how much longer?

another road trip. this time to celebrate a truly momentous occasion: my dad’s 75th birthday. a big party was planned. my brother was flying in from the west coast. loads of people had rsvp’d to attend this amazing milestone: three-quarters-of-a-century of a life well-lived, and largely devoted to enriching the lives of others through his warmth, eternal optimism, intellectual curiosity and legendary cooking.

the kids were giddy with excitement. the car was packed with the requisite road trip essentials: snacks, bottled water, pillow pets, and an assortment of tunes—from radiohead (oddly enough logan’s favorite lullaby music) to adele’s crooning to those damn “party rockers” who were “in the house” with us across 3 states(!)—designed to keep the monkeys in the back seat engaged and us awake during the boring trek across the interstate.

about an hour into the drive, after we just crossed over the bridge to the skyway, it started.

“are we there yet?”

“no honey. we’re still in illinois.”

“how much longer?”

“a long time. don’t worry about it. just enjoy the ride.” ugh…it’s going to be a looong drive, i thought to myself.

normally, i’d seize the opportunity to craft my speech for the event during the all too familiar, 5+ hour drive on the long stretch of toll roads from chicago to cleveland. but this time i wasn’t worried about what i was going to say. i had written an homage to my dad months earlier, “finding your inner zen: a portrait of domingo,” as a way of sharing what an incredible source of inspiration he has always been to me. i felt fortunate to be able to read it aloud in a room filled with loved ones who were gathered in his honor.

unlike my usual, down-to-the-wire antics, this time i was prepared well in advance...so my plan was to sink back into my seat and sleep long enough to wipe away a good chunk of time off the drive. i closed my eyes.

but deeper thoughts were swirling around in my head. in the two weeks prior to this trip, my CEO’s son, thomas, passed away at the age of 7 due to neuroblastoma, a childhood cancer of the sympathetic nervous system. shortly after that, the news broke that steve jobs, the single greatest visionary of our time, had died at 56.

they were world’s apart, in years and life experiences. yet a similar reaction was echoed in both instances: “they lived life to the fullest. they touched people’s lives. and they were taken far too soon.”

i thought about my mom, who worked herself to the bone as a physician, only to finally retire and find herself with kidney failure, years of dialysis and not enough time to savor the fruits of her labor. she passed without ever laying eyes on rome, the eternal city, on her second grandson, on so many things that she would have loved and cherished. “she lived life to the fullest. she touched people’s lives. and she was taken far too soon.”

i looked out the window, eyes welling up. we zoomed past a bright, red, white and blue sign: “welcome to indiana, crossroads of america.”

“YAY! we’re in indiana! so we’re close now, right?” he was squealing with delight.

“um no, not even close.”

“ok so how much longer?”

“long. don’t worry about it. just relax. look out the window and enjoy the view.”

“awwww…ok fine.” pin, meet balloon.

a few miles later we came across a worn, but beautiful red barn. “hey guys, did you see those spotted cows? weren’t they adorable?”

“ohhhh so cute, mommy!” he was squealing again.

we filled the time between sing-alongs with views of neatly rolled haystacks on a blanket of light green grass, acres of golden cornfields, a massive semi accident that stopped us dead in our tracks for 45 minutes, and finally a breathtaking sunset before the boys finally started to drift off to sleep.

we were well into ohio now. monster yawns were heard from the back seat.

as he rubbed his bleary eyes and smacked his lips, he mustered one last attempt to gain certainty.

“ok i’m going to take a nap now. hopefully when i open my eyes we’ll be there…but can you please tell me how much longer?”

i didn’t answer. i paused to contemplate the question. when i peeked behind me a few minutes later, they were both fast asleep, peaceful and breathing deeply.

“how much longer?”

steve jobs’ sister gave a moving eulogy about their relationship and the person he was—not only as the most brilliant innovator but as a brother, as someone who cherished beauty above all else,  who loved love and embraced learning.

she eloquently spoke how of his illness was a great reminder that “none of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here…we all—in the end—die in medias res. in the middle of a story. of many stories.” 

but how many of us are savoring the chapters. living with intention. taking the time to pursue passions. appreciate loved ones. acting with the consciousness that at any moment, the plot may take a turn.

there will be smooth stretches, epic disasters, roadblocks, and hopefully some unexpected surprises. but if you’re forced to take a detour, no one may see the half-baked ideas formed, or hear the words you meant to say, but didn’t. you’ll only have who you are and what you’ve done up until that moment.

some people, like my dad, are thankfully blessed with rich lives and longevity. too many others are taken far too soon. either way, we are put on this earth. to learn from each other. to be inspired by each other. to appreciate beauty. to make the most of whatever time we are given.

