When "Happy" People Battle Depression

Someone this disgustingly happy can't be depressed...
Or, can she?

Photo by Mary Brownlee

This is, I know, not going to be an easy post to write. For many, it won't be an easy post to read. However, it needs to be written, because it's going to force all of us to look deeper into the issue of depression, and change our ideas of how it "looks."

At least, I hope.

Most people in my world view me as a relatively happy, if not over-zealous at times, fierce mama who kicks ass, takes names, and works hard on making an impact on the world around me. I mean, just check out my Facebook feed! All sorts of rah-rah advocacy, sunny posts, occasional outrage, and "you can do it!" encouragement lives there, on a regular basis.

What you don't see is how I've battled depression since adolescence. You don't see how, after a tumultuous series of medication changes several years ago, I had a psychotic break. You don't see how, at times, I feel hopeless, ineffective, and like maybe -- just maybe -- life is too hard to live.

To many people out there, I'm among the least likely to be battling depression, either publicly or privately.

 In spite of that assumption, I told my husband this week, "I don't want to live anymore." What I meant was, I don't want to live like THIS anymore.

I told him, "Our children deserve a better mother than I can be." What I meant was, My children may not be getting the best care and advocacy I can provide, because an invisible illness is stealing me away from my family, and myself.

I told him, "I feel like I am falling apart, and I don't know how to put myself back together." What I meant was exactly that.

And then, I yelled at him for saying he felt "neglected." What I imagine he meant was, I miss you... Where are you? I need you, and I don't know how to help.

Really, I can't blame him for not knowing what's going on in my head, especially when I struggle to understand it, myself.

We might think depression looks like someone who suddenly isn't interested in their usual activities; who withdraws from the people she cares about (I know men suffer depression, as well, but women are more likely than men to do so); who maybe spends her days in bed, lethargic, and unable to accomplish the most simple self-care or other tasks; or perhaps is overly emotional, and commits a great deal of her time to crying.

Here's what depression looks like for me:

• Ensuring my kids get to (currently) six therapy appointments per week, but dropping the ball on at-home therapy supplements
• Having my home and office look like a demilitarized zone, but not having the energy to care
• Dragging myself out of bed most days to do a lot of nothing, because the things which are most necessary, and bring the greatest return, seem unmanageable 
• Neglecting my business, clients, and team, but somehow, by grace and luck, receiving awards for my "achievements" during my most massive bouts of depression
• Mentally "rallying" before answering the phone, so I can have a conversation with someone which focuses on them, and deflects attention away from myself
• Always answering, "Great! How are YOU?" when someone asks how I am, because I would much rather hear about and worry about someone else, rather than myself
• Appearing and feeling numb most of the time when I'm alone or with my husband (because even tears require too much energy), but really knocking it out of the park as a "social butterfly" in public or at work
• Ignoring deadlines for things I really do want to accomplish, because meeting that deadline will mean new, different labor or work, which I can't even begin to think about right now
• Failing to dial the phone, but always hoping it will ring, and someone, anyone, will notice things just aren't right with me... and then assuring them I'm "fine... great, even!" when they ask
• Feeling constantly overwhelmed, and at the same time, being unable to feel good about the things I actually am doing well ("You navigated that IEP meeting like a boss today!" is met with, "Yeah, but I didn't cure world hunger, so... what's the point of even trying?")

But here's what you probably see:

• A super-active mom, who advocates for her kids daily, and tries to make the world a better place by spreading awareness
• A creative genius, or someone too busy for housework? Actually, no... you'll still see a demilitarized zone. I'm not even going to try to kid myself.
• A woman who enjoys her "free time," because she's designed her life to provide "self care" and "downtime"
• A small business owner who is killing it!
• Someone who greets each social interaction with enthusiasm and positive energy
• The "social butterfly" you are meant to see
• Someone who has a lot on her plate, because her talents are so varied... Surely, it's reasonable that some deadlines will need to be adjusted?
• Someone who simply doesn't give herself enough credit for all the awesome she brings into the world
• A woman who is -- depending on how much you like me -- either adorably or annoyingly distracted

Some days, I see that, too.

Some days, it's not so bad. Some days, I am the warrior woman, on a mission, and I succeed in conquering a lot of villainous things, and rescuing a lot of people -- metaphorically, of course. SOME days, I really am "fine... great, even!"

