight in his minivan with a shotgun to blow away hubby if he tries to slash the tires again. He decides that I’m a “right sensible fella” and asks me if he should blow him away or beat him to a pulp with a baseball bat. I respond by saying I’ll see him in the local newspaper in a day or so and point out that if the hubby is not around, he can’t pay child support. A point the ole boy seems to agree with.

I excuse myself to go to the men’s room, which would require several pages to describe, and when I return, there is the chubby little darlin’ herself. She can’t be more than 19 and she’s wearing a XXXL size NASCAR jacket. She's about 4'8" tall and 4'9" wide. Her dyed blond hair is identical to her boyfriend's. She twangs about how the hubby and her have to go back to court later in the day to continue the hearing. I asked her how soon will she be divorced. “Oh, he ain’t filed anything yet,” she replies. “He wants us to get back together but I’m not thinking about that.” I comment on her NASCAR jacket and she tells me she stole it from her husband. I comment that that just might be the reason her tires got slashed and she too says I'm a "right sensible fella -- for a damn yankee." Her boyfriend tells her that if he shoots hubby, there will be no child support. “You better not shoot him,” she says, adding that she wouldn’t mind if he took a razor and “cut his dick off. He don't need it for child support and anyhows don't know how to use it anyhows."

Shortly after that, my  car is ready. The entertainment has come to an end. I get in the truck and by God it starts up! I think about how these two people are making things harder on themselves (just like me) and realize that there are many, many stories yet to be told and I am probably here to tell them. So what the heck? It’s time to get off the computer and see if the car starts today. I’ve got more than a century of photos to share with my cuz and there is a snowstorm heading my way -- so on with the show -- it’s time to rock and rooooollllllllll!”

Hail and Farewell

Photo: Party held New Year's eve at my apartment.

Adieu

I cannot yet say “good bye” to Port Jervis, New York, so I will bid it Adieu. Perhaps we shall meet another time.

Port Jervis is in what is called the “tri-state” area. It is where New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania border along the Delaware River. If you look at a map of New Jersey, go to the Northwest corner and you have found it. It is a very depressed area because of its location. Once a river port, it was a stopover for barges transporting food and timber from upstate New York and Northeastern Pennsylvania to places like Philadelphia. Now there is little industry and, worse yet, little retail. The retailers have gone over the state lines where sales taxes are lower and clothing isn’t taxed. Gas prices are 50 cents less per gallon and there are no nuisance taxes like deposits on beverage containers. The town hasn’t a major supermarket and the K-Mart moved across the river to Pennsylvania when a Wal-Mart opened there.

But it is my place of retreat. As a youngster, I camped at the state parks in Northwest New Jersey with various youth groups. When I became a little older, Port Jervis was a first stop on canoe trips where novices could get experience on the Neversink River before hitting the rapids of the Delaware. As an adult, my former wife’s family had many relatives settle in the town and her parents bought a piece of land with a trailer and a nearby pond where we frequently visited and vacationed at.

When I need to de-stress, I often close my eyes and visualize the pond. It was a place to swim, fish and teach my children how to land sunfish. My oldest son, who spent his early years in New York City, called it “Grandpa’s Central Park.”

As he was dying, we took my father-in-law on one last trip to the property and I remember wheeling him through a wooded trail from the trailer to the pond for one less visit. It seems that it was not so long ago that he had mowed the lawn every time he came up. I remember watching his neighbor talking to him and turning away in tears. The people they shared their small paradise with are all gone now, but the memories remain.

I moved to The Water’s Edge 55+ apartment complex in August 2010. I was very lucky to be able to get a place here. There is usually a long wait, but less than a week after I signed the waiting list, I got a call from Shirley, the property manager. She asked when I was considering moving in and I replied “Is today OK?”

Shirley had just gone through the waiting list and no one wanted to move in at that time. I moved in within two weeks. I was very grateful. I had spent the last five months camping and the summer heat nearly killed me. Shirley and I shared something in common over the last few days as she was terminated as of the weekend I left. She spent much of the last few weeks in tears. People in another building threw her a party and when I walked in with a boquet of flowers, she lost it. She was a tough property manager, but she also loved the people who lived here. She started when the first building was being built and the complex of four buildings now house nearly 200 units.

I moved here for a couple of reasons. The main one was it was in New York. I had been spending much of my time in New Jersey where I was raised to avoid issues with my ex during our divorce. But by living there, I saved quite a bit in legal fees as an interstate divorce would have meant added costs.

