How beautiful the things are that you did not notice before! A few sweetclover plants Along the road to Bellingham, Culvert ends poking out of driveways, Wooden corncribs, slowly falling, What no one loves, no one rushes towards or shouts about, What lives like the new moon, And the wind Blowing against the rumps of grazing cows. ~Robert Bly from “Like the New Moon I Will Live My Life”
“A devout but highly imaginative Jesuit,” Untermeyer says in my yellowed college omnibus of modern poets, perhaps intending an oxymoron, but is it? Shook foil, sharp rivers start to flow. Landscape plotted and pieced, gray-blue, snow-pocked begins to show its margins. Speeding back down the interstate into my own hills I see them fickle, freckled, mounded fully and softened by millennia into pillows. The priest’s sprung metronome tick-tocks, repeating how old winter is. It asks each mile, snow fog battening the valleys, what is all this juice and all this joy? ~Maxine Kumin “Almost Spring, Driving Home, Reciting Hopkins”
The Robert Bly poem reminds me to see in a new way as I travel the road to Bellingham, Washington (not Bly’s Bellingham, Minnesota).
My eyes scan for the unnoticed and unremarkable, along these rural byways I traveled decades to work, now only to meetings or shopping – when feeling the need to wander and wonder.
Forty years ago in my twice-daily hour-long Seattle traffic commute to reach my clinic, I could only pay attention to the cars around me, blinkered to all else happening.
Since moving north to Whatcom County, I try to notice what small things I might keep handy in my memory for another day, like a jar of canned peaches in our root cellar, just so I won’t forget, ready to pull them off the shelf someday so I might share their sweetness with someone else.
photo by Joel DeWaard
Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. …to get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed. ~Abraham Joshua Hershel
photo by Harry Rodenberger
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The Jews answered him, “Aren’t we right in saying that you are a Samaritan and demon-possessed?”
“I am not possessed by a demon,” said Jesus, “but I honor my Father and you dishonor me.I am not seeking glory for myself; but there is one who seeks it, and he is the judge.Very truly I tell you, whoever obeys my word will never see death.”
At this they exclaimed, “Now we know that you are demon-possessed! Abraham died and so did the prophets, yet you say that whoever obeys your word will never taste death. Are you greater than our father Abraham? He died, and so did the prophets.
Who do you think you are?”
Jesus replied, “If I glorify myself, my glory means nothing. My Father, whom you claim as your God, is the one who glorifies me. Though you do not know him, I know him. If I said I did not, I would be a liar like you, but I do know him and obey his word. Your father Abraham rejoiced at the thought of seeing my day; he saw it and was glad.”
“You are not yet fifty years old,” they said to him, “and you have seen Abraham!”
“Very truly I tell you,” Jesus answered, “before Abraham was born, I am!” At this, they picked up stones to stone him, but Jesus hid himself, slipping away from the temple grounds. John 8: 48-59
I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God.
That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell.
You must make your choice.
Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher.
He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to. …
Now it seems to me obvious that He was neither a lunatic nor a fiend: and consequently, however strange or terrifying or unlikely it may seem, I have to accept the view that He was and is God. ~C.S. Lewis from Mere Christianity
He rains upon our thirsting earth with shining drops of living water.
We are saved from the drought of unbelief and skepticism.
Who do we think He is? He is the immortal I AM.
I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year alongside my church family. Once a week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.
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His long teeth on her withers, her rough-coated spots will grow damp and wild. Her long teeth on his withers, his oiled-teakwood smoothness will grow damp and wild. Their shadows’ chiasmus will fleck and fill with flies, the eight marks of their fortune stamp and then cancel the earth. From ear-flick to tail-switch, they stand in one body. No luck is as boundless as theirs. ~Jane Hirshfield “The Love of Aged Horses”
Two horses lean in the field clasped against each other as if in prayer, grooming each other’s manes the way my thumb strokes the back of my thumb.
Together, tall, conductive around them, fenced lightning, above, a promise of more rain to come, the force of faith condensing, cumulative—
A wave tries to return to the river what it has been given, futile.
Two swans, only ever as far apart as palms, a wingspan, float by shore, sucking up silt, throats rippling, taking in something as vast as the sea in small sips.