“how much longer?”

“i don’t know. don’t worry about it. just enjoy the ride.”

the glow

this is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow again and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen magically along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.

- bernard de voto "the hour"

on countless nights, i’ve sat in my family room, TV buzzing in the background, kids milling about and toys strewn across the room. eyes glued to my laptop. or a finger aimlessly cascading down the smooth glassy screen of my iphone.

“the world in my hands” or so jobs wants me to think. on most nights, i surrender. guilty as charged. i collect pretty things on pinterest. i instant-ize my moments on instagram. i drift from huffpo to blogs in between intermittent email checks. i shop. i glaze. i grasp to steal moments for myself, yet struggle with the sinking feeling that i’m busy—at once doing things...and yet doing nothing.

and then i catch a glimpse of it from the corner of my eye. the faint hint of color. a subtle hue, peeking out from just beyond our deck. sometimes it’s cool, ethereal, steely. other times it’s almost pulsing, like a smoldering ember. still others, it’s hazy, smoky, beckoning.

the glow. it’s as if someone flipped on a switch.  i answer without hesitation. no matter the season, how hot or how cold, i fling open the door.

“upstairs, front door.” the pesky alarm lady sounds off, but it’s no matter. this is a welcome guest.

i gaze over to the west. it never disappoints. the violet hour. magic time. almost missed. fleeting. yet in that moment, infinitely fulfilling.

i captured all of these moments on separate days from the same spot over the course of a year. not consciously. in fact i had no plan. no fancy equipment. ironically i snapped them with my iphone (score 1 point for jobsy). but i realized, in looking back, that every evening on my unassuming front porch was a canvas. if i blinked or scrolled or clicked too long, i would’ve missed it.

watch for it. it’s there. in your morning commute. the puddles on the street. the buildings that you rush by day after day. the window where you wash the dishes. the faces that you gaze upon daily. the glow. if you catch a glimpse, stop. even if for just a few precious seconds. bask in it.

if you weren't afraid

"what would you do if you weren't afraid?" run a marathon? get a new job? lose weight? move to another city, or perhaps even another country? take up a new hobby? share a passion you’ve been keeping all to yourself?

every day, amidst the minutiae that clutters up our facebook feed, i see friends getting over the hump. going out on a limb. challenging themselves.

but what takes us over the edge? pushes us beyond the comfort zone?

i recently came across an interview in which oprah was talking to sheryl sandberg, the COO of facebook, about fear. what could the most powerful woman in the world, who makes a gazillion dollars, owns sprawling estates and hobnobs with the uber-elite celebs and leaders of the world, possibly be afraid of?

despite her astronomical success, she was entering into new territory: launching her own cable network, OWN. yet there she was, waking up in the middle of the night, terrified. whether this new venture would be a success or failure, she came to the realization that she had to be true to herself.

“all of us have that space where we are willing to get still because the world will try to tell you everything about yourself and we have so many voices in our heads and in our facebook pages telling us everything, but to know really what to do and how to be guided in your life, you have to go to that space [inside] where the bigger you, the greater you, resides.”

she referenced a question that sandberg had posed in a commencement speech at barnard college last year: “what would you do if you weren’t afraid?”

i think back to my life and experiences. every time i go to write a post, there is a little voice in the back of my mind saying: “who would actually care?” but i’ve learned to write—for me … and it’s liberating. if i allowed that fear or insecurity to overcome me, i’d have no voice. and that is simply not an option.

the process of creating—a post, a work of art, a career, a life—is about tapping into what’s true. to you.

it reminds me of my old agency. there i worked with an incredibly talented group of designers. whenever we had a design review, i’d watch with a mixture of sympathy and awe as they would tape their comps to the wall one by one, and the team (the creative director, the strategist, the writer and the techies) would huddle around the work and meticulously critique every execution. we’d spout off about how the imagery was off, the font was too boxy, the color palette needed tweaking, and the logo just didn’t “feel” right. and after the pile on was over, they’d scribble a couple random notes in a tattered moleskin, gather the marked up papers taped to the walls, and get back to it…only to repeat the process in a day or two as the deadline for the client presentation loomed.

one day, after a particularly brutal session, i bumped into a designer at the coffee machine.

