Looking Inward: Why We're Wary Of What Lies Within.

‎"We have been to the moon, we have charted the depths of the ocean and the heart of the atom, but we have a fear of looking inward to ourselves because we sense that is where all the contradictions flow together." Terence McKenna, Author, Philosopher


Perhaps the most difficult task of therapy is the journey inward.


Over the past year I've worked with a young woman, Thea (no real names are used here), who has had, over the years, difficulty with co-workers, tradespeople, and most significantly, with her domestic partner of 12 years. 


As we began our work, Thea sat across from me, exasperated with the  conduct of the rest of the world. Can you believe the way they treat me....?  Thea was frustrated, often angry. Her coworkers failed to see the value of her suggestions for their performance; in fact, they had begun to avoid her in the break room. But, this is all constructive criticism! They should thank me for my insights.  With a neutral and curious tone I asked, "Did they ask for your input?" No! They simply don't see what I see. They don't like it when I point out their obvious shortcomings." 


Similar frustrations surfaced around the performance of young man who cleaned her house. Thea: I suggested he might clean his other houses in the way I want my house cleaned--and he told me they seemed satisfied with his way. His way is inferior! He is so ungrateful!


The most distressing rift was the one with her partner, Jerry, a software engineer who spent long hours at the office, and was "tired" most of the time at home.  Thea: He's tired all the time. I spent an afternoon on the computer researching fatigue and its causes, even printed out an exercise and nutrition regimen guaranteed to improve energy levels. And has he started it? He said "thank you" and the printout is still sitting on the kitchen counter. No matter how I try to help him improve himself, nothing seems to happen. How can he let this happen to me?


A few months into our work together, Thea arrived for her session looking exhausted. Her eyes were red and swollen. She had been up all night, crying.  Thea: I try and I try...it seems like no one can see it my way! I want to help, but I'm just ready...to give up. No one appreciates my insights. It's as if...I don't matter.  Thea sobbed. When the sobbing subsided, she asked, What is wrong...with me?  


And so our real work began. It wasn't so much what was wrong or for that matter, right, with Thea. It was the fact that Thea was willing to look inward.


As much as we would like to change others in our lives, therapy can only affect the person or persons sitting in the room. As much as Thea wanted others to recognize her insights and suggestions, she was the person that they all had in common. She had been getting feedback from them for some time now, and she was not able to take it in.   


Only when she began to consider, Is it possible that I am contributing to my own distress in the world? were we able to help her see herself as others saw her. It was only then that Thea and I could begin to explore the messages and values she got as a child--from her parents and others--and how she incorporated those messages into her world view. 


Over time, Thea has begun to view the world from other points of view. While it is still frustrating for her that others cannot see things as clearly as she does, she has stopped offering advice--however constructive. And we have been tracking the reactions of those around her. 


Looking inward can be scary. But it can also be entertaining and enlightening.  It's where we can finally begin to see ourselves as--perhaps--others might see us.  It gives us a new perspective from which to  navigate our relationships.  


Not as lone mariners, but as privileged members of a larger crew.


Until next time, thanks for listening.

On A Personal Note: "The Help," Memories of Pattie And Why You Can't Talk Trash About My Family.

I just finished reading The Help, and I have to say, I'm left feeling a handful of emotions. If you haven't read the book, read it.  The film version, while somewhat (necessarily) abbreviated, is also a gem. Go see it.

Living in California, it's not often that I run into anyone who shares my southern roots, much less even a passing understanding of what it was like to grow up in the south of the 1960s. So I felt a wave of familiarity--a dull ache of nostalgia--as the book swept me back to a different time.

There are similarities between the book and my upbringing. And differences, too. But the flavor--the summer heat, the humidity, the southern drawl, the way of describing things--was so accurately recreated on the pages of The Help. It was a time long passed. A time that predated political correctness. The south of my childhood has seen many positive changes since that time. What follows is a memory of what was, as it was.

My family employed a wonderful, powerful black woman by the name of Pattie.  Unlike the fictional Phelans, our family was not wealthy, plantation-dwelling or steeped in the deep traditions of Mississippi. We lived in a comfortable, upper middle-class neighborhood in Virginia, where the men worked and most of the women stayed home to raise their families--often with the help of a "colored girl," a decidedly racist term that was likely used more out of ignorance and habit than malice.

