Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.

5 Years, 60 Months, 1,827 Days, 43,828 Hours, but who's counting?

It was not pretty, five years ago.

I had been treating my undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder with significant amounts of Scotch.  The last year I averaged 10 fluid ounces a day.  "Just a couple of drinks, mind you!"  A fifth of Scotch was not particular challenge to consume on those days that I didn't have to work, and when my wife wasn't around.  And, if I must say so myself, I was quite functional.

I used to joke that it took 2 Scotch doubles for me to feel sober.  I've since learned it was not a joke.  When one is advanced in alcoholism, one's system requires a sufficient level of alcohol to be present to feel normal.  Alcohol initially intoxicates people, and many enjoy the buzz.  As time goes on, it merely staves off the unpleasant experiences of alcohol withdrawal.  And numbs you.

For the most part I didn't drink Saturday nights, lest I smell of whiskey on Sunday mornings.  I developed the shakes Sunday mornings.  I couldn't pour the wine from the chalice for communion.  I didn't know what was happening.  Now I do.  My restraint on Saturday evenings was causing detox symptoms Sunday mornings.  Vanity is a strange thing.  I was so concerned about smelling of liquor that I didn't drink, and then detoxed in front of my congregation.  Uffda!

To a certain extent, alcohol gave me control of my moods.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, three drinks, four.  A calming of anxiety, a lightening of mood, a drift into melancholy, sometimes depression, at other times mania, but most often just sleep.  That was one of the main motivators.  Sleep.  "Passing out" is what my doctor insists on calling it.  I insisted that passing out was only when your face planted in the mashed potatoes.  I went to bed.  She would insist however, that there is a difference between sleep and an alcohol induced unconsciousness.  What does she know.  She's only a psychiatrist with a specialty in chemical dependence. .  .

There were warning signs.  A colleague, Gail, watched me down two hefty Scotch doubles during happy hour, order a third for dinner, and then as we walked from the bar to the dining room she commented, "Dave, if I didn't just watch you down those drinks, I'd have no clue you've been drinking.  What's that all about?"

I was a 'professional drinker'.  Amateurs are actually the ones who couldn't handle their drinking.  Given the choice, I'd rather ride in a car with an alcoholic with a .20 alcohol level, than with a amateur drinker with a .08.  Habituation has its advantages.

The problem is that the toxicity of alcohol remains even though the symptoms of  intoxication diminish with habituation.  I could drink a fifth of Scotch and never feel 'the buzz' that I craved.  The problem for an alcoholic is that the alcohol remains toxic, even when it is no longer intoxicating.  It'll kill you.  An often does.  It almost did me.  Though I'm quick to point out that five years ago, last night, it was not just the alcohol.  I violated one of my rules and took Ativan in addition to a fifth of Scotch.  Against Medical Advice.  To say the least. By the grace of God I survived the night.

I no longer crave the drink.  When I smell Scotch, what I experience is what I call a 'cravulsion'.  At one and the same time triggers the appetite AND produces the most repulsive reaction possible.  A simple solution is to simply avoid the smell.

One would think that sobriety would immediately impact the externals of one's life.  That sober one would prosper in ways not possible drunk.  Well, not yet, is my reply to that.  My recovery has been complicated by being Bipolar.  The first thing that happened is that a major manic episode was triggered.  That resulted in my resignation from my call in ministry, and investing $60,000 or so in woodworking equipment for my new business.  Bottom line, I'll not be able to retire as soon.

Every step of the way, just when we think that our financial situation has stabilized, another shoe drops.  I lost my disability, but found a job in woodworking.  Karla received a raise.  Then, a part time call in addition to Karla's job, and my woodworking job, was going to solve our problems.  Then Karla lost her job.  More recently, Dad moved in with us and the income we received from caring for him was going to stabilize our situation.  He died a few weeks later.  The loss of him is the only real significant issue.  But the reality is that it leaves us once again scrambling.

Sobriety is sometimes 'marketed' as a way to move from life in the gutter to life in the stars.  I am of the belief that such promises don't always materialize.  Sobriety, though is its own reward.  Oh, and yes, I'm still alive.

