Honey Help YourSelf

It's Valentine's Day and aside from the chocolate, I don't see the point. In grade school we swapped cards and candy, and if only for that first few minutes in class, everyone loved us. But we're grown up now, and things are different. We're swamped by diamond jewelry ads, talking Hallmark cards and teary-eyed commercials pandering to us all day long. Hmpf. My thing is: love is an around-the-clock, unmufflered affair in that it's noisy and indelicate and unlike anything Hollywood would have us believe. Love works us, heals us, and tips us like gravy boats, allowing our best flow out to the ones closest to us. It's confusing, deeply soaring, and when it's real, it could give a damn about greeting cards, candy and pop songs. The other day a frustrated friend texted me asking, HOW CAN I MAKE A MAN LIKE ME. To the extent that she was saying, All I want is a few good dates and not all of the mindgame-y aloof bs, she was kind of joking. And to the extent she was saying, What is wrong with me that I can't meet a guy who seems the least bit interested, she was absolutely not joking. My friend is representative of most women I know: she's smart, funny, loving, beautiful, super creative, one of a kind, kind and doubting how awesome she is. And that's what's upsetting. To the scary parts in all of us, to those scabbed-over wounded pieces lodged so dee that we've long forgotten they're there, let me just say, You rock, you look fabulous, and the world is waiting for you to show us how it's done. I want to say, Come on out and do your thing. Because we need you. And this: The fact that you doubt yourself sometimes means you're normal. I mean, look what we're up against with all of the messages that want us to believe the lies about what we can become. Oh, and this too I want to say: The fact that you have enough self-awareness and humility to think you've got room to grow is exactly the thing that makes you perfect! That plus the fact that you've got a great ass. My friend's question, again, representative of so many people's questions about the same thing, made me think about how rampant this idea of being unlovable is. I thought more about the messages we get that only serve to whack us in ads and magazines and songs. Pop songs. And bam, Whitney Houston. Pop's First Lady of Song, The Original Queen of the Night, may have gone on too soon, but she left me a soundtrack that would play out in the backdrop of my love life in all of its joy and nonsense, ecstasy and depth, and I'd like to share a little bit of it–and the lessons offered up in the process. I'm Saving All My Love for You There's this idea that we store up all the love in side us for the one day when that special someone rides into our lives on a chariot of fire, or on a crack of lightning, to deliver us into forever land. (insert losing game show buzzer sound here) I'm of 2 minds on this: 1.) It's better to share the love you have now rather than later. Everyone is worthy of love, and when we give it, it just makes us better. Period. Doesn't if feel good to get it? Then give it and watch how it boomerangs on you in surprising corners of your life. Why wait for The One before you start loving and living like you mean it? 2.) If this is about celibacy, then, yeah, handle your business. And keep on loving from your heart while you're at it! Why Does It Hurt So Bad Coming off of the celibacy thing, I realize this could be misconstrued in its meaning, but we're talking about heart here, folks. So knock it off. Beat it, you smartasses. Seriously. Ever been in love with someone who was about as loving as a feral dog trapped in a corner, baring its teeth at you? This is the equivalent of a wounded lover we're trying to rescue. Only we can't see it when we're in love with is potential. Trust me, this scenario isn't good for either of you, so spare yourself some hurt by holding out for the love you deserve. How Will I Know?

