Deaf, But Not Really: My Story

Brad is sent the meditation

I subscribe to Shari Eberts’s newsletter so that I can see what she’s up to. I love seeing her activism and how she shares advice and tips for us hard of hearing folks as we go about our day. Some of it is pedestrian, but still important, stuff. Some of it runs to the more game-changing stuff. A couple of months ago she talked about Janaki Zaremba’s new meditation that has a focus on people with hearing loss. 

I’ve been meditating for decades. It helps me deal with the struggles I encounter on a daily basis as I move through a world not made with my hearing needs in mind. When my tinnitus got worse, my meditation practice became even more important for my mental health. Because of both the hearing loss and the tinnitus, I have a challenging time doing guided meditations. I use ambient noise like chanting, instrumental music, or a fire, to drown out the tinnitus. But those are sounds I don’t need to actively listen to. So when Shari clued me into Janaki’s HoH meditation, I was curious. So I tried it and sent it to Julie to try, too. 

Here are our thoughts

Julie’s Thoughts

I have tried guided meditations before and the challenges that have arisen have been the inability to immediately understand the direction that was being given. I would strain to hear the directive, and then berate myself for not being able to hear it clearly, which would devolve into negative self-talk (completely disregarding the fact that I have hearing loss and was being asked to do the impossible with any level of accuracy), and then resulted in two things: my quitting altogether or my giving up on following the narration and doing my own thing. I typically drifted to the second option, but there have been inflamed moments where the first won out. Understandably. 

Inspired by an article written by Shari Eberts, “Guided Meditation for People with Hearing Loss”, I decided to at least attempt this 13 minute meditation designed for people with hearing loss by hard of hearing creator, Janaki Zaremba, 

In what has become rare snippets of quiet at the start of the summer 2025 season here in Maine, I took advantage of a temporarily empty and silent home to dive into this meditation. I had woken up not too long prior, and had just put my hearing aids in for the day. I was contemplating if I should eat breakfast, wash my hair, or vacuum the porch when inspiration struck that NOW was the perfect time to try out this meditation designed for those with hearing loss. I flopped on my bed, not inspired enough to try and sit in a proper meditation position. With one replaced knee that does not have the flexibility and range of motion as the other knee, I knew sitting on a cushion on the floor would be unpleasant. I could get down there no problem, but the bending and rising would be problematic – it continues to be a work in progress. It is a sight to behold. (Having a bad day? Push me down on the floor and watch the show).

I propped myself up with a pillow against the headboard, sat in some imitation of a lotus position, lengthened my spine, dropped my chin, and pressed play. I made sure that I was streaming the meditation directly to my Bluetooth enabled hearing aids to increase the probability that I would be hearing every word spoken. Might as well use technology to my advantage this fine morning – Brad would have been proud. 

I skimmed the description of the meditation in the article mentioned above, and was instantly struck  by the encouragement to use the captions and to meditate with eyes open. 

My visceral reaction? NOPE. 

I have ADHD and a mind that whirs constantly – it is the purveyor of many ideas (or as Brad has affectionately referred to them – at least I think it is with affection – “harebrained ideas”). I knew that with my eyes open it would prove near impossible to concentrate, as they would be darting around the room making a mental list of what needed to be done for the day, questioning my design choices – especially the artwork above my desk – and eventually expanding to creating future ideas for blog posts as I tried to bring my “monkey mind” focus back to the present moment. 

While all that is true – I also had a second, more pervasive reaction – I saw it as a challenge. A resistance to accommodation. I was raised and continue to function in a largely auditory world. I am entrenched in an endless battle against full acceptance that I have a “disability”. I somewhat balk at the term “hard of hearing”, defaulting to my forever term “hearing impaired” which many in our community find wildly offensive. In short, bending and accepting assistance is not in my nature. About anything. 

Apparently that resistance streak present in my inspiration, Princess Leia of Star Wars, also extends to a guided meditation designed for people with hearing loss. People like me – whether I want to freely embrace it or not. 

Screw it, eyes closed was how I was going into this experience. 

I pressed play, and almost burst out laughing when I detected a light, lilting accent of the narrator. It was almost laughable to me that a guided meditation for the hard of hearing – to hell with it – hearing impaired – had an accent. Did that drive me to even consider the captions? Nope. 

I settled in, started listening, tried to focus on the breath, and the unexpected happened – I started to cry. Not a quiet cry, not a silent “looking out the window at the rain in a black and white movie” cry, oh no – not me. Always the overachiever, I began bawling. I am talking wrecking, heaving, choking sobs. Ava Gardner would have been proud. It was raw and – to use the word that Brad loves to toss about, and a word I despise – vulnerable. 

I was experiencing a type of crying that I can only describe as a release – it wasn’t the type of cry one employs during anger, frustration or grief. It felt different – I felt like I had been broken open and everything that I have been carrying around with me either consciously or not, was pouring out of me, finally. As I sit here and reflect on it, I know deep in my soul that it was needed as I have kept quite a bit to myself over the years with regards to my hearing loss. I let myself cry, for once. I didn’t stop myself and berate myself to “pull it together” or “toughen up” or “you’re a fighter, get back to fight mode”. I just let it go – and it was terrifying to surrender as that is not a word in my vocabulary, ever. I will fight to the end until my point has gotten across or resolution is reached. 

I cannot remember the order of how all of this was presented but I remember that towards the start the narrator acknowledged the listening fatigue that we experience as those with hearing loss. The tears are falling in earnest, and at the same time I am talking to myself – saying, “Well – I don’t have that all the time”. The meditation continues – and this was when I really got going – when the concept of “being enough” and “self worth” – are mentioned. They were mentioned relative to hearing loss, but to me it felt like a complete gut punch. I come across as incredibly confident with a hard to puncture exterior, but deep inside I still struggle with feeling like I am enough. 

I didn’t really need that meditation related to my hearing loss – I guess it found me at the right moment for a higher purpose of healing. Judging from the flood that emitted from my eyes and the gasps escaping from my lips, it was just what I needed. 

And I hated every minute of it. 

Even though I will begrudgingly admit that I feel better. 

