A Seaside Gathering of Thoughts

Outside my window:  The sun is rising over the Atlantic Ocean. It's crazy to think that I am sitting on a piece of land that is at the end of the continent and I can see so far into the vastness of the ocean in front of me*. 

Listening to: My husband making breakfast. Ever since we got to the beach house, he's been a force in the kitchen. I'd forgotten how much he likes to cook. At home, I bring him breakfast in the morning and he hustles out the door. At night, he gets home long after the cooking and cleaning have been done and re-heats dinner before going to bed. Here, he's flipping pancakes every morning and helping make seafood feasts happen. It's nice to have him in the kitchen. I could really get used to his presence.

Clothing myself in: Tshirt, running shorts, running shoes. I've been walking and talking in the morning with my stepmother. So, so good let it all go, chaff and grain together...

Talking with my children about these books: Sarah brought The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter with her. The linked volume exactly the version I have. I bought mine in the University Bookstore in Charlottesville in 1986. I remember being so thrilled to have saved a little extra money and invested it in the first book of what I knew would be a collection of good children's literature. I've promised Sarah we'll read every story while we're here..

In my own reading: I brought Lysa Terkeurst's The Best Yes and an advance copy of Rachel Macy Stafford's Hands Free Life. Rachel sent me her book in a lovely box with some thoughtful gifts and I am eager to read it and to tell you about it. I started with Rachel's book because I love her to pieces and I believe in what she urges for us. It's been kind of slow going with the book this week, though. I came to this vacation pretty depleted. Not burnout, at least not in the sense of neglect of self-care. This was more a leveling by forces outside my control. I've long believed in the messages in these books, but it was hard to read them and hold them up to reality of the way things are in my world right now and not be cynical. That's not fair to either author. So, I set them aside for awhile until I can be more receptive to the good in them. 

I want to quiet the “Yes, buts” in my head. I want to hold my hands wide open to the gift of the message in Hands Free Life. I think Lysa’s book is less likely to give rise to “Yes, buts.” Lysa is my contemporary. She’s navigated the rocks a bit. Still, my brain is so saturated that it can't hold one more self-help secret right now.

My "Yes, but" experience is not an entirely new reading phenomenon. It’s happened several times in the last year or so. I read a good book by an inspirational and motivational author who is several years younger than I am. I nod my head as I read and I agree with her, but experience whispers into the moment. I want to pull her close, to share what I’ve learned. I want to say, “Oh, dream that dream. It’s a good, good dream. But keep your eyes wide open, friend, because you can connect deeply, hold their hands all the time, and love with all your being and still, your heart might break."

Thinking and thinking: About the curious mystery of nature versus nurture. I've always been strongly in the nurture camp. There's nothing like my own little tribe of nine to teach me otherwise. It's both, definitely. Further, every family has its weak places, even its broken places. We think with enough faith and determination, we can create an unbroken story. We can't. All our stories are broken. The thing of life is to let God shine through the cracks and mend the fissures so that they are stronger and more beautiful in the broken places.

Pondering:

Psalm 51:10

Carefully Cultivating Rhythm: Usually, my Type A husband and his equally Type A wife approach vacations with a PLAN. A SCHEDULE. Not this time. This time, I literally tumbled into this house and dissolved into a mess of exhaustion, the kind of tired where your eyes twitch uncontrollably and even swallowing takes too much energy. Fortunately, my father and stepmother had arrived before us and they were here to catch me. Our days have been filled with rest and connection and fresh air. And that's it--though I do think there might be a trip to Duck Donuts thrown into that plan for today.

Creating By Hand:  I made some reusable kitchen cloths right before I left for the beach. When I get home, I'm going to sew lots of little aprons for the Montessori school. And I'm so excited about the assignment it makes me smile just writing about it. My friend Carmen, who is the school's director, recently went to a conference. While there, she was struck by what a difference fabric makes in the classroom. My phone was filling with lovely images and I'm really looking forward to working with her when I reach home. I love Carmen. I love Montessori. I love fabric. And I love what sewing does for my soul.

Learning lessons In: Letting go. Sometimes, in order to move forward, we have to let go of dreams and of vision. We have to see how our carefully crafted ideas of the way things should be might not be part of God's plan after all. We have to come up with new visions, ones that are colored and tempered by the experiences of life. The trick, I think, to doing this successfully, is to believe that the new vision really can be better than the old one, even if the old one was very dear, indeed. 

