Starting over? Ahhh…new beginnings.  Nothing feels as good as a clean slate, spankin’ new, never-been-done-before, that dewy soft newborn feeling of hope and awe.  Understand what I mean? Like a view from the womb?  Okay….

That’s NOT the one I’m talking about.

I mean the one where you try really hard, but you keep coming up short. The ones that sends you screaming into the night – right back to the proverbial ‘drawing board’. The ‘starting over’ I mean is the one where you’ve face planted so beautifully, so repetitiously over copious attempts that look back at you with the face of days, months and YEARS. The calendar is, at best, is a suggestion, a blur of meticulously arranged numbers on a grid, waving in the breeze of your efforts. There’s an album title by the Christian-tinged soft rock band, Switchfoot that succinctly describes this experience – “The Beautiful Letdown”. Disappointment, in its melodramatic way is quite poetic. In his book ‘A New Earth’, Eckhart Tolle talks at length about the experience of feeling pain – and how we unconsciously (for the most part) seek it out –– rather than being numb.  I call it an ‘effective defective’. Whatever the case, life is rich with various ‘square one’ opportunities:

A Common One: Weight and Fitness – You’ve pounded treadmills, bought and USED one exercise DVD after the next, cried with all The Biggest Loser contestants and scream when they jump from weight scale bleeper and to commercial RIGHT before the results hit the screen!  You take the stairs in public places. You even park in section ‘Z’ of the parking lot for a further hike into the market. Maybe, by now, you feel that stationary bike is mocking you. The only thing that’s stationary (it seems) is that excess poundage or those final few kilos that just WON’T let go.  That’s not what Jenny Craig/Tony Horton/Jennifer Hudson said! But, that’s just it.  You’ve been watching it and making adjustments so….you try yet AGAIN…or you just eat the dang Frito Pie (with onions)…. then ‘square up’.

A Cinematic One: In the 1970’s motion picture Mahogany, singer and former Supreme Diana Ross, played her first lead role as an aspiring fashion designer who rises to international fame and riches as a super model (though they didn’t use that term until the 1980s) turned high couture fashion designer. That song, “Do You Know Where You’re Going To?” –  its sweet melody and provocative queries, have forever residence my brain grooves.  I wasn’t digging that ‘thang’ she had with ‘Norman Bates’ (actor Anthony Perkins) – but -SPOILER ALERT: She goes back WITH NEW DREAMS to her first love (played by suavely Billy Dee Williams) at ‘square one’ in the end. A Lyrical One: The song “Back at One” was a hit recorded in two genres: originally by R&B singer Brian McKnight. McKnight’s version was a Top 40 pop hit peaking at # 2 on United States Billboard ‘Hot 100’ chart for 8 consecutive weeks in 1999.  Later that year, country artist Mark Wills hit the chart with his version also peaking at #2 on the U.S. Billboard ‘Hot 100’ country chart – and went on the #1 on the Canadian country charts. (courtesy of Wikipedia and Billboard magazine) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXPfovXw2tw&feature=youtu.be

♪♫ “Whenever I believe my work is done, then I’ll start back at one” ♪♫

A Romantic One: I was conversing recently with a friend having an issue with a lady to whom he was newly engaged – and already having trouble in paradise. After spending a number of years seeking ‘the one’ – he’d ‘put a ring’ on it – only for her to have 2^nd thoughts.  It happens. Our frailties too often define us and we so commonly identify with them as the only source of our identity. My friend asked me in frustration: “Don’t you just get tired of trying?”  Being the stubborn….determined woman I am, I said “I understand that feeling, but it’s just a feeling.  Never give up on THAT.”  There are so many dynamics involved, fickle factors that I won’t go any further.  It’s enough to say, ‘square one’ happens – A LOT in this area. The preferred ONE is ‘THE ONE’. If you’ve got him/her consider yourself BLESSED.

