O is for O! Cloudsmen #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the third week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti

*****

Sharing one of the Rules of Ichigo Ichie stated in the epilogue today:

"Make every gathering a party.

Don't wait for the right circumstances--a vacation, a trip, a birthday-- to experience extraordinary things. 

With the right frame of mind, every day can be a celebration."

Quote borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie           

Walks, long walks, long morning walks are my refuge. If I were to pick a physical representation of Ichigo Ichie from my life, I'd pick morning walks: solo, silent and serene.

It's no surprise then that most of my poems, writing ideas take seed when I'm immersed in the walk. The walks start the same way--noticing trees, cars, buildings, the path and the sky as they pass me by. I carry on--one foot, then another on a path I'm so familiar with that I often find myself getting lost. In the familiar and the ordinary, lives a world that takes hold of me and my thoughts. I dissolve. So that when at the end of the walk,  I turn the key to start my car, a smile grows inside and outside. I'm born again.

(note: I have to drive to a park to walk. Yes, I get the irony.)

H.G. Wells' words: "Once you lose yourself, you have two choices: find the person you used to be, or lose that person completely." put it more eloquently than I can ever manage.

Imagine losing the old self often, and discovering a new you everyday! The rooster in the film Peter Rabbit comes to mind. Imagine the wonder!

The poem I'm sharing today is an ode to The Torch, a 300 metre tall tower that is a five star hotel. I see the Torch every day on my walks.

Rainfall is rare in Doha. So, when clouds gather in our skies, we write poetry, sing songs and pray for rain. You'll find Instagram posts in Doha carry only cloudscapes when Cirrus, Cumulus or Nimbus come by.

O! Cloudsmen

O! Cloudsmen,

tell me where all you've been.

Show me sights you've seen:

lakes, rivers, puddles, meadows,

mountains, cities, gardens, ghettos.

"Rain your songs on me.

Shower me with your stories",  says

the Torch to the flock of clouds who pass him by

in Doha sky.

Says he,

"Encased in my garment of steel, I stand 

grounded and tall, occupying

space like trees, butterflies, humans and all.

Clouds, you dance.

I glow.

You travel.

I don't.

Yet, you and I are tenants of the same cosmos, tethered

to each other with stories, of course.

Tell me more.

Tell me another,

O! Vapour like brother. 

Help me fly 

with your chatter.

Although, I'm happy 

in my state of matter: solidity suits me,

but every once in a while,

your flocks' fluttery flight 

intrigues me.

So, I ask you this favour:

stories you've witnessed,

let me also savour.

And when you fly 

to your next sky,

tell the ones who are keen

that in Doha you'd once seen

a Torch who wore

an armour of steel, but housed

a poet's heart

to feel.

*****

Note:I read Namratha's poem, The world whispers - whisper back recently and was inspired to try out line breaks after the verb in this poem. 

Does it work?

Honest feedback will be handled well here. This blog belongs to a girl who's grown up;)

Are you fond of walks?

When do you feel most inspired to write?

Do you have a favourite activity to go to for inspiration or when you feel stuck?

You know I'd love to hear, if you'd like to share.

As we close another week of the A to Z,

I can sense fatigue.

Noticed a bevy of typos and spelling mistakes 

in my post from yesterday!

Apologies, I say.

 

Wishing you a restful Sunday.

See you with P

on Monday.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

Dubrovnik: A bird's-eye view

Dear Readers,

I hope you're all well and healthy.

Re-sharing an old post today.

A friend shared some photos of her trip to Croatia recently on her Instagram account. Her clicks put me in mind of the time we'd marvelled at Croatia's cerulean skies in 2017.

Here it is then--an old post with travel pictures.

The poetry in the end that I wrote three years ago put a smile on my face today:) It seems like the 2017 me knew I'd need to read these words today. This is time travel in a blogger's world. I sat down  with an agenda for the day: a tad worrisome: mired in a to-do list of sorts; but after reading the post, all I can do is smile. The birds in the garden who have been singing all morning are sounding clear and chirpy now. The fog has lifted. 

Wishing you all a sparkling day wherever you are.