Brad’s Thoughts

Being a seasoned meditator, I know what works for me. Guided meditations generally don’t. I prefer to keep my eyes shut and not have to actively listen for instructions. While the people doing guided meditations don’t shout at the top of their lungs or talk as fast as the Micromachine Guy, It still poses a problem for me. Janaki’s meditation was no exception.

She has a soft voice which, admittedly, fits guided meditations. It also fits my past experience of straining to hear. She has a slight accent, too. It also is common amongst the guided meditation ilk. But here’s where she differed; she had closed captions. Proving that she had forethought a-plenty, since the meditation was published as a YouTube video, she was afforded the ability to provide captions for her audience. The words were front and center and had enough contrast between the white font in the foreground and black background to be easily read. Behind the words were lazily meandering scenes of nature. Trees and brooks and lakes oh my! It lent a very serene feel. 

The meditation itself was a focus on the breath followed by body scan; that’s when you call attention to your head, then your shoulders, and so on down to your toes. It’s a great way to find where you’re keeping tension and relax that part of the body. But this scan was started with an acknowledgement that listening fatigue is real. That was a first. I appreciated the acknowledgement of the stress of being hard of hearing subjects me to. But in so doing, it highlighted the very challenge I was experiencing, the same challenge I always experience when doing a guided meditation: I was actively listening. It also presented a new challenge: I was actively reading. 

As I mentioned, I meditate with my eyes shut. I find keeping them open makes it harder for me to stay present, to relax into my breathing. I needed the captions to get through the meditation. I tried to keep them closed but occasionally I would mishear a word, then my mind would go a-fishing with its rod of context clues. And I’d hook onto the correct word a sentence or two later. Which would then force me to rewind what I’d just heard and figure out what she was talking about while I was fishing. Which meant I was always behind. So I kept them open. 

Once resolved to keep them open, I had a better time of it. Her body scan was familiar, as was her suggestion to anchor myself with my breath. What wasn’t familiar was centering it all around the struggles of hearing. Early on, she mentions my worth isn’t defined by how well I hear, that I’m enough no matter what I hear or don’t hear. Cue the waterworks. It was shocking to cry during a meditation. It proves how internalized the audist mentality is. I know I often feel like a failure when I don’t hear someone or something. But I didn’t know how deep and perhaps omnipresent that feeling is. Her giving voice to the feeling, her giving voice to the lie of that feeling was hard to hear. But very much needed.

I finished up the meditation rather raw and not a little exhausted. But in a good way. I couldn’t replace my morning meditation with this one. Nor could I do it daily. But I see the value in doing it periodically. Simply acknowledging how my hearing affects my self-worth isn’t enough to stop feeling that way. I can see doing it on a particularly turbulent day at the library but it’s too challenging both to hear and to experience, to do in the morning.  

Closing Thoughts

If you’re new to meditation and an old hand at hearing loss, this is most certainly worth a try. Since we’re both experienced meditators we know what works for us. Just because this won’t replace our meditations, not as our sole meditation that day anyway, doesn’t mean it won’t work out that way for you. Just like there’s no one way to be deaf, there’s no one way to meditate. She is very intentional in her choices. She strikes a good balance between drawing attention to hearing loss and painting a relaxing meditation picture. This niche Janaki’s carving out has the potential to be very helpful to a lot of people. 

Breathe in and breathe out,

it really is that simple. 

Simple’s not easy.

Julie Using Silence as a Teacher 

The world moves at a rapid rate, as does our communication. We are often expected to have a response ready to depart our lips while the spoken question is still hanging in the air off of the breath of the speaker. Our thumbs fly over touchscreen keyboards, hammering out phrases with emojis in place of punctuation to emphasize a point. We click and clack speedily (and some finger peck) on our computers to convey the latest “need to know” information via emails with great, and often unnecessary, urgency. 

The world is loud, reckless, and we are made to feel that we careening off the tracks if we slow down and pause our communication. We have effectively eliminated a pause, a moment of stillness, an interval of brief quiet. 

I have the ability to harness silence. I am able to loop it with my magic lasso, pull it close, and release it at the perfect moment. Only I know when to employ this mystical rope – a skill honed by years of teaching the tiny humans. I hesitate to reveal my prized, hidden talent – but it is something innocuously called, “wait time”. And it is exactly what it sounds like – a time of waiting, a creation of a safe, silent space between formulated thoughts and spoken words. I pause, and grant my students the luxury of being able to take a beat, gather their thoughts, create their words and then share them in the way that works best for them – drawing, speaking, or writing. I have learned to be comfortable in the silent pauses, the passive silence is my gift to my students to allow them to dive into their own minds without distraction or expectation to call forward their contributions, ideas, and opinions. 

Too often, we are listening with the intent to respond. I prefer to listen for the sake of listening, and frequently hold the silent space when my communication partner stops talking. I know that for some this deliberate pause is unsettling and uncomfortable, but for me I find it respectful. I am letting the other person know that I have been listening intently, and that I am ready to continue to listen for as long as necessary. I demonstrate my care and concern for others by not speaking right away, and quite often people will pick up the thread and continue to talk. 

I do not shy away from the silence, for it is my comfort with this stillness that has brought forth some of the best stories I have ever heard – whether the speaker intended to tell them, or not. For me, the silence does not always have to be filled – but for others, it is necessary – and that’s when the good stuff can come pouring out. 

Brad Is Uncomfortable with Silence 

I understand why Julie wields silence like a lasso, roping kids into answering her question. But I hate it. The first time I had bionic ears in school was when I was getting my master’s in library and information science. From grammar school to undergrad, I often found myself tongue-tied thanks to uncertainty. Did I hear the question correctly? If a classmate responded erroneously, did I hear that error rightly? Coupled with my allergy to speaking up in class, I sat through many a silence that stretched like Armstrong. 

Be it a check to see who did their homework or a start to a discussion that takes the lesson off to uncharted waters, I understand the need for silence. But introverts loathe being the center of attention. And speaking up does just that. This was where my deafness and introversion tie me in a knot (it’s a sheepshank if you’re curious). Even when I think I know the answer, I wonder “What if I misheard the question?” Then I’ll be both the center of attention and wrong. They don’t make desks big enough for me to hide under. So it was a Herculean effort for me to speak up. I did so occasionally. I was wrong occasionally. I was right occasionally. I hated breaking the silence on all occasions.