There’s this lady in my neighborhood. She started out pleasant enough, but I’ve since found her to be judgmental, fickle, overbearing, pushy and loud. I’m not talking about me just yet. I’m talking about Sharon, the red-headed sixty-something who chain smokes, suns her wig outdoors, and has a country twang that could hail from just about any notch on the Bible belt. Sharon is the eyes and nose of our neighborhood, and she has confirmed that she’s aware of what I’m doing, how I’m doing, where I’m doing it, and who I’m doing it with. My second floor bedroom window opens across the parking lot and faces her apartment. Sharon lives right across from me, which means I shouldn’t have been surprised in August when she responded to an innocent indoor gardening question by commenting on how much I left my windows open and the rate at which I came and went in my cute little car that I bet must have cost a right pretty penny. Now what is it you do again, sweetheart? One day I stopped in to her place because she wanted to give me a houseplant. Sharon and I share a love of plants, and when she offered to give me one, I was happy to accept. When she handed me the old jelly jar with the cutting in it, I noticed the half empty vodka bottles on the counter. They were party-sized and suddenly seemed to explain everything: why she talked a little loud sometimes and didn’t seem to be aware of it; why she set her bright red wig outside on her ‘beauty stand’ whenever the weather was good; why she couldn’t ever seem to hold the thread of a full conversation. There was that time I invited her over to diagnose my sick ficus tree. I’d been struggling with it—clipping, repotting relocating it—trying every remedy I could think of, and if anybody knew how to help, she was the one. Like me, Sharon had dozens of plants in her apartment and as many crowding the patio table where she kept her wig and cigarettes. It was probably four days out of seven that I’d seen her out front spraying her hanging plants, careful not to douse the burning end of her smoke. Sharon came over and examined my ailing plant with the attention of a doting mother over a feverish child. She suggested I follow her lead and fill a bottle with soapy water and spray the leaves. That’ll kill any of them little f$#%t bugs on ’em, darlin. I froze in disbelief at what I’d heard and asked her to repeat herself. Instead of referring to the pests by their name, mealy bugs, Sharon used a gay slur and didn’t waste any time repeating it. I shot her a look that missed its mark and rolled across the floor like an empty can. Oh, she said, waving me off, my daughter tells me I all the time, she says, ‘Mama you shouldn’t be calling them bugs that,’” Sharon shrugged her shoulders. “I know, but that’s just what I always called em.” I didn’t challenge Sharon on her language because I knew there was a whole lot more where that came from, and all I wanted was plant advice. I turned toward the door, signaling a close to our visit, but Sharon turned toward me and asked if I was single. I told her I was. So you’re in the market, sweetheart? she quizzed. I nodded, adding that I hadn’t actively been seeking anybody but, yes, I’m available. Sharon looked me over, no doubt sizing up my suitability for potential matches. I knew that look. She leaned in, placed her hand on my forearm and pressed, …. for a maay-an? Yes I said. Have you met Phil? According to Sharon, Phil was more horizontal than vertical if you don’t mind fat. But he owned his own house even if he’d been stuck with it because he never found a buyer. I’ve seen him up in his window just playing that guitar for hours. He never goes anywhere. I’m going to introduce you. I didn’t see much of her after that, and I can’t say I minded. Then one day Sharon found herself a man of her own. He was barrel-chested, smoked at least as much as she did and didn’t say much. We’ll call him Dick. By the time Dick had come around,

Two years ago I convinced myself to go to an MLK open mic night full of stringy-haired boomers and aspiring hippies who read, sang, and recited their way across the creaking platform stage of a tiny coffee bar on the outskirts of Boulder, Colorado. I’m...

The woman looked up and said: the day is a tree of low-hanging fruit, easy to pick and savor. Then she piled the folds of her skirt in one hand and prepared to climb with the other. The woman looked left and said: the day is a bird in the bush, easy to tease it into my hand. She hiked her skirt higher and crouched down low. The woman looked right and said: the day is cattle on a thousand hills, waiting for me to claim. And she stood bolt straight. The woman looked up and said: the day is an open sky, the only limit I know; I can have it all. And she flung her arms wide. The woman looked down and said: the day is a sea overflowing with fish, plenty for me and painless to take. And she rolled up her sleeves. The woman looked in and said: the day is no measure of time, for I am timeless. And she breathed deeply. The woman looked out and said: the day is a mystery I may never know. And she sighed hard. The woman looked behind her and said: the day is fading and I'm a long way off. She squinted at the path before her, buttoned her coat, and went home hungry by the last of the day's light. - - - - - - - You might also be interested in: Multiple Choices Phoenix Rising New Year Revolutions

