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Is However Long We’ll Talk . . . . .

However long. . . .the night is. . . .

Coming into a chosen family will be what someone calls a misfit.  And the label will stick.  This often is a child with a need to know everything and talk.   There will not be anyone to listen.  Because there will be other children, work to do, buses to catch, and excuses given on the spur of the moment.

I don’t have time to listen will be the mantra.  And the child grows to be adult with the need still unfulfilled.  Because in the course of life, there will be work and school, meetings and planes to catch and television.  Now of course we add hand held devices and no time to listen to one sitting next to us.

The need continues in those born with the desire to learn and talk but there is no matching soul with a similar need where we are. The sweet hours of the night are filled with the best conversations, though silent they be.  No matter the fatigue of the soul, the mind conversations are filled with wonder and appreciation as we prepare for conference.    

I awoke with the words, however long the night is,  and wondered perhaps I read them someplace.  Years of research never found them anywhere.  It proved to me again,  that we are not abandoned.    It is included in Psalms of Love. . . on Amazon.  Get it for the one you love. . . .

 However long. . . .

However long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.
A tongue dismembered from its throat
is punishment too severe
to be humane.

It has taken a life of silence
to filter through its members;
lessons enough for the toughest skin to break.

I have marched with your words
through endless tasks,
through nights not filled with magic.
And heard the harangue from compressed lips
tearing even the plea of forgiveness from Me.

Now I promise.
In the stillness of the life you know
I will come for you. In the light of the night
I will make my way
and no walls will bar my entry.

I will sit the night and across the table
a hand will clasp the one you call your own.
And in the magic of words spoken
I will listen to the story built to house
lives of wonder. 

It has taken too long.

And we, the each, will speak and listen
and as the words flow like rivers
toward their delta, in ribbons of courage,
we will stay the night.    

And however long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.                                                                                Nightwatch
by Claudia Hallissey

We will sit and talk
by John Holmes

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Virtue In The Doing. . . .

The Keys Of The Kingdom. . . . (In the conversation I mention about the satisfaction in the doing of what most consider work with my brother Stanley, and he said I hold the keys of the kingdom,  in my terminus I see the wisdom of this. 

I was told to ‘do and you will be shown how’ and a lifetime of telling myself that ‘with a little bit of practice it will be perfect.’  Much was never perfect, but I became addicted to learning and a lifetime was lived learning, giving me a joy in the doing of it all.

And giving rise to the comment from my mother in law that I did so many things so well that  the rest of us would be happy with just one of them.   My addiction was a curse as well as a blessing for various reasons.  And being taken for granted was one because it was all fun for me so  they thought. 

Learning still involves work and sweat and many did not see this.   But regardless, I was the winner for sure.  And my corner of the world blossomed with the passion of my love for this earth I  still think is the best classroom ever.   Please be better stewards than my generation.   Nature’s wounds will forever be scars on our memories.)

( from a previous post of 2018 I edit). . .  My good friend appeared at the door and said you have to learn to play and we start now.  Alas, another argument begun about our differences , proving again opposites can be friends.

It is my good fortune and sometimes a curse to have the ability to view and discern behavior.  Because I see clearly what is one man’s meat is an other’s poison.

People approach work and play differently.  I watched our sons grow and in process changed attitudes.  Mowing lawns, chore, but cleaning the garage, therapeutic with a ‘look what I found!’  Planting flowers with their Latin names an art and school homework eagerly approached as to subject.

With the youngest I looked forward to making a hockey rink every week after Christmas.  I happily stood in below freezing weather and spraying but 2 a.m. was my last spraying I shouted!  I somehow related to my elderly neighbor who sprayed with hose and nozzle in the summer for hours.  There is something spiritual about watering whether ice rink or garden.

One inlaw daughter with her artistic talent makes brussel  sprouts look awesome.  Another can make tired furniture look new even with ongoing construction.  Coupling these details with their professional talents make these an extension of their work.

Where is learned the virtue of labor and beauty in the doing?  The magic of it all is in the heart.  It is approaching the place in mind that says all is play because the body is actualizing the mind’s intent and therein lies the beauty.

