Our Polar Bear

There’s a polar bear in my closet.

A statue of a polar bear, that is, with its neck outstretched, its head twisted slightly in a quizzical look.

It’s a 10-pound statue of a polar bear. But it’s also my friend Josh.

Josh gave me the statue about 25 years ago. And both he and it have remained in my life since, each becoming a quiet but dear presence. Josh and his polar bear also have taught me unexpected lessons about self-acceptance and about persistence as a pal.

Let’s start with the polar bear. The thing is clumsy. Standing about 8 inches high and running about 15 inches long, the bear perches on top of the short dresser in my closet. And it’s often in my way. Even though it occupies the edge of the dresser top, the polar bear makes it harder to stack clothes on the dresser en route to putting them away. And since it is at the edge, I worry that it will tip over into the adjacent wall, making a mark and wearing down its own battered white coat.

I feel stupid, in a way, for having it there.

And that same sense of some shame goes back to the bear’s origins in my life. Josh gave it to me one day during our sophomore year in college. He said it reminded him of me. That made a certain sense. I was always asking questions--as this polar bear appeared to be doing. I stood out from Josh and our other two roommates for voicing many more questions than they did. Josh especially. He rarely articulated questions. He read voraciously but he was quiet. Inscrutable even.

He found my constant querries amusing. But I couldn’t tell if he was laughing with or at me. And so I could feel stupid around him. Did he appreciate my curiosity or look down on me as a rube? The polar bear gift neatly captured my confusion. Was it a sweet-hearted present or a mocking jab? Maybe a little of both?

If you would have asked me to predict which of my college friends I would have remained close to, Josh wouldn’t have made the short list. To get a sense of how I felt uncomfortable around him, take music. I considered myself to be open minded about music entering college. I had ventured, for example, into alternative, New Wave groups in high school when most of my friends were focused on classic, more mainstream rockers like The Who, Bruce Springsteen and The Police. I dug The Style Council. But Josh was way more alternative than me, and I felt him looking down on much of my music. To him, the Style Council was a travesty.

We just didn’t get each other on some level. I thought I was doing my sophomore roommates a favor one time by tidying up our bug-infested living room. Inadvertently, I tossed out some of Josh's “fanzines,” homemade newsletters central to the underground music scene before the Internet. Josh blew up at me when he found out. “I can’t believe you did that,” he screamed. My trash, his counter-cultural treasure.

Because of these differences and my discomfort, I distanced myself from Josh. I chose not to room with him junior year. We headed into different “eating clubs” at Princeton, the places where upperclass students eat and socialize. My senior year we grew even farther apart. I became a resident advisor living in an underclass student dorm, while he graduated early, moved into an apartment in town and took a job as a policy analyst.

Still, Josh and I maintained a kind of remote friendship. We never lived together again, but always stayed in touch. Eating together among friends at our eating clubs or his Princeton apartment. Seeing music acts every once in a while, like Prince’s Lovesexy tour in Philly in 1989. Going en masse to his parents’ farmhouse home in Pennsylvania.

The pattern continued after I graduated. He was a regular visitor at the Brooklyn apartment where a bunch of college friends and I flopped after graduating. The four of us sophomore roommates took an epic 6-week trip to Southeast Asia. And after I moved out to San Francisco and Josh settled in Brooklyn, we continued to look each other up on trips—meaning we saw each other about once a year. Through visits, email and ultimately Facebook, we have remained in each other’s lives.

It’s the same with the polar bear. I don’t quite know why, but it has persevered over the years. For a significant stretch, I think it sat in the dark confines of an old suitcase in a storage room. Even when it surfaced, I haven’t always known what to do with it. It’s been placed on the floor, where it got in the way, and on a desk, where it took up too much space. But I’ve never thrown it out.

And I’m glad I haven’t. For one thing, it proved useful when I rehabilitated a dislocated shoulder. I used it as a weight in my exercises.

But other knick-knacks collected over the years have played practical roles and haven’t made the cuts of multiple spring cleanings and home rearranging. Why has this statue of an endangered species survived as a personal item of mine?

I suspect the secret is that the polar bear is a mirror to me. Its expression captures a curiosity that I identify with at my core. I’m not sure I always valued that quality, especially when I occasionally felt foolish for asking a “dumb” question. But as I became a teacher and later a writer, I came to treasure inquisitiveness as one of my greatest strengths. A trait I’m trying to pass on to my kids, a key to world peace even.

