◯ eClips: Enough
Tonight, the moon is full. Later this week, another bright circle, known as the Winter Circle, will rise in the southern half of the sky — a ring of stars that includes the “leading lights of several well-known constellations.” For as much as I look at the night sky, I can’t name many constellations. But I’m enchanted by the idea of this shimmering shape formed by stars that are typically classified as part of other groupings, and I’m going to try to find it. If you have a favorite constellation or tips for identifying them, let me know.
Last week, I read What If This Were Enough by Heather Havrilesky and watched Station Eleven on HBO. Both became notes in the resounding chorus sounding out louder and louder between the verses of my day-to-day life: What is enough? Where have my expectations — of my life, of myself — been overblown by a culture in which we’re fed “a little bit of everything, all of the time”? We’re expected to be not just productive, but also seen in that productivity — from every angle, always. We’re reminded to keep up with the Joneses day and night as we scroll the endless highlights of their lives into our minds. Of course we don’t feel like we are enough — or have enough. Then, in the algorithmic “nick of time,” a product flashes across the screen, preying on our sense of scarcity, promising an antidote. But the poison’s already reached our hearts.
Havrilesky writes, “For every tier of service, there is a higher tier of service. For every product, there is an upgrade. For every luxury, there is something even more luxurious out there, somewhere. … We are so conscribed by the market-driven mind-set that we can no longer experience anything outside of the context of ‘more’ and ‘better.’ We can’t take things as they are. We have moved on to the upgrade before we’ve even engaged with what we have right here, right now.”
I’ve been taking stock of what I have right here, right now. Usually, I can’t help but idealize my best life, my best self, a faux finish line toward which I’ll perpetually stumble, and sometimes try to buy my way past. So I’ve been exploring more right-sized ideas of happiness and success by testing out some questions. Can I accept myself as I am right now? Can I be happy with what I have right now and resist adding anything more? What if my writing will only ever reach the handful of family members and friends who love me best, and a few of my neighbors? In asking these questions, I feel both panic and gratitude. It feels unnatural to stop striving toward more, but there is comfort in acknowledging that I am alive and I love and I am loved, and that is enough. That I have what I need to survive and then some. That success is deep, reciprocal engagement with a few, rather than shallow, one-way engagement with many.
But my still-fragile reworking of enough is constantly threatened. Recently, I read “The Extractive Circuit,” an article that details the horrifying extraction and oppression required to put phones in our hands. I read this only a few days before having to transfer my phone to a new carrier, and apprehensively visited the carrier’s storefront. “But why use the old phone when you could have the new at no extra cost?” the salespeople asked, trying to convince me of the iPhone 13’s supremacy over the 11, only a couple of years old. I mentioned my interest in downgrading. “How will you get work done? How will you stay connected?” Apparently, in less than a decade, Apple has convinced me that I’ll require its services for the rest of my life, with a costly and compulsory upgrade every 3 to 5 years, and that my work and my relationships are insufficient without it. Our idea of enough can be twisted so quickly. I look at the gadget in my hand, buzzing and glowing with the stifled life of irreplaceable rare earth metals, and I can see it for what it is: little more than a marketing device to get me to buy more stuff to support yet more extraction. Without a more right-sized idea of what we need, what we deserve, what’s enough, we will surpass the planet’s limits apocalyptically.
Station Eleven, set in a post-apocalyptic world, is another exploration of what is enough, told through the lives of characters who, after a life-altering event, have no choice but to change their expectations of what they need and what their lives will be. They find that “survival is insufficient,” and they thrive by turning to stories, art, and each other. “Having just one person, it’s a big deal,” the show’s Jeevan says. “Just one other person.” I felt peace when these characters were able to feed themselves, find shelter, make art, and love or help “just one other person.” In the show’s context, that is enough. I hope we don’t have to wait for the “end of the world” to see that it’s enough for us too.
In her Spotlight interview, Christine Miller also contemplates defining what’s enough. “I think just being able to offer something, even just to one person, is important. … if it resonates and it makes you feel good and it makes someone else feel good, I think that’s good enough.”
◯ Meeting your neighbors is a climate solution: “There’s nowhere you can move to escape the climate crisis — but finding a deeper connection to the place you live now might be the next best thing.”