Encouraging learning in: I have not written a single plan. I have not ordered a single book. BUT my plans are in my head (and on the internet for that matter) and we have so many books that our house groans under the weight of them. It will be fine. They will learn. We'll find our academic cadence. This is not unschooling. It's not even relaxed homeschooling. It's the sure knowledge that the environment is ripe with learning potential and I will bring to it what is necessary when the time comes.

Keeping house: My house is a wreck. I know this, because I left it that way. It bums me out because no one likes to come home from vacation to a wreck. I really don't like to open the door to a mess. I'm consoling myself by telling myself that there's nothing like the catharsis of a deep cleaning to push the reset button.

Crafting in the kitchen: My stepmother, Mike, and I made an amazing seafood feast last night. And then, for lunch, I turned the leftovers into a pretty fabulous seafood pasta. Might have been my finest kitchen moment in months.

To be fit and happy: There's nothing quite like walking at the beach, is there? I mean, really, I could go for hours...

Giving thanks: For the people who have loved us so well this summer, the ones who have leaned in and held hands. You are the blessing and you brought the grace. 

Loving the moments: in the hammock. Oh, my, whoever thought of hammocks is such a genius. And I'm not the only one who has been in need of summer naps.

Living the Liturgy: I keep falling asleep with my rosary in my hands. I hope my guardian angel picks up the prayers where I leave off.

Planning for the week ahead: We'll finish up here at the beach and then go home to clean up the mess. Amen. 

*The reality is this post was written over three days. Completely disregard references to time;-).

To the critics

A sure thing happens when the world spins out of control: you know who your friends are. 

There are the people you call when you know there's a need, even if you're not sure you can articulate it. There are the people who stay with you when the phone rings and you're afraid to answer. There are the people who show up with a loaf of bread, a friendly smile, a little gift card that allows a few minutes time in a comfortable atmosphere. And there are the forever friends who live far away, but make plans to come. They offer hope. And grace. And God.

And then there are the critics. They come in different packages.

There are the ones who click their tongues and shake their heads and remind you that they never thought this whole lifestyle was a good idea to start with. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Whatever. They didn't get it then; they can't be expected to get it now.

When my boys were little, I watched a phenomenon play out so many times that I’m sure it’s an infallible truth: If they are playing and their father shouts from the sidelines, they hear him. Over every other voice, they heard their dad. Most times, they would execute the play or correct their position accordingly. They trusted him and they responded out of that trust. They heard him above all the other voices, especially above the negative voices or those whose messages were counter to his.

Recently, I’ve encountered the criticism and disdain of someone who matters to me. It’s never easy to hear criticism or to have to sift through angry words spoken in the heat of the moment. And women’s hearts can be broken by stony silences. Some lessons are harder than others to learn. Learning to handle criticism well is one lesson I’ve taken my time to master.

Sometimes, we have to experience the same ache in different places before we can begin to heal the disease at its root. This time, I look at the familiar landscape that is the negative reaction of someone and I see it a new way. Maybe I do that because the familiar voice that has called out to my boys from the sidelines is one that I hear, too. My husband speaks truth into my confusion over relationships. The grace of marriage is real and alive. Maybe I see it differently this time because a dear mentor has echoed my husband. Or maybe it’s that I’ve looked God square in the eye and finally recognized that to respond in the old way — to let someone’s criticism of me destroy my own self-image and erode my peace of heart — is to be controlled by someone other than God. Probably, it’s all of the above.

Criticism stings, especially for those of us who are tenderhearted and who pour out ourselves for families and friends. It is excruciating to have the earnest endeavors of our hearts be met with contempt. There is no denying that it hurts. There is also no denying that it happens. When we engage in the messiness of relationships, we lay ourselves vulnerable to being condemned by both the people close to us and the people who judge us from afar. 

Upon first receiving criticism, we have to first weigh it, sift it, and thoughtfully consider it. Is there a grain of truth there? Is there something for which we should apologize, something we need to amend? Then, we pray for the grace and strength to make things right.

Sometimes, though, criticism comes from a place of the critic’s sin. Their insecurities, their immaturity, their own self-doubt rush at us in a barrage of ugliness or impenetrable silence. From their own place of pain, they hurt us. 