Much love

Arti xx

My morning routine has adapted itself to the hot summer of Doha and the holy month of Ramadan. I don't have to drop my son off to school first thing in the morning, so I find myself in my garden at six: watering, pruning and clicking pictures (when I remember to bring the phone with me). By nine am, the mercury is shooting to reach above 44 degrees, so I cherish this short window of time in the morning when the grass feels cool.

Gardening duties over, I make  my way back to the kitchen. En route, I pinch a few tulsi leaves to boil with fennel seeds and grated ginger to prepare my chai. The husband is packed off with his sandwiches and the son is yet to wake up. I am left with the gift of twenty minutes--too short to sit and mediate or practise yoga or run a wash cycle, but long enough to meet my feathered friends. I cradle my garam, garam chai in my hands and go back out to sit under the fragrant blooms of frangipani and the shade of the mulberry leaves to have tea with the birds.

A mishmash of house sparrows, Spanish sparrows, mynahs, doves and even the odd bulbul play their orchestra of notes while hopping from a branch here, to a leaf there, then to the moist ground to pick juicy breakfast. I've often thought of buying some seeds, but the birds seem content with berries and worms. Sipping tea, while squatting on the grass, trying to be invisible so that I can be part of their world for just under twenty minutes or so is the most special part of my day.

The birds gather here everyday like it's the first day. Their songs herald every day with the same magic, no matter the news, the changing temperature or the moon cycles. I sit and look at them and sometimes my heart flies around with them--free and fabulous.

It's been over a month since I've  blogged. I've been busy doing nothing--yes, that's the best kind of busy. Cleaning, cooking, reading, yoga and walks in Aspire Park have kept me occupied. I've been in a questioning mood (more about it in a later post--maybe:)

Today, after a long while, I feel like I'd like to write and share again. Birds sing, hoot, squawk and squeak.  They hop, skitter, skip and then fly off. I sit and watch and wonder what they make of what they see. So intent are they on their business of being, that they don't seem to have the need to question anything. No purpose needed other than the joy of living. Oh! how blessed are these feathered friends who have no mind to calm, no hearts to open, no chakras to align, no breath to focus on--they know how to be.

Bird's-eye view -- a term used for when you look at something from above--physically removed, detached, like an observer. Maybe that's the secret of the birds' lightness--they observe from a distance, they don't mire themselves in situations and reactions. Maybe one doesn't have to fly to detach, maybe one can sit and close ones eyes and let go. Maybe. Let's see. It's early days, but the journey to be has begun. 

*****

April, this year, saw us exploring Croatia and one of my favourite walks was: walking the walls of Dubrovnik. I urge you to do it if you're able to. The views were stunning, of course, but the peace and quiet up here (at least when we were there) takes you back in time and space. You can be a bird, an ancient warrior fending your kingdom, a princess or a washerwoman waiting for her lover, or a mother carrying a camera:) Up here, your imagination and your eyes will keep you occupied for hours 

All these photos were taken from top of the walls that surround the Old City. 

Dubrovnik: A bird's-eye view

One never knows when ones seams  may come undone;)

And here's a view that's been painted by many artists:

Back down in the old city, who should I see? 

A bunch of birds--colourful, but not free.

Summer heat and political news makes me want to read poems like this one by Emily Dickinson:

Photo courtesy: Google Images.

This is my hope for you dear readers, and in this hope lies a prayer that I send out for me.
Have you noticed how the words our hearts seek
 are the ones our fingers type so our eyes may peek?


I wish you a summer such as this.

May you smell the flowers 
and always caress the grass

May books be read under trees 
laden with summer fruit or leaves fluttering in balmy breeze

May much-too-juicy mangoes quench your thirst for childhoods gone
and may those fleshy cherries make you cherish the lands to which you now belong

May lemonade infused with mint and thyme
fill you up with still and sparkling bubbles of tender travelled time

May jamuns and black berries colour you in their darkness so deep
that you may frolic in merry mischief of those once-upon-a-time afternoons 
when you hoodwinked sleep

May cold and creamy kulfi held with both hands on sticks
melt more rapidly than your greedy, clumsy licks.