◯ On Abundance. “The flexibility provided by a specific kind of abundance—extra pumpkin, banana blossoms blooming, an excess of food, period, growing in the garden to give away—rather than the idea of abundance we’ve been sold, quite literally, being access to anything at any time to buy is what fuels creativity, excitement, a feeling of safety in the midst of an uncertain future.”
◯ A note on less/more + a pearlescent invitation: “What I have found is this: when I call upon such a subtle amount of something, I slow down / an immense space opens within me / I can feel my place in the great dance of my life & in the world at large / I am able to move with grace, ease, decision, & joy towards the next moment because my spirit & body are settled, synchronized, synonymous.”
◯ Enough for Everyone: “Given the current climate emergency and the broader ecological breakdown that looms, there are few issues more pressing than that expressed by the single word: enough.”
Spotlight: Christine Miller
Christine Miller is a massive gaming nerd who loves birdwatching and crochet, is an aspiring gardening grandma, and is still trying to reckon with her Sagittarius Sun/Scorpio Moon placements. I met Christine when we moved in together as freshman-year roomies at KU. We forged a connection despite our wildly different experiences and tastes back then — I might’ve made her listen to too much Fall Out Boy, if there is such a thing — and she truly saw the best and the worst of me that first year, the foundation to 15 years of friendship.
You were talking about going to church with your mom, like, “Oh, you’d probably never expect this.” And in a way, I was like, “No, I get it.” You have known me through so many iterations of belief, but I do kind of feel like the minute I broke free of everything I grew up with, there was a lot of stuff I lost that I was totally unwilling to talk about losing, because that meant I was capitulating to the stuff I really wanted to leave behind. And only in the past year have I really been like, “Wow, I feel such a loss of tradition and a loss of spiritual fulfillment.” And I don’t necessarily think that reverting back to where I was when you first met me is the answer, but it does feel like there’s something missing. And so I was really interested to hear you talk about, “Oh, I don’t know about this, but I need community.” And spiritual tradition is a way to find that. So I hope it feels nice and not like, “What am I doing here?”
Yeah, I have not been to church since — I can’t remember. It’s been a long time. But it’s been in the back of my mind for a while, because I was like, “OK, I should probably go back and see everyone at least once.” We have a lot of older church members. So I’m like, you know what, I should just go and be like, “Yes, I’m still here.” They already know I’m not really a believer, because I was just never into it from the start. But you know, thinking back, I actually was active in the church. Not super-active, but I remember doing, like, a chess class, and something with computers, and this and that. And I was in the choir. And of course, you don’t think about it at the time, but now that I’m older and I’m more alone and away from any sort of community, I’m just kind of like, “Wow, that was nice to have that consistency.” You know? Of knowing that it’s going to be somewhat the same people, and you have something to look forward to. And yeah, I think I missed that, so I’m trying to figure out what I’m seeking that doesn’t make me feel like I’m giving up my time.
Yeah, your time is so precious. And if you’re working every other weekend, it’s like, “Wow, this is my precious time.”
Right, exactly. Plus, I’ve been having a lot of messages coming through, and I’m finally heeding them just a little bit — about ancestors. Like, reconnecting with my ancestors and my history and my elders. It’s just been popping up all over the place, like Instagram, like this book I’ve been reading. It’s a cookbook called Black Food. And it has this really vibrant cover that’s a black background with super-bright blocky colors, and it just says “Black Food” and the author’s name on the front. I like that. It pops. It’s not only a cookbook about Black food across the diaspora … it’s also got poems. It’s got stories. It’s got tangents, anecdotes. All these beautiful pictures. Like, it’s a book. I’ve really enjoyed reading through it. And then there’s this whole section about different methods of spirituality, and how we choose to reconnect with our African spirituality, and how that’s intrinsically connected with food, and how a lot of us were — well, they were talking about how Christianity is a forced religion on us, it came through the colonizers, the slave owners. So honestly, I didn’t really think about that. I was like, “Oh, damn, that’s right.” You know? But it’s just so linked now with African American heritage, there’s no way we could extricate ourselves from it, especially with our sense of community. So all these messages were coming through, and I was like, “OK, OK!” I don’t think I’m going to make an altar, but I can try, and even if I don’t necessarily reconnect but at least see my elders that I grew up with while they’re, you know, my living elders. And pay respect in that sense, just by going and seeing them.
