J'ai rêvé

Wahkeena Creek, Columbia Gorge, Oregon

J'ai rêvé de toi hier nuit. 
J'ai rêvé que je t'ai vu dormant,
en rêvant de moi. 

Dog Mountain in Winter - Columbia Gorge, Washington

Ignorance and Curiosity

The opposite of ignorance isn’t intelligence – at least not native intelligence.  The World is full of fools who score well on aptitude tests. 

The real opposite of ignorance is curiosity – a thirst for knowledge and understanding so powerful that one is willing to risk appearing foolish in the pursuit of its quenching. 

The Mountaintop

A child growing up in a secluded wooded valley knows everything important.  All that is relevant and worthwhile is close at hand, and familiar.

Dog Mountain Trail, good dog.

One day, he ascends the foothills; the trees open up, and sunshine pours in. Discoveries and unknown possibilities appear.

French Pete Creek Trail

Finally, he reaches the summit, he sees other valleys—unknown valleys much like his own—as well as deserts, more peaks, and an infinite sky.  It is then he learns that there is more than he can ever know; an awesome universe beyond his imagination or comprehension.  

Columbia River Gorge from Hamilton Mountain

And though he may return to the valley, and be happy there, he is forever changed; his awareness of the universe lends a different meaning to the confines of the valley.

The Human Heart

Consider the human heart:  

It is a small chambered vessel; perhaps one whose finite capacity we choose to guard jealously; allocating space only to those closest to us, whom we deem most worthy, or who have shown us unusual kindness?  

Maybe we expand it to include family, clan, ethnic group, maybe nationality.  But we maintain boundaries between those we allow in, and those we keep out.  

But the heart is also a muscle, which—through a lifelong program of vigorous exercise—may become strong enough to continually open up, and grow in capacity.    

Each representation is valid, of course, but they are not equal. The first leads to atrophy and failure, when the heart is ultimately unable to do even the little we ask of it. The second view leads to growth and vitality, and the ability to not only carry our own load, but to help others bear theirs.  

If we choose the latter, we need not look far to find role models for our training; Christ, the Dalai Lama, Gandhi, Martin Luther King Junior, Thich Nhat Hanh - many others we randomly encounter, without even noticing.  If we open our eyes, it’s clear that we’re surrounded by workout partners. 

Our choices are clear.  

Consider your human heart.  

Your Children are not Your Children

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
…
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
…
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
…
              - Khalil Gibran (The Prophet)

Little Norman

I changed schools in the middle of the Third Grade, and had a little trouble fitting in. I smoked cigarettes, so ended up hanging out mostly with outsiders. But I was also a science nerd, I read a lot of books, and used proper grammar – and helped my buddies with theirs, so I didn’t quite fit in with them either.

I ended up getting in a lot of fights.

Here’s the poor teacher introducing me (allegorically) to the class, “Children, say hello to your new classmate, Norman Mailer. Please welcome him, and for Goodness sake, try not to make him angry.”

Seven Seconds

Seven seconds in – his day’s work almost done;
the bull takes a turn for the worse, and he’s off.
He hits hard, stunned, can’t get up.

The bull turns and sees him—so recently his torturer—
now helpless.  He turns on him –
the cowboy’s blurry eyes meet the bull’s huge eyes –
Black, showing nothing but blind hatred;
A lifetime of amorphous, inbred anger finds focus –
if only for a moment.
A step later, life leaves the helpless cowboy.

With this one move, he avenges the hundreds of brave toros,
each year tortured to death
to entertain cheering Madrileños;
And the hundreds of thousands of his castrato brethren—
anonymous but for numbers stapled to their ears—
who trudge stupidly from filthy, crowded feedlots
to their doom in kill-rooms;
to satisfy our bottomless appetite
for Omaha Steaks and Happy Meals..

To My Father, Bill Newton

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head -
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door -
Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment - one shilling the box -
Allow me to sell you a couple."