“hey pretty rough meeting, huh?”

he shrugged his shoulders and stared glumly down at his black chuck taylors. “yeah.”

“i don’t know how you guys do it. sometimes it’s like you’re putting yourself out there only to get ripped to shreds.” i could relate since 9 times out of 10 it was my copy that was plastered up on that wall along with the pretty pictures.

“you know, sometimes it’s rough…but it’s all part of the process. the feedback really helps me resolve questions and explore possibilities—stuff i would never get to on my own.”

he was right. putting yourself out there means pushing yourself forward. it's the difference between good and great. settling versus striving. it’s risky. sometimes uncomfortable. it may take time and stumbles. and work and rework. but you might get to a place you never knew existed. you might find a voice you never knew you had.

there's a great quote by author marianne williamson: “our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. it is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.”

what would you do if you weren’t afraid? whether you're motivated by honoring someone you’ve lost or filling a void or facing your fears or simply finding your way, tap into that fire within. and shine on.

a new day

i’ve been weeping all morning. the memorial coverage of the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks has been gut-wrenching. we can all remember exactly where we were, what we were doing, and who we were with when the gleaming twin towers were struck. the sheer terror and unprecedented trauma in our collective hearts lingered for months after, as the footage was replayed over and over and over again.

eventually the coverage turned from tragedy to triumph in the battle of good versus evil, us against osama bin laden. for those of us who weren’t in NYC during the time of the attacks, the image of those dreaded planes hitting, the smoldering fires and the mushroom clouds of smoke, ash, debris and human bodies crashing to the ground, was seared into our minds. yet the brutal reality—the devastating impact on human lives—years after the event, seemed to fade.

for many, the impact of 9/11 on our lives has been reduced to enduring the litany of political chest-thumping on TV, longer time spent in airport security lines, taking off shoes and submitting to body scans and the occasional pat down in the name of safety.

but today’s memorial coverage reminds us that, while the motive for the attacks was political, the impact from that fateful day was on people. from the unimaginable horror came honor. from every day human beings emerged true heroes and genuine acts of courage. that the very worst of times brought out the very best in each other. i was reminded, then and now—10 years later—that we are resilient.

the stories of 9/11 teach us that more than a country, a race, a religion, we are people. who need each other. who help each other. who show us goodness in the face of so much bad.

light in the darkest hour. last night we sat riveted to the TV screen watching a special on TLC entitled “9/11: Heroes of the 88th Floor.” the show recounts the utter selflessness and bravery of two “ordinary” men who risked their lives to save over 75 people when flight 11 hit the north tower, before dying on their way to save more.

better and stronger together, than alone. a heartbreaking, utterly inspiring account of the “9/11 babies 10 years later," who lost their fathers, but have discovered the deepest of bonds with the other kids who now call themselves “BFFWAD": Best Friends Forever Without a Dad.

lucky beyond measure. countless survivors shared stories of the devastating, eerie, war-torn scene surrounding the collapsed buildings. amidst suffocating smoke and debris, artifacts of daily life were strewn across the ground, papers floating in the air, schedules being trampled underfoot as people raced to get away from the carnage. the sense of powerlessness over your own life, your fate, was visceral…and yet, with that utter lack of control, there were examples of light. and hope.  the story of “stairwell B” recounts how a group of firemen went up into the burning north tower to rescue an injured woman on the 73rd floor, only to find themselves directly in the midst of the building’s collapse. miraculously, huddled together in a section of stairwell B, with the walls disintegrating around them and trapped under debris for 3 hours, they survived.

everyday heroes. “The photograph of the little girl in a red velvet dress with her late mother's NYPD Medal of Honor hanging around her neck and dangling past her knees tugged at heartstrings across the world. Patricia Smith was 2 years old then, when she walked across the stage at Carnegie Hall to accept the honor for her mother, Moira Smith, a New York City police officer who was killed in the Sept. 11 terror attacks that felled the twin towers in lower Manhattan. Smith, 38, was the department's only female police officer to be killed on 9/11. After helping people escape the burning buildings, she went back again and died when the south tower collapsed.” (abc news). now she is 12. her biggest wish for her mother to be a part of:  not her graduation, wedding or other major milestone. no, something much simpler: “to be part of a family dinner.”

