{
  "block": 106153006,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "7119.365993 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2026-05-18T08:15:03",
  "trx_id": "e492dc1f829f839ed7dcebddb4abe7edf7e45c32",
  "trx_in_block": 2,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 106014598,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "4407.155588 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2026-05-13T12:19:15",
  "trx_id": "a26d248c8f7649e7a7f493a3f4a4ba173584e0b0",
  "trx_in_block": 0,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 105520437,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "7131.881749 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2026-04-26T07:24:06",
  "trx_id": "079faffdf6b01154fde063a4bbfdb12ba888db58",
  "trx_in_block": 0,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 102877558,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "4448.702407 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2026-01-24T05:18:12",
  "trx_id": "381650b4f9b8345ce6e07ccb455ba7a64694695e",
  "trx_in_block": 2,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 91323754,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "4612.921604 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2024-12-18T00:27:00",
  "trx_id": "53e36b482c4b83e0fc4ac6139ed238cf4f65411c",
  "trx_in_block": 7,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 79877847,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "4782.055136 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2023-11-14T16:05:57",
  "trx_id": "2c22403211c5e8730c1a8846fc5ae8ce1327859e",
  "trx_in_block": 4,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 78365641,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "7718.963922 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2023-09-22T12:42:42",
  "trx_id": "b641046d63184ba7a48de94c0c69c6deb8c32e21",
  "trx_in_block": 2,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 69123032,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "7941.015360 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2022-11-03T19:52:57",
  "trx_id": "ccfd1ebf903fbb692543eb715b1e81037158f0ee",
  "trx_in_block": 3,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 60826052,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "8161.122961 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2022-01-18T00:53:27",
  "trx_id": "e2f87de91f68b6986ca102768f3d62fbb2ff61af",
  "trx_in_block": 36,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 54616271,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "8345.317249 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2021-06-14T07:59:27",
  "trx_id": "4790c3a79d42093d3048c5894131be5d1639ef90",
  "trx_in_block": 1,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 49363470,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "8532.739223 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-12-11T18:09:45",
  "trx_id": "e9b31b398eab9c810fe3e538f446e354b3c3d3f2",
  "trx_in_block": 1,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 49214983,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "1912.543513 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-12-06T11:44:48",
  "trx_id": "f6d50a6e8660023828a1f458d2be89711247855c",
  "trx_in_block": 0,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 49198554,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "8538.947077 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-12-05T21:47:33",
  "trx_id": "e747c55958bc6644cf5fddfdf7444be81dc17a8f",
  "trx_in_block": 1,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 48274990,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "1920.017158 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-11-03T06:14:18",
  "trx_id": "2b8e5bd1bcf779624f1bf03b4c44de27240f34bd",
  "trx_in_block": 2,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 43225341,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "8741.752436 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-05-09T12:49:42",
  "trx_id": "b94e90b12b9562cecd56d13ec5f400661ae66c76",
  "trx_in_block": 24,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 43202687,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "1953.311140 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-05-08T17:29:51",
  "trx_id": "1a211eaa9dd65b4d2df6ee30fc9b6f0d8b34f773",
  "trx_in_block": 3,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 41990894,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "8764.957904 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-03-26T15:40:42",
  "trx_id": "50ecb39b93e4661708a19810dcc5f8bec0ef6950",
  "trx_in_block": 15,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 39713125,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "steemitboard",
      "body": "Congratulations @winterwitch! You received a personal award!\n\n<table><tr><td>https://steemitimages.com/70x70/http://steemitboard.com/@winterwitch/birthday2.png</td><td>Happy Birthday! - You are on the Steem blockchain for 2 years!</td></tr></table>\n\n<sub>_You can view [your badges on your Steem Board](https://steemitboard.com/@winterwitch) and compare to others on the [Steem Ranking](https://steemitboard.com/ranking/index.php?name=winterwitch)_</sub>\n\n\n###### [Vote for @Steemitboard as a witness](https://v2.steemconnect.com/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=steemitboard&approve=1) to get one more award and increased upvotes!",
      "json_metadata": "{\"image\":[\"https://steemitboard.com/img/notify.png\"]}",
      "parent_author": "winterwitch",
      "parent_permlink": "better-off-dread",
      "permlink": "steemitboard-notify-winterwitch-20200107t065618000z",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2020-01-07T06:56:18",
  "trx_id": "96f21f05234a647e4858c2ccaa087175e4bf867c",
  "trx_in_block": 7,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 32331851,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "8960.804375 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-04-24T18:38:15",
  "trx_id": "bf12dbf657cdd6bdc51fcde7646c55eea509094b",
  "trx_in_block": 28,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 30374820,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "29048.139562 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-02-15T17:23:33",
  "trx_id": "612c4a6a1b4408b88736b973d74c6cfd8d0ded1a",
  "trx_in_block": 8,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29712226,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "better-off-dread",
      "voter": "zinku",
      "weight": 500
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-23T16:43:06",
  "trx_id": "2fa8aab1653e88238f06051b973c34865902943d",
  "trx_in_block": 12,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29712100,
  "op": [
    "transfer",
    {
      "amount": "0.001 STEEM",
      "from": "allaz",
      "memo": "Promote your post. Your post will be min. 10  resteemed with over 13000  followers and min. 25  Upvote Different account. Your post will be more popular and you will find new friends. Send 0.5 SBD or STEEM to @allaz (post URL as memo ) Service Active.",
      "to": "winterwitch"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-23T16:36:48",
  "trx_id": "9b1dd669a31077da55cf97a30dc259f7b40a3ef8",
  "trx_in_block": 8,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29712079,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "![A26A9F99-E6C1-4E69-BB84-E2A4DD13CE7D.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmTA4K8HPKuuX9bN2b3PnvRbY5ZhhyQrsYj7x7r3HSA3iX/A26A9F99-E6C1-4E69-BB84-E2A4DD13CE7D.png)Here’s the thing. Being a parent comes with a lot of dread. We aren’t unique or special or especially burdened in any way. Some people perceive us as such, because we’ve been through some ish, but watching a kid fight cancer isn’t any more awful than the possibility you could lose yours tomorrow to, I don’t know, a distracted driver, or a wayward grape or something, or even lose them in ten years to an addiction, a controlling relationship, or their changed ideology. The possibility of losing mine isn’t more real than the possibility of losing yours, and sometimes loss happens long before death. Life and the things that define living are so fragile. The only safety net any of us have is ensuring we never plunge into loss and grief with regrets for which we can’t make amends. Some may call it morbid, living with the acute knowledge of fragility, of how fleeting happy moments are, of always preparing for the worst things by stockpiling memories of the best things. I think it’s worth it to allow dread to filter in, because it deepens shadows to sharpen the image of joy. To love is to guarantee grief. I don’t think we talk enough about the ways in which dread helps us live more exuberantly, and how it’s only a problem if it keeps us from living at all. \n\nAt least that’s what I tell myself when the Dreads strike. They are as much a reminder of what could be, as they are a mandate to live in such a way as to not experience regret if the things they whisper should come true.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"health\",\"family\",\"adventure\",\"cancer\"],\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmTA4K8HPKuuX9bN2b3PnvRbY5ZhhyQrsYj7x7r3HSA3iX/A26A9F99-E6C1-4E69-BB84-E2A4DD13CE7D.png\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "health",
      "permlink": "better-off-dread",
      "title": "Better Off Dread"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-23T16:35:45",
  "trx_id": "5a2c7594f5550a3c1a49eda873d02dc907de0b50",
  "trx_in_block": 2,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29570165,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "partiko",
      "body": "[![](https://d1vof77qrk4l5q.cloudfront.net/statics/upsell-delegate-15-steem-power-2.png)](https://partiko-io.app.link/A27hLeUkgT)",
      "json_metadata": "{\"app\":\"partiko\"}",
      "parent_author": "winterwitch",
      "parent_permlink": "food-as-story",
      "permlink": "partiko-re-winterwitch-food-as-story-20190118t181442414z",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-18T18:14:42",
  "trx_id": "3c8cd5ec5a96d4a8e2cd484783351a1735390aa9",
  "trx_in_block": 23,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29270129,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "campingkinteaw",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T07:59:33",
  "trx_id": "6d043c9f1fa820277872fbc1dc7123a10084f1c0",
  "trx_in_block": 10,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29270017,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "miqyk",
      "weight": 7500
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T07:53:57",
  "trx_id": "aa5598c49edabece1fde70df0584d11142c7feda",
  "trx_in_block": 1,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29270013,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "@@ -9509,16 +9509,9 @@\n nset\n- between\n+,\n  two\n@@ -9533,16 +9533,17 @@\n p trucks\n+,\n  as his \n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"food\",\"health\",\"psychology\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\",\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmT5QAmK8roEC7zay98bBRyJnivgRZzF2jmD6xefJCSyuu/48268768_10214887936765917_2817041462871457792_n.jpg\"]}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "food",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "title": "Food Is Story"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T07:53:45",
  "trx_id": "eea6a483c3517f727f464cfb825dd373b2050344",
  "trx_in_block": 20,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29269975,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "@@ -9803,41 +9803,26 @@\n rs, \n-selling his crops for blood money\n+his last crop sold\n  to \n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"food\",\"health\",\"psychology\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\",\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmT5QAmK8roEC7zay98bBRyJnivgRZzF2jmD6xefJCSyuu/48268768_10214887936765917_2817041462871457792_n.jpg\"]}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "food",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "title": "Food Is Story"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T07:51:51",
  "trx_id": "12d1c00f2dd783154828d24279dfef4419b05449",
  "trx_in_block": 7,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29265711,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "@@ -10173,122 +10173,8 @@\n ndow\n- as our car hit the ditch, a scent that slowly faded in the long hours that followed, waiting in the dark for help\n . Wh\n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"food\",\"health\",\"psychology\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\",\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmT5QAmK8roEC7zay98bBRyJnivgRZzF2jmD6xefJCSyuu/48268768_10214887936765917_2817041462871457792_n.jpg\"]}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "food",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "title": "Food Is Story"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T04:18:33",
  "trx_id": "48baaab48313917c9f8cc67e5f908523613f4c27",