This polar bear may be bulky, may trigger memories of mixed emotions, may have almost ended up in a landfill.

But it’s next to me now because it reminds me of my best self.

Like his bear, Josh also has come to occupy an important corner of my life. It started in college, when Josh helped teach me the importance of doing my homework. One time he and I attended a rally calling on Princeton to divest itself of investments tied to apartheid South Africa. A counter protester approached us and asked if we were sure the black citizens of South Africa really wanted international companies to pull out of the country. I didn’t know the answer to that question—I was there out of a vague sense that apartheid was wrong. But Josh knew the facts cold. He cited evidence that South African blacks backed divestment.

And even though I chafed against what I saw as his music snobbery, Josh has introduced me to some of the most important songs in my life. I might never have heard of Joan Armatrading, The Feelies or Big Star if not for him. But Armatrading’s “My Family” always renews my hope for humanity, The Feelies’ “Let’s Go” always raves me up and Big Star’s three albums remain among my all-time favorites. Big Star’s “Watch the Sunrise” has helped carry me through trying times, including the break-up of my first marriage.

In other ways, Josh has multiplied joys and mitigated pains. He invited me to go skiing in Utah when my first wife and I were on the verge of breaking up. He came to both my first and second weddings. I remember hugging him and our other college roommate Raul on the top of San Francisco’s Tank Hill at the close of the second one—tears of relief and happiness flowing and Josh able to appreciate those as well as anyone. I came to his Brooklyn home weeks after his first child Gus was born, my own son Julius mere months older. And for nearly a decade now we have continued to connect on the highs, lows and quirks of parenting.

Josh deserves more credit for the way the signal of our connection hasn’t weakened over the years. He has been the more likely to interrupt the silence between us with an email or Facebook message, often passing on news about mutual friends and asking what’s up with me. My trips back East grew less frequent, but Josh gets to the Bay Area every year to visit his parents-in-law in Orinda. He faithfully makes plans to get together.

I got a glimpse into his dogged nature at his wedding some 10 years ago. It was a blast of a nuptial gathering, a multiday affair at a family compound in Maine full of waterskiing, badminton, a campfire and Scottish dancing lessons. At one point, I told his mother that I was glad Josh hadn’t given up on me as a friend. “He’s loyal,” she explained.

I’m glad he is. And I’m glad I’ve been loyal in my way as well. Even today, I still have to overcome a hint of my old anxiety around him when we communicate. But I do. And I made sure to contribute to his 40th birthday video—one of those profile movies full of interviews with friends and old photos panned over in Ken Burns-fashion. I spoke about one of my favorite Josh stories. The time during our Southeast Asia trip when Josh, man of esoteric music, chose to sing the Beatles’ “Hey Jude” during a boozy evening of karaoke near the Borobudor Buddhist shrine. He belted out this rock classic with feeling.

That was a sign that it wasn’t entirely fair to see Josh as a music snob. I think any such snobbery in him has softened over the years. And in any event, another friend appearing in Josh's video helped me see his musical tastes in a different light. Eric Weisbard, a pop culture scholar and fan of eclectic music himself, recounted that Josh would listen to albums Eric and his wife, music critic Ann Powers, couldn’t bear to hear. Josh's attitude toward those far-out bands was fundamentally a generous one, Eric said. Josh gave them a chance.

Viewing others as worthy of attention--as likely to contain a compelling story or song--amounts to curiosity. Seeing Josh as a quieter kind of curious has reinforced my own version of wondering about the world.

In the end, Josh and I are bears of the same fur. We’re both that statue sitting in my closet.

Comes a Time

Julius put his arms around me. I was facing the other way, so I turned to him and realized he was crying.

“Dada, I’m scared of dying,” he blurted out. Now he was bawling.

I had never seen him this terrified. My 8-year-old son was staring into the abyss of death for the first time as a not-so-little kid. And the gaping uncertainty horrified him. It was early evening on Father’s Day. A sudden challenge as a father.

Julius and my 6-year-old daughter Skyla have thought about dying before, but typically we’ve discussed it in a calm, clinical way. During those conversations, I’ve talked about my belief that we go to heaven after we die. But I’m not very definitive. I’ll say to them: “I believe we’ll get to see God and our dead relatives.”