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in my household, dinner time is often far from idyllic. food on faces and on floors. scowls about stir fry instead of mac and cheese. but i wouldn’t trade the chaos for anything in the world. 9/11 reminds us: life is about simple things. goodness. gratitude. little moments—perfect in their imperfection. cherish them.

picnic perfect

“describe your perfect picnic in 10 words or less.”

there’s a big festival in amsterdam next month called PICNIC: an annual three-day event that blurs the lines between creativity, science, technology and business and “aims to bring people together to encourage the exchange of ideas, expertise and inspiring stories.”

i’d never heard of it before, but thought it was an intriguing name for an industry event…especially in comparison to the event alerts that usually clutter my inbox: “optimized product experiences” and “maximizing synergies to achieve ROI.”  

i found out about the festival from a popular creative magazine that i follow called contagious. they were running a contest: describe your perfect picnic in 10 words or less, and you could win a ticket to the 3-day extravaganza, which showcases international luminaries from the worlds of design, advertising and academia.

from a practical standpoint, i wasn’t serious about entering because, even if i did win, i couldn’t justify hauling myself across the pond and paying for airfare and lodging, just to soak up the “inspiring ideas”…but the writer in me was excited by the challenge.

“describe your perfect picnic in 10 words or less.”

what would you say?

the first thought that popped into my head was the food! (shocker, i know.) a crusty baguette. a crisp sauvignon blanc. italian salami and artisan cheese. tuscan white beans marinated in extra virgin olive oil. bubbly san pellegrino. and for dessert, a big flakey mille feuille oozing with rich creamy custard with each delectable bite.

sheer picnic perfection…errr in 50 words or more…

“picka-nick.” that’s how my 2-year old pronounces it. he grabs my hand at least a couple times a week and takes me into his room. the warm sunlight streams in through the windows. we spread out his blue blanket hand-knit by nana, and line his stuffed animals around the perimeter. one by one he feeds them with the fake food from his refrigerator. a donut for monkey. waffles for giraffey. “sow-lid” (salad) for mickey. and a drumstick for donald. (i don’t have the heart to explain to him that a chicken leg probably wouldn’t be donald’s entrée of choice so i serve it up without protest and we commence our feast.)

the food is lovely…but i come to realize “picnic” is a state of mind. a feeling. it’s simplicity. sweetness. sharing. whimsy. imagination. an invitation. an escape…yet utterly familiar.

now i hear norah jones crooning in my ear.

my perfect picnic in 10 words or less.

naked toes. green grass. cloud shapes. deep breaths. belly laughs.

on the lookout

after dating for several years, my boyfriend (now husband) and i decided to take the plunge and move in together. it was a big step. if we could successfully cohabitate, find common ground, build a life together—without annoying the hec out of each other—then surely we were meant to be together.

for the most part, we were blissfully happy…but that’s not to say that we didn’t have our differences. he’d hang the toilet paper under, when we all know that it should be over (believe it or not, there is a “science to toilet paper orientation”). he’d squeeze the toothpaste from the middle rather than rolling it up from the bottom of the tube.

typical, little, inconsequential, yet highly annoying pet peeves that challenged our world view, our individual sense of order, the way we perceived things were “supposed to be.”

nowhere did these pesky little battles play out more than in the aisles of the grocery store. clearly we had enough in common to fall in love…yet there we’d be on a sunday afternoon, duking it out in aisle after aisle of the store.

“we need toothpaste.”

we’d stand in front of the shelf, arms outstretched. i’d grab the colgate, while he’d reach for the crest.

“my parents always bought colgate.”

“well my grandparents always bought crest.” 

“jiffy.”

“no, skippy.”

“fritos.”