  "trx_in_block": 32,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29264055,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "sensation",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:55:45",
  "trx_id": "04af662baaf9220feeddb1308201b12108577f2c",
  "trx_in_block": 11,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263921,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "@@ -2389,18 +2389,19 @@\n  June, w\n-it\n+hic\n h is alm\n@@ -2835,19 +2835,16 @@\n it down \n-it \n for us. \n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"food\",\"health\",\"psychology\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\",\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmT5QAmK8roEC7zay98bBRyJnivgRZzF2jmD6xefJCSyuu/48268768_10214887936765917_2817041462871457792_n.jpg\"]}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "food",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "title": "Food Is Story"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:49:03",
  "trx_id": "5adef68e74d2425150ca62a80d2eaa6507d9c1de",
  "trx_in_block": 35,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263855,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "moby-dick",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:45:45",
  "trx_id": "c733fb36b08beb051a60460904a61c46a31fff56",
  "trx_in_block": 21,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263756,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "yehey",
      "weight": 1000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:40:48",
  "trx_id": "55e0bd21eddee55836b71a8c223286a0680ae10c",
  "trx_in_block": 4,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263739,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "@@ -1,18 +1,191 @@\n-Food is Story.\n+!%5B48268768_10214887936765917_2817041462871457792_n.jpg%5D(https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmT5QAmK8roEC7zay98bBRyJnivgRZzF2jmD6xefJCSyuu/48268768_10214887936765917_2817041462871457792_n.jpg)\n %0A%0AFo\n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"food\",\"health\",\"psychology\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\",\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmT5QAmK8roEC7zay98bBRyJnivgRZzF2jmD6xefJCSyuu/48268768_10214887936765917_2817041462871457792_n.jpg\"]}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "food",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "title": "Food Is Story"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:39:57",
  "trx_id": "429c1530fe9d98b3bb430048cf873e2bfc37e9d5",
  "trx_in_block": 18,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263663,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "@@ -540,19 +540,17 @@\n ies and \n-two\n+a\n  miscarr\n@@ -553,17 +553,16 @@\n carriage\n-s\n . In the\n@@ -1694,16 +1694,17 @@\n e un-air\n+ \n conditio\n@@ -5043,16 +5043,17 @@\n ate pinw\n+h\n eels, sh\n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"food\",\"health\",\"psychology\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "food",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "title": "Food as Story"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:36:00",
  "trx_id": "6772de80b3ff7c190e08c14f2a482d3440ebc9ba",
  "trx_in_block": 1,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263578,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "council",
      "weight": 1000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:31:45",
  "trx_id": "fa4ed3b5e361fdae6a4533841bbb92367871fcae",
  "trx_in_block": 11,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263461,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "fyrstikken",
      "weight": 100
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:25:54",
  "trx_id": "b64a5b38b5a30a79774006b7824108bc0a857ef3",
  "trx_in_block": 8,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263143,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "voter": "raise-me-up",
      "weight": 1
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:10:00",
  "trx_id": "1da0fbf93d1f7ae8a543f49507deca57e96378c2",
  "trx_in_block": 4,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29263036,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "Food is Story.\n\nFood is memory. For years, I have been riveted by the relationships we carry on with the food we put in our bodies. At five, I remember first hearing my grandmother refer to herself as “fat”. I suppose she was; early photos of her as the alto in a traveling singing family showed a slender, sweet-faced slip of a girl, large, long-lashed eyes all but swallowing the timid smile she gave as she glanced up from her sheet music to notice the photographer. She was married at 17, pregnant by 18, and by 24 she had had four babies and two miscarriages. In the course of six years, she changed from innocent songstress to farm wife and mother, perpetually breastfeeding, perpetually fighting her relationship with food while also creating elaborate meals for her hard working crew of husband and growing farm boys. Eleven years after her fourth child, she had one more, and only six years after that, her first grandchild (moi) was born. I have almost no memories of her outside her kitchen. She was only 38 years older than me. She could have been my mother, not my grandmother. By the time I came to know her, she was wide. Her hands were broad and square, with large, bony knuckles. Her wrists were thick and muscular. She was a wall of brightly flowered cotton fabric, short but large. She was comfort and sunshine and warmth and music, the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon, the embodiment of family connection, her kitchen the eye of the daily hurricane of a farm full of dirty, exhausted, hot, hungry people. She never let on she needed help, so my grandpa claimed my strong back and willingness to learn new things as his own, proclaimed me his right-hand-man, and put me in the un-airconditioned cab of a belching tractor the week I turned thirteen. My puny arms weren’t long enough to work the gearshift, so I used one foot to hold down the clutch while using the other one to kick the lever to shift gears, all my attention on making ever straighter rows, until I looked up a few hours later, and there was my grandma, standing at the end of the field in a cloud of dust, holding a foil-covered plate, a jar filled with ice water, and a wet rag to clean my face and hands. My birthday is in late June, with is almost always the middle of wheat harvest on the High Plains. Nearly every birthday cake of my teenage years was eaten on the filthy, diesel- and dust-caked tailgate of a pickup truck parked in a wheat field, surrounded by my grandparents, parents, and uncles, all eating more quickly than was healthy because wasted time was wasted money as we raced the threat of summer hailstorms to get the wheat harvested before nature mowed it down it for us. \n\nAt five, I heard my grandmother call herself fat, and the defeat in her tone prompted me to crawl into her lap that afternoon, when the lunch dishes were done and she finally indulged my begging for her to read me a story, lay my head on her ample breast through with I could hear her heartbeat, and sigh contentedly, “I’m so glad you’re fat. You have the most comfortable lap of anyone I know.”\n\nShe shrieked with laughter, her belly jiggling. She repeated the story over dinner, to the amusement of my uncles, gathered around her table after a long day of inoculating cattle, and slipped me an extra cinnamon roll, cooled just enough for frosting, to make sure I’d had enough to eat. I am sure my noticing her letting herself have one, as well, is just wishful thinking disguised as memory. \n\nAnd now tears try to work their way through my tough-girl exterior, because the memory of that warm cinnamon roll is the memory of everything that was right, before trauma and tragedy. And even that is tangled in my mind with the knowledge that everything about that story is also complicated, and hints at why that world is no longer one that exists for my family. My children will not know their young, vibrant great-grandparents. We’ll never know if a lifetime of pesticide application, living downstream and downwind from an enormous beef feedlot, living on a diet of red meat and fried potatoes, contributed to my grandfather’s stage 4 stomach cancer diagnosis the same year he planned to retire and finally take my grandma out of the kitchen to show her the world. We can almost certainly know that her high blood pressure, obesity, and the enormous stress of losing her hero and north star over two years of helplessly watching his agony and starvation contributed to the fatal stroke she experienced just four weeks after she stood, surrounded by her remaining children, and wept over his grave. My regret over not calling her those last weeks of her life because I was twenty years old, stupid, and didn’t know what to say lingers in the flavor of date pinwheels. She traveled with my parents to Colorado, to the ski resort where I was working over the winter, the week after his funeral, to take her mind off of the terminal loneliness of a silent house once filled with food and family, and she brought more food with her than we could possibly eat. Her date pinweels, she brought in a chilled roll, to be able to bake and serve fresh. They flopped. She had forgotten she would be baking them at a higher altitude than the one in which she prepared them. In the lack of atmospheric pressure at 10,000 feet, they spread out and ran together. I still ate more than enough to induce guilt, because they were my favorite holiday treat, and she knew it, and they tasted perfect, aside from a few burned edges. A few weeks later, her terminally silent house stood dark and completely empty, a family member stopping by occasionally to rummage in her freezer for a jar of strawberry jam or some homemade sandwich buns. Her last pan of cinnamon rolls, left in the freezer for six months, were dry and unremarkable. We ate them anyway. \n\nUnlike her only daughter, my mother, who is tall and strong-featured, I inherited her short stature and wide hips, square fingers and curled eyelashes, and my eyes are the exact shade of hers, hazel ringed in dark gray. I inherited her personality, to some extent- her creativity expressed in music and cooking, mine in writing and painting, neither of us taking ourselves as seriously as those around us think we aught. I didn’t inherit her susceptibility to weight gain, but then, I didn’t plunge quite so hard and fast into motherhood at such a young age. I have had the luxury of seeing my body change at its own pace, and often wonder how hers would have, had she had been afforded the same luxuries as I have.\n\nFood is memory. In my memory, the experiences that shaped me, food is love and warmth is food and love is family and family is food. It is all inextricably tangled together. To describe the flavors of ones life is to describe ones life. Turmeric, coriander, basil, lime, garlic, oregano, rosemary. Name each flavor to a hundred different people, and hear a hundred different stories the flavor or scent conjures; memories that paint a picture of a life. Portraits in flavor. Reconstructions built from the memories of taste. \n\nFood production, or at least some part of the process, defined my childhood. The flavors of the food grown in the same soil I scrubbed from my face every night formed the very cells of my body. The experiences of coaxing food from the soil, of raising animals for food, formed my passions and convictions as an adult. The most beautiful memories of my childhood are of the times love and flavor burst around me, the darkest memories are of trying to eat because I must, flavors turning to cardboard, salted by tears. My ideology was informed by my parents’ and their friends’ avant-garde idea, at the time, to create a market for local farmers who wished to grow organic crops, but had no way to sell them. They helped build a mill from scratch, my father welding together sifters and slicing through slabs of granite with cable and water to create millstones, my mother formulating concise control recipes to determine the finished baking properties of each batch of grain, spending days in a small lab testing protein, moisture, and gluten content, and predicting how each would translate into a finished product- which lot was best suited for breads, or pastry, or pasta. If you’ve bought U.S.-grown organic oat or wheat products at a health food chain store, you’ve probably eaten some of their product. My first real job, a second job when the farm could spare me, was performing those bake tests, using specialized equipment to knead bread dough at a consistent rate until the gluten was perfectly developed, then baking small loaves of bread from it, and documenting each loaf’s properties. The scent of fresh bread always brings back to me a sixteen year old’s ambition and self-doubt.