The walls of the cave appear etched with shadow, as if a man, long gone, has written his reality here. What do these walls say? Are the shadows some foretelling of reality, some replacement for it, some resemblance of it? The shadows twist and turn in the light from the opening appearing to grow larger as the light wanes and dimmer as noon comes.
I try to behold them, wanting to understand their message even as they blur in the light. Who was here, I ask, what have these walls beheld? Secrets surround me in the dimness, I wonder at their whispers.
Night comes and the shadows fade away in the dark. I cannot see my own hands and yet I feel their presence in the heat slowly seeping from the rock. They sink into my skin, these heated shadows and I am feverish. I sleep restlessly, perspiring profusely. As the light rises so do I.
The shadows return, slowly telling their tale. I hear of other refugees sheltered here, of fires burned for heat, the screams of prisoners, the cries of children. What happened here I wonder? Who were these shadow people who left only a chimera of their passage. The walls breathe with lives past.
I hear the sounds of day beyond the shadow walls, birds singing, snakes slithering, frogs croaking. I hear the water in the stream below, tinkling like bells as it endlessly flows. The leaves rustle, the flowers scent the air. I lean against my shadow, listening for a sound unheard, for a footstep in the midst of nature.
I am hungry and thirsty but I cannot leave this safe, shadowy space. The sound of the stream is like slow and exquisite torture as my mouth dries and my lips chap. I am afraid to go forth. Outside of the shadowy reality of my cell exist nightmares I do not want to encounter. If I stay here at least my trials will be forever etched in the rocky memory of this place. Waiting to be told to the next one who finds this place. I wait, I listen, I hear, I see. The shadows cover me in warm safety, time passes.
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Disposition
I'm laying in the dentist's chair, my mouth wide open. The hygienist is cleaning my teeth. "My daughter is 39, she had in vitro and is expecting but the baby is coming early and so I need to get down there and be with her. My other daughter is also trying to get pregnant, she may have multiples and she will go crazy, she's difficult anyway, more than one will drive her over the wall. She's a depressive. Lots of problems. I'd like to live closer to them, I want to spend time with my grandchildren before they get too old, I tell my husband they won't want to have anything to do with us in a few years. Lots of people who come in here only see their kids once or twice a year. I don't understand that, I love being with family. I miss them," and on she went scraping and cleaning while I uhhuhed and nodded slightly at what seemed the appropriate times. "My husband loves it here, he doesn't want to leave, I want to go to Cincinnati where my daughter is, she's a little crazy, I think she could use our support but I don't like the cold. Maybe just in the summer. I hope my daughter in Charlotte doesn't deliver too early, the baby is only 33 weeks, she needs to be at least 37. It's not going to be a good Christmas if that baby shows up early. I hate Christmas shopping, we just send money, I only buy for the little ones. Well I buy for my dentist too because I've been with him forever and he cleans my teeth for free." The gritty toothpaste had come out and she was polishing each tooth with fervor. I continued to uhhuh and nod. When she finished she stood looking out the door of the room, "I don't know where he went he saw me standing here," she sighed and left the room.
The dentist entered, said hello, looked at my teeth, said looks good and walked out. "Do you want a toothbrush and toothpaste?" she asked. Pulling a bag from the drawer she handed it to me, made my next appointment and walked me to the desk.
I got into my car thinking about the 20 minute synopsis of her life I had just listened to. What an enviable thing to have someone's presence but inability to talk, respond, or divert you from your stream of consciousness. I wondered if she did this with every patient, at 20 minutes per patient she had 20 patients per day to express herself to, a totally captive 20 people at most probably. Wow, I might get a job as a dental hygienist. Was I too judgmental? Did I express empathy and compassion nonverbally or did she sense my indifference? In a court of law would I be found innocent or guilty of the crime of just not giving a shit? Or was my higher self in control, eliciting more information through the tonal quality of my uhhuhs? Did she do this to all her patients or only the ones who she sensed cared? Or did she sense I didn't care and decided to dump it on me as a punishment because she could?