And then, there are the other days. The days when, as my friend Anna puts it, depression is "...like the boogie man hiding around the corner, ready to kick you down if you're not on guard." These days seem to come when I least expect them -- when things are going pretty well, thank you very much, and I really do feel like I have it all together.

As it turns out, I am not alone. 

I wrote the majority of this post based upon my own experiences and feelings, but I wanted to know if anyone else had similar thoughts, or even vastly different thoughts, on depression. I tossed up a couple posts, asking for folks to tell me what they wish others knew about depression. 

Overwhelmingly, I found that a lot of people had similar knowledge about how depression can strike even the "happy" people, and the deep feelings of confusion, helplessness and fear that accompany it. People shared with me their experiences, and really helped to sum up a lot of what I didn't think to say. Take a look:

Siena: It's frustrating when people ask me why I'm depressed, and then don't understand when I say, "I don't know." 

It's not as easy as "getting on something." (medication)

Lei: I hate when people think it's as simple as being sad about something. "what do you have to be sad about?" That just makes me feel more ashamed and guilty about having depression.

Audi:  ...it is real and it happens to the best of us. Especially Post partum, which is a time where you are "supposed" to be happy, by the definition of other people.

Kristin: Depression is heavy.

(NOTE: I found this simple statement so profound, I couldn't improve upon it. So much, in those three words. It goes along with the next quote.)

Anna:  It feels like having 1000 lbs of weight crushing you from every angle. And all people can say is "why don't you just take the weight off!?" I had a Bible study leader tell me that I must not have faith in God because if I did, I wouldn't have such a problem. Because God is JOY and if I don't have that then I am not "in-Christ."

(This last part hurt my heart SO MUCH! The church needs to better understand depression and other mental health disorders, and lead those suffering to hope, not condemnation over a perceived lack of faith.)

Cera: On the outside I look like I have everything together, while on the inside I'm battling years of hidden depression and making it up as I go along. 

The monsters don't live under my bed; they live in my brain. 

No matter how much sleep I get I'm still tired, no matter how tired I am I can't sleep!

Chelsie: I wish people didn't say "it could be worse." Everyone's situation is different and it is belittling to be told that "you don't have it that bad."

Kasmira: That sometimes it presents itself as anger, not sadness. Every single person is different, but it is no less real.

A parent with an adult child who battles depression: When you repeatedly feel something is wrong with your child/loved one, speak up. Don't be afraid to ask "Do you think you might be depressed" (I was afraid to ask) If you observe upbeat, 'appropriate' emotional responses when around others but experience negative emotions or worse, lack of emotions one on one, you need to pay attention.

A friend who chose to remain anonymous: Sometimes a depressed person is the funniest, happiest and most outgoing guy or girl that you know. (DING! DING! DING! We have a winner! This is what I was trying to say, at the beginning of this piece.)

So, today, I agonize over how to tell my mother that I'm not really feeling well enough, mentally and emotionally, to get together for Thanksgiving. (Mom, if you're reading, call me to discuss. I don't seem capable of picking up the phone, lately.) 

I think about the to-do list I should write (first on the list: MAKE A LIST). 

I hope my friends, my family, my team, and my clients somehow get the telepathic message that I care about them, and love them, and to please not hesitate to connect with me -- some days, it really is the fuel that keeps me going -- because I'm not always well enough to reach out and say so.

I spend all day blogging about everything I think I should say, when, really, all I want to say to those who love me is:

I'm still here. I'm surviving. I'm a little lost, a little hopeless, and a little mixed up, but I love you, even if I can't precisely show it.

Be tender with me. Understand I am rather fragile right now.

Be tough with me. Don't let me withdraw, or retreat, even when I say it's what I need. It isn't. What I need is to know I have a wall of love and safety around me -- even if I'm not brushing against it, it will be there when I try to run.

Mostly? Please... don't give up on me.

Can you ALL help me to change the way we think depression "looks?" Reach out to someone you haven't heard from in a while. Invite a friend out to coffee. Write a letter to someone you care about. Love on your loved ones a little harder. And, of course, don't forget to share this post. Let's change the world, friends. 

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Normalizing Adoption

Snugglebug and Mama
Photo by Mad Rooster Photography.