The response? St. Paul tells us, “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus,” (Rom 8:1). To test a criticism, hold it up to that light. If Jesus doesn’t condemn us, we aren’t condemned. Set free by Christ, we have to live apart from the bondage of other people’s opinions and even their hurtful accusations.

The reality is that we are responsible for our own self-images. Women tend to see themselves in the reflections of how they perceive others see them. That is one distorted image. When we allow the unhealthy evaluation of other people to shape our own view of ourselves, the understanding of our very core is warped. With time and practice, we can let go of the grip that criticism has on us and, instead, practice receiving God’s unconditional love. If we are walking in biblical truth and living lives open to His real grace, it is the voice of the Father heard above the crowd that brings peace to our souls.

July Happened

So, July happened. At first, it was like a tornado that turned my household upside down. Then it was a hurricane -- a torrent of emotion so fierce and frightening that it swept me off my feet. It left in its aftermath a landscape calm and cleansed and full of much work to do, but much hope for new beginnings as well. I thought we could breathe again. But, then there were the thunderstorms, one after another until I began to anticipate a new one every day. And sure enough, usually there was one. Finally, we got to the end of July and I looked up and declared that it had been the worst month in 25 years.

Twenty-five years ago this month I was in the hospital with cancer, a life-threatening infection, and no white blood cells. Hardest month I ever lived and also the month I thought I learned, once and for all, what it was to surrender to God. 

Until July 2015. Apparently, there were lots of lessons left to learn.

In reality, there were no significant natural storms in July, Thank God, there were no neoplastic illnesses, either. There were "just" the unexpected struggles that come with the middle years of raising a large family. There were the days when I looked back on the young woman I was--so brave and so open to God's plan for her body and her life--and I wondered if she wasn't brave at all, but foolish. I wondered how she could have thought she could possibly do a good job of parenting so many people. I wondered what she should have done then to be better prepared for now. 

If I am honest--and I am in this space-- July shook my faith. It challenged what I believe about God and His plan for families more than any other time, even more than that time in August all those years ago. I reached out tentatively to other women who have traveled this journey with me throughout the years. When I made myself vulnerable, when I let them in just a little, our eyes widened together in surprise. You, too? Who knew?

Of course, there were women who knew. Women who are just a decade or two ahead of us knew that these years would be full of these challenges or similar ones. But no one wants to be the woman who whispers to a younger woman, "Enjoy it. Store it all all up. It's going to get really hard." And certainly no one who is a champion for openness to life wants to say, "You know, with every one, you increase the risk that your heart will break." Those are truths too impolite, too negative, too counter to I-don't-know-what. 

Here's the thing, though, about the horrible August: God was in it. He was running hard after me that August. He was standing in the physical pain and the emotional hardships of a bed in 9 West. He was shaping our young family and forming something rock-solid and truly beautiful out of our suffering. We were forever changed--together-- for the better. 

I didn't know that then. I was too young and I'd lived too little to see the plan unfolding. 

A week ago, I'm not sure I knew that about this July, either. I couldn't draw the parallel, couldn't summon the faith. I just felt depleted. And bewildered. 

Today, it's August. Today, I see that the storms that swept through our summer came with grace sufficient. I have to keep repeating that aloud to myself, so thin is my hold on faith and hope. But I do have hold. I am old enough, have lived long enough, to know God is in the storms. That thin ribbon of faith weaves itself through my days and fills my lungs with air when it hurts to just take another breath. He is enough. 

When I tell the story of August 1990. I always say I'm grateful for the fruit that was borne in the suffering, but I'd never again want to have to sow those seeds the same way. I'm happy for the lessons, but would definitely prefer not to learn them that way again. 

July happened. I hope--with the faintest whisper and with every fiber of my being--that the storms have passed. And I am grateful that I have just enough faith to know that He is working something mighty in the aftermath. But please, I don't ever want to walk this way again.

Brave

I thought I had a Thursday deadline--the Thursday before three dance recitals--so I dashed a quick note to the The Herald and asked if I could get them something first thing Monday morning. The response was quick. No problem. Thursday was a long rehearsal day. The weekend was full of recital and company and getting Mary Beth off to Workcamp. I had a little brain blip and remembered the column while out running early Monday morning. So, I ran home and wrote what was on my heart that day. 