It’s not “You will go to heaven and you will see God.” The sort of fully reassuring statement that, I presume, is the kind of message that my brother-in-law, Steve, and sister-in-law, Abbie, give their kids and possibly Julius and Skyla as well.

Steve and Abbie are evangelical Christians. Steve, for example, signs his emails with this Biblical quote: “Believe and be saved.” By contrast, I’m a lapsed Catholic who stumbled into a Protestant church in recent years. My spirituality also weaves in the Gnostic gospels, yoga-class Hinduism and a tinge of Buddhism. Although my wife Rowena and I faithfully attend Old First Presbyterian Church and love our preacher there, we have our doubts about the Resurrection. With such jumbled-up beliefs, we can’t offer our kids great certainty about what happens when they die.

We had just seen Steve and Abbie in Arizona, and during the visit, Julius apparently had been singing a religious song, “Hosannah,” either picked up in Sunday school or heard at Abbie and Steve’s.

Steve then made a CD of religious music for Julius to take home. Matters of the spirit also were central to our drive back to San Francisco. We read “The Green Ghost,” a book about a girl about Julius’ age who dies after wandering too far into the forest to cut down a tree at Christmas. It is an eerie yet sweet book. The ghost, years later, helps a family avoid getting trapped in a snowstorm. Along the way, the ghost reunites with her younger-and-now-elderly sister who had been with the deceased girl the night she died. The younger sister survived because the older one wrapped her in her coat.

Soon after we arrived in our apartment, Julius put on the religious CD from Uncle Steve. It is gentle, uplifting music. That only added to my surprise when I found Julius clinging to me.

The song didn’t soothe him, at least in this moment. As spiritual music it called attention to our mortality, and Julius had a flash of just how scary that concept can be. I imagine the explanations his mother and I have given him of what happens after death suddenly seemed flimsy. Perhaps he noticed the discord between our subjective statements and the greater certainty he hears from others in his life, including Abbie and Steve. Perhaps the story of a little girl about his age dying and becoming a ghost struck him not as charming but chilling.

I should add that Julius disputes most of these theories. I later asked him what had triggered his fear that night. “I heard the word ‘dying’ in the song,” he said. He flat out rejected any influence of the Green Ghost or the way his mother and I talk about heaven compared to the way others talk about it.

Whether my grander hypotheses hold or Julius simply latched on to a lyric about dying, his reaction that night was unusual. He admitted he hadn’t felt that fearful “since he was little.” In fact, the closest parallel I have to his spontaneous terror was when he was about three years old, and we witnessed a scary police action in our neighborhood. Several cops ran from behind a community center, guns drawn, to arrest a pair of teen-age suspects. Although he was so young, Julius intuitively sensed the danger in the air. As the police officers ran by us, he burst into tears.

I heard the same panic in his voice this Father’s Day. And for a split-second, I was rattled. Julius’ fear spoke to a parental helplessness that I hate. Ultimately, my determination—no matter how fierce—to guard my children against harm has to succumb to reality. They will die one day. And trying too hard to protect them backfires in paranoia. I can find that balance between safeguarding them and sending them into the world maddeningly hard to strike.

But somehow, as Julius hugged me in tears, a healthier paternal instinct kicked in. Just as I pulled him close when he was a frightened three-year-old, I picked Julius up by the armpits and held him on my hip. He has become so big, though, that I couldn’t easily hold him up with one arm. I propped one leg up on a chair to help support his weight.

“I understand, Peanut,” I said, using a nickname dating to his infancy. I told him death is scary to me too sometimes, and repeated my belief that when we die we will be with God and relatives who’ve died before us.

Rowena also sought to soothe him and joined us in an embrace. Then Skyla climbed onto my propped up leg behind Julius. She made it a full-family hug. Whether comforted by our physical presence or our words, Julius soon calmed down.

My Father's Day duties weren’t quite done, though. I took on bedtime songs later in the evening. At Julius’ request, I sang the two kids a version of Neil Young’s “Comes a Time.” I don’t know all the words by heart, so I often conclude the song—and my overall nighttime singing routine—by repeating the phrase “comes a time” over and over and over. Julius once told me he finds this relaxing, and he explicitly requested the ritual this evening.

