Inspiration Point, again

When I light a candle these days, it's with more than a wish for its fragrance or its romantic light. It's with more even than the prayerful reminder that a candle can bring. . I light a candle. Maybe because it's necessary light. My duty to provide enough light for my daughters' evening reading. My responsibility to light the way for my children. And bigger than that it's a symbol, an icon if you will, of the luxuries that surround us every day. . Each flickering light a point of inspiration. Inspiration. . To breathe in, to breathe spirit into, to become filled with divine thought or direction. I take a deep breath.

I move through the days, doing what I must and what I will and often what simply makes us smile.

.

In this way I listen for the spirit and the Spirit.

I wait. I am still in the manner of one who has things to do and does them, without an eye on the clock, or eyes on the prize, or an eye for profitability, but rather with an eye to duty and meditation and then I find sometimes with no little amount of surprise that I love the things that I'm doing.

Why does it surprise me still that the mundane can be profoundly meditative?

My girls make a tea party and I wait. It's a mother-daughter tea party to which their baby brother is invited as well. We sit at the table and sip hot tea and eat homemade brownies from the Little House cookbook.

Daddy's at work without much luxury of waiting for inspiration. My life, this bookish life of children laughing and seeds sprouting, is a luxury even when there's noticeable lack of what others might consider 'luxury.' These past weeks without hot water, often without electricity and sometimes without even cold running water, have redefined comfort. My chores approached a new definition of planning as I heated water on the stovetop -- propane, what a luxury! -- to wash dishes by hand. I wrung water from clothing and my hands and heart grew stronger with each day.

I think about pioneer women, as I often do. I think about my own grandmother, who paid for the doctor's assistance at the delivery of her first child with a flat of raspberries. I think about her little homestead and her huge life of love and family and frugality. And yes, of duty.

Duty and inspiration go hand in hand. Little luxuries and little hardships co-exist and illuminate one another much as candlelight. Who knew?

Scrappy

My friend Lexie got a sewing machine and outed herself today as a fabric junkie. I suggest she enter a 12-step program. Step One: I''ll take that offending substance off her hands.

.

My sister (Whose blog is not public. Gah. What kind of sister of mine is not all about the attention?!) joined me earlier this year in retreating for a weekend of quilty goodness. She, too, is a burgeoning fabric addict on a slippery slope. But don't think I'm a pusher.

.

My friend Katie, also, she sews a mean streak. She sews dresses from pillowcases and slipcovers from remnants and probably was the inspiration behind a little book called StitchAholic. Her first step, I'm thinking, should be to hand over the stash to one who can watch over it for her. I mean, I'm prepared to help.

.

Today I sewed nonstop at my dining room table. I sewed through Sarah writing a riddle about Gandhi (who, it turns out, was quite riddle-worthy). I sewed through Madeleine applying for a patent (no kidding) for an invention that may or may not be revealed here later. (When she decides whether she trusts you, dear readers.)

.

I sewed through making umpteen cups of "cold cocoa" (known as "chocolate milk" unless you're a particularly particular child of mine) for Laura and through just as many sessions of nursing Salvador.

.

I sewed while Gracie spent her last day as a 6-year-old just as Gidgety as ever, never once glancing at the plainly visible increasing stack of finished items. Oh, to be that happy-go-lucky. Grace is a butterfly of a girl, you see, alighting on a flower here, a sunny spot there, gently unfolding her wings in the most springlike manner. Any other of my children would have had twenty questions, no fewer, for me, about the pile of bright floral and gingham fabrics. Any other of my children would have started asking me to sew something specific. Not Grace. Grace Hannah collects happinesses like I collect pretty bits of floral fabric. She just does. She can't help it.

.

Just last night, to give you an example of Grace's way of walking through the world, this same child burst into my bedroom at well past midnight. A headlamp blinded me as she excitedly bounced up and down on my side of the bed, waving two books in and out of the glow.

.

"I finished these, Mom! Do you want me to read them to you?"

.

"I want you to know what happens!"

.

There is something undeniable about Grace. She is enthusiastic; she's single-minded until she's inevitably distracted; she's effervescent. It didn't occur to her last night that she busted herself for reading well past "lights out" just as it didn't occur to her today that I might be sewing her birthday gifts in plain sight. She's just so full of joy, that girl. She's good medicine in a world that doesn't seem fluttery nor innocent right this minute.

