"The Lost Art"

The Zebra F-402, fine point pen.
Resume-weight paper.
A writing desk.

These are my necessary supplies for a first-rate letter.

I love the scrape of weighted paper as it slides out of the packaging. The blank, textured sheet holds endless possibilities. As I grip my pen in contemplation, my mind starts constructing and organizing sentences; once the pen pulls across the paper, the words are committed--one of the joys of letter-writing. Thoughtful but raw. Planned but vulnerable to sudden shifts. I write a sentence, a paragraph, stopping to re-read, ponder, expand and explain. This is my most sincere and reflective writing. There is an air of romanticism about the entire process.

Letter writing has all but disappeared in our generation. The joy of sitting at a desk under a reading lamp with some soft music and one's own thoughts is something virtually unknown, unexperienced by many of my peers, and yet I have passed countless evenings in this manner. As I write in the late-night silence of the house, I labor over wording and penmanship, encouraged by the resistance of ball-point over texture. I read it over once, sometimes twice, and sometimes end up rewriting the letter altogether. Ultimately, the vast majority of these letters remain unsent. There is little to no precedent these days for such communication. I convince myself that its intended recipient would think the form archaic or might feel uncomfortable with the time spent on a letter when email would be more practical. The letter usually gets stuck in a journal (14 volumes at last count) or a drawer. Sometimes I wonder if I should send them.

Letter-writing is one of the richest forms of communication we have. There is so much more than words on a page. Letters immortalize handwriting, spacing of letters and lines, paper and pen used, and there is evidence of care or speed. People reserve special information for letters. Letter-writing, though it may consist of many of the same aspects as journaling, often has something more. When we journal, we are either merely recording events with little commentary, or are writing to make sense of certain events. Very rarely do we manage to strike a balance between the two. However, when we write letters we have to learn how to give both to the reader, so it often ends up being a more complete record than we might even have for ourselves. We also put things in writing that we may not ever say in person. And in hard-copy form, with the personality of the sender's handwriting, paper, pen and time, those words can be revisited again and again--for better or for worse.

There is a certain electricity in the air when I find a handwritten letter sitting in the mailbox or on the kitchen table. This happens less frequently now, especially with the loss of my weekly correspondent, my grandmother. It's been two years and I still miss writing to her and receiving her letters; I have her last one sitting on my desk. Every once in a while I pull it out and read the shakey handwriting, but mostly I just like to have it there to remind me what my desk is for, once I clear away my laptop of course. I have a ream of resume-weight paper just waiting to be used, with dreams of finding a faithful correspondent again (I told you; there is an air of romanticism about the whole process). My Zebra F-402 is currently out of ink, but perhaps with its replacement I may finally decide to start sending some of those letters. We'll see.

Easter and Spring

As a young child, Easter mostly meant a new dress and the traditional family Easter egg hunt in the backyard. I often pretended to be ambivalent about the new dress (I had a tomboy image to maintain), but the Easter egg hunt...that was something we all got excited about. The excitement would build as Mom pulled out the boxes of plastic Easter eggs, unloaded them, washed them in warm, soapy water, and dried them on the kitchen counter.

Then the best part.

The sewing closet door would open and we could hear the rustle of plastic bags. The motherload was about to appear: jelly beans, marshmallow eggs, Peeps, chicks and bunnies (Easter circus peanuts), and lots and lots of chocolate. They all were divided 100% evenly into bowls (with 11 children, even the cereal was divided 100% evenly into plastic baggies. There was nothing quite so disheartening as being the first one up on Saturday morning and discovering that Mom had actually bought Cookie Crisp, gloriously relishing in the discovery, envisioning eating two bowls full before anyone else stirred, only to open the box and find that it had already been rationed out...[sigh] but I digress). We helped Mom fill the eggs, careful not to overfill (there was no greater egg-hunt disappointment than finding one of your eggs split open in the compost pit), and put each color in its own paper bag.

With the eggs filled, it was time to hand out assignments. I always got the pink eggs because none of the boys would be caught dead searching for pink, let alone carry around a basket full of it. One of the older boys usually got green, the hardest color to find since our backyard was a veritable jungle of fruit trees and vegetable gardens. The other colors rotated around the family. With the colors settled, Mom would send us to the park up the street for an hour while she hid the eggs. It was always a long hour.

