What the Sunflower Lacks in Elegance

Sometime ago I was given one of my most treasured gifts.  It was simple.  It was elegant.  What it lacked in worldly value, it more than made up for in spiritual and emotional wealth, and was poetry to my ears.  It was, in fact a poem, written by my daughter Miranda, who has a way of seeing beyond the obvious and in the lovely way of a poet, imbues the common with sublimity; adding layers of meaning to what may be dismissed as ordinary. 

In her poem, my four children become the hallmarks of a garden, each represented by a distinctive flower that graces my life with unique attributes.  All so different from one another, yet all blessing my life with beauty and grace.

I have been thinking a lot about my Sunflower lately, the fourth addition to my garden of beauties, and have felt to pay tribute to her with my latest creation of glass fusion.  It is easy to see her golden hair.  It is easy to see her big brown eyes.  But most importantly,  "What a sunflower lacks in elegance is made up in the soul, 

For only when they give all things is when they're really whole."

She has chosen to sacrifice her time and all her talents to her Savior, Jesus Christ, serving Him as a full-time missionary. Putting aside the distractions of a busy, silly, crass and crude world, she walks with God, looking for opportunities to serve His children, to teach them the Gospel of Christ and bring them into the fold of the Good Shepherd.

A sunflower keeps its face toward the sun, knowing that is from where it draws its strength.  My prayers are with Miranda every day as she has chosen to be in the world, yet not of the world, keeping her face directed toward the Source of all Light.

My Mother’s Garden

Written by M.L. Haws

For my mother.

Four little beds filled to the brim

Each bright in blazing color

Planted in their youth by a loving hand

In the Garden of My Mother

One is lush with Poppies

In a drowsy and dreamy red

Smooth to the touch, daring the eye

And stubborn in the head

The Poppy will stand vibrant

And have its way, still

But will honor those who need their rest

And serve them with a will

Next, the Birds of Paradise

That stand up straight and proud

Showing off their sprays of light

With wise heads humbly bowed

The Proficient Paradise gives promise

Of strength, beauty and charm

Standing tall in stormy weather

And finds home where it is warm

Third in line, the Orchid

Glowing in elegance

But beneath those pearly petals

Beats a heart of amethysts

The Orchid is all loveliness

With an inner glow of fun

Light and grace, vibrant joy

In its soul unite as one.

Last of all a humble patch

The Sunflowers nod away

In Morning face toward the sun

And contemplate the day

What the Sunflower lacks in elegance

Is made up in the soul

For only when they give all things

Is when they’re really whole

Four little boxes tenderly kept

By their gardener expertly

This gardener who loved them

Though they all grew differently

Four little boxes surround a tree

Growth from a seed of faith

That bears the fruit and creates the light

In which they daily bathe

And from my Mother’s tree of Life

That stands unfailingly

New vines still grow and intertwine

And blossom verdantly

In my Mother’s Garden

There still is much to grow

But come and see, the Faith and Family

Are quite enough to show.

Die With Memories, Not Dreams

I was startled by this quote the other day:  "Die with memories, not dreams."It caused, as great quotes do, some introspection. I asked myself, what memories do I have tucked away as the treasure of my life?  And which are in danger of existing merely as dreams, never to be fully realized and converted into memories?

I dream of a place to gather my growing family. I thought the BeachHouse was to be that place. After some experimentation I have come to believe that that was shortsighted. Once every seven weeks is not reliable nor flexible enough. We need a place that is available 365 days a year; 24/7; for better or for worse; in sickness and in health.  Not to mention in quickly encroaching old age.

We need our home to be that place.

Much conventional wisdom would lead the empty nester to believe that down sizing is the  answer.  For many it may be.  For one who dreams of a gathering place, that would seem to be shortsighted too.  Why would I move to a home which is devoid of memories, and is also insufficiently sized to create new ones? My present home has been the growing up place for my children, as well as the growing up place for my own immaturity and weakness and foolishness.  My children have come out on the other side of their childhoods with confidence, assurance, and courage to face lives as adults, and hopefully many happy memories of time spent together as a family in our beloved home of the past seventeen years.

