Well, remember a few months ago when a rogue limb shattered my windshield like it was auditioning for a Fast & Furious stunt reel? You’d think the tree got its anger out then, right?
Wrong. So very wrong.
Today, in true “you can’t make this stuff up” fashion, half of that same tree decided to give up the ghost. Snapped right in two during one of Georgia’s signature pop-up storms and came crashing down. When I say it missed our office by literal inches, our building owner was already calculating the cost of plywood and rain ponchos.
Outside right now? It’s a full-blown lumberjack production:
Chainsaws buzzing
Ropes flying
Trucks beeping
Woodchipper grinding like it’s hungry for vengeance
And just when we thought we’d survived the fall…
BEES.
Apparently, the tree was home to a monster-sized nest, and those little winged warriors are not happy about their sudden eviction. They are swarming like we just foreclosed on their entire zip code.
To top it off? Two sweet little doves are waddling around aimlessly like they’re trying to file an insurance claim. I think that old tree was their home too. Bless it.
Meanwhile, the storms just keep popping up like bad reality TV—loud, dramatic, and no one asked for them.
So yeah, good times here at Take Time To Travel, where the trees fall, the bees rage, the birds mourn—and the beat still goes on.
If you need a break from this kind of drama—I know a girl who can plan you a peaceful escape. (Spoiler alert: it’s me.)
🧳 Thanks for reading another wild chapter of real life with me. Want a calm beach, quiet mountain cabin, or tree-free cruise? Let’s chat.
Not everyone gets to say they’re blessed to still have their daddy.
But I do.
And not just any daddy—a real one. The kind who prays over you when you’re falling apart, who says just the right thing when your world feels upside down, and who somehow, even with the weight of the world on his back, always makes you feel like everything’s gonna be okay.
Look, I’ve never called my daddy my best friend. That’s not really his lane—and he’d probably side-eye the thought of it anyway. Daddy’s aren’t supposed to be your “bestie.” They’re supposed to be your anchor. The voice of reason. The steady hand you can count on to wrap you in truth, in strength, and in prayer—even when you don’t ask for it.
In 1983, my world cracked wide open. My daddy went to prison.
And he stayed there for 28 years.
Now I didn’t do what some might expect a “good daughter” to do. I didn’t write every week. I didn’t beg the parole board for mercy. I didn’t make regular visits. My sister did those things—and I will always honor her for that. Me? I was just out here trying to be a normal teenager. A young adult. I was trying to survive my own chaos, and that wasn’t exactly easy.
But I never gave up on him.
Not once.
I prayed for him. I prayed for his safety, his heart, and his redemption. I asked God to bring him home when the time was right. And through it all, I never once felt shame. Never once tried to hide who I belonged to. In fact, I carried his name with pride.
I am the daughter of Allan Aylsworth.
And I’ve always been proud to be that girl.
When he came home after nearly three decades, we didn’t need a grand reset—we just picked up. Life had grown us both. We weren’t the same people, but we were still daddy and daughter. Stronger. Softer. Grateful.
Today, he is the kind of man who holds the whole room in peace when he walks in. The kind of grandfather who lights up around his great-grandbabies. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words, but when he says, “I’m praying for you,” you feel that prayer down to your bones.
So yes, I am blessed.
Not in a shallow, bumper-sticker kind of way—
but in a deep, soul-honest, “God, thank You for him” kind of way.
If you’ve got a daddy like mine, hold tight.
And if you don’t, be the kind of steady someone else can look up to.
Because love like this changes everything.
Thank you, Daddy—for never letting go of who you are.
For making me proud to carry your name.
And for being my constant, even in the hardest of chapters.
This morning, I stumbled across a Facebook post from our local radio station showing photos of a peaceful protest happening right here in Cartersville. Just a small group of folks standing on a corner, holding signs, sharing what they believe.
They weren’t blocking traffic.
They weren’t shouting or rioting.
They weren’t setting anything on fire.
They were simply exercising the right we all have in this country—to speak freely and peacefully assemble. You know… that little gem from the First Amendment?
But let me tell you what nearly knocked the wind out of me:
The comments.
Comment after comment from people I know—folks who’ve smiled at me in Kroger, sat next to me in church, and posted countless scriptures and inspirational quotes about kindness and grace. Suddenly, they were online spewing hate and judgment, and all because a few people dared to stand quietly with a sign in their hand.