It turns out that The Herald only publishes bi-weekly in the summer and my deadline wasn't until the following week. And what a week it was! When it was finally published, that issue would be full of weighty topics: the Pope's encyclical on the environment and the Supreme Court's redefinition of marriage. The print issue is meaty and thoughtful. And tucked into one corner is this piece~ about an eight-year-old at a dance recital.

Still, as the weeks have unfolded after those two weighty issues made their first appearance, I wonder if the lessons of the dance were exactly what I needed before the challenge of solemn issues of the day. Let's look at Karoline's moment today and then maybe tackle the struggle of a newly defined foundation tomorrow (or next week, because I seem to exist in some sort of distorted time). 

~*~*~*~

Sometimes — often, really — our children teach us our most important lessons. I think maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be; the most important lessons and the hardest ones for us to master are the ones that they grasp before we do. And so they lead us by their examples, and we find ourselves someplace better.

Last Saturday night, at my daughters’ dance recital, my 8-year-old vanquished nearly all my biggest demons with a puff of ivory tulle, ribbons and lace, curls and song. She blew away pride and perfectionism and anxiety in a bit of lyrical miracle. I stood dumbfounded in the wings while she made it all look so easy.

It was the 7 p.m. show, a show mostly reserved for the oldest and most accomplished dancers. Karoline wasn’t supposed to perform. She was backstage because I was backstage and because her sisters were dancing. Just a few minutes before the curtain rose on the show, I talked with the studio director about one of the senior dancers who had injured herself in the previous performance. She wasn’t going to be able to dance in any of her many numbers in that evening show. The group dances would be quickly re-blocked, but what to do about her solo? The music was already programmed-in. We needed that time to allow dancers from the previous number to change into costumes for the following number. There were no older dancers available to fill the slot because they all had dances too close to that one. Karoline stood listening.

“I’ll do it,” she piped up, maybe even pleading a little. “I’ll get up there and dance to Grace’s music.”

“Have you ever heard Grace’s music?” I asked. 

“No,” she shrugged. “I’ll improvise.” 

And to my amazement, the director said, “OK, Kari, you’re on.”

That’s how my little girl ended up by herself in the middle of a big stage, all lights on her. And she danced. Boy did she ever dance. Fresh creativity personified, unencumbered by worry over whether she was good enough, she let intuition and talent and training and sheer love of the art take over. Somehow she felt the music she had never known, and she anticipated well enough to make it all look like it was always meant to be. 

In the wings, the entire company encouraged her, and as it became increasingly evident that she was going to absolutely charm the stars out of this particular performance, their enthusiasm grew. Karoline knew it. Her face was suffused with joy, and her whole body loved every minute of that solo.

Who does that? Who volunteers on the spur of the moment to get up in front of a theater full of strangers to dance alone when every eye will be on her? Well, certainly many people do, but usually they practice for months before, and they are polished and ready. Even then, it takes courage to get up on stage and dance. But improvisation? That’s a different kind of brave altogether. 

I am the type who rehearses life. I plan. I practice. I think of every possible thing that could go wrong, and I set aside provisions for them. I am careful and fearful and shy. But my daughter? She is brave. 

She lives life with her arms wide open to pull joy close.

It’s a beautiful thing to behold, and I’m grateful for it every day.

On the morning after the show, I talked with the director. I thanked her for giving Karoline the extraordinary opportunity to experience the moment she did. I think it is a rare director who would have taken that risk. Most people who run studios place unnerving emphasis on appearing perfect on stage. The risk that attitude poses to young dancers is formidable and very grave. I know how blessed we are to have our girls in an environment where creativity and, frankly, the fun of it all, is prioritized. The director told me how impressed she was with what Kari had done and how she much she’d loved watching her. But then she said something else that made me pause. 

She said most mothers would not have allowed their children to try that kind of impromptu performance. They wouldn’t have taken that chance.

But I didn’t hesitate a second. I saw Karoline’s face in the asking, and I encouraged her.

Maybe, deep down, I’m a little bit brave, too.

If I am, it’s because my children are making me brave.

