For those and other reasons, the decision to make the move was
surprisingly easy. After all, his job would come with health benefits and
security. We would be close to his family in Flint. This was important for me,
as I had spent all twenty-five years of my own life living no more than three
hours from my relatives. That led us to
another motivating factor for the move: by the time we were married, his single
salary could support both of us, and children. If the roles were reversed and
my fiancé lost his position in Charlottesville, we would be scraping by on my
abysmal government pay, especially if I was to give birth to my desired hockey
team’s worth of progeny.
Three weeks after receiving the job offer, my fiancé rented
a U-Haul, which he filled with only his motorcycle. He splurged on a trailer to
tow his prized 1993 Lincoln Town Car, and he drove to Michigan to start his new job. I
stayed in our rented, cookie-cutter townhouse in Charlottesville with our dog
and worldly possessions until we could find a suitable house up north.
For the first two months, we adjusted to our changing
lives. I planned our April wedding in
Virginia Beach and put extra hours into my job with the Army in exchange for
leave time. My fiancé drove ninety minutes each way from his mother’s house to
get to work. He was understandably the first to get antsy with the state of
limbo he was living in. All the driving exhausted him. He told me we needed a
house.
The ability to buy a house together was another reason we’d
made the decision to move to Michigan. In the economic climate, the cost of a
four-bedroom home with ample land in Michigan was equivalent to the cost of a
two-bedroom condominium in Charlottesville, or a walk-in-closet with half-bath
in Virginia Beach. We wanted a home for the future; for the family we would
eventually create. We had seen families squeezed into neighboring townhouses in
Charlottesville. They looked uncomfortable and the children had no room to run and play.
When walking the dog in our subdivision, we could hear babies crying inside their homes from where we stood on the sidewalk. The possibility of buying real estate in Virginia Beach was
simply out of the question.
As soon as I gave my fiancé the green light to get a
realtor, our nightly Skype sessions were filled with talk about homes. All
night long, we sent each other MLS numbers and hyperlinks to homes around
Livingston and Oakland Counties. We discovered the strange things that mattered
about our first house. I never knew how important it was for me to have a house
that was symmetrical from the outside, a fact I discovered after having an
unnecessarily harsh reaction to an old Victorian with an off-center front door
that my fiancé loved. That house did not make the cut. I certainly did not
expect my fiancé to lobby for a home with at least a four-car garage. When he
realized that such a requirement brought our price range up to uncomfortable
levels, he backed down to requesting at least two spaces and the possibility to add more in the future. As debating about different homes taught
us more about what we both wanted, we came up with a short list of places we’d
both like to see. Eventually my husband enlisted his real estate agent to walk
him through a handful of those homes that we deemed mutually acceptable.
The problem we ran into like a brick wall was that I would not
be able to walk through these houses with my fiancé. Between work and wedding
planning and the dog, I couldn’t hop in a car to drive to Michigan on a whim. I
certainly couldn’t bring our nervous wreck of a dog on a plane, even if we
could afford it. So we went with something we knew and were familiar with:
Skype. I knew it was a weak solution, but I trusted that eventually, I would
see the house we picked in person before we signed away most of our lives’
savings for a down payment. This, at least, was what I told others when they
expressed shock that I, of all people, would essentially let my fiancé pick the
home we would buy. But if I didn’t trust him, I would say in response, how could
I marry him? Such words of trust were foreign to me, but it felt amazing when I spoke them.
One by one, my fiancé walked me through the houses on Skype,
his shaky camera never quite capturing the floor-to-ceiling view of any of the rooms he passed through. It
was a horrible way to see a home. I wanted to open each and every closet door to
examine the space within. I needed to pull out the kitchen drawers to determine
whether or not my myriad kitchen utensils would fit inside them. I wanted to
get a good look at the wall colors firsthand to see if I could stand them until
we saved up enough money to re-paint them ourselves.
My fiancé did not share these concerns. I truly believe his biggest care was whether the garage would be large enough. In fact, I would be willing to bet
money that the first thing he looked at in each of the houses he visited was
the garage. A true Michigan auto fiend, he owns six cars. Inexplicably, three of them are Lincoln Town Cars. At the very minimum, he had to be absolutely
certain that our garage could house his prized 2007 Lincoln Town Car and his 1970
Road Runner. He’d have preferred to buy a home with six garage compartments.
