Taking a Break

 

CC Jean Stimmell:  October 2022

  I went to the dump last Saturday, intending to hurry back to finish buttoning up for winter. But instead, overcome with inertia, I decided to play hooky by following a circuitous route home on back roads imprinted on my brain from a lifetime of travel. The past-peak foliage of muted, harmonious colors lured me on, distracting me from the ever-more-exposed tree trunks, stark skeletons of winter to come.

My father always accused me of getting a bad case of "spring fever" each year, that listless, lazy feeling caused by the first warm weather after the long winter's chill. I'm one of the few also prone to "fall fever," triggered by autumn's last warm Indian summer days. I could tell it was happening to me again today.

I stopped by an old familiar pond where Great Blue Herons previously nested in tall dead pines drowned long ago by the rising waters after the beavers built their first dam. I took photos of  cat-o'-nine-tails along the edge, no longer trim and tight-bodied in the prime of youth, now expanded in girth and wrinkled by old age like me – yet still beautiful in their own way, at least to my sympathetic eye.

Russet and I once explored these waters in our kayaks on an enchanted summer day without a breeze or cloud in the sky. We were blissfully gliding along in sublime silence when suddenly a thumping explosion drenched us with water as an enormous beaver torpedoed by, slapping his broad tail – a stern warning we were violating his territory. He was like an apparition from another world, arriving like a bolt out of the blue.

That explosion of water from the beaver's tail startled us like Mother Earth must have been shocked sixty-six million years ago when that massive asteroid struck, the one that wiped out the dinosaurs. Scientists now calculate the impact generated a monster tsunami with waves more than a mile high.”^⁠1 

That’s what it felt like to us.

xxx

¹ https://www.washingtonpost.com/climate-environment/2022/10/19/tsunami-dinosaur-meteor-extinction-waves/?utm_campaign=wp_the7&utm_medium=email&utm_source=newsletter&wpisrc=nl_the7&carta-url=https%3A%2F%2Fs2.washingtonpost.com%2Fcar-ln-tr%2F3830a2e%2F6351293bf3d9003c5815e2da%2F5982091aae7e8a6816fc6c50%2F42%2F59%2F6351293bf3d9003c5815e2da&wp_cu=72f30ca8a9f4f5247d428f1f39a62522%7CC903CC6B9CCF567FE0530100007F3874

Despair and Resurrection

 

CC Jean Stimmell

I know I haven’t written anything lately for the paper. I’ve been going through a gestation process. The changing of the seasons has been a melancholy time for me: chilly mornings and falling leaves, a precursor of wintery times ahead. On top of that, the aches and pains of growing old, coupled with disasters here and around the world, have weighed me down.

The threats we face today have been compared to the four horsemen of the apocalypse—a pandemic, climate catastrophe, nuclear destruction, and the impending destruction of what remains of American democracy.^⁠1 Altogether, it’s been a test of my spiritual foundations, such as they are. 

Usually, my spirituality serves me well, putting my faith in Gaia, the Earth is our living mother,  Buddhism and Carl Jung. But lately, I’ve found myself wondering about the difference between faith and trust: Some say there is no difference between the two; others say faith is a spiritual concept, while trust places total confidence in another person.^⁠2

I’m most impressed by the story about the famous tightrope walker, the Great Blondin, which is told both in bible classes and A.A. Blondin’s greatest stunt was walking across Niagara Falls on a tightrope pushing a wheelbarrow. “Before he began his wheelbarrow stunt, when he asked the assembled crowd if they believed he could do it, they all roared ‘Yes’. After the stunt when he asked them if anyone would sit in the wheelbarrow as he pushed it along the tightrope, nobody said a word.^⁠3”

That story says it all. We have to be able to act upon our faith, not just believe it in our heads. There was a time when I would have said ‘Yes’ to the invitation to ride in that wheelbarrow, providing Mother Nature was pushing it. I considered Her to be an unassailable supreme force back then. But now, as climate change is flailing Her flesh ever more deeply, I wonder how long She can last – in the same way I worry if our precious democracy can survive.

That being the case, I’ve retreated to my fallback position: the Buddhist core belief that “we just can’t know.” This exposes a dilemma expressed well in a recent Buddhist publication:“until we know the truth, we live by faith. .. after that we need faith, even more, because not knowing is truth itself.”^⁠4 

I believe that’s the Truth. But it sure is scary.