May white kurtas and cream dupattas bear stains plenty
of tumbles and first kisses when lovers had wished for public parks to be empty

May ice-cream carts ring in all your summers from before
through gates and gullies and welcoming open doors
of orange bars and shared bites
and bursting into neighbours' houses to claim reclaimed kites

May you sing with birds and fly with them too
May you remember to wear sunscreen, shades, hat 
and let not your smile go askew

But, whenever you step out
remember:

May you be you this summer
May you always be you

May you always be you: 
the sum total of memories, dreams and dew
Enjoying every now and then --
your own personal bird's-eye view

*****

A Haiku and a Tanka (almost:)

Haiku #2

The bees came in May-

to drink honey only they could see.

Come, my dates are ready.

(~says the date palm tree)

**********

Tanka #1 

Erase my edges.

Soften me, O! Dragonfly.

Smudge me to oblivion;

where I can be you or me,

Frangipani or blue sky.

(~ say I as I attempt to write a Tanka but can't seem to whittle off the extra syllable in line 3!)

**********

Dear Readers,

The date palm trees in Doha are pregnant with ripe fruit now. The first photo was made in May when the blossoms were hosting boisterous parties for honey bees.

This year, dragonflies have been regular visitors--I'm not sure why. Perhaps all the quietness induced by Covid is responsible. I'm not complaining--I'm grateful for such good looking visitors who sit still on branches for hours so that novice photographers like me can click to our hearts' content.

Wishing you all a healthy and happy weekend.

Stay safe and enjoy nature and her bounteous beauty.

Warm regards

Arti

Solo in a Pack

"When you practise on your own, you meet yourself." Giselle, my yoga teacher said softly. She smiled her usual warm smile, her eyes disappearing in the rise of her cheeks, only the shining sparkle of her wisdom shone through. 

I was sitting on my mat feeling at peace with my body. The class had come to an end. Mats were being rolled up, blankets were being stacked neatly and placed in a blue Ikea bag. All the students were in different stages of getting ready to leave. 

It was the last class before a long summer break. To me, it felt like a weaning off session, an attempt by our soft spoken guru to nudge us towards our mats without the scaffolding of her words guiding our limbs, our breath and our thoughts. 

She may have said something after that last sentence. But I didn't hear her. Something about 'meeting myself' made me stop in my tracks. Like a camera lens, my thoughts zoomed in on those two words. The rest of what was being said and done around me faded into a blur.

How easy is it to meet yourself? 

Are we ever ready to make our own acquaintance? Truly and honestly? 

Why do I find it easier to drive to a class to practice than to roll out my mat at home? 

Keeping the raging dialogue hidden inside my head, I  paid up, said goodbye and left. 

When I resist the mat, am I in some way refusing to meet myself? I wondered as I drove out.

I had put my reluctance down to lack of discipline and general laziness. I never thought of it as being unprepared or unwilling to meet myself. 

And what does meeting oneself really mean? 

'Listen to your body', Anusha, my first yoga guru, used to say. 'Don't worry about others, be present on your mat.' 

'How you are on your mat is how you are in your life.' was another one of  Anusha's favourite things to say during a class. 

For me, the words I hear in class are as important as the techniques I'm shown. My teachers' wise utterances keep playing in the recesses of my self, especially the bits that I need to pay attention to. 

Summer is unique in Doha. As the school year comes to its natural end in June, many families move out of the city for good to either head back home, or move to a new place with better job opportunities or to be close to where their children are (at universities etc.) Doha's working population is predominantly ex-pat, so it's natural for the city to be a transient stop for many.

A friend recently remarked how her corner of the yoga class she's been part of has emptied out as many of her yoga buddies have left.

Getting attached to a group of people, a class time-table, your favourite place in the shala to unroll your mat, a sequence of asanas, or even a yoga teacher are all shades of that which yoga is showing us to distance ourselves from: attachment. 

And going back to Giselle's words, only in finding the discipline and courage to make a date with myself to meet me can I hope to distance myself from all the above attachments. Otherwise, any one of the above has the capacity to interfere with my practice.

Being solo in a pack is a beautiful place to be in. 

Often on treks, despite being part of a group and despite respecting the safety codes of trekking (not lagging too far behind or running too far ahead), I often detach from others and walk with myself. It's a beautiful and liberating feeling.