I have no pictures of karoline's improv. I think there is video, but I haven't seen it yet. Instead, these are images from a competition a few weeks ago. Photos courtesy of Michele McGraw

Gathering my thoughts and the images that inspire them

Outside my window:  It's hot. Ridiculously hot. I left for a run early this morning and it was 72. By the time I got home, it was already 85. With the humidity, it felt like 90. Two hours later, it's even hotter. And more humid. I'm not complaining. Nope. There's not a single complaint in there. I'm just stating the facts. It's hot. And every day is a bad hair day. Fact.

Listening to: Quiet. It's a weird week of coming and going and heat. Did I mention heat? Kristin just left. She gathered up everyone under 15 to go to the nearby Air and Space Museum. The idea is for them to stay cool and maybe get a little educated and for me to get a week's worth of work finished in three hours. Because that's truly how we roll around here lately.

Clothing myself in: Shorts. Tank top. Running shoes. New running shoes. When I was in Charlottesville last week, I popped into the only running store I love and asked why they thought my Christmas running shoes were giving me blisters. She looked inside them, looked outside them and broke it to me that they were worn out. Then we looked back at my Fitbit and Runmeter stats. Those shoes have traveled the length of Italy on foot. Okay then, new shoes.

In my own reading: I read a wonderful book last week and I'll tell you all about it on needle and thREAD. Anne listed it on her "Beachy Novel" list. I'm sticky with Beachy Novels this summer. 

Pondering:

from Catholic All Year

Visit Kendra for her thoughts on this perfect pregnant mama psalm. It's her contribution to Kristin's Summer of Psalms project. Click here to see all the psalms so far. Each one has its own free downloadable art. 

Carefully Cultivating Rhythm: Mary Beth is away this week, at WorkCamp. Stephen and Nick will leave midweek for the regional soccer championships. Mike's gone and will return only long enough to gather the boys. I find myself really missing conversation. To have both Mary Beth and Mike gone at the same time makes me very aware of my usual patterns of casual (and thoughtful) conversing. When Kristin walks through the door in the morning, I barely say "Hello" before the onslaught of whatever new idea hasn't been given voice yet. Today, it was all about sewing projects. 

Creating By Hand:  I need some of these Sorbetto tops. Quickly. Because, you know, it's hot. 

Learning lessons In: Long distance romance;-). I mean, I already know a lot of tips about life with a traveling dad, but every season brings its new challenges. If we are so inclined, we never stop learning. 

Encouraging learning in: I'm trying to come up with a summer reading plan. My challenge is that I've never been big on incentive plans. We don't have a chore chart with rewards. I never gave anyone M&Ms or Teddy Grahams for going potty (though I did once promise a puppy as soon as Katie was potty trained and then left the poor child to six highly motivated siblings who got the job done in less than a week). I'm just not a carrot and stick kind of a mom. So... pondering this one...

Keeping house: There is no air conditioning upstairs this summer. In an effort towards frugality and solidarity with Laudato Si ;-), we're not rushing to fix it. These fans are making nighttime sleeping acceptably comfortable. One thing I've noticed, though, is that when it's hot and humid and one isn't employing central air conditioning, it is critical to wipe down and dry bathroom surfaces and to air out bedding. These are interesting lessons and I'm rather intrigued by them. Housekeeping is no doubt very different than it was just 50 years ago, isn't it?

Crafting in the kitchen: Fresh farmer's market meals. Patrick took a full class in farmer's markets and the slow food movement. For credit. He keeps dropping little whole food tidbits of information into conversations. And I keep sitting mutely, in stunned silence, wondering why in the world he thinks this is new knowledge. It's true; my children do not hear or believe half the things I say to them all their lives until some stranger tells them the same things. Click back on Thursday for some farmer's market tips and recipes. 

To be fit and happy: I'm back to long morning runs/walks. And I'm so grateful for them. I've settle into  a routine of about a half hour running, followed by 45 minutes of a brisk walk. For me, it seems like the perfect rhythm. Looks like there some science behind that. I'm also going to step on the scale once a month and only once a month. But I reserve the right to continue to obsessively try on my favorite pants until they fit again. 

Giving thanks: for cool(er) mornings and good shoes. All the pictures are from walks last week. I can't take pictures while running. I love to challenge myself to really see when I'm walking. This is my neighborhood, the places I drive by every day on my way to and from somewhere else. When I'm walking, I'm not bypassing anything; instead, I'm inhaling everything. Sometimes, I can capture that experience on the camera inside my phone.

