Our Lives Will Never Be The Same

“Where there is love there is life.” – Mahatma Ghandi

I had a genuinely amazing weekend. It started the morning I finally got matching his and hers pendants in the mail. I was supposed to save them for Valentine’s, but I couldn’t help myself – because The One was there and I also really wanted to sport around a new sparkly thing that would remind me of him. Happy Valentine’s Day!  . . . . To me!

Pretty, aren't they? I 

I hadn’t been feeling particularly well for a couple of weeks, so my appetite was nonexistent. I made a green smoothie for him for breakfast, we took the dogs on a walk, and ran errands that must be done on the weekend when one is an adult. Then we got to my favorite part . . . tango!

Look at those cute little buggars . . . in a dog bed on a mattress I haven't tossed because the hound likes the set up so much. 

We only visited briefly. I had sent an email prior asking if I could pick up some cards to distribute among coworkers and friends because I do get a good deal of people that ask me about dancing and a card just seems more efficient than me scribbling the name of the dance studio on a piece of paper. And, if you’re wondering, the name of the studio is Dance With Joy. The owner is ray of sunshine and the environment is encouraging and welcoming.

We've been talking about taking lessons in a few months.

I nearly burst into tears when the instructor came out and hugged me. I was genuinely happy to see her. She did ask if we wanted to join in, but I opted not to because I had been feeling so poorly. My symptoms were what I assumed to be a severe case of PMS. In fact, I was growing increasingly suspicious that I might have PMDD.

A hug that was something like this, but also tearful. 

The One wasn’t convinced. At his urging, I picked up a pregnancy test that morning on one of our planned stops. He’d seen my mood swings, incessant exhaustion and constant trips to the bathroom. And, that morning he’d witnessed me gag nearly to the point of puking when I picked up dog poo and came pretty damn close to crying like the baby at the sight of someone I love and miss.

I was a bit nervous even taking the test out when I closed the bathroom door behind me. I followed the instructions and watched the line grow more and more prominent as it sat there on my bathroom sink.

It was definitely positive.

The proof is in the lines. And also the urine. 

I didn’t know what to say to The One. I literally had no words when I walked out of the bathroom. I had the test clutched in my hand. I looked at him nervously and nodded my head. He asked me if it was mine and told me to take another test. Silly man. HCG didn’t get into my system on its own. To be on the safe side, I took another test yesterday.

I'm still pregnant

He told me a while ago that I should work on our soundtrack: songs that would tell our love story. Our journey definitely does have the makings of a movie, and I don’t say that braggingly. I don’t say it to brag because it has been an epic and heart wrenching experience – and that was only from my end of working through my own issues before I could be whole enough to love another person.

I have indeed been working on a soundtrack. I’ve been working on the order before I make some finalized version. Basically it would start off with love songs of having just met and being happy, and then breaking up, and then getting back together, and then breaking up and missing the other person and being envious of whomever they’re with, and then getting back together again. Ha!

Maybe someday I'll write it. Maybe someday I'll make a music video. Maybe someday I'll write my own song. 

 But I need to add a new element to it. We’re going to be f*cking parents! I’m somewhere between 5-6 weeks. My emotions sway from being elated, to terrified, to talking to the wee being growing inside me and saying, “Grow baby, grow! I can’t wait to meet you.” I can’t wait to see this beautiful thing that he and I have created together.

September 2016

The terrified part comes when I worry if I know what I’m doing, how the increasingly grumpy hound is going to respond, and how money is going to pan out. We’re moving in together, which will make saving a bit easier. I won’t bore you with logistics of FMLA or what disability insurance will work to my benefit.

The One is elated. I wanted to wait until at least the first doctor’s visit to say anything, but ended up calling my folks over the weekend – because he’s so excited to tell people I was worried about something getting back to them without me having said a word to them first. I’m glad he’s so happy. We’d planned on this eventually, we just didn’t expect it to happen right away without any planning. The best things in life happen sporadically and without warning.

So, we’re kicking it into high gear right now. I need to get moved to his place in a little over 2 months. I’m not elated about the location, which will significantly increase my commute time, but it makes sense for now. He just moved in and his master bedroom is pretty much the size of my tiny little apartment. Before I knew we had a baby on board, I was super stoked to have my lengthy bike ride back – but I’m now realizing that’s probably not going to happen. I won’t forfeit entirely until I get final word from the doctor.

