One Hundred and Eighty Days

So it has been 180 days since I lost Bride.  I cannot even fit that in my head.  Like most significant events in my life, it seems like yesterday and it seems like a hundred years ago.  I remember making the decision early that I was not going to make any big decisions for at least the first six months.  Well, here we are and I feel like I have made a million decisions and at the same time, I feel like I’ve made none.  It’s weird how our brain works like that.

I think there is one decision I have made, it just does not have a timeline yet.  That decision is that Nebraska will not be my final destination.  I like it here, don’t get me wrong.  There are still more things for me to see that I have never seen before.  And at the same time, it is too far from any large body of water.  In fact, Nebraska is the only triple landlocked state in the United States.  Meaning to reach an ocean or open sea, you must cross at least three different states or international border to get to water.

The ocean is very important to me.  It has too many restorative powers.  It brings peace to my soul that a river, stream or lake simply cannot.  I don’t know where that comes from, but I suspect it comes from my days in the Navy.  Sitting on the fantail in the middle of the night, in the middle of the ocean, is something that has to be experienced to believe.  So, not a permanent location, just don’t know when this part of the adventure will draw to an end.

Maybe that is one of the things that has changed in these 180 days.  Somewhere along the way I started thinking about an adventure again.  That feels strange to even type.  I haven’t posted here for a few weeks.  It isn’t because I haven’t been writing.  Quite the opposite.  I have probably written more in the last month or so than I have in years.  I just don’t know how much of it belongs here yet.

I started working on something that may someday become a book.  A couple of dear friends are helping me determine if it is or not.  I don’t want to get too far into that here, mostly because I am still figuring out what the hell it is myself.  What started as writing about losing Bride has slowly become something else.  I’ve found myself writing less about death and grief and more about the life that is still showing up every morning and sitting with me while I have my coffee.  And that has led me to some uncomfortable territory.

What do I still want?  Where do I belong?  What am I looking forward to?  What parts of me survived April 21^st am I still discovering?  I don’t have particularly good answers to any of those questions, or any others one really.  Six months ago, I was not even capable of asking them.  Maybe that is what feels different after 180 days have passed.

For a while, surviving was all I could do.  Get through today.  Then tomorrow.  Then the day after that. Figure out how to be ok coming home an empty house, other than Dogbert.  Learning how to make dinner for one.  Learning how to sleep in our room, even though it was a different bed.  Learning how to carry a life that suddenly had an enormous Bride shaped hole in the middle of it.  And somehow, somewhere in there something began to shift. 

I still miss her EVERY DAMN DAY.  There are still moments when the reality of her being gone lands with enough force to make my knees weak.  And now there are also moments when I catch myself wondering what comes next for me, myself and I.  I used to feel a bit of guilt about that.  Sometimes I still do.  I am driven forward by the fact that I am 100% sure that Bride would not want me to get stuck here, figuratively, not physically.   

It is so fucking hard.  Because imagining a future can feel dangerously close to moving on.  And I have absolutely zero interest in moving on from Bride.  What I am beginning to understand is that maybe those aren’t the same thing.  Maybe carrying her with me and continuing to build a life aren’t in conflict with each other.  Maybe, just maybe, they are the next bit of work. 

And maybe that curiosity is the biggest change I can see in myself right now.  I have started wanting things again.  Nothing particularly grand.  I want to learn new things that I don’t know how to do.  I want to take something apart that I’ve never taken apart and see if I can get them back together.  I want to travel to places I have never been.  I want to spend time with people I care about.  I want more mornings that make me wonder what the day might bring instead of just wondering how I am going to get through it.   

None of that fixes anything.  It certainly does not make me miss Bride any less.  Maybe that is another thing I am learning.  Missing her and wanting my life can apparently occupy the same space.  Grief doesn’t have to leave the room before curiosity is allowed back in.  I’m not sure I understood that before.  Hell, I’m not 100% sure I completely understand it now.

There are still moments when I want to text or call her, it’s why I haven’t turned her cell phone off yet.  When I see something ridiculous my first instinct is to let her know, and for a fraction of a second my heart forgets what the rest of me already knows.  Those moments hurt like hell.  And strangely, I don’t want them to stop completely.  I like that she is still instinctually  the person my brain reaches for first.  

I don’t have any idea where that life eventually takes me.  Apparently, it’s somewhere closer to an ocean.  Beyond that, the map still seems pretty damn fuzzy.  For the first time in a while though, I am curious about where it might lead.  And 180 days ago, I could not have imagined myself saying that or even allowing myself to think that.  