Watching the daisies dance with the breeze, the play of the morning sun on leaves, the dusty clouds that keep puffing out of soles of the one walking ahead of you and rustling leaves are all present like my teachers' words: telling me to listen to the voice inside, to meet the soul that has been given a body that I use to live, to walk, to practise yoga, to write, to cook, to love, to laugh, to sing off tune, to dance with abandon, to dress up in a saree or to spend an entire day in old pajamas, to bathe in waterfalls, to slip on big rocks, to hold a friend's hand, to give her long and tight hugs and to sip hot tea.

"We are not becoming experts.

  We are just finally becoming good students."

Says William Martin in The Sage's Tao Te Ching

As a student, I hope I can use the steps my teachers have shown me to practise the discipline of detachment so that I may meet myself more often on my mat. And in doing so, I can be a better version of my solo self, one day at a time.

Whatever your daily practise, be it a walk in the park, mediation, preparing food for family, writing, singing, dancing, listening, earning money or just being, I wish you all the best. 

I'm writing a blog post after a long time. Bear with me while I flex my writing muscles. The thoughts I've poured out today have been knocking my insides for a few days.

The photos I've shared on this post were clicked in the Himalayas (Maunda and Chakrata) a couple of weeks ago.

Eid Mubarak to all who are celebrating .

I'll sign off with these lines from The Sage's Tao Te Ching by William Martin

"Work with passion and energy

at the tasks you cherish,

but connect often with that part of you

that is watching it all happen

with eternal joy and love."

**********************************

I'd love to know what you make of Giselle's words. What do you do to meet yourself? Do you do that often? 

K is for Katara #AtoZChallenge

Kindness was on my mind when I first sat down to write this post today.

A few things happened yesterday that made me think of this oft-spoken-of but not-always-translated-into-action word.

Simple acts of kindness are ALWAYS possible.

Like housework, you may not notice acts of kindness when they're being done but their absence can leave a very bad taste in your mouth.

So paying attention to how we behave towards strangers, friends, family and acquaintances is important. Being courteous towards strangers is as necessary as not taking ones close friends and family for granted. What we say, don't say, the words we choose, the tone, the gestures, the non verbal communication: all play an important part in communicating kindness or the lack of it.

A simple phrase called 'thank you' is such a wonderful tool to acknowledge someone who's held the door for you, brought you a drink (even if it's their job to do it), called you on a day you were not feeling well, offered to drive you, or simply visited your blog.

The absence of such courtesies makes me cringe. 

"Have no expectations." say wise souls. 

Is expecting social courtesies like thank-you, please, an occasional how-are-you message from a friend/family, looking the server in the eye when he/she brings you your food/drink and acknowledging their presence too much to ask? 

Before this post turns into a rant. I'll bring myself to a halt. 

Well, this morning I was feeling a bit off because I'd not seen kindness where I felt it was due. So, to blow off the  cobwebs of discontent, I decided to drive to a place in Doha which I enjoy visiting and its name happens to begin with the letter 'K'. 

It's called Katara Cultural Village. I clicked a few photos. It was hot and the sun was strong, so the photos may look too bright (the sun here does that to colours). The walk did the trick, though.  My heart feels lighter and the day looks brighter:)

Let's go...

Works of locally based artists greet you in the car park

The Blue Mosque

And the Gold Mosque

Pigeon towers are a fine example of Islamic architectural ingenuity. 
The towers attract birds to roost. 
Bird droppings are then collected to be used as fertilizer etc.

I headed back to my car .

 As I was putting this post together, 
my friend Bhupi sent me a WhatsApp message: 
a list of words collected by The Washington Post's Style Invitational.
They'd asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
The definition of the 'K' word on the list knocked me off my chair:

"-Karmegeddon (n): it's like, when everybody is sending off all these Really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer."

So, let's be kind people:)
What acts of kindness have you witnessed recently? 
Or wished you had seen someone act with kindness?

Surabhi: from Goa to Doha

Imagine this:

The postman drops a letter. You've been waiting for this letter because your daughter has told you you'd be getting it.  She's told you that your four year old granddaughter has been writing a letter to you. You can hardly wait for the postman to drop it in your aangan. Your fingers are so full of love that they fumble when you open the letter. You don't want any rips on this treasure.