I believe that I too have come away from my time spent here with experience, with lessons learned, with faith in a still-bright future, with hope for many more years of family gatherings and one-on-one time with grandchildren and hobbies to be pursued and wisdom to be harvested and things to be beautified.

So it's time for movin' on my friend.......

No. Really.

It is actually time for moving on.  We have worked very hard to polish and shine our beloved old homestead, which will soon bear one of those dreaded "For Sale"signs. Family pictures have been removed. Our characters have been erased with neutral walls and neutral floors and neutral decor. It is very lovely. But the rooms, for the most part, don't feel the same anymore. And that is intentional. Staging a home for sale is purposefully about inviting the lookers to be able to imagine it with their own things and their own families, not being distracted by our distinct stamp of ownership.

Our memories have been carefully tucked away, but not to remain in boxes forever. Plans are already in the works to build that gathering place of which we dream. It will include minimal stairs, because let's face it, this will be our last home and we're not getting younger.  How about a glass studio with sufficient power outlets to fire up a kiln?  Undeniably.

We are taking with us the important things of a home, things which will never be as prosaic as rooms and painted walls and gardens. We are taking the people that we love, and we are taking our treasured memories of the sweetest childhoods that ever were.

And any other dreams acquired along the way? Certain to be resolutely converted into long lasting memories.

A Personal Inventory: Taking Stock

It would seem easier to just drift along, letting the current of life take us wherever it will.

 Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream.... 

Life is pleasant enough.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

But somewhere along the way, I have become convinced that life has purpose; that our decisions and actions matter; that it becomes necessary to submit to a little self-examination from time to time.  And what better time to take stock of one's life than, each year, annually, as we open gifts and eat cake.

It becomes more and more difficult to see pictures of myself.  I cringe as I observe the changes that my mind doesn't perceive. I still feel like I can do anything.  But my stamina suffers; my memory suffers; my flabby muscles, flawed complexion, fading color, present a much different picture than the one in my head.

So when did it happen?  When did I get old?  And has age brought with it any perquisites? I cannot deny that I am settling into the role of matriarch, which brings with it a cloak of honor that I hesitate to claim.  As my family gathers around me, eyes filled with love and a desire to celebrate and toast me, I feel a little like a fraud.  Who am I to be esteemed so highly, when I merely feel like a peer who doesn't really have all the answers yet either.

My days are different now.  No longer am I scrambling to keep up with active children. No longer is my schedule automatically filled with others' agendas.  I admit I enjoy this new freedom of choice.  My "must-do" list isn't really all that long; quite manageable, actually.

I do find myself benefitting from these four outstanding young adults in my life, especially as they bring lovely companions to the table with them.  My children are no longer children.  They are comrades-in-arms; they are thriving, productive, talented, active, hard-working members of society.  They are my best friends.  They share with me their wisdom, their joys, their frustrations, their unique abilities.

I feel very blessed.

I am blessed with a personal massage therapist, whose loving hands coax away the worry and stress and aches and pains.  I just wished she lived closer.

I am blessed with a son who will always be in a position to take care of his old mother; who has had a role-model, in his father, who has showed him how to honor, care for,  and love one's dear mama. He calls me regularly and lets me feel apart of his life.  We visit as the old friends that we are.  How gratifying to know that he will always make room for me.

I am blessed with my own personal yoga instructor, who gently encourages as she desires to see me regain the strength that time has threatened. What a lovely dear friend, who has now become a lovely dear neighbor. What greater gift than to share her family's life on a day-to-day basis?

I am blessed with a personal poet laureate.  I am blessed with someone that shares my love of great literature, who thrills with me at the discovery of new and old things to love. Who knew that the best friends come in the form of daughters who view the world from the same eyes?

I have been filled with an overwhelming desire to explore the world, to travel, to see its wonders.  But my greatest desire is to have a traveling companion by my side to share these things with; someone to thrill with me, to ooh and aah with me, to marvel and ponder with me.  I pray always that my beloved husband will accompany me.  I choose him.

This has become more than a blogpost.  The casual reader has my permission to withdraw due to its lengthy nature.

