How to Get Ahead in Real Estate

In 2016, I took a leap into Real Estate.

While working a demanding job as a marketing contractor for a large, global, software company and working on as many plays I could at Duncanville Community Theatre, I found time to study for the Real Estate licensure exam.

When I was considering a broker, I chose the one that a family member worked with for many years. It was a natural choice; it was a good choice.

Here I am approaching the end of 2017, and I wanted to take a moment to reflect on what I’ve learned … on what the books and classes didn’t teach me.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that what it boils down to isn’t about how to find leads or how to manage a smooth transaction.

For me, it boils down to this: drawing upon one’s Inner Resources is how to get ahead.

This has been a path that has shown me what I’m made of. Of course there are many paths that can teach us this same lesson, but—as I stand upon this path of Realtor in a moment of pause—I’m reminded that …

I am Patient.
I am Caring.
I am Generous.
I am Compassionate.
I am Surrounded By Many Patient, Caring, Generous, and Compassionate People.
I am Blessed.

I know that when I pause to remember, when I keep moving forward (no matter how tough it gets), I can gently guide others ahead where we reach what we are reaching for … Home.


Dawn McCallum

Oh, by the way®… if you know of someone who would appreciate the level of service I provide, please call me with their name and business number. I’ll be happy to follow up and take great care of them.

[Click here to get my FREE home search app.]

My Path to Real Estate

I’ve been getting crushes on houses since I was a kid. My first “windshield” house tours were on my elementary school bus, where I got a glimpse of my favorite houses every day when we cruised by.

When I was a schoolteacher in my 20s and looking for my first home, I loved touring homes with my realtor. My favorite houses were the ones where I couldn’t immediately tell what the layout was going to be. When I learned existed, it became one of my go-to places to browse on the Internet.

In the early 2000s, I was making a career change and real estate was on my list of paths to consider. But I didn’t feel I had the courage and skill to start my own business. Besides, my family had a realtor—my mother’s cousin, Jean Tutt—who had been selling homes for decades and still loved her work. And she helped countless people in the process.

But I played it safe and went for the corporate jobs in advertising and marketing. I learned a lot about catalog and Internet advertising and many aspects of B2B and B2C marketing. I wrote just about every kind of marketing copy you can imagine for the retail, education, and high tech industries. And at every transition, the one path that kept popping up was real estate.

When I started working as a freelance technical writer and marketing consultant, I did very well working as a social media marketing manager for a great big software company. I earned a grad certificate from Rutgers Business School in Social Media Marketing to help me understand content marketing strategy and the use of technology to reach audiences.

As that project wrapped up, I knew that it was time. I had a nice little nest egg, a big bag of skills, and—most importantly—the gumption to make the leap to the career I’ve been dreaming of for over two decades.

I got my license, found my broker, and have great mentors and coaches to guide me. What amazes me the most about where I am in my career is how every step along the way gave me a deep understanding of the unique skills used by realtors on a daily basis.

A decade of teaching taught me: how to be flexible, how to plan, how to think on my feet, to anticipate what someone needs, to research, to LISTEN, and how to care for people.

A decade and a half of marketing taught me: how to create marketing plans and develop concepts, how to set and MEET deadlines, how to help other people stay on schedule, and how to adapt to technology and communication methods.

And that’s just scratching the surface of what I learned on my path to real estate.

Here’s what’s essential to who I am, and who I will always be:
I love to learn.
I love to help people get what they want and need.
I still get crushes on houses.

I’m thankful to set foot on this path, and look forward to walking this path with those who will join me along the way.

Late-20th-Century Selfie: Camping ’94

Screen Shot 2014-07-08 at 8.10.58 PM

Camping with Elsa, ’94

Spring Break 1994, Elsa and I went camping. This was our last spring break as students, since we were both completing our master’s degrees in education that year. I had already started working as a long-term substitute teacher in the school district where Elsa and I had met and become friends in the late ’80s. I had married the previous fall, so things were already becoming so very different, so very “adult.” We weren’t the girls we had been when we first became friends in Madame McCoy’s French class where I learned that elle s’appelle Elsa and that she had the most joyous laugh I’d ever heard.