That’s beautiful. And, I mean, altars are great, but you don’t even need one to see yourself in the tradition of these people and cooking foods that are connected to them. I know you like to cook and bake, and it almost feels like food as the altar is part of what’s coming up in what you’re saying.
Yeah, a way to reconnect to cultures has been taken away from us. Practices have been taken away from us. You know, it’s just a way to kind of reach across the distance, or even just across the table. So, I’m just trying to reconnect, I think. I feel like I’ve been so separate for so long from myself, my identity as a Black person. Where do I fit in, and where are my people?
How does winter feel to you? Are there any rituals or ways of marking the season that you’re experiencing right now?
Winter always, always — there’s something about the cold specifically, the feeling of how the air turns cold and crisp, and you get these certain kinds of smells that are associated with it — always reminds me of being in Japan. And usually, it makes me think of the first year I was in Japan back in high school, especially. But across every year, for some reason, my memories are a lot sharper around those times. And I don’t know if that’s the sharp biting-ness of the wind. But it always takes me back to those times, and those times always reflect what I’m feeling every winter, because as we all know, winter is the time of introspection. It’s when we all kind of dig in and kind of chill out a little bit and kind of sit with ourselves a little bit more, even if we don’t necessarily want to. Everything’s kind of crunchy. It’s dry. It’s cold. It’s quiet. It makes me really just stop and be still. Even just earlier today, I was walking around outside and I just kept repeating, “Ah, it’s winter again.” [laughs] There’s just something about it, like I said, that always transports me back to being 17 and living with my host family in Japan. And I had to use a gas-powered heater, because they don’t really have central heating. And I remember my room being really cold unless I had it on, and I had to refill it. Like, I literally had to go get some oil from the tank outside and refill it.
And my memories are just so crystal-clear of everything that was going on around that time that it always brings me back to being in that space. It was this unknown space. I was in another person’s room in another country far away from my own family, trying to just get it together. My father had just passed away, what, over a year before that, a year and a half. My grief was manifesting in terrible ways. And I think that it’s just dug such deep grooves in my mind of that feeling of isolation, that every time winter comes around again, my mind just falls back into those tracks. Of course, the farther out I get from it, the edges soften. But I’m always taken back to the different times that I was in Japan during the winter and how it felt being a foreigner in a foreign land. Even when I’m here in America, in my hometown, it makes me feel foreign. Kind of no matter where I am.
I mean, winter’s beautiful. I don’t absolutely hate it. There are aspects that I like about it. But to me, it’s so alien, the weather, the way things look, the way people kind of change. I feel like everyone kind of changes during winter. I feel like we’re all a little different, how we interact with each other. And in some ways, it’s in high relief for me. But in other ways, it feels completely muddled. Like I have a film over my eyes or something. It’s very bizarre.
When you were there, did you have the same experience in terms of memory? Like, winter would come and you would think of home?
Honestly, no, not really. My winters in Japan, for some reason, have superseded any winters here in America. And I’m going to guess a lot of that is just because you have to be outside so much in Tokyo — yes, they have public transportation, but you have to get between places. So I was outside during the winter a lot as opposed to being in, say, America, where you get in your car, and you’re outside maybe a couple of minutes at most between destinations. But in Japan, I’m outside waiting for the bus. And then when I was teaching, on my way to school, I actually had to walk for about 20 to 30 minutes. So I was outside quite a bit, especially that last time. So I think that’s why it’s so strong in my mind. The feeling of cold — cold wind, just that quietness of being outside in the winter, that hush that’s always there, because I was always having to walk in between places and be outside. Even being in a city center, like Shinjuku, where, like, heck, no, it’s not quiet! You got cars, you got people, you got it all, you know, but it’s still there, that feeling of cold. It’s all just so stuck in my mind, as opposed to being somewhere like America, where you’re mostly just in a car by yourself going in between places, or you’re inside a place.
Yeah, right. And it’s clear to me as you’re talking how much engagement with the world we lose that way, and wondering, from there, how our memories are affected by being in a car, and from within the car, you’re separate from the seasons, and everything’s kind of just the same all the time. And that doesn’t lead to very physically present memories. When you were walking around there and engaging with outdoors — and this can be in cold weather or warm weather — were you finding a lot of plant life that was familiar to you and felt grounding, or was it a totally new ecosystem and things looked unfamiliar to you? What was like your plant engagement like in each place?
