Whether we have five or six senses is not the point today. The most important sense for me growing up has been scent. I'm fascinated by it. It matters. Not having the words to articulate what draws me to Tohoku again and again, I'm at a loss. Do I credit scent or something else I can't put my finger on? Let me explain.
I'm in love. With my husband, yes. I love my family, yes. I also have a new love. This new love does not compete with my love for those back home. It adds to it.
I don't know how else to say it. There's something here in Tohoku that keeps pulling me back. Yes, the scent here is different than anywhere else. The freshness of the air, the ocean, the crispness of the mountains immediately behind the sea with its musk and earthy smell, it culminates in a scent the nostrils cannot pick up. It hits my psyche. It goes straight to my soul.
The 12-year old me would get on a bus by myself and make my way downtown to buy my favorite shampoo and conditioner. It was the scent that made me want to travel 30 minutes into town by myself. That's how important it was to me. I still remember the scent of my mother's compact, tucked away in a drawer in her dresser. The bejeweled golden case made me think this is what Marie Antoinette or Mata Hari must have used. It was beautiful. The scent, however, is what drew me back to sneak a peak at it, powdering my nose and hoping my mother would not notice.
In Tohoku, there is a power that transcends my favorite sense. A vortex of goodness? Perhaps. Every trip I make to Rikuzentakata City Hall has me wondering what it is about the employees there who are so genuinely happy. What is about the people of Ofunato that make them exude happiness? What does this place have? What is it?
I choose to assume it's something in the air. That the people breathe it day in, day out, it must does do something to them. Their desire to move forward, their drive, motivation, resolve--it must come from somewhere. Does breathing fresh air, the scent of purity, make people happy? Why don't other cities far removed from large metropolitan areas also share this same trait then? Why don't people there ooze this same joie de vivre?
Whatever it is, I'm hooked. The scent of love is entrenched in my nostrils. For that, I'm grateful. It fuels me. Next step is to harness this scent and make a new perfume out of it. My to-do list just got longer. Again.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Why I need a secretary
In the spirit of being nice to myself, and because I'm one of these people that notices chipped toenail polish on others (and myself, of course) I went to my local nail salon today and plunked my feet into the hot water. This is all to reduce stress. Just so we're clear.
Here, I'd like to make a totally unrelated statement. Simply put, dogs should not be allowed in nail salons. Period. It's unsanitary. They're gross. No, I'm not a dog person. No, I don't think dogs are cute. But, aside from that, it irks me to no end when women show up with their little "partners" (I swear that's what they're called here), coo at them, oohing and aahing over every little yip they make. The ones that yip, the dogs Mariah Carey carries around with her in her purse--those are the worst. (I'm sure Mariah Carey is a nice person and all. It's her dogs I'm objecting to. Not her.) All salons should ban dogs. And, their owners, while they're at it. Just saying.
An hour later, I like my toes, and am headed back to my apartment. At one stop on my subway line, I glance down at my phone and see I have a message. I have just enough time to listen to it before I lose reception, and what I heard hit me hard.
"We're wondering if you're on your way to our 5pm meeting today." Noooooo! What 5pm meeting?! I frantically look through the e-mails that scheduled this meeting. Sure enough. April 10th, 5:00pm. My calendar shows the meeting at 5pm on Friday. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I get off at the next station, run up flights of stairs, and completely winded, hail a cab. Now, in my defense, my subway line is the newest, which means it's furthest down into the ground, which means I have to run 40 meters up to get to ground level. I'm not winded because of my age, like some people might assume. In case you were wondering. Again, just saying.
I make it to the meeting, apologizing profusely, because tardiness in Japan is equivalent to BO in the States. It's simply unacceptable. You are never late. Here I am, half an hour late. I cringe. But, the meeting is wonderful. They're great people, and we promise to get together again on Friday.
The problem with today is not the dog in the nail salon. It's the fact this is the third time this month I've either double-booked, or simply missed a meeting. Am I really that stressed out? Is my calendar-system (in triplicate, mind you) really not working? What's going on?
This requires some serious self-reflection. I am not this sloppy. I am not this careless. If I'm so stressed I can't even keep my schedule straight, I'm a bit more concerned than I was when I woke up this morning. This kind of stress cannot be fixed by a new coat of polish on my toenails, or spending money to fix the bags under my eyes. Yet another task on my to-do list. This one won't get misplaced.