A Noble One: In a ‘Un-PC’ act, I site God Himself on this one.  Whatever I’ve ever believed, I KNOW the Great IAM, has never given up on me. Whenever God felt far away, I now understand it was because, my emotions about my circumstances, conclusions I drew with an unclear mind or a broken heart had more to do with that false feeling of separation.  Sometimes, he DOES step away from us, to test our faith, to help us see exactly WHERE we are in our walk.  He is ALWAYS willing to go back to the start with us – if needed. I believe he sees us as children, stubborn and willing to be unwilling to see His will, our destiny- his dream of us dropped us as a mortal seed, into this life. If you don’t believe like I do, I respect that.  It’s called free will.  It’s a divinely given right. Having to start over (and over) can make one feel frustrated and well, just plain stoopid. Of course, history is rife with famous (so-called) failures who tried MANY times before they achieved their ends.    It’d be great if it could be like Groundhog Day, and you just get an exact ‘do-over’ that you get to correct until it’s all perfect……sighs.  But, as I recall, the protagonist did NOT get a choice in the matter! Every day was an ENTIRE do over.

So then, how do we know when to say WHEN? How many visits to square one are ENOUGH?  The key, it seems, is making up the mind.  Sounds awfully simplistic – but this is when ‘trying’ becomes ‘doing’.  ‘Try’ leaves room for doubt. ‘Do’…well, gets it DONE. ‘Do’ sets things in motion.  Easier said than done? Maybe. But if you are the act of doing, there’s no time to worry if there’s enough time. Yoda, the wise old teacher in the Star Wars movies said it best:

“No. Try not. Do… or do not. There is no try.”

LOOK FOR US IN SPRING 2012!

“There are two ways to live your life – one is as though nothing is a miracle, the other is as though everything is a miracle.” – Albert Einstein. WORLD WIDE WEB – Southwestern USA – February 8, 2011 – It is my privilege to report, upon full investigation there is both eternal and temporal evidence, that TODAY (meaning whatever day you are reading this) is not just any day that ends in the word ‘day’. It’s a RED-LETTER DAY. Today marks an event of major importance.  It is someone’s birthday, someone’s anniversary, the first day the potty training went perfect; the day someone became a parent, aunt or uncle, a sibling, made an alliance saving your time, your money, your life. Today someone gets a promotion (economy- schmonomy), someone will get a great idea that’s changing their LIFE – right now…..in real time. Just minutes ago, someone awoke from a comatose state ….another is going to sleep at dawn after a long night. Today someone stood up to a bully or defended another against it….today a baby took its first steps….so did someone who heard ‘you’ll never walk again.” In a few more seconds, (3, 2,1)someone finally stops whipping out the past and looking into it like a mirror… right now someone can’t stop smiling.  Yes, your friends think you’ve lost it….yea, in a good way. . Today someone anonymously blessed another person they never met.  Why?  The help was needed.  Simplicity – creates a red-letter day. This morning someone got a call that said, “I just wanted to hear your voice.” In the classroom, right after the bell, a teacher looked into the face of a student and heard the cry in his eyes…..in 3^rd period class, someone earned her highest scores. Today, someone signed the papers for their dream home…..drove a new car off the lot, drove someone crazy with desire.

Right now, someone is shuffling through the ruins of nature’s wrathand just found their wedding ring, found their childhood teddy bear, found a soggy photo album with the photos still dry inside.  A long-lost pet sits on his human family’s doorstep. His coat full of thorns. He’s thirsty – and his tail won’t stop wagging!  The red letters woven into the mat underneath his wiggling backside says WELCOME.

It’s a RED-LETTER day.  Mark it on your calendar. When you look back a year from now, if you don’t remember what you’re toasting – raise your glass anyway.

Come on, there’s bound to be SOMETHING!

MESSAGE BROUGHT TO YOU BY

"Touch me, Take me to that other place. Teach me, I know I’m not a hopeless case" - Beautiful Day by U2

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Thank you for superimposing a dream scape  path for my feet I remember the concerts in the dresser mirror Command performances in the backyard, encores for my family dogs A most excellent audience, who sat dutifully – pre American Idol No heckling, only spectatoring My fingers curled around my hairbrush microphone And bath towel draped over my head So I could flip back my hair like Cher when Sonny was there ‘ An ‘unpretty’ yet cute little garden of energy Growing my green stems of dreams, with buds coaxed from pruning Sometimes I’d choose a song, but most often – it chose me For what you believe is what you speak (even when your lips don’t move) It entered my being through my ears and into the fertile ground of my heart And drove the notes to my little brown feet. Even now songs speak to me, through me After all…… What makes a grocery store excursion better than those heinous original ditties Revealing there’s a butcher inside the loud speakers as well as in the meat department? What makes an elevator ride less claustrophobic? Trying to figure out if the familiar melody assaulting your ears is A watered down version of Hey Ya by Outkast or Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (How I wonder where my earplugs are….) A song is a gentleman. It accompanies everywhere.  A chaperone for living, a soundtrack He pulls out the chair of your understanding; he holds open the doors of the soul. A mad genius that reads your mind; an intuitive suitor who tells you your heart. It isn’t mood music……Your mood IS the music If rhythm is a dancer, than music is the Maestro And life is a symphony.

