Fast and Slow

      On my professional path to where I am now, I spent a chunk of time as the orchestrator (aka teacher)  in a K - 2 classroom.  I had the pleasure of guiding children for their first three years of public school education.  Unless their sibling was in the class, I generally first met my new students as eyes wide open five year olds.  I got to hold them for three years, taking them from that pre-literate place to thriving chapter book readers. From September to June, we had wonderful days together.  There was a daily rhythm in our world complete with songs, art, outside play, tons of books, math stuff, writers' workshop, hands on science exploration and lots of (what I thought of as) the social curriculum.  That was simply time devoted to learning who we each were and how to get along with each other.  I don't know what it is about little kids but their observations, their reality, their freshness completely capture me.  I enjoyed planning our days together and I loved watching their faces and their reactions to what unfolded in our world.

    Parents were an integral part of that world.  I needed them in order to make everything happen that I wanted to have happen.  I needed parents who would sit on the rug and explore tangrams with children or guide a lesson about ladybugs or take a small group outside and play with jump ropes while I sat at the reading table helping children learn to make sense out of letters and words.  I loved the additional adults in the room too just for the shared adult perspective and humor,  Most parents trusted me to guide their children but sometimes there was some anxiety about a child's academic progress in the class.  I completely got that.  After all, these parents were turning over their most precious jewels to me for six hours a day.  Parents wanted to know that their child's time was well used.

    One thing I did know clearly was that children cannot be rushed.  They will come to places in their own time.  That didn't mean that I wasn't alert to possible obstacles that the school could assist with (a referral for special ed services, for example) but my professional eye often could sense when a child simply needed a slower time frame.  She was going to get there (reading chapter books, for example) but she was taking the scenic route.  Somewhere I came across this phrase and it fit perfectly:

                                             
   Recently I had cause to return to this notion of taking slow to grow.  Oddly, what occurred to me is that it isn't just kids who need slow in order to grow.  We adults often need the same thing to reach new places in our lives.  The current culture is jammed with activity and expectations.  Days go by fast.  How many balls can we juggle?  How many things can we check off our to do lists?  How fast can we go?  The flip side is what happens when we slow it way down.  What can we see and what can we hear when we meander instead of sprint?  It's no earth shatteringly new idea.  But it is one worth considering.  I, for one, plan to experiment with more slow and less fast.

    How about you?  Where do you find slow in your life?  Are you drawn to fast or to slow?  Would you like more of one or the other?

In Your Own Skin

       Skin - interesting stuff.  It's the largest organ in the body.  It has several essential functions, including protecting the muscles, bones, ligaments and other organs.  Skin serves as a barrier, preventing pathogens from getting in and excessive fluids from escaping.  It separates the inner and the outer world.

     I never gave much thought to skin when I was a kid or even a teenager.  It got scraped, black and blued, and even chopped open from time to time.  One of my charming older brothers who shall remain nameless even smashed open the skin on my head with a baseball bat once.  It was an accident.  Really, it was!  I remember from time to time examining my skin for some reason or another and actually liking it.  I remember being 15 and being thrilled to return from the beach with the classic and cool bronze tan.   As a 20 something, I remember liking my skin a lot.  I was spared much of the agony of acne and my skin really was relatively flawless.  No makeup applied.  Self respecting hippie girls didn't do that. That was then.

    Here's the shocking part:  I don't like it so much now.  You knew that was coming.  It no longer meets the cultural standard for attractive.  It still does an awesome job of protecting and containing stuff but it is multi toned and, yeah, not so smooth.  There's no bronze now, only stupid patches of brown pigment.  I've got some scars here and there and some veins that might scare little kids.  These days I do apply a little of this and a little of that (emphasis on little) but am not interested in expensive skin care products or procedures.  My skin continues to serve me well and I deal with its changing landscape.

   What caught my attention recently was the phrase "comfortable in your own skin". Back in those days when I liked it, I can't say that I felt comfortable in my own skin.  Those teen and early adult years were about figuring how who it was who really lived in that skin.   I needed time to get to know her.  I was awfully busy checking to see if she made the grade.  Was her school and work performance of the highest quality?  Did she dress and look right (whatever the current "right" was)?  Did she say the right things and laugh the right way and blah blah blah?  I don't think I was a whole lot different than most younger people.  I know there are a few people who grow up feeling comfortable in their own skin and I think they are very fortunate.  But I wasn't one of them.