I’m taking this one stride at a time. And I know he and I will look back on that Saturday together and I’ll ask him, “Remember when we were younger and I gave you a matching necklace and then we found out we were having a baby?” 

Our first photo in October 2008. Who would have thought this is where we'd be today? 

You're Doing Well For Yourself

“But I saw the pain and sadness in everything, and swirled it round my mouth like a fine wine.” – Emma Forrest, Your Voice in My Head

I have been most exhausted lately – desperately wanting to get my thoughts out of my head and found myself brain dead by the end of the week. So I’m making an attempt now. I miss the days of my youth when I could simply drop everything I was doing and write to my heart’s content in complete solitude.

Such a magically soothing thing . . . . yet I rarely hand write anymore. Blast!

I visited Jefe a couple of weeks ago. I stumbled upon him moving rocks in his landscaped pond. I let Merlin run loose and helped him for a while. We chatted about what was taking place in our individual lives. I mentioned the suggestion of a friend to purchase patio furniture and scoffed at the idea because I know I won’t be able to buy something like that for a very long time. Jefe told me I’ve done very well for myself. Inwardly I scoffed at the thought because I don't think I'm doing particularly well at anything. That was the first of many recurring instances regarding my own inner voice. I’ll come back to that later.

When all rocks and boulders had been placed aside, I packed up and readied myself to leave. It was then that my brother drove up the driveway with the She Devil.

The She Devil leaves destruction and disarray in her wake. 

I stopped and chatted for a while. She Devil asked about my blogumentary project. I told her about my most recent entry that was about my sister and how badly I felt for this person I haven’t seen in so long because she never really stood a chance at life. Unlike my dearest sister, Jenny, I had the privilege of a solid foundation during the early years of my life.

She Devil immediately responded with this, People need to just get over it. That’s when I stabbed her with my scissors.

Of course, there was no stabbing, but I’m still left in disbelief over such a calloused response regarding someone who has experienced some very dark things in life. At the time, I was enraged . .  . and these are the moments I really should speak my true feelings. She Devil knows absolutely nothing of Jenny. She Devil needs to get over herself.

I’ve come to the conclusion that She Devil hides behind her defined success in life (she has lots of money). For whatever reason, she thinks it’s okay to say hurtful things, cast judgement and even insults just because she has money. I suppose it’s fine to be an awful person provided that one can buy his or her way through life and donate to charity to ease their conscious if he or she even has one to begin with.

Her attitude towards others, her self-centeredness and blatant lack of empathy are appalling in my eyes. I sometimes wonder if she even has a soul.

The week that followed seemed like the perfect storm. I was sad, things kept doing wrong, one of my co-workers kinda blew up at me and was being particularly beastly for that week and I felt the weight of guilt. I felt guilt that I had something so precious – and Jenny never experienced unconditional love, particularly from a parent.

I had a couple of days in which I simply couldn’t stop crying.

I went out with a friend for wine at the end of that week. I was exhausted and overly emotional due to the thoughts on my mind. My amazing friend always has sound advice for me and she and her husband have looked out for me since the day I met them. I feel blessed to know them.

Actually . . . . she's practically my therapist. 

My dear friend listened as I explained the events of the week. She offered perspective and validation on some of the things in life that make me just plain angry. When talking about my interaction with my co-worker I said in exasperation, She bullies like Lindsay. My dear friend gave me a knowing look – one that told me I had now found the key to unlock the secrets of the Universe itself.

I hate to mention names, but I had to point out that there have been a several like Lindsay throughout my entire life and most of them have a name that start with an ‘L’: Laura, Lenora, Wendy, and, of course, Lindsay.

It struck me that their voice has become my own. Their words which criticized and caused self-doubt have become my words as well. The thoughts I think towards and about myself tend to be awful. I’ve allowed my inner voice to become a cancerous entity running rampant in my psyche.  This voice tells me I’m not good enough, I’m not pretty enough, I don’t try hard enough. This voice tells me I am not enough and my existence on this earth is questionable. This voice tells me I am underserving of anything good, and every single bad event in my life was the result of some form of karma because I truly am an awful person.