Even after I listened to Alice Cooper and I made school out forever, I did not get any more comfortable with silences. But I did get a new challenge: shutting up. Classes were always full of voices I knew. At the library or just out in the big scary world, when I’m talking with patrons or sales clerks whose voices I know only vaguely if at all, I tend to babble. Because the more I control a conversation, the more I’m likely to “hear” what they’ve said. Context clues, y’all.  Which is why I talk more than I’d like. 

Given my druthers, I’m a quiet dude. I’ll speak up when I’ve got something worthy to contribute to the conversation but not just to hear myself talk. I’ve got nothing against the loquacious amongst you. But that just isn’t me. Except in the face of silence. Because, for the hard of hearing, there’s a special type of silence. 

A silence that robs me of a great many  IQ points in the eyes of the other person. A silence that goes on too long and ebbs into a washed out feeling. The normal silence becomes an uncomfortable silence becomes an awkward silence. The other person’s face melts under the heat of impatience or confusion. My face becomes aflame with shame. I must have nodded and unwittingly agreed to something. A something that needs more detail. Detail that I’m incapable of providing. And now the silence is being wielded like a bludgeon. I’m being beaten because the other person is insulted. They think I spaced out or that they were tricked into a conversation with a simpleton. 

I laugh uncomfortably and ask them to repeat the last thing they said, that I didn’t hear it. It doesn’t matter that it’s true, the other person doesn’t believe me. And it’s times like these that reinforce my discomfort with silence.     

Julie Is Sitting in Silence 

At top volume, Brad is able to hear his preferred heavy metal music sans hearing aids as he clangs his weights around in the sunroom. I believe that he is also able to hear the shrill noises of birds outside the porch window while he reads, and I am fairly confident he can hear the alarm beeping on his iphone each morning due to his hearing loss not quite reaching the high pitches. I guarantee that he can hear my voice – however muffled – without his hearing aids in, as I will always make my point loud and clear, and I love getting that final word in during any humorous exchange, lighthearted kerfuffle, or heated argument. For better or worse, the man knows no peace from the sounds of the world or from my incessant chatter. 

In what is a central theme of our partnership, my hearing is the complete opposite as I have a severe to profound hearing loss in both ears. My audiogram looks like the giant slalom ski slope – the line starts at the top and plunges downward, stopping just shy of jumping off of the page completely.

 I tend to treat my hearing loss during the waking hours as a pesky fly, a nuisance that I brush to the side. I frequently forget that I wear hearing aids or that I require accommodations, but never shy from doing so as situations arise that necessitate such support. Each evening, when darkness falls outside of my windows, my hearing aids are removed, and I sink into complete auditory isolation in their absence. I am at once relieved of the active listening I must do to remain engaged – bobbing and weaving my head side to side to follow a conversation; lipreading; asking for repetitions and rephrasing of missed information. My shoulders sag and a breath escapes me as I settle into the welcome relief from listening fatigue. 

It is then that the awareness heightens that I have been plunged into complete and total silence. I tend to remain distracted by nightly routines, journaling, reading and then drifting to sleep to keep my mind occupied. I fight back against letting my brain begin its reminiscence of the sounds I used to be able to hear before my hearing continued its inevitable decline – Rocky barking, a door banging, my desk chair rolling on the floor and my fingernails tapping on a keyboard. Those sounds – and all of the others before them – have faded away. I become acutely aware and frequently alarmed by how little I can hear now without my hearing aids nestled in my ears, working their own brand of magic. 

The silence is deafening. 

Brad Knows Silence Isn’t the Norm in Libraries Anymore!

There’s a saying in the library world: “You’re not a librarian until you’ve been shushed by a patron.” It’s a rite of passage. In the stead of the entire library being quiet and conference rooms being the only place you can speak above a whisper (aka at a volume that I can hear with my bionic ears in), there are now designated quiet study areas and the rest of the library is the realm of normal speech. But before we get to the grown-up part of the library. I want to talk about the kid part of the library. 

I’m exempt from working the desk in my Youth Services department. It’s an accommodation. Everyone else could be pulled upstairs to cover the desk if we’re short-staffed. But not me. Because I can’t hear up there. The maelstrom of noise overwhelms my poor little brain. I have worlds of trouble filtering out background noise. I always have. Most hard of hearing people do. But I wonder if going more than twenty years without bionic ears leveled up my challenge. 

The brain is never as pliable as when it’s young.  I read a National Geographic article years back that said our brain changes until we’re twenty-five. (I think this is the article but it’s behind a paywall, so I can’t be sure.) I got my first set of aids when I was twenty-three. I can’t imagine the trouble I’d have filtering out background noise if I waited a few more years. 

But it’s more than the omnipresent background noise of the Youth Services department. It’s the kids. 

Kids’ voices are tough for me to hear. They present all the challenges I have when hearing someone’s voice, their speed is a challenge (be it too fast or too slow), their volume is a challenge (too soft or too loud), their enunciation is a challenge especially when they’re still learning how to pronounce the words. I don’t think I’ve ever heard more than one word in twelve from a kiddo that I don’t know. That means that if I go upstairs, it’ll be two people that need help, not just one.

So, I stay downstairs. But I don’t stay quiet.

The public computers are near the circulation desk and a place with comfy chairs we call the Conversation Area. Between poor souls cursing about RMV-1 forms and not knowing passwords at the computers and retired gents (more than a few who are hard of hearing themselves) talking about this handbasket we’re going somewhere in at the Conservation Area, there’s plenty of times when that half of the library rivals the Youth Services department in volume. That’s not even getting into the librarians behind the desk. Sometimes it’s just us talking (too loudly) amongst ourselves. But other times it’s being part of the cure for the loneliness epidemic. We’re more than just bookslingers. We lend an ear (no matter how well it works) to patrons who come in for the social service that comes with the library being the last free public indoor space. 

All that adds up to silence being an endangered species in the library. 

It’s loud and soft,

It does whatever it wants. 

Silence is broken. 