We actually toured a home in our price range that boasted a six-car garage. It was stunning from the outside, but the interior layout
made no sense. There were two kitchens, but neither was large enough to be functional. There was not a single bathtub in the entire house. (And how, pray tell, does one wash an infant or a toddler in a tiny shower?) We went so far as to ask a contractor how much it would cost to convert
the house into something we could use. That, we found, would put it out of our price range. Begrudgingly, my fiancé moved on. To this day, he wistfully asks “what if”
questions about the “Grass Lake House.” I still wonder whether he’d have
preferred it to the home we now own, but I know better than to ask. The truth can
hurt.
My fiancé's tours of properties were always too brief. By
the time he called me on Skype, he had already examined the house with the
realtor, so he would breeze through rooms and tell me what he thought of the
spaces. However short the tours were,
they were long enough for us to decide we were not interested in any of the
houses we saw. They were too big, too small, or too cluttered. They were obvious
money pits, or they were situated off of dirt roads which would cover our cars
in a thick layer of mud or dust, weather depending. Despite the beauty of the
pictures we’d seen of all of these houses online (ah, the wonders of the fisheye lens),
each house was more disappointing than the last. My fiancé was impatient, and I
was disheartened.
The disappointment was only temporary. We were determined
that we would not be bested by our search for our home, so we widened our
search area. Now, we were looking at homes within forty-five of my fiancé’s
place of work. The far reaches of Livingston County and even the outskirts of
Genesee County became fair game and, as such, our search windows were flooded
with twice as many houses.
As soon as we saw the pictures of the off-white colonial
with cornflower blue shutters, which was wrapped around the front in a neat white
porch, we both fell in love. The house
was in a tiny rural village called Pinckney, just a blip on the map between the
college town of Ann Arbor and the small suburban outcropping of Brighton. There
were shops nearby: a grocery store and a few gas stations. There was even a
private Catholic school, to which I was certain our brilliant children-to-be would be
accepted on hockey scholarships.
When my fiancé showed up at the cornflower and cream house,
he did his standard walk-through with the realtor. Then he called me with rare excitement
in his voice. “You’re going to love it,” he said. And love it I did.
The house was compact, its walls warm shades of pinks, taupes and blues. It had a beautiful finished basement, and two main floors with plenty
of space for visitors and our future offspring. The best part, strangely, was
the golden blonde wood trim that surrounded every door and window. It was exactly
the same trim that abounded in the house in which I grew up, many miles away in
Virginia Beach. For all the apathy I felt about the other houses we had seen, I felt a heightened sense of attachment to the Pinckney house. I
knew this spacious, blonde wood masterpiece, with its long porch and granite
and stainless steel kitchen, had to be mine. My fiancé agreed, and after
another amazingly short discussion, we made our offer the next day.
Our realtor, the owners, and another phantom set of
prospective buyers battled over our offer for a handful of days. I have never felt
more nervous. I was sure we would lose the bidding war on my house, so I did
everything I could think of to secure the deal. I even wrote a heartfelt letter
to the owners to explain to them how much I loved their beautiful home and wanted –
no, needed – to raise the family I was longing to have there.
As it turns out, the homeowners never received my letter,
but we did win the bidding war. I can
think of only a few moments in my life when I was so happy as when we became homeowners.
Even the terror of being chained and locked in to a mortgage for the rest of
our foreseeable futures couldn’t eliminate the excitement I felt about starting
our life together in this new place.
That was when the true disbelief set in. We bought a house together, and I had still not seen the inside. I had trusted my fiancé entirely from the grainy screenshots and
five-minute Skype walkthrough he provided. For the first time in my controlling
life, I was astoundingly not nervous that I had let someone else make such a large decision
for me. I knew deep down in my gut that the house was and would be perfect for
us. My fiancé knew me better than I knew myself. I trusted that he had chosen well.
A week after our closing date, my fiancé flew to Virginia
and we made the ten-hour drive to our new home. He drove another U-Haul, every
square inch of this one packed with all the furniture and knick knacks we had
accumulated in the last two years. Behind him, I drove my Challenger, just as
full with my most prized possessions and a very car-sick and anxious dog. After
a long day of driving through a horrific east coast storm system, we turned right into a tranquil Michigan neighborhood full of life-sized gingerbread houses painted the colors of
pastel candies. It was as if we had entered Oz itself. The neighborhood took my breath away. Before I knew it, the
U-Haul made a left into a long driveway and I followed suit. When I got out of the
car, I stared at the massive house in front of me in awe. It had looked so much
smaller in the pictures.