We find ourselves huddled together, pushed along in a rusty old wheelbarrow on a rapidly unraveling tightrope overlooking a world we don’t recognize. All the old signposts that showed us the way are being washed away by thousand-year storms, rearranged by authoritarians,  or chopped down  by angry militants, indignant that their liberty has been infringed.

Who knows what will happen next?

We’ve endured other harrowing times in our history when things looked bleak. By happenstance, this is the hundredth anniversary of when “The Waste Land” by T. S. Elliot was published, perhaps the most influential poem of the 20th century. He wrote it during that distraught span between our first barbaric World War with the second, an even more horrific one, looming on the horizon; we were in the midst of the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, and the ascension of powerful dictators around the world.

Elliot’s words conveyed a hopelessness that I’m fighting against now:

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water.^⁠5

Yet back then, miraculously, despite the odds, we came together and triumphed. And we have it within us do it again if we can muster a common purpose, stop fighting each other, and honor humankind’s greatest asset: our imagination. As Michael Meade, scholar and mythologist, has written: “Although decidedly frail, perpetually foolish, and seemingly about to destroy the whole thing, humans are blessed with an imagination equal to the world and essential to its way  continuing.^⁠”^⁠6  

 

Setting our imagination free can create a future beyond anything in science fiction, as recently noted by the NYT, reporting on the "mind-blowing" implications of new research into black holes: It suggests we may all be holograms living in a three-dimensional universe. 

Carl Jung would applaud.

“In this version of the cosmos, there is no difference between here and there, cause and effect, inside and outside or perhaps even then and now; household cats can be conjured in empty space.”^⁠7 We can all be Dr. Strange,” like the Marvel Comics superhero.

No doubt about it, life is more mysterious – and sacred – than we can ever know.

xxx

¹ https://www.thenation.com/article/society/noam-chomsky-interview-class-war/

² https://www.biblword.net/trust-and-faith/

³ https://www.huffpost.com/entry/the-difference-between-fa_b_9265438

⁴ https://tricycle.org/article/losing-my-religion/?utm_source=Tricycle&utm_campaign=4c183ae228-Newsletter_22_10_08_Sub&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_1641abe55e-4c183ae228-307712649

⁵ https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land

⁶ “The World Behind the World” by Michael Mead. 2008. Greenfire Press.   P. 64.

⁷ https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/10/science/black-holes-cosmology-hologram.html?campaign_id=2&emc=edit_th_20221011&instance_id=74285&nl=todaysheadlines&regi_id=30753738&segment_id=109617&user_id=273ae8c1ede4fde7d59a2b0627accb92

Be Here Now

 

Dotty, the downy woodpecker at my feeder

I am sitting here on my deck in the dappled sunlight, the breeze blowing through my hair, barefoot in a trance. A profound peacefulness reigns, a sense of contentment, a feeling of belonging, of being grounded – all of this orchestrated by a downy woodpecker swinging from the suet cage in my crabapple tree. Her name is Dotty.

It dawns on me that I have been missing in action as of late,  too busy to be grounded in the really real, too caught up in the daily political dramas. All of which distracted me and, I can see now, hurt me, absorbing me deeper into theWorld Wide Web and the nonstop yearnings of our 24/7 consumer culture.

I experienced a glimpse of a deeper, more complete world just now on my deck, a state of silence described well by Eckhart Tolle: “You are present. You have stepped out of thousands of years of collective  conditioning^⁠1, As I sat there, I could feel the gears in my head stop grinding from thinking too much.

I should know better by now from lessons learned in “Be Here Now,” written in the 1960s by Ram Das.  He made abundantly clear that “Meditation goes beyond the thinking mind….[illuminating] the truth that who you really are is more than who you think you are.”^⁠2

For a blessed moment, I removed myself from the cacophony of civilization and joined Dotty’s world. I had no choice. Starting a few days ago, she started audaciously knock, knock, knockin’ on my door – actually the wall above the door.

She wasn’t kidding!

 She proceeded to punch a series of holes, one directly under the other, straight through the one-inch, rough-sawn pine boards that clad my home. The pile of wood chips was starting to pile up on my front stoop. I had to do something.