And the wildest part? Some of these same folks tossed Jesus into their rants like He’d high-five their behavior.
Spoiler alert: He wouldn’t.
Now don’t twist what I’m saying. I’ve made it clear that I don’t support riots, destruction, or the circus that so often erupts under the banner of “protest.” That’s not what happened here. This was a group of Cartersville citizens standing on the sidewalk. Peacefully. Respectfully. Calmly.
Do I agree with everything they believe?
Nope.
Do I think our government is overreaching the way they do?
Also no.
But you know what?
That’s not the point.
The point is—they have the right to express their opinion, just like you do. And if seeing them makes your blood pressure spike, you’ve got options. Go stand on the opposite corner. Hold up your own sign. That’s how freedom works.
But don’t you dare show up online, Bible in hand, spewing hate disguised as “righteousness.” Don’t weaponize the Gospel to shame your neighbor. Jesus didn’t do that, and you shouldn’t either.
Y’all talk a big game about grace and love, but the minute someone expresses a belief that makes you uncomfortable, out comes the judgment like it’s your spiritual superpower.
If you truly want to live out what that Good Book says, maybe start by leading with love instead of lashing out. Because your Facebook comment might
Because your Facebook comment might be the only “Jesus” someone sees today. And honey, if He’s coming across as smug, petty, and downright cruel—you might need to reread that red-letter edition.
See, Jesus didn’t cancel people.
He didn’t roll His eyes at them from across the marketplace or mock them under passive-aggressive posts.
He walked toward them. He sat with the ones society wrote off. He welcomed questions and doubters and even those with signs in their hands and anger in their hearts.
So imagine how He’d feel watching His name get dragged into internet comment sections full of sarcasm and shame. I have a feeling He’d flip more than just a few tables.
Here’s the deal: You can love your country and disagree with your neighbor at the same time. You can feel uncomfortable with someone’s message and still choose to act with grace. And you can absolutely scroll past something you don’t like without dropping a hateful comment that makes Jesus cringe.
We don’t have to agree on everything. Lord knows we won’t. But if we claim to be people of faith—if we’re gonna slap the “Christian” label on our Facebook bios and car bumpers—then we better be ready to back it up with how we treat people, especially when we disagree.
Because love isn’t loud and mean.
Love doesn’t show up in the comments section with a Bible verse and a dagger.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
(And if those words sound familiar, it’s because they didn’t come from a Hallmark card. That’s straight Scripture, friend.)
So the next time someone chooses to stand up and speak out peacefully—whether or not it aligns with your beliefs—maybe pause before jumping to judgment. Maybe try humility instead of hostility. Maybe try remembering that one day you might be the one on that corner, needing a little grace.
Because at the end of the day, I’ll say it again: Peaceful protest is not a sin. But hypocrisy? That might be.
Mic drop: Jesus didn’t come to shut people up—He came to set people free.
There’s something deeply American about protest. It’s woven into the fabric of our beginnings—Boston tea parties, marches for women’s votes, sit-ins at segregated lunch counters, and the long, painful road of civil rights movements. And I’m gonna say this clearly: I believe in the right to protest. I believe in raising your voice. I believe in speaking truth to power. It’s one of the freedoms that sets us apart—and we should never take that for granted.
But somewhere along the way, the line between protest and chaos has started to blur.
Let me say this with all the love and all the concern I carry for this country I call home: Blocking traffic on major interstates isn’t brave. Destroying businesses in your own community doesn’t bring justice. It brings fear. It brings destruction. And it undermines the very cause you’re trying to support.
We’ve lost sight, I think, of what real protest looks like. Real protest is powerful not because it’s loud, but because it’s principled. It’s organized, focused, peaceful—and stubborn in the best way. You don’t need to burn it down to be heard.
Right now, our country feels like it’s holding its breath. Emotions are high. People are angry, scared, exhausted. And I get it—we are living in a wild time. But let’s be honest—we’ve been here before. History is full of storms. And every single time, it’s the people who chose to rise above the chaos, not sink into it, who shaped the next chapter.
So I say this with the heart of someone who loves freedom, and respects anyone bold enough to fight for what they believe in: fight with dignity. Protest with purpose. March with your head high and your eyes set on a better future.
Let the message be loud, but let the method be just.