If, on cold nights, before bed, I pray for something as simple as the warmth of my hands— ~Ace Chu “Dear” from The Hopper
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom. ~James Wright “A Blessing”
May we easily find one another’s itches, just as we know our own. May we greet all visitors with a gentle and humble welcome. May we bow our heads together when in need of community. May we clasp hands in prayer to God, warming each other’s hands when the world is feeling far too cold.
Lyrics: Warm summer sun, Shine kindly here, Warm southern wind, Blow softly here. Green sod above, Lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, Good night, good night. (Mark Twain left this poem on his daughter’s tombstone)
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The evening comes slowly over us, over the cardinal and the wren still feeding, over the swallows suddenly swooping to snatch up mosquitoes
over the marsh where the green sedge lately has a tawny tinge over two yearlings bending long necks to nibble hillock bushes
finally separate from their doe mother. A late hawk is circling against the sky streaked lavender. The breeze has quieted, vanished
into leaves that still stir a bit like a cat turning round before sleep. Distantly a car passes and is gone. Night gradually
unrolls from the east where the ocean slides up and down the sand leaving seaweed tassels: a perfect world for moments. ~Marge Piercy “June 15th, 8pm”from Made in Detroit
So many fleeting moments pass by me, a shower of raindrops disappearing into a stream — I can’t capture and hold them. They run through my fingers like water, leaving behind a damp residue of remembrance.
Yet each a moment of perfection, even as I lose my grasp on it. Perhaps a written word or recorded photo, elusive as the relentless flow of time itself.
A moment gifted by God, a moment breathed, a moment observed, a moment vanished, lived fully, yet never to come again.
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Every child should know a hill, And the clean joy of running down its long slope With the wind in his hair. He should know a tree— The comfort of its cool lap of shade, And the supple strength of its arms Balancing him between earth and sky So he is a creature of both. He should know bits of singing water— The strange mysteries of its depths, And the long sweet grasses that border it. Every child should know some scrap Of uninterrupted sky, to shout against; And have one star, dependable and bright, For wishing on. ~Edna Casler Joll“Every Child Should Know a Hill”
photo of a windy day at Manna Farm by Danyale Tamminga
When I was younger the world was full of wonder. Forests were kingdoms. Following the wind was freedom. Children wielded branches like sharpened swords
There was no separation between dream and reality no border to defend, Blanket forts were impenetrable. The monsters in the closets could not reach us there.
We ruled from treetop towers. We danced in the rain. We needed no permission to believe in the sacred. It was simply everywhere. It was simply everything.
In those days we were of the living. ~Logan Holder“Of the Living”
How brief are our childhood days, when we can touch both earth and sky without knowing any limits, how we can fly downhill and climb impossible obstacles, how the ocean stretches to infinity as our imagination sails away.
I now watch these treasured young friends I’ve watched grow, held as babies, taught new songs and games, helped their faith grow, now getting married, ready to grow up children of their own.
This, the unending turn of the years, a stretching tether connecting one generation to another.
Everything sacred, held so close until one day it is time to let go – and once again run, climb, fly, touching the earth and sky at once.
Lyrics by Keane: I walked across an empty land I knew the pathway like the back of my hand I felt the earth beneath my feet Sat by the river and it made me complete
Chorus: Oh, simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting old, and I need something to rely on So, tell me when you’re gonna let me in I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin
I came across a fallen tree I felt the branches of it looking at me Is this the place we used to love? Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?
And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything So, why don’t we go somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know
And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything So, why don’t we go? So, why don’t we go?
This could be the end of everything So, why don’t we go somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know Somewhere only we know
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Lord of the pots and pans and things, since I’ve no time to be a saint by doing lovely things, or watching late with thee, or dreaming in the dawnlight, or storming heaven’s gates… make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates. Thou who didst love to give men food in room or by the sea, accept this service that I do— I do it unto thee. ~ Brother Lawrence from Practicing the Presence of God
Wash the plate not because it is dirty nor because you are told to wash it, but because you love the person who will use it next. ~St. Teresa of Calcutta
Even the mundane task of washing dishes by hand is an example of the small tasks and personal activities that once filled people’s daily lives with a sense of achievement. ~B.F. Skinner, behavioral psychologist
She rarely made us do it— we’d clear the table instead—so my sister and I teased that some day we’d train our children right and not end up like her, after every meal stuck with red knuckles, a bleached rag to wipe and wring.