I daily ponder my purpose.  I consider the blessings which have been poured out upon me and struggle to find their best use.  Great books and ideas have filled my head with so much to think about. What is my role in building the Lord's Kingdom?  I have determined that my joy is full as I serve as a teacher.  I love the impetus to study diligently.  I love finding new ways to explore thought, to build upon a foundation of faith, to expand and enlarge my understanding, and to ponder the mysteries of God.  These are the things that fill my days.

I have many challenges, most of them inward.  I fight to overcome anxieties.  I find strength in my Savior.  He doesn't always take away the struggles, but He never leaves me alone to deal with them.

I find peace in beauty.  I try to surround myself with order.  I try to distance myself from the frivolities of the world.

I am weak in so many ways but I look with confidence forward, always forward.  It may mean adjusting to the new pictures of a woman I hardly recognize, but she means well. She knows love and feels it daily.

She tries to live worthy of those that arise up and call her blessed.

Just Can't Talk About It Yet

So much has happened since I wrote my last blogpost.

But I just can't talk about it yet.

The emotions are too near the surface to write about the sweet farewell with my father.

I should record the poignant midnight visit in the ICU when my father found an untapped reservoir of strength that enabled him to sit up in a wheelchair for a meaningful stroll through the quiet corridors; that enabled him to express what was in his heart, though the words were difficult to get out; which also enabled me to tell him the things that were in my heart.

But I can't talk about it yet.

I should write about the following day when this last rush of adrenalin led us to think that Dad had hope for recovery, leading us to tour endless care centers, walking miles of hallways filled with sadness, searching to find a place where Dad wouldn't be too miserable.

I should write about the rally when Dad met the administrator of the care center which we had decided upon.  I should write about the sparkle in his eyes as they talked about their common love of football which even led them to comparing their still impressive calf muscles.

But I can't talk about it yet.

Because the following day, when the adrenalin had fled, my poor sweet father could only speak with his eyes as he gratefully welcomed the ice chips that I spooned into his parched lips.

I can't talk about the ride to the airport, thinking, wondering, praying, hoping that he would hold on for a few more days when I would be able to come back, feeling like I was abandoning him.

I can't talk about the scene I created at the airport gate when, just before I was supposed to board, I got a phone call that he had become unresponsive and all the indicators had severely dropped and my hope of seeing him alive again shattered.



I should talk about the beautiful funeral.

I should talk about the lovely music which filled our hearts with the hope of the Resurrection.

I should talk about the sweet reunion with dear friends and cousins and aunts and uncles who had come to honor this great man, who had blessed all of our lives with his wisdom and his strength and his unfailing support and love.

But I just can't talk about it yet.

On Belay

When I was a kid I learned how to climb.

My natural instinct seemed to be to climb any tree that passed my simple analysis as a tree-climbing tree.  It was liberating to me. When the trees were mastered, I would find ways to climb onto the roof of my home.  I loved the challenge and especially the enhanced view of my little world.

But the best things to climb were mountains and my dad was an expert.

What began with simple climbs of large boulders and learning how to look for holds, soon graduated to larger challenges with ropes and pitons. I still pride myself on knowing what a caribiner was long before they became ubiquitous.

As any climber knows, the cherry on the top of a good climb is the chance to rapel down, a sort of harnessed backwards dancing which eventually brings the climber to the safety of the ground.

The key element to successful rappelling is the skill of the belayer.

A belayer is the climber's partner, who typically applies the friction at the other end of the rope whenever the climber is not moving, removing the friction whenever the climber needs more rope in order to be able to continue climbing or descending as the case may be. A belayer is the safety net between success and failure. I could not fall because my dad was literally my anchor.

I was always very secure in knowing that my dad was my belayer.  He was the strongest man in the world and I knew that in his hands I was safe.  No doubts. Ever. He was a mountain himself.

My belay has become unsteady.

My rock is crumbling. My security is jeopardized.

My father is ready to pass on.



I'm not ready to be off belay.

Anniversary of an Ordinance

I wasn't very old.  In fact it was 40 years ago, exactly, that as an eight-year-old, I was guided toward my best decision.  Today is the 40th Anniversary of my baptism.