Turns Out Writing Is How I Listen

I was texting with a friend recently about my recent blog on loneliness.  They said I was able to put words to a feeling they sit with often.  They went through a divorce a couple of years ago that included relocating quite some distance away.  They also mentioned that I was inspiring them to write.  I encouraged them to do exactly that, even if they didn’t publish anything like I have done mine.  The conversation got me thinking about something I already knew but didn’t have all the words for.  I was reminded that I didn’t start this blog because I thought I had any answers.  Most days I’m trying to figure things out pretty much in real time.  In fact, I’ve discovered that many of the things I write about aren’t things I already know.  They’re things I find out while I am pecking on the keyboard. 

Looking back, I figured that out decades ago.  For as long as I can remember, I’ve done a lot of wandering around inside my own head.  I can spend days overthinking things, turning it over and over again, running down rabbit holes and revisiting conversations that ended a long time ago.  As a buddy of mine would say, “I think we have kicked that particular horse to liquefaction.”  I used to think writing was what happened after all that processing was done.  Think about, figure it out, and then peck away on a keyboard. 

I have known for a while that typing it out helps me, and since Sandy died, it has become clear that the writing is where the real processing is happening.  Thoughts floating around in my head tend to stay half formed, kinda like puzzle pieces scattered on the table.  Once they hit the keyboard, they slow down long enough for me to look at them.  The connections start to appear, things I thought I had a good grip on take on a different meaning.  Things I didn’t realize were bugging me suddenly pop up.   Some of the biggest things I’ve learned about grief, loneliness, friendship, gratitude, marriage, and myself weren’t conclusions I sat down with.  They were discoveries that showed up somewhere around paragraph 3.

It might not be apparent to Y’all, but many times these posts start in one place and end up in an entirely different place.  What begins as a story about an old photograph, a song on the radio, an empty chair, or a cup sitting on the counter often becomes some new discovery about myself.  The story gets me started, the writing helps me figure out where I was actually headed.  I see this progressing in my posts, especially since April, which hardly makes sense to me, and here we are anyway.  The object or the story was almost never the point.  It was just the thread I started yanking on. 

I think that is why I keep writing.  Not because I have some great wisdom to share, and certainly not because I have life all figured out.  That is definitely not the case.  If anything, the older I get the more comfortable I become admitting that I don’t.   What writing gives me is a chance to slow down long enough to pay attention to what’s happening in my body and brain.  Life in general moves along at a blistering pace.  Thoughts come and go, feelings show up, make a mess of things and then run off and hide in the corner.  Writing forces me to wander my ass over to that dark corner and sit with those feelings for a while.  And that forces the questions I wasn’t planning on being asked, and that I have even less of an idea how to answer.

One of the surprising parts has been discovering that the things I am learning along the way aren’t always mine alone.  Time after time someone reaches out and says, “I thought I was the only one who felt that way” or “I didn’t know how to put that into words until I read what you wrote.”  Or just the many little notes of appreciation for writing these posts and  sharing them with the world on my little blog.  Most times I find it a bit odd because I am usually trying to make sense of my own thoughts when I start typing.   Somehow, in the process of listening to myself, other people hear parts of their own story too.

Maybe that’s because the things we carry around aren’t nearly as unique as we like to think they are.  The whole human condition thing and all.  The details may vary, the names change, and the stories are different.  One person may be grieving the loss of a spouse, another is grieving a marriage that ended and a life journey diverted.  Someone else might have lost a parent, or a close friend.  For others it could be a dream that didn’t work out the way they had hoped.  The circumstances are different, and the feelings underneath most of the time are not.  Whatever it was that I uncovered while pecking away on the keyboard is usually something they see in themselves.   

Maybe that’s what kept rattling around in my head after we finished texting.  Not because they complimented my writing.  What stuck with me was the realization that they had seen a piece of themselves in something I wrote while trying to understand myself.  That’s kind of amazing when ya stop and ponder on it for a moment. 

Two people living very different lives, carrying different stories and different scars, somehow finding common ground in places neither of us would have chosen to visit.  It felt like one of those rare moments when two people realize they’ve been carrying the same thing, even if they arrived there on different roads.  Maybe I wasn’t trying to understand myself after all.  Maybe the thing I keep finding in these stories isn’t answers.  It’s connection.  Because when somebody says, “Yeah, I know that feeling,” you realize that neither of us are quite as alone as we might have thought we were. 