Okay, confession time. I don’t know who’s reading this or even LOOKING at it for five seconds but here it comes…. I have NO clue what to write about here……..(drum roll here) I have a serious case of writer‘s drought. I know…..shocking right? (shakes head in the negative) I KNOW its called ‘writer’s block’ but I left the block long ago…I am out onto the open highway. I am far from being the only one – but that doesn’t make it any better. It’s either foolishness or courage that makes me even put this in writing. If you happen to have been reading any of my posts, you will notice that I have not been around for……a bit…:-( That’s death to blogging  – yes. If you don’t blog often, people will forget you. The world is full of distractions and demands. How familiar I am with these seducing spirits But it wasn’t enough impetus for moi. So I did die – for a minute. That minute stretched into a day…that day stretched into a week…..that week stretched into a month…:-(  There just wasn’t time to live on the page again…..uh huh. That’s a long time not to breathe across the page. It would seem I issued a DNR to my keyboard. It would seem my fingers could not find their way back to it. But then I read something (my once and future coach) Jill Jepson said when blogging about writers who don’t write: “They [writers] are doctors and stay-at-home moms, fifth grade teachers and law students, taxi drivers and programmers. And some of them have brilliant fiction or dazzling poetry locked inside them. But they will never know it. Because they don’t pick up a pen and write.” – Jill Jepson,  The Ninja Writer blog Shivers.  I walked over my own literary grave.  Impetus crystallized. I reached for an ancient instrument; just as useful as a keyboard, but more intimate AND…. I began WRITING, WRITING, WRITING….about anything… Everything. The weapon? A simple gel ink pen – black or blue and a spiral notebook. As simple as it is with a keyboard – however….I write in fractured sentences that I didn’t change when I moved it from there to here.  No biggie because now: I’m a literary superhero shooting words like lightning bolts from my fingertips. The electrified ink hits the page and burning sentences into living form….To the rescue, like knights charging around the perimeter of my being with alphabetical eyes. Hey, whatever it takes.  It’s adult play minus the sex….unless you’re scribbling erotica.. And I can give excuses, reasons…. Life happens – yes: work, school, circumstances…AND? It rings hollow even to the ears of my own heart. No one who knows me would even say I had ego…but how sly ego can be….I cannot deny I wanted to be ‘brilliant’…..but I cannot be a party in my own duplicity (sorry I am ellipsis crazed on this post). Writing IS life….who would I be otherwise? It is said that God has written each one of our members in a book. Even God writes…..okay, no pressure there. But from the time I could put sentences together the muse within said YES. Stories emerged, worlds formed. I didn’t know if any of it was any ‘good’. And it didn’t matter.

It was fun to retell Cinderella with a more….PC ending…(the 2nd best place for her missing slipper)….to create my own music magazine, write my own lyrics to songs I didn’t like. But isn’t ego clever? Not bad, per se, just smart. It’s our defense against temporal assaults. It says, "I’ll protect you from the pain of rejection." "No don’t go there, nobody’s going to care." Well, I AM not nobody – I care. And like a song once said, “I know too much, to go back and pretend.” (‘I am Woman‘  by an artist named Helen Reddy).  The song arsenal is my greatest offense That’s one I HAVEN’T dared parody. So let the chips fall where they may (or some such wise cliché). I still need to toss the handful I’ve been given. It’s funny how more will appear – but your hand has to be empty first. So as I formulate this post it’s Sunday, I skim a stone across the pond in the park and watch the sunlight wriggle on the water. I eye the ducks, watching so they don’t snag my skin as they boldly yank on my pants leg, demanding: “Faster with the stale bread lady!” Then I park it on an empty bench, take out my pen and describe the experience – in stereo… word for word.  No wonder Edward Bulwer-Lytton said, "The pen is mightier than the sword" – but no less bloody, if you ask me. If ego must have something ‘genius’ to gnaw on, here’s the lean diet snack:

Brilliance is getting something onto the freakin’ page!