I stretched my arms out as I came to, reaching skyward as I rose from a deep nap on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon in Maine. In my post slumber haze, I retrieved my right hearing aid from its storage spot on my nightstand, clicked the battery door closed, and shoved the mold into my ear and waited (impatiently) for it to spring to life. I then repeated the routine with the left hearing aid, a process so automated it requires no thought. 

And then it happened. 

The dread of every behind-the-ear hearing aid user.

The Cracking of The Tubes. 

In complete bewilderment, I stared at the palm of my hand, marveling at the sight of my sparkly pink mold seated next to the machine portion of my hearing aid which was still attached to a section of plastic tubing, which connects the two components. Without that connection, the hearing aid is unable to function at any capacity. I paused as I was not quite yet awake, and in my fogginess reasoned that this was a matter of the fully intact, connected tubing just slipping out of the mold as opposed to a complete fracture. 

It was not until I went to push it back in, that I realized I had A Major Situation. 

The tube had cracked in half, leaving me with a hearing aid rendered completely useless. 

Always the humorist, my first thought was, “Huh. Well, we did name our company ‘Down the Tubes Productions’ for a reason”.   

My second thought was a string of expletives because I was in Maine, on a Sunday afternoon, far from my audiologist who would not open for business until Monday morning at 8:30 a.m. down in Massachusetts. 

I then proceeded to curse all manner of things that have made EVERYONE ELSE’S lives easier (from my limited rage-filled perspective) – and I started with the people who wear glasses – (the irony being that I am one of “those people”). The availability of “glasses repair kits” at every gas station, supermarket, and airport kiosk set me off on a rant because THEY (also, me) can make a hasty repair “on the run”! 

The rant continued as I lamented that most inconveniences have been made convenient with the advent of delivery services –  including, but not limited to, groceries (InstaCart); dry cleaning (Zoots); take out (DoorDash); and something ridiculous and oddly tempting, Anonymous Potato (Google it and see for yourselves, it’s something). 

The grand finale was another colorful collection of words flying out of my mouth – in a combination of English and Italian (which is how you know I am really furious) – over the fact that even if I COULD find an audiologist who was open on a Sunday, it would still be a fruitless exercise because the vast majority of audiologists and hearing aid dispensers will not repair a hearing aid or mold that was not purchased at their establishment. 

The final, soaring note that hung in the air as this tirade concluded – “IT IS JUST A GODDAMN PIECE OF PLASTIC!??! HOW HARD IS THIS TO DEAL WITH!?!?” 

Sufficiently exhausted, after delivering the aforementioned epic monologue to an empty house, I realized that I needed to take matters into my own hands and examine the facts and actions that I did have control over, which led to the following conversation with myself: 

1. It is Sunday. No one and nowhere is open, much less your audiologist’s office in Massachusetts. 

2. Part of the tubing is wedged within the mold, don’t start fussing around with that because you will likely damage the mold which is a bigger problem, and not a single day repair. 

3. Squelch the impulse to remove the tubing from the right hearing aid and try to slide it on over to the left hearing aid because you will probably cause greater damage to the molding and likely snap that tubing in half, too, leaving you with zero hearing access. 

4. Call the office, leave a voicemail, and follow up with an email so those messages are among the first to be received on Monday morning when they open at 8:30 a.m.

5. Be at the door of the office at 8:30 a.m. flashing my award winning smile. 

I set aside my frustration and heartbreak, the two emotions that arrive hand-in-hand whenever I am faced with a significant issue related to my hearing loss. I vowed to try and view this  extremely irritating mechanical failure as an opportunity, not an obstacle. I had been dragging my feet on completing writing tasks, graphic designs, and other responsibilities found on my side of our common “to do” list related to both “Hearing Things with Julie and Brad” as well as Down the Tubes Productions. This temporary, unplanned plunge into complete silence brought all other activities including socializing and driving to a screeching halt. Time for work, it is. 

As I type this last paragraph, I am waiting for a mid-summer storm to announce its arrival with loud booms and crackles – but am met with the sobering thought that this storm will be silent for me today. 

And just like that, my heart broke a little bit more. 

My life has been designed around – and defined by – my love for Boston sports teams. At the top of the list are my beloved Boston College Eagles, and then falls in order to the Boston Bruins, New England Patriots, Boston Red Sox and that other one with the green shamrocks. My first love is football, followed by hockey, and baseball lands in a solid third spot ahead of that thing with the orange bouncing ball. 

As a rabid football fan and unhinged hockey spectator (ask Brad about the bruises on his legs from my repeated punches during the PWHL game in February…) I can visually follow the game easily enough, but I consistently miss specific details about key plays and players as the games tend to move quickly. The act of watching a baseball game provides a hidden luxury – the absence of active listening. 

I love baseball because of the pace – there is a slow ambling to it that has remained even with the advent of the “pitch clock”. The enjoyment of the game is largely a visual experience for me, and a welcome break to the ongoing listening fatigue that plagues me in all aspects of my life that begins the second my feet hit the floor until I flop down onto my bed at night. I can sit back and watch the action on the field – it is so easy for me to follow the game using my eyes exclusively. There is nothing that I need to hear to support my understanding of the game, and the large scoreboard provides all the information I need to know to fill in any gaps – the score, runs, inning, and AL East standings. It is a rare moment of feeling typical at a sporting event, being able to sink into the experience of a sports match that does not require reliance on my damaged ears to have a complete experience. 

I had peripherally been hearing about such teams as “The Savannah Bananas”; “The Party Animals” and “The Firefighters” from my students over the past few years. I deduced that these teams are baseball’s answer to The Harlem Globetrotters – a combination of theater, feats of athleticism, and a game thrown in the mix. 

A friend told me of an upcoming lottery, and encouraged me to enter with the hopes of winning a time slot to purchase tickets for a Savannah Bananas game at Fenway Park in July 2025, I threw my hat in the ring. I won a time slot, and purchased some tickets for this “impossible to get tickets for” event – figuring I would take some family members with me that seemed to be enthusiastic about this opportunity, and I would go along to experience this much talked about trend.

And then promptly forgot about it amidst the grayness and ice of mid-winter New England. 