Here is the Oratory that started it all. 

Smitty’s Technology Free Zone

You probably would not expect the average Chief Technology Officer to have a place called the Technology Free Zone.  Truth be told, I have always had a complicated relationship with average and normal.  If you have known me for more than 10 minutes, you already know that I have never really done normal in any aspect of my life. 

The Technology Free Zone isn’t complicated.  It’s just my garage.  It is a place where the only thing asking for my attention is whatever old assed thing I happen to be tinkering with.     There are no software compatibility questions, no firmware updates, and no Docker servers.  Just an old tube radio providing the soundtrack while I work. 

In a world that seems determined to demand my attention every few seconds, the garage asks only one thing of me.  When I walk out there, it asks me to be absolutely present.  It does not matter if I am building a table, restoring an old drill press, or wrenching on a car.  It is one of my Zen spots for sure.

These days, the thing dominating the garage is a 1963 Galaxie Convertible.  Bride and I had agreed to do a bunch of work to improve reliability, even setting aside the funds to do it.  I’ve gotten the rear suspension and drive train removed.  I have most of the new parts and most of the ones staying are cleaned up.  That comes with a tediousness that I find relaxing.  Scraping off decades of mung, and I am not talking about the small green legume.  This work takes zero brain power, it just takes doing the dang thing. 

This work is quite the opposite of my job.  That revolves around solving problems with knowledge.  My Galaxie cares little about how smart I am.  And as a certain small green Jedi once taught an entire generation, there are moments in life when less thinking and more doing is exactly what is required.  That is the way of things in my garage.

Bride’s opinion of this kind of work was pretty straightforward.  “Why do you even like doing this?” she’d ask.  “It looks like a giant pain in the ass.” And if I were only looking at a pile of greasy road caked suspension parts on the bench, it was hard to argue with her assessment.  The best answer I ever came up with was that this kind of work doesn’t ask me anything other than being present. 

The Jalopy parts don’t care about my title.  They don’t care about strategy documents, budgets, or technology roadmaps.  The only thing the parts care about is whether I am willing to spend the time to clean them up and put them back together correctly.  If I am being honest, I don’t really enjoy the cleaning parts, nobody does.  What I do enjoy is the space just doing the dang thing creates.  It gives my brain a place to land.  Mindlessness.  There isn’t much room for worrying about tomorrow when you’re focused on a wire brush defunkifying a part that has been collecting crud since John F. Kennedy was in office.

I have done this kind of work on cars for a long time and have come to love it in an odd Smitty kinda way.  But this time feels different.  Somewhere in the methodicalness, between the scraping, cleaning and painting of all the bits, it occurred to me that the Galaxie wasn’t the only thing being repaired and restored. 

I don’t mean restored in any sort of Hollywood ending kinda way, we all know real life doesn’t work like that.  And there is no replacement part for losing someone you love.  What I mean is simpler.  Somewhere along the way I had lost track of how much I enjoy the process of making something better with my own two hands.  The Galaxie wasn’t fixing my grief, it wasn’t fixing my loneliness, and it wasn’t going to bring Bride back.  Maybe that’s why I keep showing up.  I believe both of us still have a few miles left in us.

The other night I was sitting in the garage ponder chair waiting on paint to dry on a couple of parts.  Just me, sitting and staring.  Not because they were particularly impressive, they weren’t.  I was staring and pondering on their transformation.  From a grungy old funkified part a week ago to now a shiny freshly painted part, actually it was matte paint but you get the idea.  No one but me will probably ever see them once I reinstalled them under the car, but I know what they look like.  Nobody restores a car for what it is today.  We do it because we know it can become tomorrow.  Every part cleaned, every bushing replaced, every hour spent in the garage is a small vote for a future that does not yet exist.  Maybe that’s what the Technology Free Zone has really been giving me all along.  Not an escape from technology, but a place quite enough to notice I was changing too.  

I can almost hear Bride asking the question again.  “You spent how many hours cleaning that up?”  She never understood the appeal.  Then again, I guess she didn’t have to.  She understood me, and that was enough.  Well, that and she loved riding around in this convertible. 

There is still a long way to go on the old Girl.  There are boxes of parts yet to be opened, even more yet to be ordered.  I am sure there will be a few surprises around the corner, that is just how it works with old cars.  So, it is with life as well, more boxes, more surprises.  For now, I am content to spend a few hours in the garage, listening to an oldies station on my old tube radio and working on whatever bit is next in line to be worked on.

