Betwixt and Between

“The category of liminality is useful in understanding such cultural phenomena as subjugated autochthons, small nations, holy mendicants, good Samaritans, millenarian movements, “dharma bums,” matrilaterality in patrilineal systems, patrilaterality in matrilineal systems, monastics orders and many more.” Victor Turner

I’ve been thinking and writing here for the past few months about pilgrims and pilgrimage.  This week I will take some ideas and terms from anthropology and from career consulting and try to apply them to what it’s like to go on a pilgrimage.

Victor Turner (quoted above) was a Scottish anthropologist best known for writing about ritual.  He lived with and studied the Ndembu people of Zambia and described extensively the initiation rites that their adolescents must undergo.  In particular, he used the work of an earlier French folklorist, Arnold Van Gennep, to describe three phases of all rites of passage.  First there is separation, where the individual is detached from the group.  Next is the phase Van Gennep calls limen or margin, where the status of the individual, called “passenger” or “liminar,” is ambiguous; “the liminar is betwixt and between,” he writes.  The final phase is aggregation, where the passage is completed and the individual returns to their secular or mundane social life. 

Having studied these three phases of the ritual processes in traditional tribal societies, Turner and his wife Edith turned their attention to these same kinds of passages in historical religious settings, publishing Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture in 1978.  They present case studies of various historic Christian pilgrimage movements, from Mexico’s Virgin of Guadalupe to European pilgrimages to Mary in Walsingham and Lourdes.  Since that time other anthropologists have studied pilgrimage movements in many world religions. 

The Turners define liminality as “the state and process of mid-transition in a rite of passage.  During the liminal period, the characteristics of the liminars (the ritual subjects in this phase) are ambiguous, for they pass through a cultural realm that has few or none of the past or coming state.  Liminars are betwixt and between.  The liminal state has frequently been likened to death; to being in the womb; to invisibility, darkness, bisexuality and the wilderness.”

The word liminality comes from the Latin word limen which means threshold.  The limen is literally the border on the floor between rooms, the board that stops the door or that you step over to enter the room.  You are leaving one room and entering another, but you are not there yet, you are betwixt and between, standing on the threshold.  “Subliminal” refers to the hints or inferences that come subconsciously, under (sub) the limen (threshold) between our conscious and unconscious awareness.

Limens are rich, scary, open, ambiguous, marginal and transitional times and spaces.  The Turners says, “Liminality is a no- place and no-time that resists classification.”

William Bridges, a minister, counselor and now management consultant, wrote a book as influential as Turner’s The Ritual Process, called Transitions.  His basic point is that we are wrong when we think that transitions have a beginning, a middle and an end.  Rather, a transition starts with an ending, a saying goodbye.  Then there comes what he calls “the Neutral Zone,” which he describes as anxious confusing time when the individual can be impatient to move on, but the phase must be experienced fully before they can achieve the final stage, the new beginning. 

I first read Bridges when I was in a quandary concerning my own career, and ready just to leave the old and jump into something new.  His advice was good, that I had to go slowly through all the phases, to say goodbye to the old career, then to “wander in the wilderness” for a while (my preferred rephrasing of the “neutral zone” – it can be a fruitful time with manna and grace) and only then would come the new beginning.  It worked!

The Turners argue that pilgrimages are “luminoid” because a pilgrim by definition is betwixt and between.  They leave their home and job and status and set off into an unknown time and place, a wilderness. They become “passengers” on the pilgrimage route, and during that time and place they give up their social standing and comforts/expectations of home.  Leaving these behind can be freeing, democratic, surprising.  Pilgrims take this risk because they are seeking a new beginning, like the adolescent initiation rite, into a new life phase.  By going through this passage they are seeking a new beginning, be it meaning or healing or reconciliation or just a new perspective.

But they can’t just go straight from their old life to the new, they have to wander a bit, which is what the French word for pilgrim means, pelerine, a wanderer.  But next comes what pilgrims often say is the hardest phase, coming home.  Like the adolescent who has done the walkabout or the wilderness camp, now they have to go back to so called normal life, be an adult.

Thresholds, limens, brinks are rich, scary, changing places. Shorelines, wilderness.  It is there and then that you meet, in Turner’s words, dharma bums and good Samaritans and monastic orders.  And pilgrims.

