Antelope Canyon

The sunrise bouncing off of Shiprock is a beautiful sight to see. It stands tall over northwestern New Mexico, and can be seen from over 50 miles away. One legend says that Shiprock, or Tse’ bit’ai’ (rock with wings) is a Monster Bird that once terrorized the Dine’ (Navajo People) and was slain by Monster Slayer, who then turned it to stone. It is a gorgeous monument of the southwest. I once again found myself traveling west, this time, away from home. My time with family in my hometown was relaxing and much needed. I spent three days feasting on green chile, playing high-altitude tennis (literally every ball I hit was two feet out), hiking with my mutt, Kai, analyzing life with my father, and just generally lying around. The one productive activity I stumbled upon was attending a meeting with the mayor of our city to advocate for tennis in the community. Tennis players have faced some hardships and resistance from the city lately, and this meeting was hopefully the beginning of change. Hopefully.

Amanda, Cathy, Corkie and I left the Land of Enchantment before the sun rose in order to get to Antelope Canyon in time for our noon tour. Amanda rode with me and we gossiped about work and boys and marveled at the landscape as we journeyed across the Navajo reservation, ‘the rez’. When we arrived at Antelope Canyon, it didn’t look like much. It was mostly flat land with hills and mountains off in the distance. The Biligaanas (white people) in my group paid their fees to the Navajo girl in the booth who looked at me skeptically when I said I, too am Navajo, exempting me from the entrance fee. We followed our guide on a short walk to the entrance of the slot canyon where we climbed down a very steep metal staircase into a narrow crevice. I was immediately thankful for good eyesight and steady balance. When I set foot on the sandy canyon floor my heart melted. The canyon walls have been carved out by sand and water over the years, leaving smooth, beautiful curves. Rays of sun radiate from above, hitting the arcs and curvatures of the stone at angles that give the walls character, bringing the canyon to life. We looked up as we walked, bumping into rocks and tripping all through the tour. Tourists took hundreds of pictures and their ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ echoed off of the cold, hard walls. The beauty of this canyon is humbling. I felt frustrated that I couldn’t soak it in as much as I wanted to. I wanted to seep into the canyon, becoming part of it, never to leave. I wanted to read, cook, dance, get married, sleep, cry, make love, laugh, and live in the canyon. The light hit the rock walls at a different angle with every stride as we proceeded through, each step seemingly more extraordinary than the last. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. 

Upon emerging, we sat on the trunks of our cars and made sandwiches in the parking lot. We discussed the flawless magnificence of the canyon. After weighing our options of what to do next, we decided to check out Lake Powell.

Amanda and I sprawled out on the rocks overlooking the massive lake. We had been awake way too long and were absolutely exhausted. After a short nap, I led my crew through a yoga session on the cliffs before heading to our hotel. Tonight I have been invited to be a part of a Kinaalda, a Navajo puberty ceremony beginning at midnight. Rest is the only factor I forgot to plan for Tour de Polkahontas. It’s naptime.

550 North

Mountains are good for the soul. So is yoga. In the interest of furthering my own knowledge of the practice I traveled to Colorado to track down Renee, a friend and certified yoga instructor. We met at a local coffee shop where I had spent dozens of collegiate hours writing papers and flirting with the cute barista. Renee came prepared. She walked me through yoga literature and vocabulary that I had never heard of. I asked questions about poses and she demonstrated in the middle of the coffee shop, receiving strange looks from caffeinated patrons. After enough talking we decided to put the information to practice, ditching the coffee shop and heading up to campus, my alma mater. We rolled out our mats in the empty rec center studio and swapped ideas of different poses and flow. The sun set, leaving the studio dim, but neither of us broke concentration to switch the lights on. We chatted about mindfulness and how being present is so helpful in yoga, tennis, and life in general. Afterward, I walked to the rim of campus feeling loose, mindful, and centered. I sat 500 feet above the glowing mountain town watching the residual light of the sun fade behind the dark outline of the mountains. Another great day on Tour de Polkahontas was done.

