“Go back?”

he thought. “No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!” So up he got, and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall, and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.”

J.R.R Tolkien

One of my favorite songs to sing to Duder in moments of ‘ok-frustration’ is the “Uh oh! Grass! Long wavy grass!! We can’t go over it-” remember that one? I think these two probably only ever hear the ‘can’t go over it’ sung in that weird, deeper-monotonous voice, reserved for that awkward key ‘catch-all’ community songs are written in (Happy Birthday, He’s A Jolly Good Fellow, any children’s song).

Anyway, I sing that song a lot to myself – making me realize I am still a farmer, needing a song to keep pace to. The ‘Can’t go over it’ song was the first lesson I learned of pushing past something to just, get through it. Believe me, I appreciate the motivation in this song far more than the “I’m being eaten by a boa-constrictor…” (in swimming class…)

What is this about? Well, with a Georgia-font flourish, I can unveil the grand plan; what all the secret, heart-blossoming hype we’ve alluded to has been about. Moving. We, our lil’ family of three, are moving again.

When we moved from the apartment to this lovely home, I was silent about what number this tallied for me. Because I am tired of feeling like I jinx it by saying ‘Well, this is number X, so it has to be the last time!’ but in this case, it is the last of something.

This will be my twenty-first move, in my (soon to be) eighteen years of living ‘independently’ and I am moving back home. Yup, we’re moving West (well… 166km and 2hrs West).

This decision is not new, it had been thrown around in that weird, super uncommitted way you do early on in a relationship. That sense of invincibility, the excitement and passion of our blossoming relationship found kinship in the food, wine, arts, and general cultural scene of Stratford. But, after our own set of challenges, a couple of years, the whisper didn’t fade.

There is a very large queer population, an especially prominent transient population in the summer, as it is a theatre town. So realistically, there has always been that safety-appeal. With everything else that has piled up, it seems like a natural choice to make when we realized, we have to move.

I aspire to be a normal, awesome citizen instead of cloistering myself away. I could comfortably see myself volunteering at duderonomy’s school. We have friends, obviously originally ‘mine’ but they have wholly welcomed Aisha, as an individual, who just happens to also have captured my heart. And duderonomy has friends, already.

My fabled sister lives there, and while that is going to be a short-lived reality, it will be cool to run into her, or call her up for a walk. My niece and her boyfriend will be there for a while, which I am so excited for, also realizing it will probably be more of a ‘run-into-ya’ thing. Maybe not!

We are purchasing a house with my mother.

Talk about setting roots. Family, friends, a house, work is taken care of, we have support – so maybe Aisha will begin to heal. Moving, once upon a time, was something I obsessed over. My mum and I would troll open-houses, talk about moving, look at the paper and… dream. I don’t know why; we had an amazing house. We were able to travel; we spent time in other homes.

But then I started my own personal apartment-carousel. The obsession soon made way for exhausted resignation. It all started when I turned eighteen, and my parent’s conservativism (prudish and maybe semi-homophobic-in-the-parental-way mindset *god I hate qualifiers*) and my requests were not harmonious. So, I, in a much-needed break from what was going on, moved out with a friend from high school, and my then-girlfriend.

How do you decide if you are ready to live independently? Looking back, though I recognize it would have been detrimental to stay, I wish I had waited! I didn’t have it that bad – I would have had more time with my dad. We could have compromised about my request (no secret, I wanted my girlfriend to sleep over because she lived out of town, they thought we would have crazy lesbian sex all over the house…). But that’s not what happened. So, with my multiple jobs and being almost finished high school, I moved out.

I needed to not be at home helping with my dad (as terrible as that sounds), but I ended up feeling over worked anyway. I finally graduated, the romance ended, my second and third apartments were quickly experienced, and jobs started to ‘pile up.’ As did my bad choices, mapped across cities and decades.