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak -
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw.
Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose -
What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to this stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!
- Lewis Carroll

Of all the poems Dad read to us growing up, that was my favorite, and I think it may have been his too - for obvious reasons. But there were so many others. Through our poetry readings, we were introduced to a world of danger, adventure, and ideas about a world beyond our immediate surroundings. Lines like ‘Half a league, half a league, half a league onward ….’, ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears’, ‘This above all: to thine own self be true.’ were as familiar to us as, “See Spot Run”. And we probably heard them earlier. Our copy of "A Treasury of the Familiar" is always close at hand, and is pretty beaten up. 

Another way that Dad exposed us to a larger world was through the diaries he kept of his time in the Navy during the Second World War. From his recounting of the day-to-day life of a store-keeper aboard an aircraft carrier, to his narratives of what it felt like to be in battle – protecting your floating city from kamikazes. Each day’s entry would include a little bit about his shipmates who had died in battle that day. We learned about courage and sacrifice early from a first-hand source.

Of course neither the Treasury of the Familiar, nor Dad’s shipboard diaries was the most used book in the house. That distinction was held by the dictionary – with the encyclopedia close behind. There’s a wonderful expression; ‘Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.’ Dad has always been a 'teach a man to fish' kind of guy. From the time we could read, if we had a question about a word, the answer was 'Look it up!' Then when we found the answer, we would be asked to share it with the rest of the family.

'Look it up' of course, was just one of Dad's many memorable lines. Here are a few others:
• 'Watch it! You could put an eye out with that thing!'
• 'You know that thing's only got so many clicks in it!'
• And of course, 'Profanity is the efforts of a weak mind to express itself forcibly'
• This was often followed by a demonstration any time Dad worked on the car. You see he believed that some bolts were designed to only turn when you torqued on them both physically and verbally.
And there are so many others
• After we left home, he learned a new line, "You know I never interfere in my kids' lives. Once you're out in the World on your own, you’re responsible for your own decisions …." The lecture followed immediately.

To say Dad was old-school is accurate, but barely touches it. He is from the 'gruff-love' generation. His generation didn’t wear their hearts – their big generous hearts – on their sleeves. These guys don’t betray their sentimentality, even though it’s just beneath the surface. When you tell him you'll be coming by for a visit, says, "Oh good, it always makes your mother happy to see you."

It has always meant a lot to us to make Dad proud. And he has always been so proud of us.

Dad was the kind of guy who would be there for you no matter what. There is an incident that I'll never forget; when a friend and I were stuck outside of Florence hitch-hiking in the middle of the night. Cars were only coming by about once every 5-10 minutes, and none of them was interested in picking up a couple of scraggly-looking hitchhikers at 1 AM. We were wet, and tired, and it was starting to get cold. We knew there was a pay phone a little way down the road, I called Dad. He said to just stay there, and he'd be down. About an hour later, there he was. He drove us back to town, and though we talked about a few things, he never brought up how we had inconvenienced him, and never implied that he'd rather be anywhere else than right there, making sure we were safe and warm.

Dad was that kind of old-school.

Dad's reaction to a crisis - especially one he couldn't control - was to become informed, and to share what he learned. Basically he'd read and write. Learn and share.

And boy, does Dad love his internet. For an information hound like Dad, this was the ultimate playground. He’d hit it first thing in the morning, and last thing at night.

We always found a lot to disagree about. Another of his famous lines was, “Anytime, two people in a conversation agree on everything, only one of them is doing any thinking.” He rarely let that happen. He truly respects your right to disagree, but if you choose to engage, you better be prepared. You show up for an argument with Bill Newton without your ‘A’ game, and he’ll rock you on your heels – First Round TKO.

Of course, he’ll then pick you back up, and dust you off. Old school.

We disagreed about all the things you might expect; War, Peace, Taxes, Welfare – stuff like that. And though many of our venues of competitive disagreement were issues of substance, there was really nothing too insubstantial to become the next forum. I hate to reveal this about him, but he has this habit of always putting the toilet paper on the roll where you pull the end of the roll out from the bottom, which NEVER made any sense to me. And he never seemed to appreciate it when I'd flip them over for him when we would visit. He just couldn't appreciate that I was doing him a favor. And on a couple occasions, when he’d be visiting our house, our TP rolls would mysteriously get flipped over.