The next morning Tori and I stared at the marquee on 550 North that read ‘Red Mountain Pass closed due to rock slide’. We had planned on going to Ouray hot springs, but with the pass closed the alternate route would take us twice as long. We debated what to do, and decided to take the detour for the sake of adventure…..and beer. We added gas to the tank and headed west. The trip was not quick, as we stopped twice to marvel at the incredibly gigantic snow-capped mountains that towered above us against the bright blue sky. We’re not in west Texas anymore, Toto. Two hours later we came up on Telluride, a small and cozy ski town nestled in a bowl of the San Juan Mountains. We decided to stop and see what Telluride had to offer. The hippie at the visitor’s center directed us to a hike above town. We set off to find the trailhead but after twenty minutes of walking we figured that we had missed our turn, probably because we couldn’t take our eyes off of the scenery long enough to read street signs. As we walked back toward town, we discussed which of the multi-million dollar condos we would purchase to live in with our Telluride boyfriends and Telluride dogs. Walking to the gondola didn’t take long, and before we knew it we had been swept up 1,800 feet above Telluride to the most incredible view of the trip so far. Coming off of our mountain high, we went in search of a brew. Mousa at the Lost Dollar Saloon hooked us up with two blondes from the Telluride Brewing Company. We sipped our beers at 8,750 feet, almost instantly feeling lightheaded and giggly. Two men, Jim and Mark sat down next to us and the four of us were soon lost in conversation. As it were, Tori’s mom used to work for Jim. Tori and Jim caught up and we all marveled at the randomness of their connection. The men told us about the ‘Free Box’ across the street from the Lost Dollar. This is a cubby where people leave things they no longer need with the idea that their trash might be someone else’s treasure. The local saying is ‘The Free Box provides’. I love this because it plays off of the natural human instinct of reciprocity. Give what you don’t need. Take what you do need. Tori and I walked over to check out the box full of books, clothes, household items, and shoes. I picked up a pair of pants that were just my size. Tori found a shirt and a sweater. When we returned to the bar Jim said he had to leave to meet a friend for sushi and asked us to come along. A few chilly blocks later, we found ourselves in the Cosmopolitan lounge where we met Pete, Nick and Rich. Jim ordered a mountain of sushi for the table, and I finally got my beet and goat cheese salad that I’ve been jonesing for on this trip. Over fish and beets we conversed about our professions, I told the story of Tour de Polkahontas, and Jim told us that his house had recently burnt down, rendering him homeless for the time being.

‘But you know,’ he added, ‘Stuff isn’t home. My house wasn’t home. This is home. Dinner with new friends, old friends, and beautiful mountains; That’s home’. We clinked glasses. I couldn’t agree more.

The gentlemen walked us to our car, practicing our Midwestern accents and making loon calls to the moon all the way.  We exchanged information and promised to call if we ever again found ourselves in close proximity.  Before we left town Tori and I stopped by the Free Box once again. I popped my trunk and pulled out one of my favorite books and a t-shirt from the ranch. I placed them in the cubby, hoping someone would get great use out of each of them.

On the way home I stopped the car to get out and gawk at the glowing mountains. It was a full moon, bright enough to see the ominous peaks in detail. The blue moon radiated off of the snowy mountains, giving them an incandescent appearance. Stars dotted the sky. I looked up to see Orion, the only constant character on this tour other than myself. I struck the Eagle pose that Renee taught me and ‘opened my heart to the world around me’, allowing beauty and appreciation to saturate it once again.  Home. It feels good to be home. 

'Something Awesome' along Route 66

Nine hours of driving is too long. Around hour four I came up on a small interstate town in New Mexico. Trail mix and Red bull left my stomach in need of actual food, so I decided to pull over and make a sandwich. As I was looking for a good place to stop I saw a man with a cardboard sign that read ‘two daughters, need help’. I remembered the cash that I received earlier in the trip and had promised to do 'something awesome' with. I pulled up next to the man’s Subaru that was packed with clothes and boxes. Inside the car were two young girls whose eyes peeked out at me from the backseat. I asked the three of them if they were hungry and the girls shook their heads up and down eagerly.

‘There’s a restaurant up the road. Let’s get some food’ I suggested.

‘We haven’t showered. We’re not really fit to go anywhere’ the man protested humbly. He was wearing jeans and a shabby jacket.

‘Don’t worry about it. Let’s get some food’ I repeated.