.

What did I sew, you ask?

.

I slashed through a lot of my own personal stash creating a wardrobe for Grace's as-yet-unmet dream doll: Samantha, a beauty of an American Girl that my mom bought for our gorgeous middlest's seventh birthday. Samantha now has one period (1904-ish) outfit, three skirt-and-sweater sets and a pair of pajamas. Grace also has a lookalike skirt set so she and Samantha can dress in matchy-match glory tomorrow.

.

And now I feel as giddy as Grace! I can't wait to wake up in the morning and see her open her gifts! I couldn't be more pleased to bust through fabric than for this reason. It was a delicious day of sewing and school and reflecting on Grace's sparkly seven-year life.

.

Plus I made some room for more fabric. Isn't that the way it works?

Quilt top at ninety percent

I didn't finish the top... it still needs borders... but all the piecing is done and considering that I stopped to nurse the baby approximately four thousand times I am pleased with the progress.

Even more pleased with the sense of camaraderie and friendship I have come to know and love at this annual retreat.

RETREAT! Retreat. Retreat.

Retreat. Now there's a word that loses its meaning quickly upon repeat.

This weekend I am blessed to be among friends and fellow fabric hoarders at a once-yearly mystery quilting bonanza. I have chosen my fourteen (so not a typo) fabrics at the store and from my vast stash. I have wiped down various coffee spills from my sewing machine cover and I have assembled my seam ripper, that most important of portable quilting paraphernalia, and other ephemera necessary for cutting little bits of cloth and re-assembling them into something near art.

I am likely visiting quietly over and under and around the hum of a dozen sewing machines. At my table are moms and grandmoms and young career women and starving artists. We all have some things in common and it is not necessarily what you might think. Our color sense and our politics vary immensely. Our ages range from 25 to 80.

Our commonality, then? We are retreating. We are purposing, if you will allow that dubious verb, to give ourselves a weekend of beauty and productivity. We are breathing in and out and it is a meditation, this endless stitching while barely remembering to sip at a cup of tea.

In my preparations for the retreat I found myself frantic. Go figure. Instructions for the baby. Meal planning and preparation for the family. Last-minute laundering, mopping, swishing and swiping in (vain?) hope of returning to somewhere to sit, somewhere to lay my sewing machine down.

I even emailed my husband to say that the getting ready phase could be crazy, because I knew I'd be relaxed at some certain point. When we leave on vacation I'm usually similarly frantic with the packing and the pressure until we are seated, mocha in one hand and novel in another. Then comes the whoosh of relaxation, of ease. Nothing to be done! It's already done! I am without duties!

Not really sure where I'm going here? ME neither. It's just that, when I was getting ready for the quilting retreat, I kept hearing that Civil War movie cry of "RETREAT" in my head. There was a general chaos and sense of near-danger in the urgency of the moment. And yet now? I'm retreated. I'm out of the battle zone (yikes... not that my home is that!) and in another kind of zone.

Hope to show you some quilt squares, maybe a finished top, when I return. And I hope your weekend is restful. I hope you experience your own retreat, without, possibly, the frantic trampling out.

You're welcome

I know. I know. You've been holding your breath waiting until Salvador could wear little tiny Wranglers.

So... since y'all don't live close enough to snuggle him personally... a pre-Christmas gift to you.

Inspiration point

Do you have a place you go to reconnect with your self? A thinking rock, a cozy chair, a pond in your backyard? The driver's seat of your car, the corner table at Starbucks?



Sometimes this reconnection requires a journey. Sometimes it's too noisy, even in the wingback chair in the back of your den. Sometimes the pull of a to-do list is too strong in your own house, hometown, county.

Sometimes it's a road trip that's called for. Almonds and dried cherries and chocolate chips in a little paper sack. Licorice too maybe. A huge iced tea and a full tank of unleaded complete the preparation.

(Of course in my particular situation there's also a diaper bag or three, sand toys, color crayons and books for the back rows, a camera and lenses, a baby sling, a cooler stacked with yogurts and bananas, and a zipper baggie full of allergy medications. You pack according to your needs andmayGodblessyouifthey'reanythinglikemine.)

I find my inspiration where I can. But when I can choose, it's the ocean that unfailingly fills that cup. For my husband, who grew up at the ocean, it's rugged mountain terrain or high desert that he craves.