Five years later I mostly wonder what the next five hold for  me.  I'm deeply grateful for many things.  Like life, a family that I didn't lose, and that one way or another all bills are paid and current.

One of the struggles is that my measure of a return to normalcy is actually affected by my being Bipolar.  I was capable of things during my manic phases that still surprise even me.  That hyper functioning set the bar high.  Now, with my moods controlled by medications, I doubt (I hope?) I'll ever again experience those manic highs.  To an extent, that's depressing.  But due to the medication, not too depressing.  Its just that one must adjust to a new normal, that is neither lived at the summit or the deepest darkest valley.

Some friends will join our family to celebrate my fifth birthday of no 'fifths'.  It'll be a good time.  I'll be sober, as will they.  I do not have a drink in my plans for today.  One more day.  Number 1,828.  But who's counting.

Necessary Suffering

In "Falling Upward" Richard Rohr speaks about "necessary suffering" apart from which we may never move beyond the false selves that we have created throughout the first half of life to the true self and the spiritual maturity that awaits us in the second half of life.  I've thought a lot about this, and reflected on my own experience.  Rohr is, in my opinion, a true theologian of the cross to the extent that he recognizing that the suffering which threatens to destroy us, may in fact be that which redeems us.  But in the end, we'd still rather read a self help book than experience the depth of human experience, and the necessary suffering that is part of life.

I preached a sermon about this a couple years back, and in the congregation was a woman whose husband had died following a long bout with cancer.  The reaction was understandable.  If losing one's husband is part of the 'necessary suffering' required to move toward a more mature spirituality, she would much rather remain forever spiritually immature and have the companionship of her husband.  On the other hand, there is an existential tension in play here.  On the one hand the one thing we never want to suggest is that God imposes suffering on us to to make us better people.  On the other hand, at the end of one's life, looking back over all that we've experienced, it is often the 'necessary suffering' we've endured that has done more to shape who we are than anything else.  

There is part of me that would will that Bipolar were a disorder for which there was a test to diagnose it from the beginning.  Would that a simple mental health screening could identify any such disorder and allow for treatment from the start so that we avoid the suffering that too often is the defining characteristic of the disease.  And yet, another part of me recognizes that apart from the suffering that the disease causes, treatment would never be embraced, and in the end we would be destroyed.

One of my most pronounced manic episodes saw me pursue senior housing as a strategy for extending the mission of the church.  I had significant success, and also failure.  After it all was over, and I was experiencing the depression that naturally follows a manic episode, I turned to my bishop for counsel and advice.  One of the things I told him was that I'd be just fine if I could have one major project after another to throw myself into.  This was prior to diagnosis.  What I was basically asking for was the opportunity to live my life in a perpetual manic state.  If one could maintain that state, and channel it, there's no telling what might be accomplished.  Necessary suffering came into play, however,  in the form of a healthy dose of reality that tempered the unbridled optimism of a manic high.

There is a problem with trying to maintain a perpetual manic high.  It's not unlike a race car.  A normal car with typical use can go for 100,000 to 200,000 miles without major breakdowns.  Racing cars are different.  In our personal vehicles we typically operate them at about 2 to 3 thousand rpms.  This they can handle indefinitely.  Racing cars, by contrast, are pushed to the limit and the engines have an extremely short life expectancy.  If not replaced, they at least have to be rebuilt for each race.  Such is the toll of the extreme conditions under which they are operated.

The problem with attempting to sustain a manic state is that it is like running an engine at 6,000 rpm.  You can get by with it for a while, but not for long.

For me, depression was the necessary suffering that in the end freed me from being consumed by the effort to maintain mania.  Not only did it force an end to the manic pursuits, but it paved the way for treatment and yes, a healthy balance and new experience of my own spirituality.  To use Rohr's frame of reference, I had built my 'false self' around a manic perception of my identity and it was only the suffering of depression that was able to shatter this self image and open up the possibility of a healthier spirituality.  

As the title of the book suggests, Rohr calls this movement 'falling upward'.

But it doesn't happen without a fight.