To the best of my knowledge, Pattie came to work for my mother when I was two or three. She came five days a week, doing the housecleaning and laundry.  My early memories of Pattie were the scents of Niagara Spray Starch and Lucky Strike unfiltereds.  I can picture her at the ironing board, Lucky dangling from her lips, humming over a the collar of one of my father's white shirts, delivering a perfect shot of spray starch to the collar. And then, the hiss of the iron as it glided over the cotton, leaving behind its perfect wake of flattened fabric.

Pattie arrived on the 7:55 morning bus. My mom picked her up at the bus stop and Pattie was at work by 8:00 sharp.  In the summers, Pattie arrived with bags of fresh produce, usually half-runner beans and white corn, my father's favorites. Sometimes there were beets and squash and heirloom tomatoes. As a child, I never questioned how Pattie got the produce--it just came with her.

What I learned, years later, was that Pattie, in order to get to the morning farmer's market, got up an hour early, took the 6:20 bus, shopped, then changed buses twice to get to our house as usual. I also learned that Mom never asked for this kindness, and always offered to pay Pattie for the vegetables.  It was their "dance." Mom would offer, Pattie would say, Put yo money away, Miss Frances, and turn and walk out of the room. Mom would follow, repeat the offer, get the same answer. Then, when she was certain Pattie wasn't looking, Mom would stick a carefully folded five- or ten-dollar bill in Pattie's purse.

Pattie knew it was there. Mom knew it was there.  It was how they worked it out.

Along with Pattie's pay each week (I don't have any idea what Pattie was paid), Mom set out a bag containing a carton of Lucky Unfiltereds, a small bag of Brach's butterscotch candies, two ribeye steaks, greens, a 48 oz. bottle of Schlitz beer, and whatever seasonal produce that was at market.  It was "Pattie's bag" and Mom make it clear we children were not to touch it. Mom would set it by Pattie's satchel next to the front door just as she prepared to take Pattie home for the day. Sometimes I would ride with them to Pattie's house. In those more racially divided days it was in an area called "colored town," as white--and black--people called the area adjacent to Williamson Road.

In later years, when Pattie was coming only three times, then twice, then once a week--I would drive her home myself.

Pattie sat in the front seat with Mom. She sat in the front seat with me.  I never remember her talking about her personal life, civil rights, segregation, Martin Luther King or any reference to racial segregation.  I know she had opinions. And I know that, after she retired and Mom called or visited her, Pattie shared personal feelings with Mom--and Mom with her. They remained friends until Pattie's death in early 1975.

Kathryn Stockett, author of The Help, explains, in an afterword to the book, about being a southerner in an environment that doesn't understand southerners.  I, too, left the south as an adult to work in larger cities in other parts of the country. Here in California I occasionally come across someone who has recently seen a film about the south, changed planes in the Atlanta, Hartsfield airport, or spent a brief time in one of the southern states. After one such brief southern encounter, one particular acquaintance whom I see from time to time,  let fly some unflattering comments about how "all southerners are so slow," winking at our dinner companions as if to underscore the unspoken translation: All southerners are so stupid.

Without so much as a hesitation between bites of bean salad from a Berkeley organic grocery I caught her gaze and steelily replied,  Careful. You're talking about me, my mom and dad and the rest of my family and by the way just how much time have you spent in the south? Have you ever lived there? Know anyone--personally? And--just, by the way--what if I generalized that way about you and your family. How do you think it would feel?

So, there you have it. To paraphrase Ms. Stockett (and with apologies): With all its faults (and there were and are many) the south is like my family. I'm allowed to complain about her all I want, but God help the person who raises an ill word about her around me, unless she is their family, too.

I'll get off my soapbox now.  Thanks for listening.

On A Personal Note: Glimpses Of Childhood, The Birth Of Self-Esteem And The End Of Summer.

When I was a child, the beginning of summer was just that: a beginning. It was a time of what seemed to be endless possibilities. The countdown to the end of school usually started some time in the middle of May and built to a feverish crescendo that climaxed on or about June 5th, when the last textbooks were stacked in the multipurpose room and we were released into the warm June heat of the Virginia summer.