The same feeling of awe struck me like a hammer to the head
when I walked into the front foyer. What had appeared to be such a small and
cozy home was truly gigantic. The realtor had obviously not made appropriate use
of his fish eye lens. Empty of furniture, the house appeared enormous and
consuming. Even the ceilings were higher than I had expected. I was reeling
with disbelief at the masterpiece my fiancé had found for us. I spent the rest of the evening giddy as a schoolgirl as I raced from room to room and imagined what I would do with all the new spaces.
At the time, it was late October and already, nearly the entire acre of our new
front and backyards was consumed by dropped leaves. We stared at them over breakfast
the next day, wondering how we would ever get rid of all the mess. Later that
afternoon, we started the arduous process of uncovering the lawn in our backyard.
The next day, while my fiancé was at work, I spent three hours continuing the
work of piling leaves. I had moved the mass of dead plant material another ten
feet from the house by creating a forty-foot-long pile that hit me at my waist.
I searched in the garage in vain for a box of clear leaf bags, my only known
method of leaf removal. In Virginia Beach, we scooped our small piles of leaves
into large clear bags, which in turn we drug out to the curb where they would
be collected by city personnel. This, I have now learned, does not happen where
we live in Pinckney.
When my fiancé came home from work that day, he discovered me
red-faced and frustrated, trying to move a half-acre of backyard leaves into
one massive pile. He actually laughed out loud. “Why didn’t you get the tarp?”
he asked. The tarp? He had mentioned something about a tarp before but the idea
made no sense. What good would a tarp do to bag leaves, especially when there were no
bags? I was angry and indignant. He brushed off my misdirected fury and went
into the garage. A few minutes later, he returned with a large tarp, which he
spread on the ground beside the massive pile. With my rake, he pushed mounds of
leaves onto the flattened tarp until they were stacked to his own waist. I
watched in awe as he pulled the laden tarp to the end of our backyard, which abuts
a small forest. After shoving the leaves off the tarp, he brought it back.
“See? It‘s much easier than bagging the leaves.”
I’m still not sure that I buy his rationale. That tarp gets heavy,
and the process is exhausting. It also entails walking into woods that probably
contain snakes. Admittedly, I have no evidence to support that belief, but it
seems highly plausible. I wear my hiking boots when I am forced to venture past
our property line. They hit my ankles, which I have heard is an important place
to have covered in the unfortunate event of stepping upon a snake.
Another concern I have is that, within five years of dumping
dead leaves, we will have created a small mountain in the forest made entirely
of flammable dead leaves. But this is how we do things in Pinckney, where I
have learned to fit in rather than rock the proverbial pontoon.
It was a long time before I saw our house again. For most of
the next six months, I poured myself into work. I felt a huge amount of guilt
about leaving my job, and I wanted to start and finish all of the projects I could
before I quit. I worked weekends and extra hours. I would have taken work home
if they had let me. My cubicle came to feel like my home. I kept food in my
drawers, and extra sets of shoes and suit jackets in a cabinet near my desk. I spent more time in my swiveling chair,
colored with an embarrassingly-situated highlighter stain made by my
predecessor, than in my bed. I was a better worker in my last six months on the
job than I had been for the previous two years. I would have never guessed that
guilt would be a more effective fuel than the prospect of continuous paychecks.
When I wasn’t working, I retreated to the small room I
rented in a friend’s house. There, I spent hours planning my fiancé’s and my
wedding. I was absorbed with the invitation spreadsheets, the seating chart,
and all the other menial details of wedding planning that I didn’t feel I could
trust to anyone else. I was become so effective at handling everything that I didn’t
notice my need to control creeping out of control.
By the time I left my job in April, I had built myself so
firmly into my position at work that I felt empty without a tiny grey cubicle
to call my own. The emptiness did not
last for long. The wallowing on my drive from Charlottesville to my temporary
home at my father’s house in Virginia Beach was interrupted by a stop in
Newport News for a final meeting with our wedding photographer.