Snugglebug is now six years old, and tends to favor the dramatic. Mr. Wright says we've solved the Nature vs. Nurture question, right there -- despite being adopted, she's completely "inherited" my sense of melodrama.

Blame it on the coveted Cabbage Patch Kids dolls of my childhood, but I've always thought of adoption as completely normal and, in fact, a matter of course. Even as a pre-maternal teenager, my plan was always to "have two, and adopt at least one."

Regular readers will know my plan didn't work out exactly as intended, but the general principle was met when I had one, inherited four, and adopted two. So far.

Mr. Wright and I have always tried to impress upon Curlytop and Snugglebug that they're special, because they were adopted. They were "chosen," and are cherished because they were a gift, and part of God's plan for our family. We read books about adoption, celebrate National Adoption Day, make cakes for their adoption anniversary, and talk, talk, talk about how they came to be ours.

So when Snugglebug, in tears, woke me a few nights ago, the last thing I expected her to be upset about was the concept of adoption. Perhaps she'd had a bad dream, or she had a tummy ache, or maybe she was stressed out over the national budget... I think I mentioned her love of the dramatic, so her tears were no surprise. Whatever it was, my motherly instinct kicked in, prepared to fix the world so she (and I) could go back to sleep.

"What's the matter, Honey?" I asked, while making room under the covers for her.

"Baby Kade," she sniffled, climbing into bed next to me.

"Kade" is the seven-month old son of my cousin, Mistie Dawn, whose name I have always been jealous of because it's so much cooler than mine.

"What about him?"

"Why hasn't he been adopted yet? I'm so sad his family hasn't found him, yet," she said. "They must be looking for him. I'm going to miss him when he gets adopted!"

Oh, dear... How must the world appear to a six-year old, who lives with two parents but has two other parents? Add to that mind-bender six brothers and sisters who grew up under one roof, but all had other parents, as well, and kids who only have two parents begin to appear an anomaly.

It was midnight, for crying out loud, but I wanted to put the issue to bed (so to speak).

"You know, Sweetie, when a baby is born, sometimes the mommy and daddy don't have a place for the baby to live. Or enough food, or money for diapers and other things a baby needs. And sometimes, because they love their baby very much, the mommy and daddy will find another mommy and daddy to adopt the baby, so the baby can have a crib, and food, and toys, and lots and lots of extra love," I explained. "But other times, mommies and daddies have everything that baby needs, and they don't need help, so they can just love the baby a lot, by themselves. Cousin Mistie and Kade's daddy have everything he needs, so he's going to stay with them. Does that make sense?"

"Oh," Snugglebug said, cuddling closer to me under the covers. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you and Daddy adopted me."

You know, sometimes I look back on those three and a half years between placement and finalization of the girls' adoptions, and remember what a nightmare it was -- the paperwork (ad naseum), the fear that our state or their tribe would change their minds and pull "their" children from our home, the absolutely driving frustration that forced me to be an advocate, the sleepless nights, the endless questioning... "Are we doing the right thing?"... and know, with all my heart, I'd do it all again.

This is our "normal." Welcome to it.



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I’ve Adopted an Eighth Child, and My Husband Doesn’t Know

Photo credit

I've “known” for a while there’s another kid intended for the Gonzo clan. I don’t know the sex of the child, the age, or where the little blessing is coming from, but I do know the name.

Asher.



That’s the name I hear, over and over again, during my prayers, my dreams, my most peaceful moments, and my most chaotic crises. “Asher,” I hear. Surely, this child is on his or her way to our family. I just don’t know how, yet. Or when.

In the meantime, I’ve taken the preliminary steps to securing the munchkin. That is, I said to my friend, Mike, who runs an adoption agency, “Hey, if you come across any kids named Asher, give me a call.” Mike asked if there were any other pre-adoption screening requirements, and I said, “No, just the name.”

“Does it have to be a given name, or can it be a kid whose name we can change to Asher?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, yet. Let me get back to you.”

I’ve been periodically checking the “children waiting” website for our state—you know, just in case—but have yet to see the name pop up. It’s silly, really, since we haven’t completed a new home study, submitted any paperwork, or taken any other steps to show our preparedness to welcome a new child into our home.

No matter. I’m way ahead of the game. In fact, I’ve already incorporated Asher into our lives. When I shop, I check out the baby department. If an incredible sale pops up, I want to be ready to stock up on sleepers and burp cloths.