Copyright © 2016 Dale Rominger

Packing for Your Pilgrimage

More reflections on spiritual journeys and the stuff we carry with us.

When pilgrims pack for their trip, they should leave a little room for gifts they get along the way.

Many pilgrims start out with way too much stuff.  One of your first spiritual lessons is how to shed what you brought but don't really need, to lighten the load.  (The Latin word for baggage, which you learn when reading about Caesar invading Gaul, the lists of what stuff the soldiers had to carry, is "impedimenta."). A common pilgrimage story is of the walker with a huge heavy pack who suffers sore knees or blisters or worse because of the weight, but just can't let go of any of their impedimenta and has to stop walking.

You can pick out pilgrims in France or Spain by their well-worn boots, their neat full packs, and a scallop shell medallion on their hat or pack or around their neck.  And if you go to an early church service you’ll see them at the "Pilgrim Mass" in the town cathedral on the morning of their departure.  At the end of the service the priest invites any pilgrims to come forward to receive a few gifts for the journey.

At various Pilgrim Masses I have attended the pilgrims were given a small loaf of bread, a little card with the medieval Pilgrim's Prayer on it, a set of rosary beads, a medallion, and a small booklet of the Gospel of Luke.  Nothing too big and heavy, all symbolic and inspiring.  But I've seen pilgrims after church looking at the little goodie bags and pondering what to keep, where to stuff it in their packs.  And wondering, perhaps, do I really need more stuff?

At the Pilgrim Mass in Le Puy, France that I attended this fall there were over 100 folks, mostly pilgrims, at the 7AM service.  I got there early, because I like to watch the church folks do set up, and I realized they do this service every morning, every day of the year.  An old preacher myself, I thought maybe that's what we all do, even if only once a week, we try to give pilgrims some inspiration and a few gifts as they set out for their week or life journey.

What must it be like to send pilgrims off every day of the year?  Do they just give the same sermon over and over?  The one I heard seemed addressed explicitly to the pilgrims, with encouragement for the journey.  As far as I could understand the French priest it seemed to be about the Prodigal Son, the errant child who wasted his inheritance but was welcomed home by his forgiving father.  For this progressive Protestant there seemed to be a few too many references to "nos peches," our sins, but at least there was an assurance that after a long hard journey they, like the son, would receive forgiveness and welcome home from their Heavenly Father.  I would have said more about God being a companion beside them on the road, rather than a reward at the end.  I think many of these young folks were seeking answers and assurance, not reminders of their failings.  (But who am I to judge?)

The mostly young people in attendance listened respectfully, maybe 2/3 of them took communion, and then they all gathered at the invitation of the priest around the statue of St. Jacques in his traditional pilgrim clothes for their gifts.  The priest was suddenly so much more animated and friendly than he had been during the sermon and Eucharist.  He assured everyone there were cards with the pilgrim prayer and gospels available in many languages and invited folks to raise their hands if they were from France, Spain, Germany (lots of hands), UK, and then asked folks to say where else they were from.  There was a warm sense of community.

After handing out the gifts he said, "Now, you can all go into this other room and get your passport stamped," and there was quite a rush to move there as they took out their special Camino St. Jacques passports.  These get stamped at "official" stops on the way and qualify you for entrance at some hostels and are simply a special record of all your stops. 

As they went out the door there were many mutual good wishes, "Bonne route!"  And off they went. 

(I was leaving the next day for my different pilgrimage around the Romanesque churches of the Brionnais, but I did take a little medallion and wore it on my walk, in solidarity with pilgrims around the world.)

Some thoughts about what gifts these pilgrims added to their packs in Le Puy.

-A message that was a little heavy, for me, on sin.  Such words did not lighten my load but made it heavier.  Do we preachers send our folks out feeling like they have more on their back or are lighter on their feet? 

-Some traditional prayers and spiritual tools like the rosary that were and are very light and energizing.  I'm not Catholic but knowing that pilgrims for over a thousand years of pilgrims have heard and spoken this prayer* adds a bounce to my step.