The one chore she spared us: gummy plates in water greasy and swirling with sloughed peas, globs of egg and gravy. Or did she guard her place at the window? Not wanting to give up the gloss of the magnolia, the school traffic humming. Sunset, finches at the feeder. First sightings of the mail truck at the curb, just after noon, delivering a note, a card, the least bit of news. ~Susan Meyers “Mother, Washing Dishes”
My thoughts went round and round and it occurred to me that if I ever wrote a novel it would be of the ‘stream of consciousness’ type and deal with an hour in the life of a woman at the sink.
….I had to admit that nobody had compelled me to wash these dishes or to tidy this kitchen. It was the fussy spinster in me, the Martha who could not comfortably sit and make conversation when she knew that yesterday’s unwashed dishes were still in the sink. ~Barbara Pym from Excellent Women
I trace the struggling relationships and estrangements in the American family to the invention of the automatic dishwasher.
I have proof…
What happened to the necessary cooperation of a human dishwasher with two hands full of wash cloth and scrubber, having to get along with a dish dryer armed with a towel?
Where is the list on the refrigerator of whose turn is next, and the accountability if a family member somehow shirks their washing/drying responsibility and leaves the dishes to the next day?
No longer do family members have to cooperate in real time to scrub clean glasses, dishes and utensils, put them in the dish rack, dry them one by one and place them in the cupboard where they belong.
If the human dishwasher isn’t doing a proper job, the human dryer immediately takes note and recycles the dirty dish right back to the sink.
Instant accountability.
I always preferred to be the dryer. If I washed, and my sister dried, we’d never get done. She would keep recycling the dishes back for another going-over.
And so my messy nature was exposed.
Family conversations started over a meal often continue over the clean-up process while concentrating on whether a smudge is permanent or not. I learned some important facts of life while washing and drying dishes that I might not have learned otherwise. Sensitive topics tend to be easier to discuss when elbow deep in soap suds. Spelling and vocabulary and math fact drills are more effective when the penalty for a missed word or equation is a snap on the butt with a dish towel.
Our church hosts weekly Sunday evening potluck meals for 50-60 people after our evening worship service; we are committed to using real dishes, glasses and utensils rather than add to landfills with throwaways. There is no automatic dishwasher in our fellowship hall other than whoever stands up and heads to the sink first. There is no assigned duty list. Sometimes it takes a teetering stack of dishes to motivate the initiation of the wash/dry process. Sometimes there is an eager-beaver volunteer ready to wash as soon as the dirty dishes start to appear. Once the washing starts, there is always someone ready to dry, another someone ready to put things away and another someone to wipe down the tables, all having the best of conversations in the process.
It is cooperation in action, yet another example of how we all “pitch in” for the benefit and love of others.
So modern society is missing this best opportunity for daily family-together cooperation time. Forget family “game” night, or parental “date” night, or even vacations. Dish washing and drying at the sink takes care of all those times when families need to be communicating, all while coordinating efforts to clean, sort and organize.
It is time to treat the automatic dishwasher as simply another storage cupboard; instead pull out the brillo pads, the white cotton dishtowels and the plastic drainage dish rack.
Let’s start tonight.
And I think it is your turn first…
Holy as a day is spent Holy is the dish and drain The soap and sink, and the cup and plate And the warm wool socks, and the cold white tile Shower heads and good dry towels And frying eggs sound like psalms With bits of salt measured in my palm It’s all a part of a sacrament As holy as a day is spent Holy is the familiar room And quiet moments in the afternoon And folding sheets like folding hands To pray as only laundry can I’m letting go of all my fear Like autumn leaves made of earth and air For the summer came and the summer went As holy as a day is spent Holy is the place I stand To give whatever small good I can And the empty page, and the open book Redemption everywhere I look Unknowingly we slow our pace In the shade of unexpected grace And with grateful smiles and sad lament As holy as a day is spent And morning light sings ‘providence’ As holy as a day is spent ~Carrie Newcomer “Holy as a Day Is Spent “
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A voice had begun to sing. It was very far away and…. hard to decide from what direction it was coming. Sometimes it seemed to come from all directions at once. Sometimes he almost thought it was coming out of the earth beneath them. Its lower notes were deep enough to be the voice of the earth herself.