This piece was supposed to be different. But this piece is what we get on account of a ghost wandered in and hijacked my story. By the time he finished with me, I forgot all about that thing I started out with. That's exactly how it went. Almost. Bro Druitt—also affectionately called Deacon Eddie—had a gimp leg, a club foot, and an incomparable way with words. Every Sunday he graced the front pew of our tiny southern church in his nut brown pants and broad-shouldered green jacket the color of olives, though it wasn't what you'd call olive green. I couldn't have been more than 9 when I knew him, if you could call my young impressions 'knowing' him, but I remember the Deacon, a narrow-faced, mild kind of man, a gentle stalwart in the Christian army, always seeing to it that no one went wanting for a warm smile or a solid handshake if there was anything he had to say about it. Bro Druitt was a shy, consistent man, I think. He didn't much talk to me, and I often wondered what might have been playing behind the squared black frames of his old bifocals when he glanced up toward the far corner each time the choir sang. I wondered what his foot looked like. Was it clenched like a fist in his black leather boot? Had his boot been wadded up with cotton to pad the space left by his disfigured appendage? I wondered what it must have been like for him as a kid in his neighborhood where, if his experience looked remotely like mine, his friends ran and jumped and hollered to the heavens as they tore through the neighborhood, seldom looking back and rarely looking out for the slow and weak ones among us. I wondered whether the Deacon had ever married or dated with that intention in mind. I imagined what his teachers and parents might have told him about his chances in a Jim Crow world that proved to be far less kind than they'd been at home. What kind of dreams had he been given and which ones did he pick for himself? Was it his own flood of memory wafting in on the songs each week that caused him to cry softly to himself when he led the church in prayer? Lord, he'd begin, with a weary resignation, his eyes intent on something just above our heads. Leaning against a table that itself had a short leg too, Bro Druitt finally closed his eyes as he addressed the church–and the Heavenly Father–in his singular style of modest supplication. I come before you as 'umbly as I know how, without no form nor fashion and we thank you for bringing us heart to heart and breast to breast one more time. I mulled over the image of the congregation all ringed together in a band of touching breasts and hearts like a giant Siamese-twin fellowship. I giggled, playing out the scene in my head, wondering who I'd get to stand next to, and how we'd change clothes, not to mention how we'd sleep and eat. Maybe, I reasoned, heavenly bodies fused so impossibly close together like that didn't worry about earthly details. We thank you, O Lord, for waking us up from our sleeping couches, clothed in our right minds this morning, the Deacon prayed on, knowing had it not been for You, our Father, we could have woke up on the cooling board. For as colorful has his language was, Bro Druitt's gratitude for his portion of health and strength was unmistakable: this man was glad to be alive, and he seemed pleased to remind us of it. Thomas Campbell was an 18th century traveling clergyman and writer who once said that to live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. Bro Druitt showed me this in the loving imprint I'd barely realized he left on my life. I thought about what impressions I might leave when I'm gone, and more important, how am I doing now? We may never understand how we're seen, if we're seen at all, in the eyes of others—a child, a stranger, our families. Even so, it might do us good to think about how we'd like to be remembered in time. I used to cringe thinking of Chandra and Syreeta,

The time is ripe for a revolt. I'm talking, like, raining down change more swift than the Arab Spring and the autumnal fall of dictators a world away. I'm talking more peace-inducing than flower power, greater than Beyoncé's baby and Demi's pending div...

