By Brock
September would become a month of profound change, a turning point I couldn’t have predicted as the days unfolded. What began as a quiet introduction to Jainism—a philosophy rooted in non-violence, equanimity, and detachment—soon mirrored the forces of nature that would sweep through our lives. At first, I approached this new spiritual path with curiosity, unaware of how deeply its teachings would resonate in the face of unexpected events. By the end of the month, the principles I was learning—about letting go, embracing simplicity, and finding peace in impermanence—would be tested in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It was a month where the very landscape around me would shift, leaving behind lessons that would stay with me long after the storm passed.
Fall from Grace
The month started in terrible and profound way, one that would echo the way the month would end. On the second of September, we set out an a small quest with our best friend Stacey, the family, and Layla. We went for a small drive to the Chimney Rock area where we started our day with brunch at one of our favorite spots—a beautiful winery with a stunning view of the mountains. On the edge of our mountainous view set the famous Chimney Rock and the other the 404-foot marvel of the Hickory Nut Falls where a famous scene from Last of the Mohicans movie was filmed. We sat on the patio for over an hour, savoring the food and the peacefulness, letting the scenery wash over us.
After stuffing all our senses, we decided to walk down to the river. A few years earlier, we all took a lovely family photo on one of the large rocks sitting out in the river. We figured it would be fun to recreate it—just a casual attempt to capture the same feeling of the past.
The river was calm that day, reflecting the afternoon sun as it slid over the rocks, which were slick with moss from the constant flow. We were laughing, feeling nostalgic, when I stepped onto one of those rocks without thinking. A bad idea. Within seconds, my foot began to slip outward. My legs were moving in opposite directions, taking me down into the full split—legs stretched farther than they’d ever been before, or should ever be.
I didn’t have time to brace myself before the rest of my body followed, and I began tipping backwards like a ship hit by a wave. It was slow motion. My feet flying up. I crashed backward into the freezing river, arms flailing like some tragic figure in a comedy sketch. The cold water went up buy backside and hit me like a slap to the face, while my hip and leg screamed in protest at what had just happened.
Of course, it wasn’t just my family who witnessed this graceful display. There was a restaurant right on the edge of the river, packed with people enjoying their meals and drinks, who now had front-row seats to my impromptu acrobatic performance. I heard gasps, followed by the unmistakable sound of stifled laughter, which only made the situation worse.
I managed to pull myself up, drenched and bruised, but there was no playing it cool. I tried to laugh it off, tossing out, “Guess I didn’t warm up for the splits today,” as if a would have made any of this normal. But there was no masking the pain radiating down my legs, in my hip and back—I had stretched parts of myself that were never meant to go that far.
With an audience still watching, I hobbled out of the water, every step a reminder of how old I was and how I had no business trying to balance on a moss-covered rock. And as much as I might have wanted to linger, reflect, and joke about it, the truth was, I had to get out of there—immediately. The pain was unbearable, and sticking around to contemplate my fall in front of the crowd added to the pain.
I made my way up the riverbank as quickly as I could, my family trailing behind, offering sympathy through thinly veiled grins. But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about the scene I just made or how half the town had witnessed my literal downfall—I just needed ice, painkillers, and
The Rainbow Bridge
After my graceless exit from the river, bruised and sore, we decided to move forward with the day’s main event, even though every step felt like my body was protesting. We had something important to do—something we had been putting off for over a year. In my bag was Toby’s collar, our beloved dog who had passed away the previous year, and Stacey carried Bella’s, her own companion who had crossed the rainbow bridge. Today, we were finally going to visit the actual Rainbow Bridge near Lake Lure, a place where people came to honor their pets by placing collars along its colorful rails.
The emotions were still raw, the idea of letting go hard to face. But now, as we walked toward that little bridge, I felt a strange mix of grief and relief. It was time. Layla led the way.
When we reached it, the bridge was smaller than I expected, but it was beautiful—painted in vibrant rainbow stripes, and lined with collars, hundreds of them, each telling a quiet story of love and loss. We found a spot towards the front of the bridge across, where the sun cut through the trees, and with trembling hands, we hung Toby’s collar next to Bella’s. For a moment, none of us spoke. We just stood there, tears welling up in our eyes, hugging each other as we finally released some of the grief we had been holding onto for so long.