Fortunate you are if someone loved you that you with love are remembering and teaching.  The memory comes alive at sometime and we pay it forward.  Some have not known it but we can be the memory for their future.

A brother and I discussed this and he said sis,  you have found the keys of the kingdom, haven’t you?  There is no more than this in its deepest.  It is all art in the making.  My Mentor said that the fields are ready and the call is out for the vineyards.  There is virtue in the labor and beauty in the doing.

A Belief System. . . (an excerpt). . .

The answers will be forever hidden
in a place no one chooses to look;
the hearts and minds of those
who love this earth with passion.
Surprised they will be
to see in the palm of their hand

the keys of the kingdom . . .

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Sometimes. . . words are not helpful. . .

Even unto this day, I am surprised  when  memory pops up to be dealt with though never a hint as to its depth.  Where has it been keeping itself?  No doubt in the catacombs along with my ancient self.

It is  somewhere in the journals I am sure.  I just spent too much energy looking for something that memory will serve just as well.  It was a Sunday evening and we had just left an open house affair.  It was a  holiday affair with decorations still up.  It was getting dark and foggy and nothing seemed familiar.

I really  don’t know where I am, my  mate said.  David was in the hospital and soon they would be closing to visitors.  Things remained unfamiliar and we were getting anxious.  Out of nowhere appeared a vintage vehicle slowing beside us.  I remember clearly was that the car was squarely cut like my drawing.

This spare looking man with a spare sounding voice asked need help?  My husband answered that we were going to Ford Hospital but we were lost.  He seemed to know that and said loudly, follow me.  And we did.  The vehicle remained in front of us, and in a short time the streets became familiar, lights and all, and we waved to the man with a salute and he saluted back and waved us on.

And with a swerve to heaven knows where, he was gone.  Square vehicle and spare man.

In the course of living and learning, one knows when to keep still.  There are some things that have no explanation and trying just further complicates relationships.  To attempt to explain would need more explanation of what makes you think that and how do you know?

Unless life has been one of sharing thought, some things are better left for self revelation.  And in time, all things are revealed.

My  Father’s  House. . .

I lumber about the edges of my father’s house.
The corridors stretch empty before me.
Doors stand ajar, impatient for my knock.

Yet I hesitate, for I live in a familiar room,
knowing its nooks and my constructed partitions
yield only to my touch.  I know too,
where the edges are not tightly sealed,
where winds sneak through
disturbing my zeitgeist.
I know at what time of day to avoid those edges.

But woolen socks do not a winter break,
nor spring tempered by autumn winds.
Here in my father’s house are rooms unexplored
with answers to questions man dares not ask.

It was promised once that a room
would be prepared but went unexplained
because the question went unasked.
No one wondered how these rooms differed.

Shadows follow, casting patterns
similar to our habits, dressed in symbols
disguising our thoughts.
Furnishing the rooms will be the shapes of our days,
colored by glass prisms reflecting us.

The heart’s yearning impresses the mind’s eye
and doors swing wide.  Worlds spill upon worlds,
breathless, intoxicating in their newness.
Yet in a moment, their familiarity is viewed
with the reaffirming recognition

of our god eyes.

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The Bread of Freedom is Truth. . . .

It is an open question, not the only one,  but a question as to how we learn something.  Since I hold several truths as self evident, and one of them is life  everlasting, then prior lifetimes have taught me much.  And some lifetimes lead to longer sleeptimes, or time outs, than others with no learning.

My mother recognized me for my galactic wanderings and philosophy when she was  in death throes,  and told me she would have difficulty with what I knew.   And then told me when I asked if she saw Papa, said he is just waking up.  He died decades earlier.  When I asked if she saw our David,  she flicked  her wrist and said I go out too far.  I then knew she  was listening to the teachers.

When a child, I learned early what not to say what I thought.  A beloved grandson (years into talking) convinced me it was time I said out loud how it is with me.  There are many of us about with what I call Jenny genes, the persevering ones that don’t give up in fear of high water.  Many have folded their wings as youngers and said I can’t do this.  Others we have said goodbye to at different altars and bled quietly.  No directions are written for parents whose children die.  Who wishes to author that book of experience?