Free hand it, type it.  Smoke signal it….okay, so maybe not that last one. Nothing beats what Christians call “rhema” – for that’s what this is. The word come to life, made real – when you have your own understanding about a thing.  It’s violence of a benevolent kind.  A mighty, ink filled arsenal. Sparkle, shine….draw your sword.

In speaking about reading literacy, it’s easier to first review the dismal effects it has on a personal and societal level.  It’s in our face every day.  Now and then, we catch sound bites telling us how illiteracy is linked to crime and human tide on the inside, lapping at the shore of the free world separated only by high walls and chain link fences.  The numbers exist to prove it. According to the U.S. National Center for Educational Statistics:

“The end of reading is not more books but more life.” – George Holbrook Jackson

EVENING – INTERIOR – ANYWHERE IN AMERICA, U.S.A

It’s just after dusk, another work day done. The sun dies in the west, its blazing orange arms stretch once more and  disappear beneath the horizon. Mr. Dad lumbers through the door, his hard hat tucked under one arm. It’s sheer will that puts his feet one in front of the other.

What a day.

He shuffles into the kitchen, reaches into the fridge. There’s a plate of food waiting – thank God.  He consumes the cold fried chicken and colder green beans sopping up the juice with a biscuit, too tired to make a move for the microwave.

By the time he’s scarfed his meal and vegetates over a few reruns on TV, he heads for bed, where his wife is already asleep. He can see her expression and the dark shadows under her eyes, her face soft.  He tiptoes toward the bathroom, just past the tyke’s bedroom, when said tyke, in full pajama-ed regalia, appears in the doorway.

The big deep eyes smile into his own and a broad grin broke across the horizon of his face. The dawn had come early for Sunshine had risen from her rest. Tyke is holding a big picture book, almost as long as Tyke is tall. She holds it up and in a so-loud-they-can-hear-you-from-Mars stage whisper she inquires:

“Daddy, will you tell me a story?”

“No baby, not tonight. Daddy’s tired.”

The eyes took on a soulful expression, “K”, she grumbled. Daddy was ALWAYS tired.

A tiny plume of annoyance rose within, “What you doin’ up sweetie?

Sunshine reached up a tiny hand to take his gritty larger one.

“Wanna hear a story, pleeeeeease?”

Her hopeful rosy face, tempered his annoyance. He sighed and smiled tiredly, “Alright, let’s go.”

Sunshine crawled excitedly back into bed, pulled up the covers and waited.  Daddy pulled up a pink teacup chair and sat down,  knees practically to his chin.

He took the book and flipped it over. There a little red engine on the front. He opened it and began to recite. He squinted his eyes and held the book away.   He changed the characters voices as they appeared on the page

Sunshine’s smile grew as her eyes drooped. When Daddy finished,  he extracted himself from the teacup chair and hobbled lightly toward the door.

“Daaaddy?”  she whispered in a soft sing-song.

“Yes, baby?

“You’re funny. Thaaaaaat’s not the story.”

“Huh? Whaddya mean honey?”

Sunshine rolled over, eyes at half-mast. “You told the story wrong, she giggled. It’s okay.   I like that one too.” Still smiling,  Sunshine snuggled in and dozed again.

As Daddy flipped the light switch,  only the wall could tell the tale of his stricken face.  His eyes dropped to his boots and then to the book still in his hand. He looked again at the red engine and his eyes slid across the letters of each word in the title – red bold letters that mocked his eyes. It could be Greek or Chinese – either way, he wouldn’t have known the difference.  Then he muttered to the already sleeping child:

“Sure, munchkin, anything for my girl.”

- END -

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The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) defines LITERACY as ” the ability to read and write with understanding a simple statement related to one’s daily life; involving a continuum of reading and writing skills [coupled with] basic arithmetic skills (numeracy).” [paraphrased].

Illiteracy is hardly a new subject but it often discussed under the table – if at all. It’s a big pink elephant in the living room of society. In families, its dirty laundry, often a generational tradition that surprises none of its participants. It is wedded to poverty. They are the parents of crime.