Because when the dust settles—and it always does—the world will remember how you made your mark.
By Jani, your travel-lovin’, snack-scarfin’, road warrior, southern fried belle!
Let me just say this upfront: I am a Buc-ee’s fan. Like, full-blown, fangirl, skip-the-gas-station-down-the-road-and-hold-it-till-Buc-ee’s kind of fan. And I make no apologies for it.
Now, I know what you’re thinking—“Really? A gas station?” Oh, this ain’t your average pit stop with sticky bathroom floors and a questionable hot dog on rollers that’s been there since the Nixon administration. Buc-ee’s is Texas-sized magic. It’s a cultural phenomenon. It’s a clean-bathroom, brisket-on-the-board, Beaver-Nuggets-in-my-bag kind of place that feels like home… if home smelled like smoked meats and cinnamon-glazed pecans (oh those pecans).
But here’s the kicker: everything I adore about Buc-ee’s is the exact stuff other people seem to hate.
Let’s break this down, shall we?
What I Love About Buc-ee’s:
The Bathrooms: You could do a trust fall into those stalls and land on tile cleaner than your kitchen floor.
The Snacks: Beaver Nuggets. Jerky walls. Homemade fudge. They’ve got more snack options than a Cracker Barrel on Christmas Eve. The Merch: Where else can you get a “Don’t Mess with Texas” beach towel, a 64oz insulated tumbler, and a cast iron skillet all in one go? The Vibes: Country music, hot food, and people-watching galore. It’s like a redneck-themed amusement park without the height requirements.
The One Thing I Don’t Love: The Parking Lot
Listen, I’m not gonna sugarcoat it—Buc-ee’s parking lots are the Wild West. It’s like a demolition derby meets NASCAR meets a caffeine-fueled mom van with three screaming toddlers and a loose sippy cup rolling under the seat. And I hate it.
But—and this is a big Texas-sized but—with a little patience and some strategic parking lot ninja skills, you can survive it. And trust me: once you finally squeeze into that spot and make your way inside? Oh baby, it’s worth every near-fender-bender moment. Because on the other side of that asphalt war zone is pure joy in the form of warm brisket sandwiches and sparkling-clean stalls.
What the Haters Say:
“It’s too much.” — Oh, sorry Karen. Would you prefer the rundown gas station where the slushie machine hasn’t worked since 2007?
“It’s overwhelming.” — Life’s overwhelming, sweetheart. Get the brisket sandwich and push through.
“The merch is tacky.” — So am I, sometimes. We all contain multitudes.
“It’s just a glorified gas station.” — And I’m just a girl, standing in front of the snack wall, asking it to love me.
I’m seriously considering planning an entire Buc-ee’s-themed road trip. I could map out all the locations like it’s a patriotic pilgrimage—Georgia to Texas to Florida to Kentucky. Maybe I’ll even rank them based on their bathrooms, brisket-to-bun ratio, and how aggressive the guy in the Ford F-250 was pulling into pump #28 …wait, that’s mu husband. Oops. Could be a whole blog series. Maybe even a sticker for my laptop that says “I brake for beavers.”
Let’s be real: Buc-ee’s isn’t for everyone. But then again, neither am I. And if loving a gas station that doubles as a snack wonderland, souvenir superstore, and restroom utopia is wrong? Then baby, I don’t wanna be right.
So the next time you see that giant cartoon beaver smiling down from the highway sign, do yourself a favor—exit now. Get the nuggs. Get the jerky. Get the tee. Embrace the snacks. Brave the parking lot.
XOXO, Jani
Living that Beaver Believer life, one pit stop at a time.
There’s something you should know about women who don’t have a lot of friends. Not because we’re cold. Not because we’re standoffish. Not because people we ‘re liked. But because life has taught us how to be selective—and not everybody deserves a seat at our table. And don’t get this wrong. Just because lots of people surround you, does not make them true friends!
Let me explain:
-We pick up on energy quick. We’ve walked into rooms and felt the tension before a single word was said.
-We don’t entertain drama. If it’s not peace or purpose, we’ll pass (mostly LOL).
-We’ve been betrayed by the ones we loved most. So now we move cautious—not cold. -We’re selective, not lonely.
-We’ve learned our alone time is often better than fake company.