There are two types of Small Talk: Type I and II. Type I is the wordy filler, a politely pointless attempt to ignite conversation between strangers in checkout lines and elevators, at post offices, motor vehicle places, beauty shops, and random reception areas. It's the chitchat while-u-wait. Most often run along the lines of a neutral back-and-forth about the weather, celebrity foibles, politics or last night's game. Never intending to go anywhere or mean anything, Type I Small Talk is idle. Then there's Type II. Unlike the harmless annoyance and time suck of the first kind, Type II is lethal and spreads like the pox if allowed to go unchecked. It's a lethal, persistent disorder handed down to us as plentiful sweet nothings intent on numbing our initiative, dumbing us down, and lulling our ambition to sail beyond familial shores. Type II is the gentle bitchslap of Cousin Betty's velvet glove when she remarks on your creativity with lines like You know we don't do that or What's that little thing you were involved in? And I remember when you used to be so cute/slim/pretty/smart/popular while you wrack your brain trying to recall a time when they ever said as much. It's the off-color comments lobbed across the holiday table by Uncle Fred's Are you still taking up with that little (not-your-race, not-your-age, maybe-your-same-gender) person... ? Type II is insidious because, like Type I, it's not supposed to mean anything or go anywhere, and therefore, you're not supposed to address it nor take offense when the hits keep coming. This type of small talk collects in the system and diminishes our desire to dream and do. It starts early with an implicit agreement go along with The Program at the expense of what you know, knowing somewhere inside you that there will be consequences to eating your heart out. This is going to burn. In time, Type II quiets your capacity to fend off the syrupy influx of buzz kills, insults, and deliberate blocks to your progress. Years in, you'll forget how it happened, this chronic fatigue and bloat. When you suffer from Type II, you'll find yourself asking yourself questions like Is this my life? and How did I get here? Well, honey, you're the only one who can answer that properly, but what I can do, just because it's Christmas–is regale you with the following holiday tale. 'Twas four days before Christmas when all through my loft, I was feeling quite shitty and riddled with coughs. So I called a good friend who said, Don't worry, my dear, I'll cook us a dinner and share Christmas cheer. The days came and went without a phone call, when I feared for the worst: alone after all. (I was new in town and barely knew anybody at that point.) So I drummed up my courage and cleared my throat with Ahem, 'cause I'd been sick and stuffed up with phlegm, remember? I picked up the phone and dialed my friend, knowing inside me it might mean the end. Hey friend, I said, doing my best to stay articulate. It was a tough thing to do, with my throaty particulate. And jitters. Hey there, she replied, what's up with you? Not much, I said, just wondering about that meal? And then there was silence, I'm talking silence for real. After the crickets, she offered me this: I chose to leave town rather than stay through Christmas. But what of our plans? I asked with a start. What about 'em? she said with an absence of heart. Here's how I knew Type II was at play: I was supposed to keep silent, not challenge her say. The feeling was old, snaking back to my past, I was queasy and weak, wanting to end the call fast. But I trusted my gut, and wasn't going out like that, Like I should sweep my hurt feelings under the mat. Again. Hell no, honey! We made plans and you never looked back Well I changed my mind and decided to pack I went to be with my family this time Yeah, but you left me hanging without reason or rhyme For thirty minutes or more,

Since I'm a great believer in enlisting the help of my friends in causes great and small, I asked them to share some of the phrases, affirmations, and insights they use most when they need the extra oomph to get them though. They're all awesome, so I'm sure they won't mind if you borrow some of their lines! To listen, click the Honeycast link above.   - - - - - - - You might also like: Affirm This! I Win! Crickets

For all my positive talk, I have my issues with affirmations on precisely that point: they're all talk. There was this guy once—Eddie. Even if you pressed me, I couldn't tell you exactly how I found him, and I have no idea how to locate him now; it was...

This pic came from last year’s Halloween party. I’ve been meaning to write about it ever since. When I dug it up last month, I was horrified all over again at the story behind those batwing eyelashes and badass blue-black wig. Staring at the cosmetic puncture wounds and oozing blood I'd drawn on my own neck, I cringed. I gasped. How do you do, my name is Kriste, and I am a Victim. That I'd casually drafted myself into that role without so much as an afterthought was chilling, because the realization went way beyond spooky dressup and made me think about some of the other ways I'd probably been playing that role in real life without realizing it. Probably a lot, I reckoned. Suddenly, the light table of my life had flicked on in my mind’s eye and a parade of my Victim slides fanned out into sharp focus for review. Oh crap, I thought, I'm good at this. It was my illuminating nah-ah moment, and I didn't like it one bit. And that’s the main reason why it took me so long to get to this post: it's not pretty, honey! So, a story. Victims love stories. At last year's Halloween party, a friend who'd never seen me in makeup and fake hair complimented my look—raved, actually—and told me how incredible I looked, just like Naomi Campbell, he said. He stared at me for a long time and even told in the days that followed that I should consider fake hair for real because it made me look so hot. I wasn't about to venture into the minefield of what beauty and beautiful hair was or how narrowly-perceived his idea of it was/is at a Halloween party of all places. So, I let it go. I didn't bother launching into the fact that even Naomi Campbell has a team of paid professionals to help her look like she does and that, if I look like her in makeup, then maybe she looks like me out of it. Not out of it as in inebriated, but out of makeup, I mean. Instead of calling him on his remark, I went one better and quietly decided to begin the process of de-friending him after he'd returned me safely home at the end of the evening. The next morning I called my girlfriend Bailey and rolled the story out for her in chapter and verse, leaving no detail untold in the case against my ignorant friend and the culture at large that incubated and spawned such beliefs. For forty-five minutes I railed on about the impossible standards of beauty that get piped in through the mainstream and how society suffers as a result and discourages any true expression of and the stifling global oppression that emerges as a result. I bemoaned the unnecessary, expensive burdens placed on women who couldn't see past the lies long enough to recognize their inherent beauty and to value the tresses they’d been blessed with from birth. I'm all for hair and nails and makeup as accessories and  fashion options, I told her, but it's the message that expensive additions like these should be the norm that pisses me off. Bailey listened while I called for women everywhere to come out from beneath the cumbersome burdens of weaves, extensions and wigs and, thusly, out from the pockets of the booming grooming industry. I was angry that people seemed to be under the illusion that beauty and esteem were simply a matter of money and an over-the-counter transaction. Just a few dollars down for full, pixie, partial, single track, silky, waved and braided allure. What's worse, I told my friend, was that my other friend, Kevin, had absolutely no idea how clueless he was about The Issues and that his ignorance only fueled the oppressor's grasp around women's minds and wallets everywhere and, and, and... Will you calm down, Kriste? Bailey interrupted. That man was just paying you a compliment. I see that as him recognizing your beauty. You need to be grateful because I saw that picture and I think you look terrible, if you want the truth. I didn't want the truth. Not that one anyway. Despite her attempts to diffuse the clarity and venom of my diatribe,