So I granted his wish. And the recurring refrain seemed a fitting response to his earlier fear. Comes a time. Honest about the reality of death, but comforting at the same time. The very repetition of the phrase – the predictability – counteracting the utter unknown-ness of dying. In the face of a scary, solitary ending, a reminder that he is not alone.

Julius had thrown his arms around me, and I was hugging him back with a song.

Skyla the Social

When Skyla Parris Frauenheim was 2 ½, she and I took a walk late one night to soothe her nerves. She had been on a crying jag, and my wife Rowena and I didn’t want to keep up her 4-year-old brother. Skyla was nestled into the scarlet red sling we would carry her in. And while we breathed in the brisk San Francisco air and looked at the starry sky, Skyla had a striking thought.

“Maybe everybody in the world is on a walk with us,” she said.

That comment gets at a cornerstone of Skyla’s spirit. She sees herself as fundamentally connected to those around her. And her vision that night reminds me of an old lesson: we human beings are ultimately one interdependent community. Recognizing that truth allows us to solve problems and satisfy our souls.

***

Skyla is a second child. That might explain the way she experiences herself as so deeply woven into a tapestry of “persons” -- as she often calls people. My friend Raul recently made this observation about second-born siblings: “They've always lived in a complex web of family relationships and bonds. First borns began with a one-to-one relationship with parents, second borns have only known one way.”

For Skyla, that has translated into a dear relationship with her older brother Julius. For the first four years or so of her life, she frequently ended her sentences with “right, Julius?” As in, “It’s sunny out today, right Julius?” or “We’re going to go swimming at Grandpa Carl’s pool in Arizona, right Julius?” It was if her observations and thoughts extended to include him. Making meaning for her was a social activity.

Skyla has gradually outgrown the verbal verification. But she’s hardly less linked to her brother. I recently overheard her tell Julius that she loved him the best in our family, followed by Mommy. I brought up the rear.

But even with my low ranking, Skyla shows me her affection constantly. Hugs. Kisses. A certain head-leaning-against-me, that you see her doing to Julius in the photo above. And requests for time on my lap--as she gets dressed in the morning, while I’m working in my home office and at the dinner table after we’ve eaten. Often, she’ll just climb on without asking. A human lap dog.

Skyla expresses her love for many people besides me. And has done so since she was a baby. “Mama, I love you so hard,” she said a few years ago. And the phrase captures the fierceness of her devotion to Rowena. When Rowena and I have argued and I’ve raised my voice, Skyla has bravely intervened. “Stop it, Daddy!” or “Leave Mommy alone!”

Skyla came up with the phrase “sleep-hugging” to describe a bedtime hug, a sign of how much she adores those evening embraces. While cuddling with her in the morning a few years ago, I told Skyla I was going to wake up. "You can't wake up,” she responded, while rolling on top of me. “You're getting bulldozed by a flower."

That line reflects her personality: assertively sweet and sweetly assertive. The quote also reveals her aesthetic. She is all about flowers. Flowers and hearts. Flowers, hearts and persons dominate her paintings and drawings. And her clothes. Half her shirts and pants have hearts on them. Her latest pajama bottoms read: “All we need is love.” Yes, most of the time grown-ups give her these items. But she’s choosing what to wear herself now. At her recent six-year-old birthday party, she picked a dark-pink turtleneck dotted with rows of white, pink and red hearts, over which she wore a pink dress with pink flowers.

Skyla isn’t alone in being a child full of love. Many kids have a similar sensibility. Her best friend Simone, for example, came to the birthday party dressed almost as a mirror image to Skyla, with a dark blue turtleneck peppered with light-blue hearts. Simone and Skyla met in pre-school, and no longer go to the same school. That caused Simone some trepidation at the start of the party. She clung to her father Nico at the foot of our stairs, worried about not knowing the rest of the guests, who were from Skyla’s kindergarten class. But Simone soon made friends at the party with a sweet girl named Althea. The two of them ultimately shared a seat for cake.

Here’s how Nico described the party aftermath for Simone: “On the drive home she told me that she was so happy that there were tears in her eyes.”

In other words, kids like Simone and Skyla wear hearts on their sleeve that are very real.