Was I making too much of this brief encounter? Perhaps the chatter eased her stress at looking in mouths all day, who knew. I thought about what it must be like to have someone laying in front of you with their mouth wide open and to not have any idea what might be in that mouth. Pearly whites in a perfect row; jagged, crooked teeth with stains; malodorous breath that could knock one over; or teeth not cleaned daily. Gross! So who am I to judge the commentary of this employee. She can talk all day about her woes and deserves to since she has to look in those mouths, right?
What would I do in her position? Sitting in front of someone whose mouth is awful and filled with blood from my work would I sing, would I chat, would I groan? Perhaps I would fill the minutes with chatter about my life, my kids, my husband. Perhaps I would hum and grimace. I never wanted to be a dental hygienist but my mother was one. I wish now that I could ask her what that was like. I'd be interested in hearing what she thought about each day as she encountered patients. I cannot imagine her chattering idly as she worked but maybe. Too bad I'll never get the chance to ask. I'm starting the car and thinking I need to be sure to floss and brush every day twice so that I never give a hygienist a scare when I open my mouth. It seems another compelling reason to take care of my mouth if my own hygiene isn't enough. I'm laughing as I go down the road, laughing at the sheer ludicrousness of life, of dental hygiene, of these random thoughts floating in my head. Perhaps I'll write them down so someone can read them and think, "why does she think I give a shit?"
The dentist entered, said hello, looked at my teeth, said looks good and walked out. "Do you want a toothbrush and toothpaste?" she asked. Pulling a bag from the drawer she handed it to me, made my next appointment and walked me to the desk.
I got into my car thinking about the 20 minute synopsis of her life I had just listened to. What an enviable thing to have someone's presence but inability to talk, respond, or divert you from your stream of consciousness. I wondered if she did this with every patient, at 20 minutes per patient she had 20 patients per day to express herself to, a totally captive 20 people at most probably. Wow, I might get a job as a dental hygienist. Was I too judgmental? Did I express empathy and compassion nonverbally or did she sense my indifference? In a court of law would I be found innocent or guilty of the crime of just not giving a shit? Or was my higher self in control, eliciting more information through the tonal quality of my uhhuhs? Did she do this to all her patients or only the ones who she sensed cared? Or did she sense I didn't care and decided to dump it on me as a punishment because she could?
Was I making too much of this brief encounter? Perhaps the chatter eased her stress at looking in mouths all day, who knew. I thought about what it must be like to have someone laying in front of you with their mouth wide open and to not have any idea what might be in that mouth. Pearly whites in a perfect row; jagged, crooked teeth with stains; malodorous breath that could knock one over; or teeth not cleaned daily. Gross! So who am I to judge the commentary of this employee. She can talk all day about her woes and deserves to since she has to look in those mouths, right?
What would I do in her position? Sitting in front of someone whose mouth is awful and filled with blood from my work would I sing, would I chat, would I groan? Perhaps I would fill the minutes with chatter about my life, my kids, my husband. Perhaps I would hum and grimace. I never wanted to be a dental hygienist but my mother was one. I wish now that I could ask her what that was like. I'd be interested in hearing what she thought about each day as she encountered patients. I cannot imagine her chattering idly as she worked but maybe. Too bad I'll never get the chance to ask. I'm starting the car and thinking I need to be sure to floss and brush every day twice so that I never give a hygienist a scare when I open my mouth. It seems another compelling reason to take care of my mouth if my own hygiene isn't enough. I'm laughing as I go down the road, laughing at the sheer ludicrousness of life, of dental hygiene, of these random thoughts floating in my head. Perhaps I'll write them down so someone can read them and think, "why does she think I give a shit?"
Friday, September 26, 2014
Huck Finn
From the time she could walk her grandfather took her on his fishing trips. At three she could hold her own pole, jumping up and down when a fish would strike. She stood on the banks of many rivers with her grandfather, watching him cast his line over and over again into the water. Watching the wriggling fish as he took them off the hook and put them in his creel. He opened the basket and dropped them in and she remembered how slimy they felt and how beautiful the rainbow colors were on their skin. They fished the Arkansas, the Frying Pan, the South Fork, the Colorado rivers. She stood patiently until her legs tired and then sat patiently until her grandfather signaled time to go. They took the fish home to her grandmother who dredged them in cornmeal and flour and dropped them into hot oil. Grandmother made white, fluffy biscuits hot from the oven to eat with the fish. The girl drenched the biscuits in honey and the sweet biscuity crunch mixed with the salty, lemony fish in a jarring collision on her tongue. She never felt sorry for the fish or repulsed at the idea of eating them; considered her patient waiting on the banks of the river as sufficient penance for killing them. It seemed a fair exchange to her.
