A crunchy new 2018

The new day in the new year is bright, sunny and crunchy. What a perfect start to the new year. Like turning a page in a notebook to find the clean crunch of untouched paper.

In my mind, I stroke the untouched sheet. With tepid apprehension. I wonder how it will turn out. Will it be pretty or just plain, vibrant or boring, filled with things I love or those I dread, with hope and joy or fatigue and frustration? With energy to do the things I want to, or poor health. A bit of everything I suppose.

Like every year. There will be the pretty and the ugly. So will the page be how I assign space to the dazzling vs. the dark. Will the page look the way I see it? Will sparkling streaks shine over the boring grey? Or will dark ones overshadow the lustrous?

For you and I both know there will be both, and how the page looks this time next year, will be how much space and energy I give to the dazzling or the dark.

In my mind and with my actions.

I hope I will remember to look at the parts that I love and give them more space. I hope I will have the strength and wisdom to accept and allow the darker parts to share the sheet, knowing they make the brighter ones seem brighter, that they remind me to be grateful for the good, accepting and knowing that contrasts will exist and even make the page more interesting. (I know… I know… let’s just go with more interesting.)

A friend asks about resolutions on New Years eve. To do more of the things that fill me up, rather than deplete me, I tell her.

As I stand on the brink of 2018, I know there may be grey moments of feeling depleted due to health reasons and other reasons perhaps out of my control. But how much of this exhaustion do I need to hold on to - in my mind and even soul?  

For there are many things that fill us up. That make us whole. That make us sing. Simple things. Grand things. Some we know of, some we will discover.   

These are the lustrous streaks that I hope I will reach out to – especially the easy and simple ones that fill our days with sweetness and brightness. That I will remain open and receptive and not hide behind the lackluster.

Here’s to our pages being sparkly and lustrous in ways we would like them to be. That they be dense and real, that all the holes be sealed and filled up with truth and goodness.  That the dark be swathed in acceptance, and the light of that which fills us up, sparkle forth.  

Happy New Year!! 

I’ll lick you till you’re not upset anymore.

It’s been a long day. I’m tired. The sofa is inviting. I decide to catch a few winks. The puppy is nearby on the carpet. Her furry little self blends into the carpet. She chews her toy. I lay on the sofa. It is a peaceful moment.

I hear her gnawing on the toy, or so I think. The sounds gets rhythmic and she seems hard at work. I glance in her direction and bolt upright for it’s the carpet she’s been working on! The stinker has been pulling threads off of the carpet. I am next to her in a leap, and stare in horror, at a small bald area with no carpet hairs.

“No!” I shout and push her away. “You don’t do that” . “No,” I say loudly, pointing at her work area.  “Look at me,” I order. “You don’t do that”. All English. Funny how I never admonish her in Marathi. But I digress.

Suddenly, in that moment I am exhausted. I want to throw in the towel. I’m too tired to chase a puppy around the house. “Why is there a puppy in this house? Why in the world, did I give in to the puppy request?” I ask myself (everyday).

I sit on the floor with my head in my hands. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t possibly watch over her all the time. I can barely manage the things I need to do.”  

I am tired. I don’t want to anticipate her next move and chew. My body needs a nap on the comfy sofa to get through the rest of the day.

The puppy jumps on me and starts licking my ear. She can’t bear the fact that I am upset and wants to cheer me up. I push her away.  

“Go away. You’re the reason I’m upset,” I tell her.

She doesn’t care. She continues to jump on me and lick my ear. Did I mention, licking the ear (and sometimes face) is her way of saying ‘I love you’.

I turn away from her. I don’t want to look at her. She doesn’t care. She jumps on me and licks my ear some more. And with such fervor, I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

I doubt she sees any connection between her actions and my being upset. She is not apologizing. She is not trying to win me over. It’s not about her. It’s about me. She does not want me to be upset. Period. And she is determined to lick me and especially my ear till I’m not.

Yes. As she licks me, it sinks in some more -- it’s not about her. It’s about me.

I put her in the wood floor penned area. I am on the carpet side.

“Bad puppy,” I tell her. She doesn’t care. She runs around the kitchen and dining area, so she can see me. She knows I’m still mad. She whines and makes her strange Chewbacca talking sounds. She does her funny thing with the paw trying to call me. I give up. It’s pointless. It’s also simple.