So, I would say in Japan, it was always exciting when I found something, especially the last time I went, because that’s finally when I was starting to become more interested in plants and learning the names of things and actually recognizing different plants. Which, I’ll admit, a lot of it at that time came from Animal Crossing, but that’s OK. [laughs] And it was always exciting, being able to be like, “That’s an azalea!” You know, being able to actually see something that I’d only seen in a video game in real life, and being able to actually recognize it based on that. One thing that I really enjoyed about Japan, and miss in a place like Kansas — I guess because it’s a subtropical climate, Japan has a lot of trees and bushes that are still flowering during the winter, like camellias. So you’re walking around, and you’ve got these huge flowers and bushes everywhere, but it’s winter. It’s cold — it doesn’t make sense. I love it. And some are this beautiful white, some are full bright red. And then you have the ones that are mixed white and red, I love those.
But springtime — amazing, because everything flowers. Like, everything flowers. It’s amazing! Plum blossoms were the first ones that you would really start seeing. That was kind of your first inkling that spring was truly coming. And they have such a richness to them, because they come straight off of the stem. They’re like, boom, right there on the edge of these knobbly, gnarled, black branches of these trees, and you’ve got these beautiful pops of deep red and white and pink. I love the plum blossoms and being able to see all of these different flowering trees and shrubs. Lots of quince all over the place, and then everything else coming through. Once it’s in full swing, it’s so lush. There was a house that I would ride my bike past sometimes that had kiwis growing from a pergola, just hanging through the little slats at the top. Persimmon trees, and lots of fruit all around. Lemons, limes, kumquats, just a lot of things all over the place. And that was what I really enjoyed. A lot of people think Tokyo’s just neon, but you can find a lot of nature if you really look past the city center area. And especially going out toward western Tokyo, which is where I taught, there was a lot of beautiful nature. And being able to see subtropical versions of things that I might see at home.
Something you said goes with my next question. One thing — the first thing, really — that I knew about you, and one thing that’s been present throughout our relationship, is how good you are at gaming, how much you like gaming, and the interplay between that and your interest in nature and physical growth like gardening. And I wanted to ask you about the link between the two. You had mentioned Animal Crossing, which reminded me that sometimes, if I’m playing The Sims, and I have my little Sim out in the garden, I feel a great sense of meditative calmness from what they’re doing, and having perceived control, I guess, over this beautiful world I’m having them make. It’s not chaotic and it doesn’t require much in terms of me needing to know how to garden. But sometimes, I’ll watch that little Sim, and I’m just like, “Oh, my God, I want to go be building my own little green bar of gardening skills,” you know?
For real.
So, yeah, I want to hear a little more about the connection, if there is one for you, between these beautiful digital landscapes that you enjoy spending time in, and then physical natural landscapes.
Yeah, for sure. Going back to Animal Crossing, that was definitely my initial jumping point into the natural world. I’ve always been interested in nature — ask my mom, when I was a kid, I would be the one outside lifting up rocks, looking for bugs and things like that. And still to this day, I’m like, “What’s up, roly-polys?” But Animal Crossing, I guess it gave me a very easy-to-understand compendium of fish and bugs, and then they added more things in the later ones, like deep-sea creatures. So being able to have that right there and easily accessible, I didn’t have to go look at a book, necessarily — which wasn’t a problem, but being able to have it seamlessly integrated into something I was already doing, that was really fun for me, to be able to look and be like, “Oh, so that’s what a paper kite butterfly looks like!” So it literally informed my knowledge, especially when I was in Japan this most recent time. During the summer, that’s beetle season, and so walking through the park, I would happen upon beetles sometimes, big beetles and stuff. I didn’t see the huge ones, unfortunately, but I did see the grubs of the rhinoceros beetle, because they were huge. I want to say 3 to 4 inches long and, like, a good inch and a half wide, and they were all digging down. I was like, “Yes!” Being able to identify, for example, a saw stag, that specifically came from Animal Crossing. I was like, “Yo!” Or, like, a cyclommatus stag, being able to actually see the real thing in front of me blew my mind, because I’m so used to seeing it only in the game, and actually seeing it in front of me was so amazing. Like, I was amazed.
And here’s another tangent. Everybody should look up kumabachi. They’re adorable. They’re basically carpenter bees, but cuter, and they’re huge, and they just bumble around. Amazing. And yes, I did see some Asian murder hornets while I was there. Very frightening, but also exhilarating.