    I guess it comes to mind because I finally feel as if I am comfortable in my own skin.  Yeah, it's not so pretty maybe but it finally fits really well.  I have an ease now that took some serious years of living to acquire.  I still have lots of expectations of myself and I am no where near ready to turn into a frumpy   woman, but, on my good days I can also be much more accepting of me in the present moment.  I am doing the best I can with whatever comes my way.  My skin might be a bit lumpy or crinkled but my eyes are pretty damn shiny and I can sparkle just as much as I did when I was 21.

    How about you?  How's your skin fit you these days?

Got It!

   

    Guess what?  There IS one thing on my bucket list!  Ha!  I fooled you (although not intentionally).  I have always wanted to live at the beach and, before I die, I would like to make good on that.  

    

      The ocean is a powerful draw for me and always has been. As children, we went on day trips to the California beach often and every summer there was at least one beach camping trip.  My college years were spent close to Santa Cruz and the Monterey area.  I went to the beach all the time.  Sometimes it was to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk or the Monterey/Carmel beaches.  But just as often, I trekked out to the more remote beaches between Santa Cruz and San Francisco.  Those days were always renewing. sometimes adventurous, always enjoyable.  Later I ended up living north of the Golden Gate and still spend plenty of days during all seasons of the year at the beach.

     Maybe twenty years ago, I seriously considered relocating permanently to a beach locale.   In order to be affordable, I would likely need to move to a fairly remote beach area.  Fairly remote means few jobs and that leads to no money for rent and food for the family.  Best to set that idea way over there to the side until kids are launched.

     Fast forward twenty years.  Kids are launched.  I'm still working but I can think about some other options.  Here's the thing.  I like my house.  I like my neighborhood.  I don't really want to deal with buying and selling property and I am not sure I want to be in the beach climate 24/7.  Anyone who knows me knows my thoughts on fog and gray.  

    But, here's the creative part.  Who says "living at the beach" has to mean relocating and living all day every day at the beach?  How about this?  How about if I were to really live at the beach for, say, one month a year?  How about I keep my house in my neighborhood but I go live at the beach for intervals?  Maybe one year I live on a NorCal beach for the month of January (one of the best times to visit NorCal beaches, I might add).  Maybe the next year, I find a place to stay on the big island of Hawaii for the month of February.  Perhaps the next year in March, I try Cape Hatteras in North Carolina.  And the pattern continues:  Gold Beach, Oregon, the Jersey shore, Cape Cod, San Diego, Key West, Florida, Acadia, Maine, you get the idea.

    Do you have a favorite beach?  Give me some words about it, please.

Bucket Lists

    I don't have one.  A bucket list, that is.  You know,  like in that movie The Bucket List?  Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman?  Old guys trying to do the things they want to do before they "kick the bucket"?

    I don't quite get it.  I get lists and sometimes I even make lists but I don't have any check off list of what needs to be accomplished before I fold into the mystic.  That seems so huge and so transient to me.  What I want right now is, in all probability, not going to be what I want in six months or a year, let alone in ten years.  I guess you can make the list and change it a lot but what exactly is the point of the bucket list?  Do you make one because you might forget what it is you want to do?  Or is there some internal satisfaction in checking off the old list.  Just wondering.

   Do you have a bucket list?  Tell me one thing that's on it.  Make it something that doesn't have to do with travel, if you can.

Into the Mystic

     I stumbled over some vintage Van Morrison the other day on my way to somewhere else.  Isn't that how it often is?  On your way to one place, you find the real treasure along the path?  The cosmos gets us like that.

     I hadn't listend to this little piece of Van in a long time and it knocked me over when it fell from the sky.  Thing is, you know, I am still wrapping my head around my friend's death and then this little wondersong stops me in my spinning.  It is such a powerful, sensual, and haunting almost hymn. Some  might even claim magical and spiritual. What I know to be true is that it made me pause for a minute and just be. That's a good thing in my book.