I have tried hard not to break rice bowls that hold life’s enrichment.  I wish to make it a dinner sized bowl to include bread which is a freedom’s truth, a life giver and not taker.

 Bread for the Day. . . . .  

March 16, ’86  . . .All reality is a preferential viewpoint.  All reality is a preferred judgment and yet so incredibly real  and so compatible that it all works. 

28 mar ’86—I have learned that if good,  (making life better) is not done where I am, it is not done elsewhere.  Do it now for there will not be this particular chance nor these favorable circumstances.

Apr 01,’86. . . the world is a nothing of itself.  It is a something only when we perceive it with our own particular perspective.

Apr 3,’86. . .Freedom of choice is a responsibility.  It is also a sacrament.

14 May,’86. . .To- build an entire life on the premise that you must  always look fashionable though the package is empty, means that you run from the fact that others will discover this also.

03 June,’86. . .Manipulation is a scheme to allow one to gain a point of power and hold it.  It is the boot sitting on the head.  It is not the shoulders of the manipulator where the workload rests.  It is on whom the boot sits.

July 01,’86. . . quantum, sumus, scimus. . . We are what we know.  Knowing, my friend, is different than thinking.   To know means you have gone the route, foot by foot.

If we do not understand the wind, we will be caught in the whirlwind.

All times and every time. . . There is no philosophy possible where fear of consequences is a stronger principle than love of truth. . . .john stuart mill’s theory was burned it into my brain and then my heart. .

14 July,’86. . . What it is we desire, we often get in spades.   When trophies do not hang on walls,  they are  laid heavy on  the heart.

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The twig bent. . from where I come. . .

I have delayed posting because of ill health.  Also because I wondered if what I have been involved in has been so much busy work.  At times we have to confront and reassess.  And because I am heavy with verbiage,  there is much verification.  Not all bad and some even passable.  I have written on this subject of thought before but feel it necessary to repeat.  To think is a real gift given and work it is.   It is a practice most avoid.

I remember three compliments given taken to heart.  My brother in law, who said he liked asking me questions because he knew I researched and young friend Mark who said he saw me with only one face, never changing from private to public and our David who when he received his phi beta kappa key turned and gave it to me because he said I earned it because I never closed the books.

Since I am in the decade leading to a hundred years, I take stock in reading journal entries.  I have to because I cannot believe this life.

January 7, 1988   journal . . . I write,  Cannot sleep after reading Albert Schweitzer and the section on parallel lives, and Buddha with no satisfaction.  I read what others were thinking but nothing new.  I left the book with the feeling that not a one of those learned men spoke with any authority.  This is not to dismiss the good that they did in life at all.

But none had experienced anything to have them think other than what was rote.  Nothing original. No one said that when he experienced what was written resulted in new thought. Or if disagreeing, why?   What if anything rocked the brain’s marbles into new thought.  It amounted to compilation of thought as a lump of clay and dead.

The rote delivered was that Jesus was not influenced by Buddha.  Even considering the times and their own progression among humans, we learned  we are the sum of who has gone before us.  Just as Buddha also had something happen in his enlightenment under the Bo tree.   Who is self made?

How could Jesus not be influenced, whether by having an open mind at birth or whether at baptism his head or mind was opened?  Or as a young man making his way from place to place where Sages puzzled the sacred arguments with no closure, he must have concluded causes for man’s lack of progress? 

What I hunger for is someone to say because of this happening, my thinking changed and so my life.  I do not wish to dismantle illusions for many are legitimate and necessary.  I have come to conclusions wrought by footwork, muscle and heart and cosmic intervention to have my body and limbs seize on me. 

I see also those in power were not even vetted for common sense.  Who play on the fears of common man who have not been encouraged to think on their own.    All that is required is for their hard earned dollars to line the pockets of fear mongers who promise to take care of them so they pocket more workers’ dollars.

Questions we should always ask of ourselves and others.  And take the time necessary to think them through.    Is it life giving or life taking.?  There is no argument with the answers, now is there?  As complicated or simple as we are able to think.  But listen carefully to how you answer. 

May you walk in good conscience, deeply rooted.  In whatever world you walk in.