I imagine my inner voice probably looks something like this. 

I’m often told to be kinder to myself. The truth is, I just don’t know how to be nicer to me. I don’t know how to turn off the voice, either. I can only hope that by acknowledging that this voice exists that I can begin to ignore it and perhaps it will fade out over time.

I have been doing so much better with life in general now that I've started cutting people out of it who don't deserve my time or energy. There are still a few remaining. She Devil is most certainly one of them. I haven't figured out how to break that off. I don't know if there's a graceful way to just walk away and still be able to maintain contact with Jefe and my brother. What I do know is that her presence in my life is not a good one and I have to change that or continue to allow myself to be damaged by it. 

“Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand and hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

-          W.B. Yeats

Conventions and Conciousness

"All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention, if one can first conceive of doing so. . . . .My life extends far beyond the limits of me.  - Cloud Atlas

A basic law of the universe is that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, it can only change form. The same law applies to our consciousness.

I’ve finally picked up Women Who Run With the Wolves the past couple of days and continued to read it. The author mentions a Japanese philosopher, Shotoku Taishi, who lived at the turn of the 6^th century. Among other things, he taught that one must do psychic work in both the inner and outer worlds; even more so, he taught tolerance for every creature, human, and emotion. Imagine that? She goes on to say, “Even raw and messy emotions are a form of light, crackling, bursting with energy.”

This makes more sense to me than anything I've heard up until now. 

This particular topic resonated with me this morning, mostly because I still feel an intense form of rage. It’s one of those unpleasant and taboo emotions that we’re often told we can’t feel. “Just get over it” is something I’ve heard more times than I care to count. PTSD doesn’t work that way. I sincerely wish I could just get over it and let it go, but that’s not really addressing the issue, is it?

I had an interesting conversation with the bartender at a wine bar recently. He suggested several books which I feel like I have to get immediately . . . but then I remember I’m still working through my beloved journey with the wolves and have a couple of Dean Radin’s works that I’ve set aside as well. One of the names he mentioned (I think it may have been a philosopher and not an author) was this: from birth, we spend the rest of our lives trying to heal ourselves. Why is that? My best guess is that we spend more time suppressing feelings (particularly the ‘bad’ ones) rather than expressing them, or finding an outlet to expel those emotions.

I think it's the permission part that I struggle with. It's a common theme with me, isn't it? 

So I’m feeling an intense rage right now. I can acknowledge that. Nothing spells out ‘rage’ more than a flurry of messages sent online that are rampant with grammatical errors. This was an exchange that took place between the friend from tango and I, because I’m still trying to wrap my head around why he’d badger me into admitting something I didn’t want to share. Perhaps I need to stop asking ‘why’ and simply accept that we’re all human and flawed to some degree.

Perhaps the Irish Lass needs to remind herself of this more often.

It’s not only the PTSD relapse, but other things taking place in my life that have compounded my current anger. I’m angry at a few people in my life at the moment.

My office environment feels toxic to me now. I sincerely don’t want to come into work (but I don’t really have a choice, do I?) because I don’t want to be subjected to such an insidious personality (DF) and a manager who sticks his head in the sand. For the record, I like him very much as a person. He’s just poor management material. It took me taking a sick day because I was simply not functional and sending him an e-mail again explaining the toxicity of my interactions with DF, my PTSD was triggered and that I had called the union to mediate a meeting for him to pay attention. Still, this was something he didn’t handle himself. He finally had our HR person handle the situation after over a year of complaints not only from me, but from others in the office, regarding DF's behavior. I’m furious that it had to come to this before anything was done about the atmosphere of the office in which I work 5 days a week. I'm sure only a few words spoken to her by someone of authority (because she appeared to take my own concerns with a grain of salt) would have remedied the situation fairly quickly. I currently spend most of my life at work and it’s the last place on earth I should be triggered because someone else needs to scream about her victimization. I’m tempted to include an excerpt from her ranting, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I’ll just say that it surmounts to a 12 page diatribe of someone in a victim contest crying wolf. That’s the best description I can give.

I don't like using this expression. It's an insult to the wolves. 