It’s very simple in her world. If you’re upset. You need love. She is here to give me love. She is trying to tell me there is really no point in being upset. She is telling me to not hurt myself with the upset.

I suppose she’s right. Maybe this puppy is trying to convince me that it’s pointless to be mad at someone, about something, something outside me, something outside of my control, or maybe even to take the weight of her actions on my shoulders.

What matters is that I remove the upset from inside me. That is the only thing of any real concern to this puppy. To not be upset.

The puppy world must be a wondrous place to inhabit. For anger, irritation, pressures, frustration, are all pointless to this puppy. And the only sensible thing to do is to release it and replace it with love. One ear-lick at a time. 

Mornings

I wake up in morning and I sigh inwardly. I sigh that big giant sigh, and bury myself back in the sheets. I want to stay in, hidden from the world. I don’t feel strong enough to take on the world.

I dislike this. Immensely. I think of the times when I awoke refreshed and ready for the day. Ah, the many things we fail to even notice. The many things we miss only when they are gone.

Morning melancholy aside. As mentioned, I dislike this. So I do what any determined person does. Not with any particular discipline, but I try several different things to perk up the mornings. I do breath work before getting up, I try to hypnotize myself while brushing my teeth to be more awake (oh well, I mostly stare at myself in the mirror and urge a more energetic person to stare back. Ahem…).

I have a boom box next to my bed. When I awake in the middle of the night or early morning, my body taut or in some kind of pain, I turn on meditation CDs. Sometimes they help me breathe better, lull me back to sleep or else help me solve all the world problems. Yes. Every. Single. Problem.

Most times, I just give up and drag myself through the morning like a zombie. But remember? I dislike it. So, over and over, like a demented raccoon, (yes, apparently, I know the habits of demented raccoons), I keep trying.

Some days I do a little yoga. This morning I try a few sun salutations. The puppy climbs on my back. She thinks I am upset and starts licking my ear. She licks ears to cheer you up. I fell on the floor some time back and that was her way to make me all better.

“I’m okay,” I try to tell her. But she continues as I go into downward dog. Who came up with the name for this pose? I’m calling it ear-licking dog.   

At times I think of my mom’s strategy. When she wakes up too early, she hops out of bed and finishes cooking for the day. Yes. My mom often has her days meals ready at 5 a.m. Brilliant, you say? Sure. Unless you are sleeping peacefully in her house and awaken rudely to the shrill whistle of the pressure cooker at 6 a.m. “Why?” I ask her, bleary-eyed, “Would you be pressure cooking at 6 a.m.?”

“I waited two whole hours, before starting the pressure cooker,” she informs me brightly. My mom is a terrific cook and I resign in the knowledge that that meal will be delicious, even if it involves pressure cooker whistles at 6 a.m.  

Of late, the movie, “50 first dates” pops in my mind regularly. I probably saw it over a decade ago and I remember very little of it. Nor does this rom-com fall in any particular favorite movie category, but the end keeps coming back to my mind.  

Very briefly, here’s the premise of the movie. Boy meets girl. Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy. Girl forgets boy (and most of her life). Everyday. She has short-term memory loss. Boy really loves girl. Boy figures out a way for them to have a life together.

Jumping to the end of the movie. Spoiler alert. (Sorry. No one will believe I did movie reviews as part of my newspaper job for Arts and Culture).      

Long story short, she wakes up every morning and watches a short movie of her life. All the happy parts. The smiling clips. Everyone and everything she has in her life, to be grateful for, are in the film.

Yes. She starts her day completely confused and disoriented, but then sees all the good bits in her life. What a gift. What a beautiful way to start the day. She is not thinking of aches or pains, or lunches, or if the puppy has chewed the rug, or the general overwhelm of the day and the lack of physical strength to deal with it.

No. She starts her day with the things that are the most important and that are going well for her. Focusing on the joys, rather than the responsibilities.

Agreed this is Hollywood and the reality after the joy is not quite depicted. For example, does she know that her kid is allergic to the peanut butter sandwich she packed for his lunch or that her daughter has soccer practice that afternoon… or a myriad other complications…

For even if there are a zillion other complications, she has still started her day with a smile and joy and gratitude for the things that are going well in her life and therein lies her strength, her perspective of her world. I can’t help imagine there must be much power and hope in starting a day such. Even the worst day. That would be a perspective worth putting into place. Demented raccoon, or otherwise.