We pretended to be focused on whatever game we were playing, but really all we could think about was where Mom was hiding our eggs. Would she use tape this year? Would there be eggs in the eaves again? Of course she would put at least one in the BBQ, several on the roof of the shed, and every color back in her blooming rose garden. Where would the tricky spots be? Down by the apricot tree (since you could get lost down there, especially in the days of the compost pit), along the back fence, and of course inside the orange tree...It was amazing all the nooks and crannies Mom could find. Sometimes we would find an egg and stand there to consider for a moment how exactly Mom managed that one. Every year, there was at least one child who couldn't find all their eggs (it was usually the green and yellow ones). Mom tried to keep an index of the more difficult ones she hid, but with 11 times 13 or so eggs they were hard to keep track of. This is why the Cadbury creme eggs were never hidden inside the eggs themselves. They were passed out post-egg hunt.

Cadbury creme eggs are the second most disgusting Easter candy there is (Peeps taking the number one spot). My brothers love(d) them. I spent several years of my childhood being excited about them simply because they were such a rare treat. But by my teenage years I couldn't take the sugar shock anymore and started trading them for jelly beans. As the boys handed over their gummy candy for my Cadbury chocolate their eyes would invariably read "sucker."

Those were good times. Of course the egg hunt was always held the Saturday before Easter weekend so that it was more a celebration of spring than anything. The focus of Easter weekend was always on Christ. As I got older it became even more so, probably because I became more aware of my need for the atonement. As I started using the atonement more frequently and learned of its various applications, Easter became a true time of celebration--the commemoration of an event beyond my comprehension but upon which my daily happiness and eternal salvation hung.

Last Easter was an especially significant time for me. About four months previously, I had "finished" going through an experience that required every ounce of my emotional energy and faith. I had never before experienced such a trial, but I also had never felt such love, deliverance and healing from my Savior. Those feelings, even four months later, were still fresh and on my mind, so when I was asked to write the Easter piece for the ward newsletter I of course said yes, happy to share my newly-deepened testimony.

That Easter was one of the most peaceful days I can remember having in DC. I woke up knowing that the ward's Easter program was going to be full of the Spirit, that people would be touched, and that my own testimony would be strengthened. All of those things happened. I could not hold back the tears as the choir sang the words "No more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home." I was taken back to that pivotal, pleading moment on my knees months earlier when I was swept up in the love of my Savior. In that moment I knew He was aware of me and that my experience was all part of the refining process. Words really can't describe that feeling of awareness, but I can just tell you that it's real. Every time I think about it, I feel it.

Below is what I wrote for the ward newsletter. A year has passed. I'm not in the same place I was when I wrote this, but those feelings...they haven't gone away. If anything, they have deepened with experience and maturity; they have been tested and refined as I have tried to apply my testimony to each new experience. The principle remains: the Lord loves us, and He wants us on the path home every day. That road is destined to be difficult, a trial of our faith (that is the point of this life, after all), but if we recognize this and trust Him enough to willingly walk that path, the reward is great. After passing through those times of refinement with faith and patience, Spring always comes, and it is always sweet.

****

As I walked through a literal shower of cherry blossoms, I closed my eyes and felt the sunshine envelop me, the wind caressing my skin. Spring is here. Until I moved away from my home, where seasonal changes are barely perceptible, I never quite appreciated mankind’s obsession with the relief of spring. Now, as one of the many delivered from the throes of winter, spring never ceases to delight me. As much as I dread the winter, somehow it is the months of cold and constriction that make this moment sweet.

After my brief reverie, I opened my eyes to observe the many families and individuals gathered to celebrate the arrival of spring. My mind immediately traveled to another event of warmth and hope that is upon us, one of infinite beauty and lasting quality, and worthy of our celebration: the resurrection of our Savior.