I didn’t expect the flood of emotions that came next. The memories of Toby’s playful bark, his warm presence, and the joy he brought to our family felt so vivid, yet the reality of his absence hit just as hard. Stacey’s face mirrored my own emotions—relief, sadness, love—each of us quietly processing our own losses while standing together in our shared grief. We hugged, shed tears, and stood in silence, trying to capture the peace of the moment.
As I wiped my eyes and stepped back from the bridge, I couldn’t help but notice how still everything felt. The trees, the gentle flow of the river nearby, the brightly painted wood under our feet—it all seemed timeless, like it would always be there. But that’s the thing about moments like these—they trick you into believing they’re permanent, when in reality, they’re fleeting. None of us knew it then, but Hurricane Helene would soon wipe away this place entirely. The bridge, with its stories of love hanging from every inch, would be swept into the floodwaters. The river where I had fallen earlier, the quaint buildings along its banks, and even our favorite brunch spot, all of it would be erased, leaving behind nothing but memories.
We couldn’t have guessed that this was the last time we’d see this place as it was. It’s strange how life moves like that, how everything seems solid, but in reality it is all illusion. In hindsight, it felt like a lesson in impermanence, a theme that was starting to echo through the month.
That sense of fragility and loss mirrored what I was beginning to explore in Jainism, where the focus on impermanence, detachment, and non-violence began to resonate on a deeper level. It wasn’t just about physical things slipping away, but the attachments we hold onto—how they shape us, how we learn to let them go. In the days that followed, I would begin to dive into these teachings, starting to grasp the Jainist ideas of equanimity, non-attachment, and how to navigate a world constantly in flux. What began with a painful fall and an emotional goodbye at the Rainbow Bridge would, by the end of the month, transform into something far deeper—a new understanding of myself and the impermanence of all things.
Embracing Jainism
After a month immersed in the nature-focused harmony and reverence of Shinto. The shift to Jainism felt palpable, a turning inward towards the core principle of non-violence (Ahimsa), a concept deeply embedded in the Jain philosophy. While Shinto had opened my eyes to the sacred in the everyday, especially in the natural world around me, Jainism invited me to explore the sacred within myself, to consider the interconnectedness of all living beings, and to tread lightly upon the earth.
I began the month with a sense of anticipation, eager to delve into the rich philosophy and ethical framework of Jainism. My initial knowledge was limited, a blend of basic concepts and common misconceptions. To guide my exploration, I turned to a core text: An Introduction to Jain Philosophy” This book offered a blend of historical context, philosophical insights, and practical guidance, allowing me to immerse myself in the teachings and practices of Jainism. As I turned the pages, I felt a growing connection to the profound wisdom and ethical depth of this ancient tradition.
Jainism is an ancient Indian religion that emphasizes non-violence, self-discipline, and the pursuit of spiritual liberation. With roots dating back to the 6th century BC, it’s one of the oldest continuously practiced religions in the world. Jainism is based on the teachings of 24 Tirthankaras, enlightened beings who have achieved complete liberation from the cycle of birth and death. The most recent Tirthankara, Mahavira, is considered the historical founder of Jainism.
Core Beliefs and Practices
Jainism is characterized by its unique philosophy and ethical code, which center on the following principles:
- Ahimsa (Non-Violence): The most fundamental principle of Jainism is non-violence, not only in action but also in thought and speech. All things in Jainism point back to this. Rules around travel, attachment, sex, and self care all exist for their potential to minimize harm. Jains strive to minimize harm to all living beings, including plants and animals. Even nonliving things such as earth, air, wind and fire are treated with respect to assure harm does not come to them or from them.
- Aparigraha (Non-Attachment): Jains believe that attachment to material possessions and worldly desires leads to suffering and hinders spiritual progress. They practice non-attachment by simplifying their lives and reducing their material needs. Think of it as the ultimate decluttering project!
- Anekantavada (Non-Absolutism): This is my favorite concept of Jainism. Jains recognizes the complexity and multifaceted nature of reality, acknowledging that no single viewpoint can fully capture the truth. This principle encourages tolerance and respect for diverse perspectives. It’s like saying, “Hey, we’re all a little bit right, and that’s okay.” How different is this from most Western belief systems?