Fortunately, the Bananas are supported by a persistent marketing team who kept hurling email blasts at me for months until the day arrived. I gathered my invited guests, and off we went to my favorite place – second only to Alumni Stadium at Boston College – Fenway Park. 

The first steps into Fenway park unleash a flood of a million memories for me, the vast majority include either #24, Dwight Evans or my beloved #15, Kevin Millar (Pedroia borrowed Millar’s number during his time at the Sox…fight me, Sox fans!). 

As we settled into our seats, what unfurled before me is best described as a Broadway production number complete with dancing, singing, music, mascots, and mayhem – with a baseball game breaking out in the middle of it all. 

It was an overwhelming visual assault, and as my eyes were frantically trying to take all of it in, I realized that everyone around me was laughing…at something.  And then singing…something. And lastly hollering in response to…something. 

And I had no idea what the somethings were…because I couldn’t hear any of it. 

I knew on some level that I was attending a baseball game with entertaining side shows, but I was unaware of the sheer level of audience interaction via dance moves or “call and response” prompts. I was ill prepared for the ongoing commentary from the “master of ceremonies” spoken through a microphone from the field, with the sound then distorted into the vast, open air ballpark with a mighty echo. There were booming announcements from the main system high above the park which to me sounded like “look someplace” or “here comes whatever it is”. I sank into my seat feeling defeated and deflated having always cherished my time at Fenway Park due to the rare luxury of being able to fully enjoy a baseball game without the stress of having to rely on my hearing. This time, it was evident that it was going to be different – and that felt like a gut punch. 

As the on-field pre-game events began in earnest, ableism was on full display as there was nary an accommodation that I could locate during my attendance at this event. As a refresher, ableism is defined as discrimination against a person or persons with a disability. Additionally, ableism includes the exclusion of people with disabilities from systemic systems and activities. 

As an illustrative example, one of the first pre-game events that happened on the field was when a volunteer from the audience was invited to participate in a “game” of finding a banana on the vast green of the baseball diamond. The participant was blindfolded, then dropped down to all fours, and was expected to root around like a hog sniffing out truffles to find a banana that had been tossed to the grass by the master of ceremonies. The search for the banana was aided by the collective “Yays!” and “Boos!” from the crowd to inform the accuracy of the hunt. This single activity was designed to exclude people with limited vision, mobility challenges, and hearing loss.

As the afternoon progressed, I was unable to locate any signage that indicated available assistive hearing devices. The digital scoreboard displays were absent of caption options. The sound system was tinny and distorted and varied in volume – some of the music I could hear quite clearly while others it was impossible to pick out a melody amongst loud, angry sounds. I took my cues from what words my companions were singing to help me make an educated guess as to what song was playing. 

Fortunately, my companions were accommodating and gracious in their willingness to translate for me the joke that everyone had just laughed at, provide a summary about the activity or attraction that was just introduced, or share the song that was playing that I couldn’t hear clearly. 

I appreciated the efforts, but not being able to fully participate and be in the moment with everyone else was so defeating. 

I made the best of it, as I always have when I am in the middle of situations that are not designed with my needs in mind. I watched the game, pleasantly surprised by the high level of baseball being played. I laughed at the “lobster rolls” that popped out of center field – entertainers clad in lobster suits, somersaulting across the diamond. The sudden appearance of a bagpipe and drum corps from the right field wall was a beautiful tribute to first responders, though the drums were much louder, rendering the bagpipes hard to hear. 

All in all, I was happy that I was able to grab the tickets and provide a nice afternoon for my family at the ballpark, but the lack of accommodation was…well…bananas. 

(We’ve collected the link to all our various platforms for you. Aren’t we grand? You can find them here: https://linktr.ee/HearingThingswithJulieandBrad)  

Behold! The power of a shrug! 

We continue to be astounded by what a shrug wrought. Neither one of us quite realized how much we’d have to say about what it’s like to live in a world not made with our hearing needs in mind. We’ve been recording info-taining videos, waxing poetic with blog posts, and galavanting on some crazy adventures all in the name of proving there’s no one way to be deaf. Our 52nd episode is set to drop on Friday July 18th. It’s gonna be…something. Tune in as we take you behind the scenes and give you a glimpse at what happens before we get our act together each week. It can be summed up in one word: ridiculous.

Read on for a sneak peek at what we have on-tap (besides Guinness and Blue Moon) for Year #2 of “Hearing Things with Julie and Brad”: 

Season #2 of our show, “Hearing Things with Julie and Brad”! 

Season #2 kicks off on Monday July 21, 2025 with blog posts on what it’s like to travel by train whilst deaf. Stay tuned for another DHH book recommendation popping up on our Instagram account on Wednesday the 23rd. That fantastic first week concludes with an episode on Friday the 25th where we talk about the difference between having someone sympathize with our struggles vs someone who can empathize with them  – find it on YouTube and Facebook!

Using Our Words 

Our writing continues with our weekly blogs, expanding into writing for the HLAA Boston Chapter newsletter, and still working on our own individual and collaborative projects. We hope to one day be able to invite all of you to a book signing! 

Under the Lights 

We have recently begun a collaboration with SCAT (Stoneham Community Access Television). We are thrilled to be working with them to bring our programming to a broader audience through cable broadcast and streaming. We will be sure to share where you can tune in or stream our show! Additionally, we are excited to be able to access recording equipment, editing programs, and studio space to help enhance the look, feel, and sound of our show. We are starting small with a portable camera and clip-on mics. We hope to get our party on by filming in the television studio at some point during Season #2! 

In Transition…

We’ve always struggled a wee bit with what to call our show. It’s not technically a podcast for a couple of reasons. First, podcasts have traditionally been audio-only. Second, podcasts aren’t the most accessible when it comes to the Deaf and Hard of Hearing Community. But more often than not people refer to the show as a podcast. And with so many podcasts now being filmed, we decided it was time to get in the game! Stay tuned for our content being available in both video and podcast form in the coming months! 

A New Chapter

We continue to increase our involvement with the HLAA Boston Chapter through our volunteer work with the leadership team. Brad continues as Technology Director and has recently become a Chapter leader with voting privileges. Julie increases her involvement as the Newsletter editor. 