This last weekend our whole family visited the ocean thanks to Mr. Suite's new contract at the coast. The girls and I lounged at the public library and walked the tourist routes while he conducted site visits and presentations. It was a perfect mini-vacation with a three-week-old baby in a sling.

Clam chowder in a bread bowl. New literature stacked high in my bookbag. The sound of crashing waves recorded in my heart.

My children in Saltwater sandals and my ever-driven compulsive and compelled self left behind for just a day. This is inspiration, spirit breathed into everyday life and tranquility overflowing for the crazy days that follow: Nurse the baby sixteen times a day. Change diapers at least that many times. Remember rural art camp. Remember to sign up for swim lessons. Fertilize. Water the garden. Feed the horses, the chickens, the bunnies, the children. Fill out a 22-page form. Return a call. Pay the electricity bill. These tasks, simple and pleasurable each on their own, can easily create traffic jams at the intersection of peace and calm.

A little time at inspiration point was called for.

How do you recharge?

A virtual dream trip from one who's staying put for a while

I was thinking how much I'd like for you to see a little bit about the Sylvia Beach Hotel at Nye Beach in Newport, Oregon. The inn's named after Sylvia Beach, a mentor of Lost Generation writers, who owned the famous Paris bookstore Shakespeare and Company. I have loved the hotel for years and think of it as my home away from home. In fact, if it is even your second visit there, the staff will check you in with a "welcome home" greeting.

It's on pilgrimage lists for folks who also can't wait to see the famous world's largest independent Powell's Books, just about two hours away in Portland, Oregon. The inn's also in some of those "101 things to do before you die" type of guides. Rooms are typically booked months if not a year in advance. I try to make my next couple of reservations as I'm leaving, ensuring that I'll squeeze in a retreat a few times a year. But there are also usually folks from all over the world who luck out with a walk-in after a cancellation.

Each room in the hotel is dedicated to an author, poet or playwright. From Austen to Wilde as it were.

I think I've stayed in nearly every room. Except Poe. It's a little on the creepy side for sleeping. The photo above is of Tennessee Williams' room... named appropriately "Stella." Dreamy, isn't it?

Shakespeare's headboard.

The writing desk in Shakespeare. As far as I know every room has a spot for writing. No phones or televisions though.

This is my daughters' favorite room. Dr. Seuss. Other children's writers represented at the hotel include Robert Louis Stevenson. His room was occupied on my last visit so I couldn't skulk in for a photo. It's gorgeous though ... a big four-poster bed of tree trunks twined with vines.

More Dr. Seuss. Maybe the least "restful" room in the hotel, it's also one of the most fun.

My favorite parts of the Sylvia Beach Hotel are the library and the dining room. The library occupies the western end of the third floor as well as the attic above, where chimneys from the other floors snake between bookcases like an illustration from Dr. Seuss. On foggy days the library is nearly silent even when writers and guests are sprawled in every easy chair. You may hear the scratch of a pen, the sigh of wonder at a truly great sentence read and re-read, or the crackling of the fire. On sunny days the Pacific view is astounding. The doors to the balcony are open and the background noise is the hush of incoming and outgoing tides.

The library has "no cell phone" signs posted among portraits of authors. Sometimes rowdy book groups or family reunions gather in the library, but that's a different and happier sort of noise altogether than the city-centric, twenty-first-century convention of cell phone addiction. (My tiny soapbox moment, brought to you by a decade in real estate.)

The library also has a small kitchenette for making tea and storing snacks. Every evening at 9 or 10 the hotel serves mulled wine in this area. It's so yummy and spicy and warm and it's gone in moments, usually to savvy guests who've been camped out waiting for the carafes to arrive. Not that I'd know anything about that.

One fantastic reason to miss the late-night mulled wine in the library is to still be seated in the Tables of Content restaurant in the basement dining room. Not only is the food local, gourmet and amazing, but it's served by "Mother," family style in at least five courses, and seating is carefully assigned so lone travelers and couples and groups are all accommodated.

And then... at dinner... love it or hate it, the diners play a game called "two truths and a lie." Each guest has the opportunity to tell two true things and one fib about themselves. Then the fellow diners ask three questions apiece of the storyteller to try to ascertain which is the lie. The hilarity of this game cannot be overstated, even for a natural introvert like me. I am always so inspired by peoples' creativity, and generosity, and friendliness.