     Life is finite.  I know that:  "We were born before the the wind, also younger than the sun"
 
     The call is to live it to the fullest:  "Smell the sea and feel the sky, let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic."

    Make room for love:  "I will rock your gypsy soul, just like back in the days of old."

    And make room for acceptance:  "We will magnificently fold into the mystic."

     The thing is, I hold Van Morrison's music close.  Common Irish roots?  Don't know, doesn't matter. His music makes me feel alive.  This is one song that I wouldn't mind hearing someday, on a warm summer evening, as I say goodbye to this world that has held me for lots of years.

 

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic

Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

And when that fog horn blows
I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows
I wanna hear it, I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will fold into the mystic

When that fog horn blows
You know I will be coming home
And when that fog horn whistle blows
I gotta hear it, I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like back in the days of old
And together we will float into the mystic

Too late to stop now?

The (Body) Machine Shop

      To my dismay, I have become way too familiar with the physical therapy clinic. Because I am a highly active person who also happens to have inherited arthritic tendencies, I have become a fairly regular visitor at PT over the past ten years.  The sessions have sometimes been related to the arthritis issues but sometimes are a result of overuse or accidents that have occurred because I like to move. No matter why I am going there,  I am grateful that I have access to physical therapy (even if it is a literal pain and a disruption to my day).  I am also finding the clinic to be an interesting classroom for the study of human beings.

   When I walk in for any appointment, I take in the big room with all the equipment and the various combinations of therapist/patient at work.  It's odd to me that, although this is a medical establishment, privacy is not a priority.  The room is open and the conversations are accessible for anyone in the room.  My current therapy is entirely related to the joint replacement surgery that I had on my right hand  in early March. I am primarily ensconced at a table in the "hand section" of the office.  I mostly sit at the table while my hand is massaged and manipulated, electrified and examined, heated and cooled.  I do WWF, or make with the chit chat with the therapist or sometimes other patients who are also having their hands entertained.  But mostly?  Mostly I just watch the people there.

     People come in with their broken body parts, each broken in its own way and each significant to the owner.  But to the physical therapists, each body part seems to be just that - a broken part of the machine.  Isolate the problem and attack.  Most of the PT's, frankly, look bored. As in, here I am repeating these same old knee exercises for, what, the 5th time today?  the 10th time this week?  the 100th time this year?  They stare off out the window or make jokes with the other PT's while their victim groans their way through the exercises.

   The patients are a diverse lot.  They are a collection of bodies, more over 40 years old than under 40.  Most seem perplexed or uncomfortable with the exercises. It's almost as if they don't know that part of their body very well. That last description includes me.  The patients come in all sizes and shapes.  Very few fit the cultural profile for attractive but they all come with bodies that are functional and in need of some kind of repair.  I observe some patients just resting on tables or enduring (enjoying?) some hands on therapy.  Awkward.  Some are working out on machines or with big exercise balls or long rubber tubing. Yes, you read that right.  Long rubber tubing that you use to stretch and strengthen muscles (it has been part of some PT sessions in my past).  Most appear not particularly graceful nor comfortable with what they are asked to do but they plod their way through it.  I am more interested in what their faces say than in what their bodies do. Faces say things like, "You want me to do what?" or "Well, this is fun!" or "Is it time to quit yet?".  Or maybe those are just the thoughts in my own head.

     When I walk into the room, I tend to distance myself from the others, as if somehow I am above this.  What's that about?  I am self conscious and wonder what other people watchers are noting about me.  I don't know why this place makes me highly uncomfortable.  Perhaps it speaks to vulnerability and flaws?  That makes sense to me.

     What's your take on physical therapy? Thumbs up or thumbs down?

The Rhetoric of Pop Culture

   That was the name of a course I took when I was an undergraduate in the field of Speech -Communication.  That class focused on the movies, music and tv of its time and I really enjoyed it.  I was pop culture savvy at the time and thrived on all things contemporary.

    I am still intrigued with pop culture but feel so removed from it.  I suspect that this distance is common with people who are old enough to remember vividly the Summer of Love but that doesn't make it acceptable to me.  How does this happen?  How is it that younger people can be infused with pop culture while older people are distanced?  Or are they?