We look forward to participating in upcoming events including Boston Disability Commission’s ADA Celebration Day on July 23rd at 12 PM at City Hall Plaza and the Museum of Science’s Disability Pride Day on July 26th. We will also be presenting for the HLAA Boston Chapter on December 6th! 

On The Road Again! 

We are thrilled to have an out-of-state speaking engagement already in the books which puts us back on the road together complete with Trader Joe’s ghost chips, Sour Patch kids, and Julie’s promise of packing only one BC sweatshirt. (Meanwhile Brad is in the market for an NEU sweatshirt to level the playing field.) We are hoping to pick up a few more speaking engagements to wrap up 2025 – interested? Drop us an email: hearingthingswithjulieandbrad@gmail.com

A Paws in the Action 

Hopefully a new dog will join the “Hearing Things” family within the next year! Rocky is desperate for a new cousin with whom to wreak havoc while we try to get work done during our planning meetings and recording sessions! Brad is waiting for Spirit Weezy to send a new doggo his way.  

Weezy McKenna      Rocky Lane 

The Maine Event 

We will be spending some time in Maine during the summer months for some much needed rest and relaxation – while planning upcoming shows, blog topics, and presentations out on the porch! There will be a brew or two enjoyed as well. Probably a Baston River or an Island Park selection.

On Thin Ice 

And while we enjoy the summer season…we always eagerly await the return of the Big Bad Bruins with hope for a better season! Julie is all about her Boston College Eagles as evidenced by her constant wearing of her hockey sweatshirt. They both would be remiss if they didn’t congratulate Hilary Knight of the PHWL’s Boston Fleet for pacing the league in points this year. They just hope the Fleet makes the playoffs next year! Will you be able to see them at one, or all, of those rinks in The Fall? Their Magic Eightball says “Outlook Good”. 

Thank you for supporting us during our first year! Cheers to many more! Be sure to give us a follow on all of our platforms: https://linktr.ee/HearingThingswithJulieandBrad

As a teacher, the summer months bring a much needed and hard-earned extended vacation (for which we do not get paid, as is a common misconception). I love nothing more than early morning walks on the beach with my Boston terrier, Rocky. Sipping coffee on the porch in silence or chattering with family and friends as the day eases from fog to light. I love the many visitors that come calling, affording me the opportunity to introduce others to my favorite spots along the rocky coastline of New England. I welcome evenings spent around the fire pit with friends and neighbors or a sunset visit to the beach to listen to the ocean waves and watch the sun drop into the horizon. I wait, eagerly, for my favorite time which is late at night. I am on the porch once again, coffee in hand, as the sea breeze from the Atlantic winds through the screens making it just cold enough to be ensconced in an oversized, well worn, and cozy hooded sweatshirt. I pile my hair on my head, perch my glasses on the end of my nose, and power up my laptop. My coastal world is drifting to sleep, and I am finally able to write late into the night, surrounded by the crip, salt air. 

As idyllic as summer can be, there is a significant portion of the season I refer to with minimal affection: The Hotter Than Hell. This is the point of the summer where literally everything goes up in flames. 

My curly hair resists the siren song of my flat iron, and no amount of hair product can tame my mane, rendering me looking like a close cousin of an alpaca. My perfectly coiffed hair is reduced to being yanked back into a ponytail or messy bun or shoved under a baseball hat. I am fastidious about my hair – and the hot, humid weather puts a damper on my mood. 

The worst is yet to come – for my poor, beleaguered, “plugged up by molds” ears are also under attack.  

Much like my curly hair, my ears go positively wild. The insides of my ears instantly transform into flames of fire gloriously flicking at the already irritated skin that has barely rebounded from The Pollinating. The already unbearable level of itchiness has now dialed up to impossible to ignore and nearly intolerable. The clear fluid that was present during allergy season, has now increased in volume, is discolored, and often emits an unpleasant odor. I continuously monitor for the presence of ear infections, and so far I have been fortunate to have avoided them for many, many years. 

I try to relieve the discomfort as best as I can by employing a few home remedies that have been in place since I was a child including blotted tissues and leaving my hearing aids out for a bit, but nothing soothes the itchiness quite like a vigorous onslaught of cotton swabs. I recognize that inserting anything “smaller than your elbow” into your ear is quite frowned upon by experts. I don’t care. The handful of Q-tips that I grab with alarming frequency is the only tool that provides even a modicum of temporary relief. I grab those swabs and attack my canals with vigor. I instantly transform into one of the seven dwarfs from “Snow White” working in the gem mines – digging away in my battered ears with my version of a tiny shovel. 

To quell the discharge, I grab a face cloth and run it under the coldest water I can tolerate to try and stop the weeping of my ear canals. A temporary, short-lived relief which inevitably leads to the slimy, cooling and understated powers of hydrocortisone cream. This magical poultice is applied in a thin coating to the delicate membranes of my ears, magically moisturizing the irritation and providing near instant calm and relief to my tired, tortured ears. The flip side of this is the newly deposited piles of goo that have taken up residence inside my ears, thus rendering it impossible for me to place my hearing aids in for the remainder of the day, hence why this routine is saved for nighttime. The employment of the cream is necessary, but very difficult for my heightened sensory system to tolerate. It is akin to moistening some play dough, dropping some slippery dish soap on the surface and tucking that snuggly into your ears. Gross, yet necessary. 

It may be summertime, but the livin’ isn’t easy! 

This week, we dive into podcasts, what they are, and how we enjoy them as hard of hearing folks. 

Brad wrote an amazing history of podcasts in his blog this week so I will skip the recanting of it all – read it here: https://bradmckenna.wordpress.com/2025/06/23/podcasts/ 

The advent of the COVID-19 pandemic forced abrupt school closures in the middle of March, 2020.  The shift to home-based, remote education necessitated an immediate response from educators as we were expected to adapt quickly and be prepared to provide instruction to all students through a virtual platform. I can only speak to my experience as a Special Educator during this time, but the herculean task of modifying lesson plans, instructional materials, and student assignments to allow for equitable access was easily the most stressful period of my 25+ year career. 