We were friends through all of our crushes on boys, through difficulties and illnesses in our families, through the transition from high school to college to adulthood. She taught me about quetzals, Chapinlandia and malas. In high school we rode around Duncanville listening to Morrissey. On one drive, we ran over a bottle. She was run over once too by a car in the school parking lot and limped for what seemed like months. We loved James Dean, kitty cats and movies with Edwardian ladies.

In college, we lived together for three years: first in the quiet wing of the women’s dorm at UNT where we got in trouble for listening to violin music too late; then at our very first apartment with Jessica and Akhenaten the cat; then in the funkiest apartment ever over the Clock Shop (no longer there) in Denton, Texas.

We both studied English and were on the same teachers’ scholarship. I watched her consistently score a few points higher on assignments we had in the classes we shared. We watched movies a lot: a Janis Joplin documentary, “Beaches,” “True Stories.” One time we ate so much Flying Tomato pizza that we had to take a bus home because we were “too full to walk.”

We student-taught in a frightening, urban middle-school together, where one of her students—probably drunk, probably high—shot himself in the head while playing Russian roulette at a party one night. We shared one bad professor and other great ones.

In graduate school—in the months before I married—we were neighbors one last time at the Normal Street apartments where we lived near a pot-bellied pig named Saucy, a member of Brave Combo and a man who mooed like a cow.

Over the years, we travelled together. In France we walked on stones by the Mediterranean Sea and had a crush on a boy who worked at a bookstore in Cannes. It was in St. Tropez where she started calling me by my all-time favorite nickname: Cindycat.

In Mexico, we bathed in the waters by Tulum, drank hot coffee in the hottest heat I’d ever experienced and lounged on the beach while she read “Gone with the Wind.” (Sometimes Scarlett and her contemporaries did things so shocking she had to stop and tell me about it. Of course, I read the book later at her suggestion…and loved it.)

On our way to my grandmother’s church convention in Texarkana, we ate way too many Oreos and Funyuns. But on this particular day, camping at Pedernales Falls, after driving across Texas listening to Nirvana, we went to “bed” early to read stories we loved in a field near cows where we took this late-20th-century selfie.

Late-20th-Century Selfie: Thanksgiving, late 90s

Happy Thanksgiving from the late 90s

Happy Thanksgiving from the late 90s

Some holidays are so much like all the other holidays that they run together with the other ones in a big holiday soup. It’s difficult to distinguish one from the next. This late-20th-century selfie was not from one of those holidays.

I’m posing here with my brother, Tracy. This was the Thanksgiving that my half-sister, Paige, brought her daughter, Kelsey, to my mom’s house. Paige, who shares a father with me, had been to my mother’s home a few times, mostly just to pick me up for a visit at their home in East Texas. Only once or twice had she actually been in my mother’s home before. And this time she had come for Thanksgiving and brought her little girl.

This foreign feeling came from the fact that we were all together…under my mother’s roof. My mother was very charming that day, shining brightly in the way that she can, where the light of who she is can fill the room where she happens to be. That is my mother when she is happy, and that was my mother on that day when my sister and niece came to Thanksgiving.

My sister is 10 years younger than I am, and at that time I was beginning to struggle with whether or not I wanted to have children. I had been married for a number of years and was approaching 30. The proverbial clock was ticking, but I didn’t have that urge, that calling that so many women seemed to have. At that time, I was more infatuated with the idea of motherhood and raising a child than actually having one. My mind told me it was something I should do, that as a teacher who was married to a teacher, we were perfectly equipped for the responsibility of parenting another person. But my soul held back. It wasn’t until I spent time with Kelsey that day, that the urge started to become real for me.

It was a foreign feeling for all of us to be together. It’s not that we hadn’t been together before for holidays. We had spent many holidays together—many that blur and blend into one—with our father and her mother. My stepmother’s family was always very welcoming to me. Though they weren’t my biological family, I felt cared for by them which is my main holiday memory of my times with them…that feeling of acceptance and love.

I’m not sure how my sister felt about that Thanksgiving. I can only speculate that she was worried about what we would think of her, a teen-ager who had a little black child with the features of our family. But I was fascinated by this little girl. I could see my grandmother’s features and my stepmother’s features in her beautiful face. She was glorious with her dark skin and African hair. I didn’t know the story of her father. I’m sure Kelsey would want a holiday with that part of her family too and to have that feeling of acceptance.