    Really, I want to know this.  I want to know how I can rejoin the popular culture.  Or is it even possible?   I get distracted by a demanding profession.  That profession does involve teenagers so you would think that might help and it does - a little.  I also get overwhelmed with the abundance in the culture.  How do you make time to stay tuned in to new music, new technology, new movies especially when your first impulse is to read and do physical things outside?  Do I make myself not read the contemporary fiction and non fiction (leaning the most toward biography, sociology, and philosophy) but rather read lots of blogs and on line periodicals?  And I'm not talking about being plugged into celebrities.  I don't really care about them.  I am talking about being plugged into the ideas that make the culture alive now.

    For those of you that fancy the pop culture, what is the route I should take?  Four years ago I secured a  part time job at an Apple store mostly because I wanted to develop Apple acumen.  I did.  I gained a lot of knowledge but I also wore myself out (I was still working my "real" job).  That attempt at staying current was fun but too much. My best connections to now include Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Wired, The Atlantic, The Rumpus, other websites, and, of course, my own kids who are in their 20's and plugged in.  What avenues would any of you recommend for touching the ideas that float around the culture these days?

News to Me

    I love being a life long learner.  And the lessons are so all over the place. Here's a subject that I am finally getting around to really studying.  I don't want to take the final exam but I am curious to see how I would do with it.

   The subject is anger.  I grew up pulling anger out of my pocket every couple of weeks when the nuns would drag us over to the church on Friday afternoons for confession.  It was my "go to" sin.  I could always count on having at least three or four episodes of anger that I could point to and claim as my sins for the week.  Anger was a bad thing.  NOT okay to be angry.  And I was always angry.  Angry at my mom for making me do chores.  Angry at Mark the Park for calling me Dog.  Angry at my sister for messing with my stuff.  Angry at the other kids at school because they had nice stuff and I didn't.  Angry at the stupid priest (horrors!) for embarrassing me because the car pool made me late for the required attendance at morning Mass. Angry at having to go to Mass.  Angry at having to go to school. Angry angry angry.

    And here is the unbelievable part.  I never lost that piece that says anger is bad.  I spent much of my life yelling at myself for being angry.  Bad person.  Get rid of that anger and do it right now. You have no right to be angry.  Get rid of it, I said!  NOW!  Guess what?  I am only now learning that anger is really NOT a bad thing.  Anger is a feeling and it just is.  Sure, you might do something when angry that could be harmful or mean but anger, in and of itself, is not bad.  What a revelation. Amazing.

  So what I am learning now is that it's okay to make a place for anger in my world.  I can feel angry and notice where I feel it.  I can observe anger and maybe paint or write about it (or not).  Then I can decide what, if anything, I want to do about it.  But the big lesson here is that anger is not the bad guy. And I am not the bad person for feeling anger.  This is all new to me, folks.  I am not sure how this new knowledge is going to play out in my days but I am curious to find out.

  How about you?  Are you comfortable making a place for anger in your world?

Francis

      Yes, the name Francis is in the news a lot right now,  The newly elected leader of the Catholic Church has assumed the name of Francis as his own in his role as pope.  Having grown up surrounded by the traditions of Catholicism, I maintain both a knowledge and interest in what happen there (though not a sense of connection or belonging).  When I first heard that this new pope had selected this moniker, I found both interest and hope presenting themselves to me.

     As a child, I was well indoctrinated in the lore of sainthood.  In general, I enjoyed reading biographies and, trust me, there were many biographies of saints available for my reading pleasure.  Because of that background, I could immediately identify three men that the new pope might have had in mind when he selected this name:  Francis of Assisi, Francis de Sales, and Francis Ignatius of Loyola.

     I have the greatest respect and appreciation for some people I have known up close and personal who happen to be Catholics but one cannot deny the depth of controversy currently stewing in the Catholic Church.  The Church is in need of strong, compassionate, thoughtful, and forward thinking leadership. The influence of three Francises (how do you write the plural of Francis?) referenced above suggests that maybe Pope Francis the First might, just might, be that sort of leader.  St Francis of Assisi is renown for his humility, his embrace of the poor,and his love of all things in the natural world.   St Francis de Sales connected with the common person and wrote a book of prayer designed for the bust layperson who wanted to weave spirituality into his or her life.  Finally, St Francis Xavier of Loyola, founder of the Jesuit order, preached tolerance for other religions, believed in free education for all, and insisted on a vow of poverty for his followers.   These few word descriptions tell so little but so much about the possible direction of the Church in the upcoming years.