The stress levels were astronomically high, as were the expectations to which we were held, and it was enough to impact my mental health, anxiety, self-regulation and drove me to apply for jobs outside of the field of education. I nearly left a job that I love due to the unrealistic expectations placed upon educators during an unprecedented time in our current history. 

The perpetuation of criticism continues to undermine our value as educators – some seem to forget that without education in basic literacy and math skills, no other profession could sustain itself. We were not afforded the luxury of learning a new skill, increasing exercise routines or trying our hand at sourdough starter. We were front line workers in a different way, but our medical professionals and first responders are the true heroes. 

I spent nearly every night eating dinner at my desk in my home office, missing time spent with Mark and Rocky, during an incredibly stressful time when drawing on support from friends and family was critical for my sanity. I worked  until 1:30 a.m. or later in an effort to maintain some sense of normalcy for my students through creative lessons and engaging assignments. Additionally, I was required to maintain meticulous, daily reports detailing student attendance, engagement, and active participation. I had to also document in immense detail how accommodations, modifications, and specialized, individual instruction was being delivered to ensure that students were receiving a mandated free and appropriate public education. 

As someone with a hearing impairment I ironically work best when I have music playing or am immersed in an environment with a buzz of noise and activity. By the end of the first week, I was growing tired of hearing the same songs over and over again with my iTunes set to shuffle. I tried to branch out to different genres and unfamiliar artists, but the effort that it was taking to learn new music and voices was a drain on an already depleted system. I was lamenting to a friend via a “Zoom visit” and it was then that I was brought into the fold of the world of podcasts. 

The very first podcast series that I listened to is the absolutely unhinged investigation of Richard Simmons and if he had been kidnapped after he failed to appear to teach an exercise class that he had led for 40 years. It was a wild ride and the perfect first foray into podcasts. A bizarre podcast that was fit for a bizarre time in history. 

My journey through podcasts continued in the ensuing years, and I have listed my favorites below – I hope that you draw inspiration from this smorgasbord of podcasts and find something new that you may enjoy! If you have any suggested podcasts for me to check out, drop me an email at: hearingthingswithjulieandbrad@gmail.com!

In no particular order, with the exception of #1 – hello to Chuck, Josh and Gerry, too! – I present my favorite podcasts: 

1. Stuff You Should Know

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/stuff-you-should-know/id278981407

2. Headlong: Missing Richard Simmons

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/headlong-missing-richard-simmons/id1203092300

3. Spooked 

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/spooked/id1279361017

4. 1619

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/1619/id1476928106

5. American Scandal

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/american-scandal/id1435516849

6. Hysterical.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/hysterical/id1753789609

7. The Shrink Next Door 

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-shrink-next-door/id1459899275

8. Even the Royals

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/even-the-royals/id1707865430

9. Crime Junkie

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/crime-junkie/id1322200189

10. Morbid

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/morbid/id1379959217

I am severely allergic to shellfish. If I ingest it or if molecules are floating around in the air it can trigger a reaction ranging from itchy skin, hives, difficulty breathing, and will likely culminate in anaphylaxis if left untreated. 

Naturally, when I was invited to join Brad and a friend of ours who also wears hearing aids, on a trip to the New England Aquarium, followed by lunch at Legal Seafoods, I did the sensible thing…I went along for the adventure. 

I assured my companions that this was a perfectly safe activity so long as I refrained from munching on calamari or hovering my face too close to a steaming lobster. I casually bypassed my food allergies, waving them off with a flick of the wrist as if they were a pesky fly, a minor nuisance.  

It was a beautiful spring day. The Pollination portion of the spring season in New England had not yet begun, and the sun felt just right on my face as we walked into the Aquarium. I was very excited to visit with the creatures lucky enough to reside in my favorite element, salt water. Upon entry, I was slammed by a blast of air thick with the heady odor of crustaceans and other pickings that were the standard diet of many of the inhabitants within the large tanks.

 We paused to admire the penguins situated at the bottom of the spiral ramp, and while I was picking out which penguin matched my personality, my face began to crawl and sting and feel a tiny bit prickly. I swallowed down the panic, and calmly inserted my hand into the pocket of my pants, grasping at my supply of Benadryl, while mentally calculating when I would need to take them and how long it would take for medical personnel to procure and administer an Epi pen. It was at that moment that I realized because I did not bring a jacket or purse, my Epi pens were at home – along with my house keys – but that would be realized a few hours later. I gripped my Benadryl supply as if they were a magical talisman that could halt anything from progressing further. Luckily, the sensation faded the further we went up the ramp and away from the penguin enclosure, and I made it unscathed out of the main building of the aquarium to the safer environs of the theater where we enjoyed a fantastic movie about dolphins, sans fishy smells. 

Intellectually, I knew that sharing this information with at least Brad was the wise thing to do considering how quickly this could escalate from a mild rash to cessation of breath. Instead, I kept the information to myself, rolling the proverbial dice in a game of roulette that would likely end with at least one Epi pen injection and a trip to the emergency room. 

I have spent some time reflecting on why I chose to stay quiet about a potentially life threatening situation, and realized that it connects back to having a disability. 

I have been a strong self-advocate since I was a child, and have never shied away from requesting needed accommodations and modifications to ensure my participation in a world not designed with my needs in mind. I have always gleefully skipped towards confrontation when a situation has arisen where I have been treated unjustly or denied a reasonable accommodation relative to my hearing loss. Admittedly, my patience has always been short with people that do not self-identify and advocate for what they need specific to their hearing loss or other challenges. I looked upon those people with disdain, unimpressed by their weak constitution. I viewed them as cowards, weaklings, and spineless wimps content with mediocrity. I have never settled for “good enough”, and could not abide by others that settled for anything less than the best because they were too afraid to advocate for themselves. 

Imagine my shock to have found myself in a situation where I decided to “clam up” (pun intended) about a situation that was far more serious than not having access to preferential seating or closed captioning services. I have spent my entire life disclosing my hearing loss, a part of me that is so different from most people I interact with, and quite honestly, I am just tired of it. I am tired of self-identifying, asking for accommodations and modifications, and educating everyone around me about my hearing loss. For once, I desired to have a “normal day” – to just be able to move through the world and not think of anything else than the company I was keeping and the creatures I was viewing. I did not want to burden my companions in any way by asking for an alteration to the plans for the day thus disappointing anyone who was excited about an aquarium visit and seafood lunch. My desire to accommodate others fortunately did not lead to certain disaster, but the day could have ended very differently all because of my own discomfort with self-advocacy and self-identification. 