Early on as a child, I found, to my profound disappointment, that I was a failure on any number of sports courts and fields. Despite endless hours of practice with my naturally athletic cousins, I failed to find either proficiency or personal satisfaction on the baseball diamond, basketball court, or football field--three of the staple neighborhood sports at which boys that age usually excelled.

You can imagine my surprise--and delight--when, at the age of six, I discovered that I could swim! Not only stay afloat, but, with training and determination, I could traverse the length of the pool with enough velocity to compete with--and sometimes beat--my opponents.

It's no wonder that I looked forward to summer so much. I grudgingly suffered through three of the four seasons: football, basketball and baseball. But when the fourth season arrived--swimming--it was my time to shine. Relatively.

For a child who was routinely picked last--or nearly last--for most sports teams, I reveled in my 4th, 3rd, 2nd and the occasional 1st place ribbons I earned each Monday night from June through August.   My parents, to their credit, never provided me with either excuses or rationalizations about my wins--or my losses.  When I ended a swimming event--all splash and fury--only to find out I had finished an honorable "4th" I wasn't consoled with "You had a bad lane," or "You were swimming with the sun in your eyes," or worse, "The lane judge disqualified you because he doesn't like our team." (And believe it or not, I actually heard parents feeding their kids those lines when I was a swimmer, as well as years later when I was the coach of the team).

 In fact, I wasn't really consoled at all. Instead, when I began my own rationalizations, my mom (usually) or dad (sometimes) would hand me a dry towel, look me in the eye and ask calmly:  Did you do your best? As difficult as it was to admit that my "best" had only netted me 4th or 5th place, I would soberly reply, Yes. To which my parent(s) would reply, Then you did your best. And, today, in this race, others swam a little better then you did. Next week there will be another race.

Forty-odd years later, I can remember these moments as if they had happened yesterday.  I came to look at these as our "no-excuses" moments. Just a realization that my best sometimes wouldn't be as good as somebody else's. And, more importantly, that my best was just fine. Now I suspect there may be some parents out there who will be horrified at my next statement, but here goes: Not only was my best "just fine," 4th, 5th--god forbid last--place was just fine, too. Because I gave it my all.

And, wet and shivering at pool's edge in the early evening chill of a June evening--my self-esteem was born.

Don't get me wrong. Satisfaction with my best didn't mean settling for 4th, 5th or last. It meant pushing myself to whatever personal best I was capable of. And, the summer I turned 14, for a few glorious weeks between our regional meet and state finals, I held the state record for the 50-meter backstroke. There were no parades, no newspaper articles, no celebrations of any kind that I remember. Just the self-satisfaction that, for a handful of days, not only had I finally beaten our city's golden-boy swimmer, Richard Hughes (his real name--sorry Richard) but I had--for just a moment--set the bar for that event. My best, for that brief time, was the best.

I'm not sure what caused that sweet memory from so long ago to surface now. Perhaps it's the fact that it's August and, my sense memory still lingers--August means that summer is winding down. School will be starting soon (in those days we squeezed every drop out of summer, starting school after Labor Day). Perhaps, it's because I see clients often struggle with the competitive nature of jobs--and life--in the Bay Area.  Maybe, it's just the fact that, sometimes, the events of the world remind me that this is a time that feels...complicated. And the memories of affirmation--and brief victory--feel simpler, purer, more true.

Now, I'm the first to admit that my memory can be selective, embellished, and optimistic. But, in this instance, the memory of my experience--and the values imparted to me--is pretty much true to the time.

In the Virginia summer of my childhood, this would be the time of summer heat, humid nights, fans blowing cool breezes, lighting bugs at dusk and the winding down of lazy days. 

Years later, I still feel late August is a time of anticipation. Of a new beginning. Of a new season.  Of things unseen and unknown. And, because of my parents' refusal to rearrange reality to suit my life disappointments, I feel blessedly prepared to meet the unknown. Head-on.

Next week there will be another race.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

And thanks for listening.

Gaining Perspective And Getting Out Of Your Head or, The Rx For Depression: Volunteer.

Because I'm not a physician, I can't, of course, prescribe medication. However, I have found, in both a personal and professional realm, that a powerful tool in treating depression is participating in volunteer activity.  It can be as simple as serving at a soup kitchen, reading to the elderly, assisting teachers in the school setting, distributing magazines and flowers at a hospital...and the list goes on.

