Does My Happiness Offend You ?

Does my happiness offend you?

Well, it appears you aren’t alone in the world.

Not too long ago I posted a photo that opened a gateway to some negative remarks.  The comment made reference to my happiness being “fake”.

Now, please don’t get me wrong.  Although I am clearly a proponent of social media, I am very well aware of the dark underbelly of it as well.  

As a believer in balance, I know the good has to come with the bad, just like the light dances with the dark.

I’m also aware that our “friends” on personal pages and “followers” on community/business pages aren’t always rainbows and butterflies.  

Back in the old days someone might have rolled their eyes at you as you were waxing on about something while you sat, together, around a table sharing a blazing hot cup of coffee.  That activity has evolved into something a little spicier and far more passive aggressive thanks to technology and those good ol’ social media “comment” boxes that now take the place of human interaction.

I’ve experienced some dark quips on my Bohemian Living community page from people, tucked safely on the other side of their screens.  With that level of anonymity comes a bountiful dose of freedom.  Sadly, sometimes freedom comes with a side of terrible manners.  The few times it’s happened, the nasty remarks were about absolute strangers ripping other absolute strangers to shreds based on their appearance.  

I can remember being shocked at how passionate they were (again, about total strangers) being too much or too little of something for their liking.  The ugliness appeared to roll so easily across their keyboards and into the world wide web.

(Silver Lining Alert: I was also shocked at my ability to actually be shocked.  I’ve lived a life filled with shocking moments so, you know, yay for me not being totally numb to the world, right?)

Ok, back to business…

It wasn’t until the other day that I had experienced that speedy new world spiciness personally.  This comment wasn't directed to some stranger.  The bullseye was me.

Let’s switch pages and newsfeeds and hop on over to my own Facebook page.

I posted this photo:

The comment that soon followed, again, made reference to my happiness being fake.

Now, please allow me to make a bit of a confession before I really get rolling.  

My filter for “confirming” new friends is pretty wide.  If we have mutual friends you are pretty much in.  Of course, it’s not always that simple but for arguments sake, it’s pretty close.  

So, a comment popped up on my photo from someone that I don’t actually, personally know but that I do share a ton of mutual friends with.

So I read it twice and then, because I’m human, I felt the zing.

Why?  Why feel a zing from some comment from some person that you don’t really know?

Well, apparently I’m sensitive.  

Ha.  Just kidding.  

Well, not really.  

Allow me to be more specific.  Apparently I’m sensitive about my HAPPINESS.

I fight so fucking hard for my happy moments that for someone to label them fake really does sting.

Boom, I'm human.

The people that know me well understand that I fight a fair battle - every single day.

You see, I live with Depression and it’s three amigos Anxiety, Panic and PTSD.

I live with them every day.  Not just sometimes.  Not just in the moments that suck….but in the happy moments like when I’m holding a Tree Pose & Gyan Mudra in front of beautiful graffiti wings in NYC, too.

Can you see them all?  Anxiety is perched on my right shoulder, Panic on my left. PTSD sits on my heart and Depression is the heavy, sopping wet blanket that I drag around with me.  

They are all there.  

I bet you can see them if you stop for a minute and look close enough.

Now, I speak about this often but I’m going to bring it up again.

I choose NOT to medicate with pharmaceuticals for personal reasons (like the fact that my family history is laced with Addiction so why add one more cherry to my heaping bowl of bullshit, right?).

For the sake of clarity, I also need to explain that the smile you see on me has been earned.  I fight with bloody knuckles and the will of a fucking giant for each one that I wear.

Getting back to the zinger...

You can imagine my eyes getting bigger as I read each word of a fairly benign remark about my happiness being fake.

This is basically how my reaction rolled:

What?  

Wait. 

(I read it again at this point. Twice).  

Who IS this person? 

(This is where I went to his page to investigate as to whether we might actually know each other. Nope, we don’t.  At least I don’t.)

Shit, I hope Bobby doesn’t see this. 

(He already hates my “friend acceptance strategy” or lack thereof.)

I need my brothers. 

(I text a screen grab to each of my brothers for more investigating.)

Fuck! 

(Bobby just saw it and he's on fire. I proceed to explain it's just silliness and not worth being angry over.)

Now I'm giggling.  