  There are times when only a song will do. And this is one of them. For as far back as I can remember Joe Cocker, I've linked the the grizzled crooner to his scratchy rendition of 'You Are So Beautiful' (and, as of the eighties, the gospelesque ...

For the past three decades and then some—ever since I got the hang of running my mouth—I’ve been trying in vain to get my mother to do my bidding. But it remains one of life’s great mysteries why she never bent to my will. It’s beyond me why she has chosen to live her life as though she were a self-directed individual with a mind and agenda of her own. When ma retired more than a decade ago, I did all I could to encourage her participation in activities beyond work and us ‘kids’. She wasn’t impressed. Ma, you gotta take an interest, I said, never initially bothering to specify what I thought she should be interested in. Get out there, I urged her. Go date. Look alive, woman! Volunteer, socialize, learn a language, I insisted. Do something, ma! Whenever I thought about her, which was often, I wrote notes, and phoned home from wherever I was in the world—in between my own adventures—to assess her status and gently clobber her with my attempts to pack the open calendar of her newly retired life. She wasn't having it. Naturally, I stepped up my plan, drafting to-do lists (you know I'm infamous for my lists, honey), providing phone numbers, and slipping in the sobering statistics and manufactured facts about retirees who—by not remaining active in their golden years—ultimately retired from life itself after leaving the workforce. Having nearly reached my limit, I opted, as any keenly desperate strategist would, for overt tactics of fear and intimidation. Did you know, I said with much conviction as I could muster, the FBI did a study that said life expectancy of retired people who don't stay active after leaving the workforce is only 5 years? Still unmoved by this latest dump of misinformation, she replied, What makes you think I want to do anything, Kriste? I been doing all my life. And I’m tired. There aren’t many occasions when you’ll find me short for things to say, but that one shut me up pretty good. After recovering from my mom’s ungracious outburst (and world-weary expression of her deeper personal truth, which I was powerless to fix), I grudgingly decided that, after decades of trying to run my mom’s life, I had to allow that maybe she knew what was best for her. Maybe, I considered, she could run her life without the intrusion of my unsolicited statistics, persistent lists, and thinly veiled demands to Move It. It was a difficult fistful of pills to swallow, but I was out of the nest living a life of my own and had to let my mom fly—or not—as she saw fit. Then one day, not having fully and totally nor finally given up on the attempt to resurrect and direct my mom’s social life, I sent her a memoir I’d hoped would change everything. It was the story of a divorced, freshly retired teacher who—despite her many attempts at ‘staying busy’ by volunteering and senior activities—she got blindsided by a sudden desire to have sex and maybe even fall in love after so many decades spent on the shelf immersed in other things. Bingo! Just what my mother needs, I proclaimed. Sex! I don’t give up easy. I love that memoir because our heroine, Jane Juska, is a woman after my own heart. Some would say she was well beyond the age of ‘knowing better’,  past 60, and she still looked at her life as an adventure and knew that, even though she was clueless about getting into social circulation again—let alone getting into bed with someone new—she went for it anyway. She anted'd up and duked it out through the pages of her story and invited us in for the ride, so to speak. The book: A Round-Heeled Woman: My Late-Life Adventures in Sex and Romance. It was the perfect gift for any mother from a concerned daughter with her mom's well-being in mind. I made a special trip to the post office just to send it off. Once I’d given her enough time to read and marinate on the book, I called ma and engaged her in the following discussion: ME: So, ma, did you get that book I sent you? MA: What book? ME: You know,