I hung up some suet to pacify Dotty and withdrew to my deck to relax. That’s when I fell into the trance already mentioned, while Dotty celebrated her victory: wakening me up to the present moment while getting fed a treat.

I don’t do Facebook or Twitter, yet I can see now I’ve spent too much time watching the news and listening to talking-heads bloviate about the cacophony of crises that confront us. Altogether, electronic media combined with excess thinking had abstracted my being. I was unaware of the consequences: These entrancing flickering screens were grooming me for Mark Zuckerberg’s Metaverse. 

It took Dotty to show me that his virtual world is a phantom cloud without substance, separating me from my true self. I, of all people, should know better from being a long-time fan of Charlene Spretnak, who convincingly makes the case that only three things are really real: our body, nature, and sense of place.^⁠3

Of course, that doesn’t mean I can ignore the outside world, but the balance has been lost. It has made me ungrounded, distracted, and disoriented, progressively unable to be truly present with my friends, Dotty, or the earth itself.

After meditating on the deck, I felt life ebbing back into my bones, which spurred me to write this essay. All I needed to finish was a snappy ending. Going back inside the house – as if by synchronicity – I found what I needed in an email that had just arrived from a trusted friend: It was a Taoist parable about how to find meaning in life.

“During a time of great drought, a Taoist master was asked by members of a village if he could help bring rain to their dry fields… The master agreed to come and asked for a small hut with a garden that he could tend. For three days, he tended the garden, performing no special rituals…”

“On the fourth day, rain began to fall on the parched earth.” But the master refused to take responsibility. Instead, “he explained, when he came to the village, he had sensed disharmony within himself. Each day, as he tended the garden, he returned a little more to himself. When he returned to balance, the rain came naturally.”^⁠4

It is said this was one of the favorite stories of Carl Jung, the legendary psychologist. I’m not surprised because he believed nothing was a coincidence – including what happened to the farmers in the parable or to the woodpecker and me. Instead, he thought that the inner attitude of a person is inseparable from events taking place in the world. He called this psychological principle synchronicity.

Dotty and I are true believers.

 xxx

¹ “Stillness Speaks” by Eckhard Tolle. Gale Engage Learning. 2003. page 23.

² “Polishing the Mirror,” by Ram Das. 2014. Sounds True, Boulder CO. page 1

³ “The Resurgence of the Real” by Charlene Spreknak. Addison-Wesley Publishing Company. 1997

⁴ https://www.huffpost.com/entry/a-taoist-parable_b_10007270

Disability and Death: Perhaps not the End but the Beginning

 

CC Jean Stimmell: 2017

I never considered myself to be handicapped until recently, after listening to a podcast on disability theory. After all, I wasn’t in a wheelchair. It never dawned on me that I, along with my fellow aging baby boomers, are already handicapped – despite the indisputable evidence that our minds are slowing down, leaking memories like a sieve, while our bodies are disintegrating like cars in a demolition derby.

That’s why, according to disability theory, old age itself is a disability.

Like most of us, I am in denial, resisting the notion that I’m going downhill and will someday die. It’s hard to be old in a country obsessed with being young. In our consumer society, a whole industry has sprung up to sell us stuff to keep us forever in our prime – or so they claim. They know they have to work fast to cash in before we go belly up.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow to admit old age is a progressive disability with death as the end result. But it is also a wake-up call to remind us of the task ahead. As James Hillman, the prominent Jungian psychologist, tells us, our mission in old age shifts from self-preservation to finding meaning in our lives.

"The old have gravitas when their insight reaches into the invisible core of things, into what is hidden and buried," he writes. "When the body begins to sag, it is abandoning sham and hypocrisy. The body leads the way down, deepening your character."^⁠1

John Donne proclaimed the same message preaching from the pulpit back in the 17^th century: “Death — the looming fact of it, its finality and clarifying power — calls us to attention and wakes us up to life.^⁠2” That’s also the core belief of Buddhism: Death is seen not as a downhill slide but as a  final stage of growth. 