(Because my besties just saw it on FB and are pouncing the way true Somerville girls do before I can explain to them the same thing I explained to Bobby, above.)  

I turn to Bobby and say: “My girls are on it."  

(Which fills him with a mix of pride, because my friends are obviously the best and jealousy because he wanted the nod to light up the comment feed as well.)

At this point I sat quietly as the zing started to fade and I began to wonder “does this guy have a point”?

Do I only share my happy moments and not balance them with the true grit of my days?

As I comb through all the swirling thoughts in my mind, I honestly don’t think that’s the case. 

I intentionally post, fairly regularly, about my "Adventures with Depression & The Three Amigos".

Every fucking month is either a birthday or anniversary of someone I have loved and have lost, which the FB world has a front row seat to.

I do believe I share as much of me as I possibly can - and I do it on purpose.  

I do it because I'm hopeful that one day, some person who is on their knees the same way I'm on mine might hear my words and see the tiniest sliver of a spark that casts just enough light that they reach out their hand and hold onto it as tightly as I hold on to my slivers of light.

At least, that's what I've been able to boil this whole experience, this lesson of sorts, down to.

That a tiny sliver of light some of us so desperately need might bounce into your world from the most unexpected and life-preserving place.  For some it's a random person's Facebook page.  For others it's an article or a YouTube video or a song.  Who knows.  Who really cares which one?  What matters is that these slivers are there.

If I'm a sliver of light for someone, someday, then "Hallelujah!".  That means all this heartache has been for something more than just sadness.

On the record:  I wrote to the guy who posted his opinion, privately.  I kindly and honestly explained a bit more about myself and pointed him in the direction of some of my sadder moments (which have been posted on this site and the Storytellers blog) to, you know, balance out the happy.  I wasn't rude, just real.

He replied respectfully and all is fine in the world.  (Disclaimer: I removed his comment from the photo before posting this piece because I don't want to inspire any negativity or feed any drama.)

Just know that I'm incredibly grateful to my army of friends who swooped to my side in solidarity and defense.  

There's no luckier girl in the world than me (and I say that as I'm cloaked in my sopping wet, heavy blanket of Depression today because, well, I can't win'em all but I sure can anchor myself in Gratitude because that's the only chance I'll have at winning any of them).

I bet you are wondering what the parting note is, right?  This one's easy.

In the end, the lesson I learned is this:

(and please know that I mean it from the bottom of my busted up, taped back together, totally lived up and in the process of being loved up heart)...

If you find that my happy moments still offend you, fuck off.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Kava Kava Cave In . . .

The root Kava Kava is said to relieve anxiety, cause a feeling of euphoria and taste like dirt.

All of the above, in my humble experience, is 100% true.

It also numbs your lips, which feels kind of like that "Lip Venom" lip gloss that was such a hit at Sephora however many moons ago that was.

For those of you new to Kava, it’s a root most commonly found in Vanuatu. It is commonly prepared by crushing the root into a powder, mixing it with water and serving it in a coconut shell.  (Visual: Imagine a ginger root and you are on the right track.)

You can find Kava Kava in Whole Foods and other holistic candy stores.  Go to the “Wellness" aisle in a sea of all the other wellness aisles and you’ll find it camped out with the other supplements.

The other day we visited the local KavaSutra in Fort Lauderdale to have a sip before we skipped down the road for a bite to eat.

Now, as someone who manages their Anxiety, Panic and Depression holistically (which means no meds) any time I introduce something, anything, to my system I’m a pretty cheap date.  In other words, I feel it really fast and really heavy.  Even too much tea sends me off and running.  The Kava Kava I had the other day, as it turns out, was a whole new realm for me. 

Hopefully I'm setting the tone of what's to come...

KavaSutra is a tiny little spot off Las Olas.  When you see the gorgeous mural (pictured above) you've found the spot.  The entrance is nestled under a great big oak tree decorated in twinkle lights.  

You’d think you walked into a tiny little dive bar….but there’s no alcohol for sale. Just Kava, Kombucha and some fruit bowls.

We grabbed a few stools and bellied up to the bar, ordered a few coconut cups and proceeded to sip away on our dirt drinks.

Here’s how everything unfolded for me from here:

A few sips in I could feel my lips getting numb, not dentist office numb where you are drooling or anything like that….just tingly "lip venom" numb.

