Category: writing

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Where Did the Center Go?

Have you noticed how many of us are nervous, overworked, over-scheduled, and often puzzled on how to separate truth from fabrication? What’s going to happen? Who will tell us what’s going on?  

We are most confident when we stand in the middle, surrounded by familiar faces, roles, and tasks. From a solid center, we know what to do. We can choose a goal, make plans, find resources and collaborators. We can predict with confidence. Paths emerge. All we have to do is choose one.

But when the center evaporates and we stand on the edge of things, uncertainty beckons. When the familiar dissipates, who knows what lurks in the chaos beyond the wall? Stories of monsters waiting to devour us titillate our senses, reminding us to stay put and stay safe.

But that’s not the only choice. When the safety of the ordinary fails, another response is called for. If we stop, even for a moment, we might remember something. A shiver, a feeling, a vague memory of what once was and could be again.

We might recall that we are more than what the world sees. We might remember that the outer world reflects a deeper reality. We might remember our soul sitting deep inside us, ever patient, ever waiting for us to hear its whispered call. 

“In the interval between each thought, in the interval between each heartbeat, we remember what we always knew.”

(William Irwin Thompson)

Peace does not happen out there. Peace starts with those willing to look for new responses, new ways of being in the world. Inside each person who chooses peace over strife, a bud of solitude can bloom into an awareness of the vast creative nature of what connects us to all that lives.

We can access that awareness through our Creative Self, a bridge between our ordinary waking mind and the soul. The Creative Self invites us to be more, know more, remember more. It is calm, patient, joyful, and playful. It wants to paint a picture, compose a poem, dance all night and then watch the sunrise offer the promise of another day. The Creative Self plays a game with no winners and losers because its game will never end.

Peace starts with us. We start small. We slow down. We remember that even when the center of society is shifting into something we can’t fathom, we have our own center.

To remember who you really are, try a few simple techniques:

  • Find time to be alone without tasks or the buzz of electronics. Embrace stillness. Even a few minutes of silence can clear your mind and promote a sense of peace.
  • Spend time in nature. Grass, trees, lakes, a running brook, or an ocean can soothe our minds and remind us we are part of something huge. A hike in the mountains, a walk in a park, sitting in your garden. All are healing and peaceful.
  • Set aside time for creative work. Learn to draw, record your memories, play with clay. Even using colored pencils to fill in the images in an adult coloring book has the power to evoke the playful child within  and increase feelings of peace.
  • Find a child or a dog, then play with them. You’ll  have to sit on the floor, but it’s worth it, since they are our teachers in loving without judgment.

Our center hasn’t gone anywhere. Our task is to unearth it, climb inside, and look out at our world with different eyes.

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Finding Your True Voice

Journaling is a bridge to the Creative Self. For writers, journaling is a warm up exercise, a place to practice craft, to make sense of our thoughts and ideas. It’s a private exercise, not meant for any eyes but our own.

It works equally well for those with no desire to publish fiction or nonfiction.  It’s a simple, practical way to process our experience, to learn, change, and grow.

In your journal, you can tell the truth.  The whole truth, unvarnished, however messy and convoluted.

You don’t have to be “nice.” You don’t need the diplomatic turn of phrase. You don’t have to hedge, be vague, hesitate, or wonder if what you have to say will be accepted.

THERE IS A RULE:

NO ONE READS YOUR JOURNAL

The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. 

Margaret Atwood

If you’re upset, angry, feel left out, not good enough, put down, ill at ease, or if you don’t know how you feel, but know it isn’t good, this is the place to go. This is where you can say it all. To other people. To yourself. To the world.

To journal is to become a truth teller in training. To practice being honest. To let go of inhibitions, fears,  hesitancy, or doubt that what you have to say is not good enough. What matters is not pleasing others, but finding your authentic voice.

If you move on from journaling and write stories, essays, or books for the public, it’s even more important to tell the truth. Your truth. Facts matter, but in any story, the emotional journey matters more. No matter what you write about, your take on it will be your own.

In my journaling practice, I started simple. Stayed on the surface. What happened? How upset I was. How angry. Misunderstood. I was right, they were wrong. My journal was a record of what happened and how I felt.

But as I kept going, exploring my feelings and reactions, I went deeper, gaining perspective and getting more honest.