Frank Ostaseski,  a  Buddhist teacher and visionary cofounder of the Zen Hospice Project, writes that we gain wisdom and compassion by facing death. In doing so, we discover the crux of what we share in common with our fellow human beings: the absolute uncertainty of our lives: “We become aware of the fundamental truth that everything comes and goes: every thought, every lovemaking, every life. We see that dying is in the life of everything.”^⁠3

Resisting this truth leads to pain. One might think that I had long ago accepted the reality of my mortality from so many close brushes with death from a wild and crazy youth, Vietnam combat, and four cancers. But that is not the case. I still live in a blissful state of denial unless I purposely force myself to focus on my end – which is what I’m doing right now by writing this essay.

Some Buddhists encourage this exercise by doing various graphic visualizations such as: meditating on their own body in a coffin being consumed by worms, meditating in front of a dead body, or carrying around a picture of a corpse to constantly remind them that death is real.

While doing research for this column, I discovered an intriguing alternative to corpse meditations: A Green Burial on my own land. Not only does it force me to attend to what’s to come, it does so in a restorative and spiritual way.

To convey what I'm imagining would happen if I were buried cozily on my beloved land, I can do no better than paraphrase the poetic words of Casey Lyons, taken from the current edition of Orion Magazine: 

“The poisons inside my body will be neutralized by the fungi and I will travel through mycelium to roots in a sprawling, if poorly understood, exchange that underwrites life. My edges will become blurry, then meaningless, as mushrooms reorganizes my body toward life again. Then I’ll push back into the sunlight on my  land where I was happiest, maybe as a leaf or an insect, soil or bird, snake or rabbit. In practically no time, I will be gone and yet everywhere. Joined. Connected. Safe.”^⁠4

I used to envy deeply religious folks who were confident that their death wasn't the end but the beginning as they were ushered into everlasting life. Now, It looks like I can have that assurance, too.

xxx

¹ https://www.baltimoresun.com/news/bs-xpm-1999-11-21-9911230591-story.html

² https://www.nytimes.com/2022/09/10/opinion/john-donne-death.html?campaign_id=2&emc=edit_th_20220910&instance_id=71658&nl=todaysheadlines&regi_id=30753738&segment_id=106000&user_id=273ae8c1ede4fde7d59a2b0627accb92

³ Ostaseski, Frank. The Five Invitations  Flatiron Books. Kindle Edition.

⁴ https://orionmagazine.org/article/luke-perry-mushroom-shroud-90210-riverdale/

Serena’s Hero Journey as Seen By an Old Person

Photo: Nike

I’m so proud of Serena Williams. She deserves to be celebrated as the victorious hero who conquered the rarified world of tennis, formerly the realm of only the lily-white upper crust. She has stood out, not only because of her class, color, and shape, but by her fashion awareness, rejecting chaste, white tennis outfits for sexy originals in flamboyant color. Last, but not least, rather than preforming sedately and demurely like dancing a waltz, she attacked with the ferocity of a raging bull.

By her audacity, she ripped off the gentile facade of women’s tennis, exposing it for what it really is: “boxing without punches.” That’s how it has been aptly described by ESPN senior writer Howard Bryant: “With the exception of boxing, there is no other sport as viscerally clear and unsentimental about victory and defeat. Two fighters. No help. No timeouts. No teammates. One winner.^⁠1”

Smashing through so many glass ceiling, Serena showcased the female counterpart of the Heroes Journey, formerly the domain of only men. The notion of a “Hero’s Journey” comes from Joseph Campbell, the legendary mythologist, who believed all cultures have certain universal archetypes.

The Hero’s Journey is one of the most prominent of these stories and has several distinct stages: going on an adventure, facing a crisis, emerging triumphant, and then retuning home victorious. An essential component of  any such storyline is that they evoke intense responses from the audience.^⁠2

We can certainly observe this in the spectator reaction to her coming home last week to New York for perhaps her last tournament. NPR described it well: “the adoration has been unanimous – strangers high-fiving a Williams winner or an ace, people hugging and standing in celebration. And roaring. Always roaring.”^⁠3 This is because, as psychologist Kobie van Krieken tells us, ”Stories that mainly visualise the hero's journey result in catharsis: strong emotions of pleasure and relief.”^⁠4

By her groundbreaking efforts in all these realms, Serena has made the Hero’s Journey as applicable to women as it is to men. But just leaving it at that would still sell her short. Her journey is more complex, revolutionary, and visionary than that.