We sat down at the Route 66 diner and started chatting. Dennis, a man in his late 40s is the father of his two girls, Caitlin and Mckelsey. The girls are 13 and 11, respectively.  Dennis had deep worry wrinkles on his face and a tired, defeated look about him.  His salt and pepper stubble led up to a mess of grey hair matted down under a black ski cap. His gauged ears partially covered tattoos of his daughter’s names on his neck. The girls wore dirty sweatshirts and new matching jeans and boots that they told me they had received for Christmas from a community shelter. The girls seemed tired too, but still had a youthful energy. We started chatting over chips and salsa after our waitress took our orders. Dennis told me a story of love and loss. He shared with me that they were running away from a domestic violence situation in which he was run over by a car. They had to leave almost everything behind in exchange for their safety. I could tell the girls didn’t want to talk about their sad story. I posed silly questions, asking them what their favorite food is (chicken strips and mashed potatoes), where they would like to vacation (‘anywhere but Texas…ick!’), and their favorite subjects in school (science and math). We talked about pets and I showed them pictures of Kai, my mutt. Caitlin told me a story about the time Mckelsey ate salmon eggs while they were fishing because she thought they were candy. We laughed and water came out Mckelsey’s nose, so we laughed even harder. As our food arrived I told them about camping and how excited I was for the Grand Canyon. I talked and they shoveled food into their mouths hungrily. Mckelsey had already finished half her plate of chicken tenders before I finished dressing my salad. Caitlin didn’t get it.

‘You’ve hiked the canyon four times and you’re still excited?’ she challenged. I painted them a verbal picture of how beautiful the canyon is and how good it feels to accomplish the hike. Mckelsey was more interested in the mules.

‘Did you know mules can’t even reproduce? It takes a donkey and a horse. I don’t know why a horse would be interested in an ugly old donkey’. She made a donkey face and ‘heehawed’, much to Caitlin’s pleasure. We finished our meals and I paid the check with my Tour de Polkahontas scholarship money. We wished each other the best of luck on our respective journeys and parted ways.

I drove away, reflecting on the conversation and hoping with all my heart that those sweet girls would have a fair shot in this life. An hour later my gas light came on. At the entrance of the Pilot station was a dirty couple with two dogs and a sign reading ‘Santa Rosa’. They were trying to get to the town I had just come from. As the gas pumped into my tank I filled a grocery sack with bottled water and spare snacks from my car. The strong wind blew my gas cap off the trunk of my car and carried it across the parking lot like a hockey puck. The dirty man chased it down and brought it over to me. Our eyes met as I handed him the bag of goodies, and we exchanged thank yous. Under other circumstances, I would have stayed to chat. But in all honesty, I was cold and wanted to get home for dinner- green chile soup from mom’s kitchen. We waved at each other as I pulled out of the gas station and sent up a prayer that they’d find a warm place to sleep that night.

While working in the psychiatric hospital last summer, we conducted interviews with a few of the patients individually. We would mostly talk about food and vacations, but we really wanted to know about their experience with mental illness. It’s part of their discharge criteria to be open about their offense. We weren’t allowed to ask them about it directly, so we danced around it and asked about ‘rock bottom’. Almost every patient answered that being homeless was rock bottom. They described the anxiety of not knowing if they’d be able to eat that day or sleep someplace warm and safe. They described feeling invisible, alone, and afraid. A friend from college once told me about her trip to Detroit where she was shocked by the abundance of homeless people. Everyone in her group was annoyed because she took the time to greet them as she passed. She didn’t walk by and ignore them like most people do because she wanted them to know that she saw them. To me, this is beautiful. This is what I wanted for the hospital patients last summer, and what I wanted for the friends I made yesterday. I wanted them to know that they aren’t alone and they aren’t invisible.

I didn’t do much for the people I met on the road. It was a bit of food and only an hour out of my life that I sacrificed. But the human connection will stick with us for much longer than the meal. It is a simple message, capable of encouragement far beyond our understanding. ‘I see you. I see that you exist’.

Shooting Stars and Jumping Cars

Palo Duro Canyon is not scenery you’re expecting to come across in West Texas, the land of ugly. This became an essential Tour de Polkahontas stop when a guest at the ranch told me it was the ‘Grand Canyon of Texas’. Upon arriving, I got my park pass and quickly found a short trail to hike and a rock to do yoga on before the sun started setting. When I got to the parking lot of the campsite there were two other cars. One belonged to a couple. The other belonged to a group of (cute) guys who looked like they were packing up to leave. I went over to say hello to the guys. You know…..just to be friendly. Blayne, Devin, Daniel, and I chatted about trails in the canyon and Colorado life for a while before I went to set up camp. I hiked in to find a good spot, then fired up my camp stove and started boiling water for my vegan pad thai. Not much time passed before I heard one of the cute guys approach my site.