That may be awkward if Asher turns out to be eight years old.

I envision the football games we’ll attend, cheering Asher on to victory. True, Asher may be a girl. That’s where my back-up vision comes in—dance recitals and volleyball tournaments. Maybe Asher will have special needs, so I’m reading more blogs by special needs parents. I’m also reading more blogs on food allergies. Asher may have special dietary requirements, you know.

I find myself preparing larger quantities of food these days. Asher has a large appetite, and is in the middle of a growth spurt. I marveled the other day how hot dogs—although I don’t eat them or feed them to my children—come in packages of eight. Surely, that’s a sign. What happens to the extra hot dog, if a family only has seven children?

When we’re headed somewhere as a family, I find myself counting Asher’s among the cabooses we need to seat. Since we only have five kids at home, now, we’re still doing okay with our eight-passenger vehicle. I don’t know what I’ll do if Asher is part of a sibling group.

Every fairy tale princess knows someday, her prince will come. I, too, “know” someday, Asher will come. Just as those princesses are too busy trying to survive wicked stepmothers and evil witches to actively pursue said princes, I’m far too busy raising the kids I already have to worry much about how the next one will find us. Some days, that’s on par with escaping evil witches.

Let’s not forget, dear readers, that Mr. Wright and I were minding our own business when we accidentally adopted the last two. These things have a way of working themselves out.

Until that time, I’ll continue to dress, feed and house my imaginary eighth child (Asher is so cute when he/she is sleeping!), while trying to figure out a way to break the news to Mr. Wright.

“Honey, we’re expecting.”

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Things I Accidentally Taught My Kids

Curlytop, age 15 months
"Shhhh, Mama... you've said enough, already."

I’m the proud mother of two of the best little mimics on the planet. That means Curlytop and Snugglebug say, “No, thank you,” when they actually mean, “Not if my life depended on it,” and “Bless you,” for coughs as well as sneezes—because their mother believes a coughing body needs as many blessings as a sneezing one. Instead of “I hate that,” they dutifully respond, “That’s not my favorite,” when offered a food they don’t care for.

Unfortunately, they’ve also picked up some rather curious lingual patterns.

They’ve confused more than one waitress by expressly requesting a “cow burger,” because I feel it’s important for them to know hamburgers are made from cows, not from ham. They’ll also vocalize their preference for either “cow milk” or “soy milk,” depending on the kid, the day, or the mood.

Neither of my darlings actually knows how to “pet” an animal, but they routinely ask, “May I ‘softly’ the kitty?” due to my repeated cries of “Softly! Softly!” every time they reach for an animal.

I had no idea how deeply my chronic migraines were affecting my kids until I asked Curlytop to pick her dirty clothes up from the floor and she refused, claiming, “I need to lie down in the dark, ‘cause my head is making me sick. You just need to leave me alone and be quiet, okay?”

Ever vigilant of the girls’ sensitivity to food dye, I had a proud moment a few weeks ago when Curlytop refused a red lollipop from a bank teller, saying, “I’m allergic to Red Dye 40. Do you have a yellow one?”

This morning, Snugglebug disagreed with me about the best use of her time. I suggested she put her dirty cup in the sink, before she wanted to play outside. Tears ensued. “That makes me very, very serious,” she insisted. This, my friends, was the moment I realized I only say, “Listen to me—I’m serious!” when I am, in fact, running out of patience and on the verge of a mommy meltdown. My poor kid thinks “serious” is a synonym for “ticked off, and about to boil in my own rage.”

I got another dose of my own medicine the other day when I denied Curlytop a sixth gumdrop, and the enraged kindergartner fired my own words back at me—“Don’t you tell me ‘no.’ That’s not a nice way to talk!” In my defense, I was a bartender for years, and I’m well aware of the signs of over-service. The kid had reached her gumdrop limit, and probably should have been cut off after the third.

Some kids relish the thought of an adventure, but no phrase will ruin Snugglebug’s day like hearing, “You’re going on an adventure with Daddy!” Somewhere along the way, she figured out “adventure” is code for “a very long day, cooped up in the car while Daddy takes pictures of property for his real estate business.” I’m a fan of deductive reasoning, but do they have to learn so quickly?