But the thing is, I was not ready to live with my significant other. I was not ready for sharing spaces with… strangers (not my family members). But I really kind of had no choice. I learned a lot from this first space: boundaries, fragile lies for gullible people (me), how to be cheated on and deal with it, and a host of other things I don’t think I would have necessarily ever been prepared for. But what followed… Well, I don’t know if you would have been either:

Here we go. From home to Apartment 1 (move 1) and then two other apartments (move 2 & 3) in two years. Then, new city: Toronto (apartment 4/move 4) – home (move 5) – Toronto (apartment 5/move 6)– home (move 7) – Toronto (apartment 6 & 7/move 8 & 9). Then, my small trip to Nova Scotia (apartment 8/move 10) where changing drivers licenses and addresses, getting insurance, etc., was not worth the hassle when we moved back eighteen months later. Apartment 9 and move 11, I’m in St. Catharines. Suffice to say the next few years were a fast-forward of homes 10-18 and moves 12-20.

The move to this house, as I’ve said, felt like a break. Like we could get our bearings, be on-top of parenting and get better in general. We did it too, which is the funny part, and maybe why I feel less stress now. Aisha was successful with her businesses. I was doing well and getting to where I am now. We were learning great lessons, getting into a groove, and then… dun, dun, dun – the back thing.

What does your derailment look like? Because, to be honest, all my moves, all of my changes have made mine quite… elegant if I must say.

I’m kidding. ‘Twenty moves’ starts as a frazzled-pull-out-the-boxes-you-didn’t-bother-unpacking, and eventually evolves into just not having that much to pack anymore, because you’re tired of packing so you ‘declutter’ every time you go. But the support and joy at our recent decision (on the ending end) has affirmed what we knew:  we’ve gotta go. Even duder, in a very mature conversation, admitted he recognizes that he needs a little more schedule consistency, which can best be obtained by removing the…

(what is proving a… thing… is not a thing but the tension of sleepovers elsewhere weekly, when the child wants to, but does terribly when allowed to, is… well…).

My love, my ever-surprising gov’love, chomped it and slid the last, hard, and oddly shaped piece into place this week and asked/told duder’s dad about the move. Which meant it was/is official, everyone (for the most part) knows. The meeting went well. Until there was a moment the next day, that also, realistically, went well. But God, that heart pang. Not even just for me – yes. I want and need to move home. But also, for duderroo. For that brief moment where I forgot how reasonable this is, and that we can go- I honestly thought we may have to stay.

What am I getting at? All of it. My magnetic shift, the time-alignment and auspicious reason/timing of it all, and well, y’know, the stuff I deal with. And now, we get to go. All of this good and bad is pressing at the lip of the volcano and our world is about to be washed anew again. This time, I am feeling that feeling I don’t like but in this scenario it is more like a comfortable sweater. The hood falling perfectly, the arms just long enough.

I am excited to move home. To give duder and my girl what I had, hoping I can find it for them; that we can make it together. I am sad to leave certain things and what had felt like chances and optimistic opportunities, but what is meant to continue, will.

Am I excited to pack up again? Book the truck, get boxes, tape, and then undo it again? No. Not at all. Am I excited for my mum to arrive tonight and show her the listings? Did I love showing Joey, and every moment Aisha and I debated and hand-picked each one? Absolutely.

I love that, even though I feel overwhelmed, a part of a lot more than I am used to, and inundated by things I wouldn’t have been otherwise, I am feeling ok with it. Like it is manageable. Something will blip, without a doubt, but I genuinely believe this is why home became two people, until we needed more.

“It is always important to know when something has reached its end. Closing circles, shutting doors, finishing chapters, it doesn’t matter what we call it; what matters is to leave in the past those moments in life that are over.” 
― Paulo Coelho, The Zahir

All is grist that comes to the mill.

My heart was big, big, big today.

We’re tired for the usual, multitude of (parental, adult, millennial, equinoctial shifts) reasons, but with spring in the air, defeat never possible and sleep not an option (kidding, I got like 6 hours) I went on a bit of a rant today. It was one of those rants where I kept looking at Aisha – to be fair, it’s been 24-hrs of excited ranting – and telling myself, “Dude, she gets it.”

But you know when you follow through on something, and the breadth and immediacy of the results are so amazing you just can’t handle it? That is what happened. During my “AH HOW DO I CONVEY THIS” Google search today to help direct what I am trying to say, I found a LOT on Feng Shui. I have never really studied the art, but the philosophy appeals to me, though it doesn’t wholly capture what I mean. It feels more like a… magnet realigns in me, making me so frigging solid, and things just start crashing down in beautiful, perfect order. The effect of this is something I have referred to as my ‘bubble.’