"She's learning her ABC." your daughter had mentioned it.

You open the letter. But, it has no words. None! No A, B or C.

It's a letter full of drawings: innocent love of a four year old for her Nani sketched out in pencils and filled in with crayons.

***

Almost a month ago, I sat in a sunny sitting room in Doha talking to the four year old, who's all grown up now and who's an artist and whose art I stumbled upon on facebook and instantly fell in love with.

When I asked her about her first art memory, she told me about her letters to her Nani. I knew I was taking more than just her art to decorate my home that day. I knew I would imagine what those letters looked like, what pictures the four year old chose to draw, how her Nani felt when she first opened the letter, how this story passed from grandmother to mother to daughter in India and then got shared with me in Doha on a sunny autumn morning, every time I look at this piece of art.

The artist is Surabhi. 

This is Surabhi with the portrait I fell for... can you blame me?

Surabhi's art is like her, beautiful and so infectious. Her warmth permeates through each brush stroke.

If I could, I would get all of these too. These are some of Surabhi's other completed works:

"What's that?" I asked.

"Do you see that day bed? Surabhi pointed towards the big windows, "I painted the cardboard it came packed in and my husband framed it for me."

How could I not love this artist and her art?

Her living room, every nook and corner, is so beautifully curated, it was a feast to savour and I managed to take a few shots to drool over at leisure.

The three abstracts on the right are her artwork.

And then there is her homage to Picasso...her brush, her strokes recreating his masterpieces.

These two larger abstracts are  Surabhi's own work..."I'm fascinated by how artists play with colour in abstract art, so I'm trying my hand at it..." she confesses.

I admire the way all the colours balance out the space: the cushions, the screen saver, the pink blossoms and even the mouse pad...LOVE it all.

"When did you know you wanted to pursue art?"

"My mother tells me that I was three when they got me a blackboard to practise my A, B, C. One day she saw me drawing a perfectly symmetrical duck with both my hands. She says she knew art was me and she always encouraged me to follow my passion."

Her smile broadens and her eyes shine a little more when she talks about her mother and her grandmother. I sit on her sofa, looking up to her while she talks, surrounded by the portraits she's painted and soak in the love and the stories of her childhood.

The women in her life inform her art and through the pigment on the tip of her brush dissipate the love she got from them onto her canvas for every portrait I see shows a woman's soft strength: soft like a mother's touch and strong like a Nani's belief.

Surabhi graduated from Goa College of Fine Arts and did her Masters from Hyderabad Central University.

Her husband's job brought her to Doha.

Yes, if I could, I would take more of her work home with me. But art needs space like music needs silence to be truly appreciated.

When I find the right space, I'll be back. Or maybe, another space will suit this work more...who knows.

For now, I bask in the warmth of Surabhi's art, even when I'm on the floor -- cleaning:) Her portrait has brought the colours of autumn (which I miss) close to me.

Surabhi can be reached at surabhigaikwad5@gmail.com 

And

If you would like to buy her art,

you can--

 on Surabhi Art

Have a wonderful weekend:)

See you soon.

Dew drops

Photo coutesy: Archana Bahukhandi

Blades of grass
tickle my naked feet.

The expanse of green
at the local park
is too luscious to resist.
I yank my shoes with untied laces.
Socks follow shoes
as I step on the grass
and let the swords of green
succumb
to the grey weight of my dark thoughts.

Yes, summer in Doha
gets to me.
I feel trapped
in the oppressive heat of forty seven degrees.

Soaring mercury
imprisons
humans in air-conditioned cages of homes and offices.
Cold and lonely
feels summer.

I rise before the sun
to go out,
to breath,
to walk,
to think
and to feel alive again,
despite the seventy percent humidity.

The green rapiers
rip through the web of negativity I've entangled myself in.
A smile escapes.

"Thank you, dear grass."
I say.
"I trample and yet you give.
You are awesome!"

"Spare a thought for the dew drop."
grass replies.
"She touched you too, you know.
I'm here, but she's no more.
Did you feel her cool embrace?"

U is for Unfurling

Unfurl

dear heart.
Let the light in.

You've concealed enough over time.
Memories and regrets
Anger and threats
that lurk inside the chambers
have played their part:
let them out.