-We don’t need a crowd to feel seen. That scares folks who rely on attention to feel important. -We’re not easy to fool. Experience taught us how to spot fake from real—and we’re not going back.
-Our peace is sacred. If we let you into our lives, it’s because your spirit aligned with ours. We’ve learned the hard way— not everyone who claps 👏 is cheering for you.
-We’ve got depth. Small talk and shallow energy don’t feed our souls. Real connection or nothing at all.
-We don’t move out of desperation. We move with discernment. The wrong people call that “standoffish.” And that’s fine.
And while we’re on the subject of truth-telling…
I’ve heard the whispers: “The blog just doesn’t sound like my friend Jani, so I just stopped reading it.”
Well, bless your heart… you weren’t reading it to begin with. 😏
Yes, I use my smart ChatGPT writing buddy to help me organize my thoughts—because my brain is like a blender most days. But don’t get it twisted: the sass, the snark, the soul? That’s ALL me. The best writing still comes from a real, flawed, passionate human.
All writers have someone polishing their work—editors, assistants, helpers. I just happen to use a tech-savvy one that doesn’t drink coffee or take bathroom breaks. But make no mistake: the humor, the depth, the Southern Fried Belle with a hint of Yankee directness? That’s mine. All mine.
The people who sit across from me every week over dinner, drinks, and girl talk? They know the unfiltered, unedited version of me. And they’ll tell you—what you read is me. Just with a few more commas.
And yes—I’ll be honest—I’m a little hurt. And a little mad. Because I’ve realized the loudest critics are often the ones who’ve always enjoyed knocking me down. The same people who serve up gaslighting and passive-aggressive jabs with a sweet tea smile and that good ol’ underhanded Southern “bless-your-heart” nonsense. 👀
But here’s the thing…
My true supporters? They see me now. They don’t need me to shrink or shape-shift to be palatable. They’re the ones who show up, who cheer me on, and who actually read the things I pour my heart into.
So if you’ve got time to scroll through TikTok, Facebook, Instagram, or X—but can’t take a second to support a friend who’s finally picking up a pen and writing from the gut? Well, kick rocks. 🪨
You may not like my writing voice—and you’re not wrong. Writing is different from talking. But make no mistake, baby—it’s still me. Every bold, sassy, soul-baring bit of it.
And if you don’t like it? Well… you know what to do.
Y’all, reunions. Aren’t they funny? That’s actually more of a statement than a question because they definitely are.
So, I graduated from Penn Manor High School in Millersville, PA. But, as anyone who’s known me more than a minute knows, that’s just one chapter of my high school saga. You see, I was a child of divorce (and a little bit of chaos), which meant I was bouncing like a pinball between states, towns, and schools.
Here’s the breakdown for anyone trying to keep up including me!
Kindergarten: Green Acres Elementary
1st Grade: Adairsville Elementary
2nd to 4th Grades: New Holland Elementary
5th Grade: Back to Adairsville Elementary
6th to 8th Grades: Adairsville Middle (well, half of it—because then my parents completely lost their minds and sent me to Ruth Home, like I was some kind of juvenile delinquint)
9th Grade: Adairsville High School for about six weeks
9th Grade part 2: Penn Manor for like a week (I cried every day)
9th Grade part 3: Garden Spot for the rest of that year
10th Grade part 1: Garden Spot (refer to 10th grade part 2)
10 Grade part 2: Adairsville High School for the last month or so because why not?
11th Grade: Adairsville High School
12th Grade: Back to Penn Manor High School, where I officially graduated!
Whew! Did I lose anyone? ‘Cause I think I got lost just writing that! (And believe me, I was just as confused living it back then.)
Ahhh, children of divorce… or military families. One thing’s for sure—you learn how to adjust. Fast. You learn how to melt into a new place and make friends anywhere. And I have. I’ve got lifelong friends from Adairsville, New Holland, and Millersville.
And can we talk about the cultural whiplash of moving from the South to the North? One country, y’all, but it might as well be two different worlds. In Georgia, it’s “y’all,” sweet tea, and “bless your heart” with a side of shade. In Pennsylvania, it’s “you guys,” Wawa, and learning to love scrapple (I didn’t) and 100% up front honesty. “Bless Your Heart” becomes straight up, “you’re an idiot.” Boo!