I still find my self desiring to tap into the energy of a full blown manic episode to advance my sense of purpose and accomplish my goals.

Currently, I'm a bivocational person, working 36 hours a week as a cabinet maker, and 25 hours a week as a pastor.  This involves getting up at 3:30 am so that I can be to work at the cabinet shop in Hayden by 5:30 am, where I work until 12:30.  From there I travel to Otis Orchards to do the pastor thing.  The commuting adds about 2 1/2 to 3 hours to the work day.  In order to really pursue the mission developer work required by my parish, I need more time available in the evenings when people are available.  Where does one find the energy to really have at it?  The exhaustion I now experience would not be there were I in a manic episode.  

My current schedule leaves me thoroughly exhausted at the end of the week.  Saturdays involve marathon napping.  

Some would say I'm doing too much.  My perspective is that I've done far more.  Mania brings with it a capacity for engagement that is, well, shall I say, impressive.  Yet a race car engine can only sustain 6,000 rpm for a short while.  This I know.  

The struggle is to let go of the self identity shaped by mania.  And perhaps bipolar people are the only one's who fully understand this.  One's true self is not shaped by the disease.  And yes, it is often the suffering that reveals this.  

Theologically, and spiritually, I understand that my true self is defined not by the disease but in relationship with my God.  What I don't know is whether I've suffered enough yet to fully embrace this true identity, or if I'm still building my own castle and kingdom.  Time will tell.

The True Self

As one who is bipolar there is an underlying question of identity.  Its not dissimilar to the "I am" of Alcoholics Anonymous. "My name is Dave, and I am an alcoholic."  The honesty of claiming that identity, of stripping oneself of all pretense of denial, is key to healing.  Yet it raises a greater question of identity.  Are we to be defined by our disease.

I am bipolar.  A statement of identity.  To know me, is to know this.

Or not.  Perhaps to know the true me you must see beyond the disease.  

I have been open about my disease.  Part of that is to deny shame a place in my experience.  I should be no more ashamed of being bipolar than I am of having had to have my mitral valve repaired.  It is simply a medical condition that needs to be treated.  It has been.  It continues to be.  But it is not me.

Or maybe it is.  

One take on this condition is to understand being bipolar as being one who is capable of experiencing a broader range of moods from the norm.  We all experience highs and lows.  Its just that one who is bipolar experiences higher highs and lower lows.  Another aspect of being bipolar is that the transition between the highs and lows can be, for lack of a better word, violent.  And uncontrollable.  Not that we don't try to control it.  We do.  I self-medicated with alcohol for a decade or so, and that worked until it didn't.  Alcohol gave me some sense of control.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, and three drinks.  If I were depressed, a Scotch lifted my spirits.  During manic phases, it calmed me.  And then it didn't work anymore.  I was drinking myself to death in a vain effort to find the relief that now alluded me.

Thankfully, the crash that followed created the opportunity for diagnosis and treatment.  Better living through chemicals.  A more stable existence follows.  The goal is to achieve a functional stability. The problem with experiencing the highs and lows of manic and depressed phases is sustainability.  And durability. One could die.  That last point is important to remember.  One could die.  

But there remains the question of identity.  Who is the true self that the "I am" refers to?

My wife would tell you that she is thrilled to have me back again.  When my bipolar disorder was becoming increasingly pronounced life had become a rodeo.  One moment I was riding high on top of the beast, and the next moment at danger of being trampled.  Rodeos are entertaining unless of course you love the rider.  Two thousand pounds of bull crashing down on someone you care for is terrifying, not entertaining.  So it is with being bipolar.  

And yet there remains part of me that feels that with the stabilization of my moods there also came a diminishing of my capacity.

When I explore vocational options with my pastor, who tries very hard to understand my condition, his response is frequently to raise the flag of caution.  "Is this wise?"  Rightfully there is a reason for caution.  Accepting a challenging position could easily trigger a manic episode, and adversity is prone to trigger depression.  How much does one trust the safety net of the psychiatric meds?  

And yet the purpose of those meds is to enhance one's life, not deprive one of life.

Somewhere within the mystery of all this lies the true self.  The person God created me to be.  The person that is both loved, and capable of loving.  