My bubble is something I am grateful for, because it is like an emotional, plastic hamster ball for me to roll around in. Sometimes, there are a few tough weeks, and then suddenly there are five untypical and unbelievably gorgeous days in a row; the cardinal, or hawk or some amazing bird will come to catch my eye. I will feel… listless and then BAM! Songs that lift me from cloud to cloud to cloud come floating into my world until I break through them into the clear, blue sky, basking in the sunshine of happiness. I have always hoped to figure out how to maintain this bubble. If we were to sit and intimately talk about it, you would see how superstitious, or spiritualistic, I can be. Which is why I suppose, it took this weird moment of moving my bed, exactly when I did, with all the other factors lined up, to see that it’s me (I totally just knocked on wood, by the way).

When I originally put the bed together, I had placed it where it is now. I don’t know if it was the destabilizing bigness of a stress vs. relief vortex of our October move, or just the multitude of differences from 7th floor stink hole to this amazing home, but it didn’t seem right then. I ended up putting our room together in what seemed like the most logical/functional layout.

The past few weeks though, I have dreamt about it, low level obsessed over it, talked about it and honestly have organized so many other places, instead of just trying it out, that I feel kind of basic not having just done it.

Moving on, the excitement I felt all day yesterday (a day literally full of so much stress and worry that I alluded to in the last post, The Bamboo that bends) had me worried I had somehow managed to like, forget that the stress was imminent. Like, completely, forget. If I were the person to do this, this is where I would say, “I feel soooooo ADD,” except I’m not ADD.

I obviously hadn’t forgotten but the positivity and confidence I was able to wrap myself in was dreamlike. Thankfully, I had a mental adjustment in a hyper-clear moment, and realized, no. I had practiced self care in two way: Aisha is learning and becoming a very talented Reiki student practitioner (I know… are there no ends to the levels we keep revealing about our spiritual side) who gave me the “super-pamper-special” on Saturday, and our bed is now in the “Right Place”.

Amen.

Quick idea of what I am talking about – Which way should your bed face – to touch on the idea of considering how a room layout effects things. I looked over the Queen of Sleep’s thoughts on Feng Shui and, while surprised at her interpretation of directional meanings (my miracle occurred because of a 18°N orientation with our heads and feet away from the door and window), she did make me chuckle.

And then I found this, the Feng Shui Tips.Org page that really does what I need it to do. Why? It is malleable in my brain.  Everything I bring into my thought cycles has to be flexible in its use as an interpretation guide (side note: always wondered if I had been a monk in a past life). I need this because I like to have a complete lens to see through; different ideologies influence me based on the situation, and having more than one viewpoint makes the decision… More complete.

Anyway, kua numbers… what the… and tell me more. What is my Kua number? (It’s 7 – I used biological sex because, well, that’s the fact. If you look into this though, the only time gender matters in the application is in Group 5).

I am a West Group which provides me with the following information on the significance of direction:

  • NW: money and success
  • SW: health and vitality
  • NE: Love and Marriage
  • W: Personal Growth

Our new bed orientation: 18°N

(Additional side note: Aisha is an 8, also West group)

Crown of your head is supposed to be in a lucky direction, balance the sides of your bed, don’t face a mirror, remove sharp edges (my favorite tip), etc. Do these factors matter to most people? I am not social enough to say. Do they matter to me? Well, if you could see my vigor and the shit that’s slid in to place in a 24-hour time space, you may allow me the mysticism.

When I say, all is grist that comes to the mill, I mean that I do not shy away from anything that helps me keep my head clear and helps me work on myself. Reiki feels good. Bad energy effects me, whether of my own or others influence. When I allow myself to be open to it, I feel ‘higher’, or clearer. Yet, I can be so practical and analytical I laugh at my attempt to be both. At the end of the day, trying can only make me more aware, no? So, it is all processed, ground down, sifted into my mixin’ bowl and baked into what is turning out to be quite a competent, sensitive and thoughtful person.

I feel like I have always been like this, I just wasn’t big enough at the time to hold it all together, so it came out looking weird. Now it’s like I’ve reached a calm or, a perspective? Or… steadiness? I just haven’t managed to fuse all three together, so they alternate, like a pendulum swing. Thankfully, it is slowing, which means more often they line up and I am afforded (what I assume) really cool adult moments of knowing.