-Symbolic food for the journey, a small loaf of bread.  I served a church where on Sunday afternoon we went by the homes of first time visitors and gave them a small loaf of bread with a note of welcome and invitation to return.  I was reminded of that when I saw the young pilgrims look at this little round gift with some puzzlement and delight.  And the knowledge they could eat it right up and add no weight to the pack.

-The small gospel - I saw several pilgrims pondering the little book, almost weighing it in their hands, would they keep it for the whole route?  I like the gesture, especially for a church that has not traditionally encouraged folks to read the scriptures for themselves.  It's good travel reading.

-The medallion, like an ID tag, with the Virgin Mary on one side, and a sea shell on the other, traditional symbol of the pilgrim, you see shells icons also marking the route.  That's also light, and a good self-identification, like wearing the hat of your favorite team, a simple public way of saying something about yourself, inviting affirmations, "Go Giants," "Bonne Route!"

-A passport, also light, something all travelers need, a means of entree and a happy memory of stations passed, doors opened.

I always consider my packing successful if I return home having used or worn everything in my pack and having acquired just a small enough collection of souvenirs that I can still do carry on onto the plane.  I never check bags - too much hassles and too much temptation to take impedimenta.  I really only need to pack my medallion, passport and a heart light enough to carry both my hopes and my cares.  That's how I pack for my pilgrimage.

Copyright © 2016 Deborah Streeter

*Medieval Pilgrim Prayer

O God, who brought your servant Abraham out of the land of the Chaldeans, protecting him in his wanderings, who guided the Hebrew people across the desert, we ask that you watch over us, your servants, as we walk in the love of your name to Santiago de Compostela.

Be for us our companion on the walk,
Our guide at the crossroads,
Our breath in our weariness,
Our protection in danger,
Our auberge on the Camino,
Our shade in the heat,
Our light in the darkness,
Our consolation in our discouragements,
And our strength in our intentions.

So that with your guidance we may arrive safe and sound at the end of the Road and enriched with grace and virtue we return safely to our homes filled with joy.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.

The Solitary Pilgrim and the Pilgrim Parade

Let’s say you have decided to go on a pilgrimage, that is, to take a sacred journey, with a purpose and some challenges.   Would you choose to go alone or in a group with other pilgrims?  

I usually go alone. 

People have gone on pilgrimages since earliest history (think “walkabout.”)  Virtually every world religion encourages or requires its members to take such a journey, as a way to give God praise, to make amends, to seek healing or, in modern spirituality, to help find one’s purpose in life.  Millions of people every year and in every land answer this call and, follow the words of Sir Walter Raleigh: 

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

The most common image of pilgrims is a massive crowd, millions in Mecca or on the banks of the Ganges, the long trail of thousands of seekers walking the road to Compostela in Spain.  But solitary pilgrims dot the landscape and literature as well: in my Christian tradition there is the solitary Thomas the Apostle, who walked to India in the first century, and Eregia, the Christian pilgrim (4^th century) who wrote the first pilgrim guidebook based on her trip to the Holy Land.  Later the Irish saint Columba and John Bunyan’s protagonist in Pilgrim’s Progress braved storm and hardship to complete their journeys.  The modern “Peace Pilgrim” aka Mildred Norman, walked 25,000 miles promoting peace.  (I doubt any of these pilgrims were completely alone, but unlike the pilgrim masses, we know these folks by name, can read their own accounts, or find them on the pages of history.) 

When I go on my sacred journeys I do hang out with other pilgrims, for example at hostels along the route, but I like to do the actual walking on my own.  This fall I stayed a couple nights at a pilgrim hostel, the Grande Seminaire, an imposing three story building high on the hill in Le Puy en Valey, France, which is an important starting point or stop on the way of the ancient and popular Camino St. Jacques road to Compostela.  

I checked in to my spare single room with a bath down the hall and easily felt the centuries of priests who had studied there, slept in that room, and even the soldiers who had trained there during both world wars.  But as the world and the church changed so did the Grande Seminaire, now doing a pretty brisk business providing cheap and simple rooms and meals for seekers, churched or not.  