 

photo taken by
Kathy Qualiana of my brother,
her father, Stanley

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I Take Your Hand. . .

 

0bservations from an almost 50 year old mother to 3 sons in their late twenties. . . Journaled in June of 1980—— now an aged, almost 91 mother with a very tired head and a compromised immune system sporting a half dozen conditions ready for a nap . . . May, 2022

As a mother, it never occurred to me to ask them if their homework was done.  That was their responsibility.

They never asked if the laundry was done.  That was my responsibility.

Clothes were never a priory with me.  The boys wore long or short sleeve jerseys with khaki pants.  So if they went missing and the police were called, I would not appear dim but could tell them what they wore.  Not the colors,  but the cut of the cloth.

I remember always their joys, their agonies and their laughter and talks.  Memories are the bridge to the futures of progeny.  Best we clean up memories before they begin to leak into futures.

Of recent times  we shy away from pulling up a chair to listen  to a  friend’s or beloveds concerns lest we be practicing medicine without a license.  Mostly it is because we are at a loss because of time or just don’t want the involvement.  And it costs to become emotionally involved with an Other.  Not only does one share the agonies, but one must confront oneself. ( ( true then, sounds  like work?  It is. . ))

There is a superficial comfort to be gained by psychologically labeling a loved one’s problems.  It relieves one of responsibility to help solve the problem.  Or just pretending it does not exist. 

A time before television came into our homes and stole our prime time evenings,  we had  time to sit and chat with a beloved and share ourselves which helped alleviate the explosion of a problem and contained  it within the concerns of two who shared hearts. 

Because the burden was halved it did not erupt and was virtue of love salved with its healing ointment.  A differing perspective was heeded and shown an avenue that shared concerns absolved.  Such was the healing proffered by neighbors and beloveds before the technology invaded lives and took from humans the responsibilities and privileges of being humane.

The pendulum of progress will find its balance but we must seek it.  ((I do not wish to give up my library at hand always with my computer.  Nor do I wish to whiteout the typos my numbing fingers display with earnest and sincere desire for professional work.  Each must draw the lines for ourselves.))  Our respect and love for humanity must be our first concern. 

With rising costs for counseling and medical services,  it behooves all of us to render what we once considered our blessed obligation, to serve one another.  Isolation compounds problems into catastrophes.  We are wise to know which ones we cannot handle.  But drama is what families are about and as life complicates itself and us,  we must again protect prime time for people whose needs are prime.

I Take Your Hand . . . 

Come, I take your hand.
We go to places where
our hearts share dreams.

Sometime back, in histories
having no years,
we trod places where paths
had not been worn.

It was a good time,
seeing how we formed lives
with no lesson plans,
loved with no time
and lived fully aware.

We remember now
when the hands of the clocks
tell us we have only so much time;
only so much to check emails,
to see bank statements,
and to note how many Likes
from those we don’t know.

And only so much time
before the next commercial break
and then we might have time

to love one another?

September 2016

 

 

artwork by 
Claudia Hallissey

 

((comments edited by VRH))

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Because of Love and Balance, not Fear. . .

On December 30, 2017 I wrote the following.  I edit only for space and my comments in the writing since then . . .

I sat with my coffee and thought vengeance is mine saith the lord and took
it to say with my vision, ahhh yeah.  There is balance and I will write it.
Vengeance is mine.  And the need for a greater than who I am god was
necessary   because man was where he was in growth and time.  And to
teach this was a necessity  to have an outside intelligence greater than the
knowledge man felt at the time.

When we take into consideration this balance, a growth commensurate with  the intelligence sparking within, all things will be compensated.  I need to go back to Emerson again to find the words to refresh.  That all things will be balanced. 

And what is taken illegally, unequally, taken and acknowledged as one’s own,  will be consequential  because  the internal balance is weighed and known.   There are consequences because no one gets away scot free.

Mentally cognizant or not, there is a measuring up at some point.  There is no getting away with anything.  Vengeance is mine, sayeth LIFE in total.  There has to be this dictum or life in any form would no longer Be.