Finally the "I am" is not a reflection of the disease, but of the divine.  And for now, it is best to simply leave it at that.

Sacred Vocation or a Fool's Pastime

There is a bipolar nature to ministry itself.  An ebb and flow from the heights to the depths.  At one end of the spectrum is a conviction that this vocation is a most sacred calling.  At the other end of the spectrum is a depressing thought that perhaps ministry itself is but a fool's pastime.  As a sacred calling ministry taps into the manic side of our existence.  As a fool's pastime there is nothing but despair and an overwhelming sense of irrelevance.

And it all hinges on the question of life, truth, and that which is of ultimate importance.  And it is a question of faith.

God either is, or is not.

The Gospel either is a matter of ultimate importance, or it is not.

These questions confront us more and more as the culture in which we live drifts toward an increasingly secular society where faith in God is either non-existent, or a matter of little importance.  "When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?"  (Luke 18:8)

Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him. So Jesus asked the twelve, "Do you also wish to go away?" Simon Peter answered him, "Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God."  (John 6:66-69)

This is the thing about ministry.  We are caught between these two poles.  At one end of the spectrum we are confronted with a world that increasingly has no faith.  At the other are those who cling to our words as the way of eternal life.  The ministry we share as the Church is either the highest of callings, or a pitiful excuse of a way to live.

At times of deep depression, when faith eludes me, I sometimes view myself and my life as that of a modern day medicine man, leading the tribe in the ritual of the Ghost Dance, clothing them in the Ghost Shirts in the vain effort to protect them from all evil, and yet, unable to stop the bullets from penetrating.

At times of deep faith there is a sense of walking with my people from the cradle to the gates of heaven.  In these sacred moments there is a recognition that this ministry we share is an integral part of God's redemptive work for all creation.  That the Word we are called to proclaim has the same power as the Word God spoke at the beginning of time-- the power to call forth life itself.

What is truth?

It is either one or the other.  There is no in between.  The faith we hold dear is not just an icing on the cake, a sweet topping to make life more palatable.  Either God is or is not.  And that makes a difference.  It makes a difference in the way we live.  It makes a difference in what is of ultimate importance.  Or it is a fool's pastime.

What song shall we sing?

Living Icon

May it be found, when my time on earth is done, that in some way my life has made a difference.

And may that difference be a bit more substantial than, and perhaps even justify, the carbon footprint that my mere existence has left behind.

This quest to find purpose and meaning in life has captivated my soul for a long time.  It drove me into the study of theology and philosophy during my collegiate years.  It affected my decision to enter the seminary.  And it underlies every decision that I have made regarding call and vocation.  

One of the  struggles I've had with my 'alternative vocation', that of being a woodworker, is that I've rarely found the meaning and purpose that I crave.  This hasn't stopped me, mind you.  One of the lasting legacies I have left in many of the parishes I have served are the woodworking projects that I undertook while there.  

And yet that is unfulfilling.

In contrast to that are the words spoken to me by a parishioner that I did not previously know, that was cleaning St. Elizabeth's Lutheran Church in Ekalaka when my wife and I arrived there to deliver the chancel furnishings I made for their new building.  When I first served St. Elizabeth's they were a preaching point out of Plevna, and on a given Sunday there might be ten in worship.  One of the highlights of my ministry happened on Easter Sunday, when we baptized nine people, including three generations of one family.  I'm not sure what I did other than trying to faithfully preach the Word each Sunday.  Before I left we were able to organize St. Elizabeth's into a congregation of the ELCA.

It was over ten years later when Karla and I returned with the altar, baptismal font, credence table and pulpit.  But when we did, this woman, new to the congregation since I left, was there at the church when we arrived.

"You are a 'living icon' around here."

Those words touched me.  

I've thought about them since.  And what they must mean.  An icon.  A picture through which one looks to see the Divine.  In the truest sense of the word, a living icon is not simply one who is greatly admired, but one through whom people were able to see something greater beyond.

"Sir, we wish to see Jesus."

That is the hope, that somehow as people look not at us, but through us, they might see Jesus.  And in that, I, and I would imagine every pastor, find meaning and purpose.

