Hamlet All Over Again

Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at a table near the window of my bedroom office, wearing a mood designed to spread goodness and light, had there been anyone around to receive it. Rather like a lighthouse beaming its cheerful rays into an empty sea.

Morning had recently stolen upon me as I sat writing a letter addressed to me in the future. I was unaware of the passing of time since waking at 5:00 am. It was the same morning the mystery voice had said, "Hello, I'm Claudia from Sweden." You surely remember my telling you about that in a previous post.

Something about that voice and the image that accompanied it had kept me from getting back to sleep, and there I was, unaware that dawn had swept the stars from the sky and that the sun had poured a rather generous cupful of sunshine onto Wonder Hall. The birds were likely singing their morning repertoire, though I hadn't noticed them either.

I may have continued to sit at that desk watching the movies playing out in my mind had Ms. Wonder not glided into the office like Catherine the Great leading her troops into the palace to get Peter's attention.

I was happy to see her, of course--couldn't have been more pleased. I told her so.

"Poopsie," I said, "So good to see you."

"Have you been up all night?" she asked with a hint of concern in her voice, the sort of concern one might show for a child who has been caught coloring on the wallpaper.

"Don't be silly," I said, "Only since 5:00."

"Have you been working on the book?"

"Not the book," I said. "I wrote a letter addressed to my future self."

"Hmmm," she said in the way she might if she'd found me building a scale model of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks.

"You know how it is," I said, "when you have an important decision to make and you think you've made it, but instead of acting on it immediately, you must wait until it's time to commit."

"I follow you so far." Her eyebrow arched a little higher than my comfort level.

"When it comes time to act, you question the soundness of the reasoning that led to that specific decision." I said, hoping the explanation might bring the eyebrow back to Earth.

"Sure, I see what you're getting at," she said. "Prior to the time to act, you felt no pressure, and the cingulate cortex was in charge, making reasonable, logical decisions."

"Maybe," I said. "Could be." My grasp of brain parts is much less comprehensive than my collection of vintage rock concert t-shirts.

"Then, when the time to act arrives," she continued, "the limbic system generates anxiety and indecision results. It's like the poor cat in the adage."

"Cat in the what?" I asked, feeling like I'd missed my stop on her train of thought.

"Hamlet compared his hesitation to act as being like the poor cat in the adage, who let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'"

"Well, I don't know about the cat, but I know about indecision. Someone put it well when he said, The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I understand that perfectly."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"Ms. Wonder, please!" I said. "Language! You may dump your garbage into the Winter Canal and pollute the Neva River, but don't dump garbage into my ears."

"I have a suggestion that may bring satisfaction," she said.

"I was hoping you would," I said, and I thought it was admirably diplomatic.

"Write a letter to yourself explaining the decision you've made and why. Then, when you get cold feet, refer to the letter and you will know the decision you made is sound."

"Write a letter to my future self?"

"Precisely," she said.

"I did that just now," I said, holding up the pages before me with the pride of a fisherman displaying his world-record catch.

"Then I don't understand," she said. "What's the problem?"

"Problem solved," I said, beaming.

"I'm happy I could help," she said, with a smile that suggested she was accustomed to these circular journeys.

"Thank you, Poopsie."

"Not at all," she said, gliding out of the room with the same imperial grace that brought her in, leaving me to wonder if I'd only in that instant woken up.

Hurricane Season

The morning sun streamed through my bedroom window, as optimistic as a weather report promising parade-perfect skies. Outside, birds chirped and darted about without a worry in the world—blissfully ignorant of anything beyond their next snack.

"It’s coming," Princess Amy declared, her voice echoing through my thoughts with theatrical flair.

"What’s coming?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Hurricane season." Amy’s grin was positively sinister. "June 1st. Practically tomorrow."

"It’s mid-May—and gorgeous outside," I objected.

"Exactly how they lull you into a false sense of security," she insisted, omitting any details on who “they” might be. "Then—WHAM! A Category 5 churning up the Cape Fear River."

I sat up with a start. "Do you really think we could get a major hurricane this year?"

Saved By the Wonder

Ms. Wonder appeared in the doorway before Amy answered. She was dressed in a sensible outfit that somehow managed to look both efficient and elegant. She extended a cup of coffee toward me like a reward for waking.