Even though that day felt so different from other holidays, in my memory now it’s one of my favorite Thanksgivings, one where people who could have easily chosen differently. Instead of choosing to hold onto past perceptions of what family is and who is welcome, we chose to accept and to love. We chose to be happy; happy enough to take a late-20th-Century selfie. I want to take the feeling of that holiday with me out into the world: the feeling of even though we are not the family we expected, we belong to each other.

Late-20th-Century Selfie: December 1989


Santa and Me

Santa and Me

Who doesn’t love a Santa Selfie? I remember explaining to this particular Santa what I wanted to do because the term selfie didn’t exist yet. “Can I take a picture of us together, but, you know the kind where someone holds the camera out like this, and the picture is just two big faces?” I even held the camera out at arm’s length to demonstrate how the photo would be taken. Knowing me, I probably also showed him an exaggerated version of the smile I would use in the proposed photo…my standard “cheese.”

It was quite spontaneous, this picture. My brother was working at a Sam’s Club somewhere near Dallas, and his co-workers were having a Christmas Party/Talent Show. My brother played his base guitar that evening on the make-shift stage where we also heard songs sung, instruments played and a display of other gifts people had been quietly working on at home.

There are little stages like this that spring up in unexpected places, a little sacred space where we observe what others have done with their gifts, where we dare to share the things we’re compelled to do, the art we can’t help making. And this particular evening, the sacred stage was a space beside the closed-out cash registers, in front a few rows of folding chairs, by a table overflowing with food made with ingredients from Sam’s Club.

I wandered around the space, as I do, observing the humans in their natural habitat when something wonderful happened.

Santa Claus showed up.

I wanted to be first in line, but I knew I had to wait for the young children to go first. I was, after all, 19 now and not his intended customer. But he didn’t seem to mind me perching on his knee after handing off my camera to the person who was taking the pictures.


Before the next person had a chance to pose with Santa, I hopped up, grabbed the camera and made my proposal. And Saint Nick was very jolly indeed to pose for what would come to be known as a late-20th-century selfie.

What to Expect in a Nia Class…Music, Movement, and Magic

Nia classes are done barefooted. That’s the first thing you’ll notice. Class begins with a focus or intention which could be anything ranging from the placement of the feet to sensing Universal Joy in your body when you move. Next, we step into class and the space we’ve created together, a space to seek pleasure and expression through movement. We breathe and fully inhabit our bodies as much as is possible, letting our minds explore, our emotions play and groan, and our spirit…well, dance.

Nia is an integrative practice that doesn’t just make you sweat and work your body in ways it doesn’t experience in other exercise regimens, it challenges every bit of you according to the level of dynamic ease that best suits your body and what it needs.

The MUSIC comes from every corner of the world, and often from independent artists that may be new to you. The music itself is an uplifting and energizing celebration of various cultures. When the movements begin, the variety of steps and stances, arm motions, and use of the natural body weights of the pelvis, chest, and head challenge the students to find their own freedom of expression within the form that is offered.

Nia draws from 9 different MOVEMENT forms to create a balance of linear and circular movements that use masculine and feminine energies. Wisdom and practices are taken from each of these forms to create an integrated neuromuscular fitness program called Nia.

The Dance Arts

  • Jazz Dance: The Dance of Fun, Showmanship, and Expression
  • Modern Dance: The Dance of Creating Shapes in Space
  • Isadora Duncan Dance: The Dance of Free-Spirited, Honest Movement

The Martial Arts

  • T’ai Chi: The Slow Dance
  • Tae Kwon Do: The Dance of Precision
  • Aikido: The Dance of Harmonious Spherical Motion

The Healing Arts

  • Teachings of Moshe Feldenkrais: The Dance of Conscious Awareness of Sensation
  • Alexander Technique: The Dance of Movement from the Top
  • Yoga: The Dance of Conscious Alignment of Bones and Joints

Previous training in any of the above isn’t necessary because the choreography of Nia is crafted to weave the movement forms together seamlessly in a dance that can be modified to any fitness level. Whether you run marathons or you’re limited in your motion, you can work at the level that works best for you.

Your dance is your dance, and you’re free to move in your own Body’s Way. Everyone is welcome.