The goal started as improving the reliability of a 1963 Galaxie 500 convertible.  These days, I am not entirely sure that is the only thing being restored.  I just know that every part cleaned, every bolt turned, and every evening spent in my Technology Free Zone leaves something a little better tomorrow than it was today. 

The Galaxie isn’t finished.  Neither am I.

The Importance of Showing Up, Even When You’re Not OK

Some mornings ya don’t wake up brave, some mornings you’re just exhausted.  Some mornings our hearts ache, our minds are scrambled from running all out, and our spirit is running on the battery we forgot to plug in last night.  And still, every morning when our eyeballs pop open, we rise thankful we got another day to make a difference.  Not because we’re unshakable, but because we have learned the importance of our quiet presence.  We must show up, be there for those who need us, even when it takes trembling courage because we know we are not OK ourselves.  That is the kind of courage that does not make speeches or pose for gold gilded pictures, it is the courage of those who know they are imperfect.  That is the kind of courage whose voice cracks, and steady intention can’t even find the words.  Those of us who can admit we are not OK, we sit down, take some deep breaths and let our presence speak the words we can’t quite get out – I am here.  I am doing the best I can with what, and who, I have.  And for today, that has to be enough and we have to be OK letting it be enough, because at least my eyeballs popped open.  

Lately we don’t get to show up on the hard days full of fire and fearlessness, ready to attack the day.  Lately we have to show up simply because our presence matters to those who rely on us, even at work.  We show up even when our strength and patience are running near empty.   That’s a quiet truth that most leaders learn the hard way, at least in my experience.  Disappearing, even for legitimate and valid reasons, can ripple through a team in ways we never intended.  For me that means making space for the team, even when I am angry and disappointed and my voice is cracking.  I still make the choice to support the folks in my care.  It lets them know that they are not alone, it lets them know we are here to support each other, even in the hardest of times.  I show up for them because I have a responsibility to do so, just like I showed up for my shipmates, no matter what.  Leadership is not a performance, it’s a presence.  Imperfect, human, sometimes raw and unfinished, but the constant is showing up.  It can be a gift, I know it is for me. 

It’s weird because those days I show up the most imperfect are the days that carry the most  hope.  Folks don’t want or need polished up quotes from whatever the latest leadership book they read, they need us real and they need our presence.  When we show up with tired eyes, an honest heart, even if angry and disappointed, it becomes permission.  Permission for them to stop pretending, permission to breathe, and most importantly, permission to bring their whole selves to the conversation instead of the curated version of themselves.  That is such a grounding force, authenticity is appreciated as it steadies the room without saying a word.  Just being there tells the team, we can keep going, even through the hardest things, especially the things outside of work they have no choice but to carry with them.  This act of care is a small but powerful signal that we understand them, that we believe in them, and that makes room for the possibility that tomorrow might be kinder to their soul.

Some days we simply have to admit the truth without letting it become our whole identity.  Not OK does not mean broken, it does not mean we are not capable, it means we are human in a moment in time where the world seems dead set on taking a bite out of us.   Funny thing, and it’s kind of like when a scientist watches an experiment and realizes the simple act of watching is changing the experiment, an unexpected variable.  When we stop trying to wrestle our feelings to the ground to get them to relax, they get a bit lighter, the whole thing changes when we let go a little.  We are allowed to be shaken by the goings on, I question those who aren’t, and regardless we can still be steady and a bit lighter about it.   Think about that wisdom that says home is still home, the porch light is on and we don’t have to prove to anyone we deserve rest, we just walk right in and plop down on the couch and Grandma brings ya a sweet tea and kisses your forehead, that right there is the good stuff.     

The simple truth is, none of us get through any season alone, even if we put up the façade that we are.  We are steadied by those we allow to show up for us, the ones that don’t need explanations or a bunch of words.  The ones who are simply present for us, maybe with a hand on our shoulder, or a longer than normal hug.  It might even be that random text from that person you needed to hear from, I got an email yesterday that filled my heart from a coworker, I damn near cried at the generosity of their soul.  These folks don’t try to fix us, don’t try to justify the world in any way, they simply make space that feels safe enough that we can breathe again.  That simple human kind of love reminds us that showing up isn’t something we owe the world, its something we learned from the people who never walked away from us, even on their hardest days.  That is who we need to emulate.