Not that I had been lying before, but I was peeling off the layers of my outer perception so I could see beneath the surface. Like floating face down on the surface of the sea and catching glimpses of shells, a clump of seaweed, or a crab burrowing into the sand.

I started asking different questions. What was the truth? Had I spun a tale of half-truths to justify my actions? So everyone else could feel satisfied? What really motivated me? What hurt the most? Did this pain feel familiar? What was under the pain? How much was I trying to please others by diluting what I said?

The more often we show up on the page and push ourselves further into that space under our ordinary awareness, the more relief we feel. We let go. We laugh at ourselves. We learn. We gain another degree of freedom.

So, write it out. Dig deep. Ask your younger self what she has been longing to say since you were three years old.

Her wisdom might surprise you.

I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.       Joan Didion

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What is Healing?

I teach a course in writing for healing because I’ve learned that journaling about difficulties in life leads to new understanding, insight, and compassion. It can even lead to creating a new story for our life.

Words heal. Thoughts heal.

So what is healing in our difficult, erratic world?

  • Anything that helps us mend, lifts our spirits, invigorates us, points in new directions
  • Insight, changing our mind, understanding a different point of view, feeling the connection of all life on earth, however fleetingly
  • Friends, companions, colleagues, adversaries
  • Meeting a challenge, learning a new skill, finding the courage to speak our truth
  • A band-aid, an aspirin, herbs, medicine, massage, loving touch, laughter, a good listener, a friendly smile
  • Sitting still on the bank of a river, on a beach, in a high meadow inhaling the scent of pine needles
  • Quieting the mind, holding a sleeping child, stroking the fur of a beloved pet
  • Spotting a rare animal on a hike, sunlight dancing through treetops, birdsong
  • Poetry, music, dancing for joy, writing from the heart, saying what we mean
  • Using our creative gifts to make someone smile. 

In the book,  Healing Words: The Power of Prayer and the Practice of Medicine, Larry Dossey, MD, discusses the concept of “prayerfulness,” a state where a person does not pray for something in the traditional sense, but lives with a sense of the sacred, of being aligned with “something higher.”

Prayerfulness accepts without being passive and is grateful without giving up. It is willing to stand in the mystery of life when the rational mind falters. It is also related to recorded instances of spontaneous healing, from cancer and other difficult diagnoses.

Local writer Lynn C. Miller and friends contemplate healing on their latest podcast of The Unruly Muse.

In this episode, John and Lynn search for the soothing moments, the healing balm, the uplifting. In a world fractured and fractious, a country aching for change and most of all relief, possibilities occur that can lessen the load and lead to equanimity. We find comfort in song, music, connection with others, the natural world, and childhood dreams of unbounded time.

I view healing as more change than repair—as growth, becoming, learning, wisdom, humility.

For a person on a healing path, life is no longer routine, tethered to the demands of the external world. It becomes magical. Intuition, feelings, and impulses are welcomed and explored. 

The magical approach to life assumes we have had a hand in creating everything we encounter. And that means if we don’t like what we experience, we can change it.

Change our words. Change our minds. Change our lives. 

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The Gift of Acceptance

When I attended a school in California to learn to meditate, a seven-week experiment  turned into a three-year program of transformation. The teachers used no books or written material. All instruction was verbal, in the tradition of the great mystery schools of ancient times. 

Similar to Gnosticism in its approach, at that unconventinal school we learned to understand and work with our energy systems. They taught us to find and release ideas, beliefs, experiences, and patterns that hindered us from being a clear channel for our own highest information. In other words, we learned how to invite direct perception of our own higher/deeper aspects that are connected to Source.

Over and over, we were reminded to “stay in present time” which was both a concept and a grounding technique. 

This is a tall order. Although I learned how to accomplish it in my sacred meditation and reading spaces, ordinary life was more challenging. 

Accepting what comes with an open heart is a key to healing. Only through accepting and noticing both positive and negative events can I learn what hidden beliefs and karmic conditions influence me through what psychology calls the “shadow” identity.

For me, the first step was to stop resisting. Another tall order, especially with losses and health issues. The second step could not happen until I accepted the actual conditions of my life and found the reason my biofield had attracted them.  Then, change and healing became possible.

For some of us–stubborn, opinionated, and slow to learn–these steps are taken again and again. 