The point, peeps, is that when I trust me, life is something else. Not easy, but, fun. For instance: I got two new jobs today with one more contract getting close to closing. One of the jobs feels like it is what I have been waiting forever for, what every other messed up employment had been leading towards (gah, no pressure). I have written two blog posts in two days. I gardened. Duder is communicating and our connection was one of those things that came back, crashing down in beautiful, perfect order. All I did was (literally) open the door. Aisha is ploughing through the tough stuff. I don’t want to go into it, but suffice to say, she dealt with about ten piles of stinking _ _ _ _ yesterday without having a major panic attack, without a painful pattern emerging at all. She was so present, and amazing, Duder was so grounded by her. She was also subjected to receiving inappropriately delivered bad news today, that was just dropped like a stool stack on our doorstep, yet she sits over there now, somewhat calmly, plugging away. She is literally ski-dooing through those ‘hills’ but this shift seems to have changed the mud and stones to water-spray and sun beams (she maybe doesn’t feel this way, but she’ll have to write a reply 😉).

I needed something. I needed forward, a break, a breath. I need Spring and to harness my strength because this is my moment. This is my season and I am bursting with “YES.”

Someday, I will harness this feeling. I will figure out how to loop it around my waist and keep it with me always. Sometimes I have high hopes for forty, other times I see an eighty-year-old staring back at me, confident finally.

Regardless, I know that my learning is so good. And I am proud to be able to say that. My adjustments are like over-coats now; I can feel and welcome situations, because I trust the time, efficiency and accuracy I have cultivated in my responses. The things I allow in, have allowed me to trust myself. And I am just feelin’ grateful.

I wish I could paint, so this was easier to express. Alas,

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.” 


― Lao Tzu

I get ya, Lao Tzu.

The bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak that resists.

– Japanese Proverb

My chest feels like the cosmos today. Wide, unknown in its expanse.

This isn’t the first time my chest cavity has felt like this.

It is just especially interesting, because this week featured my typical ‘springtime intense’ dreamscapes. In one particular dream, Aisha’s doctor motioned me over to the table. He wanted me to see how the surgery was going. In the dream I was as hesitant as I’d expect myself to be in real life but I moved towards the surgery light, past the mint green sheets that created a barrier around the surgical staff, closer still to the metal table, her form laying there. Finally, bending over to peer at the incision and seeing… the galaxy.

What the heck right?

I have serious issues when considering ‘things under my skin’, for instance: a fear that bugs or germs are subdermal but waiting to come out (like spider egg under skin that burst a million babies, *barf). Aisha’s entire back experience has tiptoed along this fear agilely. Sometimes the fact that she had hands or instruments in the middle of her back, where nothing ever goes, is so overwhelming. Because she’s still here, normal, in pain but not an alien. I make myself look at her scar (it is cute actually) because the scar is fine, her skin is fine – it is the fact that she is still not ok, but they were in there, is what is not fine. How do you put that down folks? Fixing her is still a mystery.  

How does this weird dream, my subdermal issues and my chest-feeling have any connection? Their connection lies in how I feel or process fears that are not present.     

I have a heightened, though subconscious, state of fear. It brings to mind Trevor Noah’s standup bit about being in Bali and why he chose not to sit in the front row. Survivalist mentality? I don’t know, because I can recognize that I am for the most part, safe. But there have been lesson-worthy moments that have taught me that unless it is just me, in my space, anything could happen. It is self-preserving, I suppose, an over balancing of safe enough vs…?

The problem with feeling this way is that it means my fears have shuffled me into a vulnerable corner, it is many (situations) against one (me) at this point, and I can’t rage my way out because there is no ‘enemy.’ These situations are things I am looking forward to but haven’t ‘prepared enough’ for, in the event they pan out the way they have previously. Ultimately, this means that big ticket deals are on the horizon that in history haven’t played out so well. What’s on the list? Well…

My mum is coming up in two weeks for a visit. That visit is going to be busy, with a lot of things that are out of the norm. My sister is meeting duderroo for (technically the second, but) first time over a quick lunch in the midst of a packed day. Budmuffin’s birthday party is this weekend, and while I am loathed to admit it, I am generally having problems step-parenting right now, so a celebration event feels weird. I will not affect tomorrow, but I miss the easy flow we used to have. Aisha has been magnificent at bonding duder and I. She folded me into the two of them like the gifted baker she is, yet we are a complicated unit of five, sometimes six adults, plus duderonomy. So, our true ‘us-three-moments’ seem brief but I cling to them andselfishly recognize, that I now need that easiness in order to be on point. (Obviously this is my next self-undertaking) Otherwise, I falter and while Aisha is gracious about it, it’s not pretty folks.