At my current congregation in Otis Orchards I've been experimenting with using Facebook to reach out into the community and share the Message.  Boosting a post typically yields about a thousand page views, many likes, and even a few shares.  But with it also comes some interesting comments.

"F____ off!" was the comment.  I deleted it, and banned the sender (both to prohibit such comments on my post but also to prevent my posts from being sent to him, which he clearly didn't appreciate.)  But then this morning, he somehow was able to post another comment:  "Again I say, f____ off!"

I was taken aback by the comments.  I'm not here to offend.  Or maybe I am, if the Gospel so offends.

What I've been thinking about this morning is that perhaps my words that elicited such a response from this young man, had more of an impact on him than they do for a parishioner whose response is often a simple "Nice sermon, Pastor."  And perhaps banning him and his comments was not the right thing to do.  Perhaps attempting to engage him might have been better.

But in the end, it will not be my efforts that make a difference in this young man's life.  I can only pray that the Holy Spirit may use the message he heard which elicited such a strong response, to make a difference in that young man's life.  That would delight me.  But I'm not overly optimistic.  

"You are a living icon around here."  And  "F____ off!"  

Well, in the end I guess that is what we can expect.  Deep gratitude for our ministry and outright rejection, sometimes, at one and the same time.  

The Risk of Flying Solo

An opportunity has presented itself to me in my ministry at Peace in Otis Orchards.  Later this summer there will be a training event to equip pastors for redevelopment work, something my congregation is desperately in need of having happen.  This plays right into my goals and aspirations with respect to the ministry there.  The truth is that I am more committed to the redevelopment of that congregation that probably anyone else I've encountered, within the congregation or without.

Part of my drive stems from my experience early in my adult years when my wife and I were part of the development of a  new congregation in Gig Harbor, WA.  Agnus Dei Lutheran Church was just the right place at just the right time for my wife and I.  When I entered seminary one of my major goals was to be a mission developer pastor and perhaps recreate that experience for others.

And so an opportunity presents itself late in my career to do redevelopment work in Otis Orchards.  

One of the struggles is that there is little if any support available to cover the cost of the training event.  The congregation has limited means.  There is no support available from the national Church.  And our Synod is dealing with the reality of limited resources as well.  The question put forward to me last night was whether I had the personal commitment level to fund the training myself.  This would involve the cost of the training, airfare to Denver, lodging and some of the meals while there, and losing a week's salary from  my secular employment.  All this taken into consideration, there remains a cost/benefit analysis to do regarding the opportunity.  If having the training does in fact give me the tools to successfully redevelop the congregation, then its all worth it.  If  not, it's merely throwing money at the wind.

What I struggle most with, as a bipolar person, is evaluating such an opportunity and discerning whether this is an opportunity and call coming from the Holy Spirit, or whether it simply plays into the symptoms of my disease.

Manic thought patterns make one prone to careless spending habits, grandiose schemes, and high risk business ventures, just to name a few.  And this is the thing, any consideration of such an 'investment' has to be tempered with serious caution as to whether this is a good as it seems.  When I'm in a full blown manic episode I can make a good case for selling ice to an Eskimo.  Personal discernment is not a strong suit for a bipolar person.  That's the problem.

It is especially a problem when I'm left to my own discernment.  

One of my most successful efforts in ministry was also the result of one of my most manic episodes, the development of Luther Park at Sandpoint, an 87 unit senior housing project.  When the dust settled on that one my biggest disappointment was that in the end the congregation did not see Luther Park as its ministry, but rather as my baby.  That's the danger of flying solo.  It can all be about fulfilling personal dreams and aspirations with little buy in from the larger community.

Where I'm at in my discernment and thought processes this morning is that pursuing this opportunity cannot be simply a individual quest of my own.  There has to be some buy in from the Church, the local congregation, the Synod, and/or the national Church.  If those three do not see the value of such an endeavor, then I must seriously question whether the value I see is genuine, or fantasy.  

This is what I'm learning as I continue to work on managing my disease.  Every aspect of discernment has to be, simply has to be, confirmed by others.