"Another conference with Princess Amy?" she asked.

"She's convinced we're in for the hurricane of the century," I explained, accepting the coffee with gratitude. "Says we're overdue."

"It has been rather quiet these past few years," Poopsie acknowledged, sitting at the edge of the bed with the poise of someone who has never once panicked about barometric pressure. "But that doesn't mean we need worry about it in May."

"Not worrying," I clarified. "Planning. There's a difference."

"There's really not," Poopsie said with a smile. "At least not when it comes to you and weather systems."

With my anxiety simmering just below the surface, I slipped out of bed and steered Wind Horse toward the Circular Journey Café for Sunday coffee with Island Irv. I was confident that a family man like Irv would be a more receptive audience for my hurricane concerns.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

The Cape Fear River calmly stretched into the distance,  its surface deceptively calm under the morning sun. The Memorial Bridge arched over the water, giving me an unobstructed view of a dredging barge lit up like an emergency warning sign. Not what I needed in my current mental state.

"You know," Princess Amy said, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence, "they say during the Storm of 1913, the water reached this very bridge."

"This bridge wasn't built until decades later," I pointed out.

"Don't interrupt," Amy scolded. "I'm creating ambiance. Anyway, the storm surge came rushing up the river like a liquid locomotive, swallowing everything in its path."

Despite knowing better, I found myself gripping the steering wheel more tightly as I turned onto Third Avenue and then into the Castle Street Arts District.

Inside the café, I felt a sense of calm from the soft, gentle atmosphere. Island Irv was already seated at our usual corner table by the windows, but away from the door. He looked casual and relaxed in a Yankees sweatshirt that had definitely seen better decades.

Serious But Easily Solved

"Genome, my man!" he called out, raising a mug of something that looked like coffee from home. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"For now," I replied ominously, settling into the chair across from him. "But hurricane season is coming."

Irv's expression remained unchanged, like a man who had long ago made peace with whatever the universe might throw at him. "Aren't hurricanes just big windy storms, after all? Besides, they give you plenty of warning, not like earthquakes that show up unannounced."

"Just big—" I sputtered, nearly knocking over the cappuccino, freshly delivered by Awet, our favorite barista. 

"Irv, they're devastating forces of nature!" countered Awet.

I felt Princess Amy stirring deep in my brain, in the vicinity of the hippocampus. "Why do you drag me down here every Sunday to deal with this duffus?" she asked.

"What concerns me," I said, leaning forward into Irv's personal space to show I meant business. "We're overdue. It's been years since Wilmington took a direct hit."

"So?" Irv asked, taking a sip from his mystery mug. Awet gave him an open-mouthed look of disbelief.

"So?" said Amy with considerably more topspin than Irv put on the word. "Did he just say, 'So?' What a cabbage head."

"So, we need to prepare!" I insisted. "Evacuation routes, emergency supplies, communication plans. We need to decide whether we'll evacuate or shelter in place. And if we evacuate, where do we go? And what about Zwiggy? She hates car rides."

"Zwiggy is a squirrel," Irv reminded me.

"She's family," I corrected.

Irv leaned back in his chair, the very picture of unbothered existence. "Look, Genome, I've lived through more hurricanes than I can count—"

"That's not saying much," Amy interjected inside my head. "He can barely count to ten without using his toes."

"That's your hurricane preparedness advice?" I said. "Just don't think about it."

"That and buy plenty of beer," Irv added. "Power goes out, beer stays cold for at least a day if you keep the fridge closed."

"Genius!" Awet snorted. "Typical man. World ending, better have cold beer."

I had to admit, she had a point. "Yeah," I said in solidarity, "My anxiety disorder called him a cabbage head."

"On point," said the Awet, offering me a high five. I didn't leave her hanging.

"Hey!" said the Islander. "I'm right here and I don't appreciate being the object of derision."

"Oh, it's all in fun," said Awet. "Don't get your knickers in a twist." She offered me another high five.

"Yeah, relax, Irv," I said. "Maybe if we ignore you, we won't even notice your head."

"I'm serious," warned Irv. "Call me cabbage head just one more time and I'll cosh you cross-eyed."