But one thing that ties it all together—besides my ridiculous number of yearbook photos from multiple schools—is the friendships formed during those years. The inside jokes. The field trips. The sports teams (even though I was more “sidelines with snacks” than “varsity letter”). The dances. The crushes. The heartbreaks. The people you thought you’d never see again, and thanks to Facebook, are now sending you invites to their kid’s graduation party …or their own third or fourth wedding! Oops. Ooops. Oooops.
And that brings me back to reunions. Oh, reunions. They’re a mix of “Oh wow, look at you!” and “Ugh, I knew I should’ve started that diet three months ago,” plus a healthy dash of “Wait, who’s that? Oh my gosh, it’s her!” You get to see the ones who haven’t changed a bit—and the ones you almost don’t recognize. And let’s be real, there’s always someone whose glow-up is suspiciously fabulous, and you’re side-eyeing them like, “Is that collagen, good genes, or just your skincare game?”
Some folks come to reunions to reminisce. Some come to show off. Some come for the open bar. And some—like me—come because we genuinely love reconnecting with those people who were part of our crazy, wonderful, awkward teenage years.
Speaking of reconnecting, I am SO excited about the AHS 80’s Cruise next year! Several of the classes from the 1980s are getting together for this epic trip, and y’all, it’s going to be one for the books. Huge shout-out to Shannon and Brandy for pulling it all together. I can’t wait to cruise into the sunset with my Aville crew, reliving the 80s with big hair, Aqua Net, and all the throwback jams we can handle.
So, here’s to reunions—those hilarious, awkward, and heartwarming reminders of where we came from and how far we’ve come. Whether you’re rocking the same hairstyle from high school or showing off all your cosmetic enhancements that would make your teenage self proud, remember—it’s all about the memories, the friendships, and, of course, the photos you’ll cringe over later!
Y’all ever known a woman who could start a fight in an empty house? One of those folks who can sniff out drama like a bloodhound on a biscuit trail? That’s who came to mind when I heard the old Southern saying:
“She’s got more issues than Vogue.”
Now don’t get me wrong—Vogue has some beautiful issues. Glossy, expensive, full of fashion and fantasy. But when this saying rolls off a Southern tongue, we ain’t talking about couture. We’re talking about chaos.
You know the type. Bless her heart, she’s in a constant state of personal emergency. She’s always “going through something.” If it ain’t a breakup, it’s a spiritual awakening. Or a food allergy. Or a man with a motorcycle and a warrant.
She can’t just tell you her weekend plans—oh no. She’s got to give you the full backstory, the emotional trauma, three exes, and a dream interpretation from a psychic in Mobile.
It’s like… honey, did you just want to say you’re going to Target, or are we unpacking generational trauma right here in the candle aisle?
Now, don’t mistake me—I’ve had my fair share of “Vogue” moments. There were years I could’ve been a whole subscription. Full color spreads of stress, one dramatic event after another, all sandwiched between bad decisions and better stories.
But some folks? They live there. They don’t just visit Dysfunction Junction—they put up curtains and made sweet tea.
And what’s wild is, they’ll say it proudly.
“I’ve just always been this way.”
Well sugar, so has poison ivy, but that don’t mean we need to roll around in it.
But here’s the real Southern truth: most women carrying all those “issues” are usually lugging around someone else’s too. Mama’s expectations, Daddy’s absence, a bad relationship, a worse friendship, and society whispering nonsense in our ears. And instead of setting those down, we just accessorize them and keep going. Like emotional handbags.
So to my sisters out there with more issues than Vogue—I see you. I love you. But maybe it’s time to unsubscribe. Rip out a few pages, recycle what doesn’t serve you, and keep the good glossy parts for when you need to shine.
Because Lord knows we’ve all got issues.
It’s what you do with ’em that makes the difference.
I was watching the Today Show this morning—because that’s how I keep up with the world before I decide whether or not to participate in it—and they were going on about how the southern accent is disappearing across the United States. Well, bless their hearts, that’s part of the problem right there.
It’s not that it’s disappearing everywhere—it’s just that the whole of the United States ain’t southern. And when we pack up and head off to college up north or out west, or we marry someone from, say, Connecticut (Lord help us), sometimes we pick up a little of wherever we land. Same way someone who moves to France starts throwing around a few merci beaucoups with a twinkle in their eye—even if they’re still mangling the pronunciation.