I overheard Curlytop cry, “Are you kidding me?!” the other day when a crayon broke while she was coloring. I’ll confess to being the source of that phrase of frustration—one I adopted only after Mr. Wright insisted I stop using more colorful exclamations within earshot of the children.

Last week the girls were playing with their dolls in an adjacent room, and I heard the sounds of an imagined family scene—a mother making food, a father working, children playing… It wasn’t long before the mother doll’s “voice” instructed the children, “You don’t have to like your food, but you do have to eat TWO BITES before you can leave the table,” closely followed by, “I am NOT impressed with that behavior.”

It turns out I’m not the only role model around here.

A couple weeks ago, Snugglebug said, “When I get big, I want to have a big, big tummy… Just like Daddy!”

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Seven Reasons I Need a Clone

July 5, 1996 marked the birth of the first mammal to be cloned from an adult somatic cell. She was a sheep, cloned by scientists at Roslin Institute near Edinburgh, Scotland, and named “Dolly.” The cloned donor cell was taken from a mammary gland, and, as one of the scientists explained, “Dolly is derived from a mammary gland cell and we couldn’t think of a more impressive pair of glands than Dolly Parton’s.”

Which just goes to show, I suppose, that you can lead a man to science, but you can’t evolve his thinking.

I remember having serious concerns about the project, wondering if the cloning of humans could be far behind. I tend to agree with bioethicist Leon Kass, who opined back in the 1960s that “the programmed reproduction of man will, in fact, dehumanize him.”

Still, there are times I wish I had a double to fill in or give a little help during my busiest moments. Ethics aside, I can’t deny the allure of being able to be two places at once, or getting twice as much work done in my limited time, or perhaps training a clone to do the chores I detest the most. For example:

1. Parent-Teacher Conferences: While we only have five kids at home now, those twice-yearly conferences add up. In the past, we’ve tried the “divide and conquer” technique, scheduling conferences at the same time and sending Mr. Wright to one, while I attended another. The problem is, I’m too much of detail-oriented gal to accept “fine” as an answer when I ask how Mr. Wright’s conference went. Details, man! I need details!

2. Sports Season: Has it ever occurred to athletic directors and administrators that having a house full of ambitious children is particularly straining on parents? Having soccer, football and junior high volleyball seasons occur concurrently has certainly made our calendar full, and try as we might, we can’t attend every single game or match.

3. Work-at-Home Mom; Stay-at-Home Kid: I know I’m asking a lot for Snugglebug to happily entertain herself with educational materials while I work on a deadline, but if she’d just stop trying to climb the six-foot fence to get into the pool, I’d get a lot more done. This is where I ask for my clone to have a Mary Poppins gene or two inserted.

4. The 6:15 A.M. Alarm: I’m a night owl by nature, and that alarm does little but tick me off and make me want to throw things—namely, the alarm clock. If I could program my clone to do the morning kids-to-school bustle, I could sleep in, making me a grateful, cheerful mama instead of a cranky, sleepwalking beast.

5. An Extra Lap: When you have kids with Sensory Processing Disorder, you double as a jungle gym. Those sensory-seeking kids need constant touch, and they always seem to be climbing, sprawling, or rubbing on you. Such is my life with Curlytop and Snugglebug, and all too often, fights over who gets to sit on Mama break out. Imagine two mamas, with two laps!

6. Aviation Advocate: Somewhere along the way, I developed an unrealistic fear of flying. A few times a year, Mr. Wright gives me a sedative and pours me into a too-small seat on some enormous aircraft to fly to some wonderful place to attend some important event on his blessed arm. Once my clone arrives, I’ll be sending her. I’ll even spring for first-class seats, if it means I don’t have to get on an airplane.

7. Church Versus Deadline: Due to an illness I’m sure my clone would have been immune to, I had to ask for an extended deadline this week. Now, instead of attending church with my family, I’m eking out this column—and Mr. Wright didn’t spare me his look and oration of disapproval.

I’m convinced… bring in the clones!

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The Beginning – and End – of My Fishing Fancy

Ah, serenity! Well... almost.
Photo source

My parents are nutty about camping. Seriously, I don’t know how I ended up with such distaste for sleeping, cooking, eating and bathing in the out-of-doors, considering my parents are such fanatics. Here’s just a sampling of phrases you’ll never hear come out of my mouth:

Bring on the mosquitoes!