‘Hey, Darrah. Do you by chance have jumper cables?’ I poured the water into the noodles and left it to steep as I walked back out to my car and parked it in front of the boys’ Jeep. When I handed them my cables, they shared a look with each other and then looked back at me.

‘Do you by any chance know how to use jumper cables?’ Blayne asked sheepishly. I stifled a giggle. It’s no time to gloat when men are THAT vulnerable. After teaching ‘Car Jumping 101’, I went back to camp to set up my tent. I didn’t actually end up sleeping in it, but it was nice to know it was there if I wanted to. Dinner was filling and afterward I prepared for bed, had a cup of tea, and read my favorite book by light of my headlamp. When the last remnant of sunlight was long gone from the canyon walls, I blew up my sleeping pad and rolled my bag out next to my tent. I shed a few layers and my shoes, then crawled into my camp bed and pulled my scarf over my nose and mouth. The hood of my sleeping bag was pulled tight so that only an oval window allowed my eyes to star gaze, making me feel like Charles Deane in the first copper diving helmet with only a small window to take everything in. The moon was half full and so radiant that only the brightest stars were visible around it. I watched three stars fall and made wishes that will never come true. I sighed deeply, soaking in the moment and letting its beauty fill my heart with appreciation for this experience. Under the brilliant moon and deep, dark blue sky, I drifted off to sleep.

In the middle of the night, I faintly heard the couple arguing. A woman’s voice insisted that it was too cold and a hotel was necessary. The crisp night air filled with the noise of their zippers pulling and their car doors slamming. Their engine got quieter, further away until they were gone. I snuggled down deeper into my sleeping bag. Silence. I was alone. For all I know, I could have been the only soul in the canyon that night.

I woke up a few more times to darkness. One of these awakenings was due to a strong wind that was whispering secrets through the trees. I put my back to the wind and tried to calm a panic that came over me.

It should be light by now. How long have I been out here?  I considered checking my phone to see if there was an emergency notification saying the sun wasn’t coming up, like how it goes off when there’s an Amber Alert in the area. The announcement would read ‘Attention; Sun cancelled today. Find alternative source of light and energy’. The trees rustled and it frightened me. I searched my mind for stories from the psychiatric penitentiary where serial killers walked state parks in search of their next unsuspecting victim. Nothing came to mind, thankfully. I reasoned with myself that even if there were a serial killer who normally does so, he or she would probably take the night off because it was cold and windy. I counted stars. I calculated how close I am to reaching 10,000 hours on a tennis court (I’m at about 3,000). I sang Train songs and watched the moon slug across the sky. I considered hiking back to my car, but forced myself to take 25 deep breaths before I did that. By number 11 I was fast asleep again.

The morning did come, as it usually does. I made tea with my Jetboil and savored every sip while I watched the sun rise, as if I was drinking the sunshine itself After packing up camp I studied the map to find my trailhead. With the click of my pack around my waist, excitement set in. Like in the minds of Pavlov’s dogs, the sound aroused something in me. But instead of salivation for meat, the click spurred anticipation for beauty and struggle through the 8 miles in front of me. The hike was absolutely beautiful. Early morning hiking is my favorite. It starts cold and slow. Then the canyon comes to life as the sun lifts off the horizon. The wind kept up, but I didn’t mind. The sun was shining and that’s more than I could ask for. It highlighted each crevice in the rich red clay of the canyon walls. It was truly a gorgeous morning. Upon returning to the trailhead hungry and tired, I got in my car and inhaled a PB&J. Palo Duro Canyon: done.