Then, as I’m nearing the bottom of my coconut cup it’s like the weight of an elephant had stepped off my chest and a veil lifted up, up and away so I can see everything in it's crystalline clear beauty.

All of this sounds beautiful, right?

Right.

Because it is.

Until it isn’t.  

What I didn’t calculate after my cheeky smile and eyes wide open glow was the transition back to my own, personal version of “normal”.

For me, that’s where those mean motherfuckers, Anxiety, Panic and Depression settle back into their spots on my chest.

What I didn't anticipate, at all, was that little bit of relief from their mutinous rule opened a door to a room I had boarded up and closed a long, long time ago.

That room was where I didn’t live with these heavy assholes draped all over me in the capacity I do now.

Oomph.

So, as the evening passed and the Kava Kava euphoria exited stage left….the others stomped back in with ferocity.

I wasn’t prepared.

At all.

In fact, the process of letting them all back in and readjusting to “normal” sent me for a spin.

You see, the reality is, sometimes I forget how heavy my Anxiety is.

Sometimes I forget how sneaky my Depression is.

And sometimes I forget how agile my Panic is.

I’ve been living with them, managing them for so long…..a string of minutes without them felt so light I was almost crushed by the weight of them all when they returned.

It was a lesson for me.

Maybe I’m not managing them all as well as I think I am.

Maybe I’m not working my “Tool Box” (yoga, writing, running) as diligently as I promised myself I would. (Note: That’s my agreement with myself.  As long as I’m exhausting all of my options to the best of my ability to manage my “stuff” without meds, I’ll stay off meds.  But if I exhaust all my options and it’s not working, then I’ll consider the conversation of…well, something else.)  

It appears, I’ve been getting lazy, comfortable and complacent.

As Sweet Brown so eloquently said in her interview that went viral on the good ol’ web….”Ain’t nobody got time for that!”.

So here’s to that far away root supplement, Kava Kava, and the lesson in lightness it brought me.

Here’s to working our individual tool boxes to live the best lives each of us can.

Here’s to NOT BEING LAZY.

And here’s to good health…Physical, Mental and Spiritual (in the best ways we can all independently achieve this triumphant trilogy).

I’m going to continue on my yoga, writing, running path...but I’m promising myself I’m going to work it far more diligently so they next time I choose to sip a dirt drink I'm prepared for the reentry.

Onward!

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Your Vibe Attracts Your Tribe

I love when awesome things happen on the heels of the not so awesome.

I was going to Burning Man.

I had the ticket, the airfare, the friends, the camp and the RV.  

I already owned the huge blond afro, combat boots, bikinis and bunny ears.  They were ready to get dusty on the playa.  I  was ready to get dusty on the playa.  

I was ready to bike to the Temple and cry my eyes out for Mum, Dad, John and a small army of family and friends we’ve lost too soon.  I was ready to dance my ass off until the sun rose each morning.  I was ready to take photos that would express what my words never could.

I was ready.

Until, Tropical Storm Erika started spinning toward us.

Florida, my southern wild, was under a state of emergency.  They believed she would pick up her mojo and graduate to Hurricane Erika.  They also believed Hurricane Erika was going to hover right over our house.

Seriously.

So, I did what I thought was right (even though it stung like a bitch). I canceled my trip to Burning Man the morning I was supposed to fly.  I felt awful leaving my hubby to handle the hurricane prep while I would have been off the grid dancing in the desert.

I asked my dear friend Monica to visit the Temple for me this year and whisper that I’ll be there when the stars realign.

Then I put away my bunny ears and my ticket was sold.

Someone else would get dusty in my place.

Erika, the storm, never materialized.  Apparently my army of angels didn’t think this year was my year to burn and they pulled a fast one on me.

I had to deal with the airlines now, to salvage as much money spent on tickets as I could after change fees and bullshit bylines.

American Airlines was a full-blown nightmare to deal with.  So bad, in fact, that I can honestly say that I doubt I’ll fly them again unless my back is slammed against the wanderlust-wall.

JetBlue, on the other paw, JetBlue is made up of a team of pixie dust sprinkling rockstars.

Here’s the awesome that followed the not so awesome...

I dialed JetBlue and sat on hold.  My wait time was quoted at 8 minutes.  Then a rep answered.

I gave her my confirmation number and explained I needed to change my flight.  Because I’m a talker I began to say why.  