\n\nAlways, the edges of these memories blacken and curl from the licking flames of the knowledge that to unabashedly love food is not allowed in our society, and for good reason. Food has given and taken away, both directly and indirectly. The same food that brought my family together tore away our nucleus with high blood pressure, obesity, and possibly cancer. My first experience with death was brought about by the simple fact of living among crops of growing food- the verdant leaves of tall corn obscuring a blind intersection, my uncle’s bloodied body lying under a flaming sunset between two crumpled pickup trucks as his wife set the dinner table for him a few miles away. For the first time in the weeks and months that followed, our table was silent, and the food others brought to us unappetizing. The entire community came together to harvest his corn and sunflowers, selling his crops for blood money to support his family. Other long-past experiences of pain come back with the memory of scent and flavor. Food’s cousin, drink, is so easily taken in excess. The scent of bourbon is both comforting to me because it was the scent of a loved one, and revolting to me because it was the scent of waking up to my head hitting the car window as our car hit the ditch, a scent that slowly faded in the long hours that followed, waiting in the dark for help. When I drink as an adult, which is rare, the alcohol warms its way to my stomach, reminding me as it traces a pleasant path through my veins of the complicated ways it, too, can comfort and hurt.\n\nMy mother battled breast cancer in her forties, and in her fifties, suffers through menopause brought on by treatment, and weight gain she never had to worry about before. “Gaining just an extra ten pounds over your pre-cancer weight raises your risk of relapse significantly”, her oncologist told her. “From now on, a few extra pounds could kill you.” At a time in her life when she most needs to manage her stress, she is instead feeling more stress than ever over needing to battle her cravings. As her friends happily expand, throwing up their hands in despair over a losing battle with age, then eating the cake, she eats dry greens and oatmeal and simultaneously prepares food for her husband who still feels, in spite of his own better knowledge and desire for health, that decadence equals love. She denies herself indulgences, or judges herself over giving in. \n\nFood is feeling. So many times, as I have lain in despair, I have half-remembered the rush of endorphins that is my body receiving nourishment. I scarcely realize what I am doing as I walk a well-worn path to the kitchen, knowing food won’t solve my problem, but desperate for a change of perspective and a temporary relief from sadness. If depression would allow me to make a clear-headed decision, then spare me the energy to act on it, I would know in those moments to take a walk outside instead. But food is there, and food is every good feeling, and even a few seconds of food-fueled oblivion is worth the poor choice, until it is done and overindulgence has left me feeling more low than before.\n\nFood is poison, and food is medicine. This is perhaps the cruelest combination as we embrace flavor and fight indulgence. It is a drug. It is addictive. It is pleasure. It is necessary for life. Choosing to consistently eat the wrong things will kill us; making the right choices can heal us. It is sacrifice, as a less fortunate parent knows, agonizing over stretching their budget to cover vegetables, only to have their children proclaim them yucky and demand more affordable, less healthy foods. Our physical appearances, which so often relate to our diets, open and close doors for us as we navigate jobs, friendships, and relationships; food is privilege and opportunity, as much as it is the story of our lives.\n\nFood is complicated. As I was transitioning into motherhood, I wanted to remake myself as a wellness expert. I started my journey with a six month certification as a health coach through a so-called holistic wellness course, and in the end, I realized I had paid a lot of money and knew no more than I did when I started, which was that easy answers sell. Beautiful people with simple insights and straightforward equations, these are our experts. Balding scientists citing boring correlations are neither engaging nor authoritative. We all long, on such a deep level, to find meaningful answers in the things we can attain, and we can all attain a simple change in the things we eat. It is so hauntingly attractive to think that if we can simply switch the poison to medicine, we will be well, that we can prevent the things we fear, that suffering and death will wait a little longer to court us. \n\nFood is guilt. When someone unhealthy dies, we feel a bit of relief over thinking, “That doesn’t have to be me; I’ll do better than they did.” When it is cancer, we think, “Nothing but fresh produce and anti-inflammatory foods for me; I won’t ever give cancer a chance.” Type II diabetes, heart disease, and high blood pressure are all so easy for a healthy person to dismiss as poor choices on the part of the victim. And yes, it may have been poor choices that led to their outcome. But we never ask what led to the poor choices. So eager to not have to face uncomfortable truths, we assume everyone had the same choices we do, and simply chose to make the less healthy ones. We crave simple answers harder than salted chocolate. We crave simple, secret knowledge. We long to hear that food can work miracles.\n\nFood is powerful. There is no denying the power of diet to work toward creating the type of body we choose to live in. Plants are essential to sustain life. Many pharmaceuticals were isolated as active ingredients in healing foods before becoming pills. My own toddler was healed from cancer, in large part, because of a plant used for its medicinal properties by our ancestors, the active compound of a bright pink flower now isolated, prescribed by his oncologist, and billed heavily to his insurance.\n\nRedefining one's relationship with food is essential to creating lasting change. When food is love, or poison, or comfort, or memory, or simply the brief ability to feel, there are few things powerful enough to take the place of those reactions. It can be comfort, but must not not be the only source. It must be enjoyed for what it is, and nothing more asked of it. It must be taken with other joys, as a side, not an entree. Life is bigger than a plate of sustenance, but it would be doing our entwined senses of taste and smell a disservice to limit it to being only sustenance. \n\nFood is life. Food is identity. Food is story.\n\nWhat is yours?",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"food\",\"health\",\"psychology\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "food",
      "permlink": "food-as-story",
      "title": "Food as Story"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-08T02:04:36",
  "trx_id": "69c18140ac9cfefb14eeae1b3dfb9563e8acc8d5",
  "trx_in_block": 7,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 29231304,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "steemitboard",
      "body": "Congratulations @winterwitch! You received a personal award!\n\n<table><tr><td>https://steemitimages.com/70x70/http://steemitboard.com/@winterwitch/birthday1.png</td><td>1 Year on Steemit</td></tr></table>\n\n<sub>_[Click here to view your Board](https://steemitboard.com/@winterwitch)_</sub>\n\n\n> Support [SteemitBoard's project](https://steemit.com/@steemitboard)! **[Vote for its witness](https://v2.steemconnect.com/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=steemitboard&approve=1)** and **get one more award**!",
      "json_metadata": "{\"image\":[\"https://steemitboard.com/img/notify.png\"]}",
      "parent_author": "winterwitch",
      "parent_permlink": "knowledge-of-place",
      "permlink": "steemitboard-notify-winterwitch-20190106t233711000z",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2019-01-06T23:37:12",
  "trx_id": "e55ce433e691576adecfe589e0217b37ba275105",
  "trx_in_block": 1,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 28201669,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "knowledge-of-place",
      "voter": "sarmadk",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-12-02T04:59:12",
  "trx_id": "d448a692b0f7464ad65c94a194fdd3fde05f3108",
  "trx_in_block": 20,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 28200565,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "knowledge-of-place",
      "voter": "yehey",
      "weight": 1000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-12-02T04:04:00",
  "trx_id": "f3809505e0b2127237f3debdd94e93309a1f7d68",
  "trx_in_block": 2,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 28199732,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "knowledge-of-place",
      "voter": "raise-me-up",
      "weight": 1
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-12-02T03:22:21",
  "trx_id": "30708a6a2e57c319e2aca3310525cd00fdd26536",
  "trx_in_block": 9,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 28199679,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "![574E97BB-A80F-478F-B1BC-BC8BB2937EEF.jpeg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmPiUdjCXsmEJu7YNjYGYapaXrBHtJtKrMaAKAZ7mBSSwE/574E97BB-A80F-478F-B1BC-BC8BB2937EEF.jpeg)Every place I’ve lived has a feel. A sense of place, a personality that one instinctually knows, standing outside under its sky, toes in its dirt. \n\nThe high plains feel like iron and sepia dreams. Hard flatness, where human life isn’t meant to flourish, but does out of sheer tenacity. A sense of subtle change under a sun-baked, wind-polished veneer of sameness- the marks of ancient movement and long-past riotous joy etched into it. Small reprieves, glimpses of spontaneous life, bluffs plunging into ancient dry river beds. Cottonwoods older than any humans currently alive, spreading pleading, shaking arms toward buried water, begging, hoping, receiving all the land has to give; just enough to sustain life, but no more. The land feels asleep, encased in hard dust, dreaming of being more than it is even as it forgets what it was. Humans have hurt her, asking more of her than she had to share, and left her naked, but she still hopes, as she waits, that the descendants of those who hurt her will return to heal her. \n\nIn the high Rockies, the land feels as majestic as it is indifferent. She tolerates humans, not begrudging them water and shelter, but doesn’t care if they stay or leave, come or go. She flinches slightly at the mining wounds humans leave, but they are merely scratches. She is wild, inconsistent; rough and tender, avalanches and sage meadows, wildfires and shady ferns, answering to no one but herself. A big, strong beauty with blowing, tangled hair, who harbors not an ounce of self-doubt. In the high, desolate mountains, one can be completely, utterly alone, and surviving being so alone and so desolate is not promised. The land does not even notice one more or one less. It is possible to be completely absorbed in her and not even have her notice you. \n\nAnd now, this Pacific island. It has only been a month, but it has been a month of getting to know her as authentically as I have been able. For the first time, I am meeting a place that breathes and oozes life, and wants me to worship her. Life springs from her, tangles over her, reaches from her to snake around me and pull me down against her as she digs at my skin, sharp rocks gouging, rough vines tearing, asking a sacrifice from me in return for the experience of knowing her, asking hopefully if I will know her as she is, not as I hope her to be. She is a womb, but she isn’t the indulgent kind of mother. She isn’t happy with allowing one to live close to her without truly knowing her. She wants her children to become part of her. She is afraid of being hurt by those to whom she gives everything. She wants me to change for her, and manipulates me by exploiting my doubts and ignorance. I feel myself changing, disappearing into her, and it feels inevitable. I don’t want to fight it.\n\nSome say our perception of a place serves as a mirror of ourselves. I’m pretty sure if we let ourselves, if we stay long enough, we become the place. On a literal level, eating local food, breathing local air, drinking local water makes us an extension of the place we live. We become our surroundings. On a bodily level, the level of the carbon in our bodies, a place becomes our mother, and then we become our mother.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"adventure\",\"travel\",\"belonging\"],\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmPiUdjCXsmEJu7YNjYGYapaXrBHtJtKrMaAKAZ7mBSSwE/574E97BB-A80F-478F-B1BC-BC8BB2937EEF.jpeg\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "adventure",
      "permlink": "knowledge-of-place",
      "title": "Knowledge of place"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-12-02T03:19:42",
  "trx_id": "19026c9bee6d5b0aad573344207e34a00aed9b91",
  "trx_in_block": 21,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 26932027,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "29248.717745 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-10-19T02:16:36",
  "trx_id": "82060528c5b3a3a893fc2fe6fb8d68ac45045375",
  "trx_in_block": 14,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 25877477,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "chasing-the-garden-eel-life",