In the large dining room 100 or more pilgrims gathered for a simple family style dinner.  This solo pilgrim at first felt like the only one on her own; everyone was laughing and passing around wine and soup and bread and of course the cheese course and seemed to know each other.  One group of middle aged men and women were clearly a group, identical day packs and a cheerful leader reminding them to go to the pilgrim’s mass the next morning at 7 before setting out.  But some kind Canadians encouraged me to have a seat and we shared our amusement at how the French seemed horrified when we asked if they have visited North America and eventually the conversation turned to how far people were walking.  And of course I soon found out I wasn’t the only solo pilgrim – a woman from Denmark and a guy from Germany were sharing tips about hostels across the table.  Would they go to the pilgrim mass in the church they next morning – neither was quite sure. 

I always read a lot before going on a trip and this time I found a couple narrations of guys who had walked alone on some of the same routes I was taking.  One was Robert Louis Stevenson who walked for a couple weeks in the Auvergne, even today a rough volcanic rural region, but 130 years ago even more so.  Another was Ezra Pound, who walked much the same route as Stevenson, going north however instead of south, also as a young man, in search of troubadour songs.  And the third was a curious account by an American food writer who has long lived in France, eating and drinking himself into some health problems with his weight and liver, and challenged himself to get in shape by walking from Paris through Le Puy and into Spain.  He is the most explicit about it being a spiritual quest as well; the earlier guys pretend it’s more a research trip, but they too are challenged and changed.  All three run into trouble, in part because of their young male hubris, not stopping before nightfall or carrying too much stuff.  All learned humility, like Stevenson learning from the donkey that he grudgingly acquired to carry his stuff that she would walk at her pace and her distance, not his.  And all learned more about themselves than about their planned project or destination. 

I feel some shame in revealing that my 21^st century American style pilgrimage involves advanced hotel reservations and some travel by cars and trains as well as a lot of just plain walking.  It is for mostly selfish reasons that I walk solo and not in a group. I want to set my own pace, eat when I want, and stay in my single room, not the really cheap pilgrims’ bunkhouse rooms.  I’d rather not listen to other people all day.  It’s enough to be together at dinner and then I can escape. On my own I can also slow down and pay attention to the countryside or the little church or my own inner dialogue and prayer.  

One reason pilgrims travel in groups is for safety.  Indeed in the Middle Ages that was the only way to go on pilgrimage for women.  Last week I wrote about Margery Kempe’s remarkable decade of travel in the 1420’s, thousands of miles, which she could only have done in the protection of a band of pilgrims, safe from wolves and highwaymen.  Like the Canterbury Tales, a very disparate group of pilgrims, together on the road and in the taverns telling their tales.  I take some risks walking alone – what if I were to fall or break something.  My days of solitary walking may be limited as I age.  

Like those three solitary guys I write about my travels.  Pound’s account is just a rough diary, but Stevenson and the food writer published their accounts and presumably made some money off their pilgrimage.  I write compulsively while I travel, several times a day.  Another reason to go solo - the group doesn’t have to wait for me while I put pen to paper.  But I am unclear about the whole business of travel writing and spiritual writing, how to get beyond “Gee whiz, listen to this cool experience I had finding the church or the interesting person I met.”   What do I do with these journals, what could I do, should I do? 

If I had been in a group we could have reunions and tell stories of the dramatic or funny experiences we had, share our pictures.  I look at my pictures alone, hang my map in my study but no one else is really interested in it.  I walked alone. 

Copyright ©2016 Deborah Streeter 

Joan and Margery Go for a Walk

Pilgrims are spiritual travelers, often on foot. For the next few weeks I’ll be writing about pilgrimage and some notable pilgrims. 

I don’t think of medieval women as long distance walkers, but two of my favorite “sheros” of that time, Joan of Arc and Margery Kempe, each travelled thousands and thousands of miles from home, over the course of just a few years, mostly on foot. 

Joan of ArcJoan of Arc walked close to 3000 miles in her two years of public life, 1429-31.  After hearing a call from God to save France, she left home on foot and led a growing group of followers on roads up and down her country.  After walking into a royal court to admonish the Dauphin and striding into a Poitiers university to stump the professors, she marched to Orleans to lift the siege the English had laid on the city.  It was a long walk then with the Dauphin to Reims, where she fulfilled her call from God to see him crowned King of France.  By then she had acquired a horse, but I bet the King rode in a carriage.  She walked to some more battles, but when captured in Paris she went for her last walk, a forced march to the court and prison in Rouen, where she was eventually burned at the stake, age 19.  Her admirers still retrace her thousands of miles route, walking “dans les pas” in the footsteps of the saint. 