I asked her if she knew what Burning Man was.  When she responded “Oh yeah, I want to GO ” I knew I was in the right person’s hands.

I told her my story while she worked her magic.

Because I booked through a 3rd party site she had a lot of magic to work.  A supervisor was called to join the fun.  

My rep (named Julianne) and her manager had to manage several legs of my trip. You see, I was going Fort Lauderdale to San Francisco. Then driving countless hours east, beyond Reno, Nevada, miles and miles and miles into the desert. Destination: Black Rock City, which is a make shift city built by festival attendees in the middle of nowhere, which is where the festival takes place.  I was staying for a week to dance, dream and get dusty.  No wifi, no cell, no tether to the outside world.  I would be totally OFF THE GRID. Then, I’d head back to Reno.  Problem is….I didn’t have my 3 hour ride from Black Rock City back to Reno ironed out yet.  I decided I was going to “wing it”.  Once I found my way back to Reno I’d fly to LA then connect to Fort Lauderdale on the red eye.

Being a superstar, Julianne saw the missing link in my logistics.  She asked "wait, how were you getting back to Reno?".

I hesitated a minute (because I was about to say something crazy) and then just said the honest truth:

"Well, honestly...I was going to hitchhike from the festival to Reno if I couldn’t get the "Burner Bus.” Note: The Burner Bus is a bus that goes to/from Reno each day from Burning Man but already sold out.

Her response:  “(gasp….) NO YOU WEREN’T !”

I giggled, looked over at Bobby who turned a special shade of horrified (as I hadn't exactly explained this piece to him yet) and told her “I swear”.

We chatted a bit more and then the unthinkable happened.

Julianne and her awesome manager got my fees waived and my whole ticket refunded!  Pixie dust was seriously sprinkled.  I could NOT believe it!

I promised Julianne if I could squeeze a great big hug through the phone I swear I would.  I told her I was going to write a glowing review for her (which I did) and then I told her that we should go to Burning Man next year.

When we both agreed I said the only thing that made sense: “let’s be friends on Facebook!”.  

Bobby’s mouth dropped to the floor.  He was shaking his head saying to himself “I don’t know how you do it, Girlie”.

Julianne and I exchanged social media info (you know, all the important stuff like first, last and what our profile photos look like).

We are now joined on the mothership of connectedness.  As you can see by the photos below the stars seem to be aligning just fine.  

In the end one thing is for sure:  Your vibe attracts you tribe.

How awesome is THAT!

      ((Me))                                                                    ((Julianne))                                      

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Grieving 101: My Promise to John

Ok, little brother.  Today marks one month since we lost you.  

I'm back to counting days (30) and weeks (4)  and months (1) since the moment of impact.

I have reset my watch.  I'm starting from the beginning again, re-navigating through Grief.  

You'd think I'd have this place thoroughly mapped out by now.  "Turn here.  Stop here.  Avoid this spot.  Don't even consider going to that one."  You know, the rules of the rocky road.

Well, that doesn't exactly apply this time around.  It seems your passing has taken me deeper into this forest.  Far further than I've ever been before. New terrain. New depths.  New hazards.

But, I want you to know something and it's important.  I want you to know that I won't let you down.

I know, I know...it hasn't looked too good lately.  Me crying into my fists.  Sobbing my days away.  Overcome with sadness.  A total fucking mess.

I see my reflection.  I'm aware of how bleak it's been.

But today, somehow, I realized that the person looking back in the mirror, with her swollen eyes and tear streaked cheeks, needs to make her little brother proud.

I also realized that's not going to happen by sitting at home, avoiding calls, shutting the world out.

So, I am making you a promise.  I'll find my way.  

I will live these days, as brightly as I possibly can...not just without you...but FOR YOU.  

I'll see...I'll do...I'll visit...I'll feel...I'll wonder...I'll wander and I'll love everything I'm able to in this life - not just or me...but I'll do it for you, too.

That's my promise.  Because that's how much I love you.

PS:  Get ready for the time of your other-wordly life.  

Grieving 101: The "Other" Eulogy

Note:  This is the "other" eulogy.  Because my mum would haunt me for the rest of my days if I spoke like this on the alter of our beautiful church.

I like a ton of people.  I love a lot of people.  I admire only a few.