There were no words. There was hardly even a tune. But it was, beyond comparison, the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. It was so beautiful he could hardly bear it.
The earth was of many colors: they were fresh, hot, and vivid. They made you feel excited; until you saw the Singer himself, and then you forgot everything else. ~C.S. Lewis from The Magician’s Nephew
And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth. ~Raymond Carver “Late Fragment”
Beautiful things and varied shapes appeal to [the eyes], vivid and well-matched colors attract; but let not these captivate my soul. Rather let God ravish it; he made these things exceedingly good, to be sure, but he is my good, not they. ~St. Augustine
All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered. ~Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows
Every time I open my eyes and listen for the voices of the morning, I am reminded how precious is this moment, how intense is each breath and each heartbeat.
We are created for this. We are, everyone of us, beloved. We are meant to wonder breathless at this, without ceasing.
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Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
So the Pharisees said to him, “You are bearing witness about yourself; your testimony is not true.”
Jesus answered, “Even if I do bear witness about myself, my testimony is true, for I know where I came from and where I am going, but you do not know where I come from or where I am going. You judge according to the flesh; I judge no one. Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is true, for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me. In your Law it is written that the testimony of two people is true. I am the one who bears witness about myself, and the Father who sent me bears witness about me.”
They said to him therefore, “Where is your Father?”
Jesus answered, “You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also.”
These words he spoke in the treasury, as he taught in the temple; but no one arrested him, because his hour had not yet come. John 8:12-20
I see your world in light that shines behind me, Lit by a sun whose rays I cannot see, The smallest gleam of light still seems to find me Or find the child who’s hiding deep inside me.
I see your light reflected in the water, Or kindled suddenly in someone’s eyes, It shimmers through the living leaves of summer, Or spills from silver veins in leaden skies,
It gathers in the candles at our vespers It concentrates in tiny drops of dew At times it sings for joy, at times it whispers, But all the time it calls me back to you.
I follow you upstream through this dark night My saviour, source, and spring, my life and light. ~Malcolm Guite “I am the Light of the World”
Those who do not yet share our faith can share our wonder at the beauty and comfort of light in the darkness, from the stars in the heavens to the candlelight at a service or over a shared meal. ~Malcolm Guite “The Light of the World is For Everyone”
Darkness is not where we will dwell forever. We are hushed in fear and hungry for Light. Jesus promises to feed us from Himself.
We are promised this in the Word: and night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light… Revelation 22:5.
Somewhere between the Word in the beginning and the Word that becomes flesh and the Word thriving as Spirit in our hearts and hands, there is the sacred silent Light of God come to earth
a threshold of quiet stillness as we stand poised to cross into the Light brought by His Word; He is a flint struck to our wick in our eagerness to abolish the Darkness with the eternal glow of His illuminating Word.
I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year alongside my church family. Once a week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.
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repeated the way a sunset plays every night in the fade to twilight the same scene over and over but never once lost in its sameness ~Juniper Klatt “some words need to be” from I was raised in a house of water
Out of the deep and the dark, A sparkling mystery, a shape, Something perfect, Comes like the stir of day: One whose breath is a fragrance, One whose eyes reveal the road to stars, The wind in his countenance, The glory of heaven upon his back. He steps like a vision hung in air, Diffusing the passion of eternity; His abode is the sunlight of morn, The music of eve his speech: In his sight, One shall turn from the dust of the grave, And move upward to the woodland. ~Yone Noguchi“The Poet”
Once in your life you pass Through a place so pure It becomes tainted even By your regard, a space Of trees and air where Dusk comes as perfect ripeness. Here the only sounds are Sighs of rain and snow, Small rustlings of plants As they unwrap in twilight. This is where you will go At last when coldness comes. It is something you realize When you first see it, But instantly forget. At the end of your life You remember and dwell in Its faultless light forever. ~Paul Zimmer “The Place” from Crossing to Sunlight Revisited.