"Ok, ok," said Awet. "Yes, it's serious, but not a difficult problem. I think a different hairstyle would provide a solution."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Just a little closer trim would make it clear to even the most casual passerby that his head looks more like a pumpkin than a cabbage."

There's Nowhere Like Home

Later that evening, as the setting sun cast a golden glow over our garden, my anxiety about the hurricane faded to a manageable level. Ms. Wonder had rightly pointed out that we had weathered storms before, and we would do so again. If the big one were to hit Wilmington this year, we'd be prepared.

My thoughts drifted to the idea that regardless of circumstances, we'd always have each other, and that alone would improve any situation. 

"And you'll have me," Amy reminded me. "You're stuck with me through fair weather and foul."

On that somewhat comforting thought, I leaned back in my chair and allowed myself to enjoy the perfect May evening, while reminding myself to check prices on hurricane shutters before June 1st.

Discovering Wonder

When I stumbled upon a weathered diary in a Pinehurst thrift store, I could never have imagined how its contents would parallel my own life. The journal belonged to one Penelope "Poopsie" Wainwright Wonder (1887-1962), an eccentric American inventor, socialite, and philanthropist whose unconventional approach to everyday opportunities captivated my imagination.

As I read her whimsical entries, I was struck by the uncanny resemblance this historical Poopsie bore—in spirit, creativity, and outlook—to someone very dear to me. That someone is my very own “Poopsie,” affectionately known to followers of The Circular Journey blog as Ms. Wonder.

At first, the connection was amusing. But the more I read, the more I felt I was looking through a mirror—one side reflecting a woman from the past, the other revealing the woman I love today. Let me introduce these two Poopsies, whose lives, separated by a century, dance to the rhythm of a song only they can hear.

Unique Creative Spirits

Penelope "Poopsie" Wainwright Wonder's personal journey was as colorful as her public persona. Born to shipping magnate Harrison Wainwright and his wife Eleanor, a suffragette activist, young Penelope showed early signs of both brilliance and nonconformity. She was headstrong, imaginative, and determined to forge her own path.

My Poopsie grew up in an equally vibrant setting—as the daughter of insurance magnate John Olewine and his globe-trotting wife, Barbara. From an early age, she showed the same sparkle of brilliance and individuality, a trait that still sparkles today. 

By the age of sixteen, she had moved into her own apartment and was working as a beauty consultant in Houston's Galleria.

A Life Mirrored in Art

In the 1930s, Penelope W. Wonder’s photography was regularly featured in American society magazines. Her portraits and street scenes, often taken from odd angles or composed with theatrical flair, earned her a cult following.

My Poopsie's journey through photography eventually led to Duke University’s Center for Documentary Studies, where she crafted a powerful photo-documentary titled Last Generation—a collaboration with a tobacco-farming family near Durham. Its honesty and quiet dignity captured public attention, culminating in its selection for the Southern Arts Federation’s tour and a gala opening at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta.

Eventually, the documentary was acquired by the North Carolina Office of Archives and History and is now on permanent display at Duke Homestead Historical Site.

Both Poopsies had a lens into the soul of their times—and knew how to use it.

Inventions with Heart

In the early 1900s, the historical Poopsie made headlines with her “Self-Propelled Umbrella Hat,” a delightful oddity meant to free the hands during rainstorms. While not a financial success, it cemented her reputation as a cheerful innovator.

Modern Poopsie’s inventions grew from love and necessity. After our beloved cat, Eddy Peebody, faced medical challenges, she designed a suite of veterinary aids—post-surgical garments, allergy-free bedding, comforting blankets to reduce anxiety—tools that have since helped many pets and their caretakers. Like her historical namesake, her creativity is always paired with compassion.

A Mission to Serve

During the Great Depression, the original Ms. Wonder established the Wonder Foundation, which supported community kitchens and adult literacy programs throughout New England. Her whimsical motto: “Practicality with a dash of absurdity.”

The modern Ms. Wonder channeled her compassion and nurturing instincts into our feline family. Over the years, that specialized care evolved into Happy Cats Wellness, our preventive-health initiative for cats. Though our methods differ from Penelope's, the impulse is the same: to create meaningful, tangible good in the world.

 My primary role in the family is to promote Poopsie's visionary ideas. I suspect Harold Wonder, Poopsie’s husband, played the same role a century ago.