My bishop had counseled me to make note of the date so that every year I would be able to look back and remember.  I was startled this morning when I did the simple math, and realized that so many years had passed.

We remember key moments in our lives, and this was a significant event.  Perhaps at the time, I didn't completely understand the full weight of this experience, but I did feel that I was following the Savior's example and that made me feel important.

Though we lived in Lander, Wyoming, we had to travel to the Riverton Wyoming Stake Center for the baptism.  Seated in a long row with the other children waiting to be baptised, I vividly remember feeling quite self-conscious.  We were all similarly dressed in white baptismal suits and mine had some type of stain on one leg.  Carefully I sat with my hands covering the imperfection.  I wondered if it would still be all right for me to get baptized in a suit that wasn't spotless.  Should I mention it to someone?

In the years that have passed, I have learned much more about this important and necessary saving ordinance, and I have actually thought about that conspicuous blemish that bothered me as I entered the waters of baptism.  Part of Baptism is its ability to cleanse and purify all of those blemishes that are not always as conspicuous. 

As I arose out of the water, my silly preoccupations were replaced with peace, knowing that at that moment, I stood without spot, without blemish, without sin, before my loving Heavenly Father and that He was pleased with my decision and my action.

Years have passed, and I am still honored to be part of God's Kingdom on earth.  It was a good decision.

Turning Hearts

I love the scripture that speaks of the prophet Elijah turning the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers.  I get it.  I feel it.  I believe it.  Family connections should be foremost in our lives and should be our greatest source of happiness and strength.

Mine are.  I am overwhelmed with the gratitude I feel toward my family.  My parents have given me a legacy of love and faith, and I am trying to pass that along to the next generations.  It's my job.  And I take it seriously.

My energies are spent in bringing this bunch together as often as I can.  We have a lot of fun and look forward to our little circle expanding exponentially.

Thanks for the joy.

In Flanders Fields the Poppies Blow

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead: Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved: and now we lie
In Flanders fields!

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

By Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae
Composed at the battlefront on May 3, 1915 during the second battle of Ypres, Belgium

I still hear them singing.  For years I followed the Sprague High School Concert Choir all over the country as a devoted choir mom.  Where they went, I went.  Where they sang, I listened.  I internalized their music, their sound, their spirit.  It was a unique and memorable experience.

While every piece of music they performed was a favorite, the haunting chords of "Flanders Fields" still echo through my memory.  The words were touching, impacting these high school students as they realized the significance of their meaning.  They understood the weight of what they sang, and imparted a mood that was stirring.  Solemn.  Breathtaking.  Heartwrenching.

We are the dead: Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved.....

Here was a group of youth that had the world by the tail.  Their future held such great promise, and now they sang of those who short days ago also had had the world by the tail, who had lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, had loved and were loved.....  I think it was more than a little humbling.

I knew of poppies too.  Years before, when I was these students' age, I learned of the poppies of Flanders fields.  Does anyone else remember selling paper poppies for Memorial Day?  As a Girls State Delegate for the State of Idaho, I was asked by the sponsoring Veterans of Foreign Wars to take my turn selling red crepe paper poppies, a remembrance of the sacrifice given by so many to retain the cause of freedom.

It was a small thing.  And yet I felt a part of something great; something bigger than my own little world.

To you, from failing hands, we throw the torch.

Great sacrifices have been given, and yet the fight isn't over.  The torch passes from one generation to the next, a desperate call for courage against evil men.  May we not fail those who have given their lives for this sacred cause.  And amid the cookouts and the picnics of this holiday, may we not fail to remember them.
And give thanks.



To learn more about this poem and the history of the poppies on Flanders Field:   http://www.teachervision.fen.com/poetry/lesson-plan/3244.html#ixzz1NqJhX8tW

Living in the Land of Oz

Part of my heart remains in the Midwest, and especially today as they are facing more destruction from those deadly storms, my thoughts are with the friends I left behind.  I lived in Wichita, Kansas for four years and still remember the feeling of a tornado warning.  I remember the stillness that would come before the storm.  I remember the air charged with electricity.  I remember the sense of doom.  I remember the blackness.