Each year at the end of the summer her grandparents took them to the Huck Finn day picnic. Her grandmother dressed her in a Becky Thatcher style with a long, cotton dress yellow with white flowers, and yellow crepe paper braids over her own brown ones. A bonnet of matching material would be the crowning touch. Her brother looked bedraggled and dirty in his Tom Sawyer costume no more so than usual in her opinion. He resisted the encouragement of her grandmother to hold still while adding touches of realism to his costume, a dirty bandage on his toe, a straw hat, a cane pole to carry over his shoulder. They stood with the other children for the judges, each child skittery and nervous, uneasy under the gaze of the adults. Finally, the contest would be over, prizes awarded, and lunch served. Every year she won a brand new fishing pole, her Becky Thatcher always won!
After the judging they stuffed themselves with hot dogs, potato salad, and soda pop and then ran along the river's edge in their costumes, sticking their feet in the water and splashing at each other until the sun lowered in the sky and the calls went out for the children to gather their belongings and head home. Her Grandmother pleased with the outcome of the judging that once again verified her talents as a seamstress and costumer.
Years later her grandfather died and her grandmother moved into an assisted living facility. There she participated with the other residents in plays, once acting the wicked witch in "The Wizard of Oz." She lent her seamstress ability for the creation of all the costumes for the plays and her fellow residents applauded her creativity and ingenuity. Her mother shared pictures of her grandmother in her witchly costume, her hair green and teeth black. The very idea unseemly but she smiled at the thought of the beautiful Becky Thatcher costumes of her own childhood. Her grandmother seemed happy not appearing to mind the loss of stature and dignity the photograph embodied to her granddaughter. She could not cross the chasm of time that separated them, could not relate to this old witch of the pictures. She consoled herself with memories of her grandmother in the old days. She saw her standing at the water's edge, high waders covering her jeans, an old flannel shirt over a white cotton undershirt, a belt cinched tightly around her narrow waist. A cigarette hung from her mouth and the intensity of her gaze on the water warned those around her to hush. She flicked the fishing line across the water casually and slowly reeled it in, patient and methodical in her method, waiting for a strike. This jean clad, fisherwoman and the witch both notable for their deviation from any "Grandmother" norm.
Each year at the end of the summer her grandparents took them to the Huck Finn day picnic. Her grandmother dressed her in a Becky Thatcher style with a long, cotton dress yellow with white flowers, and yellow crepe paper braids over her own brown ones. A bonnet of matching material would be the crowning touch. Her brother looked bedraggled and dirty in his Tom Sawyer costume no more so than usual in her opinion. He resisted the encouragement of her grandmother to hold still while adding touches of realism to his costume, a dirty bandage on his toe, a straw hat, a cane pole to carry over his shoulder. They stood with the other children for the judges, each child skittery and nervous, uneasy under the gaze of the adults. Finally, the contest would be over, prizes awarded, and lunch served. Every year she won a brand new fishing pole, her Becky Thatcher always won!
After the judging they stuffed themselves with hot dogs, potato salad, and soda pop and then ran along the river's edge in their costumes, sticking their feet in the water and splashing at each other until the sun lowered in the sky and the calls went out for the children to gather their belongings and head home. Her Grandmother pleased with the outcome of the judging that once again verified her talents as a seamstress and costumer.
Years later her grandfather died and her grandmother moved into an assisted living facility. There she participated with the other residents in plays, once acting the wicked witch in "The Wizard of Oz." She lent her seamstress ability for the creation of all the costumes for the plays and her fellow residents applauded her creativity and ingenuity. Her mother shared pictures of her grandmother in her witchly costume, her hair green and teeth black. The very idea unseemly but she smiled at the thought of the beautiful Becky Thatcher costumes of her own childhood. Her grandmother seemed happy not appearing to mind the loss of stature and dignity the photograph embodied to her granddaughter. She could not cross the chasm of time that separated them, could not relate to this old witch of the pictures. She consoled herself with memories of her grandmother in the old days. She saw her standing at the water's edge, high waders covering her jeans, an old flannel shirt over a white cotton undershirt, a belt cinched tightly around her narrow waist. A cigarette hung from her mouth and the intensity of her gaze on the water warned those around her to hush. She flicked the fishing line across the water casually and slowly reeled it in, patient and methodical in her method, waiting for a strike. This jean clad, fisherwoman and the witch both notable for their deviation from any "Grandmother" norm.