“no doritos.”

and on and on…

our snippy supermarket ventures were eye opening. never before was i so aware of the power that brands wielded on my life. i bought “x” brand because my parents did. it’s what i grew up on. it’s what i knew…and it wasn’t until i went out into the world and was confronted with the question: “why did i buy?” that i even thought twice about it. was the product truly better? or was it simply a potpourri of familiarity and nostalgia that led me down the purchase path?

ultimately, we met somewhere in the middle, each one compromising to the point where we felt our preferences were adequately represented. yet slowly, our priorities started to morph. it’s become hard to ignore the constant battery of press about the perils of corn syrup, additives and preservatives in food, pesticides in our fruits and vegetables, for god’s sake FDA-approved melamine in baby formula and toys made with lead paint!

partly due to my practical side (was this all just alarmist mumbo jumbo?) and the other part based on the fact that i was simply overwhelmed, i clung to the brands that i knew. but little by little, we started to accept the reality…

there is a new normal. no one is going to look out for your or your family except for you. you can’t necessarily trust labels or organizations that supposedly exist to protect you. it’s up to you to make changes in your life—however big or small.

think about your facebook feed this past summer. how many friends and family members posted photos of fruits and vegetables grown in their own gardens? how many comments did those pictures illicit? we’re all feeling the frustration of not knowing what to change or where to start. but simple changes can have a tremendous impact on your life and your well-being. on your ability to feel empowered.

if this blog is about inspiration, what is my point? i’ve never considered myself an activist. in fact i still don’t. i just believe we owe it to ourselves to ask the question: why do i buy?

it’s something i’ve asked myself often enough in the last year—about everything from food and beauty products to any other random thing you can think of—that i’ve finally been inspired to take action. in this age of mass production, cost-cutting, and all-around crappy products, i have reached a tipping point. brand loyalty and nostalgia have taken a backseat to my quest...

for products that delight. excite. inspire. products of quality. with integrity. products that work. and last. products that i love enough to share.

i’ve started a blog called “why i buy” as a way to talk about products that i love. it’s not that i think i have any deep insights to share. it’s not glamorous or thought-provoking. it’s simply a place to think out loud and share positive experiences, pleasant surprises, products that actually worked how they were supposed to, made life easier, were created with integrity or purpose…

we’re all on the lookout for things that can make life better. hopefully you’ll discover finds along the way, and also share your own experiences.

food for thought

"almost everything--all external expectations, all pride, all fear of  embarrassment or failure--these things just fall away in the face of  death, leaving only what is truly important. remembering that you are  going to die is the best way i know to avoid the trap of thinking you  have something to lose. you are already naked. there is no reason not to  follow your heart." - steve jobs

this weekend marks the year anniverary of when i was hospitalized for viral meningitis. a year later, i am strong, healthy, blessed. it seems morbid to reflect on such a difficult time, but what a great reminder of gifts, often over looked. of dreams yet to be realized.

we have control over a certain sphere of our lives, and in the uncertain space beyond, there is room to leap. to fall. to risk. to live--and to leave--with no regrets.

be there, when you're there

it’s been four days since the riots erupted. i heard of the first incident on the day before i was set to leave for london. and here i am now, writing this post after having been sent home from my office due to warnings that there may be a riot in our area. 

i sit and write (safely, i hope) in the confines of my hotel. it’s been quiet in this corner of the city so far. there are no visible signs of an imminent threat. but co-workers this morning shared stories of sirens and police cars throughout the night, local haunts being looted, store owners standing in front of their shops with baseball bats getting ready to defend against the mayhem threatening their livelihood.

from the chatter, i came to find out that the westfield mall in shepherd’s bush, where i went to grab a quick dinner about five minutes away from my hotel, was on riot alert based on the escalating violence. ummm, guess i missed that memo as i cluelessly meandered around the mall peering into store windows!

“i was just there.”

not that we need reminding—but this circumstance is a nasty reminder—that these are crazy times. and you never know what might happen, where you’ll be, and why you were the “lucky” one to be there when the shit hit the fan.

the reality is london is no different than home. who ever would’ve thought there’d be flash mobs on the hallowed “magnificent mile”? across the world, the economy is under pressure. people are disenfranchised. the systems are broken. and the new “normal” is anything but normal. it’s wack.

hopefully moments like this are few and far between. but these kind of moments remind us why all the other moments matter.