But that’s only an issue in the Third World nations right? Looking at recent statistics, there is little to no difference. I won’t hit you with those numbers just yet. You wouldn’t think in the modern world, in industrialized nations like the U.S., that literacy would even register as a problem on the social Richter scale.

Oh, but it does.

It is a silent earthquake of socio-economic proportions. Those of us who have attained literacy wrongly believe we are not affected, that it’s somebody ‘over there’. Truth is, you are acquainted with someone whose potential is held in check by an inability to obtain and appropriate new information.  Maybe it’s you.

There are hundreds of Mr. Dads, Ms. Moms, Jackie Jobholders alive and not so well in America.  Their life roles are diverse. I knew one on a personal basis. I was an eyewitness to the struggle, the stereotyping and the social stigma.  My ringside seat makes it insanely ironic that I (myself) am a person of highly proficient reading and writing literacy.

Literacy is a learned skill. It isn’t something one is ‘born with’. That’s the good news. EVERYONE has the ability to acquire the skill – though there are several challenges that can hinder or even impair one’s drive to do it.   A learning disability, a negative classroom experience, having the wrong words spoken over you from a young age.

I’ll be taking a closer look at each of those reasons in upcoming posts.

Illiteracy’s long whip of an arm reaches across generations and leaves a  stinging inheritance of frustration, disillusionment and poverty. I wouldn’t be discussing it now except for this: As a blog writer, I have an obligation to write about things that matter to me. This is a hard subject that evokes a gamut of responses from pity to derision, from anger to apathy.

Most of all,  it makes me sad and angry that, if they so desired, there are scores of people who couldn’t read enough words in this post to even recognize themselves here.

That’s enough for me to write the hell out this subject. I have to say something.

WHAT SAY YOU?

Weaving Word Tapestries

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Life’s questions dotted the landscape of my mind before memory.  Like thistles scattered by an errant wind, questions planted themselves in secret wherever carried, rising with spiky yellow faces – not dead but transformed and ever insistent.

Curiosity, like road signs upon my genetic map, directed me one Saturday morning, post Pop Tarts & Milk, in pursuit.  I was in the backyard, still in pajamas, preparing a feast of Texas mud pies with fresh rainwater from last night’s storm.

A thunderstorm in the Great Plains is a show stopping production Broadway could only dream to rival.  Coffee colored eyes observed a troubled sky and flashes of lightning – fearfully fascinated by its sharp jagged legs, marching across the deep midnight with its great electric legs.  Each time the great Nature stomped, we heard it as thunder.

It was easy to believe the old Norse mythological tales of Thor on his mighty chariot venting his wrath!  I knew the stories weren’t “real” but was willing to suspend disbelief in favor of imagination – and this was the morning after.

ladder image from ivwisdom.com

Seeking the hose to wash muddy hands, I spied a ladder in solitary repose leaning against the roof.  Dad was up earlier installing the “weather rooster”.  The ruckus disrupted my umpteenth viewing of my favorite Scooby Doo.  He abandoned the towering invitation keep his date with a fishing pole. Now the invitation was mine.

Questions crowded my head crushing caution.   Curiosity spouted freely as I sidled a bit closer to gaze wide-eyed up its length.  Just beyond the end of the ladder, were clouds like fluffy cotton bolls with bottoms like over baked biscuits.  In their  momentum of the rain clouds mesmerized, brushing in haste past the rooftop.

Aware the death penalty – or worse, a spanking was imminent, I whipped around to check for mother or any tattletales.  The drone of the vacuum informed me Mom was otherwise engaged.   Maci and Joe, probably glad to be rid of “the little pest”, were elsewhere.

Transfixed, I took hold, fingernails biting into palms.  With toes gripping inside my sneakers, I began climbing.   My knees floated, as if I tiptoed upon the clouds getting closer by measure.  My lips parted in a gap-toothed smile from the idea I may soon discover the source of rainbows and the secret of rainy days.

Moments later, the rooftop broke into view.  Shingles and dried pitch crackled under my knees.   As I gingerly scuttled, I no longer crawled across a high rooftop but now traversed rough terrain for Yukon gold, then inched along a jungle floor on safari.  Adventure found me on my back watching clouds shift, spreading out like sheets on our clothesline.

