In the Valley of Elah

A simple illustration of how our judgement is influenced by past expectations and conventions is to look at how people interpret the supposed ‘meaning’ of stories.

It’s probably impossible not to conceive some kind of meaning in events, whether they occur in the real world or on the big screen, so these meanings can become an important part of our life, framing and colouring the way we perceive other events – influencing the way we conceive other meanings.

We could argue endlessly about the meaning of life, and about meanings of particular events within life, without ever reaching any kind of resolution or common ground, because there is no objective authority to say who’s wrong.

But when we talk about the meaning of stories, which are written and told and performed by artists, we can at least defer authority to what the artists claim to be their intended meaning. Although this still won’t help everyone agree on a common meaning (partly because artists and writers may miss significant meanings in their own work), the artists can at least remind us that such meanings were unintended.

Being reminded that meanings are largely unintended encourages us to loosen up our beliefs and opinions (which I’m arguing is good) and pay more attention to what’s really important and what solutions are immediately available. Accidents and coincidences are inevitable. Stuff happens, which may or may not have anything to do with anything else. We should always keep in mind that ‘what something means’ is foremost ‘what something means to oneself’; any more general meaning is something to be publicly and objectively worked out.

I think the point of trying to work out meanings of stories in public is to enlighten the biases and tacit assumptions we project into our interpretations. When we publicize what we conceive as the meaning of something, and see that it’s different from the meanings conceived by others, we can begin to ask why such differences occurred – we can reverse engineer our ideas and beliefs.

By reverse engineering our ideas, beliefs, and interpretations, we learn more about our most important values, we begin to make our assumptions more articulate, more objective and manageable, which helps us communicate and collaborate with others, to develop a more coherent and effective system of social meaning. In other words, articulation helps generate agreement: it becomes a framework or ground for generative conversations.

The other benefit of stories is that they provide clearly defined, shared points of reference. In stories, the terms for determining meaning are given to everyone (although particular parts may be intended to suggest outside events, and therefore have meanings that only some people may appreciate). Stories provide opportunities to practice working out meanings through conversation.

The story I’m going to use to illustrate my point is Paul Haggis’s recent film, In the Valley of Elah.

I must admit that I saw In the Valley of Elah with the deliberate intention of integrating it into last week’s post on the nature of war and peace. I hoped that it had something like the meaning I was looking for: it didn’t – not exactly. There was enough in it that I could have projected my hoped-for meaning onto it, but there was also too much more to contradict (or at least weaken) that meaning. Instead, I let it ‘settle’ for another week, to see what new insights may work themselves out.

Before I go any farther, let me make clear that I’m not necessarily trying to work out Haggis’s intended meaning (whatever exactly that may have been). From interviews it seems that Haggis did in fact have an intentional message, but it was quite ambiguous -- more about asking questions -- and secondary to the main task of presenting a compelling story. I can imagine him repeating what Henrik Ibsen said about Hedda Gabler:

"It was not my desire to deal in this play with so-called problems. What I wanted to do was to depict human beings, human emotions, and human destinies, upon a general groundwork of certain social conditions and principles of the day.”

Of course, the "social conditions and principles of the day" look a lot like problems...

If we read any messages into In the Valley of Elah, let’s at least include this one: be careful about reading too much into meanings, especially meanings based on old assumptions and expectations... It’s just about characters – people – whose actions and statements aren’t necessarily any more (or less) symbolic than yours or mine.

This is how the art of storytelling originated in the first place: real events seemed to symbolize or mean something above and beyond themselves, whether that meaning is practical, political, or religious; consider Homer, the Bible, as well as all of the old mythologies, texts, and oral traditions from different cultures.

Think of how much longevity and universality the story of David and Goliath has; think of how strange it really is that the spontaneous actions and decisions of a few people around thirty centuries ago continue to have such a powerful meaning today.

So because real events are meaningful, and the meaningfulness of real events is where storytelling originated from, and thus the purpose of telling stories is largely to manage meaning, then it is not unreasonable to expect filmmakers (who are storytellers) to pay special attention to the meaningfulness of their work.

Now stories that have just one ambiguous meaning are boring (at least to most adults); it’s condescending. What we want is combinations of meanings so our imaginations can participate in the dramatic process. The best storytellers roughly suggest or sketch a body of meaning, and encourage the audience to complete the rest.