     Here's the thing:  why should I, or anyone who is not a practicing Catholic,  even care what this private, religious institution does?  Well, largely because it IS an international institution, with influence in educational and social welfare programs around the world.   Its policies and its culture influence social movements and developments globally, particularly in second and third world nations.   That's why I care what goes on within the Catholic Church.

Desperation

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation."
   Henry David Thoreau (from Walden)

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” 
   Henry David Thoreau (from Civil Disobedience and Other Essays)


          I don't know why but these words have haunted me all my life.  I was introduced to them by Sr Aidan during my junior year of high school.  I remember that the words struck me as sad and inevitable.  I wanted somehow to avoid that fate but I suspect I was too young to even get what he was talking about.  I was a reader and a writer and, even then, I was too reflective for my own good.  Words like these carved themselves into my soul and I was never able to shake them.

        Thoreau went off to Walden to live the simple life.  He pared his days down to the bare essentials and he found happiness.  Are the possessions we claim and the routes we take to gain those possessions the source of desperation?  Maybe, at least in part.  I think it's that resignation that truly does us in.  If I resign myself to a life that is, for whatever reason,  "less than", then I condemn myself to a life of desperation.  I think quietly desperate lives are passive lives, lived in lukewarm days and empty nights.

    I also think it's the easier path to live a life of desperation.  I didn't say happier or more satisfying.  I said easier.  It takes work to push yourself out of your comfort zone.  It takes hella energy to face obstacles, to look the truth straight in the eye and decide to change something. It's easy to compare yourself to others, find yourself lacking, decide you are not among the chosen few, and give yourself over to mediocrity. It's a lot easier to hang around waiting for something to happen rather than working to make something happen.  

    That was the voice of experience writing that last paragraph.  Sometimes I find myself in what I think of as the ultimate desperation zone:  that I have missed my chance at a stellar life, that I am too old  now to be or do anything more of significance.  It sounds rather pathetic as I read it out loud but it still feels true. Granted, with the help of good genetic material, a good partner parent, and a substantial helping of good luck I can say that my two children are significant gifts that I am giving to the world.  And, yes, my years in public education were filled with passion and devotion to my community.  But the offspring have sprung and I can feel in my (broken) bones that I am running out of steam for community service.

    Will anything light my fire now?

    How about you?  Where are you on the desperation scale?
   

Boldness

“Boldness be my friend.” 
― William Shakespeare

     I like to paint.  When people ask me, "So what kind of paintings do you do?" the words that always comes to mind are abstract and BOLD.   Clearly abstract works to describe what I like to do with paints.  Seldom do I paint something that is representational.  In other words, I am not about painting realistic pieces.  I often paint the conversation that is in my head.  I frequently  paint what I found in my night time dreams.  There are many times when I have no clue about what it is I am painting.

     My work is seldom soft, warm, and fuzzy.  Generally speaking, the colors are vivid, the texture is rich and sometimes harsh.  On occasion, there is an edginess, sometimes a starkness about the works.  My paintings can be infused with playfulness, anger, despair, fear, confusion, joy, and more.  Pretty much they all have one thing in common:  boldness.

      And I find it both amusing and perplexing that boldness shows up in my paintings.  There is nothing bold about me or my life.  I live in a conventional home, in a conventional small town.  I have a conventional job, a retired and conventional husband, two conventional children, and two conventional mutts.  Boldness implies audacity, courage, adventurousness, maybe even brazen.   I wish I could say I were any of those things.  Instead, I mostly feel like a robot that has marched through a predictable life. Maybe the boldness of my artwork is the me who wishes she were someone else.

   Just for fun, I am adding some photos of original work.  The colors tend to be muted on the computer screen so use your imagination to amplify what you see and you might get an idea of the real deal.  Most of these paintings are 18" x 24" unframed (which translates to typically about 25" x 32" framed). The size only magnifies the boldness - a big wall is required for hanging.