That’s not to say children are only about connecting. They can be plenty hateful. And teasy. And they can demand their personal space. Skyla, for example, went through a phase last year where she rejected hugs and kisses. At school, she has been cautious about making new friends. And she certainly has independent and selfish impulses. But most of her tantrums are less about self-indulgence than they are about fairness in the social fabric. Julius got an extra candy treat. Daddy got a Rockstar drink while she didn’t get an equivalent juice or chocolate milk. A promise by one parent was denied by another.

And even as she cultivates her individuality and demands her share, Skyla continues to define herself in terms of her relationships. Not long ago, for example, she woke up in the morning and began chanting: “Daddy, Mommy, Julius and me.”

These words embedding her in our family structure had a physical parallel. She, Julius and I all were lying in Julius’ top-bunk bed--I’d been summoned to the kids’ room by one of them in the pre-dawn hours. Julius and I lay on either side of her as Skyla declared our family-hood and her place in it. “Daddy, Mommy, Julius and me.” Her sing-song voice conveyed complete contentment. And it was contagious--I experienced joy rivaling any I’ve ever felt.

***

We adults are too quick to discount intense feelings of solidarity and affection. When we see them in children, we might call them adorable but usually in a patronizing way. We tend to be hyper-vigilant of sentiments that could veer into the sentimental. That could be cloying.

We know on some level that children possess a deep wisdom, but we’re terrified of appearing childish and overemotional. We ought to work harder to embrace a childlike mindset. A childlike heartset, of seeing ourselves as inextricably tied to others.

For one thing, it is surprisingly scientific in nature. Despite our Western beliefs in autonomous, rational individualism, we are more mutually dependent than we care to admit. New York Times columnist David Brooks is among those who have called attention to the way research in brain science and other fields has made clear that we are profoundly “social animals.”

“The cognitive revolution of the past thirty years provides a different perspective on our lives,” Brooks wrote in the New Yorker earlier this year, “one that emphasizes the relative importance of emotion over pure reason, social connections over individual choice, moral intuition over abstract logic, perceptiveness over I.Q.”

Similarly, Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers shows that success in a variety of fields, ranging from law to computer science to professional hockey, has much to do with social circumstances and connections that we have tended to overlook. In one of the most intriguing anecdotes of the book, Gladwell highlights the way impressive health statistics in Roseto, a small Pennsylvania town, could only be explained by the strong community bonds there.

Despite such reminders, we Americans remain stuck with an unbalanced ideology. By overemphasizing “personal responsibility” and the power of “individual initiative,” we have failed to set up an economy that works for all. Squint at our society from afar, and you can’t help but ask how we could allow an unemployment rate of 9 percent--representing nearly 14 million workers--to persist this far along into a so-called recovery.

And that official figure fails to capture the full extent of U.S. unemployment or the dramatic rise in long-term joblessness. As of March of this year, 46 percent of those considered officially unemployed have been without work for 27 weeks or more. That figure had stayed below 30 percent from 1948 to 2009. In effect, we are allowing a minority of millions of people to bear the full brunt of the recession, with many of them falling through the cracks of a flawed social safety net.

And graver threats loom, especially when we widen the lens to consider the entire world. Nuclear annihilation remains a real possibility. As does the prospect of climate catastrophe.

Over the years, our wisest leaders have urged us to view all humans as one family. “We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools,” Martin Luther King, Jr. said. Buckminster Fuller spoke of “Spaceship Earth,” with its implication that we are all in it together.

There are signs that we are hearing those calls. In the book I’m co-writing about the future of corporate social responsibility, my co-authors and I document a rise in “ethical” consumerism. People are more concerned that the products they buy are not made by exploiting workers or trashing the environment. We also found found that people are increasingly likely to identify as global citizens. The Millennials are a “civic” generation. And the social media tools they helped make popular encourage connectivity and magnify its power. It seems, for example, that Facebook and Twitter played key roles in sparking the remarkable wave of political protests in the Arab world in the past several weeks.

Those protests and their success so far in Egypt and Tunisia serve as reminders that people can come together to solve apparently intractable dilemmas. And who cannot be moved by the generosity of the human spirit revealed by those demonstrators? They not only risked their lives but they see themselves as part of a wider liberation movement. “We are setting a role model for the dictatorships around us,” Khalid Shaheen, a 39-year-old Egyptian, told the New York Times. “Democracy is coming.”

***

With such inspirational examples, why is it so hard for us humans to remember our fundamental ties and common aspirations? Part of the reason, of course, is that we are unique individuals and rightly resist being forced to conform to others’ visions. And we can be so awful to one another, making us distrust people and limit our love to smaller circles.