Mindset matters.  Looking for the lesson, the pearl, the elusive needle hidden in the chaff, is a habit of thought that develops over time. With practice. 

Although “awakening” to Source was not where I started, it has become my lifelong journey. The lessons continue to come, showing me deeper levels of my experience than I ever dreamed of accessing.

All creative work, all soul work, creates resistance. I don’t know why; it seems a function of how our mental minds work. I learned to deal with it first in my writing, and those lessons have served me well. As long as I remember to stay humble. As one of my teachers said long ago, “We’re all bozos on this bus.” 

Humor matters. So does compassion. We know about compassion for others. We strive to express it without erasing the boundaries that keep us safe. And some of us have to learn compassion for ourselves. A worthy goal.

Today I was inspired by the words of the Dalai Lama in his Bodhisattva Prayer for Humanity.

“May I be a guard for those who need protection

A guide for those on the path

A boat, a raft, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood

May I be a lamp in the darkness

A resting place for the weary

A healing medicine for all who are sick

A vase of plenty, a tree of miracles

And for the boundless multitudes of living beings

May I bring sustenance and awakening

Enduring like the earth and sky

Until all beings are freed from sorrow

And all are awakened.”

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The Joy of Finishing

This week I finished a short story I’ve been noodling around with for about five years. It started with an image of an old woman building a circular wooden device in her backyard. I saw her in a seaside town on a New England island, threatened by rising sea levels. She refused to evacuate, instead collecting items from the people in the village to add to her circle, which would become a magical shrine.

The finished version is quite different. There is still an old woman, but she lives in ancient times and travels to a village being held hostage by armed invaders who are waiting for the harvest so they can steal it to supply their army stationed nearby. She builds a circle in the forest, constructed of stone, and collects items from the villagers for a shrine, although no one knows why.

I always knew how the story would end. Rarely do I start a story without knowing its end, although I may not know the middle. The end is the most satisfying part, and when I finished what I now call “Mosaic,” I realized why it took so long.

When I started, I had a vague grasp of what the character was doing, but not until I knew more about the transformation she would undergo did the piece come together.

That is often the way. The impulse comes. Sometimes an image. A character. A setting. A title. But not enough for a complete story.

Patience has never been one of my virtues, but I’ve learned that forcing my creative energy to bend to the demands of my analytical mind is not helpful.

In other areas of my life and work, setting goals and making plans works fine. In rewriting, editing, finding markets, developing classes, and working with students, a loving discipline is useful.

But not for the initial creation.

For that, I must wait. Surrender to the process.  Sometimes a day or two. Sometimes years.

I used to judge myself for the waiting. Then I noticed that waiting is valuable. It allows the creative impulse to gather itself, to grow and become more than it was.

Slowly, I learned the rhythm and timing of my Creative Self, and stopped scolding it for not marching along as quickly as ego-mind preferred.

Not that I don’t work on other things while a story is germinating. Of course I do. One of my mentors paraphrased the well-known saying:

All things come to she who waits

If she who waits works like hell while she waits.

I take that seriously. I’m a writer. I write every day. But I don’t force myself to complete what is not ready.

There is joy in waiting.

In allowing.

In surrendering to the growth required before a complete story peeks out from behind the veil.

Finishing any creative project is worth celebrating, so no matter what happens to “Mosaic,” published or not, appreciated or not, I’m happy. I finished.

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Are You Waiting for Inspiration?

My students often talk about “waiting for inspiration.”

They’re right. There’s nothing better than a thunderbolt from the blue—the perfect idea, the fully formed story, the image of the painting that drops into your mind. You can’t wait to get it down. The rush carries you through a creative session. An hour. A whole day. Maybe a week. Very exciting.

But after a while, you feel different. The rush has trickled away. The inspiration has faded. You look at what you produced. Maybe you like it, maybe not. You decide to keep going, but that rush of adrenalin does not return. The work feels like drudgery. You decide to wait until inspiration strikes again.

A common misconception is that creativity is separate from you. A visitation. A blessing. It can feel that way, and those sudden flashes may be a wake-up call. Maybe your Creative Self is trying to shake you out of your routine.