The angel declared on Easter morning, “He is not here: for he is risen” (Matt. 28:6). This is the great miracle of life, that the Savior rose from the dead on the third day after having suffered incomprehensible pain out of pure love for us, His brothers and sisters; it is what makes this life worth living. We, like Christ, will also rise from the dead through the power of the priesthood, and we can return to our Father in Heaven and Jesus Christ if we will enter through the gate Christ has opened. There is no pain He cannot heal, no death that will not be overcome, no repentant heart turned away. He makes us whole. He gives us hope that this life is truly a learning experience, one in which we simultaneously beg His forgiveness while granting ours to those who offend us during this journey back home. The spring sunshine pales in comparison to the hope we find in our Savior’s atonement and resurrection, and yet that very sunshine is a reminder of the hope that can deliver us from a long, seemingly endless winter. I bear witness of the reality of our Savior’s atonement. I have been in the spiritual throes of winter, in desperate need of my Savior’s atonement, and He has delivered me. He is waiting, anxious to put His life’s work to use in our lives. He invites us to come unto Him. May we heed His words.

A Grief Observed

Grief.

It's been on my mind for a while now, but it's been at the forefront of my thoughts these last few days. Some of my dearest friends from back home lost their youngest daughter, 18 months old, in a tragic accident over the weekend. I was stunned by the news. It was one of those situations where one irrationally thinks, "This? Why did this happen to them? They are some of the best people I know." But then, it is often the best and strongest who pass through the hardest trials life has to offer. Needless to say, my heart has been heavy all week.

As I've prayed for them, I have felt an assurance of God's love for them as well as the strength of their testimonies. They truly are some of the most faithful people I know. Even their email announcing the funeral was filled with hope; I know they have a testimony of the resurrection and the plan of salvation. However, that knowledge does not preclude the grief one feels at the loss of a loved one (especially one so young). And I have come to find that it is actually through one's faith that grief is most purely experienced and manifest.

After the death of his wife, C.S. Lewis kept a "grief journal" which he eventually published under the title A Grief Observed. I think this is one of Lewis' most valuable published works simply because of its raw energy and exposed nature. In it, he gives an excellent visual analogy about tests of faith. He says, in essence, that it is easy to stand on the edge of a cliff and say we trust the knots we have tied. However, when we are asked to go over the edge, all of a sudden we want to test them, double-check, just to make sure they are secure. Lewis, the great Christian apologist, found himself testing the knots he had written so much about as he worked through his grief. He was disheartened at the need to deconstruct his faith and rebuild because of his feelings.

"What would H. herself think of this terrible little notebook to which I comeback and back? Are these jottings morbid? … I not only live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief. Do these notes merely aggravate that side of it? Merely confirm the monotonous, treadmill march of the mind round one subject? But what am I to do? I must have some drug, and reading isn’t a strong enough drug now. By writing it all down (all?—no: one thought in a hundred) I believe I get a little outside it. … In so far as this record was a defence against total collapse, a safety-valve, it has done some good."

In my immaturity, when I first read this book I contracted the feelings of grief and hopelessness. I concluded that his grief would not have been so deep had he had knowledge of the plan of salvation. As I have gained experience, I have come to understand that hopelessness and grief are two separate emotions but are sometimes contracted because loss is such a test of faith, and as we grieve we also tend to address our faith (or crisis of faith), as Lewis did. The knowledge we have of what comes after this life helps us to separate out those two feelings and can lessen and ultimately elminate the hopelessness that often accompanies grief, but it does not take away the feeling of grief itself.

It brings to mind a photograph I saw of President Hinckley at his wife's funeral. The first time I saw it, my heart swelled and a tear or two escaped. The sorrow etched on his face for the loss of his companion touched my heart. There sat a prophet of God, who knows better than any of us about the plan of salvation, heartbroken. From there, my thoughts naturally travel to the Savior himself. Christ, our perfect mentor, wept with grief at the loss of Lazarus, his friend, just before he raised him from the dead (John 11:32-44). He knew he had the power to raise him, and yet he mourned with his friends.

D&C 42:45 says "Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die..." Mosiah 18:9 outlines our baptisimal covenants which include being willing to mourn with those that mourn. It may not seem so revelatory to those reading, but for me the realization that we are supposed to mourn the loss of those we love was both surprising and liberating. I went in search of what grief really entailed. I found a great statement by Elder Lance B. Wickman. He said:

grief is the natural by-product of love. One cannot selflessly love another person and not grieve at his suffering or eventual death. The only way to avoid the grief would be to not experience the love; and it is love that gives life
its richness and meaning.