My little brother, John, was at the top of that very selective list.

"How so?", you might ask.  Well, he embodied characteristics that I, personally, have to work hard to achieve.

Like, forgiveness.

John didn't care what happened yesterday.  He didn't weigh himself down with grudges over the moments you tripped and fell into being a shitty friend, sibling or person.  

If he loved you, he always loved you.  That day you sucked as a human didn't change that in his eyes.

Then there's his loyalty.

This is a biggie.  I'm not sure I've ever met someone more loyal than my John.  

I think I used to test his loyalty at times, because, as his/their big sister I am always the one asking questions.  And not just any questions, I ask the right questions. Over the years I've become something of a Question Asking Expert.  Pointing my words to the core, discarding any gray area and simply making it hard to avoid giving me a direct answer.  In short, when it comes to my brothers, I don't waste time on the bullshit.  

Each of my brothers handles my technique a little bit differently.  John has always been the most unwavering.  If it came down to a question that might shine a light on someone else's story, he'd grit his teeth, let out a deep breath and say "Come on, Tara (long exhale).  I don't know anything, ok?".

That "ok" was always a question, not a statement.  Because of that, I never pushed him.  Partly because that usually meant I was pretty close to the truth of the matter and mostly because I always admired this code of loyalty in him and never wanted to be the one to break it.

One of my favorite qualities was his honesty.

He didn't cherry coat things, hide many things or lie.  He was a pretty straight shooter in a world where being a straight shooter isn't easy.  

It's especially not easy when your sister is a royal pain in the ass and you know you are going to get an ear full about whatever it is you've been up to.  But thanks to his ability to forgive, he just let me be me - while he continued to be him.

Which brings us to his ability to love, unconditionally.

This is where John's a purist. 

He didn't give a rat's ass what you did last year, let alone what happened two hours ago.  He loved you for being you, always.

Now don't get me wrong here.  John was a grumpy son of a b*tch at times.  Working with him wasn't a picnic and if you caught him in a bad mood, well good luck.  On top of that he was smart as a whip and had no patience for anyone who wasn't (which was pretty much everyone).

However, underneath all that, he loved purely.

If you were in his circle, so to speak, you were in forever.  Mistakes, bad days, bad years, foolish acts, moments of weakness, he loved you anyway.

That's how big his heart was.  It had space to love the best you and the worst you all at once.

Now there's the characteristic that makes my heart ache and my eyes fill with tears.  His generosity.

He was, hands down, the most generous person I have ever known in all my days combined.

Shirt off his back, no problem.  Last dollar in his pocket, never a question.  Need something fixed, he would do it before you asked.   

He would give his time, his laughter, his humor and his love to anyone he cared for.  

In fact, he was so generous that he even bargained his soul so that Mum and Dad could pass seamlessly through Heaven's gates.

I know this because he told me.  He said so one day when we were all consumed with the grief of yet another loss  He looked at me with tears in his eyes and more love in his heart than any person I know.

I believed him when he told me this.  But I also believe that any person this generous doesn't have to bargain their soul for the safe passing of their loved ones.  That generosity is celebrated and cared for tenderly, as it should be.

In the end, John will remain one of the people I admire most in my life because of everything mentioned above and every other thing I either can't find the words for or choose not to share.

He was a better person than I am on my best days because he did kind things purely. He didn't rationalize generosity.  It was his natural state where others, me included, ponder and think and debate and then choose it.

John, at his core, was a giver.  

It is because of this I will always beam with pride for getting the chance to be John's big sister.

Grieving 101: Turbo Technology + Yoga

Yesterday, I heard John's voice.  No, not just in my dreams or in my broken mind.  I actually heard his voice.  I listened to a voicemail that was tucked in a sea of other voicemails that my iPhone won't let me delete.  For once, I'm eternally grateful for this technical hiccup.

Today, I opened Facebook to see a video of John doing the ALS Challenge back in August and nominating me.  I had never seen this video before, partly because I wasn't tagged in it, partly because I wasn't connected to the person who posted it and partly because I was out of country when it went live.

But today, I saw it.  I heard his raspy smoker's voice nominating me, his sister, to dump another bucket of ice cubes and frozen water over my head.

(I love being his sister.)

After Dad and Mum passed I couldn't look at photos of them, let alone listen to a voicemail or watch a video of them.  However, this time around I'm going to embrace our turbo technology and hope it helps me heal.   