- Karma Theory: Jains believe that our actions, thoughts, and intentions create karmic bonds that bind the soul to the cycle of birth and death. By practicing non-violence, non-attachment, and other ethical principles, individuals can minimize the accumulation of karma and progress towards liberation. Unlike other karmic belief systems, Jains view karma like a sticky jelly on the soul, not like a force that rewards people with with the same things they out out into the world. The goal is to come clean of all karma and protect yourself from more sticking to you.
- Moksha (Liberation): The ultimate goal of Jainism is to achieve liberation from the cycle of birth and death and attain a state of complete freedom and bliss. This is achieved through the purification of the soul and the shedding of all karmic bonds.
Jain Practices
Jains follow a variety of practices to cultivate non-violence, non-attachment, and other virtues. These practices include:
- Vegetarianism: Jains are strict vegetarians, avoiding all forms of animal products. They’re the original plant-based eaters. Seeing as we are already vegetarians, this was easy. But, I still had to dig deeper to look at harm that may be caused by the food I eat and what it took to get it to me.
- Fasting: Fasting is a common practice in Jainism, used to purify the body and mind and cultivate self-discipline.
- Meditation: Meditation is an essential part of Jain spiritual practice, used to calm the mind, cultivate equanimity, and connect with the inner self.
- Charity: Jains believe in giving back to the community and helping those in need. Charity is seen as a way to cultivate compassion and reduce attachment to material possessions.
There are two main branches of Jainism:
- Digambara: The Digambara sect believes that complete renunciation of all possessions, including clothing, is necessary for spiritual liberation. They take the saying “less is more” to a whole new level. I asked Olivia how she felt about me taking up this branch of Jainism for a month, she responded with “ew.”
- Svetambara: The Svetambara sect allows for the possession of simple clothing and believes that liberation is possible for both monks and laypeople. They believe you can achieve spiritual liberation without sacrificing your possessions, entirely. This seemed like the more logical choice.
Daily Practices and Challenges
Jainism, while profound, didn’t weave itself into the fabric of my life as seamlessly as Shinto or Buddhism had. Its intricate philosophical concepts and rigorous ethical framework presented a steeper learning curve, and I occasionally longed for the simplicity and nature-based focus of Shinto. While I appreciated the emphasis on non-violence, non-attachment, and the dietary restrictions, the religion as a whole did not resonate as deeply with me. Jainism did, however, serve as a gentle nudge to be more mindful of what harm is where it comes from and how it is done.
One aspect of Jainism that particularly resonated with me was the concept of dharma. In Jainism, dharma isn’t just a set of rules or duties; it’s an active force, a principle of motion and energy that sustains the universe. I like to think of it as a benevolent ocean current that can move us through this life. I think of myself like a turtle and when I am connected to dharma, I feel a sense of peace about the direction I am moving, even when o have no idea where it is going. I am also amazed by the other turtles that this current is pulling along in the same direction. Sometimes we jump out of the current on our own accord, and sometimes this current sweeps us to beautiful and fulfilling places. I found that the more I lived the principles I knew to be right, the more I felt pulled by this current. I also found that mediation would help pull me into the current whenever I felt like I was out of it.
Violence at Elli’s school.
On the sixth of September, the day started out like any other. I woke up, stretched my aching legs and back—still sore from that embarrassing fall by the river a few days earlier—and headed out for my usual morning walk. It was shorter than normal, my body protesting with each step, but I still made time for my daily work, reading, and meditation. By early afternoon, I set off to the library, and around 1:30, I headed to Olivia’s school, arriving an hour early to secure a spot at the front of the pick-up line, the only place where you could get WiFi. There was no phone service in the area, so this was my little sanctuary for catching up on emails and work while waiting.
After Olivia hopped into the car, we headed across the road to the high school to pick up Elli, and Gavin, a boy from the neighborhood we often carpooled with. Everything seemed normal at first. The line moved as slowly as ever, the usual string of cars inching forward like a procession. But then, things stopped moving. And, the school became quiet. .
I looked ahead, confused. Teachers were rushing around the parking lot, herding students toward the front of the school. Something wasn’t right. Olivia started shifting nervously beside me, glancing out the window. After what felt like forever, the line crawled forward, but when we got closer to the front, I noticed there were police officers everywhere. A car sat stalled in one lane, its doors wide open, but no one was inside. “That’s strange,” I muttered, trying to downplay the growing tension. “Looks like someone broke down in the car line.” But the sheer number of cops felt overkill for a simple breakdown.