As one that has spent most of my life in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, my first impression of Kansas was that it is very FLAT.  Really.  Everything seemed to be the same elevation (making it particularly vulnerable to tornadoes).  How does one get one's bearings when there isn't a permanent mountain range standing as an ever present landmark?

I also remember getting out of the car for the first time in Wichita and trying to breathe in the thick, humid air.  Life was certainly going to be different than what I was used to.

But I loved the hot sunshine.  I loved getting the best tans of my life, and spending the summers at the pool.  I loved my little circle of friends, most of them kids from church. 

I will always think fondly of my days in Wichita, although it may have been one of the most difficult times of my life.  As a new 7th grader beginning Junior High, my slate of friends had been wiped clean and I knew I must start all over. That is an awkward time in one's life anyway and I struggled with the extra challenge of being the new kid.  But as the summer after 9th grade came along, with a pending move to Idaho, I was heartbroken.  I had found friends; good friends, whom I loved.

 My prayers are with my Midwestern friends today.  May they safely weather the storms that rage about them.  May their loved ones escape unharmed.  May they feel the love of heaven protecting them.

Consider the Lilies

My desk is covered with books.  It is stacked with notebooks and pens and paper clips and tools, and the shelves that surround me are filled with more books, and scrapbooks, and notebooks, and craft supplies, and photographs.  This is my little bit of heaven on earth.  This is my happy place.  The exciting thing for me is to discover what will reach out and grab my attention on any particular day.

Today brought one of the biggest surprises I have had in awhile.  I don't always know or remember how some things end up within arm's reach of my desk(s) (for you see I actually have two desks and two chairs which make it perfect for guests to stop by and visit me in my happy place; I especially love when my children, or my husband, peek in and pull up a chair). A beautiful purple book begged my notice.  I remember buying this book because one of the authors was a Seminary teacher of mine from years ago.  The book is entitled The New Testament for Today:  Biblical Stories with Modern Parallels  By W. Jeffrey Marsh and Ron. R. Munns, but I hadn't found the time to read it until now.

I immediately became engaged, enjoying the format of a passage of scripture from the New Testament which was then followed by commentary or a story from latter-day disciples.

On page twenty-five, one of my favorite passages was shared from Matthew 6:24-33, wherein Christ admonishes his followers to put their trust in God, to "take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink...And why take ye thought for raiment?  Consider the lilies of the field,how they grow...even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these....for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.  But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you."

Following these verses was a true story, entitled "Your Children Shall Never Beg for Bread."  This story has since been made into a film, entitled Treasure in Heaven, and I found a trailer for it on youtube.  After you watch the trailer, I will tell you why this story found me sitting in tears, all alone in my little room, my heart overflowing with gratitude.

From the book I read today:  "It is estimated that at various times John gave or loaned over fifty thousand dollars to Joseph Smith and the Church.  Later, as John forgave the remaining debts incurred while in Kirtland, Ohio, "the Prophet Joseph laid his right hand heavily on Elder Tanner's shoulder, saying, 'God bless you, Father Tanner; your children shall never beg bread'.

"John Tanner sacrificed everything he had for the gospel, and the promise given to him by the Prophet Joseph Smith has been literally fulfilled."

I am a direct descendant of this John Tanner.  Not too many generations pass without linking him to my Grandmother Frances Carter Yost, then my mother Caroline, and then me.  Also interesting to note, the missionaries that blessed John to be healed and then baptized him, are also ancesters from my mother's line, Simeon and Jared Carter, brothers to my Great Grandfather Gideon Carter. 

Sitting in my own little sanctuary, I was faced with the reality of my great heritage, while reading this lovely story in a seemingly random book.  In doing so, I felt the direct love of my Heavenly Father.  Because of the great sacrifices of those that have gone before me, I am reaping the great blessings of an inconquerable legacy.  My humble needs have always been met.  I have always had a roof over my head.  I have always had food in my cupboard.  I have always found a way to clothe my children, even if it meant sewing play clothes from scraps from the sewing factory.

"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin...Wherefore if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?"