      "voter": "moby-dick",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-09-11T21:46:33",
  "trx_id": "64ed740bd5499604f7ab169bc79692d3cc86ec84",
  "trx_in_block": 6,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 25874064,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "chasing-the-garden-eel-life",
      "voter": "sensation",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-09-11T18:55:48",
  "trx_id": "fe29f3fc6dfc39113562dec239c5e94ad7c6cf06",
  "trx_in_block": 10,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 25872984,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "chasing-the-garden-eel-life",
      "voter": "davidfnck",
      "weight": 3000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-09-11T18:01:48",
  "trx_id": "baf2e4d059d0e927620625b9de5e8c247db74f94",
  "trx_in_block": 2,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 25872538,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "@@ -1,12 +1,177 @@\n+!%5B92F5D071-EE7F-4F9E-8C8E-B0B472A6E03D.jpeg%5D(https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmeRTN1qkgLA6L7TRVMgbYxSHpDZLqKzfDq2zLJfAUPjje/92F5D071-EE7F-4F9E-8C8E-B0B472A6E03D.jpeg)\n Can I have s\n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"adventure\",\"health\",\"family\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\",\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmeRTN1qkgLA6L7TRVMgbYxSHpDZLqKzfDq2zLJfAUPjje/92F5D071-EE7F-4F9E-8C8E-B0B472A6E03D.jpeg\"]}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "adventure",
      "permlink": "chasing-the-garden-eel-life",
      "title": "Chasing the Garden Eel Life"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-09-11T17:39:30",
  "trx_id": "774f75c9b4f06e38440c763646e2b3870de7b3a3",
  "trx_in_block": 20,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 25872512,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "Can I have sleepy medicine today? Is my port a part of my skeleton? When did you get your port out, mommy? Can I watch a video of someone getting their port out?\n\nD asked me these questions on the drive to Denver the other day, as he sat in the backseat, freshly washed hair perfectly combed back “like superman”. They all said something about his experience. He loves certain parts of treatment, like his propofol naps, which doesn’t give me the same warm fuzzies that it clearly gives him. He doesn’t remember life before treatment. He doesn’t realize his experience is unique. He has a steel stomach and prefers truth over comfortable oblivion.\n\nWhen we first saw him post-op, the hard knob under the skin on his chest for the last three and a half years replaced by a sutured incision and steri-strips, sitting up in bed woozy but awake, I thought I would take a moment to feel relieved and jubilant, but we were stressed out and in a hurry because we had booked another appointment across town the same afternoon. I had my wisdom teeth removed (I just cant even with having another mouthful of stitches down my gums and up my cheeks, but it’s done now...except for the bruising and the leaking and the perforated sinus and the nasal mists and the gastric side effects of the antibiotics and soft foods), then spent the night sitting awake on the couch because I had taken the first day’s worth of a steroid taper all at the same time and was buzzing, and everything hurt and was bleeding, and I was a bit woozy myself, so I didn’t truly “see” him until the next day. It was then I sat and watched him watching a movie beside me on the couch, watched his expressions and emotions change with input, saw comprehension in his delight over funny scenes, fear over stressful ones, the corners of his mouth quiver over the sad ones. \n\nAnd then I finally started to feel things. The fear I thought I would feel over relapse once chemo ended isn’t there, possibly because I have already cycled through so many end-of-treatment freakouts I actually managed to cross that bridge before I got to it, or at least haven’t worked myself back around to it yet. I guess what I feel is just...white hot heartbreak over how absolutely beautiful it all is. How innocent he still is. How unwritten his future is. All of our futures are. How smooth his forehead is, how trusting his eyes. How childish he still is and how much he is still mine. \n\nMy heart had been jumping in my chest lately. No, like literally. The stress and medication and steroids and diet after having five teeth extracted have kicked off the arrhythmia I usually manage to keep controlled by a careful diet and stress management. It makes me feel fragile. Mortal. Even though it isn’t a dangerous one, it carries just enough of a hint of threat that it makes me stop and acknowledge my own heartbeat, instead of having it quietly just pumping away in the background. It reminds me we are all only a missed beat away from devastating loss. It makes me realize that for today, and today only, everything is completely perfect. Tomorrow, it may not be, but instead of fear, or rather because of fear, I realize none of us has the luxury of living in tomorrow’s crisis when we have such an immediate demand to soak up today’s perfection.\n\nCancer was an ugly messenger that brought us the priceless gift of realizing just how much we could lose tomorrow. How much we will lose tomorrow. Tomorrow, little boys will be bigger. We’ll all be a day closer to when this all ends. \n\nWe recently returned the floor futons we had borrowed, when optimistically thinking our little boys might wish to sleep in their own beds. They aren’t in the slightest bit interested, and to be honest, neither are we. Their absence feels like lost time. We remain a family of four that only needs one bed. There is time, when they are ready. They leave our sides so willingly during the day, so eager to explore and wander and learn about the world, that at night, when eons of nighttime predators outside ancient circles of firelight whisper to our collective instincts, we gather them close, whisper in their sleeping ears how loved they are, promise to do our best to protect them as long as they need us to, tell them how our life is better with them in it. Sometimes they are not quite asleep, so they murmur sleepy acknowledgement, place soft palms on our faces, and sigh as they slip into dreams. It’s just all so unbelievably precious. So heart-shatteringly beautiful.\n\nAnd then, as the night quiets, the guilt sets in as I silently count kids, like beads on a rosary. The kids we’ve met who fought harder, and had so much determination, and hope, whose parents are just trying to find their way through life without them. I owe it to them to remember that D is alive, that his mere presence is everything, that every ambivalent moment or minute annoyance is simply affirmation of the beauty of life. The fact that so many died for the data and protocol that saved his life just crushes me under the sheer weight of all the tears shed for them. I feel so selfish wrapping my arms around D’s warm, sleeping body, pulling him against me, curling around him, burying my face in his tangled curls. I feel like I am somehow throwing those other parents under the bus, the ones out in the cold, the ones lying curled each night around only the gaping holes in their chests, to lie there myself and be so whole and happy. I hear their faltering words as they try to explain things that don’t have language, things that were never meant to be voiced, and try to keep moving, having lost parts of themselves that will never be replaced. I feel my suddenly tenuous grasp on joy start to weaken, the horrible, icy fingers of fear start to wrap around my heart, nighttime dreads seizing their opportunity, convincing me that literally tomorrow, it will end. Feelings of impending doom, in clinical speak, shot through with sad tenderness. Classic sign of anxiety and depression, I know. I’m not in denial. I tell my healthcare providers about these midnight dreads, but also tell them that when the sun rises, they dissipate. In spite of me being convinced in the middle of the night I will have to cancel all my plans for the next day, never drive anywhere ever again, never let my kids out of my house, and just generally call off life, with the sun comes joy and just enough of the illusion of invincibility to catapult me though the day while the nocturnal dreads sleep. \n\nI don’t know that there is much of a takeaway there. Odds are better than maybe that I’m a complete mess, but joy right now is flaming as hot as the dreads are icy, and maybe what is normal isn’t as important as what is bearable. At least for now. Everyone to whom the I tell these things seems concerned, but also reminds me of the current facts of my life the last few years- job changes and financial insecurity and three different houses. Kid with cancer. Nearly life-changing injury in the past year. Three weeks away from yet another complete life change. Pressure to be ready to leave this house, which is safe and homey and filled with things that define my life, inanimate objects that were with me through everything, that I am touching for the last time, then giving away. Someone who has lived 35 years safely in the middle of several thousand miles of solid land, three weeks away from leaving the mainland with her family and their four suitcases to go live on an island surrounded by thousands of miles of water. All things I honestly don’t feel that traumatized by or particularly worried over when I dwell on them one by one, but the aggregate does sort of paint an unstable picture, I suppose. \n\nI know my things are just things. The dress I wore at my best friend’s funeral. The lamp that shed a soft glow over my babies as I sat nursing them. The furniture we inherited from condo remodels over the years, and the furniture we splurged on buying for ourselves. The snow clothes that were the barrier between us and sub-zero high altitude winter days. The “Love Your Melon” hats from the childhood cancer charity of the same name, that I won’t have occasion to feel cute in, living in year-round summer. The expensive winter boots I finally allowed myself to spend real money on, and then wondered how I’d lived my life without them. It is a bit surreal, in the sense that it is usually someone else that goes through a loved ones life, disperses their stuff, smells their clothes, gives away their shoes and casserole pans and throws away their old, shapeless bras. But I’m doing this while I still have a lot of life left to live, and it’s weird. It’s making me look at my life through a lens of objectivity, and it’s nostalgic and uncomfortable and feels a little shameful, realizing how much stuff I’ve accumulated, all my justifications for each item, and how they smack of first world privilege. I have helped do this for others, after they weren’t here to have an opinion on what happens to their stuff. I feel a little funerary doing it for myself, as well. It is a burial ritual for all the ways I have presented myself to the world, even as it makes room to become more. Each item that goes into the “keep” pile is there for a very specific reason. If not practical, it holds emotional ties I simply can’t yet bring myself to sever. I have placed the hospital wristbands our family wore on D’s port-removal day in a ziplock bag with the card I kept in my purse for three and a half years with instructions for local emergency room visits- instructions for providers on how to access his port, what size of needle to use, how to draw cultures and screen for sepsis. I can throw away old ink pens, stray bobby pins, picture hanger hooks and holey wool socks lacking their mates, but not a torn-up hospital wristband. There are items I am surprised I still have, that have survived more moves than is justified considering how little emotion they provoke for me now, when once they defined me. I suppose the items I keep speak to my current chosen identity, which also feels like an uncomfortable mirror to look in, considering what they are- things that hint of me and mine as victim as well as victor. I don’t know how to be normal anymore, how to live a mundane life without crisis or fear. I don’t know how to identify if not as a warrior mom. New identities will sneak up on me, I am sure, and slowly take the place of my current one, and before I know it, I will wonder why I kept chemo calendars and wristbands, but right now, I want to move away from fear and stress and just take a few things for granted once in a while, but I don’t quite know how to. \n\nDeconstructing the sum of my existence has me feeling exactly as fleeting, as transient, as easily blown away on the wind as we all truly are, but never let ourselves feel. I grew up so rooted, I thought roots were essential to happiness. Maybe they are. I know there are always those weeks after a move to a new place where everything feels wrong and backwards and upside down, and I am weepy because nothing is familiar and I really just need my mom. And then I make my first friend, and start to find my people, cook good food, find my ugly pants in a box marked “misc”, sit on new hills under the same sunsets, stick my toes into new water, and slowly, things turn aright again. \n\nIn a sense, I am somewhat fortunate to have very few family connections to have to strain by a move farther away from them. The ones I have are priceless to me, and even those, I struggle with feeling as though I am throwing onto a “store indefinitely” pile, along with the select items that would be a bigger pain to replace if/when we return than it is to commandeer a corner of my parent’s attic. A stand mixer, a box of snow clothes, a pile of skis, and my own mother’s heart in a rubbermaid tote. Just kidding. But I’m not kidding when I say that the circumstances of my life have left me with a deep, annoying conviction that I am responsible for the happiness of others, and distance does not lend itself to micromanaging relationships. It’s nobody’s fault, at least not any fault that anyone could have foreseen and avoided as those priorities were being rooted in my subconscious, it’s just that lovely baggage we all carry with us and isn’t quite as easy to decide what to do with as a lead crystal serving bowl you got for your wedding and are sitting on the floor holding, trying to decide if it is worth keeping against the day you move back and suddenly become a hostess type. I keep telling myself that this is my life, that I have exactly one of them, and that I am capable of having it all...that nothing besides me, not distance or five hours difference in time zones or my own busyness gets to decide the quality of my friendship and relationship offerings, and I have enough love, and am resourceful enough, I can make sure I am able to be just as unhealthily codependent from a distance as I am in person.