Breakfast also occurs in the dining room, and is included with the room rate. It's a hot breakfast that I can easily linger over for a couple of hours, either visiting with a guest met the evening before or reading or watching the waves from the plate glass wall of ocean-facing windows.

It's easy to be alone at the Sylvia Beach Hotel. It's easy to be in a group or with your husband. It's easy to be quiet or sociable, to read or walk along the sand. The hotel's own website claims that the inn will either embrace or repel a person. (And to be truthful I have met a few people at breakfast who felt out of sorts with the Bohemian atmosphere and lack of modern amenities.)

I read that even today, Shakespeare & Company bookstore in Paris exchanges beds for a few hours' work from aspiring young writers. I do think the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon, lives up to its namesake's vision of celebrating the written word and the people who create it as well as those who crave it.

Run away with me

Are there even words for a scene like that?

Two weeks ago I ran away to my favorite book hotel and wrote and napped and (book) shopped and then slept some more.

It was very stormy but that's a compelling reason for more napping in the library overlooking the waves.

When I wasn't haunting bookstores or running out of batteries on both laptop and camera I was taking in this view from the Emily Dickinson room, my favorite spot at my home away from home.

.

It hasn't escaped my attention that my favorite room is dedicated to the great poet and, um, recluse. I do tend to border on the hermit but I don't think I focus on the morbid nearly so much as did Emily.

.

Maybe valuing life for me means taking things slowly, as deliberately as possible with four (nearly five!) children. I know for sure that living my life means a lot of alone time. I find time with a close friend, a loved one, fills that same treasure box. I conversely find my treasure has nothing to do with the ringing of phones nor the steady ping of urgent email.

.

So I ran away to the Sylvia Beach Hotel. It's too much. Seriously. I live in a retreat community with gorgeous views and beauty all around and all the solitude that sometimes causes my husband to worry that I'll experience loneliness in my days. I don't need to get away. And yet he affords me these three-day gems a couple of times a year: hours upon hours when words can fill my head without interruption.

.

And I do this for myself with not a little guilt. It's hard to accept that I'm worth it. (I can hear my dad now, clicking away in personal-information-overload mode.). I feel compelled to tell y'all that I do this because I think confronting the mommy guilt is a worthwhile exercise. I think we must do that to be the parents we can be. We need to figure out what it is that fills our cups to overflowing, and do that. For me, running away every six months or so makes me fully present with my gorgeous family in our blessed household all the other days of the year.

.

Are you a solitude seeker? A party girl? Do you thrive after a mani-pedi with a girlfriend? What do you do, just for you?

It stacks up

So this weekend I'm gone to a quilting retreat.

Last year I spent a good deal of my preparation time, um, er, freaking out about all the talented quilters and designers and whether I'd stick out like a sore thumb.

This year I was invited back! But the retreat weekend snuck up on me a little. That was good because it condensed the panic time.

My fabrics are chosen and cut; even my back-up complementary fabric is cut in case of last-minute change of mind. Not that that ever happens to me. My sewing machine, cutting mat, rulers and overnight bag are at the ready.

But wait.

Last year the retreat was on a remote mountaintop in the middle of public forest land, enhancing its exclusive mystique and my sense of removal from home and hearth. This year, by sheer coincidence, the venue is moved across the road from me. I may sleep at home in between hours of frantic, I mean earnest, stitching and creativity and fellowship with the neat women and artists I was privileged to meet last year.

And I hope to share pictures of my completed quilt top when I return. From across the road. (Why did the chicken...?)

I'm not over it

I still have an overwhelming sense of peace and gratitude (despite the Great Coffee Incident of 2009) that I brought home with me from the Sylvia Beach Hotel.


That's the best possible form of getaway, for me. The kind that comes back with me a newborn fluffy bird which spreads its wings in relief and warmth and recognition of home.

While I was gone I received a real estate call on the dread batphone, a referral from my favorite independent bookstore owners. The Bookmine in Cottage Grove doesn't have a web site, but it does have a small organic plant nursery and several comfy couches. It doesn't have seven levels covering one city block, but it does have a corner filled with vintage Little People for my little people to play with while I read. It doesn't have air conditioning or flourescent lights or many other modern conveniences... but it does "have" Gail and Birdie, sisters I've known my entire life who have run the bookstore nearly as long as I've been alive.