Besties, Baristas, and Beverages

I’m really more a tea person than a coffee person. One pro who came to work Christmas camp at the ranch pointed out the many ‘isms’ that are Polkahontas, one of which being the coffee mug constantly attached to my hand. The kitchen staff orders almond milk in bulk and keeps the good tea on hand for me. On the really cold mornings I’ll make my tea while I announce to them, ‘Does anyone want to teach tennis for me this morning? Going once….going twice…..’. My tribal-patterned mug warms my hands, containing the perfect ratio of hot tea and almond milk. My tea preferences went out the window when Matt put a steaming cup of Chemex-brewed coffee in front of me. Matt and Katie’s adorable golden-doodle, Dirk watched intently as I took my first sip of Matt’s concoction. Now, I don’t know if I possess the words to describe how GOOD this coffee was. Matt informed me that he had roasted the beans himself. I believed him. I would have believed him if he said that he planted the tree in South America and flew down once a week to fertilize it only with the manure of the most noble Clydesdales, then harvested the beans himself, roasting each bean individually to perfection only to grind it personally on a mono and metate made of the finest marble that he also mined himself. It was pretty good coffee. With that charge, Katie and I tried to talk Matt into joining our yoga session, to no avail. It was a great night with the newlyweds. We chatted about concepts of love and how to love people most effectively. Katie is one of my longtime friends from home. She and I are bonded by events from our past that we got through together. Because I love her so much, it is heartwarming to see her happy in a new home with her pup and barista man.

Texas is BIG. Six hours into my drive across the broad back of this state, I was tired. I stopped to make myself a PB&J at a gas station. I sat on the trunk of my car, picnicking and watching truckers watch me. When I finally arrived at Marisha’s house I got my second wind.

‘It’s the weekend. We’re going out. Let’s gooooooooooo!’ Marisha is also a friend from home who guides me in each season of my life. She is the perfect combination of therapist and friend. She is often the voice on the other end of the phone, encouraging me and reassuring me that I am not crazy. We settled for a trendy lounge and found ourselves in enlightening conversation about that incredible and terrifying realization that we can do anything we want in this life. Two bold men who invited themselves to sit down with us interrupted the magic. They were ordinary guys who wouldn’t stop talking about their research project. I played along, seeing a free drink in my future. Marisha wouldn’t have any of it. She would probably disagree with this version of the story, but seeing as I’m writing the tale and she’s not able to defend herself, I’ll say this; she practically beat the poor guys away with her Fossil wallet. As they scurried away with tails between their legs, Marisha turned to me with a sick smile and said, ‘I’m not sharing you.’ This is why I love Marisha and our relationship; She isn’t afraid of hurting anyone’s feelings by being straightforward. As we finished our libations I looked at her mischievously and told her I had an idea.

‘Let’s ditch the tab. I’ll pretend to go to the bathroom, and you follow after me.’

‘What?!! No! We can’t do that! I’m not doing that! Darrah, NO.’ I didn’t let up.

‘Come on, it’s not a big deal. This trip is about being adventurous. Let’s go.’ I got up and walked out of the lounge. It took Marisha a full minute of sitting in agony before she asked to pay the bartender, who informed her that I had paid the tab while she was in the bathroom. She came out of the lounge with smoke coming out of her ears.

‘I hate you.’ She fumed. But the smile on her face told me something different. That’s another reason I love Marisha. She’s honest. 

Riddle me this.....

How many Auto Zone workers does it take to change a light bulb? In east Texas, the answer is three. The first poor bloke to ‘help’ me, Ron, took a bold approach to making conversation as he struggled to remove the dead taillight bulb.

‘You know, this is why you get married. So your husband can do these things for you’. I somehow resisted the urge to slam the trunk on his head.

‘Nope, actually, that’s why I’m paying you to do it.’  Brian, the power-tripping manager was breathing down the neck of Todd, the only employee who was actually working on fixing my taillight. Todd finished up and asked if I needed my fluids and tires checked before I hit the road. I thanked him, but informed him I’d checked it all yesterday.

‘By yourself?......’ I thought I heard Ron say, quietly.

You can take the tennis pro off court, but she will still demonstrate a great one-handed backhand when tossing tortillas off a bridge. While waiting on UPS to deliver my JetBoil backpacking stove to Caidon’s doorstep, we decided to kill time before I left town. We bought two 24-packs of Mission flour rounds and headed to MLK bridge in downtown Waco. The objective is to fling the tortillas from the bridge with the perfect amount of lift and velocity to land it flat on a lone pillar in the middle of the river. About 20 tortillas in, things started getting technical and, of course competitive. My heart sank time and time again as I watched my failed attempts sail down to the water only to be instantly destroyed by dozens of  ducks whose quacks seemed to taunt me for sucking. 