Finally, Elli and Gavin got in the car, both of them looking wide-eyed and animated. Before I could ask what was going on, they both blurted out, “Someone was stabbed!”
My heart dropped. “What?” I asked, trying to keep calm for Olivia’s sake, who was already starting to panic in the back seat. “It’s fine,” I said, trying to reassure her, though my own voice wavered a bit. “Everyone’s okay. You’re fine.”
From what I could gather in those frantic moments, someone had jumped out of a car and stabbed another student—right there near the car line. Gavin, still buzzing with adrenaline, mentioned seeing the victim running through the halls, bloodied and shouting, but not fatally wounded. The details were murky, and my mind was racing to process it all. How had this happened here, in our quiet, seemingly safe little town?
It wasn’t lost on me that this was the very thing we had joked about a few weeks earlier. During one of our first “family nights” with Elli—a tradition we’d started to get everyone together once a week, to talk about what was going on and what we needed—I remember John asking her, “Elli, what are you most nervous about when it comes to going to high school in America?”
Elli, always so calm, had shrugged it off. “Not much,” she had said, in her usual even-keeled way. But when the conversation turned to school violence, she admitted that one of her friends back in Germany had asked if she was afraid of being shot at school. It shocked us at the time—the perception that American schools were riddled with violence—but we’d reassured her, laughing it off as an overblown stereotype. “This is an extremely safe area,” we had told her.
But now, sitting in that car, the sound of sirens and the sight of police officers swarming the school, that assurance felt hollow. One of the first ideals of safety we had promised Elli was already starting to crack.
The next day, the school sent out calls, texts, and emails assuring parents that the incident wasn’t widespread violence. It had been isolated, they said. Contained. But the air still felt tense. I asked Elli how she felt about going back, and in her typical calm way, she said she felt safe enough. I wanted to believe her.
The following morning, after the girls had gone to school, one of the neighbors texted. Her husband worked in law enforcement, and she mentioned there were rumors of more violence—more threats.Without hesitation, I jumped in the car and headed straight to the high school. When I arrived, I wasn’t alone. The parking lot was lined with cars, other parents just like me, all trying to get their kids out of school before something worse happened. Police were everywhere—patrolling the hallways, standing guard at the entrances, their presence both reassuring and unnerving at the same time.
I found Elli quickly and explained that it was just a precaution. “I think this is what your parents would want me to do,” I told her, and she nodded, not saying much but understanding. As we drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just about one incident—it felt like a shift, like something deeper had broken open.
While no more violence came about at her school that week, there were multiple school shootout throughout the country. That week taught me more about ahimsa, the Jain principle of non-violence, than any reading or meditation could have. In Jainism, non-violence isn’t just about avoiding physical harm—it’s about the violence we allow in our thoughts, in our fears, in the way we react to the world around us. The stabbing had been an act of violence, but what followed—the panic, the rumors, the anxiety—was another kind of violence, one that spread through the community like wildfire.
I realized that practicing non-violence wasn’t just about teaching my kids to be kind or avoiding harm—it was about learning to sit with fear and anxiety without letting it consume me, without letting it dictate my actions. It was about finding a way to remain calm and grounded, even when the world felt like it was spinning out of control. The more I reflected on it, the more I understood that this was the real challenge of ahimsa—not just the absence of harm, but the cultivation of peace, even in the midst of chaos.
Mental Storms
Of course, balancing my spiritual aspirations with the demands of work and family life wasn’t without its challenges. There were days when I felt overwhelmed, when the to-do list seemed endless and the weight of responsibilities threatened to consume me. However, the Jain principles of non-violence and non-attachment served as anchors, reminding me to approach each task with mindfulness and intention. I began to prioritize my time and energy, focusing on what truly mattered and letting go of the need to control every aspect of my life.
One particularly challenging aspect of practicing Jainism was navigating my relationship with my daughter, Olivia. As a preteen, she was going through her own transitions and challenges, and our interactions were often strained. Her sassy responses and defiant behavior triggered my own frustrations, leading to conflicts that left me feeling drained and disheartened. However, the Jain teaching helped me to approach these situations with greater understanding and patience. I began to see Olivia’s behavior not as a personal attack but as a reflection of her own struggles, and I sought to respond with empathy rather than anger. This shift in perspective didn’t magically resolve our conflicts, but it did create space for more open communication and understanding.