He had surgery last year to unclog his carotid arteries. On my way down to visit him, instead of a standard ‘get well’ card, I stopped at the post office and picked up a voter registration form for him. I filled it out completely for him, including changing party affiliation from Republican to Democratic - on the assumption that the increase blood flow to the brain would motivate this change.

Dad really loved that. And I loved that he loved that. I know he kept that registration card, and has occasionally taken it out, and shared a laugh with a friend. I love that about him. As adamant as he is, he's not above an opportunity to laugh. As fundamental and heart-felt as our differences were, there is an underlying foundation of love and mutual respect that trumps all.

When I was down here a couple weeks ago when Mom was in the hospital, I stopped by the Smith Family Bookstore to cash in a gift certificate. Among the books I picked up was a copy of John F. Kennedy's Profiles in Courage, which I hadn't read since grade school. The book is a collection of stories about people who placed themselves at tremendous personal and political risk to remain true to their principles. As far back as I can remember, these stories have reminded me of Dad. Whatever faults he may have possessed, he was tremendously loyal to his principles – and for this, he paid a price. He held himself to the highest ethical standards; personally and professionally, and expected no less of us, or of his business associates. If he felt that something you did fell short of these standards, he would counsel you to improve – whether you were his son or daughter, a friend, a client, or his boss. 

Dad may have lost a step or two over the last few years, but he never accepted any imposed disability. Last summer we took Mom and Dad up to see Mt. St. Helens. At the Johnston Ridge Observatory we watched a movie about the eruption, and then went out to see the crater up close. There’s a hiking trail that goes up to an even better viewpoint. Madeleine wanted to go up a ways, so she and I took off. We figured we’d just go up, take a couple pictures, and head back down to rejoin the rest. We stopped about halfway up to take a few pictures, and when we turned around, guess who was right there. We ended up going all the way to the top – about a quarter mile, and 150 to 200 feet of climbing. We have a picture of Dad at the top – in fact it’s on the inside of the handout you were given as you came in. Though he’s keeping a pretty good poker face, he was so proud of making that hike, he was about bursting. And so was I.

In the week before Dad died, he got to see his brothers and sister - and had a VERY good time with them. He was able to care for Mom when she needed him, and was able to see the wonderful support she received from the others around her. Then, when his time came, he laid down for a nap, and peacefully left us. There is not a lot that we can ask God with regard to our passing. I am so grateful that he was – and we were – able to enjoy the last week he had. 

We were fortunate to have Dad in our lives, and we will miss him terribly. But we need to remember where he is now.

Our Father William is no longer old. He is young again, lean and fast. His limbs are supple, and – to borrow from his high school yearbook, the Hesperus – "Those broad shoulders, and the gleam in his eye" once again “put fear into the hearts of the opposing boxers.”

Light Tackle

I admire light tackle fishermen. They lure the fish, then—in concert with its natural instincts—draw it closer and gently pull it from the water. They may bring the fish to shore to eat it, or release it, with both fish and angler wiser for the experience.

If the goal is just to get the fish from the water, one may alternately blow up an M80, or poison the stream. Effective, but graceless. 

Bridging a Chasm

Bridging a chasm may begin with a slender thread, fixed to an arrow and sent across. A slightly heavier cord is then attached to the end of the thread, and drawn back. The process repeats until the divide is bridged by something stout enough to hold a person, who may carry supplies for the completion of the project. 

At each step the critical element is trust; trust in the materials, and in the skills and attentiveness of those working on each side of the chasm – but most of all, trust that the people on each side actually want a bridge built. 

Teaching Tolerance

The only effective way to teach tolerance is by example.

Matching intolerance with intolerance feels good - really good. Public humiliation is particularly satisfying. If the goal is to condemn, and to prove one's superiority, this approach is very effective.

But if one hopes to win a soul, rather than condemn it, there is a better way. Humiliating a person—however justified it may feel—ends the conversation, alienates them, and destroys any opportunity for influence.