No Strange Gods before Me
"I am the Lord your God, do not have any other gods before me"
One of the steps in the 12 step programs is "came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity." This is the second step of the program right after the admission of powerlessness and unmanageable life. The powerlessnes is over whatever your particular addiction happens to be. Perhaps alcohol, drugs, food, etc. And so immediately after admitting to loss of control of your life you turn your life over "to the care of God as we understand him."
So who is this God to whom we finally turn when all other solutions fail us, when we have lost control of life and self? How do I understand this God and how do I know that this God is the God and not some other god of lesser or stranger stature than the God of creation? And how do we know that this God will indeed care for us, provide the sustenance we need, be able to handle what we cannot?
The Decalogue, more popularly known as the 10 commandments was the law of the Hebrew Bible, passed down to Moses after the Israelites fled Egypt through the Red Sea by the grace of God and were then sent towards the promised land, a journey that was trying enough to make many of them yearn for the days of slavery in the land of Egypt. These commandments are considered the moral foundation in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.
This God describes "himself" as a jealous God wanting the people to turn to him alone and to abandon the other gods common to the people of the time. Perhaps, sun gods, moon gods, fertility gods and so on. Gods who represented parts of life but not full life, gods who were called upon for certain favors but not for others. But this God, this audacious one, said you shall have no others. I am enough. Whatever you need I will provide.
Imagine the surprise of these people, slaves released from slavery, who had forgotten there was a God of their people, who had to be reminded of their tie to this God when he passed over the homes of this people and saved their sons, to be forever remembered from that time on in the passover ritual of the Jewish people. Certainly, a God like this was a god to be reckoned with, a god to turn to, to be worshipped. This God said I am yours and you are mine.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Understanding
You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing and dance, and write poems and suffer and understand, for all that is life."
— .J Krishnamurti, Think on These Things
I am trying to understand life, I dance, I sing, I write, I read - and yet my life is a puzzle piece in a bigger puzzle for which I don't have an understanding. Things that seem perfectly obvious to me must be misapprehensions on my part because I find few others who think in the same way. Take suffering for instance - I will grant that it's part of life but my understanding of suffering is that we should try to ease it, to console those who are suffering, to reduce the burden under which they strain. And yet suffering is the way of most of the world. Few are free from it, many never have one moment without it. And those who appear to suffer the least also appear to be the most indifferent to the suffering of others. But I will grant that it is life.
And perhaps that is the conundrum of suffering - that it exists, that it is incomprehensible, that it does not honor one's station in life or one's honor or one's morality Suffering is the leveler of those who suffer. And a reminder to others that the capricious nature of suffering grants no one protection. When we hear of the suffering of others it causes us to pull the blankets closer, to hug our loved ones more, to hold on tighter to that which we could lose without a moment's notice.
Maybe that is exactly the wrong reaction, perhaps holding on is the most impossible in the face of unpredictability. Perhaps we must sing and dance and write poems in the face of suffering, to let wretched fate know it does not have the final word, the last say. When we understand the whole of life we recognize that suffering exists but does not trump life.
You hear people who have lost much, suffered greatly, talk about their appreciation of what they still have, their family, their photos, their memories, their minds, their bodies, their hearts. They can still sing and dance even if it is with more awareness of the price of the gift. And is not the triumph of spirit that we do. When I was young and someone in our family died the wake was always a great raucous affair with lots of drinking and hugging and yelling and crying. I kind of got that but what I couldn't understand was the laughter - when my aunts and uncles and parents would let out great whoops of laughter over memories of the dead person. They would laugh until their sides hurt, their eyes watered, gasping for breath. It would shock me, why were they laughing when Grandma was dead. To my young mind it seemed incomprehensible - the occasion called for more solemnity and sorrow I thought. Weren't they the greatest role models for understanding that life is greater than death, the sky more immense than the small patch of earth where I live? So in their own way my family sang and danced in the face of the mystery of death and loss.