Here, I'd like to make a totally unrelated statement. Simply put, dogs should not be allowed in nail salons. Period. It's unsanitary. They're gross. No, I'm not a dog person. No, I don't think dogs are cute. But, aside from that, it irks me to no end when women show up with their little "partners" (I swear that's what they're called here), coo at them, oohing and aahing over every little yip they make. The ones that yip, the dogs Mariah Carey carries around with her in her purse--those are the worst. (I'm sure Mariah Carey is a nice person and all. It's her dogs I'm objecting to. Not her.) All salons should ban dogs. And, their owners, while they're at it. Just saying.
An hour later, I like my toes, and am headed back to my apartment. At one stop on my subway line, I glance down at my phone and see I have a message. I have just enough time to listen to it before I lose reception, and what I heard hit me hard.
"We're wondering if you're on your way to our 5pm meeting today." Noooooo! What 5pm meeting?! I frantically look through the e-mails that scheduled this meeting. Sure enough. April 10th, 5:00pm. My calendar shows the meeting at 5pm on Friday. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I get off at the next station, run up flights of stairs, and completely winded, hail a cab. Now, in my defense, my subway line is the newest, which means it's furthest down into the ground, which means I have to run 40 meters up to get to ground level. I'm not winded because of my age, like some people might assume. In case you were wondering. Again, just saying.
I make it to the meeting, apologizing profusely, because tardiness in Japan is equivalent to BO in the States. It's simply unacceptable. You are never late. Here I am, half an hour late. I cringe. But, the meeting is wonderful. They're great people, and we promise to get together again on Friday.
The problem with today is not the dog in the nail salon. It's the fact this is the third time this month I've either double-booked, or simply missed a meeting. Am I really that stressed out? Is my calendar-system (in triplicate, mind you) really not working? What's going on?
This requires some serious self-reflection. I am not this sloppy. I am not this careless. If I'm so stressed I can't even keep my schedule straight, I'm a bit more concerned than I was when I woke up this morning. This kind of stress cannot be fixed by a new coat of polish on my toenails, or spending money to fix the bags under my eyes. Yet another task on my to-do list. This one won't get misplaced.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
ばあちゃんパワー
友達の友達に、この素晴らしい女性を紹介され、気付いてみれば福島に連れてこられていた。南相馬市の仮設住宅に身をよせている。原発避難地域に指定されているこの場所は、いつもくもり空だ。ここへ来るのは3度目になる。今回の目的は、米国と日本で売るための手作りの品物を見つけること。被災者の方々が収入をえるための支援。ここで私を待っていたのは、予想もしないものだった。
外国人女性（私）、私を招待してくれた人、そして、地元の窓口でもある仮設住宅地の自治会長の奥様とが部屋に入る。テーブルを囲んで6人のばあちゃんたちが座っている小さな部屋。四方の壁にかけられた洗濯ロープには、私がこれまでに見たことのないような繊細で美しく複雑なデザインの折り紙でできた作品がぎっしりとかけられている。言葉が出ない。
自己紹介と訪問の目的を説明する。ばあちゃんたちは全く人おじしない。
「ほんとうにこれをアメリカに持っていきたいの？」
「ああ。いいよ。」