Eccentricity as a Feature

Penelope "Poopsie" Wonder was widely celebrated for showing up at formal dinners with her pet ferret, Bartholomew, dressed in matching outfits. She believed life should be lived joyfully, without apology.

In our house, joy takes different forms: whimsical tchoke-themed arrangements, poetic arguments about seafoam, and cat furniture as home accessories.

The Art of Documentation

Where the historical Poopsie captured a changing America with her camera, contemporary Ms. Wonder and I spent nearly two decades as travel photojournalists. She framed the world through her lens; I wrote the words. Together, we created a living document of our journeys in more than eighty travel articles, illustrated with over 600 of Wonder's photographic images. Regional magazines and newspapers published our work, and our memories still hum with the places we saw.

Solitude and Reinvention

After Harold Wonder died of pneumonia in 1939, Penelope withdrew from public life, only to reemerge with a sharper philanthropic vision. Her diaries describe a new focus on community and contemplation.

We retreated from public life too during the pandemic of 2020 - 2022. For almost three years, life went quiet, and when Poopsie returned to her art, it had changed dramatically. Her new photographic series—abstract images of ocean-going marine vessels—aims to expand human awareness by altering how we perceive shape and light. A different medium, perhaps, but similar transformations.

Tea and the Thinking Brain

Legend has it that the historical Poopsie advised President Roosevelt using what she called her “Beverage-Enhanced Decision Protocol”—important matters discussed only over carefully chosen tea blends.

In our home, tea plays a similar role. Custom blends are selected with purpose, and big decisions—from exhibit themes to cat adoptions—are steeped in quiet ceremony. Good tea, apparently, transcends generations.

The Thursday Transformation

Every Thursday, the historical Ms. Wonder redecorated her dining room according to a theme—Egyptian pyramids one week, a Viennese café the next. It was how she kept the world fresh.

Cathryn’s version is equally inspired: our living room sometimes becomes a gallery of shifting obsessions. Lately, it’s a study in color and refracted light. Previously, an homage to Vietnam's Ha Long Bay in photographic images made during her trip to Southeast Asia.

The Wonder of It All

Finding the diary of Penelope “Poopsie” Wainwright Wonder didn’t just reveal a fascinating piece of forgotten history. It offered something more—a surprising and heartfelt recognition of the extraordinary woman I share my life with. 

Though their inventions and expressions differ, both Poopsies are united by a shared thread: creativity rooted in kindness, eccentricity worn with pride, and a refusal to live an unexamined life.

If time is a loop and not a line, maybe some spirits truly do travel together—reinventing themselves in each generation, reminding us how much joy there is in being unapologetically, eccentrically alive. What a joy! What a wonder!

It Was Raining Cats

You may remember that I woke a few days ago with a sharp attack of euphoria. In fact, I've never known a sharper one. This morning, however, was much different. The sharp attack that woke me involved scimitars and sabers. Actually, it was scimitar-curved claws and saber-sharp fangs. 

The source of the attack was the foster kitten, Eddy, who has been perfecting his stalking skills to match his killer instinct. He's been seen hanging in the corner with Abbie Hoffman, a bad influence if ever. No, not that A. Hoffman! I refer to the cat in formal dress known on the street as Abracadabra.

Eddy (L) and Lucy (R)

It was Eddy, you will remember, who once got me in the fleshy part of the toe, causing me to shoot six inches off the mattress. It's not an easy feat starting from the prone position. My convulsions shook him loose but left him giving me the eye with an expression on his map like that of a Baptist deacon rebuking sin.

"Poopsie," I said. No response.

"Ms. Wonder," I said louder.

"Whumpf?" came the muffled response from nearby.

"Will you please chorral your cat?" I said.

"What?" she said. It occurred to me that she wasn't demonstrating her commitment to our vows to stand by in thick and thin. Could it get any thicker?

"Eddy is what I mean. Will you get him off me!"

"I'm asleep," she said.

At that moment, I realized that Eddy's behavior had attracted the attention of his sister, Lucy, an accomplished little foot ninja in her own right. It could get thicker after all.

"Do you have a towel handy?"

Wonder stirred from the depths of the bedding, raised her head, and asked, "Why would I have a towel?"