We may be more same than we think we are…

Book club tomorrow -- I make a note. It’s been a while. I think of our last meeting in August. It is a beautiful summer evening and we sit outside, under the trees, in the fresh summer breeze.

The conversation veers to the Powerball which is over 700 million. The conversation moves to how much good at least part of the money can be put to. A friend asks what each of us would do if we won. We are a small group of five. Nobody has a lottery ticket, but 700 million is swiftly disbursed. 

A friend knows exactly where she would want her wins to go -- on diversity education and reform. She speaks passionately against discrimination and how much needs to happen. She is white American and states emphatically that reform needs to come from white Americans for it to matter. Everybody agrees. Everybody has something to add. 

Oddly I am quiet. I am the only one who is brown. I am the only one with an accent.

And although I have plenty of opinions and plenty to say. I am quiet. My friend continues to talk passionately about discrimination and when she catches a breath, I simply say I am glad she’s my friend. Even if I haven’t met her or most of them since that day, I am grateful to know a group that will have this discussion. There are many many others who will have this discussion for recent politics have brought like-minded people together and pushed the need to speak up and act.

My friend speaks about a racist experience. And although it is not targeted towards her, it enrages her.  I am oddly quiet. I am processing the fact that intolerance and bigotry affects everyone to almost the same extent. Not only the “minorities”.

For when these unsavory events happen, they happen to everyone, there is hate everywhere. No one is spared. Not even the most white, straight person in the room. There are no individual victims, even if it seems there are. Everyone is affected. Everyone is a victim.

I think of the time I walk into an auditorium for a talk with a friend. My bag is checked. My friend and those around me do not go through a bag-check. They are all white. I look at the guy in askance. I remember how awful my friend feels. Color notwithstanding, all decent people are victims in times of discrimination for what is wrong is wrong and the yucky feeling inside feels the same, even if degrees may vary.

I realize the power of this discussion in a mixed group. I imagine many such discussions are happening in many communities within certain boundaries of homogeneity. A group of hijab-wearing women may discuss diversity and acceptance and bigotry and their experiences therein, as may a group of Indians or Asians, or Blacks or transgender.

But I notice the strength in a discussion in a diverse groups where people have varied perspectives and experiences. And at the risk of sounding overly simplistic and optimistic, we notice we are so different, yet so seamlessly same.

Besides, our world, especially in the US is multicolored. Will we wait till we have a black sister-in-law, or an asian son-in-law or a brown spouse or a gay kid, to be sensitive? For it will happen. Even to the most conservative right wing folks. Do we wait till then, to notice that we hardly even notice those “differences” in our interactions? That their being “different” has nothing to do with why we love them or why we get annoyed with them.

Some months ago, my daughter’s friend joins her for game night at her sports place. I have my arm around her shoulder, when another dad looks at us and says, “She did great at the tournament today”.

I laugh, thank him and say, “this is her friend…” I love it that he mistakes her for my kid, despite her blue eyes and light skin and hair. He assumes she’s my kid (and I will happily assume so too – she loves my Indian food more than my own kid and has on occasion responded when I’ve accidentally spoken to her in Marathi).

It makes me think, we must be wired to believe in community based on our acceptance and interaction between us. Just as easily as this man mistakes this kid to be my daughter (and I’ll take that in a heartbeat), based on our interaction and body language and familiarity between us, that is all that should matter. That is all that can matter. 

For at the heart of it, we are wired together by a thread of humanity tying us together, beneath all the differences. And all we can hope is that this thread proves stronger than our differences. 

Once...in an open moment...

Last weekend: I attend the literary festival, Wordstock. As Lemony Snicket/Daniel Handler recounts how he always jots random things in his journal, I think it would be fun to peer into his journal. Sheepishly, I think of my own journal/s which travels everywhere with me, but has not encountered any ink to paper activity for months and months.

I pull it out. I decide to jot down some of the interesting quotes flying around me. (I don’t). However I flip the journal open to an entry exactly a year ago. At a tuna auction. At the Tsukiji Fish Market. In Tokyo. Before sunrise, on a cold fall morning.