Work-wise, I have hopefully secured two more contracts, which means I will be even busier, but we’ll be more secure, and finally, well… there’s a big announcement (Big A) I can’t make at this time (not pregnant, and overall positive) except to those who know, but there’s a lot of road work yet to do.

Breaking it down…

I am so excited to see my mother. We have a unique and special relationship; she is an amazing memory, a constant source of reassurance. She’s always just there, as she is. Problemo is, well, we do not talk about my gender. Trans issues are huge for her, because my being her daughter is what has made our connection, not that I’m an awesome person. When my cousins asked that Aiden’s earlier name not be used or referred to, my mother was in shock – “How are we all supposed to forget how cute and pretty [dead name] was, of course they are Aiden now, but also [dead name] then.” I understand this with cis people, especially mothers. I hate when people change who they are, but trans issues aren’t like turning out to be a backstabbing wahoo. Observing the community more, following more non binary Instagram accounts, etc. has really emphasized what I already knew, which is: it is the most important thing to value someone because they are a person, a human. But we attach meanings to the details; parents raise their kids biologically, friends used to be made based on biological gender. It is crazy to break away from someone’s pattern if you didn’t realize you relied on it. Example. If your mum was soft, kind, gentle, patient, plush … was that picturesque figure of motherhood who never betrays us, well, how would you feel if they were secretly in a fight club or killed puppies on Tuesdays. It is a shock to find out a side of someone you hadn’t considered, but you not acknowledging or considering it isn’t necessarily *their* problem.

Acknowledging the shock of ‘the other side’ is what people do in the apologizing part of coming out as anything. I haven’t heard one story where, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier” wasn’t uttered, but rarely can the conversation immediately include the, “imagine my shock too, ten years ago when this came to me,” because well, “I knew ten years ago,” is what hurts. The battle is always hard. Expressing a sentiment like “I’m trans” or “I’m gay/bi/poly” too early into your discovery can drum up harsh criticism. So, we learn to wait until we are sure enough, but total confidence and certainty seems to be the last brick in the pathway, so years slip past and the ‘secret’ grows.

This conversation requires a lot from my mum. I don’t feel shame in not forcing it on her. It means the pings will be pinging around over the long weekend. But those pings hold nothing to the look in her eye when she feels… shocked. Spending her sexagenarian years in a super small town made her comfortable with small town things. I’ve always been a shock, a bit of a burden, so why push her septuagenarian boundaries? She is kind, an ally to the LGBT+ community and ultimately, she is so proud and accepting of me. The moments are when she tries to not comment on my hairstyle. She has always been an advocate of me in male clothing, but my hair is always too edgy, provocative, and pointedly making a statement. Finally, I have lost a lot of weight, and that will be a thing (potentially). A thing because I’ve probably lost 25lbs (11kg) since she saw me last, and it doesn’t look all that healthy, and my hair went gray. Weight is her personal demon, and… my general stress and lack of success are probably her greatest fears. A lot to wade through, no? Well, let’s end it with the fact that, through all of this duo-shit, we as a foursome have to team up and undertake a BIG DAY. Aisha and duder aren’t my concern, and explaining what my concern is, is a whole other story.

All of that makes me feel vulnerable and can’t see a way over, under, or around it.

My sister – as you all know – is my [insert proper level of idolatry with independence and respect] but my brain is going all kinds of places, preemptively checking, on how this Big A is going to affect her. The funny part is, I know this is just a gathering of my neurosis because it’s like this: if the Big A were that we were going vegan, my ‘concern’ is how our veganism may impact the social shit she has to deal with as a butcher (she isn’t, btw). I can feel her justified stress and considerations of what her life is going to look like in three to six months with SO MANY OTHER FACTORS involved, that this Big A, well – it is SO. NOT. IMPORTANT. But she is to me, so my brain just goes there.