Mmmm... hot dog on a stick!

A thin layer of nylon is all I need between me and the elements – and the bears!

Unfortunately, my parents were as adamant about exposing their offspring to the wilderness as I am about staying out of it. Clearly, there was a major conflict of interest and opinion in regard to how my childhood vacations should be spent.

That difference of opinion is how I ended up stuffed into a tent in an eastern Washington campground while it rained for something just shy of the fabled forty days and nights. I think I was about nine years old at the time, though I could swear I was six when we began the trip. When the rain stopped falling, Dad asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. “Heck, yes!” I shouted. At that point, I would have followed him into a sewage treatment facility, if it meant getting out of that tent.

Dad grabbed the poles and led my brother and me approximately eleventy million soggy miles (on foot) to “this fishin’ hole I know about.” It turned out to be a secluded waterfall, with a wide pool at the foot. My brother and I half-heartedly cast into the pool, while Dad headed closer to the waterfall, expertly landing a cast at the base.

A near-eternity passed, with none of us getting so much as a bite. I didn’t mind much – it was better than being cooped up in a tent the size of my closet. The sun warmed my shoulders and danced on the water, sending blazing starbursts of light in every direction. The waterfall crashed into the pool, its song echoing off the rock walls.

Ah, sweet serenity.

“Hey... Hey! I got a bite!” The peaceful scene was shattered by Dad’s yell. He was pulling hard on his fishing pole, reeling and straining for all he was worth. Below the falls, the tail of a massive salmon breached the surface of the pool, fighting and twisting in an effort to escape.

It was a battle of endurance, and I wasn’t laying money on either one as the clear favorite – man and fish appeared evenly matched. Dad struggled for several more suspenseful minutes, then landed the monstrosity.

Well... almost.

“Sonofabeaver! He spit the hook!”

Leave it to Dad to teach his progeny the ever-important vocabulary of fishing. I believe that particular phrase is actually mandated by federal law – and enforced by game wardens – anytime a nice catch spits the hook.

“No, Dad — LOOK!” My brother pointed to a cluster of rocks a mere yard from Dad’s feet. The fish’s thought stream must have read something like this:

Puh-toooie! Yeah! I’m off the hook! I’m flying... flying... Look out, water! Heeeere I COME! Yeah, baby! Oh, crap.. SONOFABEAVER! I’m gonna fall, headfirst, into those rocks!

The fish landed, head wedged between two large stones. For a moment we all stared, dumbfounded, at the furiously wriggling salmon, which was determined to squirm its way back to the pool.

“EEEEEEEIIIIIIYAAAAAAAAAAH!” Dad’s battle cry could have splintered wood. He launched from the ground—head lifted, arms and legs spread, leaping toward the fish. (For a moment, he resembled a five-pointed star, flying through the air, surrounded by golden glimmering starbursts darting off the water’s surface.) With both hands, he reached for the fish tail as his feet hit the ground. With puma-like instincts, Dad bent down to get more leverage and...

RIIIIIIP!

Jeans split from zipper to back belt buckle, but Dad didn’t let the phenomena of his underwear suddenly becoming outerwear deter him. He yanked the fish from the rocks and hefted it backward, over his shoulder. The salmon smacked the rock wall. I expected it to be stunned or killed, but the battle only seemed to make it stronger.

For a nanosecond, I wondered exactly how far we were from the Hanford nuclear facility, and if the government knew about the radioactive, mutant-powered salmon running amok in the area.

Dad, too, seemed to draw strength from the war, and he spun around, pouncing on top of the flailing fish. He pinned his opponent for a full three counts, proving once and for all who the champ was.

Talk about poor sportsmanship... Instead of graciously accepting his belt and title, Dad drew his hunting knife and began thwacking the fish’s head with the heavy handle end. Over and over — thwack thwack, thwack... thwack... until there was no more fight in the enemy.

Then, all was silent. Well... almost. One angry, horrified little girl sobbed and hiccupped and cried out through the quivering fingers held over her mouth, “Dad? How COULD you? How could you DO that? How could you beat that POOR FISH like that?”

The girl turned and ran in the direction of camp, followed by a small giggling boy and a bewildered man who muttered, “Poor fish? Are you kidding me?” as his boxer shorts flapped behind him in the breeze.

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