I read it. It makes me laugh. It has a rather Mary Poppinsish, “Anything can happen if you let it…”(broadway version) feel to it.

It’s a silly little story, but one that makes me feel that life is easy. That it is okay to remain open and to go with the flow. That clearings happen.

Today, I cannot relate to the person whose journal entry I read. I am in a different frame of mind. The one that stares at me from my journal is a moment of staying open, taking chances, without any expectations, with optimism, with a let-see-where-this-goes, without a negative thought.

But first, let me tell you this silly story.

The Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo is quite a tourist attraction. The tuna auction each day at the crack of dawn, draws hundreds of tourists, but only two batches of 60 each, are allowed in. The line starts winding around 3 a.m., folks receive a bib, and the batch they will join. They will then doze and chat with other bleary-eyed tourists in the waiting room till their tour at 5:25 or 5:45 a.m., when they are taken in a single file, escorted by security, to the largest tuna auction in the world.

On the auction warehouse floor, huge tuna fish are inspected as carefully as a Fabergé egg being auctioned off at Sotheby’s. Flashlights shine into their gaping mouths, pickaxes poke into the bodies of giant defenseless bodies in neat rows on the floor. Thin cuts of meat are displayed, a small part of the fish is cut for perusal. The scrutiny is complete. The auction is serious. Bells ring. Bids are made. There are wins. There are losses.

Our first morning in Tokyo, my daughter and I are up at 4 a.m. The window sill on the 28^th floor is the perfect seat. We squish ourselves between the pane and behind the curtains, trying to keep the room dark for my husband who (of course) is fast asleep. I stare at the neon lights of Tokyo, my tween texts her friends on a different continent. “Let’s go to the Tsukiji Fish auction”, I suggest.  

“Hmmm… do you know how to get there?” eyes don’t leave the device. My turn to look into my device. I decide it may be better to get more information before the two of us hit the streets of Tokyo in the dark.  

“How about we go there tomorrow if we’re still jetlagged and wake up early?” “Okay,” she murmurs.

Next day:  I’m the only one wide awake at 4 a.m. I decide to go to the Tsukiji market. I get ready before I can change my mind, and quietly ask my kid who isn’t fast asleep if she wants to go. She doesn’t. I poke my husband and tell him I’m leaving for the fish market. He is too sleepy to ask questions. He has a meeting at 9 a.m. I tell him I’ll be back before then and if not, our kid can stay in the hotel room by herself. I don’t allow even an ounce of doubt to shake my plan. The fish market jaunt is anything but important. But in that moment I decide to not allow any of the usual inane considerations to shake my resolve.

I bounce out of the room, with my bag, metro card, broken Japanese and my best spirit of adventure. At the hotel lobby, I ask about Metro stations. The guys suggests taking a taxi waiting outside. I ask if it is safe at this hour. He nods, smiles and tells me this is Japan. I feel safe and grateful.

I am excited to be in the cab, to have ventured out, in the dark, to a place my husband and kid have no interest in (not sure I would have intentionally woken up early for this, but it seems like a fun thing to do since I am already up). I am happy to not have hummed and hawed and created obstacles of my own.

I arrive to find a sign on the booth saying the auction tours are full. I suppose I am disappointed. But not completely. I am still really excited to be there that early. I decide to explore on my own even if I can’t see the auction.

I wave and smile at the person behind the counter. For some reason, he opens it. He points to the sign that says “full”. I nod and in my broken Japanese attempt to ask if I can walk around the fish market, if other parts are accessible. Ahem… at least I think that’s what I ask. Who knows what I actually say!

The guy looks at me, shakes his head and laughs. “hitotsu desu ka?” (just one/ by yourself?) he asks. I nod and say “hai, so desu” (yes). He stands up, opens the door and hands me a bib. I look in confusion. I have no idea the bib is for the tour. I am not expecting to join the tour. The sign in front of me says it is full. He points to a door and says something (I don’t understand), looks at my puzzled face, laughs and shoos me away.

By then, it slowly sinks in. A couple of tourists smoking outside the waiting room watch our exchange. One of them tells me I am incredibly lucky. “I must be,” I tell him, but again, such things never happens to me. I say maybe there is only one spot. The guy tells me he saw many single folks being turned away. “Maybe none of them had a smile like yours,” teases his friend. I beam even more foolishly, I suppose. But who cares. I want to skip with delight.