Birthday party. Ideally, I think we would all hope that split families can celebrate together. I think if everyone is on board and cool with it, it is incredible and worth aspiring to. I am grateful for learning about how this could look by joining this family (Aisha navigates a lot of people). I just also believe that if two years have gone by, then maybe the fusion needs to start smaller and on and mutual terms. Budmuff’s (how do you like the new name?) grandma is nice to me and has been from the beginning in a distant, but cool way; we commiserate, she and my mum like each other. Aisha’s multiple parents are all welcoming to me, authentically. But I do not know any other member of duder’s bio-D’s family and yet, they’ve decided to join our party. As a queer, nonbinary person, meeting new people is never an easy thing. Especially when I recognize I am in an area where most people just aren’t comfortable with my type of spice.

We are already going to be in a big, noisy, child-filled space (overwhelming, no?) with other adults to navigate, public washrooms, misgendering by duderonomy’s friends (not wanting it to affect him at ALL because he corrects people the most) and general socializing. Every fiber of me wants to break a bone instead of going. But I will go, with a smile, confidence, and a rocking ballcap. I just need my chest cavity to empty out, so I don’t have a panic attack and turn into raging-giganto-bullitch. I want to trust that D-fam will be welcoming and above board – but the problem is, I can’t trust that. Am I going to assume they won’t? No – fuck no. But I can’t implicitly trust them. Even if they do show up, try to get to know me, or whatever, they are still coming to the one event we had ‘alone’ with him. Thursday last week, he was out, Friday-Saturday-Sunday morning at grandma’s, Sunday is party day (we invited both grand-sets) but he’s gone Monday, Tuesday, Thursday-Sunday morning next week too. So, there are just a lot of emotions I need to be super adult about, but my brain is getting in the way.

And work. Things are turning out slowly but surely in this department. These new contracts may be exactly what we need to be secure, they are engaging and interesting and add diversity. I guess the question is, how much ability do I have? Yesterday was the first day I’ve had off in weeks. Can one balance 3-5 remote positions and still, be human? Aisha has meal-planned the sh*t out of this house. She is in charge of figuring out duder’s stuff, healthy meals, allergy news, growth needs and his schedule. But ultimately, it has to be on healing, on figure out what to be next. Her focus and drive are amazing to watch grow and evolve; she is carving hill after hill down so we can move forward but is beating herself up over them not being mountains.

Sometimes perspective is hard to gain. I feel like all I do is work (on my computer) and she feels like all she does is cook (alone in the kitchen). This back surgery and ensuing decisions have me feeling like while we are as solid as ever, there is less time to check in. Or trust that what we are supplying is sufficient. This is a vulnerable space.

Finally, its springtime. Are you affected by the seasons?

There is no time I feel more Taurean than in spring. I feel restless, and huffy, my seasonal drive-to-hibernate shuts off and well, I feel invigorated.  

From spring cleaning and seasonal transitions (car, house, clothing, chores) to more day light to take advantage of there is just more once winter fades. Yet, constant allergies, tiredness (those springtime dreams I was telling you about) and general hiccoughs of change are like speed bumps to the ‘more.’ And Hope. Spring brings hope.

I am not really comfortable with hope as a feeling or concept. It seems baseless. It seems like such a passive, directionless, dependent emotion. Cruel, I know. Sometimes I feel like I sound like a monster when I write this stuff down. But here are the feelings, related to hope, I always embrace: Anticipation, curiosity, forward motion. Hope makes me feel like a child, waiting for something innocent and lovely to happen, but then its crushed without an explanation of why. Hope is fragile, especially for me, in April.

I recognized my relationship with spring is strange, a long time ago. This month holds a lot of memories, sadness, new and old dates. There is the excitement of wearing a vest or sneakers, only to realize a coat and possibly a scarf, were still necessary. Going to bed with the windows open, a gentle breeze brushing your face, only to wake up to snow on your windowsill. In many ways, I love the giant F-YOU April brings.

I don’t have any grand summary for any of this. I believe I have reached the cosmos space required for this weekend. I feel calm, vast, and aware. So here goes.

“Courage is not the absence of fear but rather the judgement that something is more important than fear; The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all.”

– Meg Cabot