I wrote this to commemorate the 10th anniversary of the World Trade Center bombings, and the sentiment remains the same. May we never forget. If you were to count up the hundreds of—thousands of—random acts of kindness and genuine care for each other, the likes of which I witnessed firsthand ten years ago today, if you took each of those moments and strung them together like bulbs on a line, they’d shine like a beacon in the dark and make for a safer passage through. - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - - For the extended audio version of this entry, click on my audio player above.

Social networking is deep. For lots of reasons. But, today, I happen to think it's particularly intense because it's got me thinking about how it is that I can share a laugh, swap stories, discuss the issues, mingle, chat and seem totally engaging and ...

Psst, you. I want to talk to you about the Soulmate List. Also known as the Life Partner List, it's the itemized, prioritized, idealized roster of traits, tastes and druthers of must-have qualities we want the person of our dreams to possess. It's usually a make-or-break proposition, high-stakes in its attempts to define who and what our ideal mates must look like, sound like, feel like, be like. And depending on how serious we are about our List, it can backfire and blow up like mad if we get too attached to it and take our eyes off of life as we knew it. How much does he love me? Let me count the ways. 1.) First things first. He must be fine as all get out. Chiseled, buffed, taught, supple, hot and cool in all the right places. 2.) For as great-looking as he is, he's also got to adore me in equal measure. Fawn over me, praise me, cuddle and coo me, too. Oh, and leave no mountain unmoved to ensure I know how much he cares. 3.) When he's not maintaining his awesome physique, and keeping his hind parts high, mighty and muscled for nobody but me—and when he's got a break from moving mountains on my behalf—the Ideal Man of my Dreams List will be busy bringing in the organic, consciously-fed, humanely-treated meatless bacon. Most of which he loves to fry up for me. 4.) Did I mention the Ideal Man of my List is an excellent chef who trained at Le Cordon Bleu, and is obviously fluent in French? 4a.) My Soul Mate, as described on my List, shall also happily put his big strong hands to work washing the dishes after dinner, while serenading me from the kitchen—after surprising me with his latest culinary masterpiece. 5.) Which also means the "dessert" is always tasty and never disappoints. No cream puffs for me, thank you! 6.) The Man of my List will hold doors open and lift heavy things in addition to mountains—things like furniture and recycled organic hemp bags filled with non-GMO groceries. 7.) He does the driving when I ask, he reads my mind, and even cries when appropriate; just enough to remind me of his deep river of strength and security churning mannishly beneath his steely composure and behind savage breast, which allows for just the right amount of occasional manly emotion. And now, the teachable moment: Let's say you want someone or even some thing that's going to bring you pleasure and enhance your life. Using the example of Manifesting a Miracle Man, let's say you want him to be friendly and outgoing. Fair enough. But what if, whenever you go out to social settings, you retreat to the darkened corners of the party, back by the coats where no one can see you? From that vantage point, back behind the synthetic potted palm trees, you watch as your Mr. Wonderful works the room, much to the delight of all the single ladies. What if he's actually looking for you in that moment, but you're feeling too self-conscious, hidden and undeserving to show yourself to him, let alone to anyone who might be the brother, sister, kid, neighbor, colleague, Ex or parent of that guy who's truly perfect for you? Now let's say this chilling realization makes me think twice about my List, showing me that I could stand to scale my expectations back a bit, that I could benefit from developing my own social skills if I expect to be a match for the Man of My List. Because, frankly, even I can't see being comfortable with a social butterfly when I'm about as engaging as the coat rack. I happen to think that when we look for our Ideal Mates, Soul Mates, Perfect Matches, Life Partners, Better Halves—even our Unsuspecting Future Ex, let's face it—we're looking for the best, most balanced version of ourselves to be reflected back to us in their eyes—and actions. And if these desired traits aren't already available in us, present for all the world to see, then it's probably time to turn the search for the Great Mate inward on ourselves, so that we not only learn how to cultivate the traits we seek,