‘Caidon, I think it’s a wrist motion, right? So we’ve got to transfer the weight forward and flick the wrist at the last second. Am I doing it? Which way is the wind blowing? The taco size works better than the fajita size. Do we have more taco ones? AAAHHHH, close! Dammit! I need another.  THIS IS THE LAST ONE?! Ok, I’ve got this……………………………………………………………………..……. shit’.  

The next stop was a short one, visiting a friend who has more patience and wisdom than I might ever achieve. Over Texican food we talked tennis, jobs, Tour de Polka, and relationships. I told stories of my days as a promo girl and of working in the psychiatric penitentiary last summer (as an intern, not a patient, mind you).  Right before we parted ways, he offered me a bit of advice.

‘Don’t ever sell yourself short, Darrah. You have a lot to offer this world. Own it.’ Those were beautiful words that offered me immense encouragement while asking nothing in return. Beautiful. He put cash in my palm and insisted that I use it for the benefit of Tour de Polkahontas.

‘That’s completely unnecessary,’ I assured him. ‘But I promise I will use it for something awesome’. The search is on. 

Teriyaki Kale, Citrus-Honey Kale, Mango/Kale smoothie

There is a crazy monkey in your head. It’s ok. I have one too. Her name is Konga, and she debuts when it’s time to meditate. As I sit with my legs crossed and back straight up against the wall, I prepare myself for deep contemplation of breath. Then Konga joins the party.

‘Hey, we meditating? I can help.’

‘No you can’t. Go away.’

‘Yes I can. I’m so good at it. I’m good at other things too. Hey, remember in third grade when we convinced Derrick to ride down that HUGE hill in that rickety wagon and he rolled over in the stickers and cried?’

‘Yeah, that was funny. Then mom…NO. Be quiet. I’m trying to meditate.’

‘Ok, but real quick, you know that guy we’ve been thinking about? Do you think he really likes me, or just my yoga pants? I mean, what’s not to like, right? But he’s a pretty smooth talker, you know? Remember that time he-‘

‘PLEASE SHUT UP. I’M TRYING TO MEDITATE’

‘Yeah, you should totally do that. It’s so good for you. Kale is also so good for you. I bet we could think of three awesome kale recipes together right now if we tried. You go first.’

‘Well, I love me some teriyaki kale. Maybe a little soy sauce and honey…Goodness, this is hopeless. ‘

Meditation takes patience, which has always proven a problem for me. I take that back. My lack of patience sometimes proves to be a problem for those around me. A friend of mine on the ranch pointed out my severe lack of patience not only in life, but also in my tennis game. Every Monday morning we have a hit around with the pro staff. It’s our chance to bounce ideas off of each other and try new drills. We also work on feeding skills and try to clean up our own strokes.

‘You’re rushing your stroke, sweetheart. Wait on it just a bit longer.’

‘Don’t call me sweetheart’, I mumble as I watch my forehand sail out into the empty adjacent court. In my brain, ‘patience’ means sitting in a room alone and quiet, waiting for something to happen. That’s not fun, and therefore I don’t want much to do with it. Another friend and I posed a ‘What if’ question.

‘What if patience didn’t look like our awful description at all?’  We came up with this; Being patient doesn’t mean surrendering your right to communicate. It also doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to be proactive. Instead, it could mean using these tools, (communication and proactivity) then accepting whatever may come your way with openness and appreciation. In a world where we want a small pill to cure any ailments we may have, waiting and working toward something can be a struggle. But research shows it’s good for our brains. Meditating each day has been shown to increase self-esteem, trust, memory and empathy. Instead of popping a pill to achieve these benefits, one can meditate with no side effects or cost. Although the Kongas of the world seem to have a vendetta against us achieving these benefits, it’s important to teach our minds how to guide them. Konga is the part of me that reacts instead of observes. It’s impossible for Konga to look at situations objectively, as everything is personal. Don’t get me wrong, I love Konga because she adds spontaneity and spice and fearlessness to my life. But I also need to exercise the part of my brain that keeps anxiety at bay. This is what meditation does for me.

It’s been a wonderful time here in the home of my best friend and her husband. I love having time to read, write, and think out loud over tea. Leaving here would be more difficult without a sense of wonder and curiosity for what’s next.