Ambiguity

“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.
Delicious Ambiguity.” 

- Gilda Radner

     For years I thought  that ambiguity was the sole propriety of language.  I considered a sentence, a passage, a poem, a story, anything with words that was unclear as ambiguous.  And that's where ambiguity stopped.  In 1989, Gilda Radner died of cancer and I discovered this quote.  That's when the door opened on ambiguity for  me.

     Initially, I didn't like thinking of life as ambiguous.  I wanted to know exactly what was going to happen, how exactly were things going to turn out.  I didn't like waiting for outcomes and, instead, I determined that whatever way I wanted things to go was the way they were going to go.  Big mistake.

     More recently, I have made room on the bench of life for ambiguity. Ambiguity is going to push its way in anyway so I might as well make room for it.  Specifically, this means that I don't assume to know exactly how things are going to turn out.  It means that I can be curious about the outcome of some situation rather than decide that I am in charge of everything and that the universe will obey my demands.  

     Making room for ambiguity certainly does make life more interesting and, yes, entertaining. 

I know what I painted but do you know what I painted?  Ambiguity in art!

How About That 2013?

     On January 1st of this year, I posted a light list of fifty things that I would like to do in 2013.  This wasn't meant to be a grand to-do list but rather a random collection of ideas to spark the new year.  My plan was (and remains) that I would check back seasonally to see where things are (or are not) going. It's almost springtime so I invite you to see how I am doing with 2013.  I'm not going to go over everything but rather select three accomplishments and note three things which remain in the realm of "we'll see".

   

     Most notably (at the moment) is that I did move forward on item # 14:  Get the right hand repaired.  Details here.  It has been tougher than I imagined but I bet it will be worth it in the long run.  I have also  managed to already accomplish # 26: Visit SF's Museum of Modern Art at least once during the year. Again, details can be found here.  The cool thing is that I have plans for next weekend to visit the classic De Young Museum of Art in Golden Gate Park.  I am jazzed!  We also have already managed to do # 3, #4, and #5.  All of these have to do with updating and refreshing the kitchen.  I like the changes!

   Looking ahead, I know I want to jump on #1 (learn how to organize my on line photos)  soon but realistically?   That won't happen until summer vacation.  Number 39 is to go hiking in the Santa Cruz Mountains with Sonny Boy.  I hope we can do that this spring.  Perhaps to celebrate his birthday in late April?  Take photos of spring wildflowers? That would also allow the fulfillment of # 35!  I could also combine that with # 8 - get back into taking late afternoon neighborhood walks.  Walks can be so relaxing and looking for photo ops adds a layer of interest.

       There are a few other items from that January list on which I have made some progress. There are even more that I have yet to tackle.  We are only two and a half months into the year so I have time.  Look for another update in mid June.

Right Hand Returns (sort of)

     The last time I was able to post I showed you my casted right hand.  It was big, club-like, and very cumbersome.  It didn't really matter that my hand wasn't of much use because it was too busy screaming at me in pain.  No way, no how was it going to do anything nice to or for me.  Not after what I had authorized be done to it!

    So it's about a week later and that big club-like cast was removed yesterday.  Look what's under it!  Stitches!  Last week the hand surgeon took two chunks of ligament from the right forearm and meticulously sewed them into place in order to rebuild the joint at the base of my thumb and to strengthen the joint further up my thumb.  Amazing!

    Yes, it hurts like hell but ice, elevation, time, and percocet have calmed the screams.  The stitches need to stay in for a few more days but taking the big compression bandage off has allowed less pressure and more movement for the hand/fingers.  The doctor redressed my arm in a new ensemble which is lighter and a little more finger friendly.

   I still have very little use of the right hand.  Typing is frustrating and challenging.  Actually, I have a whole list of things that are frustrating and challenging (coming to you during next month's A to Z Challenge).  I have had pain and limited movement in my right hand for, at least, the last ten years.  I am hoping that this big pain in the hand takes away this constant irritation.  If it does, then my right hand will be introducing my left hand to the surgeon.  In fact, they have already met.  Maybe they will get a second date.