So being able to see virtual reality actually move into the real world was always really cool for me. And I enjoy playing those kind of slice-of-life, lifestyle-type games, like Animal Crossing. There’s also a game called Stardew Valley that’s really popular that I played a lot of, and being able to create your own farm and curate it and make it look exactly how you’d like is always nice. But one thing that game did for me is it helped, I guess, foster a sense of — I think it helped me kind of slow down a little bit. Because I’m from Wichita, which you know, but Wichita, Kansas, is what I like to call a “small town, big city.” It’s big, it’s wide, it’s sprawling, but it feels like a small town. There isn’t a lot going on here, and it’s kind of a place that people like to come back to, to retire, so the general population is a little older. So as a younger-ish person, being able to be OK with that kind of slow living took some time. And I think playing a game like Stardew Valley actually helped ground that for me a little bit, because you have your little farm. You also have a small town that’s right next to it. And you go and you talk to the villagers, and they all have really good character growth. It’s actually realistic. And just being able to be like, “Well, maybe it’s OK to just, I don’t know, go talk to Marty, or whatever, and that’s OK, and then go home and work on your farm.” You know, you don’t have to go out and party or whatever. So I feel like that one for sure helped me enjoy the merits of slow living a little bit more.
Of course, it’s always easier to be able to curate things exactly how you want them to look. I’ve been playing a game called Dragon Quest Builders 2 — a bit of a mouthful — and it’s kind of like Minecraft, but set in a Dragon Quest world, and you just build, you make things with blocks that look different. And I never really thought I’d get into that kind of game. But I got into it, let me tell you. There are these different areas across the game, and one of them is a farming village, one’s a desert town, one’s a castle. And out of all of them, my favorite one was the farming village. Everything was so green and lush and pastoral. I wouldn’t say I’m into, like, cottagecore specifically, but I do enjoy pastoral aesthetics a little bit. Probably what it is, honestly, is less the aesthetic and more that actual connection to the natural world. So just being able to have your little garden, and I made myself a little house for my workshop. And my favorite part is, I planted two sunflowers [laughs] right outside, on the side of the house, the only ones I found in the game — the only sunflower seeds I found, period. And I planted them both right outside, and it’s my favorite part of the whole game, looking at those two big old sunflowers on the side of my house. And then I’m like, “Damn, that’s going to be me, I’m going to have sunflowers on the side of my house if it’s the last thing I do.” Somewhere, at some point!
Speaking of real-world farming, I know that, at least at one point, and I think still, you’ve been thinking a lot about gardening and food access and being in community, and specifically Black community, growing food. And so I wanted to hear a little bit more about those dreams — and those two potentially real sunflowers on the side of your house someday, and why that is important to you to think about and move toward.
Yeah, those are always changing. Those are always morphing around, I’m still trying to find the shape that I want out of all of those aspects you just mentioned. So last year, I went to this weekend event called the Queer Farmer Convergence in Decorah, Iowa. And there were maybe a little over 70 people. Everyone had to bring a tent, and we all had to go camping. And it was really just a means for people who all identified as queer in different ways, different identities, to converge and be able to share space and ideas, and talk about what it’s like to farm as queers, and what we’ve all been exposed to. I mean, it was open to everybody. I’m not a farmer, but I was there, and I was like, “Yeah, I’m just here to vibe.” But it was very good. I felt like it was a good space. The only thing is, of course, it was a very white-majority space. I think overall there were six people of color — three Black people, and then three people of color, and one of them had to leave early, and out of 70-plus people, you know. But everyone was very kind.
And being around people, being on a farm in the hills of Iowa, and seeing what they were doing, seeing the practices, hearing what they were doing, what that ended up doing for me was solidifying the fact that I actually don’t want to be a farmer. As somebody who does not like to give up her time, I don’t think farming’s the profession for me. [laughs] But what it did kind of do for me, though, was just solidify, well, yes, I don’t necessarily want to be right there at the root of the food process. But I do think that I want to be somewhere along the chain. I haven’t figured out exactly where yet. But somewhere in there, helping people gain access to healthy, sustainable food. I don’t know if it’s helping people learn — there’s a farm that I’m always kind of watching that’s in Upstate New York called Soul Fire Farm, and they’re doing a lot of the stuff that I’m really interested in, you know, teaching classes, doing outreach, bringing people to the farm to learn different things, volunteer work days, they’d go into the communities and build gardens for people, they have a lot of stuff. And it’s all couched within what I was talking about before, Black spirituality. So they do a lot of offering of libations, you know, they give thanks to the land. They do a lot of singing while they’re working, for the land. Not saying I necessarily would do that, personally, but I can see it as very powerful and just a good thing to do. Like, we’re all so hyper-focused on productivity, but not going back and thinking, “Ah, thank you.” Just something as simple as saying thanks to this land that sustains us. Without it, we’d be dead!