So when Gail sends me someone who wants to talk about moving to our area, I consider it an introduction to a possible friend. Even on vacation, I'll take that call.

I met a writer and her writer partner on that call. I learned about their dreams and hopes for a second home on small acreage with a big garden and room for a big table on which the two of them write but not enough room for a lot of visitors.

That part made me laugh.

Anyway I just want to say that even though I'm still working real estate I found my rose-colored glasses again. Certainly the financing woes and the sheer incompetence of many in the field and the agonies of buyers and sellers at huge financial turning points ... surely those things will rear their ugly heads. But just as surely I am a person at peace. I brought it home with me and I don't plan to let this particular bird fly too far.

Panic Sets In

We spent a quiet weekend on the hobby farm.

My husband woke up late Saturday morning after working nearly 'round the clock all week on a big project. I woke up early Saturday morning after holding down the fort nearly single-handledly all week.

I tiptoed past the girls' rooms like a teenager sneaking out of the house at night, avoiding the creaky floorboards and barely breathing. The baby could sense me passing. I froze in place and waited for the quiet rustle of turning over in her crib.

I just wanted to putter in my kitchen, walk around the frosted farmyard with a steaming cup of coffee as the sun came up, check on my seedlings, and get my sewing machine warmed up. I had a little Valentine dress in store for Gracie and Laura, not to mention the quilting retreat of next weekend.

The puttering went fine. I reorganized my baking center. I bleached out the sinks. I dug through the bread box and gave the chickens a Saturday feast of crumbs and bread heels.

The frosty sunrise walk was as though I'd pushed a re-set button on my weekend. The garden is mostly still blanketed in mulch. My cold frame with garlic and salad seedlings is cute as can be. The horses followed me along the fenceline between garden and paddock, nickering for breakfast and pawing at the frozen ground for emphasis. I was sure the house was ready for breakfast as well but it was hard to go back inside.

I just knew there'd be something wrong with my sewing machine.

I've been quilting for almost 20 years. I started machine-piecing blocks in college as a way to avoid studying for finals. I moved on through strip quilting (hah hah hah... sounds like I was wild in college... anyway, for non-quilters: this means quilting with strips of fabric, not removing one's clothing to quilt) and hand applique. I flirted around with machine quilting for a while but wasn't really pleased with the results.

Almost every aspect of quilting is relaxing to me. I love the fabrics. I love the repetitive steps of piecing a block. I love arranging the blocks differently to see the quilt's potential finished beauty. I love the magic of a finished top emerging from the machine, shaken out and left on the back of the couch to admire before the work of making a quilt sandwich for backing and batting and binding.

So when a friend invited me to a hush-hush, exclusive quilters' retreat for this coming weekend, I knew something would go wrong.

First I was worried that I'd get uninvited after I lost my friend's 4-year-old child (however briefly).

Then I started losing sleep in earnest when I received the six pages of instructions. It's a mystery quilt, an original design by the famous quilter who hosts the retreat. I am instructed to buy certain yardages of certain color values in three separate color groupings and cut them into specific widths. I am instructed to burn the instructions after reading (just kidding).

The retreat is next weekend. I am sworn to secrecy, which of course means I'm gonna try to sneak my camera in and beg for blogging permission. I can tell you this: All quilters will arrive Friday with their sewing machines, rotary mats, fabric. All quilters will leave Saturday night with a finished quilt top.

Crikey. That doesn't sound remotely relaxing.

The brochure (book) even has scheduled time for walks in the woods and meals and snacks and chatting. Are they KIDDING?

I'm going to arrive with no clue of the quilt's design and LEAVE WITH IT FINISHED?

Panic sets in. The meditative walk at dawn, the quiet kitchen organization, was all for naught. When it got time to get the sewing machine out, I just knew. something. would. go. wrong.

There's no truth to that self-fulfilling prophecy idea, is there? For a full hour on Saturday I was sure my feed dogs (sewing machine part that feeds the fabric through at prescribed speed) wouldn't go back up. I flipped the switch. I consulted the manual. I unplugged the machine. I cried. I even wielded a screwdriver in my frantic state. No sewing machine, no retreat. My husband actually asked me to leave the room, such was my anxiety level.