I have one friendship that I wasn’t sure about and when I spent a weekend with this friend after not seeing her for a couple of months, I ultimately decided that her presence in my life is not beneficial to me. I’ve grown tired of friendships that are clearly one sided and I was mentally exhausted by the end of the weekend. Part of that was due to me having to pay for 85% of everything that weekend and she knows full well that I’m struggling and, unlike her, I don’t live rent free with my parents who pay my bills. The other part was a consistent domination of conversation: if I brought up a topic she’d quickly interrupt me and rattle on and on and on; and the conversation would quickly turn to something that she was angry about: mostly people. If she didn’t talk over me to express anger over something, it was to tell me something along the lines of her speaking several languages or that she’s a descendant of the Romanovs. The last portion is her need to make herself seem so important to others . . . and also her love of drinking. This is not a person I care to have in my life. I’m trying to figure out a way to phase her out. While the mature thing is to have a conversation with her, I’m simply done with exerting energy of any form into this friendship and I’m done with explaining myself.

I no longer have the patience for this.

Another friendship began with an agreement to support one another through the difficult times. I had done my best to prop him up, particularly when my life was in a state of chaos. When he asked how I was doing and I honestly told him, he all but vanished from my life. It’s the feeling of abandonment that upsets me; it’s also the feeling of being used.

A good friend who has known me for many years, particularly through one of the harder times in my life as a young teenager, said something in one of our online exchanges that resonated with me. She said I was so used to having to take so much garbage from everyone else (because I had no choice in the matter) that I feel guilty when I ask, “What’s left for me?” I consider this friend to be a kindred spirit. In fact, as I define soul mates in a way that differs from the general consensus, I’d say she’s one of my soul mates. I think her observation was spot on. I feel undeserving most of the time which is probably why the slightest form of kindness almost always brings me to tears.

I think what's left for me is nature and the hound.

I made a promise to myself that this year would be better. I’m cutting off as much dead weight as I can. I’m still trying to find a new position. I’m still submitting applications and am now seriously considering looking outside of this organization. It’s a pity when I think about it, because all of this work-related nonsense was preventable. I’m cutting off ties with friends who use me for whatever resources they can take.

My energy is better spent making room for more genuine things in my life.

While I can’t cut off my emotions, I’m trying to find the best way to channel them. I don’t know if my best plan of attack right now is to dig deeper and see what other unresolved aspects of my life experience are surfacing on some subconscious level, or simply acknowledging that the anger is a real thing right now. 

I still have yet to find the 'hardest' thing in life. Unfortunately, I tend to take a match to things. 

Sweetest Downfall

When god (aka tango instructor) spoke to me during my emotional breakdown, she said something that I’ve been churning over in my mind since, “Don’t’ live with regret.” She mentioned the biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah; the characters were turned to salt when they looked back. Moral of the story: don’t look back. Look forward instead. That’s a lot easier said than done, but I’m still trying. This doesn’t mean we don’t learn from our experiences and mistakes, it simply means we don’t live in the past – in what has already taken place – in the things we cannot change.

Live in the moment and make it beautiful - I'm still trying to get there.

I’ve touted a good deal of regret with me for many years; and not just regret, but also guilt. I feel guilt for the life I live sometimes – because I ask myself why I’m a college graduate and my sister has been swallowed by life and I have no idea how even start looking for her. I regret that I don’t know how to find her and I regret that I couldn’t do more for her. Then I have to look at it like a rational person, What could I have possibly done differently? The answer is nothing. I have to let that go. We were children. There’s a very unpleasant feeling that comes with being a powerless child. I keep reminding myself that I’m no longer a powerless child, but someone who has a say in her future and her here and now.

Then there are the people from my past I carry with me like heavy weights – because I feel guilt over having some measure of success in this life and know that they suffer for their choices. I’ve made choices, too – I just feel that somehow it was luck of the draw. I have to remind myself that while that is a small part of the equation, it’s not the whole equation. I didn’t choose the same path and that’s why I have no criminal record or teenage children before I make it to thirty or in a really bad marriage. Granted, I almost made that mistake once. I dodged a bullet.