Throughout the universes, throughout , there is balance.  There is intelligence that directs and dictates within the freedom of choice.  Hoping against hope, life in any form will choose what is good for the All.  There is no ‘it don’t matter’ dictum.  It all matters and  consequences are attached, individually and collectively.

The reason is growth and there is nothing junked.  Everything is itemized and noted and destined for good. Or we would no longer Be.

I am not credentialed and do not have the proper words.  In January, 2014 I wrote that Intelligence was the primary factor of all Universes.  Nothing taken for granted as a non life because the least seemingly alive has what is still an unknown to look for. It holds desire within to unite with Life and ultimately grow to other forms of intelligence, other forms of life.  I wrote of God In A Rock.

((I see the vengeance is mine concept as life begetting life, not out of anger or fear or desire to best the impossible.  But to allow growth and ultimate life in the best capacity.  And what that capacity will be, we do not know. 

Having ventured onto this particular journey’s path, this step was the eventual one to be taken.  It is not the only path nor only journey, but just as history has shown man’s footwork,  nothing new seemingly is changed, just costumes and language. 

Though physically unfit for this journey,  hopefully please, my intent  articulate.))

 

 

 

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The Cost Of War. . .don’t get me started. . .

The Cost Of War. . .Knotted Family Ties. . .

She was little more than a toddler.  She was plain, even mousy by standards of beauty deemed for the very few.  Stringy hair, hazel eyes with poor sight even and not the porcelain English complexion esteemed by her heritage.  Left with her brother in Scotland while her mother set out for Canada to set up housekeeping for a husband wounded in the first world war and sent to a Toronto hospital for care. Left too long for the toddler, for when she and her brother were sent to travel the ocean with hired friends, she arrived to find herself no longer the center of interest.

Arriving to find a new sister, with blue eyes, curly blond locks and a porcelain skin already called ‘doll’ because of her exquisite English heritage.  Welcomed the first sister was with acknowledgment that she was a big sister to look out for the ‘doll’.  Her cry was ‘I’m little, too!’ and would be for almost a hundred years.

Heartbreaking, but pathetic also, to the generations listening powerless to untie the knots that were tied by circumstances only those who tied them could untie.  To hear an octogenarian  begin every explanation of her life with those words, ‘I’m little, too!’ and need to be parented by everyone regardless of age was an uncomfortable position for everyone.   Requiring always to be center, even when birthing her only child and stealing from his father the parental love and caring necessary for his growth.

The girl toddler grown aged never made peace even with her own son.  Always displaced she was, shunted aside for every newly minted child coming into the family.  Hers was a life of pampering the aging psyche forever the child by a husband who could care for only one.  He learned too late for him with no time left, the unhealthy conditions for everyone.  And how what was not done left the shouldering of burdens on the unsuspecting coming into the family.

We learn ‘suffer the little children’ with the words taking root and no one thinking that the conditions of the beatitude would take forever to unearth.  No one thought we would perpetrate upon our progeny burdens that would make leaden their feet and prevent growth.  We would fertilize beliefs that we must assuage the anguish of the ancestors and give them what was owed.  Hence we prepare the ground for more bloodshed.

Do circumstances of our lives provide the fodder for weapons of war and peace and goodwill are the two weeks of grace given as reward at the end of the year?  I don’t think that was the intent when the prophecy was fulfilled.  We have to grow up sometime.  Else the stagnation persists and evolution is halted.  Think on it.  This small instance of one little girl is multiplied forever anon.  The cost of war?  Don’t get me started.. . .

Excerpt from the
Knotted Family Ties. . .

I close the shutters and pull up the steps.
I learn to live in my own house.
I stay my time and do what is mine.

Jesus, it hurts to watch and be able to do nothing.

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Fun With An Idea. . . .

I remember walking from the garage to the house and  wondering if my mate would see the work  I did in the yard that had taken me till dark to do.  And I was thinking of the Christmas tree I had once put up, sawing off the trunk to fit the holder,  stringing blue lights and also the decorating everything had required.  All this and even the latter was thought walking the path to the house.  The blue lights of the tree in the new room window were vivid in the dark.