Margery Kempe, a contemporary of Joan who lived much longer (1373-1438) was an English woman who ran a brewery with her husband in King’s Lynn, Norfolk.  Like Joan she heard a call from God to leave home and walk.   At age 40, after having 14 children, she had a vision of God “ordaining” her to a life of penitence and devotion.  After much angst and resistance from family and church, she and her husband agreed she would live a celibate life and a travelling life.  For the next 20 years she walked and sailed to visit shrines and holy people and holy lands.  Starting with English holy places (Winchester, Canterbury, Twickenham, York), she then walked and sailed to Rome, Assisi, Venice, and on to the Holy Land.  Later she traveled to the pilgrim town of Compostela in Spain, and her last trip was to the North countries, including Aachen, Bergen and Danzig.  She came home when her husband was ill and cared for him in his dying.  She then composed her spiritual memoir.  Her travels certainly exceed Joan’s 3000 miles, by boat and on foot. 

I tend to think of medieval religious women as sedentary, solitary, confined.  Julian of Norwich, the cloistered anchorite, in her cell.  The mystics, Hildegarde of Bingen and Catherine of Siena and Mechthild of Magdeburg, having ecstatic visions in the church or convent, but not out on the road.  We see so many paintings of holy women on their knees or in a chair, alone, in private. 

But I’ve learned, not just from Joan and Margery, but many other accounts, that women moved around a lot in those days, much more than our average 3 miles a day, just in farming and chores and market and going to church and visiting.  Of course people walked more then than our sedentary laziness.  

But these two women were in a different class, serious walkers, pilgrims really, walkers for a religious reason, following a call, God’s call, to get up and move. 

Both Joan and Margery were scorned and tried by the church for their unconventional actions and style.  Joan attracted enough followers and effected enough history changing results (lift siege, have king crowned) that she got away with wearing men’s clothes, riding a horse in the male style, commanding an army.  Until she didn’t. She was never able to walk back home. 

Margery was by all accounts an extremely emotional, weeping and loud woman, difficult to be with.  In her peregrinations to Rome and the Holy Land she was more than once rejected by the bands of pilgrims she traveled with for just being too much trouble.  But she always found a new group, and was often the caregiver for other travelers.  Like Joan, Margery threatened the church authorities with her independence and persistence.  On several occasions she was charged with breaking church law for teaching/preaching in public (forbidden for women.)  But she persisted, finally receiving from the church permission to receive weekly communion (rare at the time) and to wear white, clothes of a disciple pilgrim, even though she was married.  

Both Joan and Margery dressed and acted unconventionally for their time.  That’s how we know about them, the unusual women.  Well, we know about Margery because she dictated (she was illiterate) her spiritual memoirs, near the end of her life, to a priest, who had them published, the first autobiography in the English language.  Joan’s legacy is also in print; there is a transcript of her trial, with her one scratched signature, from this illiterate teen, attesting that is was accurate, although she couldn’t read it. 

I admire both these women for their unconventional faith and for their persistent pursuit of what they heard God ordaining them to do and where to go, far from home, on foot.  I’ve walked on some of their same paths in England and France, Aachen and Rome, and the Holy Land.  I could wear what I wanted, pick my own companions, speak my faith.  Their persistent faithful spirits walked beside me.

Copyright ©2016 Deborah Streeter

Walking Fast, Walking Slow

I’m wondering about the difference between walking really fast and really slow? Which is harder? Which is better for us? More reflections from the different paths we travel.

Sometimes I try to walk as fast as I can. At other time I walk so slowly I practically fall over. That’s because I do power walks and I do labyrinth walks. They are very different feelings: marching up the Big Sur coast doing 15 minute miles, or pensively taking a step every 10 seconds or so in a gentle circle.