Even today I can hear that laughter echoing through time and space. The laughter of healing and consolation. I visited India many years ago and was stunned by the overwhelming poverty and squalor. There was no escaping it, everywhere you looked it was. And yet what remains in my mind is the great artistry of the people there, the beautiful things they created with hands that were crippled, and with no means to escape the cruel circumstances of life. And their great wedding celebrations that went on for days and that whole villages participated in. And everyone danced the groom to the bride and sang and celebrated this uniting as if there was nothing in life that could be more important or sacred. And the beautiful Hindu temples with their great statues of monkeys and elephants, rooms bejeweled and pristine. All this in a land of squalor.
My hope is that we never take for granted the circumstances that grant us comfort and security for they are temporary. Suffering is part of life. And in it's face we need to learn to offer comfort, to hold on to one another, to dance and sing and read and thank God for this great incomprehensible mystery of life that gives us so many opportunities to love and comfort and support each other. I may never understand the whole of life but I do now understand those great whoops of laughter echoing again and again in my heart as I behold the whole of life.
— .J Krishnamurti, Think on These Things
I am trying to understand life, I dance, I sing, I write, I read - and yet my life is a puzzle piece in a bigger puzzle for which I don't have an understanding. Things that seem perfectly obvious to me must be misapprehensions on my part because I find few others who think in the same way. Take suffering for instance - I will grant that it's part of life but my understanding of suffering is that we should try to ease it, to console those who are suffering, to reduce the burden under which they strain. And yet suffering is the way of most of the world. Few are free from it, many never have one moment without it. And those who appear to suffer the least also appear to be the most indifferent to the suffering of others. But I will grant that it is life.
And perhaps that is the conundrum of suffering - that it exists, that it is incomprehensible, that it does not honor one's station in life or one's honor or one's morality Suffering is the leveler of those who suffer. And a reminder to others that the capricious nature of suffering grants no one protection. When we hear of the suffering of others it causes us to pull the blankets closer, to hug our loved ones more, to hold on tighter to that which we could lose without a moment's notice.
Maybe that is exactly the wrong reaction, perhaps holding on is the most impossible in the face of unpredictability. Perhaps we must sing and dance and write poems in the face of suffering, to let wretched fate know it does not have the final word, the last say. When we understand the whole of life we recognize that suffering exists but does not trump life.
You hear people who have lost much, suffered greatly, talk about their appreciation of what they still have, their family, their photos, their memories, their minds, their bodies, their hearts. They can still sing and dance even if it is with more awareness of the price of the gift. And is not the triumph of spirit that we do. When I was young and someone in our family died the wake was always a great raucous affair with lots of drinking and hugging and yelling and crying. I kind of got that but what I couldn't understand was the laughter - when my aunts and uncles and parents would let out great whoops of laughter over memories of the dead person. They would laugh until their sides hurt, their eyes watered, gasping for breath. It would shock me, why were they laughing when Grandma was dead. To my young mind it seemed incomprehensible - the occasion called for more solemnity and sorrow I thought. Weren't they the greatest role models for understanding that life is greater than death, the sky more immense than the small patch of earth where I live? So in their own way my family sang and danced in the face of the mystery of death and loss.
Even today I can hear that laughter echoing through time and space. The laughter of healing and consolation. I visited India many years ago and was stunned by the overwhelming poverty and squalor. There was no escaping it, everywhere you looked it was. And yet what remains in my mind is the great artistry of the people there, the beautiful things they created with hands that were crippled, and with no means to escape the cruel circumstances of life. And their great wedding celebrations that went on for days and that whole villages participated in. And everyone danced the groom to the bride and sang and celebrated this uniting as if there was nothing in life that could be more important or sacred. And the beautiful Hindu temples with their great statues of monkeys and elephants, rooms bejeweled and pristine. All this in a land of squalor.