The difficulty when you're depressed, however, can be inertia.

Making that first phone call can be monumental hurdle. And, yet, clients (and friends) report that once the call is made and they overcame their first discomfort with a new challenge, they felt something they had not felt in some time: they were needed. They mattered. They had a contribution to make.

I've related in a previous blog my path to becoming a therapist. Looking back, I'm not certain I was clinically depressed, but I was feeling despondent about my career in advertising. I didn't have a someone special in my life. And I was outside of the US, geographically far away from people I loved. Consequently, I was working hard to "figure out" my life. I was spending alot of time in my head, sometimes spinning in details of my life journey to date: my choices, my talents and shortcomings, my relationships and my loneliness.   A friend (who probably was tiring of my constant self-examination) suggested volunteering. Her rationale was sound:  You have the time, you're good with people, and the worst that can happen is that they can fire you. So you wouldn't be any worse off than you are now, right?

The first step in that journey was becoming a volunteer at the palliative care ward in a local hospital. The training was great and the experience even greater. 

If I had to boil the benefit down to one word it would be: perspective. 

When we're trapped in our own heads with our own thoughts, the perspective is short, narrow and limited.  When we can interact with others on a personal basis, forgetting for a moment our world and its limitations, we're free to develop an amazing quality: empathy. 

The folks at Merriam-Webster define empathy as the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another... When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. It would seem almost impossible to be able to "understand, "  "be aware," and "vicariously experience" another's world if we're trapped in our own world view.

Interestingly, the same folks at Merriam-Webster have the following to say about "depression:" ...a disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration,...feelings of dejection and hopelessness....  My clients often use words like "stuck" and "spinning in my own stuff."

When a task, service or responsibility becomes about anything but you, your perspective is forced to change--just for a time. But change it must. That's when you "leave your head" and concentrate on the needs of others.  It can be a freeing change of scenery.

I remember, several years ago, when my father's best friend, Ron, retired from a lucrative career that was a major part of his life for more than 40 years.  After retiring, he became grumpy, withdrawn and generally difficult to be around.  His wife, in an effort to simply get him out of the house, insisted he volunteer--anywhere. Reluctantly, Ron volunteered at a local after-school program teaching six-year-olds to read. 

It makes for an interesting image. Picture a six-foot-four, 200 pound bear of a man sitting in a tiny little chair, at a tiny little table, holding a tiny little book in front of...yes, a tiny little six-year-old. As the kids learned to read, Ron began to have purpose again. He began to engage others, to laugh, to talk with pride about "his kids," the ones he was teaching to read.  His sense of humor returned. He not only became a favorite of the kids, but his long-time friends were glad to have the old Ron back.

Was Ron depressed? I couldn't say. But, when he went from being in charge of a company to having no business influence,  he certainly seemed to have lost purpose. It took a six-year-old to bring that back. He went from being "stuck" in his own head to being relevant. And needed.

Will volunteering cure your depression?  "Cure" is asking alot. But could it help? My personal and professional experiences say that it certainly won't hurt.  And, if things are looking particularly bleak, how can you argue with a change of scenery?

Until later, thanks for listening.

It's All About You--Part II: Keeping Healthy Boundaries.

Last time, I shared my thoughts on the therapist's self-disclosure in session, and why I feel the focus should always remain on you--the client. In this post, we'll look at the nature of the professional client-therapist relationship, and a few ways to maintain healthy boundaries.


Our relationship is professional. Personal details can blur the lines.
I genuinely care about my clients and their well-being. I'm honored that they choose to share personal and intimate details about their lives. I hope my clients can feel my compassion for their difficulties and my satisfaction in their therapeutic accomplishments. However, despite the caring nature of the relationship, it is first, foremost and always a professional one.


For example, I can feel great satisfaction for a client who has worked to improve interpersonal skills in order to secure a job, and in session, I will congratulate this client for his success. However, I choose not to send cards, make congratulatory calls, and won't--under any circumstances-- go out to dinner to celebrate. 


My relationship with you as a client will never be a social one. We meet in a professional setting, and maintain professional boundaries. Because of confidentiality, if we happen to pass each other on the street, I will not acknowledge you unless you have given me explicit permission to do so in advance. If you think about it, if you're with other people and I say, "Hello," the natural question can arise: So, how do you know each other? Ethically, I cannot tell anyone that you are my client, and this conversation puts you in the potentially awkward position of having to disclose that you are in therapy. It may seem cold, but it's an ethical boundary that has served my clients well.