You may sing in a Nia class or make whatever noises you like. “Ha!” “Ooooh.” “Grrr.” “Mmmm.” “No!” “Yes!” Bringing the voice into class adds a new dynamic of breath, vibration, and emotion. For new Nia students, this is one of the more challenging parts of the class and can become quite emotional for people when they’re given the freedom to express themselves through their voice and their body at the same time. But we keep dancing and breathing and playing and laughing. That’s when the magic happens. When your Whole Beautiful Being is on the dance floor interacting with the other Whole Beautiful Beings. That’s when we stop being black or white or brown. That’s when we stop being whatever kind of work we do the rest of the day. That’s when we’re kids again, playing together without a care in the world. That’s when we experience the Joy of Movement that is right there waiting to be danced with in that moment in time and space.

Yes, you’ll sweat. And you’ll probably move your body in ways that you haven’t moved it in a long time, if ever. Be sure to wear comfy clothes and bring water for this one hour class. But the part I love most about a Nia class is the laughter and the sense of community. Where else do you go in life where you get together and consciously decide to play? Play in a way that is healthy, refreshing, and meaningful? In a way that fills your heart and makes you want to dance? That’s why I keep coming back to Nia.

Nia may stand for Neuromuscular Integrative Action, a mouthful to be certain. But when I’m dancing in a Nia class—as a teacher or as a student—I am free. And so are the others around me. We are boundlessly, MAGICALLY free.

See to find my class and event schedule and to learn more about Nia. There are dozens of FREE articles to browse and download plus Nia Sample Dance Videos so you can see what it looks like and try it at home.

What to Do When Bears Return Unexpectedly From an Outing (a Poem)

We packed your bag today.
I told you the stories of when I went to where you are going now.

The deep, dark woods of life.

I told you about the night I got cold and hungry and found a bears’ house to sleep.
About the time your uncle and I left breadcrumbs to the old witch’s house.
And about what I found in grandmother’s bed while visiting her in my red-hooded coat.

You dug around on the floor of your closet, searching for your favorite pair of shoes.
“What about your boots?” I asked. “The waterproof ones.”
You emerged with a pair of pink flip flops and dropped them into your bag.

You sigh, asking, “Can’t you tell me the glass slipper story instead?”
“That one again?”
Now I sigh.
“To be honest, I made it up when I wanted you to be okay
with scrubbing the floors.”
“But I like it.”
I breathed deeply and looked around for what else you will need.

“Do you have sunscreen? Bug repellent? A tent? Trail mix?”
You packed several scents of lip gloss, some that sparkle.
Around your neck, you placed a small vile of glitter, your amulet.
I draped you in chicken bones from my altar.

Then your sweet voice:
“You know the story I want to hear?
The one with the apple
and the prince.”
“Yeah…I made that one up, too.
Just trying to get you to go to sleep one night.”

We moved things around in silence for a while,
A quiet battle raged in the bags we were packing.

I considered telling you the story
I want you to remember most of all.
The one where…
Never mind.
You were texting.

Then just when I thought I had lost you, you looked up.
“You mean, how you met daddy was a lie?”
“Well, I twisted things a little.”
“So how did you meet him, really?”
“At a bar. We were drunk. Really.”

You sat stunned for a moment,
then read a Tweet and smiled;
“Justin Beiber is in Bangladesh.”

I tried to be satisfied
with what geography you were learning and
slipped a few things in your bag when you turned away.
Ten thousand band-aids,
A map, a compass,
And a loaf of bread so you can make your way back to me.

Your bag packed, I handed you a flashlight and
watched you walk through
the gingerbread threshold a final time,
whispering spells in the dark for your protection.

The Name of Woman (Part 1)

“I may yet be worthy of the name of woman, in the purist and noblest sense. Yes, I will be if resolution and perseverance can accomplish anything.”
Alice Marshall Finch, May 1866

This is a line from my great-great grandmother’s journal. She was 18 or 19 when she wrote this and living near Richmond, Virginia. The Civil War had recently ended, and her family—whose business was tobacco—would be moving later that year farther south to Monroe County, Alabama.

I’ve spent a great deal of time with her journals that she dutifully wrote in 1866 and her later journal that she sporadically kept when she was a mother of six children in the 1880s. She was about my age when she died, early forties. The 1880s journal she wrote in her thirties came to me when I was a young woman of about 19.