Then there’s regret over lashing out at the wrong person. My sweetest downfall in life was loving someone deeper than I knew myself capable and seeing the beauty in life again. Before that time in my life and before the Beloved and I crossed paths again I felt as if my life was drifting in a black sea. It’s still mind blowing to me that joy can be a trigger simply because it’s as emotionally strong as fear. I regret the words I said when I was both confused and in pain and even still now I wish I could take it all back, but there’s no rewind button to this life we’re living, is there? I’m quite certain that’s my biggest regret in life. And there are times I regret hardly being able to speak to him the few times I’ve seen him since . . . . so I remind myself that regret is a destructive force and I can’t keep living if I’m too busy beating myself up.

"You are my sweetest downfall

I loved you first, I loved you first

Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth

I have to go, I have to go

Your hair was long when we first met . . . 

Samson came to my bed 

Told me that my hair was red

Told me that I was beautiful and came into my bed

Oh I cut his hair myself one night

A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light

And he told me that I'd done alright

And he kissed me 'til the mornin' light . . . " - Regina Spektor

So while I honor the practice of not berating myself, I have noted things that I most certainly do not regret. I don’t regret ever being owned by my dogs; those two furry babies have been my constant joy and comfort since one precious little lady literally walked into my life and the other was a treasure I sought out. I don’t regret ever purchasing or wearing a fake engagement ring. It’s either boosted my confidence because I don’t feel like I have to hide away or it really does have mystical powers that ward off predatory douchebags. I don’t regret all the times I tried and failed. I don’t regret starting tango only because I wanted another means of connection with someone; the dance turned into one of the best forms of therapy. Overall, I don’t regret moving to Portland. Sure, the sun practically never shines here – but my time here has been far more enriching than any experience the Central Valley could have possibly offered.

I confess my quads are killing me - but I am so going to own this mother f-er

I don’t regret starting a couch to 5k challenge with my co-worker; I was quite certain I was near death on day 1 – yet here I am and we’re still chipping away at it. I don't regret that my hardest lesson learned in life was also my sweetest downfall. I don’t regret living, losing, loving or crying. I don’t regret who I am, either – quirky gal with occasional meltdowns, PTSD rage and hesitation blended with a whole lot of laughter. I often say ‘I regret nothing!’ in jest – I’m thinking that’s something I should start taking seriously. Lastly, I don't regret the expensive dress I just ordered so I can showcase the tattoo I'm getting in a couple of weeks. 

Okay . . . not quite as dramatic - but it's still going to be awesome.

The Process of Transformation

“Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn’t you – all of the expectations, all of the beliefs – and becoming who you are.” – Rachel Naomi Remen

It’s been 4 months and counting since I came out of my last relapse. I’m proud to say that this is a record for me. In conversation with a former professor, I told him how much I appreciated his research in brining science and spirituality together. It was my sense of survival that I found in spirituality that kept me moving forward – finding glimpses of joy when I felt I had none. Working with chakras helped me see that.

Nature has a strong effect on the chakras . . . .and dancing. Definitely dancing. And also wolves. That's my thing - don't question it; just let it happen.

What’s most surprising to me is that this professor who had dedicated most of his life to psychology said he could detect no symptoms of PTSD in my personality. How about that? I’m not dancing and rejoicing yet, because I know there’s a possibility of another trigger – but I’m hoping it’s not just wishful thinking on my part that I hashed out the worst of the worst when I finally realized the source of my anger and hurt.

I think it took a long time before I was ready to see that. I spent the better part of a year cutting people out of my life that weren’t good for me and I was quite lonely for a while. However, this forced me to look inward without the ability to distract myself with the issues, drama, and world views of another.

Trust is learned by our upbringing, I think. It takes patience to foster.  

For some time, people just didn’t recognize me – I had transformed that much.

A dear friend compared me to a butterfly once, because I fought so hard to come out of the cocoon. 

In his lecture, Healing the Luminous Body: The Way of the Shaman, Dr. Alberto Villoldo speaks of how trauma imprints us. He gives an example of a female patient who had seven relationships throughout her lifetime. Her relationship with these seven men each ended in the same place. She eventually discovered that she had had the same relationship with seven different men. By understanding our luminous body – the same concept demonstrated by Dr. Fritz-Albert Popp’s research – we have the ability to heal ourselves.

For now, I’ll rejoice in the transformation while recognizing there’s still a long way to go. I keep my mind open and attempt to do the same with my heart, however guarded it may be.

"Healing does not mean going back to the way things were before, but rather allowing what is now to move us closer to God." - Ram Dass

My heart will shine again, too. I know it. Compassion and love stem from the same place, right? 