\n\nWe have three weeks here yet. It feels like it’s already over for us in Colorado, because B is working extremely long hours, trying to get entirely too many remodel contracts fulfilled in the time between the day after Labor Dday, when the busy summer rental season flatlined and the condos became available for repairs, and November 1, which is our self-imposed deadline. We move out of this house September 28, give the keys to the new owners, take our “keep” pile to Kansas, then drive back to Denver to fly out October 1 on Daniel’s Make-a-Wish adventure. We return October 8, at which point the boys and I will drive to Kansas to stay with my parents for the next three weeks while B finds a bed in Summit County and finishes his work here, then hit the road for Los Angeles, where we will put our vehicle on a boat, get on a plane, and most likely suddenly realize, once the mainland disappears from under us and we see for ourselves how much water there is between our family and our new life, that we are making a huge mistake.\n\nThe Make-a-Wish is Disney. I honestly thought that if we ever had a kid who got to do a Make-a-Wish, that it would be unique. It would truly be an adventure. That we were not so mundane as to have a kid who would choose Orlando resort hell as his one big goal in life. I tried to suggest other things, although deep down, I knew they were sort of my own wishes...but still wanted to verify that they were not more attractive to him than some germ-infested rides in a theme park, jostling for places in long lines with other sweaty humans and overstimulated kids. We talked about an Amtrak pass, the ability to ride a train as far as we wanted and see as many places as it took us, or a flight to somewhere he could “study” marine life. His exact wish was, “I want to travel all over the world and have adventures and do experiments”, which was immediately translated by Make-a-Wish into Epcot, and it took about thirty seconds into the Make-a-Wish interview for me to realize something.  Non-Disney wishes are a pain, especially with the child being only five years old. Make-a-Wish simply does not have to pay a lot of money to send a family to Disney for a week, allowing them to save the big bucks for the older kids, the sicker kids, the more imaginative kids. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my kid doesn’t have to be unique unless he wants to be. He just needs to be a kid. If they can send us to Orlando, they can use donated air miles to get us there. They can reserve a villa for us at Give Kids the World, a non-profit, donation-supported resort where nobody pays to stay, but is only available to kids with life-threatening conditions. The parks donate passes. I don’t know if rental cars are donated, but it’s likely they aren’t full-price. There is already a well-oiled machine that exists for the sole purpose of sending warrior kids to Disney, and to choose something “unique”, just because I think we are better than to spend a once-in-a-lifetime wish on plastic castles and cartoon characters, is some pretty self-absorbed insanity. Although my kid has no frame of reference for theme parks or Disney World, he will definitely not think he is better than plastic consumerism and overstimulating rides with sticky handles, and this is about him. I have scoped out planetariums while there, and have a big goal of showing him the rings on Saturn and distant nebulas through a real telescope, to blow his mind. The resort itself is like a mini theme park, it seems, with the goal being that for one week, the little warriors who stay there, who have heard so much “no”, only hear “yes”. It will be an amazing, special time, and he asked me the other day when were are “moving to Disneyworld.”\n\nIf I seem a bit snooty, keep in mind I grew up without TV. Disney was an abstract concept to me. My formative years were not filled with Disney’s influence. While my peers were watching and pretending to be Ariel or Aurora, I was learning to read and devouring the Little House books, and pretending to be a pioneer on a couple thousand acres of grassland. My heroes and alter-egos in hours of pretend play were Laura Ingalls and Amelia Earhart and Jo March and a brief, intense fling as Joan of Arc, after Mark Twain introduced her to me, and a confusing lineup of dramatic Victorian heroines I found in a stash of books in the basement left there by previous inhabitants. So I don’t get the Disney obsession. I just don’t. I’m not saying I am a better person for having spent my childhood obsessed with literary heroines instead of cartoon ones, and I love that cartoon heroines inspire my sons, because gender was a huge factor in who inspired me as a kid and so far, my sons seem to be just as enamored with girl heroes as boy ones. But I just don’t get it. \n\nBobby gets it. I am obsessed and completely delighted by garden eels, and drag my boys to the Tropical Discovery building every time we use our zoo pass in Denver, because they must learn to love the garden eels as I do, and be as delighted by them popping up out of the sand of their aquarium to sway in the current like fat, contented blades of grass. They are everything I’m not, everything I’ve always wondered what it would be to live like, perfectly happy, just popping up to watch the ocean colors swirl around, sway, and enjoy life. They might be my spirit animal. But apparently The Little Mermaid gave tiny Bobby nightmares, or specifically the garden eels did, and now they give him the creeps. I have yet to watch The Little Mermaid.  Maybe his hangup over garden eels will make more sense to someone who has. But it does make me think about how early phobias and influences stay with us. And it makes me wonder what will be my boys’ “stuff” when they’re grown- what thing we are innocently doing now, allowing them to witness, that will create freakout echos as adults when they are reminded of them. Garden eels. C’mon. I love my boys’ dad, but he can’t take this from us. Garden eels for lyfe.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"adventure\",\"health\",\"family\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "adventure",
      "permlink": "chasing-the-garden-eel-life",
      "title": "Chasing the Garden Eel Life"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-09-11T17:38:12",
  "trx_id": "1bb285244ad5c95a41473019c481a056104cafc0",
  "trx_in_block": 17,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 24522995,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "outside-the-hospital-window",
      "voter": "hackerzizon",
      "weight": 100
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-07-26T20:11:18",
  "trx_id": "750632662d2d309f5f55ae4139b4a293b2fb4689",
  "trx_in_block": 5,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 24522962,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "![D7D6B430-68B4-4C5E-8578-B935BEEFFA91.jpeg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmaXC7NeAGdC3kEgEfcH152Qo6ar3cAXnF3ZXVUksjbkpj/D7D6B430-68B4-4C5E-8578-B935BEEFFA91.jpeg)\n\nOutside, the world spins\nManic, humanity stumbles forward\nTo work, to school, to the future.\n\nIn here, a restless wait. \n\nOutside, the sun passes overhead\nAnd overhead again\nSunrise to afternoon to sunset.\n\nIn here, the endless drip from bag, to tube, to vein.\n\nOutside, doctors and nurses scurry \nFaces in the morning\nRetreating backs in the evening.\n\nIn here, muffled voices in the hall.\n\nOutside, rain and snow and sun\nScentless, unfelt \nObserved through the window. \n\nIn here, pungent antiseptic with underlying whiffs of festering grief.\n\nOutside is everything sickness took.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"health\",\"cancer\",\"poetry\"],\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmaXC7NeAGdC3kEgEfcH152Qo6ar3cAXnF3ZXVUksjbkpj/D7D6B430-68B4-4C5E-8578-B935BEEFFA91.jpeg\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "health",
      "permlink": "outside-the-hospital-window",
      "title": "Outside the Hospital Window"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-07-26T20:09:39",
  "trx_id": "4701bf4b0b738d920e6194dc3151b64ef076124e",
  "trx_in_block": 70,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 23350236,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "29450.694229 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-06-15T18:13:48",
  "trx_id": "82e37ee565cfb9d73b192cf27c1fb6b24062e058",
  "trx_in_block": 23,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 23348629,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "wildflowers",
      "voter": "sensation",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-06-15T16:53:27",
  "trx_id": "f8b7166572e6a1f4a5f9b2f8ccb1060a1450a6b0",
  "trx_in_block": 34,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 23347994,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "wildflowers",
      "voter": "ubg",
      "weight": 100
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-06-15T16:21:42",
  "trx_id": "c1045bd824362077d1ab9cea959b1b231bb08323",
  "trx_in_block": 30,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 23347978,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "wildflowers",
      "voter": "ax3",
      "weight": 100
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-06-15T16:20:54",
  "trx_id": "02b6d35c64425a257aff4c6066b658c1e14367ab",
  "trx_in_block": 17,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 23347974,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "![IMG_1199.JPG](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmQWEyj1m4aTiyGykkvwW132p4KemSrPfCebnfhc9wUEsf/IMG_1199.JPG)Hello again, from the land of the crazy. It has been, too. Crazy, that is. I dropped off the face of the blogosphere. I can manage about a half hour of social media a day, mostly while on the toilet (you didn’t come here to not hear about my toilet entertainment, did you?) and while eating, so when I pop in and out on Facebook, that’s what I’ve replaced blogging with. But it does seem past time to flex my writing muscles again, and I do owe you updates.\n\nSo first, there’s D. He’s plugging along. I don’t think he feels super, and why would he, after three years of nonstop chemo? He seems like he has less energy than ever, even as his comprehension of the world is exploding, his face is becoming more angular, his feet longer, his hands bigger. He is simultaneously an old soul and a giggling, enthusiastic explorer of life. But more and more, I find him draped over a chair in the living room, and he tells us he is ready to go to bed instead of fighting bedtime and finding ways to stall its inevitability. I’m telling myself this is the push to the finish, and it makes sense- after all, if little bodies could take more treatment, there would probably be more treatment. There is a reason treatment stops when it does- risk versus reward. It is the amount of treatment needed to give him the best chance of avoiding a relapse without causing an unacceptable amount of harm to him. At the end, it makes sense that he is somewhat wrecked and exhausted. Of course the anxious, sensational extension of my subconscious on my shoulder is always whispering in my ear that anything out of the ordinary is a sign of relapse, that this is exactly how one might expect a relapse to look, but realistically, the odds are better that he’s simply a growing boy who has been wrung out by relentless doses of drugs that have known harsh side effects for the last three years. I am so ready to get to know this boy who will emerge when chemo ends this August- what foods will he like when his taste buds are no longer affected by the cardboard-metallic taste that chemo gives his meals? Will he start growing? Will his energy kick up several notches? Will he finish a short hike without begging to be carried? Will his sense of humor or pieces of his personality change? Will his brain fog and inability to find certain words when he needs them get better or stick with him? But at the same time, I am sometimes gripped with terror. It hits without warning or provocation. I picture us tumbling back to the bottom, to the start of another climb like the one we are almost to finish, and the sheer enormity of it just flattens me. We are pinning everything on this upcoming date- the date after which we will live without cancer making our decisions for us. The date we take back our lives. The date we emerge, grasp the edge of the crumbling pit we’ve been in and swing a leg over into the sunshine. If cancer should reach out with its ugly fingers and grab us by the ankles as we are escaping, and should drag us back down into that pit and demand we begin scrambling up those crumbling walls again, well. I can tell you one thing. At least one of us will one hundred percent lose her shit. It won’t be pretty or classy or anything remotely resembling dignified.