"I remember the time you captured another foster kitten in that you-can't-do-that-here manner by using a towel in the way some Roman gladiators used a fishing net. Remember?"

"I don't have a towel," she said. "And it wasn't a fishing net."

And so there I was, Heir of the Ages, one of the highest expressions of life on earth, and I was being chivvied by one of the lessor. If you are a member of the Inner Circle, you will no doubt recognize this as another example of a tiger living like a goat. I mean where is the benefit of being human when you're constantly being harassed by kittens?

{rompt steps through the proper channels were called for, but it's never as easy as it sounds, is it? I remember something from my senior year in high school--a Shakespeare play I'm sure, that went something like this:

Between the first thought of doing something dreadful and the actual doing of it (some guff about the genius and mortal instruments came next and was followed by:), there is often a revolt in the kingdom or words to that effect. You may remember the exact quote.

Although I didn't remember the wording, I knew the feeling well. My genius, if I can call it that, knew what had to be done, but my arms were not happy about it. I just remembered another gag that may better explain my situation: The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. That's the baby.

I'd have preferred to go back to sleep. But after those early moments of hesitation, I took action. I threw the coverlets back to get out of bed but the unintended result was that it began to rain cats. It was a sight to see, let me tell you. 

The heavier elements, Beignet and Sagi, were only rolled inches from their sleeping spots. Lucy was hidden by the duvet. Eddy flew through the air like the daring young man on the trapeze. He came to earth--I should say to rest--at the far corner of the bed. I caught him as he turned to flee, and decanted him into the Saigon room for safekeeping.

"That cat should be bedded in the stables," I said to Ms Wonder. "You and I can care of ourselves but consider what might happen if Eddy discovered a housemaid napping. I don't like to dwell on the aftermath, do you?"

But Wonder wasn't in sight. I heard the bathroom door close and seconds later the sound of running water, similar to Looking Glass Falls filled the silence.

Uma Maya, the brindled little Empress of Chatsford, was surely in the sale de bains with Wonder. Eddy was safely confined to the Saigon room. Lucy was probably hiding underneath the bed. Beignet, the ginger and white ragamuffin, and Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, were at my feet looking up at me to ask, Breakfast time? 

Abbie was absent, but I expected he could be found in his usual spot atop the kitchen cabinets. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the tie that binds and the words of a close friend who often says, "The family we choose is the most pleasing."

Looking down at the two cats sitting at my feet, I said, "Stand by to counsel and advise." I didn't need to say it, but I wanted to say it for reasons that words fail to describe--we were a tribe. Wonder, the cats, and I were the Chatsford Hall Tribe.

And the tribe has provided just what I needed, in the fullness of time.

A Wilmawood Morning

Daybreak settled over Wilmawood like a comforting spell. In the lively downtown corridor, its light fell pleasingly on both the just and the unjust—a biblical equity that only morning sunshine can truly deliver. 

A spring shower had swept through overnight, rinsing away the yellow fog of pine pollen that had held the city hostage for weeks. I inhaled deeply, savoring the sensation of breathing without a symphony of sneezes. The morning promised possibilities as endless as the blue Carolina sky above.

Wilmawood's topography rises gradually as one ventures from the riverbank promenade into the sanctuary of the arts quarter on Castle Street. The geography itself elevates the spirit along with the terrain.

From the sidewalk outside Circular Journey Café, one enjoys a panoramic vista: charming storefronts and eateries line the street that falls away to the river's edge. The majestic span of Memorial Bridge rises above downtown, and beyond the river, verdant cypress sentinels stand guard around our slumbering naval guardian, the battleship North Carolina.

As we entered the café's aromatic interior, I felt the stirrings of Princess Amy, my little imaginary life coach and social critic. Her critical gaze swept across the room with the practiced precision of a lighthouse beam.

Standing behind the counter was the newest barista, Lupe, the Castle Street oracle, chronologically young but with the wisdom that female humans mysteriously acquire around middle school, while men stumble toward similar insights only after decades of accumulated blunders and enough gray hairs to weave a wisdom rug.

"The clock says you're tardy," was Lupe's greeting.

"Time is relative," I replied, taking up a position at the order here station. "According to my internal clock and the quantum mechanics of café arrivals, we're precisely on time."