I like the slants of light; I’m a collector. That’s a good one, I say… ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
I won’t forget the glow on the hill as the sun drops, centering behind our sentinel tree. I won’t forget the rays coming through the branches, glistening on a tattered web and an evening primrose unwrapping. I won’t forget the way the air itself changes as the color spreads, like a fragrant scent carried on the wind.
The light is faultless but I am not. My collection of slants of light and words to describe them may fade with time.
Even so, it was – maybe just once – so perfect, so pure, so ripe. And I’ll remember I was there to witness it.
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I’ve learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow. I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life. I’ve learned that making a ‘living’ is not the same thing as making a ‘life.’ I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back. I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision. I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one. I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn. I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. ~Maya Angelou
…think of all the things you’ve learned over the years— the hard and the holy, the mysteries that will always remain mysterious, the clean edges of truth, the soft edges of every kindness given or received, the way trouble and wonder will continue to show up, sometimes leaving us beached and breathless with uncontainable joy or unutterable sorrow. I think of all the times I was knocked to my knees by a beautiful and brilliant flash of the completely obvious. ~Carrie Newcomer from A Gathering of Spirits
I learned from my mother how to love the living, to have plenty of vases on hand in case you have to rush to the hospital with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole grieving household, to cube home-canned pears and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point. I learned to attend viewings even if I didn’t know the deceased, to press the moist hands of the living, to look in their eyes and offer sympathy, as though I understood loss even then. I learned that whatever we say means nothing, what anyone will remember is that we came. I learned to believe I had the power to ease awful pains materially like an angel. Like a doctor, I learned to create from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once you know how to do this, you can never refuse. To every house you enter, you must offer healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself, the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch. ~Julie Kasdorf– “What I Learned from my Mother”
Five years ago today, I wrapped up 45 years of uninterrupted medical training and doctoring.
Even while bearing three children and going through a few surgeries myself, I was not away from patient care for more than twenty consecutive days at any one time. This was primarily out of my concern that, even after a few weeks, I would forget all that I’d ever known.
Indeed, half of what I learned in medical school and residency nearly fifty years ago has evolved, thanks to new discoveries and clarifying research. I worried if I actually stepped away from doctoring for an extended time, then return to see patients again, I would be masquerading as a physician rather than be the real thing.
I couldn’t fathom a day when I could actually investigate a medical dilemma by typing a few words in a search engine on a computer screen. Instead, I researched through opening my encyclopedic collection of reference textbooks along with huge notebooks of “Scientific American Updates,” a monthly process of throwing out old articles to be replaced by newly discovered data. That is how I kept learning before the computer replaced books and pen and paper…
If being truly honest, even now, those who spend their professional lives providing medical care to others always share this concern: if a patient only knew how much we don’t know and will never know, despite everything we DO know, there would really be no trust left for us at all.
With so much rapidly changing medical information at everyone’s fingertips and computer screens, who needs a trained physician when there are so many other resources – many sketchy and opportunistic – for seeking health care advice?
Yet, I am convinced most patients really do want doctors to share the best information they have available at any point in time rather than rely on the latest internet algorithm and so-called “experts.”
I know over forty years of clinical experience gave me an eye and an ear for the subtle signs and symptoms that no googled website or AI app or virtual doc-in-the-box can discern: the avoidance of eye contact, the tremble of the lip as they spoke, the barely palpable rash, the hardly discernible extra heart sound, the fullness over an ovary, the slight squeak in a lung base. These are things I was privileged to see and hear, about which I made decisions together with my patients.
The work I did over four decades was a reflection of a continual learning process; out of my natural caution, I was honest when I didn’t know what the diagnosis was, nor the best treatment, but committed to doing my best to find out.
Continual learning – what I was trained to do for thousands of days and many more thousands of patients during my professional life, while passing a comprehensive certification examination every few years to prove my study and changing fund of knowledge.
Since retiring, the help I offer no longer means writing a prescription for a medication, or performing a minor surgery. I have to simply offer up me for what it’s worth, without a stethoscope.
Now I aim to be the best mom and grandma and friend I can be. I can press my hand into another’s, hug when needed, smile and listen and nod and sometimes weep when someone has something they need to say. No advanced degree or certification required.
Someday, hopefully not too soon, I will die happy knowing I chose this with my life: still learning and still caring.
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