I had those experiences like that when I was working on my first novel. Ideas, characters, and scenes would pop into my mind when I was at my job or walking on the beach. I would rush home to write them down. When I was inspired, I wrote and wrote. But when the excitement faded, I avoided my desk, fearful of the practical aspects of writing a novel, the hard work of slogging through the difficult parts, learning how to make the parts fit together.

Being a writer is more than inspiration. There is re-writing, editing, polishing and research. The more I work, the more my Creative Self whispers in my ear. She seems to like constancy and commitment. She likes that I am keeping faith by practicing, learning, and preparing.

Commitment

Committing to a regular work schedule tells the universe you’re serious about your creative work. Make your schedule manageable. A one-hour session three times a week is plenty to start. Make it a habit and notice how it helps deal with any resistance you encounter. After you feel more confident about your commitment, you can re-visit your schedule.

Loosening the Chains

Measuring productivity can be helpful and motivating. When I (reluctantly) started counting the number of words I produced in each writing session, my productivity skyrocketed. I was amazed. Writing produced more writing. I learned to write faster without editing or second-guessing myself. The pages piled up. That method still works. First draft fast and furious. Second draft slower, third draft slower yet.

Some writers have rituals for how to begin their creative time. They light a candle or say a prayer to invoke the Muse. Some need to do the dishes before they can start, or walk the dog, or make coffee for the rest of the family. These are not time wasters, but preparatory steps.

Down time is not unproductive. Artists need time for their ideas to percolate. They spend time noticing how evenly the grass is growing and how the shadows of clouds move across a landscape. They notice the faint tracks where a snake slid down a sand dune, a lizard nearly invisible on a rock, how the elderly man next door waits every morning at his mailbox for the postman. Just out of sight, the wheels are turning, the juices flowing and moving, about to burst into consciousness.

As creatives, we set our own boundaries. We define our goals and how to reach them. We find our rhythm. We choose the time of day when we are most productive. We choose our priorities.

We respect inspiration but don’t wait around for it to show up. We commit and do our work, and when inspiration does tap us on the shoulder, it’s that much sweeter.

My next writing class, From Inspiration to Publication, starts on June 7, 4-6 PM. Live on Zoom. For anyone with an idea.

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Magical Words, Magical You!

Do you have a story to tell?

An idea rumbling around in your mind? A character you see so clearly s/he seems real? An imaginary place you long to create for your character to roam?

Maybe your story is true. An experience from your earlier life. A lesson learned. Inspiration gleaned from succeeding against all odds. The joys of family life or the difficulty of adjusting to loss and sorrow.

We all have stories. We tell them to entertain, inspire, teach, and remember. From one perspective, our lives are stories. Elaborate plots with us serving as both the star of the play and its director.

This is good news, for if we are the director of our own play, we get to change the script. We can try on new roles, change our career, or where we live. We can make new friends and learn new skills. We can let go of what limited us in the past and forge a trail where creativity matters more than the rules we‘ve lived by in the past.

The drive to communicate is basic to being human. Children develop a sense of themselves by the words their parents used to describe them. Young adults strive for identity with educational achievements, jobs, and relationships.

As we get older, the tendency to look back and make sense of our experiences comes into play. We want to tell about who we are, what decisions we made, how life unfolded, and what we learned. At midlife and beyond, many decide to change direction. Start a business, move to a farm and grow organic vegetables, write that book.

Even if no one reads your story, you gain tremendously from the writing. Learning about our younger selves leads to insight and compassion. How our ideas have changed teaches us about growth. Exploring how our personal myth developed over the years is exciting and satisfying.

As a writer, editor, and writing coach, I work with people exploring their creativity. Some are starting out, taking small, tentative steps with their Creative Self.

Others have decided to write a book, short story, or memoir. They need encouragement, resources, and information on how to write more effectively.

Others want help improving their first drafts, preparing for an agent, a publisher, or self-publishing.

We all long to be heard, and one of the greatest benefits of writing our stories—fictional or not—is that words are magic. With them, we create worlds. With them, we change our world. We discover patterns that remain elusive if we keep our ideas trapped in the realm of thought.

When we bring our words into the world, thoughts become real, imagination transmutes into artistic expression. That is the creative act that changes us. And the beautiful thing is we don’t need to write a best-seller, win awards, or find acclaim to reap the benefits of writing our story. All that’s required is to set it down and let the magic unfold.