The “Power Walk,” is a part of the annual Big Sur International Marathon. If you don’t want to run the 26.2 mile marathon, you can walk a mere 21 miles. The longer race starts in Big Sur, and is predominantly solo men, 5000 folks running fast as the wind to the Carmel finish line. The Power Walk starts an hour later, and five miles north, at Andrew Molera State Park. 1500 walkers, mostly women in groups, walk pretty damn fast. But unlike the silent solo men we women keep ourselves going by chatting away all the way up the magnificent rocky coastline.

We have to walk fast because the highway is closed for only 5 hours. Some power walkers do some running as well as walking, but not me (protecting my knees.) So I have to walk at least 4 miles an hour, looking every 15 minutes for a mile marker. Once I did the walk alone, when my friend dropped out sick at the last minute. It was not nearly as much fun, and I cut off from the crowd half way there and just walked home. But in a group, powerfully striding along while discussing husbands as only middle aged women can do, we can get to town in a miracle 5 hours and feel great!

Not far from the Carmel finish line is the labyrinth at the Community Church of the Monterey Peninsula, where I first learned to slow walk. Labyrinths are the opposite of power walks and marathons. The point is not the finish line or besting your previous time, but simply following the one path (it’s not a maze), meditating quietly with each step. Indeed there isn’t a finish line at all. It’s like going from Big Sur to Carmel and then turning around and going back. Except that you do it slowly, no hurry, no cheering crowds at the end. You enter at the outside, walk in and around the winding lines until finally reaching the center. Maybe a brief pause there, and then you turn around and walk out. And there is no time limit on how quickly you have to get it done. This outdoor labyrinth is always open.

When the minister first proposed this outdoor community labyrinth the church’s board of trustees objected – it would bring strangers to the church grounds at all hours and they might fall and sue. This was 25 years ago when labyrinths were sort of new in modern churches and I too was a bit skeptical of their trendiness. But then I started hearing people tell stories of having been so wounded by the church of their youth that they never wanted to enter one again. Until they walked a labyrinth and felt some healing and welcome home. I figured if it helped people feel welcome and whole, and if it was so threatening to those old fart trustees, it might be a good thing, and I should give it a try.

Luckily I had a good teacher in that minister, who taught me it’s not a race, not a goal, no one will send me certificate of completion like I get in the mail after the power walk. He taught me to walk slowly, step by step, to notice how it feels to get close to the center and then be led off and away, only to return by another loop. He taught me to stand at the entrance and say a prayer and wait for the right moment to enter; no “ready, set, go” of the timed power walk. And to let the experience sink in after leaving the labyrinth, not to leap for joy and rush to pick up my T–shirt in the marathon tent.

I’ve walked this labyrinth many times, by candlelight on New Year’s Eve, as part of a friend’s celebration of her 20 years of sobriety, at an interfaith Earth Day service, and just stopping by on my way to pick up my daughter at the middle school next door. Each time my monkey mind slows down, my soul finds rest. Labyrinth walkers go solo and silent even in a group setting, sort of like the marathoners. Sometimes I think we gabbing women power walkers miss something with all our chatting. Listening to long distance running men afterwards, they seem to have had more of a spiritual experience. Surely I am more “spiritual” alone on the labyrinth.

But maybe I am trying to make too much of a distinction here between fast and slow, competitive and contemplative, group and solo. Am I assuming that we are only spiritual when we are quiet and alone and non-competitive? Fast walkers trying to get to a finish line aren’t necessarily just compulsive overachievers. After 21 miles we have bonded with nature and each other and gotten our hearts pumping like mad – surely all that is good for our souls?

Fast walking makes me feel whole and good and happy. And in some ways fast walking is the easier way to connect with something beyond myself. Slow walking can be really frustrating and make me impatient, and is sort of lonely.

I guess I will keep doing both. Both get me “in the zone.” I can quiet my monkey mind with happy companionship as much as I can with slow steps and silent prayers.

Or I could combine the fast and slow into a kind of sauntering, such as Thoreau speaks of in his essay, “Walking:”

“I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering; which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre" — to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a sainte-terrer", a saunterer — a holy-lander. They who never go to the holy land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds, but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense…..So we saunter toward the Holy Land; till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, so warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in Autumn.”

Copyright © 2016 Deborah Streeter