Skyla herself has wrestled with how broadly to share her affections. The same morning she chanted “Daddy, Mommy, Julius and me” she also sang this: “I love every person.” When I asked who she meant by that, she clarified that she meant just our family. That’s not surprising, given that she’s been warned that strangers can hurt her and that she should be wary of them.

There’s more to the story of our anti-social impulses. The pain of losing each other also plays a role. If we let ourselves feel how much we truly care about others, it can overwhelm us to lose them. Lose them to a new job in a new city. To a different school. To death itself. So we harden our hearts a little to dull the ache of departures.

Once again, Skyla shed light on the subject for me recently. I had just finished telling Julius and her the latest in a series of stories I made up about a group of bugs living in the San Francisco Bay Area. After having “Crackey the Cricket” and his ladybug and butterfly buddies take trips to China, the White House, the Egyptian Pyramids, Alaska and the San Francisco Zoo, I figured they had about reached the end of their lifespans. So I had Crackey marry and have kids, had the the ladybug and butterfly couples have kids as well, and said the older generation died.

I tried to cushion their passing by saying the next installment of the stories would be about their kids, and I spoke a little about the cycle of life.

Still, the deaths hit a nerve with Skyla. “Daddy don’t die,” she said as we hugged goodnight. “Mommy don’t die.”

“I make magic spell so Daddy don’t die and Mommy don’t die and brother don’t die.”

In protesting the future loss of her beloved family, Skyla declared openly how much she cared for us. Her child heart was beating, bleating loudly.

Even so, the voice she used suggested that she too is “maturing” into someone a little more guarded. She adopted a toddler’s tone and syntax--“I make magic spell”--as if only the youngest of children can safely admit intense love and anxiety at the prospect of separation. By cloaking her emotion in the language of a younger self, she in a way shielded herself from attacks that she was acting like a “baby.”

Yet her sentiment is spot on. Yes, our different spiritual traditions help us make sense of dying. But are any among us immune from soul-wrenching grief when we lose parents, mates, siblings, children? If only we had spells to keep those loved ones alive.

***

Maybe sometimes we do.

A few weeks ago, I almost lost Skyla. We all almost lost Skyla, but for what seems to me a miracle. It was early evening, when our home street of 18th Street becomes a thoroughfare for commuters. Skyla, Julius and I were on 18th Street crossing Guerrero Street, mere yards from our apartment door. As she approached the far side of Guerrero on a two-wheeled scooter, Skyla started heading into 18th Street to get to a curb cut. Into the lane of 18th Street that is normally safe for people because cars are parked there. Just as she did so, an SUV switched from the central lane of 18th Street to that outer lane. It was headed right for Skyla.

“Skyla STOP!” I yelled. She did, and the big vehicle missed her by inches.

It amazes me she didn’t die there. I happened to be watching her rather than Julius at that moment. I managed to yell. She stopped, out of some combination of obedience and self-preservation.

Even so, I couldn’t fully appreciate what had happened right away. I was in shock. It was too much, initially, to contemplate losing her. Little by little it sunk in, in excruciating fashion. Because I realized that to lose Skyla would be to lose part of me. Part of my heart.

When I let myself imagine her dying that day, I suddenly appreciated the way the death of a child sometimes breaks up a marriage. Putting myself in that horrible hypothetical place, I wanted someone to blame for her death besides me and the SUV, and my thoughts turned to Rowena. It’s also hard for me to think about how our marriage could survive with Skyla missing from our family puzzle. Rowena and I have strong, healthy bond. But our littlest one would leave such a large a hole.

My appreciation of Skyla is not just existential. It’s practical. Mundane even. Most days when I come home from work, Skyla greets me with a smile, like so many other children do to their parents. “Hi Dad, look at the fort Julius and I made.” Or “Don’t come in yet, Dad, we’re making a surprise.” Or “Dad, can we play Tiger?” That’s our idiosyncratic game of chase where I’m the tiger in pursuit of Skyla and Julius.

In other words, she almost always brightens my day. Soothes my soul when it is less-than-sunny. Just as I calmed her the night we took a walk some 3 1/2 years ago.

She was right that night. In some sense, we all were out on a walk together then. We still are.

Photo by Pak Han