My prayer is that we will always remember from whom our greatest blessings flow; that if we make our lives as holy offerings to God, He will pour out blessings from the windows of heaven, "that there shall not be room enough to receive it." (Malachi 3:10)

Yesterday Would Have Been the Day

It was my own special tradition.  It was something I remember doing every Spring.  I never knew exactly when it would happen, but when the time was right, I would know it.

After spending the winter months bundled up in coats and hats and scarves and mittens, one day invariably as I would walk home from school, I would realize that maybe summer was really on its way.  If I had taken a sweater to school in the morning, on the way home it would have been shed as the sun was finally beginning to take away the wintertime chill and showing the promise of warmer days. 

Upon arriving at home, I would make a beeline to my bedroom, open the bottom dresser drawer, determined to find the summertime clothes that had been put away for the season.  With the hope that Summer really was close at hand, I would change out of my school clothes then head out to the shed to uncover the bicycles.  Finding the bicycle pump was usually necessary too.

Then feeling that irrepressible freedom after the restrictive cold months, I would strike out for a bicycle ride around the neighborhood.  How liberating!  I felt as free as a bird.  It felt so good to stretch my legs and feel the breeze on my skin. 

Yesterday, I know it would have been that special day for me.  The long-absent sunshine beckoned me out for a walk around the neighborhood.  Soon the unexpected warmth made me want to shed my hoodie and find the summer clothes that I haven't touched in months.  If I had had a bicycle, I would have pulled it from the shed too.

My body may be getting older, but it was nice to discover that my soul will always be young.

One Tradition I Could Never Grasp

I love Santa Claus.  I love everything about Santa Claus.  I have thrown my entire being into supporting his cause, and promoting the dream and the magic that is uniquely his.

But I never could understand the ridiculousness that is the "Easter Bunny".  C'mon, really?  What is that about?  And WHY?

But what about your poor children, you may be asking.  What a grouchy mother they have!  She has deprived them of the "magic" of an anthropomorphic rabbit that hides gross hard-boiled eggs under the couch never to be found until they start to stink sometime in May.

Well, to my defense, my children have always had their fair share of Easter goodies.  But, as a family, we have chosen to celebrate with those things on the Saturday prior to Easter, preserving the Sabbath for our undistracted worship of the Resurrected Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

So while my children never looked for Easter baskets on Sunday morning, we always had a rousing treasure hunt on Saturday afternoon.  Brian and I would carefully write clues which led our children from hiding place to hiding place, which would then lead to the grand-daddy of them all where elaborate baskets would be waiting for them.  These would contain whatever this "Easter Bunny" thought would delight them.  Including Peeps.  Which I personally hate. 

I have no desire to discount whatever your family traditions are.  Whatever brings you and yours together is the important thing. 

But those "poor" Haws children seem to have managed just fine without a yearly visit from that mythical rabbit.

To Go Before the Mast

It may come as a surprise; it may seem out of character. For many years I have had a love affair with historic tall ships; those that depend on the power of the wind to fill their expansive sails, those that were manned by accomplished sailors who navigated their courses by the nighttime skies. These ships, with their undisputed beauty, speak to me of adventure, of romance of times gone by, of courage, of stout-hearted men.

While certain that I am not hearty nor courageous enough to have sailed the seven seas in this manner, in my dreams I do long to take my spot next to the great captains which I read about in books. Indeed, I have already outed my obsession with Horatio Hornblower.

Last Tuesday, I had the unique opportunity to "go before the mast and on the deck of the world", to test out my sea legs and to feel the exhilaration of the wind in my sails. It fulfilled a lifelong dream, and despite the debilitating cold of our evening cruise, I will always treasure the experience.

We sailed out of the bay in Newport, Oregon, on the Lady Washington, an historically accurate wooden replica of the original Lady Washington, one of the first U.S.-flagged vessels to visit the west coast of North America. This beautiful movie-star ship has appeared in "Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl" and "Master and Commander:  The Far Side of the World."

I appreciate my family and their patience with me as I pursue the things I love.  They are very supportive and adventurous as well, and I love them.  Together, we could sail to the ends of the earth, or wherever we decide to go.

"I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. I do not wish to go below now."

~Henry David Thoreau~