Unfurl
dear heart;
one petal at a time

He shouts.
She whines.
They splinter and join.
You shed tears
of despair,
or
is it joy?
Round and round
the cycle goes.
Let it flow.
This is life
you know
like the blood
that throbs
and makes you, you.

Unfurl
and
unfold
dear heart.
Let your flower shine.

Step out of your cocoon:
the one you wove
to protect you.
It's your prison, you know.
Listen to me
dear heart.

I dance to your beat
And when you
unfurl
I will too.

I invite you to unfurl with these beauties today...
'Open your heart to the Universe', says my yoga teacher.
Maybe, I'm beginning to see what she means. 

Filmed by Neil Bromhall for www.rightplants4me.co.uk

Editing By Chokchai

O is for Ordinary Moments

One ordinary evening in August, almost four years ago, I stood in the middle of the gym floor glaring at the treadmill. Tiny rivulets of sweat were dribbling down my body and seeping through my old t-shirt. I had only just got in. The forty steps I took from my front door to reach the club house in our compound had sapped me of my energy. I was angry. Upset at the unfairness of being imprisoned indoors by this crazy, suffocating heat of fifty degrees Celsius, I punched hard at the start button and started my warm up. My heart was not in it. The anger was bubbling up inside and making me stomp on the rubber belt. I stopped.

Looking for a distraction, I brought the speed of the machine down so that I could jump off. I did. And went to the corner where all the old books are kept. Doha is a transient place. People come and go. When they leave, this corner of the compound club house gets a new supply of books and magazines; stuff people don't want to carry back with them. Spanish, French, English, Dutch and Arabic books and magazines pile up haphazardly on a rickety book case.

It was the colour of the cover that caught my eye. It was a shade of my favourite, turquoise. I tugged at it and pulled the spine out and read the title. The blurb promised a good read.

Three days later, when I turned the last page, I was tempted to start all over. But, the laundry pile was growing higher and we'd eaten eggs and toast for two dinners in a row. It was time to step out of the happy fog I'd buried myself in and face the real world.

The book was:

Reading this book changed the way I looked at my days. It almost felt like all the ordinary around me had gotten a make-over! There was so much magic happening around me and I'd never even noticed, like:

• the shapes on my bed the sun draws with his rays when I pull the curtains back every morning. The sky is always blue here (or at least for eleven out of twelve months).
• or
• the neighbour's cat curled up in the big garden pot by our entrance door; the cool soil keeping his ginger fur from getting too hot and his furry red tail twitching to its own beat. 
• etc. etc. you get the idea, right?

Everyday ordinary things that went unnoticed and unappreciated because I was too busy complaining about the heat, or making plans to escape, or longing for the outdoors, started to look different. This beautiful memoir showed me how rich my ordinary was.

'the gift on an ordinary day' sits on my bedside table. I still can't figure out how anyone could've parted with this gem. Their loss--my gain, I guess.

Last April, I wrote To Katrina Kenison to thank her. If I'd asked her permission, I would've shared her reply here. But, I didn't plan this post ahead of time, so I didn't. All I can say is that she wrote a beautiful reply and added this at the end: 

"We are all just walking each other home." ~ Ram Dass

I'm taking the liberty to quote William Martin (I discovered him via Katrina's book, too) here. 

He writes in The Parent's Tao Te Ching:

Make the Ordinary Come Alive

Do not ask your children

to strive for extraordinary lives.

....

Help them instead to find the wonder

and marvel of an ordinary life.

Show them the joy of tasting

tomatoes, apples and pears.

Show them how to cry

when pets and people die

Show them the infinite pleasure

in the touch of a hand.

And make the ordinary come alive for them.

The extraordinary will take care of itself.

I became that child and showed myself the way. How could I show this beauty to my children if I wasn't able to see it myself? I was getting a bit lost in the glitter of expat life, you see. Designer bags and size zero waists were eroding my confidence. That was four years ago. That was before Katrina's words blasted the ordinary into my life and turned it sunny side up. 

I can never tire of thanking her for writing this book,

or,

 the person who left their copy for me to find on that rickety old bookshelf in the corner of the club house.

THANK YOU BOTH.