My strategy is to go head to head with this grief.  I'm going to face it, head on.  I am not going to let it bully me into months of being a sloth, like I was after losing our parents.  

My little brother wouldn't want that.  And it's because of that I am going to will myself to do it differently.

I began this strategy yesterday by doing two things:  1) Listening to his voicemail message, twice and 2) By going to hot yoga class.  

In all honesty, I didn't have the energy to peel off my cozy clothes and step into yoga clothes (also known as cozy clothes), let alone leave my house.  But I told myself that even if I just sat in child's pose through class, I still had to do this.  I had to do something to banish the anxiety that has been sitting on my chest and wrapping it's long, wiry fingers around my throat since the 6am phone call informing me we lost John.

(Anxiety, if you don't already know, is a mean motherf*cker.)

So I went.  I was the quiet, sad looking girl in the back of the room willing herself through the 90 minute practice.  Yes, my eyes welled up in tears many times.  Yes, I almost passed out twice (insert child's pose here please).  Yes, I found myself in Savasana staring at the ceiling (not what you are supposed to do) wondering how it's possible I won't see John again.

Yes, that was me, the broken one in class.

When the instructor bid us farewell with "namaste" I crawled into standing position and post-class-hustled to my cubbie to collect my belongings.   The first thing I did was hit the button on my phone to see a photo of John and I (now my lock screen).   

As soon as I saw the image of his smiling face, I took my next step forward.

I'm going to use all these tech opportunities like other people use turbo shots of caffeine.  I'm going to let them boost me.  

I know it's what he expects of me (not some miserable version of his sister just scraping by).  

Bottom line: I am not in the business of letting my little brothers down.

So here I go…

Trigger...

For me songs are often my memory triggers.  A gateway, so to speak…

The happy, sad, romantic, and comical all come rushing in on the musical raft of nostalgia.  With intensity (and sometimes vengeance) these tunes swoop me up and start tugging on my heartstrings, playing me like their own instrument.

Remember that Sex And The City episode when Carrie was dating the jazz musician? He would spin her into his arms and play her like a bass guitar, strumming at her with all the his grooviness.  Remember him?  Yeah, well imagine something like that but not always so hip, groovy and fun.

This random song is one of those that I often avoid.  Not just avoiding in the "walk by and pretend you don't see them" way.  I'm talking about full-blown "bolting out the backdoor to be CERTAIN you don't come within the vicinity of them" way.  We're talking about 5-alarm avoidance.  The "STOP, DROP + ROLL" of avoidance. 

As soon as the first few bars hum I usually move faster than light to turn it off.   Why?  Well, there's this crazy thing that happens when I'm not prepared to think of my Dad.  It's like a lifetime of memories play on fast forward behind my eyelids and when I get to the part that hurts the most I feel something similar to a 2' by 4' smack me in my soul...and it hurts...and it knocks the wind out of me....and it makes me feel like shit, basically.

(Stop, drop and roll.)

Now, if I decide to stroll down Memory Lane on my own accord, I'm fine.  I can purposefully dig through song lists and cherry pick the ones that feel warm and fuzzy.  I'm ok with that.  In fact, I'm better than OK with that.  I am a full blown ROCK STAR at that.  However, when a rogue song or memory or feeling has the audacity to "try me"...well, I guess I've still got a lot of healing ahead of me.

Today, this song came to mind.  Rather than wincing and pushing it out of my thoughts I was feeling courageous, curious and brave (you know, the formula for naive kittens) and I decided to give it a try.  To hear it, feel it and allow all those memories that go along with it to wash over me.

It's the first time I could ALMOST listen to the whole thing.  The first time in nearly 7 years (yes, we are just shy of 7, which I find unbelievable too) I've been able to achieve this.

I consider this to be a positive sign that some of my soul scars are healing.  Being the sucker for positivity that I am, I'll take it in any form I can get it.

So, here's to celebrating the fact that there is hope for our deepest hurts (ever so slowly) healing.

"But when the night is falling

and you cannot find the light

If you feel your dream is dying

Hold tight

You've got the music in you

Don't let go

You've got the music in you

One dance left

The world is gonna pull through

Don't give up

You've got a reason to live…"

"You Get What You Give"

— New Radicals

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara