Age 11
“NO! We do NOT use that language! It is ugly and mean! It is ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE!”
 
I had never been yelled at like that by anyone, let alone a teacher, let alone from the driver’s seat of a moving vehicle. Her shrill words shot like an arrow out of her mouth, soared over a handful of my wide-eyed classmates, found me slumped in the back bench seat of the school van, and pierced my well-meaning middle school heart with mortifying precision. What did I, a smart young girl, probably en route to some honors math competition, do to deserve such an attack?
 
I loudly yelled “C***KS!” as an Asian family drove by us on the freeway, that’s what. Somehow in my sheltered little farm town life, I had managed to skillfully detonate a racial slur before I really even knew what a racial slur was. I had no clue the word was harmful or derogatory; I just thought it was an observation. Me. A smart young girl, probably en route to some honors math competition.
 
I will never forget how I felt in that moment. My body went from zero to full sweat in about 2.2 seconds. I was overcome with shame, yet I still felt a strong urge to defend myself. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the whole ‘I have Asian friends’ bit because my one and only Asian friend moved away when we were in kindergarten. I quietly apologized and shrunk into my seat, thinking about what just happened. My internal dialogue went something like this:
 
Well, I guess that was a shitty thing to say. I don’t have a problem with Asian people. Where did I even learn that word? Shit. I feel really bad. Awful, actually. Am I a bad person? I don’t want to be a bad person! I guess I wasn’t necessarily being bad because I didn’t know better. Stupid. I was being stupid. I don’t want to be stupid OR hurt anyone. So a) I’m definitely never saying that again, and b) I really gotta start wearing deodorant.
 
Age 17
“That makes you sound ignorant. Either you don’t like gay people, which is ignorant, or you’re using gay people to describe things you don’t like, which is ignorant.”
 
My sister was visiting from college, and we were headed somewhere to do something in her car. (Funny how the unimportant memories fade and the stuff that matters sticks). At the time, the phrase “that’s gay” was a really popular way to insult something or someone you didn’t care for, and I had just flippantly used the phrase in her presence. She didn’t let me get away with it.
 
In the moment, I rolled my eyes at her sensitivity and fired back on the defensive. “Sorrrrrryyyyy,” I said with my highest level of sibling-grade sarcasm. “I don’t mean anything bad by it. It’s just a stupid expression that every single person at my school uses to describe everything. I would never say it in front of a gay person.” (At that time, I knew a total of three gay people: one cousin and two neighbors. It didn’t even hit me that I was gay for another decade or so. Oh, the irony!) My sorry excuse for an explanation tasted gross coming out of my mouth. I sulked silently for a while.
 
Dammit. It does make me sound ignorant. She’s right. I hate it when she’s right. I don’t have to tell her she’s right because she already knows she is. So I won’t. And I won’t say “that’s gay” anymore either.
 
Age 27
“It just really upsets me when people say that. It’s so cruel…I know you didn’t mean it.”
 
There was no defense this time. I just sat there in my own ignorance and immediate remorse as my girlfriend’s face winced from the sting of my words.
 
Dammit! I know better than this. I can’t believe I let such an ugly word come out of my mouth. My co-workers say “that’s re****ed” all the time, and I ALSO get upset every time I hear it! Why would I say that? What kind of monster are you, Lindsay White?! Do better! Be smarter!

**********************************************************************************

​This is just three of roughly three million examples of my own ignorance. In these instances, I overcame the urge to be right and eventually swallowed the awful guilt of being wrong. It feels like losing, but in the end you’re rewarded, pinky swear. For the record, I don’t always seize (or even notice) every learning opportunity. I am a human after all, and we’re not the smartest creatures, despite our opposable thumbs and our position at the top of the food chain. For example, how embarrassingly long did it take us to figure out wheels on suitcases?
 
I definitely know I am not the sharpest tool in the shed, as demonstrated by the fact I just used that expression. I could stand to be more educated and make more informed choices regarding the environment, race issues, class issues, women’s issues, foreign policy, the economy, etc. I could go on and on.
 
So who was I to unleash my election rage like a hungry pack of snarling wolves onto anyone in my real or digital life who had the audacity to vote for Trump?

**********************************************************************************
None of it made me feel better (except the Disney song, a little bit) or smarter (except the Disney song, a little bit). I hardly even recognized myself. It was as if years and years of repressed anger came flying out of my fingertips. No one was safe from this verbal vomit. You can primarily thank cat-calling men, know-it-all men, men who call me sweetie, men who tell me to smile, men who have touched me without permission, religious people who don’t understand the separation of church and state, and my mother for that.
 
Trust me, I know expressing rage on social media is a colossal waste of human existence. Who did I expect to reason with on this forum? With insults, no less? I started having flashbacks to all the times in my life I’ve been scolded for saying or doing something hurtful. Using the same critical thinking skills that I’ve learned in those crucial moments, I momentarily dropped the case I’d built for myself, scanned my sensibilities, and tried to put myself in the shoes of those I riled against. These were my findings:
 
I meant what I said
I couldn’t find an emoji that quite encapsulated my emotions, so I went to town with my favorite coping mechanism: words. I was outraged at, hurt by, and scared of those who "at best dismiss — or at worst, celebrate" the blatant and strategic racism and misogyny of Trump’s campaign. I wanted to express my gut-wrenching, binge-eating, bowel-moving blend of anger, disappointment, and fear. You know that one breakup you have where you think life as you know it is OVER? It was like that, only about a million times worse. By the evening of November 8th, it felt like America abruptly dumped me allowed a new rapey boyfriend to grab her by the pussy on national television. Suddenly I was the personification of every Carrie Underwood song, slashing all the social media tires I could find. Maybe next time the electoral college will think before it cheats the popular vote. I know I offended people, and I truly take no joy in that. But I kinda just needed to rage against the dying of the light for a minute.

​​I’m also not entirely sorry about questioning the collective intelligence of Trump voters. When I cursed the white uneducated masses, I wasn’t talking about people who lacked the ability to earn a diploma. I was talking about all the frosted flakes out there who lacked the ability to discern that Tony the Tiger would make a better presidential candidate than Donald Trump. I mean, if you’re into the idea of an orange president who is obsessed with the word great, why not pick an affable cartoon cereal mascot instead of a despicable buffoon serial narcissist?

​Okay, I’m doing it again. I know people don’t like being called bigots and/or ignorant. But I just can not for the life of me wrap my brain around any door number three explanation that excuses HANDING DONALD TRUMP THE KEYS TO THE FREE WORLD UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER.

But I also meant it for myself
Sorry. I almost blacked out there for a second. That was like the scene in Wayne’s World where Wayne scares the camera away with his self-pity and frustration. “OK, things aren't that great, but I'll get 'em back, OK?”
 
Referring back to the breakup analogy, I had to give myself one last snotty-nosed, puffy-eyed look in the mirror. I was livid at my country, but eventually, the only thing left to analyze was myself. Why did America dump me? Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve this rejection?!
 
A sudden realization came over me.
 
Duh, Linds. This is how SO MANY people feel 24 hours a day. Rejected by the very country they love. So you’re just going to sit here and throw an online tantrum? Sorry, friend, that’s not gonna fly. You can’t just throw a safety pin on your black lives matter T-shirt and call it a day, boo. You can’t just wear your protest like a trendy fall flannel for election season. A lot of people don’t have the luxury of taking off their otherness. They don’t blend in like you. They’re used to this. This is why your Mexican wife is more upset by a Lakers loss than a Trump win. She’s used to the folks in charge not giving a shit about her. You’ve been throwing around the word bigot, but you’re also kinda racist in your own complacency, aren’t ya? Eeeshh, you don’t look so good. Now you feel even sicker to your stomach because you just realized you could have been doing more this whole time, huh? Ain’t that some Schindler’s List shit? While you’re reaching for that barf bag, I might as well just get something else off my chest. I’m just gonna go ahead and call you ignorant too. Spending all your time berating people for their vote on Facebook like a damn loser. SMH. You’re just like them. Scrolling down a random abyss of cute cats and lunchstagrams and hilarious Biden memes, peppered with haunting images of child refugees and fancy profile pic filters for the latest mass shooting. No wonder you can’t process shit. It’s already a jumbled mess by the time it hits your brain. You ask what you did to deserve this? It’s what you didn’t do. It’s what you aren’t doing. So stop staring at a screen and fucking do something. Call your representatives. Do your research. Don't fall for the shock headlines. Donate. Volunteer. Make art. Peacefully protest. Speak up. Talk to people. Listen to people. Write your ass off. Own your shit. Do better! Be smarter! 
 
Age 33
Hopefully those who felt insulted by my words can take comfort in the fact I also have no problem ripping myself a new one. Which, I guess is the point I’m not-so-eloquently trying to make. If we hope to clean up our collective mess, we all need to stop treating Facebook like a sloppy, silly cafeteria food fight and get to work on ourselves.
 
I know I can only do so much to hold government officials and the media accountable. (Mostly just using my vote, my phone, my wallet, and my brain). But I could be doing a LOT more to hold myself and others around me to the very standards I seek in a president. I see how I've fallen short at that even in this very post. I’m still trying to adjust the dial somewhere between “shut up and don’t cause a scene” and “let ‘em fucking have it” so bear with me as I learn my lessons and find my voice. And I’ll try to bear with America while she does some learning of her own.

​Greetings, Earthlings. I just wanted to quickly share a little update about some recent experiences I've had. Uneventful are this week's experiences, where I've basically been a blob on my couch, watching the Olympics 24/7, eating soup and crackers, while fighting a head cold. 

I'd much rather talk about the week prior. It was the week where I, panic attack-prone, socially awkward Lindsay White lept outside my comfort zone not only once, but twice.

The first leap was during Rock n Roll Camp for Girls San Diego. It was the first event of its kind in our town, and I was thrilled to participate. I even signed up to facilitate a songwriting workshop. My wedding took place two weeks before the camp was scheduled to start, so I kind of held off on preparation for the workshop until the big day passed. Once the wedding dress and false eyelashes came off, it was go time.

It was precisely this moment that I realized how effing nervous I was. While I am confident in my songwriting abilities, I never really attempted to drop knowledge on anyone, let alone young girls. Furthermore, I found out I would be co-facilitating with someone who I had never met, who lived in a different town. Anxiety levels were sky-high, but I was determined. I knew it was the fear of the unknown that was getting to me. If I could just tap into my event planning skills, wrap my head around the logistics of the presentation, and create a general timeline, I'd be good to go. Thankfully after great calls with Mai from the L.A. camp as well as my co-facilitator Brooke, the presentation started to gel. The night before the workshop, I spread all my supplies out on the living room floor and practiced each activity several times with my new wife acting as guinea pig (such duties come with the role).

The presentation came and went, and it was successful! It wasn't rocket science or anything, but I hope we at least scratched the surface of songwriting elements and tools. As the week went on, I was so in awe of both the campers and the volunteers for their bravery, enthusiasm, and commitment to the entire process. I was proud to be part of such an empowering event, and proud of myself for swimming upstream against that current of anxiety that flows through me on a daily basis.

As soon as the songwriting workshop was over, I started freaking out about the next task at hand. (Are you noticing a pattern here?) As "Member of the Month" at my boxing gym, I had agreed to teach a round for their special 2 Year Anniversary Party. Each round is only 3 minutes, but when you're me, that feels like an eternity. I spent the week leading up to the event practicing my combo right-handed (I'm a lefty) so as to not confuse the majority of people in the class. I was primarily worried about timing, as it can be kind of tricky to break up a combo over the course of three minutes. As I put on the little Madonna headset, I think I would have preferred to lip-sync an actual Madonna song in front of the crowd rather than attempt to instruct my combo. But the bell sounded, I did my best, and then it was over in a flash. Did I mess up? Um, yeah. But did anyone really notice or care? Um, no. One of the many reasons I love Title Boxing. 

​Again, I felt proud of myself for not letting my anxiety take over. Again, I felt surrounded by a sense of community. Two tiny achievements in 7 short days, each bringing me a little bit closer to my best self. I guess if you're not making decisions that scare the shit out of you every once in awhile, you're not really living. I can't wait til the next moment spent flailing awkwardly outside my comfort zone. Until then, I'll just continue my stint as an Olympic-watching blob with a head cold.

Hey peeps! Just updated my LWYT playlist on Soundcloud with a bunch of rough mp3s available for streaming and download. Something to hold you over while I work on my new solo album! Let me know what you think or if any song in particular resonates with you!

Okay, so no one asked me to write a review on Kaaboo’s inaugural weekend at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, but I done did it anyway. This festival came at a weird time for me. On the eve of Day 1, I found myself in my hometown of Corcoran, CA blubbering my way through “I’ll Fly Away” in front of a packed church during my grandfather’s funeral. It was the third time in three weeks I’d made the drive home during his failing health, traveling back and forth to San Diego to catch up on work and fulfill music gigs. I hadn’t slept in what felt like months, I hadn’t spent time with my fiancee Audrie in what felt like years, and the only smiling I can recall in what felt like a lifetime was during a delirious moment in my father’s kitchen where my sister and I were having separate but simultaneous conversations with ourselves. If you ever wondered what a hot mess looks like, it’s this:

I contemplated staying in this position for the rest of the weekend despite the fact that two 3-day Kaaboo general admission passes were burning a hole in my pocket. Seriously, I think they burnt an actual hole in my pocket because there is absolutely no money there now that it’s all over. Even more than the horrifying thought of losing money I’d already spent, here’s what made me wake up at the dawn’s early light, peel my grief-stricken ass up off the ground, and drive 6 hours to opening day at Kaaboo: It was time to have a good time. And I had a great fucking time.

No Doubt: This show was a long time coming for me. A looooooong time coming. When I was a freshman in high school, No Doubt rolled through Fresno. I can still remember what the Tragic Kingdom jewel case felt like in my hands, and I can still remember what sheer anguish felt like in my heart when mom wouldn’t allow me to tag along to the show with my older sister. Finally, redemption. And it was well worth the wait!

Acts that Weren’t No Doubt: They were all good. Really stinkin’ good. Even if it was a style of music I didn’t love, I couldn’t help but admire and appreciate the level of musicianship and the caliber of performance. Bonus points for awesome comedians!

Free Water Stations: People behave so much better when they’re hydrated. Thank you on behalf of me, as well as the drunk girl I overheard in the bathroom telling her friends with perfect Kardashian vocal fry: “I’ll be fine after I drink some water, bitches.”

Restrooms: Hey Kaaboo, there must be some sort of mistake. Are you sure that fancy, air-conditioned, immaculate pack of portable restroom trailers weren’t supposed to be delivered to the VIP section? Did some truck driver lose his job over this?

Credit Cards Accepted: I loathe the phrase “cash only” because we are living in the year 2015. Thank you for letting me pay for my 12 Redbull-vodkas with plastic like a dignified human being. It’s easier to part with cash I can’t see.

Fancy Food: So many choices from wonderfully cool and classy joints. Even though we spent three straight days eating about a thousand delicious tacos from Puesto, it was so nice to know we had options. 

Smart Art: A full art exhibit in a massive air-conditioned room. Gigantic completed murals and in-the-works displays that doubled as decor and entertainment. The beautiful art featured at Kaaboo was not an afterthought of this event. It shared the stage and the spotlight.

On Time Every Time: You guys ran a tight ship, and mama likes a tight ship! Every act I saw took to the stage on schedule and left the stage with time to spare. No one likes to watch an event fall behind and try to catch up to itself. You took a page right out of the ol’ Cathryn Beeks book and somehow convinced hundreds of musicians to do the same. Cheers to keeping an eye on that clock!

Stuff & Things: Having a background in event management, I typically steer clear of anything resembling a trade show booth or promo people. Cool logo’d highlighters and bite-sized Snickers bars are not worth a 30 minute demo of whatever you’re trying to sell me! I’ve been fooled before! That was my mentality for day one, but by day two, I figured fuck it, let’s milk this cow for all it’s worth. The results were surprisingly fun and unobtrusive. I sampled Vuka’s energy drink flavors while charging my phone at their cute garden-themed station. I scored some perfume, makeup, and a screen-printed tote bag from the folks at Nordstrom. Bright orange sunnies from GigTown. Chips. Hats. Sunscreen. Granola Bars. Chapstick. Some students from Paul Mitchell even DID MY HAIR and gave me fancy shampoo and a coupon for a free haircut. Looks like Supercuts won’t be seeing me again til around 2017. It all culminated in Nordstrom’s bitchin’ gif photobooth. Gifs. So hot right now. 

While I scampered about, Audrie mostly did this:

Location: Get out of here, Del Mar, with your sprawling fairgrounds and your majestic coastline and your golden sunsets. Just kidding, you can stay. 

Safety: Except for the guy that startled me with an unexpected bear hug attempt, I felt relatively safe all weekend. That’s saying something considering I average about one panic attack per week. I typically shy away from large crowds because I watch too much Dateline and know that danger lurks around every corner. For the most part, attendees seemed to grasp the concept of personal space, and I appreciated that because I accidentally left my Xanax in the car. I encountered only a handful people who I affectionately refer to as shit shows: A woman on crutches who appeared to be trippin’ hard on BTD (big time drugs), a drunk woman who walked all the way back to her car in cursive, and another inebriated lady who thought it’d be cool to hop up on stage with Iliza Shlesinger to give her own version of a Shark Tank presentation. Security!

Local Music: Nothing made my heart sing more than watching local musicians get the opportunity to play at this event. Was I bummed that it wasn’t The Lovebirds? Sure. I am a completely insecure egomaniac musician, after all. But was I THRILLED to jam out to The Midnight Pine, The Silent Comedy, and Tolan Shaw? Yes, yes, and yes! They all knocked it out of the park and made me proud to be part of the local music community. On that note, make sure you check out GigTown - they are working hard to connect San Diegans to their hometown musicians...you don't have to wait for big festivals to hear amazing original music right in your own back yard! Seriously, we will all play in your back yard if you invite us.

There are bound to be some kinks in the hose with any event. Shit, I can’t complete a trip to Target without wishing I’d made 10 better decisions, so I’m definitely not trying to judge. But I did notice just a few things that could potentially be revisited for next year:

Parking Signage: This wasn’t a huge deal, especially since parking is only confusing on the first day, but I did feel sorry for the staff who had to redirect car after car after car into the correct lot. I think their lives could have been made easier with a few large directional signs posted out on the street. I’ve been a human arrow many times, and I stand in solidarity:

Palate: This space featured cool cooking demos, upscale local food options, and fancy wine/spirits tastings. It would have been one of the highlights had it not been for a lack of ventilation. Also, probably not the best idea to put a loud rock band in a concrete hall. I like to crank the volume, but the combination of stale air and loud noise was too much to handle at times, and I again felt sorry for the staff who had to endure lengthy shifts here. (I just got in, got my tacos, and got out.) Maybe next year they can provide a local singer-songwriter stage here (see what I did there?) and somehow find a way to get that air moving, similar to the air conditioned art exhibit.

Money: That was one expensive weekend. Expensive ticket, expensive parking, expensive food, expensive merch, all which were no surprise to me. I realize it was marketed to a higher-earning adult demographic, so I knew my fate upon arrival. That said, I don’t necessarily fit into that category, so now it’s time to pay the piper. American Express is going to have me by the balls for the rest of the year. Whatevs, it will help my credit score, right? The only time the price tag really irked me was when I walked by this sign right after paying $14 for two lemonades and $90 for two t-shirts. That feels just a little bit like gold-hoarding to me. Tolkien wrote a lot of inspiring shit. All I’m saying is maybe pick a different quote. 

Very Important Person: This is not a dig on Kaaboo as much at is a commentary about the general sense of ick I feel when observing the flaunting of wealth and class. There’s something about nightclubs, airplanes, sporting events, and music festivals that force the lower-income-bracket-dwellers to exist at an arm’s length from all the shit they want but can’t have. I know selling VIP perks to rich people helps keep the whole ship afloat, and I’m incredibly aware of my own privilege for even being able to attend this event. I get that people who can afford enhanced options just want an enhanced experience, and I can’t be mad about that. But it’s a little vomit-inducing to witness people get off on their own wealth. I overheard one d-bag bragging to an Elite security guard about how much he paid for his VIP this and VIP that. Yuck! If I had a cookie I didn’t want to share (which is always the case when I have a cookie), I wouldn’t want to gobble it down front of a hungry person. At least they close the curtains in first class. To be fair to Kaaboo, I will note here that organizers did commit to donating a portion of their proceeds to charitable community organizations. That’s pretty cool, and it more than makes up for Braggy McBraggerton.

Indecision: Why you gotta make a lesbian choose between Brandi Carlile and Grace Potter? WHYYYYYYYYY?! I haven’t felt that conflicted since the time I had to choose between two different chocolate desserts during San Diego Restaurant Week.

A snippet from The Lovebirds latest newsletter... 

August is nearly halfway over and I'm just getting around to sending out our newsletter, so sue me. The tardiness is actually indicative of the news I'm about to break, so here goes:

We're letting go. After getting home from the last tour, this bird was burnt the f*ck out. Over five years we've been an indie band, busting our butts to try and reach some imagined destination in the future where we might find some sort of stability and security in doing what we love to do for a living. All the while, I've watched my friends and colleagues in the music industry climb that same mountain, wondering what keeps them going, wondering if I wasn't as hungry or as talented or as married to the struggle of it all. I especially disliked the gross combination of joy and jealousy I felt when witnessing their achievements. I'm not proud of that, but I'll admit it.  

Don't get me wrong, the results of all that hard work have been tangible. We've accomplished a lot and have experienced so many incredible moments and met so many lifelong friends because of that tenacious work. As my dad says "if it were easy, everyone would do it." But here's where I went wrong: I worked toward my imagined future at the expense of my present reality. I neglected myself and my ability to be happy in a moment. 

So that's going to stop. As I mentioned last month, we still have goals. We still practice religiously. We're still doing our best to book shows and record albums and plan tours and raise money and share our music. But now, living life takes precedence over imagining it. Cooking and cuddling and walks and runs and novels and friends and writing and laughing and family will be the priority. Phone calls and press releases and accounting and promoting and emails (like this one) can wait just a bit.

I am sitting alone and feeling the need to reflect, as many of us do during the last days of each year. This is one of the few times we allow ourselves to think mindfully throughout the year. We sit quietly along the riverbanks of what is: looking back critically but not judgmentally- to purge, let go, and break old habits; looking hopefully ahead to set goals and plan our personal evolution. I want to take advantage of this time within me, and perhaps take advantage of this time within you. Join me on the riverbanks, won’t you?

It seems to me that much of 2012 was both dark and heavy, on a personal and global scale. Maybe it was the Mayan calendar prediction gone awry. Maybe it was the pain and suffering I felt and/or caused in personal relationships with people I love the most. Maybe it was the tremendous grief I witnessed one of my close friends experience. Maybe it was the oxymoronic disconnecting effect of exponential technology growth. Maybe it was the senseless acts of violence that are becoming disturbingly commonplace.

All this heavy darkness can make one feel burdened and lost. The hopelessness that results from the above list is enough to crush almost any spirit. Almost. But not mine. As an American Studies major, I pay semi-quiet but steady attention to media, art, entertainment, politics, pop culture, trends and technology. What I observe is a group of humans who are losing their human-ness. Distracted by the internet, divided by politics, diluted by the mind scum we call television, desensitized by life-like violence in video games, distorted by fashion magazines, diseased by processed foods, we are becoming exact replicas of the anti-heroic, post-apocalyptic, gun-happy, self-centered, blood-sucking, cannibal-vampire-zombies that Hollywood rubs our faces in. I am so so so guilty of all of this.

But. The silver linings of these dark ominous clouds are time and awareness. Hope is alive as long as I am. And as I pay my therapist to point it out to me, awareness of any problem results in personal accountability and responsibility. My awareness means I am not allowed to sulk in the inevitability of humanity’s demise. My awareness challenges me to take action in hopes of creating a better world. Do I want to live in a dark, heavy place full of dark, heavy people? No! Therefore, I am lighting up 2013 as far as my physical and spiritual body reaches. My light will offer compassion to friends, foes, family and strangers alike. My light will provide forgiveness and love to those who have felt or caused pain (myself included). My light will illuminate the dark corners of my small universe and cut away any anchors that prevent a smooth sail to still waters. My light will reject fear and seek substance. My light will be a productive and efficient user of time and technology. My light will reflect via positive thinking, quiet meditation, careful selection of words, eager education, anonymous good deeds, and a dimply smile. My light will set my soul ablaze by connecting to its life-force with undying gratitude and purpose: music, kindness, love, and creativity. I will drink in all these gifts from the divine well inside me until I spit bright shining drops of heaven like a chubby cherub fountain back into the thirsty lungs of the universe. My light will be a burning wick for candles in search of a flame. My light will oppose weight with the buoyancy of a thousand bright orange life jackets. My light will orbit planets, guide ships, nourish plants, and make unapologetic time for itself. 

Let’s light(en) up 2013!

Be aware. Be light. Be love!