Evening in White
I’ve always been a seeker of connection. When I was younger, there was such a strong need to be with people, to connect, I thought I was a true extrovert. Much of that changed in my thirties. I still love to be around people, but from a distance. My favorite thing is to throw a party, and then hide in the background and watch it unfold. It is the opposite of my husband, he shines when a party is happening and loves the interaction. I do love connecting through conversations, but struggle with small talk, although I do recognize how important small talk is. It is something I am working on. The desire to connect has always remained strong.
We started TheUnchartedTerritory.com as a blog fifteen years ago. It was meant as a way to share our adventures and maybe give advice about what we were learning. In 2020, the website changed slightly as we embarked on Coddiwomple 2020, in an attempt to shield Olivia from the chaos of the pandemic, we loaded our family, including dog and hamster in our Jeep and traveled to see national parks for a few months. We posted our daily updates on the website, including the “roses and thorns.” As I began my journey into theology, this website again morphed into a blog where I would discuss what I was learning. I also invited my friend Valerie to post her deconstruction journal out of Mormonism. Over the years, it has morphed and changed to meet our needs, but the key has always been connection. It was a place where we could explore the uncharted territories within ourselves and connect with the world around us. Now, it would morph again to be the center of my career and an outward expression of my goals. One such goal is to host regular events, curated for a specific purpose, and designed to help people connect.
With a touch of idealism and a dash of audacity, I planned our first event for this new era of The Uncharted Territory. A dinner in white. The invitations, shimmering gold, carried promises of an evening of elegance and conversation. Sixteen of our dearest friends were invited, each a carefully chosen piece of the tapestry I envisioned. Months in advance, I wove this dream into reality, painting a mental picture of the perfect picnic, everyone adorned in white, the conversation ideally curated.
As the day approached, the reality of my vision began to unravel. Only two of the guests RSVP’d. It was a disheartening blow. I had such high hopes for this first event.
I was reminder of the purpose, it was simple, connect, and to do it while dressed in white. The numbers didn’t matter. In fact, our numbers now leant to more adventure. I realized all of us had season passes to the Biltmore. We pivoted, and moved our dinner to the Biltmore. As we explored the estate, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace and gratitude. The beauty of the surroundings, the elegance of the architecture, and the perfection of the view.
It was a reminder of the Jain philosophy of anekānta, the doctrine of many-sidedness. Just as the world is multifaceted, so too are our experiences. What may seem like a setback can often lead to a more beautiful outcome. The dinner in white, though not exactly as I had imagined, was an unexpected joy. It was a reminder that sometimes, the most beautiful plans are the ones that unfold organically, guided by the currents of fate.
I look forward to hosting many more such experiences.
The Calm Before the Storm
As September progressed, a different kind of challenge emerged, one that would test not only my spiritual practice but also our community’s resilience. The days leading up to the arrival of Hurricane Helene were marked by relentless rain, saturating the ground, filling the rivers, and adding an ominous weight to the approaching storm.
Lion King
On the 24th, we had tickets to see the Lion King musical in Greenville, and with Elli visiting, we were excited to share this iconic experience with her. I also couldn’t wait for Olivia to finally see it.
My first encounter with the Lion King was back in November of 1999 while on my Mormon mission in Knoxville, TN, not too far from here (Asheville is now part of that mission). My parents and my aunt came from Arizona to pick me up after my time was done. When they arrived, I was a bundle of nerves. After spending 25 months devoted to missionary work (I had even extended my service by an extra month), I felt frayed and disconnected. I had followed the hundreds or written and unwritten rules religiously. I had only communicated with my family through letters and one phone call on Christmas and Mother’s Day. I was still under the strict rules of my mission, which meant my mom was my companion until I returned home and was officially released.
We took a scenic drive through my mission, but I wasn’t in the mood for exploration. I was completely lost in my own head and the weight of expectations. Eventually, we headed to Asheville. We were going to do some tourist activities while here, but I wasn’t feeling very touristy. As we approached the long, winding driveway of the Biltmore, an overwhelming wave of anxiety washed over me, and I simply stated that I just wasn’t feeling it. I felt tangled in anxiety, frustration, and an inexplicable anger. So, we turned around, and I chose to rest in the hotel instead.