For about two decades of my life, I often pondered the entry where she sat under a tree writing while her children played in the sand. She seemed like a prisoner to me, and I was afraid to have that life. I had often heard women profess to the joys of motherhood, but Alice spoke more of the woes and worries. The strain and defeat. She was honest and eloquent, and I admired that about her writing. I related to her laments about not writing more and could feel the distress of her overwhelming life that ended so soon.

Around my fortieth birthday, my mother told me of another journal of Alice’s, her 1866 journal. If I had heard of or seen that journal before, I didn’t recall it. But a photocopy of it came to me at the perfect time. I was on the lighter side of my second divorce and still not a mother. My body craved tiny bodies and tiny voices that sprung from my own, but there was only silence.

The 1866 journal, the musings of a young woman on the other side of a war, with Alabama/Marriage/Motherhood/Texas all still ahead of her, was a different Alice than the one I read about before. Young Alice, living with her family, attending Academy and receiving tutoring in Latin, Logic, World History, and the Classics was opinionated, had a passionate curiosity for life, and more than anything wanted to contribute to the knowledge of the world. I’m told she did become a teacher before she married (as did I). In this journal too she laments of not taking more time to write. But instead of only writing a line or two to satisfy her need to know and to be known through the pen in her hand as she did in the journal of her Wife and Mother Years, her youthful words and ideas overtook her. In one of my favorite entries, the one that made me fall madly in love with her, was the entry where she begins:

“Tuesday Morning, June 27th, 1866
I have only a few moments to devote to my dear book this morning, and indeed this, not my proper time for writing, still I have so many things to commit to its leaves that I cannot refrain from the pleasure even if my time is limited. I am reading a book called “Scenes in China” and as I have gained a good many facts worthy of my attention, I will note them down before reading further.”

Then—deliciously—she writes 15 pages in her beautiful longhand writing of “a good many facts” about China culminating in a climax of her Reconstruction-era rant about the treatment of women on the other side of the world. It’s clear from the quick strokes of her pen, by the intensity of the lettering in this section that she was impassioned by the thoughts she was writing about … the “cruel custom of compressing the feet” of Chinese women.

She wrote:
“By this act of inhumanity the poor creatures are made cripple for life. The females of China are very degraded & neglected. Seldom can a Chinese woman be met who can read the simplest book in her own language & while much money is spent in education of the beloved son, the daughter is suffered to grow up in ignorance…. She is disposed of by her parents for that sum of money which they see fit to request. She is conveyed to the house of the man to whom she is to be wedded & perhaps sees him for the first time in her life. And though separated from her parents, she shares not the pleasures or privileges of a wife. Her husband looks upon her as far inferior to himself & she receives from him corresponding treatment. By all classes of males in China, females have been regarded with contempt. Religion is denied them. Rise, run, work, eat little, spend little, be silent, kept out of sight, obey, bear, & rather bleed & die than complain, is the language of the rules laid down by their treatment.”

Are you in love with her now too? I know I couldn’t write like that when I was 19. I’m still trying to write like that. It makes me wonder about Alice’s parents—John Robert and Frances Cunningham Finch—and how they viewed and treated the woman in their home. Clearly there was some expectation for the education of girls.

My mother and I researched the family to further satisfy our own curiosities. There’s a special lineage of mothers to be traced there, to know one’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s, etc. From womb to womb we are linked, a string of pearls through time and space.

Alice had two younger brothers, we found, Louis and James Finch. Both boys had daughters of their own. Louis had a little girl named Louise Finch, who I’m told was quite a character. James had two daughters, Frances and Alice, named after his own mother and his older sister, both who had died not long after he married his wife. Frances had two extraordinary daughters of her own—Alice Finch Lee who practiced law in Monroe County, Alabama until she was over 100 years old; and Nelle Harper Lee who wrote the book “To Kill A Mockingbird.”

My Alice never met the other Alices in this story, but there’s no doubt that the tone that was set in the family of educating daughters has had a huge impact on the world. It makes me wonder about how the world would change if all the girls had a chance like them, if every girl was given a pen and paper and the charge to be free to write and explore her mind. What if every girl could freely use her power of expression to enlighten others of the unjust treatment of her sisters and brothers? How long after that until we are living in another world of a new level of consciousness?