Facts can be argued, but feelings are always valid, whether based on legitimate facts, or on prejudice and misinformation. Feelings are not changed—at least not for the better—by humiliation or intellectual intimidation; but by the gradual building of trust.

Seek first to understand how this individual came to believe what he or she does. Look for points of commonality – however remote they may seem. If none are found, there may be no choice but to agree to disagree; but you are no poorer for the effort. But if one reaches even a point or two of understanding, those points may form the cornerstone upon which and incredible shared understanding can be built.

Un Petit Hommage à Fromage

J'adore le fromage.
J'adore la brie, chevre et gruyere.
Je le mange avec du vin,
des craquelins,
et des poissons.

Je mange du fromage au petit déjeuner,
au déjeuner
et au dîner - 
et parfois entre ces repases.
J'adore le fromage. 

A Cry for Help

Strange - sometimes the last person to hear a cry for help is the one issuing it. 

La Maison de Plage

'Je t'aimerai toujours',
Ensemble, nous avons écrit dans le sable humide
Au bord de l'eau à marée basse.
«Toujours» ... nous avons ri de l'idée même -
Et pleurait pour nos rire insensé.

Plus tard, nous sommes rentrés à la maison de plage.
J'ai allumé un feu;
Nous nous sommes assis près de la fenêtre ouverte,
Nous avons bu du vin et fait l'amour
Au son du vent, des vagues,
Et de la marée montante inexorablement.  

Michel-Jacques Villeneuve

Pride and Gratitude

It is sad when people in need are too proud to accept help from others. 

Sadder still, when pride doesn't prevent the acceptance of help, but only comes into play when it's time to express gratitude. 

Reflective Glasses

We all wear 3/4 reflective glasses.  What we see all around us is as much a reflection of our hearts and souls as it is an objective view of the World.   

Boneless, Skinless

At Costco the other day I saw boneless, skinless chicken breasts for $2.50 / lb. 
What does that say about the value we place on the lives of these magnificent beasts of the air (at least theoretically)?

The samples were really tasty.

Karen's Farewell to Farah (from 'Out of Africa')

At the end of her time in Africa, Karen Blixen was preparing to leave for Denmark, knowing she would never return.  This is her farewell to Farah, her servant who had been her friend during her entire time there:

• Karen: Farah, do you remember how it was on safari? In the afternoons I would send you ahead to look for a camp, and you would wait for me.
• Farah: You can see the fire and come to this place.
• Karen: Yes. Well, it will be like that. Only this time I will go ahead and wait for you.
• Farah: It is far, where you are going?
• Karen: Yes.
• Farah: You must make this fire very big - so I can find you.

What a healing and powerful image - that when we lose somebody from our lives they are going ahead, and building a fire for us to one day follow.  

My prayer is that as we live our lives—and as we pass into whatever lies beyond—that we will always build fires large and enduring enough that those we love will be able to find us, and that we will seek the fires others have built for us. 

http://www.metacafe.com/watch/an-Vngp7J7m4hbm72/out_of_africa_1985_separating_from_farah/  

How to Treat People

Buck sat quietly for a bit, stirring the campfire back to life with the poker.  Then he turned to the young man and began, “Son, knowin’ how to treat people ain’t rocket science. Only two things you need to know; If they’re strangers, treat ‘em like they was Jesus, like he says you should. Book of Matthew, if memory serves. 

"If you do know them … especially if you love them”.  As he looked back down, the fire reflected in his eyes, “if you love 'em, then every time you’re with ‘em, you’ve got to treat ‘em like it's the last time.”

He got up, and stepped away from the fire, then stopped with his back to the others, and added, "Cuz sure as hell, when you least expect it, you'll find out it was."

Sainthood

It is not absolute certainty, or a lack of existential doubt or anguish, that defines a saint. Those are the prerogatives of zealots and fools, not of saints.  Rather, it is within the crucible of doubt—when one’s behavior bolsters the faith of others—that sainthood is manifest.