For reasons that remain a mystery to me, we ended up in New York City to watch the original production of the Lion King. I’m sure it was exciting to be there, I wished it could have happened under different circumstances. Still, even with all that emotional baggage, the opening moments of the show transformed into one of the most profound theatrical experiences I’d ever had. I yearned to bottle that feeling and share it.
25 years later, I was taking my family to experience it. Kathleen, our wonderful neighbor, joined us on this adventure, fitting seamlessly into our our family like she always did. As expected, the opening number was breathtaking. I had carefully chosen our seats near the left aisle, where the animals would make their grand entrance, including a massive elephant that would lumber down the aisle. It felt utterly magical, like stepping into another world.
But then, in a turn of events I had never witnessed in all my theater-going years, the performance came to a sudden halt. The announcer’s voice broke through the excitement, informing us they were experiencing technical difficulties and would resume shortly. After about ten minutes of murmurs and restless shifting in our seats, the show started again—but this happened four more times throughout the performance.
During intermission, we learned that the rain was pouring down so hard that water was flooding the building, soaking the stairs backstage. They had to stop the show to pile sandbags, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.
Despite the interruptions, the show was phenomenal.
The drive home turned into a test of nerves. The wind was powerful, uprooting trees all over downtown Greenville, while rain lashed against our car like a thousand tiny fists. We navigated the treacherous roads, often creeping along at a mere 20 mph, squinting through the downpour that made visibility a challenge. Each bend in the road brought new hazards as the storm raged around us.
By the time we got home, the rain had eased, and thankfully, our house and trees had stood strong against the elements. We exchanged our familiar mantra, a comforting reminder: “The mountains protect.” This phrase, like so many others we clung to, would be turned on its head before the week was over.
Hurricane Helene
On the morning the hurricane hit, I woke to the sound of wind whipping through the trees. We weren’t overly concerned, we were supposed to be on the outskirts of the storm’s path, and the forecast predicted winds of only 30-40 miles per hour. Around 8 a.m., I ventured outside to secure some loose patio furniture and check on our waterlogged potted plants. As I bent over to pick up a plant, a strange feeling washed over me. I turned to find that everything had gone dark. The power was out, and the damage had begun.
Thankfully, the winds in our area weren’t as destructive as in other parts of the region. I cautioned the girls against sitting near windows, but overall, our home sustained minimal damage, just a few shingles blown off the roof.
The storm seemed to pass quickly. I had never been in a hurricane and I thought it would be an all day thing. By 11:00 a.m., Kathleen texted asking if it was finished. We confirmed on the weather app that the worst had passed. That was the last our phones would work for many days.
Without outside communication, we figured there were just some trees down and flooding, we would be out and about by the end of the day.
For three days we were trapped in our neighborhood, cut off from the outside world. The surrounding area was flooded, roads were washed out, and there was no way in or out. We were an island.
We were able to take a few phones calls, but service was spotty. We figured it would be days before power returned. Some said weeks, we thought that was way too pessimistic.
With no power and limited phone service, we relied on our resourcefulness and the kindness of neighbors. We had enough food to sustain us, and thankfully, access to water, though we had to boil it before drinking. We banded together with neighbors, sharing meals and cooking on our gas stove, one of the few still operational in the area.
Despite the challenges, there was a strange sense of peace in those storm-bound days. We filled our time with reading, board games, and conversations. We held onto hope that power would be restored soon. With no internet and limited phone service we were unaware of the devastation around us.
That night, after Hurricane Helene had passed, we stepped outside into a world stripped of its usual sounds. The power was out for as far as we could see, leaving the streets eerily quiet, yet something extraordinary greeted us—above the wreckage, the sky was filled with stars, sharper and brighter than I’d ever seen. It felt like a gift, a moment of pure, unfiltered beauty amidst the chaos. The night stretched out in serene contrast to the destruction left behind. I thought of the Jain teaching of Anekantavada, which reminds us that no single perspective holds the complete truth. Even in times of devastation, there is always another angle—another way to see. We destruction was undeniable, but so was the brilliance above us, reminding us that light and beauty can exist even in the darkest times.
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