And the thought occurred walking that it was in error that I thought I did these things.  And the error was in thinking that they were done to gain the praise and gratitude of the one I had in mind.  It was not the Other whose praise I wished.  It was none other than my Self I did my best and worked to please.

The scenes I wanted to duplicate were the ones I had in memory.  From where or what world I did not know.  But from a somewhere and sometime that burned into my brain their beauty and with the love for me that somehow came as an apriori, a before that kept me warm.

When I saw this photo from Emma E’s grandfather, who said that the great granddaughter decides whole scenes with great grandma’s tapestries,  adding a house, birdhouse, raffia  and sea shells with very real symbols, I know what is withdrawn from that memory bank.

Important to me is the care given to creating what is done from mind’s bedding.  Lately I am keenly aware of the casual dismissal of what is made and what little thought is given.  And it seems any effort is called creative no matter how thrown together something is. 

It offends me greatly because if it is worth doing, there should be pride in workmanship when done.  Time and physical effort called sweat should accompany what one presents as one’s work with name attached.  Some things are done as exercise of an idea and should be our fun.  Creative presentments should have standards that are measurable. 

Our schoolrooms once taught these standards.  Realizing that many felt outside what was accepted and were singed by the standards should  open one for further study and practice to make better. 

And learn that we are not the only way station but our further journey will yet show us sparklers.

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a mountain top experience. . . .

I had intended to send an email to a friend and instead with this quirk of a mind which is mine, it took to be an essay.  When finished I thought better than to send it.  The reason being another trip to the hospital last weekend in dire straits.

An early cardiologist appointment on Friday morning the 7 th, had him saying you need hospital care and the feeling was imminent.  So a weekend in the care of my Mentor’s Caregivers had them releasing me to my family on Sunday, January 9 th.

And time to give some thought to what I need to write.  The finding (stumbled) and reading of an early journal entry, (almost to the day plus 50 years) had this to say about the road being traveled.  I edit only for space.

January 17, 1973
Wednesday

Been busy at work all day.  Read for a while last night and was interested in the excerpt of Paul Tillich when he talked of the Cosmic Consciousness experience as a State of Grace.  It is interesting how much I understand what was not clear a decade earlier.   Does time do it or growth?

Tillich states that Grace cannot be wished for (how can you wish for something outside your experience?)  Yet when it comes you know that something outside your experience has happened;  not by various names but a something, happened. 

Mine came with the knowledge that I was one with the universe and the words, ‘He Lives!’
Whether that meant Christ because of my upbringing, or because a friend died and was alive without a doubt.  His wife was impressed to call me on the day he made his transition and the only thing I could say to her was that he lives,  over and over.

This was the 3 day period when I felt as if the top of my head had been taken off and I indeed felt one with the universe.  This must be what it is like when you die to this world.  The physical boundaries are no longer and you become part of the surrounding. 

I seemed to flow into the Ethers.  I felt part and parcel of it, a oneness unbelievable.  It was exhilarating while it lasted.  I did not know of new intellectual stirrings, except no doubt about the foreverness of life on a gut level.  And the words over and over ‘He Lives!’

Tillich said that all that is necessary in this experience is that you know you are accepted.  It also comes out of grief and despair.  To this day I don’t know why I was so devasted by this friend’s illness and death.  Except I remember our first meeting of recognition from a someplace and sometime.

How deep can grief go?  It flows through the very core of you and out to join the suffering of ‘All That Is’ . . .

And  the core of you is ‘All That Is’  . . . .

(I have been encouraged to enter the early journals into my blog.  One already through conversation, that few know even scattered religious history.  I have mentioned my crashing world with the doctor asking me to speak to some student wannabe psychiatrists.  I agreed and found a roomful waiting.  And only one had an idea, an idea of maybe this is what I was talking about, the Rosicrucian.    

There may be no description given that matches the experience, but as Paul Tillich said, one knows a something happened, a big something.  It was an authentic experience and in discussion with a Protestant minister, he called it a mountain top experience and wished it had been his.)

This wall quilt surprised me and I am fond of this artistic side of me.  Knowing how difficult it is to stay with a body intent on laying down,  the jenny genes triumphed.  Probably never again.  I negotiate with my teachers for a bit more time to try another evergreen.  

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