Um. Did you know that feed dogs go up and down in a rotating motion as they feed the material? So they might actually be "up" and ready to work, even if they appear to be "down" ....

Well, friends, bear with me in my starstruck crafty freakouts. I'll try to sneak you some pictures.

Matching! And Organizing! Concentration!

Remember that game you used to play with your mom and dad's cards? Concentration is what we called it. My brother and I would spread all 62 (64? I can't remember. Challenge me to any card game and you will win. Except maybe concentration. I'm so good at that. Except this long parenthetical proves otherwise. Who's counting?)... anyway, my brother and I would spread out the whole deck, upside down, in a perfect grid on the floor.

I was a little particular about the grid and its spacing. My brother, nearly three years younger, just wanted to slap 'em down and get on with the game. Brothers. It was always a stretch, literally, to organize the middle just right so the grid looked more or less orderly. This would be important later, when mentally photographing the split-second overturning of a card to find a match.

My brother is a chemical engineer. He's all slapdash and "whatever," clearly, to this day. Me? I'm a (mostly) stay-at-home mom with a blog. Which one of us was paying attention in the big concentration game of life, I'll never tell.

Oh! The REASON for this post?

I have decided to get more organized in the New Year. How novel! you say. Feel free to leave me tips in the comment section. Or hire me a personal organizer. Either one.

Because this is not the first time it has crossed my mind, I have a few (dozen) books and torn-out magazine articles on the subject. All over my office floor. Plus (bonus!) all the new magazines have refresher courses for me.

It occurs to me that one's entire house, indeed, life, should not be a huge game of Concentration. One (that one being me) should not have to close one's eyes and picture where they left their keys, underwear, smallest child. One should decidedly not have to overturn any playing cards to find any of those items. Puh-lease.

So I decided to start the big effort, yesterday, with a shopping trip. What did I buy? Certainly not clever lined baskets or totes or filing cabinets or even bookcases. I bought bras and underwear, people.

I bought five new bras, none of them flesh-toned or nursing-capable, and two pairs of panties to match each bra. The angels of organization are singing as I type that. Can you hear them?

Now, this very morning, I shall attack the organization monster with a vengeance. Clearly I am girded for the chore.

(First stop: Throw away all nursing bras and maternity panties and tidily arrange my new lingerie drawer. Next: Cup of coffee and self-congratulations. Finally: Peruse more magazines to plan the whole attack. Disintegrate into overwhelm. More coffee. Keep you posted.)

Everyday Sneakiness

The rain I was wishing for has finally begun. I can't tell you what a relief it is to finally spend some time indoors without guilt. The garden is put to bed, the chicken chalet is finished (complete with a cleverly engineered chicken-only door that appears to also have potential as a plywood guillotine, should the Cuckoo Maran roosters really get on my last nerve). The garlic and daffodils are in the ground and the orchard is planted too -- all just in time for torrential downpours that make me ever-so-glad to have a cozy little office and a teakettle at the ready.

The girls are all set for the season with Legos and schoolbooks and Breyer horses and art supplies. We were even blessed by the gift of a microscope with about 25 prepared slides. Oh, the joys of seeing butterfly wings magnified 100 times.

And since it's raining now, and I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations is up, I thought I'd share the photos from my latest expedition into sneakiness. Yes, I made my kids trespass for the sake of a photo shoot. In my defense, I didn't see the "private property" sign until after Grace was already climbing through the field fence:

Sarah was a little worried about getting caught. I was on the other side of the gate. Hey, I couldn't leave Laura asleep in the car and trek into the field with the big girls! But I couldn't pass up that light either. And especially I had to shoot the way Sarah's hair matched the overripe hay:

Grace had absolutely no compunction:

But Madeleine was fairly certain we were going straight to trespassers' prison:

I used to be really afraid (all the time) to get in trouble. Even well into my 30s, when I ought to have known better, or had more gumption, I worried a lot about obedience and the letter of the law. Maybe I've lost my mind, and maybe I've been let off easy by state troopers a few too many times, but I don't have time to worry about stuff like that anymore.

Besides, who's gonna arrest the mother of four for taking a few pictures in a field? Or driving with one headlight burned out? Or moving the furniture compulsively? Or "borrowing" WiFi on a road trip?

Did my moral compass get lost or did I just get better stuff to worry about?

I think the pictures were worth it!