Haggis seems willing to make the meanings in his films bold; but they are not necessarily symbolic (at least not for purposes outside of the drama), they are not necessarily any more than a sketch (albeit one made with thick strokes), and they are no less complex or ambiguous than those that may (or may not) be found in postmodern pseudo-dramas. Having bold meanings in a film doesn’t make it ideological; they may simply make the film more dramatic, more deeply engaging – working the same way as powerful emotions, distinctive characters, and astonishing events.

The meanings in Crash may have been a bit too bold, thus becoming a distraction (especially to viewers who can’t tolerate ambiguity), in the same way that special effects or emotional outbursts can distract from the overall impression of a story. I think In the Valley of Elah is much more balanced and effective in this way.

In the Valley of Elah’s most obvious instances of symbolic meaning are the flag, and, of course, the story of David and Goliath, from which the film takes its name. It is reasonable to assume the latter has some kind of general or overall significance, but I can’t distinguish what that is. Who or what is David? Who’s Goliath? Where or what is the Valley of Elah?

The character who seems the most David-like is Detective Emily Sanders, played by Charlize Theron. She’s the only one who wins any kind of victory in the end. But she apparently needed the encouragement of Hank Deerfield, played Tommy Lee Jones – who is the most David-like up until the final moments – to get her up to it. And her victory is much more personal; it isn’t the kind of victory that breeds widespread hope – it didn’t seem to make Hank all that hopeful.

The analogy then seems to be not between real characters or things, but rather between the general setting: the film takes us into a metaphorical Valley of Elah – a moment of deep confusion and distress – and ends before David enters the story.

This brings us to the other major instance of symbolism: the flag. First, I should say we need to remember that this isn’t necessarily a message from Haggis. For the writer/director, it may not symbolize anything more than “The End.”

There’s no reason to believe it’s supposed to refer to events outside of the film . On the other hand, it is meaningful in a less direct way – the same way that real events can be meaningful – to help us work with other circumstances more effectively. As I said earlier, this is how people began telling stories in the first place – to preserve and manage meaning.

So the “sign of distress” doesn’t necessarily come from Haggis (though it probably does). I mean, if anything, it’s more of a gesture than a statement. While the whole story is obviously extremely relevant to real-world events, it doesn’t necessarily refer to them in any specific, unambiguous way. We can use art to lead us to real insights, but if we read too much into it, then it becomes misleading abuse.

Anyways, we know that for Hank, the flag gesture is very symbolic: he’s the one who explains what it means – and it’s important enough to him that he goes out of his way to do so. But we can’t assume he knew exactly what he was doing either. It may have been merely an admission of confusion (from someone who isn’t accustomed to being confused or out of control), a gesture of last resort, symbolizing “I don’t know what else there is to do.”

I think it may be significant that the flag is in front of a school (I believe). Hank might have meant his gesture to symbolize his concerns about the fate of younger generations – if not the helplessness of children, his own inability to help them, or even understand what kind of help they might need.

On this theme – inter-generational relations, ie. differences – is where I think In the Valley of Elah becomes the most meaningful. The undertones occur throughout the film: there’s nobody from Hank’s generation left on the base, comments about changes in investigative styles, a demonstration of changes in parenting styles. And in the entire investigation, what was the only thing Hank was ever wrong about?

This also addresses Hank’s flashbacks – his apparent worries about whether or not he did what he could to help his son. Despite all of the little things he was able to do – like advice about staying warm on sentry duty – he was unable to help his son in the way he needed it the most. Not only did he fail to help him, but after he realized his failure, he still didn’t know how he might have possibly helped him: he was helpless himself in this regard.

So this is where the film leaves us: in the Valley of Elah with Hank, a soldier whose time has passed, and who can’t even imagine how to address the problems of a new age. And it would seem to be a rather miserable and discouraging way to end. But there’s hope.

The hope comes from reminding ourselves of the rest of what happened in the Biblical Valley of Elah: the arrival of David.

David doesn’t have to be anyone in particular, just ‘youth’ – anyone who doesn’t know enough to ‘know better,’ who doesn’t know enough to be confused and afraid, people who don’t carry a heavy burden of past assumptions and conventions, who are willing to deal with problems in a much more immediate and simplified way.