アメリカ人が折り紙のよさを本当にわかるかどうか、気にいってくれるかどうか、どうやって持って行くつもりなのか、といった内容の複数の会話が同時にすすむ。「持っていってもらおう」という全員一致での結論に満足して、ばあちゃんの一人が会長の奥様に質問する。「ほんとうにこれを売ってもいいの？おらたち怒られない？」
「怒られないわよ。お正月にくつしたを売ったのだって収入になりましたよね。」
また会話がはじまっている。めんどりたちがコッコとなく姿が頭にうかび、思わずほほえむ。
「ほんとうにいいんだな？」別のおばあちゃんが聞く。
「いいんだ。自治会長の奥さんだねん。奥さんが大丈夫といえば大丈夫だ。」皆がいっせいに笑う。めんどりが甲高くないているような感じ。
「じゃ、持って行っていいんですね？」ロープにかかっている芸術品を見ながら、私が聞く。
「もちろん。好きなだけ持って行ってよ。」
数々のくすだまを眺めながら、もう一度聞いてみる。
「このくすだまたち、ほんとうに持って行ってもいいですか？」
「どうぞ、どうぞ。」また別のおばあちゃんが言う。
「玉、全部持っていって。」と他のおばあちゃんも加わる。
「おら、べつに玉は必要ないものね。」と違うおばあちゃんが言うと、爆笑。
説明させてもらうと、最後の文章は表向きには「おらには玉はもう必要ない」と言っているのだが、「玉」の意味するところにはちょっとした含みがある。もちろんくすだまの「玉」とかけているのだが、おばあちゃんの冗談の意味がみなには分かった。
きちんと育てられた外国人の女の子が、どうして日本語の「たま」の持つ意味を知っているのか説明しないといけないなんてとんでもないので、私は下を向いて床をみつめながら、こっそりと笑うことにした。まったく。このおばあちゃんたちったら……。
部屋をあるきまわって、折り紙をひとつずつ外して、テーブルの上に積みあげる。すぐに大きな折り紙の山ができる。4月にボストンで開かれる春祭りで売ってもらえるように、アメリカへ送る手配をする。
「もっとたくさん作れますか？」と私は聞く。
「もちろんよ！」と怒られる。当たり前だ。このおばあちゃんたちには、ほかにすることがない。農家の奥さんたち、土にふくまれる放射能のせいで農業ができないでいる。みなで一緒にすわって折り紙をひとつずつ折る。できるだけはやくたくさんの人に作品を届けると約束する。
「おばあちゃん、写真をとっていいですか？皆にみせたいので。」と私は声をかける。
「だめだめ！」と一番おしゃべりだったおばあちゃんが立ち上がって、ドアのうしろに隠れる。皆で出てきてと頼むが、姿をあらわさない。
ドアのかげから「まだかいな？」という声を聞きながら、残りのみなで写真をとる。別のおばあちゃんには、顔がみえるようこっちを向いてもらうようにたのむ。あんなに恥ずかしい話でも平気でしていたばあちゃんたちが、どうしてここまではずかしがり屋なのか、私にはわからない。自分たちを呼ぶのに「おら」と男性言葉をつかうのも印象的。いいばあちゃんたちだ。みなの活気がたまらない。
アメリカからもどってくる5月に「また来ます。」と言い残して、
「いくらで売れるかわかりませんよ」と警告しておく。
「いくらでもいいよ。皆におらたちのことを話してくれれば。」
「おらのことは言わないで。」とカメラぎらいのばあちゃんが言う。
「あら、おばあちゃんのことを中心に話そうと思ってたのに。」と私はからかう。
「もう、あんたったら……。」と、ばあちゃんは私を軽くたたくふりをする。
「冗談、冗談！」と私が逃げるまねをすると、皆がまた大笑いする。
手作り仲間の輪にいれてもらうのは光栄である。ただ、いれてもらう努力はしないといけないし、みなに信用してもらえるためなら何でもしようと思う。
Bears, Bags, and Shiseido
I blame my low blood pressure. Having wished forever I could some day be one of these perky people that, upon hearing the (first) alarm of the morning, stretch, yawn, and jump out of bed ready to hit the day, I long ago resigned myself to the fact I will never be that person. It's easier to hate them.
To compensate, I learned how to put make up on in the car, saving precious morning minutes for extra sleep. Even 10 years ago, I showed up at jobs with two minutes to spare (never be late!). I had my routine down pat. Comments like, "Wow, those are some amazing suitcases under your eyes" were met with curt retorts on where the man could shove those words. Sleep always trumped.
When Alpha Male (my favorite man in Japan) says to me several weeks ago, "You look better without make up" I am stunned.
"When have you ever seen me without make up?"
"The night I took you to the bus stop."
That was over a year ago, the night of my first trip up to Tohoku. To show him how agreeable I can be, I arrived at one of our recent lunches without make up. As I hop in his car, he looks over and says, "Did you just wake up?" I'm immediately pissed.
"No, I did not just wake up. This is me without make up. You said you liked it better this way." I flip down the sun visor, stare at myself in the mirror, and am amazed at the puffy bags of skin below my lids, surrounded by dark patches. I almost look like I've been punched. I curse. There will be no more leaving the apartment without make up. Period.