During the time I have been here I have developed friendships with a number of people. They have been very wonderful neighbors and I have tried to be one as well. I hosted open houses on Thanksgiving days and New Year’s Eves and helped organize a fourth of July picnic.

Perhaps the thing that impacted me the most was I moved in into the apartment in early August. I was there a couple of weeks then went to Florida for a few weeks, not returning until the beginning of September. Yet when my birthday came around, I had more than a dozen cards placed under my door. I hadn’t had a birthday card in years, being ignored by my wife and children. I spent that night, in the middle of a bitter divorce, crying my eyes out over the fact that some people actually gave a damn about me.

I have since left the place for long stretches. Early last year, I spent about seven weeks travelling through the south. That was followed by an early spring trip to New England. Half the time I wasn’t here during the summer while at a summer encampment a couple of miles away. And in the autumn, I travelled to the Blue Ridge mountains and Niagara Falls. Yet every time I returned, I felt way beyond welcome.

Yet I never looked at this place as my permanent “home.” The cost of living here was acceptable, but over 18 months, my rent increased about 15 percent while my social security only had an increase last month. It was just too expensive both spending time on the road and here.

When the time came when my son was OK with my spending the summer near his home in Oregon, the decision to leave this place was finalized.

Packing has become surprisingly difficult. I gave away most of my furniture to friends. But packing my personal possessions was very difficult. I thought I didn’t have much after the divorce, but spent more than a week wading through hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs dating back to the time of the first world war. Going through my clothing was difficult as I had clothes for both work and casual wear. I’m retired now. So I only needed a couple of suits and a few dress shirts. And who in God’s name needs 64 pair of socks?

But here we are. The dog, the two Christmas cactus plants and I are in the truck. The bed is loaded with cartons and the trailer is filled with the things of life. Let’s put the pedal to the medal and get outta here. Adieu, my place of rest. Hello to life on the road.

Of course, the best laid plans always fail. As I finished loading the trailer, I had the lights on inside. Unknown to me, when the trailer’s battery gives out and your electric is connected to the truck, it feeds off that battery. Needed a jump to get on the road. But made it to Winchester, VA and all is well and chaotic.

Unfinished business and eggs

I had dinner with a friend tonight who pointed out that I constantly refer to my experiences with my ex. I was told, point blank, that I wasn’t ready to move on. And I have to ask myself if it is true?

I am on the verge of making a radical change in my lifestyle. I have given up my apartment and heading south to Florida for the winter. After that, I will head to Oregon to see my son’s family. I haven’t seen my granddaughter since she was baptized during the 2009 Christmas season. I will live in a small travel trailer at least through the end of the summer. But I haven’t a clue what happens after that.

I do know that my expenses will be about half of my current housing so I expect that by the end of the summer, I will have enough to indulge in many housing options. But that is not the point.

I was told that while I was going to Oregon for visiting family, I was also going there because I have unresolved issues with my ex, who lives there near our son. And that is true. She is extremely hostile to me. In a perfect world, I would like her to acknowledge that we share children and a grandchild and we should try to be civil to one another. But despite my desire for this to happen, it is out of my control.

I am told I am provoking her. Last Christmas, I sent loaves of cranberry nut bread – a family holiday tradition -- to my son. I sent extra loaves for my son’s wife’s parents and for the ex. I had hoped it would be a reminder of good things in our marriage. But I got a blistering e-mail telling me to leave her alone, and that she is engaged.

The only other e-mail I have sent her recently was to discuss our tax returns for the sale of our house last February. And I was told why should I care what she does?

So now I have to ask myself why am I doing what I am doing? I’ve always thought she was the one who was the provocative one. Between the time we separated and sold the house, there was ongoing rage via e-mail.

But she stopped. And I didn’t. She has moved on. I still have a need for a degree of being cordial. It isn’t going to happen. I am told until I let go of it, I won’t be ready to move on.

My friend shared an example from a seminar. The leader had everyone hold raw eggs in their hand, constantly. They were harassed and constantly told to maintain their grip. Finally they were permitted to let go. Some numbers appeared on the eggs, the result of the body heat from the hands.

The seminar leader compared things we kept holding on to with the eggs. You can’t reach for new things unless you let go of the old.

As hard as it is for me, it is time to let go. Thank you for being blunt my friend.