I’m sort of saying a few things at once here – about the film, about war, and about life in general. Or rather, I'm using the film to help illustrate what I try to say in every one of my other essays. I’m saying that complex and ambiguous circumstances – whether in a movie or in real life – are often made unmanageable by past experience.

Our old conventions and assumptions (our armour and weapons) interfere with our ability to deal with present and future problems. Sometimes the most effective approach is naive, and the best weapons and tools can be found right at our feet – if we’re only willing to look, and to calmly walk down and face our difficulties with clear-eyed confidence.

This essay isn't intended to be just an interpretation of In the Valley of Elah; in fact, it probably misses much of the film's intended message. What I'm trying to do is begin resolving, or at least appreciating, some of the problems -- the "social conditions" -- the film touches on. As in my past essays, I'm trying to do this in a really simple, unadorned way, free of the burdensome assumptions and conventions of past generations.

Résumé/Manifesto

[Originally written in March, 2007. Please see the Preface to this work.]

Contents: i. A Résumé, a story about itself, a creative consummation...
ii. Common points of reference / Meaning / Live dramatically /
iii. Story of ideas / Discipline for freedom / ROI? /
iv. Intrinsic motivation / Self-becoming / Self-preservation /
v. Education for progress / Progress for education / Generativity /
vi. Perception of change / Organization / Responsibility /
vii. Learning to learn / Learning to love learning / Autonomy /
viii. ... an active, adventurous, authentic accomplishment.

i

This is meant to be a kind of résumé; it’s an attempt to compose a more creative professional story, a program of self-discovery and self-creation; all of my education and experience grows with it.

But it goes beyond that; it isn’t merely a story about ‘Me’; it is more precisely a story about itself – an autobibliography. It is a story about ideas, composed by the ideas themselves. It represents a practical theory of education and experience in the process of its own discovery and creation.

This process is continuous; in a sense, endless. But if discovery and creativity are not consummated, the effort is meaningless. This story both is and is about the process of creative consummation in education.

ii

All stories require common points of reference between the narrator and the audience, or else no communication can occur. The typical career-story is a simple, straightforward, efficient way to frame our personal identities – titles, degrees, awards, and achievements – but they lack the human drama necessary to keep life interesting. Our careers provide the rhythm of life, but for harmony and melody we tend to look elsewhere: hobbies, vacations, volunteering, shopping, sports, music – to name a few. We are drawn to these things by curiosity, for the novelty they offer, but they persist because they are socially relevant and meaningful, they become common points of reference, they intersect with the narratives of others.

It is impossible to be human and not live dramatically, or in a sense, artificially. This doesn’t make life less vital or ‘real;’ it simply means that our individual views of the world are limited, and within these views we are compelled to be creative – often unconsciously – to make them seem more realistic and complete. Although it is impossible to ever achieve a completely realistic conception of life, we can at least begin to perceive things more realistically if we concede that ultimately, there will always be something unreal in our perspective: a "sportive" character, as one of my favourite philosophers would say.

This project is an attempt to make my story tangible, relevant – to consummate a period of my ongoing education – to intersect and integrate into a wider, deeper social drama. In other words, this is an attempt to demonstrate my accomplishments, my professional value, my net worth in the knowledge economy. But it is not just an assessment of my own character, it is an attempt to approach the modern concept of work from a new perspective; an assessment of the character of life in general. In sum, it is an effort to reconcile the means and ends of progress and education.

iii

My story, my education, is about ideas; it is ideas. This kind of narrative has lost relevance in modern culture – it lacks intersectivity with other narratives – not because people don’t like ideas, but because machines don’t like ideas; computers can’t think the way we do, and we rely on computers to help us think. We live in an age of statistics, the ‘age of averages,’ and anything that can’t be quantified, aggregated and analysed tends not to thrive. This isn’t altogether bad: ‘average is underrated’ – at least it’s better than arbitrary.

But as things become more regulated and standardized; we learn to think in terms of keywords, buzzwords, and watchwords; we learn to think like our machines – which is to say, in a way, we forget how to think – we merely follow instructions. We are incapable of recognizing what’s true, beautiful and good without methodical, abstract analytics and techniques; we don’t trust ourselves.

And this is, to a generous degree, a good thing. However, the promoters and detractors of "instrumental reason" tend to neglect its main benefit: discipline is necessary for creative freedom. Meanwhile, it has been mistaken as an end in itself.