\n\nThere have been a few things that have come up since my last update; almost too big of things to tackle retelling here, but I’ll give them a shot, because what good is full disclosure when one leaves things out? There are some good things, some scary things, some bad things, and some that are at least two of those things in equal portions. \n\nBack in February, I started noticing a major decline in my ability to climb up ski resort mountains at night and ski back down. I was suddenly exhausted and winded halfway up Keystone or A-Basin, my boots, skis and skins feeling like they weighed a hundred pounds, my heartbeat impossibly fast, my head light. So I did the obvious thing and tried to work out more often at lower intensity, because I must be getting old. The harder I tried, the more easily exhausted I became, and the faster my heart raced, so I eventually had to admit defeat and get it checked out. Thyroid tests revealed the large nodules discovered on scans I’d had after my bike accident were still benign and not responsible for whatever dysregulation was happening, so I went home and started trying to eat better, take better care of myself, and I stopped doing solo nighttime randonee adventures after my last one scared me a little bit; when I leaned over to pick up a dropped ski pole the movement triggered an arrhythmia that had my heart racing at 220 beats per minute and refusing to come down, leaving me weak and making me wonder if I might lose consciousness, and how long it might take a snowcat driver to find me while grooming the run I was trying to die on. Several people who know of this episode have asked me why I was not more worried about my own mortality at this point, and it’s a good question, if not one I have a ready answer for. The thought definitely crossed my mind, but at that point, there was nothing to do but hope for the best. This whole experience of watching D’s little body survive so much has almost made me more cavalier about the ability to survive a malfunctioning body, maybe. Maybe I focus too much on his survival and not enough on the death he escaped. Maybe I am just fatalistic enough that I figure I cannot outsmart death, so I live knowing it is close, just trying to squeeze enough experience out of life to make death less awful when it comes. I happened to be climbing in snowshoes that night with my snowboard on my back, so I strapped on my board and started riding down, only to be distracted by how bad I felt and catch an edge in the unfamiliar gear, which smacked me down face first on the snow, deeply bruising my knee and hip bone, twisting my arm in its socket, and greatly increasing my self-pity. The next day I made an appointment for a cardio consult, which still took several months to accomplish, since it involved waiting weeks for an appointment with my PCP so they could make the recommendation to the cardiologist, who was booking a month out, so they could hook me up to a Holter monitor for a month, then send those results and me to a specialist in Denver, also booking a month out. Long story short, I paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia, specifically an atrial flutter. And mild dysautonomia. None of which is definitely going to kill me. Basically, I can’t control my blood pressure very well, so it suddenly drops with small changes in body position. This causes my heart to speed up to get blood to the important parts, which keeps it higher than normal a large part of the day and creates exhaustion. But also, my heart rate randomly shoots up without any discernible cause. This is why I may need ablation to kill the extra signals firing and telling it to contract for no reason. But also, a few minutes into an episode, the rhythm changes, indicating that my atrium is going into a sort of feedback loop, the signal telling my heart to contract apparently bouncing in circles around my atrium instead of passing through in a nice straight line and going down into my ventricles like a normal heart should do. This may be due to some sort of inflammation or adhesions or other anomaly in the muscle tissue, and there apparently isn’t much that can be done about it. Except, possibly, to radically control inflammation. It's somewhat newly indicated in research, but this comes from \"the big expert in electrical stuff\" in our area, who has started recommending all of his arrhythmia patients go on a grain free diet. It was strongly suggested that I avoid stress, avoid all inflammatory foods, especially wheat, avoid too hard of athletic training, avoid weight gain, avoid alcohol and caffeine, and start meditating. I hate to admit he is right, and so far my own experiments are preliminary, but I do seem to do better on a plant-based wheat-free diet with very minimal grains- the occasional corn tortilla and oats being my only grain. So that's somewhat annoying, but on the plus side, my abs are slowly becoming visible without me constantly carb- and cheese-bombing them, so I guess there's that. \n\nI could pretty much see his eyes light up at the news that I was parent to a five year old with cancer. Aha! It’s anxiety! I hastened to assure him that while yes, I am no stranger to occasional short bouts of depression and not so occasional feelings of impending doom (known here as The Dreads, recently redefined as The Mighty Midnight Dreads, since they have been the cause of zero sleep recently as my brain plays host to loudly reverberating scenarios in which I am not here to personally assure my kids' safety, security, and happiness), I honestly do not feel as though they affect my daily life, and it is hard to find any correlation between these heart symptoms and times of increased stress. He did hypothesize on the question I have been asking myself- am I meant to live at high altitude? Although I have had periods of these episodes since 2007, when I discovered one fine summer morning that birthday cake for breakfast before a bike ride was a recipe for racing pulse, lightheadedness, shortness of breath, and near fainting, which sent me to the ER for an EKG that was normal by the time the electrodes were placed, they did seem to fade almost completely when we lived in Kansas and the Front Range. They really only returned after our return to Summit County. Correlation or causation? I don’t know. His only wisdom was that the physical stress of living and sleeping in a state of oxygen deprivation was possibly a factor, but almost certainly not the only one. So, if I want to, if I get really sick of it and can’t manage to control it by diet and being a Very Calm Person and practicing vagal maneuvers and popping the beta blocker in the locket on a chain I now wear around my neck, I have the option of scheduling an ablation, but given the evidence that this is not a single problem, I am not yet personally convinced that shoving a catheter into my heart and zapping bits of it out of commision is entirely necessary. It seems a bit extreme. We’d rather do the not-extreme thing, downsize a lifetime into several suitcases, move 5,000 miles away to a beautiful island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and try living at sea level for a while.\n\nOh, you thought that was a joke?\n\nSo did we...for a while. Then we joked to the right people. The idea sort of grew on us. It has sort of been a thing that’s been on our radar for years. We had begun selling our stuff to move there before we moved back to Kansas in late 2011, but with the option to make much better money for a few years in Kansas and go with more savings, practically won out. We decided we’d rather pay our dues a few more years than go somewhere notoriously hard to make a living, get really broke, and be forced to go back to Kansas because we couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. It only took a few days after deciding to move back to Kansas that we also decided that our interlude with family and slow farm living wouldn’t be the worst time to start trying for a baby, as well. After all, I was almost 30, and guaranteed to be bored for the next several years.\n\nSo we had D. Somehow, when we sold the Kansas business and left to come back to Colorado, we had lost the itch for the ocean. All those quiet, creeping days of dust and brown horizons and inactivity and low daily excitement sort of reset our wanderlust back to near zero, not to mention all our attention was on our fat, giggling, squishy, delightful baby boy. We were too exhausted and too used to being close to family to consider a radical move. So we bought a camper and spent the summer in it, before getting that reluctant oilfield job as another financial stop gap as we plotted our next move, and somewhere in there, under the spell of walking out the door of our camper to the endless Colorado sky over towering peaks and rushing water and inquisitive deer and meadows waist-deep in wildflowers, all mirrored in clear, cold mountain lakes, with long, sundrenched days bookended by flaming sunrises and sunsets, we made another baby. And then there were diapers and breastfeeding and cancer, and then the loss of the job we never really wanted in the first place, and the attempt at being self employed in the Front Range, which barely got off the ground before we had the opportunity to come back to Summit County. \n\nAnd then it was still cancer, but also skiing and biking and hiking and that gnarly, face-altering mountain bike crash a year ago. And then this last winter, which we spent working and trying our best to play, to enjoy life in spite of the soul-crushing cold, which somehow seemed less bearable this year, even though comparatively, it was a warm, dry winter. I took the kids out about every other day and we played hard on a budget, thanks to living where we do. Kids under 5 ski free, the outdoor ice rink is free if you bring your own skates, and there is plenty of tiny second-hand winter sports gear floating around this county, passed from consignment shop to mom to mom back to consignment shop. There are cookies every afternoon, parades on Saturdays, crafts and ice cream parties on Sundays, every day a different free kid’s activity, allowing my boys to live as though they were permanently on vacation. There was also school, which we dipped in and out of as virus after virus swept through the student body, sometimes staying home because D was sick, sometimes because everyone else was. I hit a wall again this March and April, beyond sick of the cold, maybe my own body malfunctions making it worse as I was perpetually exhausted and freezing, my mental state deteriorating as cabin fever fed the ADHD and the ADHD fed the cabin fever and I stopped trying to fight it because it was just too cold and gray and pointless. The heater could never be turned up high enough, I took to wearing wool sock and shoes and jackets inside the house just to stay warm, I let my kids watch way too much TV, and I just hid inside my head. And when I finally did poke my brain out into the world again, push myself out the door to go run, my heart would not let me take fifteen running steps before it went tachy and stayed there until I slowed to a plod, leaving my head light, hands numb, stomach nauseated, body weak and shaky. Thankfully, that was the worst. My heart and head are functioning much better now. But I do know one thing- I'd rather cut off my big toes than do that again. \n\nSomewhere in there, the idea of the ocean recaptured our imagination. I’m not sure who first mentioned it. But eventually, the idea of a vacation slowly turned into the idea that we should explore what the realities would be if we were spend a few of the coldest winter months closer to the equator. B’s job wouldn’t suffer too greatly, as his summer was already looking full of contract jobs. Our lowest paying job was our winter job, working for the property management company that we have worked for off and on for years, and we figured that we could work