Multnomah Falls - Larch Mountain Hike

Jazzmine and I had our longest hike ever on Tuesday; may have been the longest hike of my life - not sure.  I took the day off, and we hiked from Multnomah Falls to the top of Larch Mountain. I get jaded about Multnomah Falls – the old Yogi Berra saying, “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” But it’s crowded because it’s amazing, and it attracts people from all over the World.

Above Multnomah Falls, the crowds disappear, but the natural beauty remains.  Within a half-mile of the top of the falls are two other waterfalls, and a variety of beautiful rapids.  This is Wisendanger Falls.  You encounter this view as you round a bend, and the trail begins to ascend to the right through a series of switchbacks.   

The trail continues along Multnomah Creek for another mile and a half or so, including three crossings.  Then it emerges into a clearing, and follows a rockfall for a ways before going back into the woods. 

Back in the woods, the trail got steep again, and soon the clouds that had been overhead all morning became fog at my level.  About this time, I began seeing patches of snow on the ground here and there.  As we continued, these became more frequent, until at the top, we were in a snowfield about a foot deep.  As I began to feel the first signs of frostbite in my fingers, I realized that I had lost my Army surplus wool gloves somewhere along the trail; Jazzmine found them on our way down, but by then we were back below the snowline again - 'Bad Dog ... No biscuit!' 
Just kidding ... Good Dog! 

It was a sweet hike down.  I had to be careful with my footing, since my legs were a bit rubbery, but it was really gorgeous.  Near where the East Fork joins the main flow of Multnomah Creek, I noticed this rock bowl along the trail, which I hadn't seen on the way up.  When I grabbed my camera to line up a shot, it seemed that the combination of the rock bowl and the stump behind it made a nice looking natural altar.  Altar seems the appropriate term; I had found the entire day to be a validation both of the beauty of God's creation, and of the amazing, evolutionary adaptations that characterized the land and the life I witnessed there.  It would feel right to me to take the holy sacraments here, then dance naked laps around it. 

We really are blessed to have such a beautiful area be so accessible.  I have wasted too many years, and have missed too many opportunities to go up there.  But each morning is a chance to change course, and since my legs have begun leading me more frequently to Columbia Gorge hiking trails, I have never looked back. 

I'll continue to go to our brick and mortar church, but will try to make it often to the services I enjoy here.

The Source of Happiness

What is the path to enduring happiness?  Is it by achieving wealth or fame? Maintaining good health? Staying close to your family, or your faith?

My Angel atop Angel's Rest

Each of these can contribute to happiness. But none is essential, and ultimately none is sufficient. They are stones – which may be a foundation for happiness, or hurled as weapons against it. 

Wealth is a wonderful enabler.  It can help you see the world, and perhaps make a positive difference in it.  But wealth may also engender a sense of entitlement, and can alienate us from those who have less. 

Fame is an attractive goal, but one which—once attained—often becomes a trap from which many famous people would gladly flee to anonymity.

Good health is appreciated most when it is absent, or newly regained. The novelty of mobility, or a pain-free easy breath is short-lived, and soon taken for granted.  

Our families can be our foundation of strength, but may also be the dull knife that reopens painful childhood wounds.

And faith—which we would look to as the ultimate font of happiness—sometimes serves instead as a forum from which prejudice, chauvinism, and hatred are expressed and reinforced. Religious faith has inspired incredible generosity and sacrifice; but has also been the driving force behind some of the most vicious acts of pitiless cruelty in history.

Each of these stones can be part of the foundation of true happiness, but on their own, they are not stable.

Whether one possesses but one of these, all of them, or none at all, a spirit focused on gratitude for that endowment is the mortar which holds them together. And a spirit of generosity—the natural extension of that gratitude—is the glue that creates families, communities, and ultimately unites us all as human beings.

Siren Song

In times of economic insecurity and rapid societal change, voices of fear and intolerance may make sense. These are siren songs; they seem easy and attractive, but they lure our society onto the rocks of disunity and destruction.

We achieve our potential only when we embrace one another, bonding across the full range of religious, racial, ethnic, and all other manifestations of the human experience.