Unless we understand what it is for, discussions of how to use it will be senseless. We need to ask, Do these mechanistic practices have a way to analyse their own effect and value? What are the measurements and methods used to decide whether such measurements and methods are desirable to begin with? What is the actual return on our huge, intangible investment of time and energy? Who is accountable?

iv

To avoid the semantic and partisan obscurantism of those issues, I began my investigation from a more immediate perspective: Why do I learn? The answer is, I believe, that we all learn simply because we can; and in so doing, we acquire ideas, habits, and skills that make life dramatic: learning is a way to recognize our own effect in the world. We lose sight of this simplicity because our learned ideas and habits get mistaken as the real ends of education; but they are not motives in the deepest and purest sense of that term: we are not motivated by financial objectives, job titles, social standing, etc, we are motivated through them.

For example, infants do not need special motivation to learn how to walk and talk – there are obvious benefits from what is learned, but they are secondary; learning is the primary reward. And just as there is no special motive behind learning these things, there is no special motive behind using them either: "talk" naturally finds something to talk about, and "walk" naturally finds something to walk towards; and by talking-about and walking-towards objects in their world, young children continue to learn new skills, improving their effective means.

Children enjoy connecting with the world and integrating different objects of which the world is composed. Children grow to learn to see themselves in this integrity; they are impressed by the world, which they re-create and express in return, in reciprocity – as if the whole world is a mirror. But it is not enough to say children recognize themselves in it; what is more important is that they recognize themselves doing something.

The simple acts of reaching and grasping soon evolve into more complex tasks and skills, utilizing objects as tools. By the time we reach adulthood, life has a coherent pattern: we believe we know who we are, and we believe we know what the world is. Intrinsic motivation – active self-creation and self-discovery – has become regulated, conforming to the character of the environment. We have established habits, routines, expectations, conventions and institutions; these determine most of our daily activities and decisions. Adult life has a steady rhythm, and within this rhythm we find opportunities for dramatic, harmonic, melodic invention.

v

But human nature continually finds new ways to use the environment to create new rhythms; the intrinsic motivation of successive generations finds new patterns. Routines and conventions that suit adults do not suit their children in quite the same way; each generation creates their own conventions, which in turn become material for the creative impulses of the next generation. In this way, education is for the sake of progress, and progress is for the sake of education.

Education and progress can be understood as two modes or aspects of the same process; education shows us ‘the outside,’ progress shows us ‘the inside.’ Both give us greater perceptual awareness, conceptual proficiency, active involvement, and expressive subtlety; they help us define and maintain our relationship with the world. Thus we are better able to connect feelings to intentions, intentions to actions, and actions to consequences; education becomes discipline, discipline facilitates freedom, freedom drives progress, and progress educates.

But education and progress are not always successful in these terms. Historically, what we call "progress" has merely tended to be progressive. Some groups and cultures have failed – succumbed to evolutionary events – by either neglecting progress, or defining it within a too- narrow field, such as territorial acquisition or mechanical efficiency.

Similarly, there are educational routes that lead to developmental dead ends – a point beyond which a person’s education cannot continue. This may be the result of simply lacking the necessary skills (such as literacy or mathematics), but quite often this is a result of learning something too well – developing habits and expectations that prevent the individual from approaching a new field with the proper attitude or perspective. So the principal demand of education is that it should increase – or at least not decrease – the student’s willingness and ability discover and create.

vi

We often talk about an abstract, potential future and an abstract, historical past, but we tend to base our practical decisions on the assumption that things have always been, and will continue to be, ‘just as they are.’ In other words, we seek specific changes within our present context, without appreciating that the context itself will be subject to change. We are afraid to reflect on what the real future might become; we are afraid we might lose ground in the race to the future as we presently expect it. It is a race with no leader.

"Followership" is a habit like any other – in fact, it is a kind of skill – which deepens with practice. Over time, followers lose the ability (and the desire) to think about what they are doing, or what they might do; they can’t respond to novel problems and opportunities; they are not responsible; they cannot lead – at least not effectively, not generatively – and those around them are hemmed-in by their fatal will.