It is my great honor to help writers tell their stories.

 

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Do You See the Door?

It’s right there. Behind that tree. In the shadow of the curtain in the room where you sleep. In your dreams, glowing with golden light.

Since I learned to meditate, new information presents itself as a door to be opened. Or ignored. In the world of spirit, there is always choice.

I made my choice long ago, so I open every door that beckons. Sometimes after reflection. Sometimes with trepidation, for once opened, there is no going back.

Doors lead me forward—to repair a misunderstanding, to an old belief that needs releasing, or a different level of awareness. Some doors are an invitation to explore my relationship to the inner world from which all creativity springs. Behind others lurk the characters and worlds that populate my stories.

I needed to slow down my thoughts before I developed a habit of regularly producing creative work. That meant taking time to sit at my desk and tune into the frequency of my Creative Self. Some people can write a chapter of the novel on a commuter train or on their lunch hour. I applaud them. They must be very productive. But I need more space.

If you hear the call but can’t find the door, be patient. You may need to quiet your mind. Your body must partner with your mind and feelings for ideas and visions to be translated into words and brush strokes. This takes practice. Sit in silence. Spend time in nature. Watch the grass grow. Listen to the leaves of cottonwood trees chattering to each other. The inner world works on a slower time cycle than our ordinary outer world. Rhythms need to be respected. Telling it to hurry doesn’t work.

Some doors are shy but they want to be discovered. Yours may hide behind a cluster of ivy. Or on the far side of a sagging wooden fence. An image flashes on the edge of your vision, so beautiful you turn, heart lifting, but when you do, it’s gone. Maybe you turned too quickly. Maybe it melted back behind the veil.

If you see it in the heat of the day as you trudge through a desert, your mind might dismiss it as a mirage, but in your heart, you know it’s real. You know it’s waiting. For the time to be right. For you to be ready.

It knows you well. It knows you may need to gather courage before you walk toward it. You may need to stop the noise of the outer world before you notice its shape, its color. To see that it pulses with excitement at your approach.

But, you may say, not yet. I’m busy with work, family, and the pressing tasks of daily living. How can I open a door that leads to who knows where? What if it takes me to places I’m not ready for? What if I get lost? What if walking through it changes me?

Relax.

Stop and breathe.

You can turn away. The door understands. As you retreat, the rhythm of its pulsing may slow, but it will never stop. The door will never disappear and it will never fail to welcome you.

Even if you wait until you are old and tired and finally face the door because there’s nothing else left to do.

Even if you wait longer than that.

You know what to do.

You were born knowing. Rattle it gently. Give it a push. And when you see, with amazement and delight, what lies beyond, be still and listen for the voice that holds the treasure.

 

When Spirit Whispers

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A Different Kind of Memoir

New Mexico author Jean Stouffer has written a moving memoir of healing from the effects of growing up with an alcoholic mother.

But Sometimes I Cry is not just another recounting of a child caring for an absent parent and the self-esteem and abandonment issues that ensue. This memoir uses personal history, myth, and poetry to convey her journey from a traditional wife and mother who could not express herself to a woman who speaks her truth and accepts how she feels.

She tells her story in short chapters organized into five sections as she works with a therapist to unblock her emotions and uncover her true self.

Most sections are told in the third person, from the point of view of many charming fictional creatures—mouse, cloud, stone, owl, baby bird, beaver—who stand in for the author. Only the sections about her beloved dog, Molly, are conveyed in the first person. They are among the most moving accounts in the book.

She also gives the reader short progress reports in the third person, which tie together the fictional and poetic chapters.

When I asked about that choice, Jean said that writing in the first person was too painful. Her fictional characters conveyed her meaning and gave her the distance she needed to write about her experiences and process.

Jean did not publish this book for thirty years. Jean said she wrote it for herself, to process what she was feeling, and, at the time, never considered publication. Years later, a friend read the manuscript and encouraged her to put her story into the world. Sometimes I Cry came out in 2021.

“Writing the book changed me,” Jean said recently during a phone conversation. “It improved my relationship with my husband and helped me realize I had value beyond my traditional roles. After that, I became a hypnotherapist and got a lot of satisfaction using my skills to help people through difficult times. Going through the healing process and writing about it helped me understand that it is okay to have emotions, to be an independent person with my own feelings and goals.”