Lupe's eyes performed an Olympic-worthy roll. "It's not even nine o'clock and you're spouting physics already?"

"He's been insufferably chipper since sunrise," Ms. Wonder explained, signaling for coffee. "Bouncing around the house and making declarations about the magnificence of the day. I checked for a fever, but unfortunately, he seems medically sound."

"I have a revelation for you," I proclaimed, leaning forward conspiratorially. "After extensive research and spiritual contemplation, I've reached an incontrovertible conclusion: Wilmawood—our humble Wilmington—exists as an unacknowledged paradise on Earth."

"Is that your hypo-manic assessment?" Lupe inquired, her eyebrow arched with skepticism perfected through years of questioning adult logic.

"Indisputably! Consider the evidence," I insisted, counting on my fingers. "We have a magnificent river system, pristine oceanfront, a thriving creative community, and enough film production to earn our Hollywood-adjacent nickname..."

"And traffic congestion on College Road that rivals Los Angeles," Princess Amy interrupted from somewhere deep in my limbic system, her voice dripping with cynicism. "Without the celebrity sightings or the inconvenience of dealing with ten million people."

"Plus humidity levels in August that could qualify as a gentle rain shower in other states," Lupe added as she frothed my oatmilk cappuccino.

Ms. Wonder added, "And did you know we're getting a new retail outlet in Waterford that will include several eateries, national chains as well as independent diners. We're becoming an up-town suburb."

"More footnotes in paradise's ledger," I said with what I imagined to be a magisterial wave. "No other place along the Carolina coastline offers such a perfect synthesis of natural beauty and cultural vibrancy as our little sylvan community."

The barista delivered our beverages—an artistic cappuccino for me, herbal tea for Ms. Wonder, some bespoke concoction for Princess Amy that I would never eat, no matter how much she implored, because it looked structurally unsound enough to require an engineering permit.

Lupe contemplated her chocolate masterpiece before lifting thoughtful eyes to mine. "For someone who regularly quotes philosophical wanderers and road-trip anthems about finding oneself, you demonstrate remarkable geographical constancy. Your wanderlust seems suspiciously theoretical."

"Why embark on Odyssean voyages when Ithaca already surrounds you?" I challenged, sipping my cappuccino with deliberate satisfaction. Homer's hero spent ten years trying to return to his beloved homeland—I have the wisdom to stay put.

Princess Amy, ever the barometer of our conversational climate, began humming a familiar tune about seeing trees of green and skies of blue. I recognized her musical interjection as Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World"—the closest thing she would come to admitting she was in agreement with us.

"I'll concede that Wilmington possesses certain undeniable attractions," Lupe acknowledged, licking whipped cream from a plastic spoon. "But I maintain the downtown atmospheric moisture during summer months, defies both physics and human endurance."

"Nature's invitation to explore Wrightsville Beach more frequently," I countered.

Our conversation meandered like the Cape Fear itself, flowing from upcoming film productions to Lupe's philosophical musings on social media psychology. Outside, Wilmawood's morning symphony continued—artists setting up sidewalk displays, tour guides gesturing to clusters of visitors, and shopkeepers sweeping storefronts in preparation for the day's commerce.

From our elevated perch in Castle Street's artistic heart, the world below appeared manageable and comprehensible. I suddenly understood why Abbie Hoffman—our tuxedoed cat, not the 1960s counterculture activist—spent hours surveying his domain from high atop kitchen cabinets. Heights offer perspective, and perspective breeds contentment.

The morning light shifted as our drinks emptied, and conversations reached natural conclusions. The day's obligations began tugging at our collective consciousness, yet I lingered in the moment, suspended in the warm embrace of friendship, elevated by both geography and companionship.

Paradise, I realized, isn't merely a physical location but a way of living in the moment. With the right attitude, those moments seem to collect, like seashells after high tide. Maybe that explains why, despite my wanderlust anthems and philosophical road maps, I find myself returning to the same streets, the familiar faces, and this elevated view of the river that feels increasingly like home.

As we gathered our belongings and prepared to say goodbye, I caught Ms. Wonder's knowing smile. She understood before I did—some elevations aren't measured in feet above sea level, but in moments of clarity and connection