But this problem is the result of organizational, institutionalised entropy – often characterised by the rule of instrumental reason. Organizations, and the people responsible for them – which is everybody – must be actively, continuously responsible. We need opportunities to work in ways that develop personal autonomy: opportunities that are challenging, enjoyable, educational, and generative. And by doing so, organizations and cultures become more progressive and educational as a whole; they become more relevant, meaningful, and mindful.

vii

If I had limited the scope of this project to "learning how to learn," I could have written endlessly, which would have accomplished little. The problem is that the idea of ‘pure learning’ is merely abstract – impossible in practical terms. There must be some kind of content, and there is no way to assess progress unless it is treated seriously. The lessons about learning in general can only be learned through specific lessons – for which the opportunities are endless.

If instead, we find a way to make continuous learning a kind of end in itself – if we "learn how to love learning" – we can save ourselves a lot of energy in the long term. Of course, this does not mean there is no wasted energy or excess verbiage. What’s important is that we become genuinely committed: we take responsibility, we regret the waste and try to avoid it. Whereas, when learning is merely a means to some other end, distractions are mistaken as real satisfactions, entropy seems like progress.

So what can we say about learning in general that will not become just another distraction, another artificial end, another theory or technique that serves to obstruct as many opportunities as it facilitates? Not very much – all we can do is work passionately to develop our personal competence, autonomy, and expertise, in ways that intersect with the narratives of those around us, as part of a drama played on a larger stage.

viii

Learning is a continuous project, it is necessarily imperfect and incomplete; the act of learning can remain meaningful, even while meaning fades from the thing learned. The greatest accomplishment of any education is an appreciation of the rhythmic, harmonious and melodic character of life. In the process, it is possible to achieve perfection or satisfaction momentarily, in activity, as part of an ongoing adventure.

This adventure – this dramatic education – is ultimately theoretical and practical; it seeks a theory of practice through the practice of theory; but its accomplishments cannot be described abstractly – as neither theory or technique. The successful student can only claim, like Socrates, "I am now conscious of my own ignorance... I do not think that I know what I do not know," which is the most authentic accomplishment of any education.

But how do I put this accomplishment on a résumé? In order to reconcile the emerging adventure of ideas with our aging institutions, I’ve tried to change the way we approach ‘the résumé,’ to integrate my career project with my philosophical project, to create an integrated form of consummatory expression: to compose a narrative that generates, rather than limits opportunities for discovery and creation; a drama that is open to those willing to make learning its own reward, for anyone willing to be responsible, to invest, to ask questions, to discover, to create, and (foremost) to lead.

[Originally written in March, 2007. See the Preface to this work.]

What is the meaning of life?

The first thing that I think of when posed this question is that the question itself has two meanings: "What is the meaning of the word life?" and "What is the meaning of what the word life refers to?" Obviously we need to take care of the first question (if that’s possible), before we can adequately address the second.

The word life – like any word – means different things to different people, sometimes it’s used to mean different things within the same context, which can lead to unnecessary confusion. We may not be able to define the term absolutely or universally, but we should at least make clear what we take it to mean in this context, and stick to that meaning as much as possible.

Here, I’m going to keep it simple: I’m using "life" to mean, roughly, everything – including death, dreams, thoughts, feelings, relationships, etc. But note the important difference between life and everything: "life" suggests a moving, growing, vital quality; "everything" suggests something more static – everything that is. I’m not just concerned with everything that is, but everything that was, and the way it came to be; I also want to remain open to everything that might yet become, and the way that might happen. I don’t think it’s even possible to suppose where or when life began or will end.

Now I need to warn you that I’m going to use the word "meaning" to mean slightly different things – sort of – despite my claim that we should always stick to one meaning. [Ironically, "mean" has one of the most ambiguous meanings of all words. It includes (of course) what a word means, the means to an end, the mean (or average) result of a survey, and let’s not forget about the most different (but in some places, the most popular) reference to "mean people."] Except perhaps for the last one, they really aren’t too far apart. I generally take "mean" to refer to a change or effect that goes directly from one thing to another – a kind of conduction, translation, or transformance. So when I talk about the meaning of a word, I’m referring to the word’s function, or effect – its power as a symbol to automatically suggest a specific idea or image in the mind.

So far I’ve stayed fairly true to one meaning of the word "meaning": the meaning of words. But when we talk about the meaning of life, we want to determine what is beyond life, so what life is a "means" towards will become the focal topic of this essay.