For the next three weeks, I was a wedding machine. I motored
around from appointment to appointment, signing last-minute contracts with our
venue and our cake maker, having my hair and makeup trial, and even getting an
unhealthy tan to offset my pasty, cubicle-dweller whiteness. In between these
outings, I spread ten cubic feet of mulch around my father’s house and planted
dozens of dahlias and petunias to make it beautiful for the rehearsal dinner we
were hosting there. Old neighbors came to visit and gawk at the work I was
doing. The sweaty, newly-returned, recently-unemployed, and soon-to-be-wed
daughter of my father was a sight to be seen. I was surprised at how well I
handled the task of turning into a landscaper after years of typing at a
computer.
All of these tasks left me with no free time for contemplating
the fact that I had divested myself of the job which gave me an intoxicating
sense of self-worth.
My fiancé and I married. My husband and I honeymooned.
Before I knew it, we were driving back across the country to move into our
house together.
For more reasons than I could name, I was terrified. My
husband has since pointed out that I claim to feel this way about everything. Before he
mentioned it, I never noticed how often I use the word “terrified” in my
everyday speech. It happens, on average, four to five times a week. Now, we both smirk when the word crosses my
lips. As a control freak, I am terrified of everything I cannot affect: the
weather, other drivers, the prospect of upsetting my friends and family, roller
coasters, and all things unknown. That made the move to Michigan a veritable
hurricane of things I could be terrified of. For the first time in my adult
life, I was going to be unemployed. We would
be living in a massive house with only my husband’s paycheck to sustain us, and
the thought of being a financial burden on someone was – you guessed it –
terrifying. My pride and joy, my rear-wheel-drive muscle car, wouldn’t do well
on the roads in the storied long, harsh, icy and snowy Michigan winters I had
been warned of. In fact, I had no idea how to drive in snow, rear-wheel-drive
vehicle or otherwise. That particular concern branched inexplicably into a fear
of my husband, the best albeit scariest driver I know, driving to work in the
snow and ice and dark - and just plain driving in general. For the months leading
up to and following our wedding, it was rare for me to go a night without
having a nightmare about one of the many things I feared and which I could not
control. Mostly, I feared being bored and useless, and I was worried I would
hate Michigan when the winter came.
Needless to say, there was little time to be bored when I
first moved in to our house. There were gifts to find homes for and my things to
unpack. There were hundreds of thank-you notes to write and plenty of meals to
make. I finished these tasks with superhuman speed because if I had taught
myself anything in the last six months, it was that resting was a sign of weakness.
During the times when I had to pause to take the dog outside
or walk to my car to go get groceries, I surveyed the acre of land surrounding
our house. Our yard had been beautiful in October, even when it was covered in
dead leaves. Now that summer had arrived, it was nothing short of
heavenly. Everything was green and blooming. Hostas were popping up in places
that had previously appeared to be nothing but mounds of dirt and mulch. Daylilies were
sprouting all along our front beds. The sprouting things gave me a reason to stop moving, if
just for a moment, and enjoy the splendor of the waking world.
After the thank-you notes were sent and the wedding china
was housed, I found other ways to occupy my time. I did all the things I had
only dreamed of during all the months of devoting my life to my job. I planted
a garden on our back porch, the only place in the backyard which gets enough
sunlight to satisfy hearty vegetation. In large plastic pots, I planted
tomatoes, peppers, beans, basil, marigolds, rosemary, mint and thyme. I planted
rows of pumpkin vines around our front porch, which I decorated with tall
planters full of dusty miller and red and white petunias. I mixed homemade
fertilizer from egg shells and coffee ground left over from my husband’s
breakfasts and dug and churned it into the rich dirt that fed the roots of my
plants. Every day, I religiously stuck
my feet into my rain boots and filled my large copper watering can to douse my
crops.
To fill the rest of the long days, I took my love for
cooking to a new level. I made meals that took all day long to assemble and puree and simmer. They
tasted better than anything I’d ever thrown together in under an hour. We bought a chest freezer, and it quickly went from being empty to completely full of frozen produce and homemade meals. I
learned the art of canning, and eventually filled our basement shelves with
every kind of jam, jelly, preserve, hot sauce, salsa and fruit butter I could
find a tested recipe for. We bought a food dehydrator, and I turned bushels of
fresh fruit into dried bits and pieces that I then used for the most delicious homemade
granola I have ever eaten.