Some days the bravest thing we can do is let enough actually be enough.  This is a struggle I have, the intellectual part of me recognizes the need to let enough be enough but I have learned that my emotional part does not always give a damn about what the intellectual part is up to.  The dichotomy of that battle I find to be one of life’s less than humorous jokes.  Pretending when we don’t believe it is also one of life’s little jokes, one that can be cruel to our well being.  We must keep saying, this is what I got today, and that is enough, sometimes we have to add words, like God Dammit or for fucks sake.   That is our heart being humble and kind with ourselves.  Maybe when Tim McGraw sang the words don’t expect a free ride  from no one, don’t hold a grudge or a chip and here’s why.  Bitterness keeps ya from flying, always be humble and kind he was singing about that very thing.  We have to dig for our better selves, choosing gentleness when things are hard.  We have to work on not passing our hurt onto the next person in line.  And always be thankful you kept going without losing your humanity and inherent goodness – be humble and kind.

Showing up when you’re not OK is not weakness, its love with dirt on its hands.  It’s refusing to let the hard season turn you into a hard person.  I have said various versions of this over the years but folks don’t always remember what ya said.  But they do remember how they felt when you were there.  They will remember that you didn’t disappear, even if your eyes are tired, even when your day was shitty.  We have to make room and share space to help the room feel a little less lonely, for both of us.  The wild part is, it does not require grand gestures to make an impact.  More often than not, it is the smallest things that tell the loudest truths.  sharing a lifesaver, holding a door open when you don’t feel polite, letting someone in who stayed in the lane we both knew was closing a mile ago, or simply paying for coffee fort the person behind you in line at Starbucks, which happened to me today, I paid that forward and rode that wave of joy all day.  That joy was an unexpected gift from a stranger, and I am grateful for it.    

So maybe that’s the whole thing.  Learning to come home to ourselves the same way we went over to Grandma’s to feel safe and loved.  On nights where you’re running on fumes, let enough be enough.  Be deliberate about putting the bitterness and hurt down, because that shit is heavy and you deserve to breathe.  If all you did today was stay human and offer one small kindness, then believe me when I tell you, that counts and it matters.  That is courage.  That is hope.  That is perseverance. And most importantly, the porch light is on for you - always! 

What do we do with all of this??

I was inspired by a friend and the tune “Momma said there’d be days like this”, which I am listening to at this very moment, to type some of my feelings out.   For me, there are days lately when the world feels heavier than it oughta, heavier than I want it to and heavier than the Shirelles ever imagined when they sang that song.  Days when sadness settles into my bones, when fear and anxiety invade all of my other thoughts, when anger sparks and makes itself impossible to ignore.  While these days are inevitable along our journey, I wish they weren’t.

I am Alex Pretti in many ways, I exercise my second amendment right, as he did.  I am wired to step up when I see someone being mistreated, not with force but with presence, as he did.  I would have been the one standing nearby, recording what I saw and making sure she knew she was not alone, as he did.  Protection in some cases simply means making sure the truth can’t be buried, as he did.  That is what being a helper means to me, not confrontation but compassion and empathy combined with accountability.

Regardless the noise and picking a side I am terrified because for the first time, me just doing my thang in that abnormal Smitty fashion, the way I usually move through the world, curious, joking around and just a bit chaotic just does not feel entirely safe anymore. I have lived my whole life NEVER once being othered by a single way that I identify, a white, CIS gendered, heterosexual, American born, English speaker who holds a position of power.  I also recognize, and acknowledge, that I am in the very singular group who can say that.  Because of that privilege, I have never been scared, at traffic stops, in protests, in any setting really.  Uncomfortable at times, sure but NEVER scared let alone terrified.

Like a lot of folks in this moment I am trying to navigate what it really means to be an American in these complicated times.  I am a person who believes deeply in constitutional rights, and civic responsibility, I have never once even tried to get out of Jury duty.  I am someone who follows Mr. Rogers three keys to success, because in a world this loud, kindness is the only thing with enough force to cut through the static.  I also believe deeply in the basic dignity owed to every human, regardless of any differences that may be used to separate us. 

I am sure by this time most of you have seen versions of the videos, probably what will be defined as exhibit A when this goes to trial.  I don’t want to rehash the particulars of the tragedy here.  I do want to tell you what hit me when I watched it from what seemed like an insane number of angles and clarity.  I felt a surge of protectiveness, my instinct to step between power and the defenseless person on the receiving end of that power.  Again, not with violence, not with confrontation and not with anger but with the simple conviction that folks deserve, at a bare minimum, to be treated as people not as threats.