Patches of blue and momentary shafts of light beamed and leftover raindrops found my upturned face.  A cold stray splashed onto the furrow under my nose and promptly disappeared into my smile.

Aware I couldn’t tarry in this forbidden land, I retraced and stepped carefully back upon the ladder.   I paused looking about from my lofty perch.  I witnessed leafy treetops bursting with preening birds, gazed upon the naked field behind our house and observed the lonely stretch of interstate adjacent.

Moreover, young eyes washed over a world far beyond familiar fences.  The path sprung up before me from unformed dreams like seeds in the soil of my mind.  I, like dreams, was safely ensconced in the bosom of family, requiring nurture to blossom.

With new knowledge and old wisdom, I began the trek back. I realized this is how Jacob’s angels brought answers to prayer.  I delivered up a smile to the one who surely measured my steps as I descended.

When in life have you learned a new lesson that lead you to a place where an old wisdom was revealed to you?

Weaving Word Tapestries

by Idella Woods, September 22, 2010

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"You were born an original.  Don’t die a copy." ~ John Mason To reinvent oneself sounds so ….lofty……noble…..pompous…adventurous.  What does it even mean to REINVENT? Did I invent myself in the first place? Technically, no – but otherwise YES.   The decision to do it is actually EASY.  Usually, there’s an pivotal event or series of incidents that serve as a catalyst for change.

• You pop the buttons on your slacks
• Your eyes start to glaze at your umpteenth business meeting
• Your trusty car breaks down – AGAIN (to 3rd power)
• You style your hair and see more gray on your head than in the brush or more hair in your comb than on your head
• You daydream – A LOT

OR SOMETHING MORE SERIOUSLY LIFE-ALTERING:

• You experience a serious traffic accident
• You become ill or receive a serious health diagnosis
• You survive the onslaught of Mother Nature with your life
• You get assaulted robbed or carjacked
• You find no matter how hard you try, you never seem to have “enough”

If you’ve ever read The Artists Way by Julia Cameron, you will be familiar with ‘artists dates’.  As defined by Ms. Cameron (thank you), a ‘artist date’ is a weekly date to go explore your more creative, childlike being. I remember one artist’s dates, I took to rediscovering simple lessons, the things I  inherently understood as a child but misplaced in the onrush of adulthood.    On this date,  I reminded myself the importance of being genuine, being true to dreams.

The nearest Barnes and Noble Bookstore children’s section was the spot where I met up with the 7 year old me.  Defying the curious glances of the parents herding their eager offspring around low shelves full of imagination, kneeling, I found the reason for my visit.

I love the smell of books and the inner sanctum feeling I get as I wind deeper into a library or bookstore.  Last time I held a book with such a tiny spine, it was with a much smaller hand.  Knowing that the  size chairs and benches wouldn’t support my adult sized rump, I found a spot at the end of a , sunk cross-legged to the floor – and for the first time, cracked open the immortal classic ‘The Velveteen Rabbit‘ by Margery Williams.

When all else fails, reach back to the basics. In the story, a plush toy rabbit seeks become flesh and blood. After losing the attention of his human boy owner, the Rabbit begins comparing himself to the other toys in the nursery. (Anytime you do anything like that you get the short end of the stick.) In his distress, the Rabbit seeks the advice of the wisest toy in the nursery, The Skin Horse. 

I admit, I didn’t read this timeless tale when I was a child.  These are the kinds of stories that help you learn about who you are.  As I read this one, I found, that I haven’t missed the boat after all.  I still have time to become REAL. In a world where time and attention are at a premium, its easy to get distracted and lose direction. You can have all the talent, energy, education and drive in the world, but without FOCUS, you will lose your way. By the time, I stood to stretch my legs, a little girl walked past and flashed a shy smile.  "Is that any good?", she inquired, pointing to the book.  I handed to her and said, with glee,  "Read it and see." No one can see their own face without a mirror – or photograph. What we see in the mirror – or in another person’s eyes, is more (self) perception than reality.  But guess what?  Who you were born, or made to be, you already are. Any sphere of life you enter comes under that influence. How you see yourself is what makes you more (or less) real.   So the place to begin with reinvention of oneself, is ACCEPTANCE of whatever currently is. Think it over, write it down, pray/meditate over it daily – then express it. Reinvention is the part you CAN control.  So embrace YOU, here and now, stand up for what’s REAL.