So, what do I disclose to my clients in session?
Again, for me, the acid test is, what is in the best interest of my client? For example, I have worked with many clients over the years who have lost one or both of their aged parents. At times, I have felt it appropriate to share--briefly--about the loss of my parents in order to to show empathy for my client's grieving process. Again, it's not about getting my clients to take care of my grief--it's about showing empathy for theirs.

 I don't have an "approved list" of self-disclosures. It usually happens in the moment, is brief, pointed, and designed to benefit the client in the moment. If I'm not sure it's in your best interest to share, I pass.

Does this mean if your therapist discloses more or less than I do that it's "wrong?" By no means. As I said at the beginning, therapist disclosure in therapy is a very individual thing. However, if you feel that your therapist is spending more time talking than listening, and you don't feel like the hour is yours, you might want to address it.


Years ago, before I'd ever been in a therapy session, a friend was describing her therapy to me: I go once a week. My therapist is totally focused on what I have to say, never makes it about herself, and doesn't make me feel bad when I admit my mistakes. She's genuinely interested in what I choose to talk about, but gets me back on track when I ramble. It's the one hour a week where I feel like what I have to say really matters. I feel heard.


Feeling heard. In therapy, it can only really happen when one person does most of the talking--you.

Thanks for listening. (I feel heard.)

It's All About You...Or, My Thoughts On Self-Disclosure In Your Therapy--Part I

Individual therapy is a unique relationship between two people. One is encouraged to come in and share any and all details of his/her personal life in an effort to gain self-insight, make decisions around personal growth and change, and process deep and personal feelings and experiences from the past and present.  The other person--the therapist--sits and listens, usually addressing only what the client brings into the room in a professionally concerned manner.

I've been asked more than once, How come I tell you everything and you never say anything about yourself?

Self-disclosure by therapists is...well, very individual. Most therapists are trained, in general terms, to disclose personal information only as it serves the best interest of the client, i.e., you.  The term "best interest" is open to interpretation by each therapist, which means that one therapist may be vastly more self-disclosing than another. 

I tend to err on the side of "less is more." And the reason is simple: this is your therapy, your session, your journey, your time, your money--the only thing about me that should enter the room is an experience, an anecdote or a  personal detail that will specifically be beneficial to you.

Why "How are you?" is a thoughtful, but loaded question.
My clients often settle into a session with a  polite, "How are you?" to which I always smile and answer, "Fine. Where would you like to begin today?"  Clients who know me well, know that I won't say more. The reason? Everyone occasionally has a bad day, even your therapist. However, it's not your job to soothe, cajole or otherwise take care of my needs.  I'll be ok.  And, for some clients, it can be less difficult to divert the conversation to me and my problems, than to talk about their own difficulty. And this can put a roadblock in the way of the real reason you're here. 

My experiences are not the important experiences in the room.
Yours are. How I might react, my history in a similar situation, my personal experience in a similar setting are largely irrelevant, as it's your reaction, your history, your personal experiences that matter. Because we're all unique human beings with different histories and backgrounds, it would be presumptuous--and unprofessional--of me to begin to think that you would react to a given situation or pain the same as I would.  The important information about your distress is about you.


My feelings are not the important feelings in the room.
Again, yours are. If you ask me in session, How would that make you feel?, I'm likely to gently ask you how it made you feel.  Your thoughts, feelings and behaviors are some of the variables that we'll work with in session to help you achieve the changes you're looking for.  My feelings about your experiences--aside from my desire to be non-judgemental and compassionate--are simply irrelevant. My goal is to help you by making it safe to look inward.

 If you spend your time focusing on me, you're not focusing on yourself.
Many therapists, including myself, have spent time in therapy looking at our own issues and difficulties in life.  That said, most therapists can empathize with the fact that, as a client, it's sometimes easier to talk about something other than yourself.  However, it's in your best interest--there's that phrase again--to keep the conversation focused on your experiences, feelings and movement forward toward your therapeutic goals.

Next time: It's All About You, Part II: More about the professional nature of the client-therapist relationship and keeping healthy boundaries.