The morning is magical. My feet won’t touch the ground, else the magic may disappear. After the auction, I walk around the narrow streets that are slowly waking up. Storekeepers open shop. I buy umeboshi plums and seaweed. I sample new things. I get the freshest-sushi-in-the-world for breakfast. The tuna-on-a-stick, all lit up, before I eat it, is fabulous.

I have a feeling that nothing can ever go wrong. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. What a gift it is to feel so. To feel like you are somehow responsible for creating a clearing. Like when on a highway, you want to move fast, and the cars in front of you change lanes magically to allow you to pass.

I walk to the Metro station, I see a large beautiful shrine. I walk in. Gongs sound and morning chantings commence. Vibrations bounce of the walls, straight into my insides. More magic. I want this day to never end.

Oddly, I feel as if I have something to do with it all. Or rather, I do not create any obstacles. That my lack of negativity, or disappointment or heightened expectation, allow it to happen. That I am able to receive and appreciate beautifully. That the Universe is trying to help me get the things I want, get where I want. Ahem… the fish market is great, but again, I need to have a chat with the Universe – there are other waaaaaay more important things on my plate. Really. Truly.

I may be closed and clamped up again, today.  But reading the journal entry and writing about it makes me believe that sometimes the path ahead just clears for us... if we allow it... if we simply decide to walk on it...if we decide we deserve to...if we own up to our dreams (big and small), with a certain confidence and certainty and lack of worry and fear and expectation…

And now, just like Mary Poppins, I will open my umbrella and fly away – but with a torched tuna-on-a -stick in my hand.  

 

 

 

Transitions (again)…jetlag…and a pair of golden palazzo pants...

2:45 a.m. Jetlag must have a purpose. I decide as I stare at the ceiling.

It must. Just think about it. We are on one continent, time zone, whatever… our body is still on another. That right there, my friends, is the beauty of jetlag. Its purpose, is to help us process everything we experienced in another time zone and bring it back into our current one.

Rather metaphoric, huh? For along with our body, our mind and oftentimes, our heart is also in the other place. So staring at the ceiling and the time and space and thought it allows, must be an important part of the transition from one universe to another. Hmm… I would rather really just sleep, but who am I to battle the Universe and its ways. My mind continues to wander continents – beautiful, historical England, vibrant, chaotic, beautiful India.    

My mind moves to the clothes from my suitcase in the corner of the room. It stops (rather alarmed) at a pair of golden pants. It pauses. It wonders. Did I really by them? Will I ever wear them?

3:30 a.m. I think of India. Vignettes of people, places, food, people again, laughter, memories, more people… all flash before the eye. Why must reentry always be so hard? Especially from India. I think of the square peg, round hole piece I had written a while back. About changing, going back to old places, not quite fitting in. Not quite fitting in either place, really. For a part of our ethos, who we are, is from where we came, the old place, but it changes, adapts so much in the new place, that we remain square pegs in round holes -- in both places, perhaps. 

4:50 a.m. I tiptoe downstairs. I find my laptop. I decide to type a blogpost. My last post is about transitions. I smile at the irony. Well here’s another one. The hardest ever. For this one involves leaving people behind. People who you are concerned about, who you want to help, but are too far away to do so, people who make you laugh, who make you remember who you were, (who you still are, perhaps, deep inside?) people who you can be with, and just be. These are all your old people…

6:15 a.m. I rummage in the pantry looking for the chiwda my friend packed for me. Her mom has sent it for me. She remembered how much I had loved it the last time.  I should call her, I think. I can’t help but think of the connectedness of Eastern societies. Such actions are so seamless and easy. And not unusual. Much of it conflicts with the idea of “personal space” - which trust me, is a wonderful thing, but again I wonder if it leaves me lonely in the West. I wonder if I am a different person in the East and a different one in the West. I wonder if I am too “Western” when I’m in the East, and too “Eastern/Indian” when I’m in the West.

I think again of my golden pants. It somehow made sense to buy them in India. And really, if you have an image of shimmery, shiny, sequined, flowing pants, you may put that image to rest. For mine are a muted silk and quite simple and straight, really. Or so I can hope… sigh…

6:50 a.m. I make chai. I dunk in it, the flaky khari my mom has sent for my husband. Neither should mind, I decide. As light creeps into the house and I sit drinking chai by myself, I realize that this may be the first time in weeks I’m drinking a cup of chai all by myself. I think of many conversations around many cups of chai in India.