President Hinckley loved his wife deeply. It follows then that he would feel her loss deeply. The Savior loved perfectly; of course he wept at the death of his friend. This is grief felt with faith. In the past, I have sometimes felt unjustified or foolish in feeling loss so deeply, but to revisit my own experiences with these thoughts in mind changes things. It makes sense: still, twelve years later, whenever I hear a violin playing, I always think of Grandpa Willardson, and at times feel a slight stab of loneliness upon hearing a haunting melody. At the ranch, I always, always think of Grandpa Bradshaw and wish we were all back up on Court Rock or in the basment playing PIT or at the general store buying colorless soda and fireworks. When I come home to a rare piece of handwritten mail, I can't help but think of Grandma and our weekly, handwritten letters. When I smell strong aftershave, I think fondly of Uncle Doug. I love each of these family members dearly and deeply; it is not a lack of faith or selfishness that fuels me missing them but, rather, love.

It makes me think of our Heavenly Father's farewell to each of us as we came to this earth. How many tears did we shed through our excitement because of the separation that was about to occur, even though it is for a relatively short amount of time? And how excited is our Heavenly Father to welcome us back home? The idea of grief being a feeling God himself feels sanctifies those feelings for me. It brings a sense of holiness to it all.

I was not able to attend the funeral today but my parents were. They confirmed what I already knew: it was of course heartbreaking, but it was also full of faith, hope and love. And I think that's exactly how it's supposed to be.

I've been tagged by Cherie

Here it goes - 6 unique things about me:

1. I am very wary of heights, bridges, metro grates, and climbing ladders, but absolutely love rollercoasters and cliff jumping. For rollercoasters. the harrier the better.

2. I tan no matter the SPF or frequency of sunscreen applied.

3. When I was a senior in high school I could bench press 150 pounds.

4. I've been on BBC television. I was a victim of a pretty severe jellyfish attack during college (go ahead, laugh away) and was interviewed about my experience for a segment on an experimental jellyfish-repelling sunscreen. (Close the door, I can still hear you laughing...)

5. I've been knocked out twice in my life (and therefore have had two concussions): once from falling off a skateboard in a parking lot (I have terrible balance, which is one of the reasons I am so afraid of heights) and once from getting elbowed in the face during a game of church broom hockey.

6. I am claustrophobic, which is why when the metro is crowded I have to ride with my eyes closed and iPod playing.

Bonus: I have an inexplicable fear of my phone.

The Jeff & Jer Showgram

Gutsy: that’s the word my family uses to describe much of my behavior. At the time of execution it just feels normal to me. In retrospect, I think it’s more accurately described as “reckless.” It isn’t dangerous per se, as in bodily harm. It’s more like fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, come-up-with-a-crazy-idea-and-go-with-it-regardless-of-how-embarrassing-or-risky-it-might-be kind of way. It definitely produces incredible experiences and consequently fabulous memories. It’s like life is just plugging along when all of a sudden I decide it's not exciting enough and so I get it in my head that I want to do something to give it a little bit of variety: it usually has an element of crazy, an element of comedy, and an element of uncertainty. And somehow it all comes together, for better or worse.

For this confession, I have chosen to omit names in order to protect the innocent. I feel it interrupts some of the flow, but I want to try to respect the privacy of the individual involved, even if I didn't pay him the same courtesy seven years ago. The chances of him stumbling across this blog are rare, but still…if he does by chance get wind of this, I only hope he’ll think it’s funnier than he did the first time around.

So, yes, there was this boy. Don’t all good stories start that way? I was 20. That should excuse most of the behavior I’m about to relate. He and I were set up by a mutual friend even though we lived in separate states (let’s just call his Utah for convenience sake). I found myself “in the neighborhood” every four to six months, as members of my family were currently living there as well as several friends from college who had recently relocated. Whenever I would go up, we would go out. Whenever he was visiting our friend in San Diego, we would go out. We had a good time and got along great, but we lived in separate states. We had never talked about the possibility of actually dating but I think, at least for me, it was always tucked away in the back of my mind. There may have been potential, but given the circumstances it just wasn’t going to happen.