Tales From the Tango World

“Let your life lightly dance on the edges of time like dew on the tip of a leaf.”      -Rabindranath Tagore

I’ve been delving into other forms of dance after belly dancing took me under its spell. Lately, I’ve been practicing tango. This is by far one of the most difficult forms of dancing I’ve learned. There’s no formula to it; one needs only to listen. I am gradually getting better – but this has been an excruciatingly long process.

I’m just about three months into it now. I know how difficult it can be as a lead and a follow, as I’ve practiced both. I’ve been practicing more as a follow lately. My tendency in dancing throughout my life is to automatically take the lead and laugh maniacally on the inside as my dancer partner attempted to rein me in. There is no flexibility for that sort of nonsense in tango and I have to learn to yield to someone else every now and then.

There is a tremendous amount of trust that one gives another in order to follow in tango. I'm learning to trust. I have yet to figure out if the hesitation is PTSD, my own reserve or just plain stubborness.

I think this cat displays better posture than me. 

There are good nights and bad ones. Sometimes one gets off on the wrong foot – literally and metaphorically. The partners that are most patient are the leads that I most enjoy.  I make a step they didn’t want. They tell me it’s okay. They remind me not to tense up and relax and the crazy things I’ve come up with that are most likely not a move in any form of dance expression have even amused some. I am grateful because they are willing to teach me, give patient and gentle instruction and aren’t too bothered by what can only be described as my sacrilegious tango antics.

This is lovely, too . . . and also far more advanced and trusting of her partner than I think I'll ever be.

Not all nights are as fun. There are times I can’t connect with the music, I can’t connect with the lead, and the lead is very annoyed by me. Last week I arrived at the practica a tad bit late. I was out with girl friends and lost track of time. I was partnered with an older and more experienced dancer. He was immediately frustrated because he said my step was not wide enough and this was thwarting his attempts at a pivot turn. I widened my step. He rolled his eyes barked that I was over dramatizing the move. I had no clue what this guy wanted from me. I felt bad because it was obvious that I was frustrating him. I tried again. He dropped my hands in the pose and said, “She just showed us this five minutes ago.”

Needless to say, I ran away as quickly as my legs would carry me without breaking a run as soon as the lesson was over and I avoided eye contact with him all night . . .  and was a horrible follow that night. I wasn’t connecting with anything and far too afraid of pissing off the leads. Truth. He attended the milonga last night; I still avoided eye contact, but did exchange the superficial pleasantries of “How are you?”

I’m horrid, but I’m learning. There are times I can get into the music and share a beautiful moment with my dance partner, and then I make a mistake, tense up and start to over think and anticipate much to the dismay of the lead. It can go downhill quit rapidly from there.

Regardless of the handful of bad experiences, I’ve stuck with it. When I first began a tango course at Portland State a seasoned dancer was kind enough to take me under his wing. He encouraged me to stick with it, praised me when I made a ‘perfect step’ and told me to own it because I am elegant. I thank you Kind Sir. He would never let me apologize. Ever. While I have not seen this gem of a lead and overall fabulous human being in a while, he still sends me links to events he thinks I’ll enjoy.

I remember once when we were practicing a tango form of a box step. We were doing well. He had me switch sides with him so I could watch us in the mirror. It was lovely. Our legs moved in synch and perfect alignment. I would not have been so excited about committing myself to this had he not shared that moment with me.

See how beautiful it can be? 

To the encouraging leads of the world: I commend you.

I imagine for most dancers, there is always room for improvement. I am still stepping on toes, getting my toes stepped on, kicking, being kicked. I almost always carry a bruise or two from a tango grapple. I don’t mind; it’s worth it. I have a very long way to go to look as graceful as most of the women out there. Every time I sit out a set I watch as they effortlessly float across the floor in their narrowly heeled tango shoes.  They are as lovely as the dance.

Perfectly pointed toes. I don't know how they do it. 

I hope the clumsiness and awkward movements dwindles away eventually and I can be as graceful as they are. I imagine it’s much more enjoyable for the leads – even the patient ones who are willing to let me dance sacrilegious tango as part of the learning process.

“To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful,  more powerful.” –Agnes De Mille