Charles Eisenstein sheds light on this, writing an insightful essay about the need for more sophisticated archetypes, incorporating the wisdom that comes from age. He, like me, is long past the time of leaving home to seek his fortune. But, as all of us older folks have found out, our journey didn’t end when we settled down.^⁠5

Shortchanging our life’s journey diminishes us as individuals and, worse, threatens our collective survival: “We have been flogging the Hero’s Journey like a tired horse in hopes that it will drag the wagon of civilizational sense-making a few more decades into the future. But few people are actually excited about a manned mission to Mars, or the latest in implantable computing. Another mode of development calls us.”^⁠6

Absolutely! We can no longer afford more of the same: Defining every problem as an excuse to conquer and dominate, as a war to win at all costs. What we need is a more sophisticated version of our human journey, something more sustainable with loftier ends in mind. As it turns out, Serena has been evolving toward this vision for some time. We were offered our first clue by noticing she won her final title of her career while pregnant with her daughter, Olympia.

As her string of winning 23 Grand Slam single titles comes to an end, her life is not. She wants to have another child and spend more time with her family, but that’s not the end either. On top of her fashion business, she has started Serena Ventures, one of the few high-stakes venture capital(VC) companies run by women and minorities. Better yet she says 78% of her VC’s portfolio "happens to be companies started by women and people of color, because that's who we are."^⁠7 

Ultimately, Serena’s Hero’s Journey is one of a peaceful warrior. Arriving at the end of her sports career, she is already evolving into the next stage of her destiny, dedicated to family, relationships, and creating a more sustainable and just society. As usual, she is pulling the rest of us along behind her.

xxx

¹ https://www.espn.com/tennis/story/_/id/34469736/serena-williams-myth-passing-torch

² https://www.skillshare.com/blog/the-heros-journey-stages-and-structure/

³ https://www.npr.org/2022/09/02/1120558075/serena-williams-us-open-retires

⁴ https://www.ru.nl/facultyofarts/@1172776/how-ad-heroes-move-us-connect-us-brands/

⁵ https://charleseisenstein.substack.com/p/neither-hero-nor-journey?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email

⁶ Ibid.

⁷ https://www.npr.org/2022/08/18/1117704991/serena-williams-ventures-venture-capital-firms

From Traumatic Event to a Work of Art

CC Jean Stimmell

Northern white cedar trees flourish in challenging conditions where other more muscular and faster-growing trees cannot compete. The cedar in this photo started life with a view that any yuppie would envy on a cliff overlooking Great Bay. But, over time, climate change exacted a fearsome toll: A rising ocean and battering storms have, like an evil magic trick, cut all the soil from beneath her body.

Yet the tree survives – more than that, she thrives – with uncanny resiliency by sprouting strong side roots back to solid ground. One might think that being so twisted and deformed would turn her into a cripple, a pitiful victim. But instead, her trauma has transformed her into a tree of striking beauty, a work of art.

It's not uncommon to see positive growth in those who have survived challenging circumstances and trauma. I've watched it happen to some of my patients. Of course, they, along with the cedar tree, would never choose this path, opting, if they could, to grow trauma-free, straight and tall in perfect soil. But who among us gets to decide what kind of a high tide we might face?

There is one catch: to achieve this creative growth, survivors have to resist the natural urge to avoid the agonizing emotions and thoughts that surround the traumatic event. As Scott Berry Kaufman points out in Scientific American: "it's only through shedding our natural defense mechanisms and approaching the discomfort head on, viewing everything as fodder for growth, that we can start to embrace the inevitable paradoxes of life.”^⁠1

Kaufman lists seven growth areas that can sprout from adversity, one of which is a fount of new-found creativity. As an example, he cites a study showing how even severe physical issues didn't curb the careers of a number of prominent painters. On the contrary, their calamities unlatched "new possibilities for their art by breaking old habits, provoking disequilibrium, and forcing the artists to generate alternative strategies to reach their creative goals.^⁠2

To promote recovery after trauma, Kaufman has become a big believer in art therapy and expressive writing. My cedar tree stands ready to do her part by being a model for anyone wishing to sketch or write about what she represents to them – and why her example gives them inspiration and hope.

xxx

¹ https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/beautiful-minds/post-traumatic-growth-finding-meaning-and-creativity-in-adversity/

² Ibid

Finding Contentment in a Restless Culture

Life choices can seem like a maze without an exit
CC Jean Stimmell: Lands End, SF: 12/28/16

Why are so many privileged, high-achieving students  giving up: Rather than being motivated by having so many choices, they become exhausted by the countless decisions they will have to soldier through to get there. A recent book, Why we are Restless, seeks to shed light on this state of affairs. 