“be there, when you’re there.”

where is “there”? in those moments that you live every day. in the quiet times. in the simple things. don’t wait for your world to be set on fire to wake up and be present. for the smiles. during the sunset. after the rain. with your kids. at your home. in those moments that are right under your nose.

be there when you’re there—because when you’re not there, they’ll be with you.

be infectious

from the moment we are children, we experience the power of storytelling. each night before bed, we are captivated by the simple words on paper that transport us to far away lands with mythical creatures and magic potions.

when i look at my son’s interests and obsessions, i am amazed at how seamlessly they flow from justice league superheroes and harry potter to the mythical gods of greece or pharaohs of ancient egypt.

though he knows, logically, that some are “real” and the others are not, there is no distinction—in his imagination. epic battles between good and evil, mischievous plots and benevolent heroes: all in a days work for zeus or poseidon, hawk girl or superman…all in a few chapters of reading before turning out the light and drifting off to bed.

as we get older, the appeal of great stories remains intact. one only needs to look as far as the harry potter books and movies to see--and feel--the power of a story to draw you in and move you. great storytelling can stir your imagination, make you feel emotion, and inspire you to act, to change and to keep coming back for more. it engages all the senses, with beautiful imagery and detailed descriptions—of sights, smells, tastes and feelings.

when the words are personal and authentic, they hold the power to transport you to different times, places and states of mind. leonardo da vinci once said “feathers shall raise men even as they do birds, toward heaven; that is by letters written with their quills.” great stories change the way you think, feel, act. they can transport you. and transform you. open your eyes to new perspectives, undiscovered experiences, hope in the face of adversity, escape in the drudgery of everyday life.

as a writer, the words, to me, lie at the heart of a great story. but i’m equally captivated by the stories being told through the eyes and camera lenses and pixels and paintbrushes and whisks and ladles and needles and thread of people expressing themselves through their passions.

what fuels the fire in your gut? are you squelching it? nurturing it? or simply trying to find it? whether you consider yourself “creative” or not, you are telling a story—your story—with each day you are on this earth. never underestimate that power. to tell your narrative. with courage. to transform. and to inspire others in the process.

spreading happiness

whenever i take the bus home from work, i have a rule that i follow religiously. one stop before my street, i gather up all my things and sit on the edge of my seat (for some reason i have this paranoia of missing my stop or leaving something behind, so i always get ready well in advance). i give a good tug on the wire hanging from the top of the window to signal to the driver that i’ll be getting off (as if he couldn’t tell from the anal person stretching her neck out every couple minutes to see where we are and balancing on the very edge of her seat). as we approach the stop, i stand, steadying myself on the 5-inch platforms beneath my feet. then when i feel it’s safe enough to leave the surfing stance, i walk up to the front of the bus. when the door opens, i smile. look the bus driver in the eye. and say “thank you!”

9 times out of 10, the response comes like clockwork. a look of genuine surprise. a brief pause. and then a crack of a smile. “all right, you have a good day, now.” then the doors close and the bus rumbles off into the distance.

in life, we come across countless numbers of people each day: from the hoards of drones making their way to work on the morning commute to colleagues and clients, store clerks and waiters, teachers and parents at daily pick-up and drop-off, bus drivers and cabbies, and on and on. in the city, some days are downright dog-eat-dog: cars jamming on horns in the middle of the intersection, lines of huffy people in the aisles of the grocery store, rude sales clerks looking through you to the clock on the wall, counting down the minutes until their shift ends. 

when i think about people like my bus drivers, i empathize. who wouldn’t be crusty carting around caravans of self-entitled yuppies to their ivory office towers? just like us, they’re trying to make an honest living…and just like us, who wouldn’t want to encounter a friendly face, a warm smile, a word of appreciation, a little affirmation that “ya done good” when your slogging through the daily grind.

there’s a great quote by maya angelou that sums it up: "i’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." no matter what your age, your income, your walk of life, this rings true...and it's a powerful thing.

all our daily interactions can amount to nothing but the passing of time. what do we have to show for them? yet simple gestures, entirely free, can end up being priceless. last year, coke came out with an amazing marketing stunt that illustrates the point.

while i’m not a fan of their products, i loved the idea for its simplicity and the essential truth it conveys. happiness is contagious…and who knows where it will strike next?