At the end of one particular visit, he provided me with a copy of his band’s newest CD. Being the supportive friend I was, I always listened and enjoyed. I found myself asking him if they had ever tried to get their stuff on the radio. I don’t really remember his response, but it had something to do with one of the band members trying but not having a lot of luck. Whatever it was, it prompted me to say, “You know, what do you want to bet I could get your band on the radio?” To my surprise, he simply shook his head and smiled and said, “Julie, I don’t doubt you could.” Well that’s not any fun, I thought. At the height of my young, immature and competitive state, I couldn’t see the point of exerting extensive effort towards anything someone actually thought I could do. Where was the challenge in that? I shrugged and said, “Well, it would be funny at any rate if I did,” and then dropped it, which I think in retrospect is exactly what he wanted.

I was home a few days later, sitting in my modern literature class, bored to tears. My mind drifted back to the idea of the band and the radio. Despite his certainty of my success, I was doubtful. I had pulled off some great stuff in the past, but nothing quite like this or on quite this scale. After class I decided I had nothing to lose; I went to the computer lab and crafted an email to the Jeff & Jer Showgram, a popular morning radio show that frequently entertained off-the-wall ideas. (I once won a burping contest on their show…but that’s another blog entry for another day.) I listened to them frequently and thought if anyone was up for something like this, it would be them. The only problem was I had to come up with a gimmick, something that would get me past the normal email traffic. I knew exactly what would sell these guys. I weaved an engaging story (I know what you're thinking. Me? Weave a story? Shocking!) about having a crush on my friend and that maybe if I did something really great like get his band on the radio perhaps something more would come of it. The email was pretty funny (at least I thought it was – I wish I still had it to share here in all its glory, but alas…) but as good as it was I honestly didn’t think anything would come of it. It gave me something to do for the afternoon and I went on with my day.

I checked my email later that night and was floored to find there in my inbox a response from the show’s producer; he wanted to meet me and hear the band’s CD. I thought perhaps he was blowing smoke, but sure enough when I called the studio the next morning, we set up a meeting for the following day.

To say I was nervous would be too simplistic a description. I felt that slightly ill twinge in the pit of my stomach, mixed with this intense nervous energy that made my heart thump slowly but emphatically. I knew I had to play the adulating groupie (ugh) if I wanted any chance at getting my friend’s band on the radio. An intern escorted me down a sterile white hallway and into the studio. The producer’s office was separated from the show’s hosts by a large plate-glass, sound-proof window; the show was piped into this room so we could hear everything that was going on without disturbing them with our conversation. He asked me a series of questions in between screening callers during open phones, talking to the radio personalities during commercial breaks, and generally running the show. During a segment in which he wasn’t needed, he listened to a clip of my friend's band.

“Not bad,” he said, eyeing me skeptically. “Does your mom know you’re hanging around with boys who play with guitars?” I just laughed and assured him I was perfectly safe. Not satisfied, he grilled me a little bit about his background. I tried to keep it light and cool and as vague as possible. While I spoke, he looked at the CD cover and band photos closely. “Hmm,” he said, without looking up. “He looks and sounds like a good Christian boy if you ask me.” I couldn’t help but laugh again and sort of nodded my head and shrugged my shoulders in uncommitted agreement. He considered the situation for a moment and then proceeded to formulate a rough plan. We were in!

“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking.” He decided to slot us for the following Friday, “because Fridays are fun days and everyone listens on Fridays.” As the plan unfolded, I realized he expected me to be in the studio, participating. I gulped. All of a sudden this "hilarious" idea wasn’t so funny. I had envisioned myself sitting at home, waiting for a song or two to come on the air, recording it and then sending my friend the tape as proof that I really am that good. Presence in the studio was one step away from participating live which was something I was not interested in doing. Tommy didn’t fill in all the details because he wasn’t even sure of them himself, but on my way out he said, “Oh, and make sure you have your boyfriend on standby just in case the guys decide to call him.”

I whipped around and croaked, "Call him?! Live?"

Tommy gave me a satisfied smile, said, “See you Friday!” and turned back to the show, leaving me to find my way out. I felt ill as I started to realize the ramifications of putting my friend on the radio, especially given the story I had given these guys to get the ball rolling in the first place. What had I gotten myself into? I should have backed out right then and there.

But I didn’t.

The week passed slowly, but before I knew it, Thursday night had arrived. I didn’t sleep one wink. I spent the night thinking about my options: I could warn my friend about the phone call, but then that would tip him off to the whole thing and the surprise would be spoiled. I could just discourage Jeff & Jer from placing the call altogether and pray they listened. I didn't even want to think about option three, which was figuring out what on earth I would say to him if they didn't.