And after a few months of non-stop action, I gave myself
license to take a short break. I re-read the books I had loved in high school and college, sometimes on the porch with a cold beer,
and other times in bed, where I would end up taking a much-needed nap. The more I read, the more I started to
become a human again. I let myself feel things that were not the rush and
bustle I had imposed upon myself. My soul exhaled in gladness as I allowed
it more space in my body. I bought a library card and interacted with human beings who also inhabited the tiny village of Pinckney.
There is a half-moon picture window in our second-story
master bathroom. It hangs above the ancient, hard-water-stained Jacuzzi tub, and at its base it is nearly as long as my arm
span. In early May, the view from our picture window was of our green expanse
of backyard. The yard itself is not open and lush like the yard of my childhood. It is
broken up by hordes of massive, thick and exceedingly tall trees which
sometimes sway if there is a very strong wind. From the half-moon of glass, I could see a plethora of leaves of all shapes, sizes and shades of green that hung on the branches of hundreds of trees in our
backyard and in the forest beyond. The leaves were so thick that they completely
blocked out the sky. The sun only came through as a haze of green-tinted slivers of light
that made the entire picture look stunning. Sometimes, I would catch sight of the trees
blown into motion by a gust of wind. Their leaves would shake and the view of their
dark, glossy tops dancing around and exposing the lighter green fuzziness of
their underbellies would appear as a kind of green noise that played exciting
games with my vision. I had never seen anything so beautiful.
All this time, I had been looking in earnest for a job.
Despite my desperate searching, there was nothing around Pinckney that fit with
my career expertise. I knew this would be an issue when we made the move, but I
assumed I would eventually find something that I might enjoy. Instead, I was
faced with the unfortunate choice of starting over in a career field that did
not interest me, or staying home. I
lamented my unemployment nearly every night to my exhausted husband when he
came home from working his sixty-hour weeks. After a few months, I grew sick of complaining and sick of
the search. I informed my husband I had decided that I was going to get good at being a
housewife. “Okay," he said. "But you already are. You get up every morning to make me breakfast. You
keep the house clean, you make me lunch and dinner. You take care of the dog, you plant things.” He was right, I did all those
things. And I enjoyed doing them. But something was not right. Something was
missing. My brain felt lazy.
One day, while I was looking for the final piece of paper I needed to
legally change my last name, I stumbled on a notebook that I had locked away
for safekeeping. Inside were all the notes I had written about a novel I once
planned to write. For fear it would be insipid and meaningless, I had temporarily
given up on the novel and stowed away my notes in a lock box.
It had been more than a year since the idea for the novel
had struck. When I opened my notebook again and sifted through its pages, I
realized that some of the words and thoughts I had scribbled down were
worthwhile. If nothing else, they persuaded me to give the novel a second
chance. And since I had no career prospects, I felt I had nothing to lose.
As soon as the novel bug bit me, I was unstoppable. By July,
I was writing every day in our newly-renovated study. The room was full of
beautiful, new-to-us hardwood shelves that housed our multitude of books. It
boasted a massive L-shaped desk we found on Craigslist, atop which my husband
put his brand new computer monitor. The steel blue walls were hung with intricate silver
wall sconces (a stunning wedding gift from grandparents), our diplomas and the framed medals and accolades of my previous career. But
the study was a room that was more for show than for work. It was poorly lit
and much too big for little me. The stuffy and formal relics that surrounded me dried up my creative juices.
I still do not know whether the worst offender was the array of honors from my
previous job, which seemed to mock my new enterprise rather than make me feel
accomplished, or my husband’s large computer monitor, which made it far too easy for
me to focus on things that were not writing. The monitor was probably worse. It sucked me in to Youtube videos and
Hulu and seasons of the Tudors which I had watched and re-watched more times
than I care to admit. After a few weeks of fruitless labor, I had to move out
of the study because I knew nothing good could be written there.
The next place I tried was the small room on the second
story that I affectionately named the crib room. The crib room, so named because it is only
large enough to house a child’s crib, is attached to the master bedroom by way
of an oak door, and it overlooks the front stoop. It also has the tallest
window in the front of the house, and as such it gets more light than any of the
rooms in the house. The crib room was cozy and petite. Its light yellow walls made me
feel happy and they surrounded me like a glove as I began the painful labor on my
novel. I did my best work here. The crib room
was where I finally decided I would allow myself to be happy in spite of being
unemployed.