He's silent. I can just hear the pedals going backwards, his mind spinning with how he's going to get out of that comment. The next lunch? I show up with make up, and he knows better than to say anything.
More recent comments from others about how "You looked much younger a year ago" have made me, begrudgingly, accept the fact I don't handle stress very well, and I'm yet again showing it on my face. Having been blessed with good skin genes from a young age, and having equally been "blessed" with low blood pressure, my morning routine has never been much in the way of an extensive beauty routine. I have it down to a science. Lotion, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. (If it can be done in a car, even better.)
All of which--age, stress, years of not putting more time into my skincare--is now evidently catching up with me. I have silently apologized to Nora Ephron for all the snide remarks I made about her (presumed) lack of skin maintenance, obviously causing her to write "I Feel Bad About My Neck" all because my neck now, too, needs extra care. I get it. Getting old isn't a lot of fun when the aging process shows up prominently in our faces.
Enter my decision to take action. I march to the Shiseido counter in a major department store in Tokyo, plop myself down in a chair, and promptly "command" the saleswoman to "Do something about these" pointing to the black circles and bags around my eyes.
"Oh, the kuma" she says. Kuma? That's bear in Japanese. I have bears around my eyes? Suitcases and bags are bad enough. Now bears?
"Whatever," I think I snapped back. "Just fix them." I'm in no mood to expand my vocabulary today.
I know what's coming. She will bring out every Shiseido product under the sun, promising me they will make my skin "glow" and "look fresh" and the like. I'm ready to be convinced. The bears must go.
Thirty minutes later, with a bunch of lotions, creams, powder, and concealer on my skin, I look back at myself in the mirror and ask myself whether I can actually commit to spending time on this routine. True, the bags are less visible, and the blackness around my eyes is gone. But, I can feel the crap on my skin. It feels foreign. Is it me, or is my skin itching?
The same saleswoman tries to tell me I should use Shiseido cotton to "maximize its effectiveness" and I stare at her with this, "please tell me you're kidding" look and she stops. I know buying all this will cost me. I also know the bags or bears (whatever) bother me. A lot. I decide to spend the money.
Blame aging, sun damage, and hormones. Or, blame the less obvious culprit? I'm obviously stressed. What good will it do to spend too much on the promise "if you use it properly, you should see results in two months" when I could just do something about my stress level? Ah, yes. My stress level. Right. Fix that and my skin will once again glow. Right?
Until I can find the cure for my stress, you're all welcome to invest in Shiseido stock. I'll be relying on them for awhile.
To compensate, I learned how to put make up on in the car, saving precious morning minutes for extra sleep. Even 10 years ago, I showed up at jobs with two minutes to spare (never be late!). I had my routine down pat. Comments like, "Wow, those are some amazing suitcases under your eyes" were met with curt retorts on where the man could shove those words. Sleep always trumped.
When Alpha Male (my favorite man in Japan) says to me several weeks ago, "You look better without make up" I am stunned.
"When have you ever seen me without make up?"
"The night I took you to the bus stop."
That was over a year ago, the night of my first trip up to Tohoku. To show him how agreeable I can be, I arrived at one of our recent lunches without make up. As I hop in his car, he looks over and says, "Did you just wake up?" I'm immediately pissed.
"No, I did not just wake up. This is me without make up. You said you liked it better this way." I flip down the sun visor, stare at myself in the mirror, and am amazed at the puffy bags of skin below my lids, surrounded by dark patches. I almost look like I've been punched. I curse. There will be no more leaving the apartment without make up. Period.
He's silent. I can just hear the pedals going backwards, his mind spinning with how he's going to get out of that comment. The next lunch? I show up with make up, and he knows better than to say anything.
More recent comments from others about how "You looked much younger a year ago" have made me, begrudgingly, accept the fact I don't handle stress very well, and I'm yet again showing it on my face. Having been blessed with good skin genes from a young age, and having equally been "blessed" with low blood pressure, my morning routine has never been much in the way of an extensive beauty routine. I have it down to a science. Lotion, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. (If it can be done in a car, even better.)