extra hours in the summer to justify the time absent in the winter. We discussed the Caribbean and the Gulfshore and the Pacific, anywhere we could work as U.S. citizens if the opportunity arose. \n\nSince then, the idea has gone through iterations. It took on a life of its own when old Summit County neighbors who now live on Maui offered to rent us either their guest house or an apartment attached to their home, and mentioned they might have some jobs for us to do. Between several income sources from various businesses started since their move, they need assistance, and we happened to mention our thoughts on joining them there around the same time their businesses hit max capacity given their current human resources and the demands on their time. We’ve decided we probably can’t afford to keep our house here, since we would have to continue to pay rent for the land it sits on and aren't allowed to rent it out, but with the worker’s housing situation here, we think we can sell it easily. Then, if we come back, we can find a rental more easily, since we will be pet-free at that point. (Andy, our first-born, went to live with my parents for a month or two this spring, because his aging hips could not take the deep snow, or the icy steps into our house, or the mud, or our slick flooring, or the jump into our car, and he was getting more and more hobbled by the day. After a month or two of Kansas living, it is obvious he is less anxious, less crippled, and has the freedom to bark at will, which has his big doggy smile plastered all over his furry face. As much as we love him, from his aging pink nose to his waggy feathery tail, he seems to be thriving far better at what is becoming increasingly obvious is probably his retirement home. He even chooses to sleep outside, we hear. Go figure.) It isn’t as though we couldn’t find work when we came back, whether in six months or two years. We know enough people in this county, have cultivated enough friendships and working relationships, we know work is the one thing never in short supply here, as long as ones skillset involves the ability to maintain, upgrade and/or update lodging and rental homes, and ones reputation as a reliable, honest contractor stays intact. So, we tell those asking us, we don’t entirely know what we plan to do, or how long we plan to stay. We will try it for the winter. Maybe we’ll be back. If we love it, if it makes more financial sense than coming back to Summit County, we’ll stay longer. Rental housing there is basically the same, or a bit cheaper. Even the real estate market is cheaper by about $150 less per square foot. Not that this means much, considering that we are in a far below-market housing situation here in Summit and we will be paying the same comparatively low amount to live in Maui as we are here. We have nothing to prove, just life to experience. My parents are understandably less than thrilled about their only kids increasing the distance between us, but understand that this is probably something we need to try since we’ve been threatening to do it for so long, and our hope is that instead of only seeing them for a few hours every few weekends, they can come visit us or we’ll visit them less often, but for a week or two at a time, and finally spend real quality time together. \n\nOf course, with such a change comes fear. What if D were to relapse? We ask each other. If he did, the other replies, as we trade off being the frightened one and the reassuring one, what sort of memories would we wish to take with us back to Children’s Hospital and into the long, scary ordeal of radiation and bone marrow transplant? If he were to spend significantly more time in the hospital, what sort of recollections of his relative health and freedom would we most want to relive with him? If his body were to give out, to succumb to the spectre of sepsis that has stalked us for over three years now, if it were to become unable to hold him anymore, wouldn’t we hold each unique thing we did with him like a string of pearls, counting each one, turning them over and over as we remembered the skiing, the ice skating, the biking, the hiking, the swimming with sea turtles and whale watching, the sun rising over snow-marked granite peaks or setting over the ocean and volcanic cliffs? Would we regret giving him endless summer, less TV and housebound days, less flu season, fewer milk-white snow day skies, more sand and sunshine? Wouldn’t we remember the squeals of delight over splashing in icy mountain lakes and warm Pacific waves? We are starting to realize that doing the same thing every day, even if it is an amazing thing, tends to blur the days together and form more of a memory-picture than a string of precious remembered moments. It would be a perfect life to stay in these mountains, living on a diet of the same favors, as full as they are, and it would also be a perfect life to experience different ones. It isn’t that we think the grass is greener, it is that we are so privileged and fortunate as to be able to see the entire world as a field of wildflowers, and some places have wild roses and indian paintbrush, some places have hibiscus and plumeria, some places have flowering cacti, and it isn’t to say wild roses aren’t sweet to go walk through other flowers. As we strive every single day to harvest memories and feel sad at the end of the days we know will be forgettable, days where the howling subzero wind keeps us inside and we run out of things to do, we long for more, always more memories, against a day we may need them. As we told each other when deciding to start our new adventure as parents, at this point, we are doing the same things over. We still love them so much. But if we don’t try new things, how will we know we won’t love those things too? Life is short and earth is big and people are beautiful and we live in an age, and in a society, where the limitations to being able to expand our experience of it all are not terribly overwhelming if one is willing to make some sacrifices. Yes, we may fail. Spectacularly. Or, at the end of a few years, we may have begun to feel the new wildflowers become familiar, and start to long to walk through other new ones. Or we'll have changed as humans often do and long for stability instead. But as long as failure leaves us with the ability to come back and work, to still exchange time and services for money, there isn’t too much we can’t find our way back from. If we are fortunate enough to live a long life, we definitely hope in all of our living we will have found the time to save for retirement, but if life is cut short for any of us, we cannot afford to waste a single moment. We have an imperative to smell flowers and laugh and love and experience joy and taste new foods and watch sunrises and sunsets over new horizons and not waste a day of it on sadness unless we are forced to. \n\nThe thought occurs to me that having not a lot to lose comes with advantages. We are not tied anywhere by a fulfilling or lucrative job, just a mediocre one that allows us to live, not getting ahead, not falling behind. We have you beautiful souls to thank for our lack of medical debt- the expenses not covered by insurance you covered practically to the penny, sharing your love with us in the form of financial help. We are debt-free. If we fall flat, as long as we’ve made halfway sensible decisions, we won’t be significantly set back from where we are now, and there is always the chance we could succeed, even in the most narrow definition of the word; financial security.\n\nWe often wonder if there will come a time in our lives where we are satisfied with repetition. Maybe there will. I think it all depends on how well a job pays and how well one can live around its demands. If either of us had a career that lit us up, we would probably feel less ambivalent about everything else as well. If that happens, we promise ourselves we will listen to the voice that says, “This is nice.” But today, there are things out there we haven’t tried, and trying them could be the worst or best decisions we’ve ever made, and there is no way to tell that except in hindsight. What we do know is that the only time we measured success in terms of what we owned was when our world was the smallest, our perspective the narrowest, our view of the horizon the most myopic. When life was bigger than us, and our goal was mere survival, we didn’t care. We had bigger fish to fry. When survival began to seem likely and life became about thriving through survival, we didn’t care. We had perspective and gratitude that things could be so much worse. Somehow such things as things only seemed important when our life had the least amount of other sources of stress, joy, or excitement. \n\nI am not sure why it is we have this insatiable hunger for life and location and flavor, to the point where we are always leaving the intentional family we surround ourselves with in each place.  It seems like should be the last ones to leave, given the way I wax so lyrically and so idealistically about community. It sounds so good. It isn’t that we want to leave for the sake of leaving, and it isn’t as though we think the places we go are going to be any sort of panacea for all of our problems. It is just that we treasure experiences, and are deeply secure in the relationships that truly matter no matter the miles between us (my poor parents simply have to accept where we are, and not take it too seriously. Some day maybe we'll know where we will be long-term and build them a tiny house in our back yard.) As our kids get older, of course, we will need to start including them in these conversations, as we already do to some degree, and listening to them, because it is entirely possible, even probable, that they will gravitate toward less experience and more continuity if we fill their tanks with experiences early. That’s a bridge we’ll cross in a few years. By then, we may have developed our own longing for stability. Or who knows? Maybe this will be the move that lands us in a sweet enough financial situation we can afford to have a home base and travel from there. I mean, that would really be the most ideal. It’s only those of us who stubbornly refuse to accept the limitations of our finances who zing around to fun, touristy places we can live and work in, since we cannot afford to vacation there now that we have kids, and we're loathe to leave them behind. \n\nOf course, leaving Summit County comes with a genuine sting of remorse and grief. We can't have our cake and eat it, too. If we don't return, my kids won't be the expert skiers they so want to be (and assume, with the confidence of children, they already are.) They won't know the pine and sage scents that summon memories of beautiful summer days, or the deep blue Colorado sky, or the level of athleticism that is created by living at 9,000 feet. And me, personally... it is hard to lose my Summit County sister (again). I have one of those rare friends up here who shares my love of grammar and alliteration, my obsession with the outdoors, my fascination with psychology, my love affair with logic, and who seems genuinely thrilled to babysit my kids at a moment's notice. We have biked and skied together all over this county, have been terribly obnoxious to everyone around us with our loudness and laughter, and know horrifying secrets about each other, ensuring we will be best friends forever and whoever gets dementia first will probably need to be lovingly smothered by a pillow by the other to keep those secrets safe for both of us. Neither of us are phone people, which means that we will need to travel to spend time together, but that is a poor substitute for living five miles apart. \n\nI honestly am hesitant to say it is definitely happening until we’re on the airplane off the west coast, having put our vehicle on a boat, and our remaining possessions in suitcases, and I look down and realize just how much ocean is under us, lying between us and everything we know. I am feeling myself getting antsy, wondering what I should be doing to prepare for a 5,000 mile move with four suitcases in four months, while also wondering how much I should commit to selling the things we will not need living where there is no winter, because if we’ve learned anything, it is that plans can change in an instant. I am superstitiously paranoid that if I sell the things that really define our lives here- bikes, skis, winter gear and clothes- something will change and we will stay and we’ll never afford to replace them.