From the perspective of a woman living now, I have my own home, I study what I like and create art every chance I get. But never enough to satisfy me. I, like Alice at 19, am unquenchable in my desire to create, to know, and to be known. I look at Alice from 19 to 40-something and see how she changed. She and I flip-flopped places in time and space. The older version of her spoke to my younger self; her younger self spoke to me as I am older. I can see the shift from the optimism of youth to her world-weariness, and the tragic loss of what she longed to become.

I do not accept that same fate.

I thank her for her journals and showing me that maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I don’t have children of my own, that I’m not trapped under a tree with only a few minutes to scribble and lament.

I visited Alice’s grave in Old Waverly, Texas. I visited the graves of her parents in Evergreen, Alabama and the graves of her brothers and their families. The Miss Lees, I’m told, are in ill health and unable to share any stories their grandfather told them. (Might there be other journals yet undiscovered?)

But Alice and her journals still tug at me. “Write,” they say. “Go! Do! Make!”

And nothing in those journals pulls at me more than the opening quote which I’d like to explore more:

“I may yet be worthy of the name of woman, in the purist and noblest sense. Yes, I will be if resolution and perseverance can accomplish anything.” 

July 26, 2013–The Month of Words

It is the Baha’i month of Words, or Kalimat. I was pondering what I’ve done this month to be a reflection of the Word of God, the creative impetus of all life. I’ve been ingesting Words as I prepare for the play at the Mesquite Community Theatre, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.” My mind and body are working playfully together to integrate these words into a performance in speech and song. It’s been an uplifting experience for me, yet I’m glad that this will be the last play that I do for a while. It seems fitting.

A quote that expresses an aspect of Words:

“Strain every nerve to acquire both inner and outer perfections, for the fruit of the human tree hath ever been and will ever be perfections both within and without. It is not desirable that a man be left without knowledge or skills, for he is then but a barren tree. Then, so much as capacity and capability allow, ye needs must deck the tree of being with fruits such as knowledge, wisdom, spiritual perception, and eloquent speech.” –Baha’u’llah

This morning I was thinking of my relationship with community theatre and how it has helped me grow more into the person I want to be and has helped me free my creative impulse, my own unique “eloquent speech.”  What initially drew me to audition for a show at the Duncanville Community Theatre in the first place was a dream that I had a few weeks after my father passed away at Christmastime, 2010. I won’t go into the details of the dream, but the distinct feeling I had when I awoke was to seize the day. I didn’t say “Yawp!” but it was the feeling of my soul.

I had spent a few years mending my broken heart through therapy, support groups, and much-much solitude. Mysteriously, my father’s death brought me back to the purpose of my life…or at least the pursuit of it.

A friend had told me that ‘Abdu’l-Baha reportedly said that Theatre was the pulpit of the future. The fiction I was trying to write at the time wasn’t flowing the way I wanted, so I felt a pull to go to the theatre to explore the power of it, to see the new pulpit.

Re-emerging into the world, still sore from living, I auditioned for DOUBT: A PARABLE. Even though there wasn’t a part for me in the show, I was happy to try out. To be on stage and read to others, bringing my newly polished soul to the Words. When Rita K. Brewer, the director, invited me to help out with the show, I was eager to do whatever needed to be done. It was a pleasure to hear the Words of that amazing script over and over…to discover the nuances and the secret paths through that story. To ponder the shades of doubt which I had felt so strongly for so long. That play opened a door to many other plays, and it brought many incredible friends into my life. With them, I found the voice and playfulness that I had lost when I was living in the world of eggshells and whispers.

Two and a half years and numerous productions have passed, and now I’m moving into a new phase of discovering my own eloquent speech…my own Words. In the coming year, I will dance, I will teach, I will write, I will create. I’m learning so much about compassion and the natural time of things. (So much to say!) I love that my hiatus from theatre begins with the Words of a play about the wisdom of KINDERGARTEN etched into my being. So many simple lessons at the core of who we all are.  (Share. Hold Hands and Stick Together.) It’s a sweet bookend for this part of my life. Moving from DOUBT to ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW…talk about a mirror of reality. For DOUBT, I stepped on stage tentative, shy, and raw. With KINDERGARTEN, I leave singing and laughing and playing and feeling so much lighter. So full of Light. And Words.

So is Theatre the pulpit of the future? Yes, I believe it is. I’ll take what I learned from this time and spin it all into new creations.