Now here’s another little problem: if life is supposed to be a means to something else, then we have to be able to see it as a whole, from the outside, we have to define it. Meaning and definition are not the same thing. When I discussed what the word "life" means, I didn’t really define it; I didn’t draw an outline around life as a finite thing; in fact, I suggested that the meaning of the word should be open, representing something with no definite beginning or end.

Even if life does have a definite beginning, a definite end, there is no way for us to know what came before and what will come after. [You might take life to mean a life – your life, my life, our lives, etc. – but hat isn’t what I’m talking about here. I plan on dealing with that in a future essay.] So whether or not the unity of life has a meaning, it’s impossible for us to say for sure what it is; any hypotheses in this matter would have no evidence to assist with either approval or disposal. Such guesses may not be meaningless – they might have some heuristic value – but they’re awefully distracting and expensive.

It is more effective for us to ignore questions regarding the unity of life, and instead consider the meaning of life at specific moments. In this sense, the meaning of life always depends on given circumstances or conditions; but speaking generally, the meaning of life is always more life. In other words, life is a means to continue living.

That may seem like a tautology – something so obvious that it needn’t be said – but sometimes the most obvious points are the easiest to lose. That’s how so many intelligent people have at some time believed that life is meaningless.

Life cannot be meaningless; we may observe at any time and any place that life is a means to its own continuation. This discussion is itself a continuation of life. Even if you believe that life is meaningless, you must accept that it is at least meaningful enough that it gave you such feelings, thoughts, and beliefs. In turn, how meaningful (or meaningless) those thoughts and beliefs may become will partly depend on decisions you make – to sustain your belief in the meaninglessness of life, or to respond freely to meaningful opportunities. Action is naturally spontaneous; inaction must be learned and maintained by effort.

Skeptics might complain that meaning is "merely" artificial – that things mean what we make them mean – but this tendency is as natural and unavoidable as breathing. And skepticism is no less artificial.

I think it’s impossible to experience objects and events without perceiving some meaning beyond their immediate context. Feelings, ideas, and images continually occur to us, which we automatically extend to other areas of life. We tend to remember these meanings – sometimes more vividly than the real circumstances from which they derived. These ideas and feelings interact on another level of experience – away (but not disconnected) from physical reality – and they continue to generate new, higher-level meanings and purposes. In this way, we learn to perceive and conceive life as a coherent, organized whole, which helps us live more effectively – more meaningfully.

In some sense, life may constitute a coherent whole, but it is never a complete whole. To convince me otherwise, you’d have to convince me that time does not exist, you’d have to convince me that life is finished, you’d have to convince me that we weren’t even having this conversation. If life is finished, then how could we want to convince each other of anything? All feelings of interest, caring, curiosity, desire, fear, ambition, and love would vanish.

Nevertheless, we have a tendency (perhaps we can call it a need) to conceive life as a complete whole, with a static framework or foundation. Maybe it’s because time is so persistent that we forget about it. Or maybe it’s culturally advantageous to pretend life is complete, helping us overcome uncertainty, which helps us meet goals and finish projects.

Did you catch the intended meaning of that last suggestion? It seems to me that our cultural institutions have evolved to favour inert ideas and fixed mindsets. People talk about the value of "getting things done" (often "by any means necessary") as if that is the universally best attitude to have – as if we are always in a state of emergency or intense competition. No doubt there is a lot of intense competition around, but that’s partly of our own making: we’ve learned from our institutions to enjoy the kind of meaning derived by goal-oriented competition.

So to take the time to do what I’ve done may be looked upon by many as a meaningless waste of time – a distraction from the apparently urgent goals that need to be accomplished. Those people will skim these words to find the simplest statement of the meaning – as if the meaning could be worth anything apart from the act, the experience, of writing, reading, and thinking about it. To those people it will seem like I meant merely to say "Life means want you want it to mean. Meaning is what you make."

That’s only a part of my point. What I really mean to illustrate has more to do with the continuity, openness, and incompleteness of meaning. This is impossible to define without falsification – like life itself. It isn’t enough to say that the meaning of life is what you make it: we must never stop saying it, while never completely defining it, or believing in it as a final, ultimate end.

By only serving the meanings and ends that we already believe in, we prevent ourselves from recognizing and generating new ones, we fail to cultivate the ability to make life more meaningful, we cut ourselves off from the most valuable goal we could ever accomplish.