And then the harder to process feeling started to seep in and that feeling was powerlessness.  And the truth of that, it rattled me.  It made me ask questions I have never thought I would have to ask, questions that jest felt wrong all the way to my core.  That lead to the terrible question, what can I actually do?  How can I make a difference?  How can I have an impact?  How can I answer those questions with a path that is both safe and productive.  Supporting causes matters.  Supporting candidates whose values reflect mine, compassion and justice matters.  But this moment feels like it requires more from me.  This moment asks for presence.  It asks us to find a little back bone and a clear hear.  To be productive this moment also calls for restraint, the strength to use my anger for something useful instead of letting it turn me into someone I don’t want to be – this moment needs my best self.

The first thing I have done is try to take care of those around me, making space for friends, family and coworkers when they are struggling.  Not to problem solve but to just be present for them.  That requires us to slow down a bit so we can notice when someone is out of kilter, we know what that looks like for each of those folks we love and care about.  I keep a box of Lifesavers on my desk, literally and when I notice someone off, I give them a pack and send them a link to that 70s commercial about it’s going to be ok.   I know that sounds corny, but it works.  Most folks respond to a little kindness, and sometimes the smallest gestures can make the biggest difference in someones day.  https://youtu.be/d8BqUf7E-Cw?si=9cMr7DZdtGAzuiXa.  This is why showing up cannot be a slogan, it has to be a habit.

We can also support fact based journalism, the importance of which in this moment cannot be underestimated.  Donate when ya can.  Defend the work when folks try to label it just an opinion because it makes them uncomfortable.  Hold it accountable too, trust is earned not demanded.  Journalism is kinda like roads and powerlines, core infrastructure to power our world.  And you don’t really notice it until its gone, and then everything falls apart - it feels a bit like we are closer than I’d like us to be.  I have worked with true journalists for nearly 30 years.  Most of what we see on the mainstream is simply pitting one against the other and never really doing the hard work of investigative journalism. 

We can also make sure we are practicing solidarity/   Solidarity isn’t big or flashy.  It’s the small stuff, the stuff nobody cheers but everyone remembers.  As Maya Angelou reminded us, people may forget what you said and even what you did, but they remember how you made them feel.  Solidarity not a hash tag, not a bumper sticker or tee shirt but solidarity at the human level.  That looks like bearing witness, as Alex was, checking on your friends and neighbors who might be getting targeted for some perceived difference.  Maybe offering to walk someone to their car when they look nervous, as I did a couple of days ago at the grocery store.  It is showing up and being present when its inconvenient and being there even when ya don’t know quite what to say.  It is the small consistent action of making sure people aren’t alone when the world is hell bent on isolating them.

And to be honest, some days Im just tired boss.  But then inevitably somebody pings me with something, I see something on the FB that fills my heart, somebody smiles, or someone tells a truth out loud.  Those are the things that make me stand up anyway.    

And the last thing, we can hopeful, in spite of our current situation.  Not as a mood or a situational thing, we can adopt hope as a habit, hope has to be something we do on purpose, not something we wait for, regardless how loud the noise.   Hope as a habit, even on those days when sadness is settling in our bones.  Even when fear and anxiety threaten our well being and even when anger sparks off a firestorm of emotions.  And ya know why hope as a habit is important?  Let me start by saying American has survived many a things that in hindsight might not seem as dire as today but they were.  And to not keep hope as habit, is to admit they won.  I for one ABSOLUTELY REFUSE to admit that, to allow that or to condone that. 

There is a moment in Shawshank Redemption when Red realizes that hope is good thing, it isn’t a lie or a trap.  He realized that hope is the force stubborn enough to survive even the darkest moments and the darkest institutions.  That is the kind of hope I am talking about, the gritty resilient kind that refuses to back down or look away or shut up or give in.  That kind of hope keeps a person riding a bus towards a horizon they’ve never seen but somehow still trust is waiting for them, like Andy was for Red.  It is civic hope, human hope, the keep going even when you’re scared shitless hope.  That kind of hope whispers to us, Zihuatanejo awaits you.  And when we get there and see our friends, we can exhale and set to rebuilding what this moment tried to take away from us and we can remember who we were always meant to be.  Hope is the one thing they cannot take from us, so pack your bag, take a breath, roll your shoulders back and get on that fucking bus because Zihuatanejo is waiting and we have rebuilding to do!!