Thanks for listening.

From The Therapist's Deck Chair: Why Pets Make Good Therapists.

The weekends take me and my partner north of the city to a place overlooking the Alexander Valley. It's a beautiful morning, one of those Saturday mornings where I can hear the sound of dogs, sheep, horses, goats and roosters from the valley below.  Oddly enough, the roosters greet every hour and random minute--not just the dawn--with gusto and abandon.

Close by it would feel like a noisy intrusion. Somehow, in the near distance, it's reassuring that we're not alone on the planet.

Aside from this personal observation (as well as a long and mostly satisfying relationship with George and Gracie, our cats), there is scientific data to support the therapeutic benefits of having pets. Studies have found that human-animal relationships can positively affect mood and health, instill healthy lifestyle changes, and play an important role in healthy aging.

Improved mood and health.  Recent studies have shown:
*Pet owners survive heart attacks longer than non-pet owners
*If you have a pet, you're less likely to suffer from depression
*Pet owners tend to have lower blood pressure in stressful situations
*Pet play can increase dopamine levels in the blood, which can help you feel calmer and more relaxed
* Pet owners have lower blood indicators of heart disease (lower cholesterol and triglyceride levels).

We can attribute many of the health benefits of pet ownership to the power of touch. Stroking or holding an animal can actually provide a calming effect in times of stress. Interaction with our pets is a way we can express--and receive--affection. Some of our furry friends require physical activity, which can motivate us to move with them. And some forms of vigorous exercise are known mood elevators.

Pets and healthy lifestyle changes.  As I mentioned above, pets can help motivate us to exercise. Dog-walking and house play with your cat are two simple ways to get off the couch.

Caring for your pet can also help you feel less isolated and more needed. When you focus on your pet, you are taking your mind off of your troubles and providing nurture for another living thing. The companionship of a pet can reduce anxiety and stress while providing company and comfort.  For those who feel life lacks purpose, many pet care regimens provide structure and purpose on a daily basis.

And, if you've ever visited a dog park you know that walking your dog is a great way to socialize with other animal lovers.

Pets and healthy aging.  As we grow older, we often become less connected to others. We retire, our children move away, health concerns make us less mobile, and, inevitably, we begin to lose friends and family members to death.

In older age, making new friends can be difficult. As mentioned above, a dog can be a great new friend for you, and can also provide a pathway to new friends.

Dogs and other pets also encourage movement, playfulness, exercise and even laughter (just add one kitten to one roll of toilet paper and you'll see what I mean).

And, in a life that may feel less and less meaningful at times, the responsibility of a pet and its care can not only provide renewed sense of purpose, but also increased morale and optimism.

Like many joys, pets require commitment and responsibility.  Before you decide to add a pet to your life, consider the following:

* While a pet can be playful, it's not a plaything.  All pets require daily care and attention. Feeding, walking, litter box care--they all take time and when you neglect these tasks you're neglecting a living being.

* While pets keep on giving, they also keep on costing. Money. Pet maintenance--food, licenses, spaying and neutering, vet care, boarding fees--can amount to significant sums of money. Be sure you're willing and able to make this commitment before taking on the responsibility of a pet.

* Adorable pets can do deplorable damage.  Despite all your best efforts at training your pets, occasionally they can shred, tear, soil and otherwise damage your furniture, rugs, walls, clothing and virtually anything you leave unattended.  You need to consider: pets are not humans and don't understand why we value the items we value.  They will encroach on our territory and our things.

* Some pets carry health risks. The most common health problem associated with pets is allergies. The time to find out about pet allergies is before you take on pet ownership, not after.  And for some older adults, it will be important to match your stamina, mobility and stability to the right pet.

After all that, you may be wincing and saying to yourself, Well, why bother? Any pet owner can tell you why. And, I began all this with the notion that pets make good therapists.  If for no other reason, pets, like a good therapist, listen to us without judgement.  Yes, while some pet owners won't admit it, most of us talk to our pets. We ask them how they feel, if they like their food, and confide in them about our day.

The therapeutic part? They listen without reservation. They don't judge or offer advice we may not want.  They don't take sides or provide rationales that make our reasoning seem lame. They simply listen.  They entertain us. They provide good company.

And wait for the next scratch behind the ears.

Until next time, thanks for listening.