So, just trying to think about where along that line I might want to see myself falling. And it could end up being something as simple as my house with the sunflowers. I got a little garden and maybe I make something for somebody. You know, it could be something as tiny as that, and that, still, I think, is good enough. I think just being able to offer something, even just to one person, is important. Maybe not even make — maybe host a dinner with some things that I grew or I got from the CSA box. Being able to share things — I’m trying to extricate myself from this thinking that I’ve had where it’s like, “Oh, it all has to come down to employment. I need to have a title. I need to go to school to know these things to do whatever.” When in fact, really, if it resonates and it makes you feel good and it makes someone else feel good, I think that’s good enough. I think that’s kind of what it comes down to.
Yes, totally. That’s beautiful. It doesn’t have to be a huge thing. It doesn’t have to impact thousands upon thousands of people to be shifting not just your own relationship, but the relationship of people who love you, to food and land and spirituality. And that brings me to the moon — but also space and the sun and the sense of something greater, whether people see that as ancestry or God or the cosmos. I’m wondering if you have any specific memory around the moon, or if you like to look at the moon or think about the cosmos.
The moon has definitely become more important to me in the past year of my life. I’ve always paid attention to it, at least tangentially, but now, I’m always like, “Hey, moon!” If I see it, I’ll be like, “Hey, Luna, what’s up? Looking good, girl!” [Laughs.] And I was actually just talking to my friend the other day, and I was like, “Moon’s cute tonight.” And he was like, “Are you saying, like, adorable-cute, or, like, seductive-bad-girl cute?” And I was like, “Quiet when you first get to know her but then she a bad bitch kind of cute.” [laughs]
But yeah, the memory that does float to my mind when I think about it is, a few months ago, sometime during the summer, it was a full moon, this bright, bright full moon. And there’s a song from a game that’s actually called Moon. It’s this old game that just recently got translated into English, and there’s a song from it called “I’m Waiting for the Night.” And the lyrics are Japanese, but it’s talking about waiting for the moon to come out to look at the moon, and I went outside and put on my headphones, and I looked at the moon, and I sang that song to it. And I never do that kind of stuff. I was just standing in my backyard, just singing this song to the moon, feeling really good. I was just feeling very, very upbeat and hopeful. And there’s really no end to the story, there’s no moral, but that is a memory that comes to my mind when I think about the moon.
But yeah, my relationship to the moon is getting a lot stronger day by day. I’m just kind of taking it slow. Just kind of letting it organically grow. I did buy The Moon Book by Sarah Faith Gottesdiener, and I’ve read a little bit of it. It’s about learning how to live your life by the moon cycles, which I can absolutely get behind, but just not right now. Remember, I don’t like to give my time up — that’s the theme here — but I’m trying to figure out how I can work that into myself. How can I work with the moon? You know what I’m saying? As opposed to working by the moon, I guess. I think within that framework, I’m slowly, quietly working on it. Because I have noticed my ebbs and flows a lot more recently. The new moon, especially, gets to me. Like, if it’s a new moon or right before, I get really tired, kind of sad. I just ebb real bad around the new moon. And the full moon, it kind of depends. It’s not consistent how I feel around it. Sometimes, I’m manifesting, which I’m also not consistent about. But other times, I’m just like, “Looking good, girl. Keep it up.” And that’s it. That’s good for me. That’s enough for me. I think having this kind of organic relationship to the moon is really healthy, for me. That’s how it’s just going to work.
Yeah, and that goes back to what you were saying about food justice, food access, and farming, where it doesn’t have to be by the book. It doesn’t have to be big and splashy. It doesn’t have to be like what somebody else has done. It can be an organic thing that develops that works for you, and that is powerful, and that is radical.