Loving the moments: I posted the following to Facebook on Sunday, but things have a way of disappearing there and I really want to  preserve these thoughts here. So pardon the repetition if you've read them previously.

“I don’t have any pictures of my first daughter’s last recital. Not a one. But it was memorable. Let’s see... Sarah forgot half her solo, but is still super sure that she danced well. “All the parts I remembered went great, Mommy” The four girls secretly choreographed and rehearsed a quad to pay tribute to Mike’s dad. I’m told there were no dry Foss eyes in the audience. Karoline did herself in and cried with them through the last eight beats or so. Katie’s solo to Amy Grant took me back to vintage Amy and a hospital bed in 9 West 25 years ago. Who could have imagined a 7th child spinning in grace? God could, apparently. I found myself sobbing through that one. In the second show, Karoline stepped up and danced a boy’s hip hop part when he left early so that her friend Sophie wouldn’t have to dance “My Boyfriend’s Back” without boys. She decided she loved the understudy role, so when one of the big girls was injured for evening show, Kari took the stage all by herself to fill Grace’s entire solo slot, doing an improvisational dance to a song she’d never heard before. And she totally rocked it. All I could think while she made it up as she went was how grateful I am that my girls are dancing in a community where winging it and creativity and confidence are nurtured and celebrated; that leaves little room for perfectionism and unhealthy self-recrimination. It’s invaluable, really. And then there was Bee. I never promised I wouldn’t cry. And I think I cried a little pretty much every time she took the stage. And I cried when she was in the wings, whispering words of encouragement to little girls. This dance world was her world—she pulled us in. Further, she insisted on this school when the time came for her sisters to dance. Bee knew what healthy was because she’d seen unhealthy, too. She made us dancers. But ballet will always be hers. No matter what her little sisters ever do on stage, she will always be our prima ballerina. Always. Let the record show that the last time she was en pointe at recital, she danced the entire dance with a handful of safety pins in the toe of her pointe shoe. I have no idea how that happened. But somehow, those pins upended in the dance bag and in the hurry backstage to shove feet into shoes and tie ribbons in the dark, she didn’t know until she was on stage. And we would have never known had she not noticed me crying and whispered into the wings, “There are pins in my shoes.” Waterworks turned off. I spent the rest of the dance wondering where the pins were and why she dared to break my “sew everything—no pins allowed” rule and then tell me about it while she was dancing! Mary Beth led the girls in this family to the stage—insisted on it, really— and she nurtured a love that is deep and true. We are grateful, so grateful, for the gift of dance and, way more grateful, for the gift of Bee.”

You'll hear a bit more about that improv tomorrow.

Living the Liturgy: I read this post (several times, actually) nodding all the while I was reading. And all I could think was that St. Therese so perfectly captured these thoughts. Further, I think living liturgy keeps self-aggrandizement in check. When the year is framed by the life of Christ, each season brings into our awareness who and where He was when He walked the earth. When each day is punctuated by the Hours that call us back to His Word and into His presence, we are much less likely to fall into the illusion that (a) it's even a little about us or (b) that He needs social media or huge conferences or best-selling books to make Himself known. He doesn't. In every age, He is known. In our age, with wisdom and discretion, those "grand audience" things can be useful tools, but He doesn't "need" them. He doesn't "need" anything. We need. We need to tune our hearts to His voice and to remember: 

“Love is well-known and easily identified, it needs no stage and no bestseller status. God is famous in the family dinners and protest marches, in the re-reading of a favourite book to small children and in Wednesday night Bible studies open to the public, in the prayers of the unknown and the faith of the uncelebrated.

I wonder if fame is more a construct of our celebrity-obsession, but God isn’t the new celebrity to brand and make palatable for the masses – there is too much complexity and wildness for God; God won’t obey the spreadsheets.

It’s resurrection, resurrection, resurrection. Bringing the dead things to life, life into dry bones, beauty from ashes, sorrow to joy, day after day, choice after choice, step after step towards glory.
”

--From Famous

Planning for the week ahead: The week will be spent packing and unpacking children as they set forth on grand adventures. It will be spent welcoming home  weary husband and sending him off again. it will be spent snuggling extra long with a certain six-year-old who loves rhythm in her life and is more than a little rattled when people keep coming and going.