All of which--age, stress, years of not putting more time into my skincare--is now evidently catching up with me. I have silently apologized to Nora Ephron for all the snide remarks I made about her (presumed) lack of skin maintenance, obviously causing her to write "I Feel Bad About My Neck" all because my neck now, too, needs extra care. I get it. Getting old isn't a lot of fun when the aging process shows up prominently in our faces.
Enter my decision to take action. I march to the Shiseido counter in a major department store in Tokyo, plop myself down in a chair, and promptly "command" the saleswoman to "Do something about these" pointing to the black circles and bags around my eyes.
"Oh, the kuma" she says. Kuma? That's bear in Japanese. I have bears around my eyes? Suitcases and bags are bad enough. Now bears?
"Whatever," I think I snapped back. "Just fix them." I'm in no mood to expand my vocabulary today.
I know what's coming. She will bring out every Shiseido product under the sun, promising me they will make my skin "glow" and "look fresh" and the like. I'm ready to be convinced. The bears must go.
Thirty minutes later, with a bunch of lotions, creams, powder, and concealer on my skin, I look back at myself in the mirror and ask myself whether I can actually commit to spending time on this routine. True, the bags are less visible, and the blackness around my eyes is gone. But, I can feel the crap on my skin. It feels foreign. Is it me, or is my skin itching?
The same saleswoman tries to tell me I should use Shiseido cotton to "maximize its effectiveness" and I stare at her with this, "please tell me you're kidding" look and she stops. I know buying all this will cost me. I also know the bags or bears (whatever) bother me. A lot. I decide to spend the money.
Blame aging, sun damage, and hormones. Or, blame the less obvious culprit? I'm obviously stressed. What good will it do to spend too much on the promise "if you use it properly, you should see results in two months" when I could just do something about my stress level? Ah, yes. My stress level. Right. Fix that and my skin will once again glow. Right?
Until I can find the cure for my stress, you're all welcome to invest in Shiseido stock. I'll be relying on them for awhile.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Granny Power
Friends of friends put me in touch with this woman, an amazing woman, and next thing I know, she takes me to Fukushima. I'm at a temporary housing complex in Minami Soma. Right on the outskirts of the nuclear zone, it's always cloudy when I'm there. It's my third trip here. My goal this time is to find hand-made items to sell in the US and Japan--the first steps towards helping people earn an income. What awaited blew me away.
Enter gaijin girl (me), my host, and the housing complex chairman's wife, our local point of contact. In a small room is a table with six grannies sitting on all sides. Hanging on clothes lines on all four walls is the most delicate, beautiful, intricate origami creations I've ever seen. I'm speechless.
I introduce myself, explaining my visit. The grannies are not shy.
"You really want to take this back with you to America?"
"Yes, I do."
Several conversations take place at once, the gist of it being whether Americans "get" origami, will like what's made, how to get it there, etc. Satisfied with the consensus they've reached (it's a go), one of the grannies asks my local host, "Is it really okay for us to sell this stuff? Won't we get in trouble?"
"No, you won't get in trouble. Remember the socks that we sold over the new year? We made money off that, too."
More side conversations. The "hens clucking" image comes to mind and I smile.
"You're sure?" Another granny asks.
"Of course she's sure. She's the chairman's wife. If she says it's okay, it's okay." They all laugh. Cackle might be more accurate.
"So, I can take these?" I say, looking around at the various pieces of art hanging.
"Sure. Take whatever you want," I'm told.
I wander over to the various kusudama (intricately folded origami made into a ball) and decide to ask one more time.
"I can really takes these kudusama? As many as I want?"
"Take them," the same granny says.
"You can have all the tama you want," another adds. (Tama is singular; dama is plural. Literal translation: Ball.)
"I've got no need for tama," yet another granny says, and the room explodes with laughter.
Let me explain: That sentence, literally translated, would read "I've got no need for balls." As in those balls. Kusudama balls, too, supposedly, but we all know what granny meant.
God forbid I would have to explain how a properly raised gaijin girl would know the Japanese word for "balls" I decide to put my head down, face the floor, and keep my grinning and laughter to myself. I swear. These women are something else.
I walk around the room taking down one display after another, hauling them over to another table. Soon I have a big pile. I make arrangements to have them sent to the US to be sold in Boston at a Japan Festival sale in late April.
"Can you make more?" I ask.