By Friday morning I made a decision: I was going to wing it. I have since determined this is never a good idea when it involves live radio, two loose canons for radio show hosts, an unsuspecting male friend, and one girl with underdeveloped wit and poise (I’ve made great strides over the last seven years). I drove slowly to the studio and sat in my car for five or ten minutes before gathering the courage to go inside. I was escorted back down that sterile white hallway and into the studio. Little Tommy had just finalized the bit with Jeff & Jer. They decided that it would be funny to stage a “fake tape” for this guy to make it sound like they had “discovered” his band. They were going to act as if they had played the entire CD the day before and that they were taking listener feedback that morning. They would play a couple of songs, get a few listeners to call in and gush about the music, and make it sound like this total Napster phenomenon. I thought, "Okay, totally doable." No problem. Then he handed me the phone and said, “Call him.”

“Huh?” I was confused. I thought we were sending him a fake tape, thus precluding the need to call him.

“Call him.”

“Who? My friend?”

“Yes. We’ll put him on hold so he can listen to the whole thing live. Then we’ll put him on the radio and you two can talk.”

“Talk? Live? About what?”

“You can tell him how you feel! Won’t that be great?!” He was grinning from ear to ear. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t eaten any breakfast.

“No, no, no. This will not be great. Tommy, we've never talked about it. I don’t think this is a very good idea.” This was, in fact, a very bad idea (I know every guy reading this is nodding his head in agreement). Me, the open book; I was sure that under pressure I would subject myself to some kind of self-coerced confession of undying crush on live radio in my home town.

He looked at my very seriously and said, "Julie, we need good radio. You can’t back out now. This bit is starting now. Whatever you do, don't choke. Be animated…just be yourself. It’s great. This story is great. That's why we're putting you on the radio." All I could think about were all the people I knew who were listening and how I was going to explain all of this.

I was ushered into the studio and introduced to Jeff & Jer, the main personalities, and Laura, the show’s gossip/fashion correspondent, traffic person, and token female. Tommy told me that after they introduced what they were going to do (by reading my email on the air!) and got some callers on hold, I would place the phone call to my friend, tell him I’d gotten his band on the radio, then put him on hold so he could hear the whole thing live. My voice was shaking uncontrollably when I called him. He was a little bit confused (he sounded like he had just woken up) but I didn’t have time to explain. Tommy took the phone out of my hands, put him on hold, and pointed to the empty chair at the head of the table in the studio. I was to sit there, put on the headphones and talk directly into the microphone when it was time. (I have to admit that even as I’m writing this, seven years later, my heart is pumping wildly!) Despite my dread at the prospect of having an unwanted and ill-timed DTR on live radio, as I took my seat and put on my headphones, I felt a thrill of excitement shoot through me. I had done it! They were playing one of the best songs on the CD for all of San Diego to hear. The callers were ridiculous and funny, Jeff & Jer were on their A-game, and I was actually enjoying myself.

Then the bit ended. It was time to bring my friend on the air. Enjoyment over. Only, he wasn’t on the phone anymore. Tommy had accidentally hung up on him (I think) and the guys didn’t want to take the time to place the call again, but we still had about five minutes left on the show. Jeff & Jer, having finished their bit, decided to turn the foiled DTR into an interrogation, led by Laura, the gossip-maven. She didn’t waste any time.

How did we meet? How long had we known each other? When was I going to see him next? Was he my boyfriend? Did I want him to be my boyfriend? Had he kissed me? My mortification increased with each subsequent question. I kept thinking of Tommy’s admonition for “good radio” and so I tried to answer her questions as animatedly as possible, praying he would never hear the words coming out of my mouth. (Never mind the fact our mutual friend taped the entire show for him...) At 8:30, the show was over. I was released. They thanked me for coming in, asked me to keep them informed of the situation, and sent me on my way. Tommy took a picture of me next to their "Star" wall and posted my picture and the CD cover on their website for the morning. It was over.

I walked out of the studio thinking, “Nothing, absolutely nothing will ever top this.” So far, I’ve been right; I've made sure of that. But I still have a whole life to live, not to mention an adventurous spirit. :)