Actors are the worst about this. They drop their southern drawl for a career and then try to haul it back out for a movie role—and honey, it sounds like they’re choking on a mouthful of marbles. That’s why Walton Goggins nails it every time. He’s southern through and through and never tried to scrub it off. You can’t teach that kind of authenticity. It’s in your bones, not your vocal cords.
Take Julia Roberts, bless her heart. She dropped her southern accent years ago, but when she played that role in Steel Magnolias, it came back so thick it was almost comical. That wasn’t creamy buttery, warm homemade grits—that was day old instant grits.
Now, Parker Posey in White Lotus? That girl was pretty spot on. She walked that fine line just right—didn’t overdo it, didn’t make it sound like some backwoods cartoon character. That was the kind of southern that sips sweet tea on the porch but will cut you down with one sharp side-eye before you even realize it happened. Why do I feel so SEEN!
My Gramma was from South Carolina, and even after she moved up to Pennsylvania, she never lost that sweet southern drawl. You could hear it in every word she spoke, and I loved that about her.
And my Chubby! She had that accent thicker than Georgia humidity on an August day—grew up in Decata’, not Decatur, and you didn’t dare try to correct her on it.
Now me? I was born right here in the South, but growing up, I went back and forth between my Gramma’s house and my daddy’s house—and let’s just say, it gave me a little bit of a mixed accent over the years. And let’s be real clear about something—Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, is Pennsylvania Dutch country. That’s not exactly a “northern” accent by any stretch. And honestly? I like that I have both. I can flip that southern charm on in a heartbeat, but I’ve got a little something extra tucked in my back pocket too.
The second my feet hit Georgia soil again? Oh, honey, I’m back to sounding like cheesy jalapeño cornbread—sweet, spicy, and a little bit extra.
Folks come to Atlanta expecting to hear those rich southern accents, but Atlanta ain’t exactly the South anymore, is it? It’s a big ol’ melting pot with more transplants than native peaches. But if you drive down into Mississippi, drop below Georgia gnat line, or over to Louisiana? There it is. Thick as molasses and twice as sweet.
I like my southern accent. I don’t have a bit of desire to lose it. Sure, I might could lose some of that cornbread from my hips, but the accent? Oh, it stays. I’m proud to be southern. And I’m proud I spent a little time up in Pennsylvania Dutch country, too. It gave me a different perspective—made me shoot from the hip, stand my ground, and skip the sugarcoating unless it’s on a pound cake.
Is that good or bad? Who knows? But it’s me. And I’m keeping it.
What about y’all? Do you think accents really disappear—or do they just take a little vacation now and then?
Well y’all… apparently I’m about to be 56. On Thursday. And honestly, I’m not even sure when that happened. One minute I was trying to master the big hair of the ’80s and the next I’m putting readers on top of my head trying to remember where I left my other pair. Life moves fast, doesn’t it?
Now let’s get one thing straight—I’ve never been one of those women who dreaded the big birthdays. Thirty? Fabulous. Forty? Bring it. Fifty? Honestly, I was feeling myself. Sixty? Hmm… I’ll get back to y’all on that one.
But truthfully? I’ve earned every single one of these years. Every laugh line, every stretch mark, every gray hair (well, I don’t know if I have those and you’ll never know either). They’re all little badges from a life well-lived—and still living, thank you very much.
When I look back, I’m proud. Mostly. Occasionally those Facebook memories pop up and I find myself whispering, “Jear Desus… what was I even thinking?” A cringey dude, an overshare, maybe a questionable post. No wait. What? But that’s life. You take the good with the bad, learn what you can, and keep it movin’.
That’s the real secret, isn’t it? The lesson. Not perfection. Not staying young forever. But learning from every wild twist and turn life throws at you.
I feel pretty sure my Gramma and my Chubby would be proud of the woman I’ve become. Oh, they’d roll their eyes at me sometimes—especially when I get mouthy or add a little flair where there’s supposed to be “decorum”—but they’d be proud. Because I know how to act. I love my pearls. I know which fork to use at a fancy dinner.
But let’s be honest… where’s the fun in always being proper?
So here’s my advice as I tiptoe (in wedges) into 56:
Embrace your age.
Embrace your story.
Embrace life—even the messy, complicated, beautiful parts of it.
And most importantly… never forget where you left your readers.
Journeys With Jani 