It certainly spoke to me.

I guess I am a canary in the coal mine because that’s how I felt over fifty years ago, striving for excellence in order to get to the promised land – but sadly, a place I couldn’t define. I remember at St Paul’s during their summer session envying the groundskeepers outside for their stress-free, uncomplicated lifestyle. Stopping for lunch in Boston as my parents drove me to Columbia to start college, I envied the dock workers outside the restaurant unloading fish.

I felt a flash of recognition in this quote by a hypothetical student from the book: “It’s as though a life that rejects striving altogether is the only alternative she can imagine to a life of striving without purpose.” That was me! Without a mentor to guide me, I choose to reject striving by dropping out of Columbia in my third semester to do on-the-job training on the rivers of Vietnam.

After the military and finishing college at UNH, I found a mentor of sorts in author and longshoreman Eric Hoffer. To an extent, I emulated his lifestyle, building dry-laid stonewalls while haphazardly writing columns for the Monitor along with infrequent freelance pieces elsewhere.

Lifting rocks all day can be exhausting – so can sending out query letters that routinely get rejected. I compensated by scratching another itch working for peace and social justice on the side. Finally, health issues forced me to change professions. I decided to attend graduate school at Antioch to become a counselor which would enlarge my ability to help others, along with the added benefit of finally getting a decent paycheck and good health insurance.

It also made my life easier in the short run by squashing my desire to write because of what might seem like an exaggerated fear that I might write something about a patient. But that fear is well-grounded. The patient/therapist relationship, which is sacred to me, is built upon trust.

Now that I am retired, I finally have the means and space to write. In addition, I’m gaining insight into my prior life choices, thanks to the book I’ve already mentioned, Why We Are Restless by Benjamin Storey and Jenna Storey. The authors believe that contentment is not to be found in self-help books. Instead, the root problem is in what we are trying to achieve.^⁠1

To find the answer, they write, we must return to premodern times. The American national character has long had a peculiar trait as Alexis de Tocqueville discovered when he toured American in 1831, “the most free and most enlightened men placed in the happiest condition in the world” were not content with what they had—that they were “restless in the midst of their well-being.”^⁠2

While our educational system has long excelled at helping students take the next step, it does not give them adequate assistance to understand the nature of the choices they make and the final ends toward which they lead. “Those who discover that they have such final ends, and learn to assess them, see their way to the exit from the fun house of arbitrary decisions in which the young so often find themselves trapped.”^⁠3

I agree with the authors that the number of final ends is not large. Aquinas usefully suggests that the ultimate objects of human longing can be sorted into eight enduring categories.^⁠4 If we want to know where we are headed, we should ask ourselves these questions:

“Am I interested in this opportunity because it leads to wealth? Or am I aiming at praise and admiration? Do I want enduring glory? Or power — to “make an impact”? Is my goal to maximize my pleasures? Do I seek health? Do I seek some “good of the soul,” such as knowledge or virtue? Or is my ultimate longing to come face-to-face with the divine?”^⁠5

I suspect that my fellow Monitor readers who consult this list – particularly those of a certain age – might also have an “aha” moment: an instant recognition that some of these categories speak directly to what we find most important in life– and now regret not being enlightened about when we were young and could do something about it.

xxx

¹ Storey, Benjamin; Storey, Jenna Silber. Why We Are Restless (New Forum Books) . Princeton University Press. Kindle Edition.

² Ibid. (p. xi).

³ https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/15/opinion/college-students-happiness-liberal-arts.html?campaign_id=2&emc=edit_th_20220816&instance_id=69415&nl=todaysheadlines®i_id=30753738&segment_id=101495&user_id=273ae8c1ede4fde7d59a2b0627accb92

⁴ Ibid.

⁵ Ibid.