My hope is that we never take for granted the circumstances that grant us comfort and security for they are temporary. Suffering is part of life. And in it's face we need to learn to offer comfort, to hold on to one another, to dance and sing and read and thank God for this great incomprehensible mystery of life that gives us so many opportunities to love and comfort and support each other. I may never understand the whole of life but I do now understand those great whoops of laughter echoing again and again in my heart as I behold the whole of life.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
JOY
"Joy to the world, all the boys and girls, joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, joy to you and me"
I was reading this story about the Israelites being led through the Red Sea and freed from their bondage in Egypt. A story of emancipation. And by the time their "freedom" was 3 days old they were complaining; thirsty, tired, want to go back, bored, scared, etc. etc. This joyful celebration of release from bondage lasted 3 days. 3 days. And I'm thinking that it's not really too surprising.
Not so surprising I guess. When you think about it when was the last time that you felt JOY? The grab you by the ass, laughing, loving the world, hugging everyone JOY. Or the quiet, peaceful, contented, deep in your heart JOY that surpasses all understanding. Or the amazed, awed, wonderment of creation JOY.
You remember that picture of the sailor kissing the girl on the streets of New York at the end of WW II? Can you feel that JOY? You wonder if he held on to that joy or if he got over it in 3 days and went back to a dull, boring, not so joyous life. Did he remember that kiss, or freedom from the horror of war, or the amazement of victory over evil, when he was sitting quietly at his kitchen table? Did his heart warm and his eyes well up as he let the joy take him?
I believe in God and I believe that God is. And having said that I wonder where the JOY is in that? This God who has promised to walk with us, this God who has appeared again and again when no one expected God. This God who sent his Son to become at-one with us, for us. And I ask myself why this knowledge of this God is not enough to ignite JOY in my heart every day, this God who is the source of all that I believe to be holy and true. Is my loss of JOY due to lack of faith, or hope or love?
Satisfaction
The Rolling Stones immortalized the words, "I can't get no satisfaction" to a generation of boomers. Or perhaps the words of John Mellencamp, "I ain't never satisfied." This dissatisfaction finds it's roots long before that time though.
In the Old Testament the LORD brings the people of Israel out of exile in Egypt, rescues them from slavery and death at the hands of pharoah by parting the Red Sea to let them pass. They are a few days in the desert, on their way to the promised land, and they begin to gripe about the situation to Moses. They are not happy with how things are going and kvetch about their circumstances. They want to go back to Egypt and return to their former situation as slaves. There is no popular rush of worship and adoration for this God who has rescued them to remind them of who their god is, no initiative even to make Moses president or prime minister. Only complaint about the unknown journey on which they have been dispatched. The lack of appreciation is duly noted by the LORD who suggests that perhaps an appropriate measure for this lack of gratitude would be annihilation. Moses bargains for the life of his people God relents in part.
What a wonderful gift to have those moments of wonder and awe, to unlock a world where not only Santa Claus but an eternal presence visited us. What a wonderful and incomprehensible gift.
The sea parts and freedom beckons as the water swirls above them. Fear and awe in equal measure well up in the throats of the people. Behind them Pharoah's army approaches. Their choice is to take the parting sea road or face the army. What would you do? You would run like hell for the parting sea road and not look back, is my guess, and exactly what they did. And as the last one stepped into freedom the sea roared back and the army of Pharoah perished in it. Wonder and awe? Did you see that? What just happened?
At that moment one's mind snaps closed. Who can begin to comprehend this? Some power beyond comprehension has intervened to save me? How can that be? O.K. let's just move on and pretend like this didn't happen. Denial is a river in Egypt! Whatever just happened is better forgotten because whose mind can grasp this reality. It's like superman swoops down and the sea parts and the bad guys die. Come on, we know better than that. Anyway, what kind of freedom is this, we're hungry, tired, thirsty, scared and uncomfortable. Man, Egypt is starting to look better.
Dissatisfaction is familiar. It is easier to grasp than a parting sea, than God, than even superman. Dissatisfaction is the fuel of the world. It drives our search for more, better, bigger. Dissatisfaction puts our fate back into our own hands and negates the possibility of a power beyond us. Dissatisfaction drives us forward. Dissatisfaction takes the place of God.
What a wonderful gift to have those moments of wonder and awe, to unlock a world where not only Santa Claus but an eternal presence visited us. What a wonderful and incomprehensible gift.
Satisfaction. Is it the result of memory or appreciation or is it a gift of knowing that even in the times when everything is going wrong there is the possibility of something more?
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