\n\nIn the meantime, we are determined to truly enjoy every second of what might be our last high country summer. I have found myself gazing upward on a daily basis, mesmerized by the way the light filtering through the gently hazy air turns each mountain in a range progressively more blue. The way the snow still clinging to ravines and couloirs above treeline creates patterns I could never quite learn to emulate when painting them. That simultaneous nourishing warmth and refreshing chill that is the sun and breeze playing together over bare skin, and the cool silence and ageless dignity that is the stand of century-old fir trees guarding the stream into which my boys dip their toes when we’re exploring the hillsides behind our house. The deep midday silence in sun-baked sage meadows, where only the drone of insects is audible, and the lively evenings in those same meadows, filled with chirping birds and frogs hiding in the wetlands. Until we go, we cannot get enough of gliding over the mirror surface of the lake on a paddleboard, between islands home to ospreys, of evening woodsmoke from campfires drifting through our valley, of afternoon thunderstorms. We are savoring it and tucking it away in our memory vaults, and if a day is lost to sickness or laundry or the need to clean house, it feels like a real, grievable loss. Only in a place where summer is so short and so beautiful is the feeling of loss over even one day felt so acutely.\n\nBobby is trying to do all the Colorado summer things and still support us. He has been insanely busy, having committed to some deadlines early on for jobs that turned more complicated and time consuming once he was doing them. He doesn’t enjoy discussing work, but it always amazes me when I go any place with him how much of a familiar face in the community he seems to be. We can barely go anywhere without him running into people he knows and stopping to visit, which always throws me for a loop, since in my mind he is incontrovertibly an introvert, and seems as though the only people he knows or wants to spend time with are his family. It makes me realize again that we are all different people to different people, and who can truly say who our real self even is? At any rate, it reaffirms my belief that even if we need to return in a few month or years, there will be work. It really isn’t what one knows up here. It’s who one knows and whether one is known to be trustworthy.\n\nIf we seem like we are hard to get ahold of, it is because we are out enjoying the mountain summer and having no bad days. This is a sort of mantra I’ve been telling myself lately, and it is one of those things that once I heard it, realized it perfectly describes the philosophy I’ve been struggling to put into words for so long, and failing to live by as often as I succeed to do so. No bad days. There are hard days, and days that feel like they were not lived to their full potential, but bad days? That level of gratitude is something we can control by the simple process of being a healthy level of pessimistic. Crashed your car, but are you paralyzed? Missed a flight,  but can you afford a ticket? Water heater exploded, but are you homeless? Diagnosed with cancer? I mean, that’s a doozie, but still not the worst day to someone who has exhausted every treatment option and had their first hospice visit today. No matter how hard it gets...no bad days. Not as long as one thinks of “bad” as an absolute value. Anything that is not as bad as it could be is, by the same token, at least a little bit good. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. \n\nWe’re off to find some wildflowers.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"adventure\",\"cancer\",\"family\",\"health\"],\"image\":[\"https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmQWEyj1m4aTiyGykkvwW132p4KemSrPfCebnfhc9wUEsf/IMG_1199.JPG\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "adventure",
      "permlink": "wildflowers",
      "title": "Wildflowers"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-06-15T16:20:42",
  "trx_id": "d15f06979a285e542b55b03338bb5ebfe15d3640",
  "trx_in_block": 32,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 22498799,
  "op": [
    "delegate_vesting_shares",
    {
      "delegatee": "winterwitch",
      "delegator": "steem",
      "vesting_shares": "9149.771789 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-05-17T03:45:03",
  "trx_id": "a79abddc4d2c2c3b92f6de72db2605b68884bba0",
  "trx_in_block": 7,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19734543,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "voter": "dtubix",
      "weight": 5000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-02-10T01:54:33",
  "trx_id": "60bbc799ae739bc3c674f985cdf716482f63c5fd",
  "trx_in_block": 30,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19243210,
  "op": [
    "author_reward",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "sbd_payout": "0.214 SBD",
      "steem_payout": "0.000 STEEM",
      "vesting_payout": "96.202689 VESTS"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-23T23:53:57",
  "trx_id": "0000000000000000000000000000000000000000",
  "trx_in_block": 4294967295,
  "virtual_op": 17
}

{
  "block": 19136499,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "moonlight-flight-after-dark-randonee",
      "voter": "mrkmj",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-20T06:56:12",
  "trx_id": "bb351952b882f25211337f6a77e1283958e382b9",
  "trx_in_block": 54,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19136475,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "voter": "mrkmj",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-20T06:55:00",
  "trx_id": "d7d8a35b35a0a77e033f279747c032c6f325afee",
  "trx_in_block": 26,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19099821,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "resteembot",
      "body": "Resteemed by @resteembot! Good Luck!\nThe resteem was paid by @greetbot\nCurious?\nThe @resteembot's [introduction post](https://steemit.com/resteembot/@resteembot/how-to-use-resteembot-updated-2017824t202525149z)\nGet more from @resteembot with the #resteembotsentme initiative\nCheck out the great posts I already resteemed.",
      "json_metadata": "",
      "parent_author": "winterwitch",
      "parent_permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "permlink": "re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-20180119t002053306z",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-19T00:20:54",
  "trx_id": "9072114006b2cf3847cbe2694ad64f6153688108",
  "trx_in_block": 60,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19099808,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "greetbot",
      "body": "Hi. I am @greetbot - a bot that uses ***AI*** to look for newbies who write good content!\nYour post was approved by me. As reward it will be resteemed by a resteeming service.\n![greetbot's stamp of approval](https://s10.postimg.org/3ksxxmpc9/stamp-250.png)\n> @greetbot evaluated your post's quality score as [50.10] points!\nGood Job!",
      "json_metadata": "",
      "parent_author": "winterwitch",
      "parent_permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "permlink": "re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-20180119t002013288z",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-19T00:20:15",
  "trx_id": "0a0ee00fe987606aa1bbe76442297e25dc8505d3",
  "trx_in_block": 30,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19088222,
  "op": [
    "custom_json",
    {
      "id": "follow",
      "json": "[\"follow\",{\"follower\":\"winterwitch\",\"following\":\"careywedler\",\"what\":[]}]",
      "required_auths": [],
      "required_posting_auths": [
        "winterwitch"
      ]
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-18T14:40:42",
  "trx_id": "2bbb2aa3e1846150e8241793c7bc56a1c8d5a475",
  "trx_in_block": 3,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19088161,
  "op": [
    "custom_json",
    {
      "id": "follow",
      "json": "[\"follow\",{\"follower\":\"winterwitch\",\"following\":\"careywedler\",\"what\":[\"blog\"]}]",
      "required_auths": [],
      "required_posting_auths": [
        "winterwitch"
      ]
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-18T14:37:39",
  "trx_id": "079c810ac9a67d58e6cd8e3a4f5a84ff8b9ecd3a",
  "trx_in_block": 51,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19088040,
  "op": [
    "custom_json",
    {
      "id": "follow",
      "json": "[\"follow\",{\"follower\":\"winterwitch\",\"following\":\"airhawk-project\",\"what\":[\"blog\"]}]",
      "required_auths": [],
      "required_posting_auths": [
        "winterwitch"
      ]
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-18T14:31:36",
  "trx_id": "1f6f29e96820367204e71004b36a2d4d16d55856",
  "trx_in_block": 14,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19087534,
  "op": [
    "custom_json",
    {
      "id": "follow",
      "json": "[\"follow\",{\"follower\":\"winterwitch\",\"following\":\"marketingmonk\",\"what\":[\"blog\"]}]",
      "required_auths": [],
      "required_posting_auths": [
        "winterwitch"
      ]
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-18T14:06:15",
  "trx_id": "608b546116b28016610dc0e3f170f0796f886bba",
  "trx_in_block": 24,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19061226,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "Thank you!",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"health\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\"}",
      "parent_author": "thehumanbot",
      "parent_permlink": "re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-1516191647093t02bb64e7-b273-4824-a474-b5c5fb5093a7uid",
      "permlink": "re-thehumanbot-re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-1516191647093t02bb64e7-b273-4824-a474-b5c5fb5093a7uid-20180117t161012698z",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-17T16:10:12",
  "trx_id": "48b0f298eba96c7b055c6dc1eebec177915c8bc2",
  "trx_in_block": 38,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19061218,
  "op": [
    "delete_comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "re-thehumanbot-re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-1516191647093t02bb64e7-b273-4824-a474-b5c5fb5093a7uid-20180117t160919208z"
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-17T16:09:48",
  "trx_id": "cee059f4abbedb7cfc8e352b97ebb3d5b2592c07",
  "trx_in_block": 21,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19061209,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "body": "Thank you!",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"health\"],\"app\":\"steemit/0.1\"}",
      "parent_author": "thehumanbot",
      "parent_permlink": "re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-1516191647093t02bb64e7-b273-4824-a474-b5c5fb5093a7uid",
      "permlink": "re-thehumanbot-re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-1516191647093t02bb64e7-b273-4824-a474-b5c5fb5093a7uid-20180117t160919208z",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-17T16:09:21",
  "trx_id": "9091f164561d400f401e9fb23c6337dcc70da992",
  "trx_in_block": 9,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19056639,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "thehumanbot",
      "body": "Upvoted on behalf of @thehumanbot and it's allies. Write less but write great original content, and do not use bid bots for at least 1-2 days, for your post to be recommended to other curators. If you are using any image or video, cite proper source. Even if its your own image or video, it's worth mention the same. Also be careful to avoid duplicate posting.\nGreat Original Works are rewarded by top Curators, refer posts from my Step-Brother @humanbot for more details.If you like this initiative, you can follow me in [SteemAuto](https://steemauto.com/) and upvote the posts, that I upvote. \n And remember to do some charity when you are rich by contributing to me. Check out my [Introduction Post](https://steemit.com/utopian-io/@thehumanbot/the-human-bot-a-new-beginning-in-steemit) for more details. If you have any concerns or feedback with my way of operation, raise it with @sanmi , my operator who is freaking in Steemit chat most of the time.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"thehumanbot\"],\"users\":[\"thehumanbot\",\"humanbot\",\"thehumanbot\",\"sanmi\"],\"links\":[\"https://steemauto.com/\",\"https://steemit.com/utopian-io/@thehumanbot/the-human-bot-a-new-beginning-in-steemit\"],\"app\":\"SteemJ-Core/0.4.2\",\"format\":\"markdown\"}",
      "parent_author": "winterwitch",
      "parent_permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "permlink": "re-winterwitch-cancer-pass-1516191647093t02bb64e7-b273-4824-a474-b5c5fb5093a7uid",
      "title": ""
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-17T12:20:48",
  "trx_id": "d0e3d934b9abfbcf424ceecaf5c5daf18a47255c",
  "trx_in_block": 0,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19056638,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "voter": "sanjeevm",
      "weight": 1000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-17T12:20:45",
  "trx_id": "27bb174564277d4ce9c9d742cd7b8040162343ad",
  "trx_in_block": 1,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19056637,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "voter": "thehumanbot",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-17T12:20:42",
  "trx_id": "7550aea9fec6b5b480f0f71b4b7cca00649a9cb5",
  "trx_in_block": 5,
  "virtual_op": 0
}

{
  "block": 19056636,
  "op": [
    "vote",
    {
      "author": "winterwitch",
      "permlink": "cancer-pass",
      "voter": "somadeb",
      "weight": 10000
    }
  ],
  "op_in_trx": 0,
  "timestamp": "2018-01-17T12:20:39",
  "trx_id": "73b67bc88e8cb6120a5ca9a44cda6ce5ee823a92",
  "trx_in_block": 5,
  "virtual_op": 0
}