The Same River Twice

It’s said that you never step in the same river twice; which is true, except for that one you have to cross when you finally go home again.

Balance

Punches landed and blows absorbed; zingers delivered and crow eaten; hearts broken and heartbreaks endured.  The lesson of adulthood is that these pairs don’t offset one another; they all sit upon the same side of life’s scale, and are only balanced by sincere forgiveness, joy and laughter shared, and the realization that we are all one.

This has taken me so long to learn - and the lesson is so easily set aside still. 

The White Space

The uncluttered corner of a photograph or a painting;
a rest in a musical score or pause in the action in a movie; 
the last few moments before sleep at the end of the day, and
the gentle transition to awakeness in the morning;
quiet moments with family or friends which words could only clutter;
the ephemeral instant in nature when it’s just you, your surroundings, and the lightest whisper of a breeze.  

Look to the white spaces, and savor them.  It is there that beauty and truth are revealed; balance and energy restored. 

A Morning on Tumalo Mountain

Last winter, I took a morning of our vacation to snowshoe up Tumalo Mountain, across Century Drive from Mt. Bachelor. It’s a beautiful hike in the woods, ascending 1400 feet to a bald summit and a beautiful panoramic mountain view.

As the morning sun touches the upper branches, little ice nuggets began to loose their grip on the trees to which they have clung. Falling to the snow below, they begin their journey—their seasons long, spring-feeding, crop-soaking, salmon-ecologizing journey—to the Pacific.

As the chunks of ice fall from upper branches, many of them hit dead branches below – the muffled sound nearly lost in the snow. First there was one, then another … a trickle, and finally a torrent until I was surrounded by the sound of a thousand Brazilian rain sticks.
I wondered if this concert was an every-day occurrence, or performed only for guests (If an ice chunk falls on a snag in the woods, and nobody is there to hear it …?).
The chorus from time to time was punctuated by the snap of a desiccated snag; the remains of an old sentinel, ghostly manning his post on the front lines of climate change – held together now only by the rigidity of the ice. The rising warmth—so welcome throughout the forest—robs his frame of its last resistance to gravity, which he surrenders, to the tune of a broken-bat single.


The dappled sunlight glints off snow crystals like a million twinkling stars – or flashbulbs at a nighttime Super Bowl. As I continue the climb, the lightshow follows. No matter where I stand, they all flash my direction. What can this mean? I mean the climb is hard, and fraught with danger, but it’s really not a big … sure, I’m making good time, but … Wow! You like me. You really like me!


I try to stay off the established tracks, in favor of the untracked forest powder. There’s really no need for a trail – just use your senses. On the way up, just do what your thighs beg you not to; keep going uphill, and you’ll end up at the summit. And to find the parking lot on the way down, just keep your eyes on Mt. Bachelor. It’s not too hard to do … she’s a butte!

At the top, my reward awaits – a 360 degree view of the Central Oregon Cascades. To the west and Northwest, it’s like you can reach out and touch the South Sister and Broken Top, and the view looking back at Bachelor is priceless. Time for a quick drink, a snack, a few pictures, and it’s time to head back down.
Picking my way through the top section of the hike down is pretty tricky. Snowshoes are great for climbing, but awkward for descending. I passed tree wells the size of Volkswagen beetles. If you fell into one of those, it’s not hard to imagine being trapped until the spring thaw – by which time you’d be skinnier than you are now.

After about the top hundred feet or so, the going gets much better. Deep-stepping through untracked powder, and staying oriented to the lift lines across the road, it’s a bounding, pleasant—if not particularly graceful—descent through the lodgepole and jack pine woods. Back to the car and down the hill to the icy beer that awaits me.

God's Rough Stones

We are God’s rough stones.  It is up to us to cleave away hatred and prejudice—whether based on race, nationality, religion, disability, sexuality, gender identity, or anything that blinds us to one another’s beauty or potential.  When have done this, we are shaped into the concealed gem within. 

And when we polish the newly-revealed facets, we allow God’s light in, refracting and reflecting it within our souls, and shining brilliantly back out to heal a broken, sometimes dark, world.