Every day, I wrote or I edited. I had always been a vicious
editor for my colleagues’ writing, and it didn’t take much for me to turn that
skill loose on my own handiwork. I flayed my words if they didn’t impart the
ethereal sense of beauty and emotion I wanted them to. Piece by piece, the book
finally became something real. But by the time I hit 100,000 words (the
prescribed length for most novels), I magically stopped caring whether
my book would ever be finished, much less published.
When I brought that concern to my husband, he convinced me
that, if I enjoyed writing, it did not matter whether my work ever made money.
It was enough for him that I was happy. I told him that if he was sure he
didn’t care that I might never bring in any cash flow, then I would be satisfied to write and be his
wife. He said that yes, he was sure.
So happy I finally was. Things fell into place when I
realized that I could write, cook, clean and harvest, and be the kind of wife I
knew my husband deserved. But always looming in the background was the one fear
I had yet to conquer: my fear of the impending death of summer and the onset of
the grueling and harsh Michigan winter. I steeled myself against that terror by
pretending that it wouldn’t come, but eventually, the reality was inevitable.
In September, the trees surrounding our house began, one by
one, to turn colors. The first traitor was a thick, hulking tree behind our back
porch whose gigantic, boat-shaped leaves had suddenly become a sunny shade of banana yellow.
It was startlingly beautiful. Next, the trees that I could see from the window in
the crib room began to sport bits of crimson. Days later, their branches burst
into bright red flames. Michigan put on a show for me as it changed seasons,
and I watched in awe. I had never seen anything so beautiful.
It wasn’t long before the vibrant, multi-colored foliage
turned to burnt sepia and fell to the ground. Once again, we were faced with
the conundrum of the piles of dead leaves.
The man who cut our lawn would relieve us of them, but for a hefty fee.
Instead, we blew them, then raked them into piles and drug them to the end of
the yard on the tarp like old pros. We had gotten good at this tarp game.
Meanwhile, my garden died, and I drug a parade of pots
sporting dead branches to the back of our yard. There I discarded mounds of hand-tilled,
homemade fertilizer and the clumps of dried-out soil that had taken the shape
of their vessels. We covered the dead
plants with leaves so I did not have to see their carcasses every day. After
all, I had cared for them tenderly, and seeing them dead was another reminder
of what was to come.
Then it happened: our first snow. It was early November and
unseasonably cold. My husband came home early to have our sprinklers blown out
so that the underground pipes would not freeze during the winter. The sprinkler
maintenance man had just left when the first feather-light flakes began to fall
from the sky, and within a few hours, they had coated the ground in half an
inch of bright white snow. As the sun set, the white snow outside took on a
blue glow that imparted upon me an unexpected haze of tranquility. I had never
seen anything so beautiful.
The snow has been coming and going now for almost a month,
and I still find it serene. In Michigan, it is so cold that the snow is more
like dust than the sloshing, wet and dirty mess that is Virginia snow. Nor does
it create the level of panic that it might incite in a more southern state. Here,
the plows rumble through our streets before the sun rises, and the roads are
well-salted to guard against freezing. These things are controlled for me. They
happen whether I prepare for them or not, and for that I am thankful.
Now, outside the half-moon picture window in our master bathroom,
the trees are stripped of their leaves. Their broad bases rise to spindly and
twisted branches across which a few fat and misguided squirrels scamper in
search of long-gone acorns. In the afternoon, when all used to appear
green-tinged and dark like a secret, I can finally see the glorious silver of
the sky unfurling behind our dormant forest. The snow coats the patches of dead grass and mole
tunnels in our soft backyard like a gracious pardon. It makes the tree branches
sparkle with frozen glitter. Best of all, the sun
comes in through that large window and reflects its radiant light across the
freshly-shed accumulation. The combination of brilliant light from sun and
snow illuminates our house in ways I never imagined possible. I have never seen anything so beautiful.
It will take me a few months to get used to the numbing cold
and the bite of the frozen air that sucks the oxygen from my lungs, but that’s
okay. Michigan winters are just one example of the lesson that I see God has
used Michigan and my husband to teach me for the last thirteen months: I should question the things that frighten me.
So far, they have been filled with opportunities and sights more exciting and
beautiful than anything I have imagined on my own.
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