I think of my golden palazzo pants again. They made sense in the Indian context, and after all, the “Indian context” is part of who I am. So why put them away forever, or reserve them for Indian festivities when I can wear them with silk kurtis?

As we age and begin to accept ourselves for who we are, we understand we are after all, a combination of many things, experiences, and influences. And immigrants, know too well, they will always be a mix of multiple places, cultures and being -- whether or not golden palazzo pants are involved. 

Transitions

For the past few days, my bedroom floor has seen suitcases strewn around, mouths yawning wide, waiting to be filled and closed. For the past couple days, I have mostly been in bed, waiting for the antibiotics to kick in, trying to avoid looking at those suitcases or the things that need to be done for the upcoming travel.

It’s the transition, and the apprehension that goes with it, I tell myself. Oddly enough I feel better. In acknowledging the transition, the uncertainty of the next stage and the emotional inertia, I give myself the permission to feel what I feel. Even if that doesn’t help me get things done, it helps me feel better, in knowing that it will get done, that it is not as daunting, even if all I do, is turn the other side and burrow my head in the pillow.

It’s truly all about transitions. But let me back up a little. To the long weekend that went by recently.

In second grade, our kid went to an overnight camp through school and ever since, has wanted for us to do the family camp there. It took us four years to finally make it happen. But it did happen this past long weekend, and we spent the weekend close to nature, filled with activities and enthusiastic families. Most activities, even if they seemed challenging, were for most ages and abilities. And till about a decade ago, I wouldn’t have given a second thought about any of them.

But a lot has happened to me physically in the past decade, and I am never quite sure what my body will allow me to do. So I did my share of faltering and evaluating and humming and hawing.

I also realized that it is often mostly about transitions (at least for me). That instance of uncertainty about the next thing about to happen.

As illustrated best, by the catwalk, which involves walking on a log of wood, some 20-30 feet above the ground. It is really not as difficult as the image you may have conjured in your mind. And as I mentioned, a decade ago, I would have had no hesitation. I would have done it cautiously, I’m sure, even then, but without any second guesses. So let me tell you how this one went.

I end up being among the last in the group to go. After watching some complete the course effortlessly (including my husband and kid), and others hesitate, develop cold feet, and not quite make it to the end.  

When it is my turn, I manage to put the harness the wrong way. Hmm… stalling tactic? Then walk to the tree and realize that I need to tie my shoe laces, both shoe laces, but of course. Shoe laces tied, harness the right way, I get up and start climbing the staples on the tree.

“Want to get harnessed first?” the instructor asked. Of course, after stalling, now I am in a rush to get it over with. Embarrassed, I manage a laugh, get the rope hooked to the harness, and climb up. The climb is easy. Now it is time to hold the belay and get on to the log. Transition. I balk.

“Maybe I’ll just climb down the staples on the tree”, I call from the top. The transition seems daunting. The nebulous split second of moving from the tree to the log. The group eggs me on and I decide to get on the log. Not bad, I think as I hold the belay.

I traverse the log. Quite easy, really. I tell the folks below they can be as noisy as they want to. By then I have reached the end. Which means, another transition.

“Come back to the center and then turn around”. I come back to the center and then freeze. Again. Another transition. I realize I will have to take a foot off the log and turn my body. I balk some more. I tell myself I will have to do this if I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on this log. I turn around. Slow, fast, clumsy, elegant… I wouldn’t know. I do know it wasn’t as hard as I made it up in my mind. Success.

But wait, there’s another transition in store. I need to push my feet against the log and sit in the harness – belay like, except there is no wall, no rock to bounce your feet against while coming down. I stall again at the transition. Finally I sit in the harness and push my feet against the log. Again, it’s not bad at all. I’m back on the ground. I realize it was not too difficult, none of it was. Except that I had time to hum and haw before each transition, and I had somehow managed to make it harder.

Long story short, none of these things were particularly difficult or challenging. But the gap before each transition and the mental acrobatics I had filled that space with, increased the apprehension before the next thing.

I wonder how many things in life are easier than we make them out to be. And how many transitions, do we never overcome…