"Of course we can make more," I'm scolded. Touche. These women have nothing else to do. Farmers' wives, they can't farm because of the radiation in the soil. They sit together and fold one beautiful piece of work after another. I vow to find a way to get these items to as many people as possible.
"Granny," I pause, "Can we take some photos? I want to show people who you are."
"Oh no, you don't!" The most outspoken of them all gets up and marches over to the sliding door. We all beg her to come out. She doesn't.
"Just take the picture," the chairman's wife says. We do, while hearing from behind the door, "Are you done yet?" I have to ask another granny to turn around, so we can see her face. How they can be shy after all the spicy talk from before is a question I can't answer. That they use the masculine term for "me" when they speak is also noteworthy. I like them. I like their spunk.
I make plans to come back in May, after I return from the US.
"I can't promise you how much they'll sell for," I caution.
"We don't care. Just tell them about us."
"Not me, though," camera shy granny says.
"You, most of all," I tease.
"Oh you," and she comes towards me about to give me a motherly scolding slap.
"I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" I half run away. They all laugh again.
Being adopted into their circle of craftswomen would be an honor. I need to earn that, and will do what it takes to earn their trust.
Enter gaijin girl (me), my host, and the housing complex chairman's wife, our local point of contact. In a small room is a table with six grannies sitting on all sides. Hanging on clothes lines on all four walls is the most delicate, beautiful, intricate origami creations I've ever seen. I'm speechless.
I introduce myself, explaining my visit. The grannies are not shy.
"You really want to take this back with you to America?"
"Yes, I do."
Several conversations take place at once, the gist of it being whether Americans "get" origami, will like what's made, how to get it there, etc. Satisfied with the consensus they've reached (it's a go), one of the grannies asks my local host, "Is it really okay for us to sell this stuff? Won't we get in trouble?"
"No, you won't get in trouble. Remember the socks that we sold over the new year? We made money off that, too."
More side conversations. The "hens clucking" image comes to mind and I smile.
"You're sure?" Another granny asks.
"Of course she's sure. She's the chairman's wife. If she says it's okay, it's okay." They all laugh. Cackle might be more accurate.
"So, I can take these?" I say, looking around at the various pieces of art hanging.
"Sure. Take whatever you want," I'm told.
I wander over to the various kusudama (intricately folded origami made into a ball) and decide to ask one more time.
"I can really takes these kudusama? As many as I want?"
"Take them," the same granny says.
"You can have all the tama you want," another adds. (Tama is singular; dama is plural. Literal translation: Ball.)
"I've got no need for tama," yet another granny says, and the room explodes with laughter.
Let me explain: That sentence, literally translated, would read "I've got no need for balls." As in those balls. Kusudama balls, too, supposedly, but we all know what granny meant.
God forbid I would have to explain how a properly raised gaijin girl would know the Japanese word for "balls" I decide to put my head down, face the floor, and keep my grinning and laughter to myself. I swear. These women are something else.
I walk around the room taking down one display after another, hauling them over to another table. Soon I have a big pile. I make arrangements to have them sent to the US to be sold in Boston at a Japan Festival sale in late April.
"Can you make more?" I ask.
"Of course we can make more," I'm scolded. Touche. These women have nothing else to do. Farmers' wives, they can't farm because of the radiation in the soil. They sit together and fold one beautiful piece of work after another. I vow to find a way to get these items to as many people as possible.
"Granny," I pause, "Can we take some photos? I want to show people who you are."
"Oh no, you don't!" The most outspoken of them all gets up and marches over to the sliding door. We all beg her to come out. She doesn't.
"Just take the picture," the chairman's wife says. We do, while hearing from behind the door, "Are you done yet?" I have to ask another granny to turn around, so we can see her face. How they can be shy after all the spicy talk from before is a question I can't answer. That they use the masculine term for "me" when they speak is also noteworthy. I like them. I like their spunk.
I make plans to come back in May, after I return from the US.
"I can't promise you how much they'll sell for," I caution.
"We don't care. Just tell them about us."
"Not me, though," camera shy granny says.
"You, most of all," I tease.
"Oh you," and she comes towards me about to give me a motherly scolding slap.
"I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" I half run away. They all laugh again.
Being adopted into their circle of craftswomen would be an honor. I need to earn that, and will do what it takes to earn their trust.
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