I asked Jean what she hoped readers would get from her book.

“Hope,” she answered. “Maybe my story can encourage others. Facing the darkness isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. I ended up a much happier person. A stronger person who could offer my gifts without losing myself.”

You can purchase Sometimes I Cry in paperback and e-book formats at Amazon.

You can reach Jean at www.JeanStouffer.com

 

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The Book I Feared to Write

When the pandemic of 2020 crashed down like a tidal wave, I retreated into my home to wait it out.

A writer and teacher who works at home, it wasn’t a stretch to teach classes online and restrict communications to telephone and Zoom sessions. Enforced isolation seemed the perfect time to w0rk on ideas I’d been gathering for a new book. No more excuses. Time to write that book.

For the first few weeks I believed my own story. Kept my commitments. Participated in online meetings and classes. On regular bike rides with my dog, Zena, I spoke to neighbors I had rarely seen. Everyone was eager to say hello, pass the time of day, and relay how they were coping. At the park, passersby were friendlier than usual. I sat under a ramada near a favorite tree while Zena rolled on the grass. Dogs trotted over to say hello. People waved. It was interesting how being forced to separate brought us closer together.

Weeks passed. I taught my classes, worked with students, completed editing jobs, and wrote. My writing practice is decades old, so I always write, but the new book’s focus eluded me. Anxiety kept me moving but also made it hard to sit and concentrate on an intensely private subject: my relationship to Spirit.

Fiction was easier to write, so I did that. Sent out short stories. Got a couple published. Still, I felt like a skittish animal running in ever-tightening circles around the one thing it wanted but feared to approach.

Facing my new book, which my mind had told me would be short and easy to write, I trembled.

An optimist at heart, I believe we have more freedom than we realize. We aren’t victims of our genetics, family upbringing, finances, politics, or experience. These things shape us, but at every moment, we have the choice to change. No matter our circumstances, we can embark on a fresh path.

Practice what you preach, I exhorted myself as I created a new spreadsheet and listed my chapters. I forged ahead with another draft—wrote, edited, researched, and organized. But something wasn’t right.

It was time to examine my own beliefs. One More Time.

After serious meditation and journaling, I uncovered the face of my resistance—my lifelong reticence to write about who I am. Not in the external sense. What was uncomfortable was writing about my inner world, which is far more real to me than what I do “out there.”

I am one of the lucky ones. From early childhood, I have wandered the inner world. I also knew that, if I spoke of it, the outcome would be ridicule and shaming. So I kept my counsel until I got older and found safe spaces to be myself.

The roots of my personal challenges were buried deep. Not “out there” in an unmarked grave but inside my psyche and body, what I call the “biofield.” Because of early trauma, I’ve berated and second-guessed myself, agonized, and rationalized when deciding about jobs, relationships, business, writing projects, and finances. I doubted my inner perceptions and the common wisdom. Anxiety was a constant companion. No matter what I did, I judged myself, taking on more responsibility than was mine to bear, experiencing the exquisite torture of teetering on the line between worlds.

Struggling with a book I couldn’t grasp, an epiphany burst forth. I realized that, at this moment, only what’s important counts—and what’s important is what I’ve learned from sojourning with my inner self. The lessons were not complicated, but I’ve been a slow study, so it’s taken time to re-member them

  • There is a path through life which we chose before birth.
  • We walk our own path, whether or not we know it.
  • Our inner self guides us, whether or not we notice.
  • Life is easier when we heed the messages from within.
  • When we listen to the messages of our inner self, it grows into a Wise Inner Guide.
  • Spirit possesses infinite patience.
  • It’s never too late to listen and learn. 

The book, When Spirit Whispers, a journey of awakening, will be published soon, along with an accompanying workbook. This article is an amended version of its preface. I plan to write two more volumes, Visions of Healing and Doorways to Healing.

Going forward, I will use this monthly blog to write about healing, trauma, and writing, the three subjects that intersect to form my path. I hope you will find it useful

If you would like to be an advance reader for When Spirit Whispers, contact me at carol@carolhollandmarch.com. I will send you an electronic copy of the book. If you enjoy it, I hope you will be kind enough to leave a review.

 

 

 

 

 

All content copyright © 2023 by Carol Holland March. All rights reserved.