In closing, I would love to be able to blame this interaction with Brad on delirium due to an impending allergic reaction, but alas…

Julie: (peering down over the railing, halfway up the spiral walkway) “There are so MANY penguins here!”

Brad: (amused and potentially concerned about my intellectual functioning) “Those are the same penguins we saw when we came in…we’re just higher up…” 

My very first hearing aid was fitted to my right ear in 1978 – a Qualitone SA, which while effective it was a bit large and clunky for my little head. I remember that it was housed inside a fancy black box lined with red velvet and upon opening it one would have expected to find a glittering diamond necklace or ruby studded tennis bracelet. Technically, my little hearing aid could have been classified as jewelry as it was something to be seen, worn, and cost quite a bit of money – but it did not dazzle in the light or wink in the sun because it was beige. The saddest, most mundane, and mildly depressing shade of the color spectrum – beige. 

My second hearing aid, a Qualitone TSM, was gingerly placed inside my left ear in 1981, rendering me a newly minted bilateral hearing aid user. My memory serves that it also came in a luxurious, velvet lined hinged box and I recall the hard case would snap shut quickly. I needed to be nimble in closing the case to spare my little fingers from getting pinched between the seams. The color of the mold and the hearing aid were decidedly, morbidly and boringly beige. 

As time marched on and my hearing continued its inevitable and unavoidable plummet, I switched between hearing aid brands every few years, in the ongoing race to match the current level of loss with the most efficient, updated technology. I left Qualitone hearing aids behind for a new pair of Siemens aids. Through the years I cycled away from Siemens to Widex and then Oticon, finally landing on my beloved Phonak brand aids. I am on my third pair of Phonak aids, and the proprietary sound offered by Phonak allows me to hear the world in what sounds “normal” to my deteriorating ears. Unfortunately, because I require the largest aids available, they are not manufactured in any other tone but beige. 

A few years back, I trudged into my audiologist’s office, lamenting to myself that I will forever be resigned to beige molds and beige hearing aids. I envied those that could wear smaller, daintier hearing aids in a bold color. I yearned for the stripes, polka dots and glitter that I spotted in the ears of hearing-aid wearing children. Alas, it was not to be, and it left me riffing to myself,  “It’s Not Easy Being Beige.” In what can only be a response from the fates, on my audiologist’s desk was a catalog, and my lack of impulse control when it comes to touching everything worked in my favor. I thumbed through it, and it fell open to a page of colorful moldings. At a glance, it was “children’s molds”…but inspiration struck. 

My always patient audiologist readied the materials necessary to make the mold impressions that would be sent off to the factory and boring, beige molds would be returned to me once again…but today, things were going to be different. I brought up the colorful molds I had seen on children wearing hearing aids and I ranted about the smaller, less powerful hearing aids being available in a variety of colors…and then I gestured to the catalog page wildly, while saying “I want these. All of them!”  

A phone call was made and a reassurance was uttered that any and all combinations shown in the catalog could be made in “grown up sizes”. I was elated, and inspiration struck – I landed on bright white loaded with glitter – my nod to “Elsa” from the movie of the moment, “Frozen”. As an elementary teacher, I knew this would be a crowd pleaser with my 1st graders. The moment those magical, fantastical, and utterly fabulous molds graced my ears I knew I would never again return to the staid, plain, beige option. In the time since, I have cycled through light pink with glitter; ocean blue with glitter; and now bright hot pink with glitter. The colors may change, but the glitter is a constant. Obviously, this Jules needs some jewels! 

The magnolia flowers are my first clue that Spring has sprung here in Massachusetts. Those gorgeous trees spring to life suddenly, without warning, and as soon as they have arrived they are making their exit as the blooms fall to the grass below. I relate to the magnolia trees as their natural habits are akin to my entrance and exit at social gatherings. I tend to burst into the door, make my presence known, and just as my fellow revelers are settling in with my company, I vanish with little warning. I prefer to leave the people wanting more, much like those majestic, magenta blossoms. 

The second clue is the inevitable utterance from someone with typical hearing lamenting that birdsong has woken them up in the early morning hours. I am no longer able to hear birds with my hearing aids due to the plummeting of high frequency sounds. (And they are certainly not waking me up in the morning). I sometimes feel a little downtrodden that this is another experience that I am missing due to my hearing loss, but a few extra minutes of sleep is worth the omission of caws, tweets, and twiddles. 

And then the final confirmation that Spring has pulled up a rocking chair on the porch and settled in with some lemonade – The Pollinating. I often think that a permanent replacement of “Spring” with “The Pollinating” should be made as it truly captures the sheer misery of this season for myself and fellow allergy sufferers. The scratchy throat, watery eyes, and constant runny nose is an unwelcome companion for anyone whose biological systems flare at the mere sight of a gladiola or freshly mowed lawn. 

Unfortunately, for those of us whose ears are plugged up and plagued by the necessity of wearing hearing aids, no amount of Zyrtec and Flonase can relieve the miserable, physical symptoms inside of our ears. 

Brad wrote a fantastic medical explanation of what is happening inside of our ears and you can read all about it here: (Brad’s Spring Fling Blog) so I will skip the biological analysis and stick with describing my own personal ailments. 

There are several disgusting things happening inside my ears as a hearing aid wearer during The Pollinating. 

In order of discomfort from least to greatest: 

-The squishies – there is moisture and gunk and fluids coating the inside of my ears both in the ear cavity and on the surface of the skin upon which my hearing aid molds rest. Each time I reach up to readjust my hearing aid molds there is a slight sound that I can “feel” as I manipulate the molds which feels like pressing your finger gently on a wet sponge. It’s gross. 

-The liquid stream – there is clear liquid sloshing around in the ear canals and running out of my ears when I take my hearing aids out. Granted, sloshing is a very strong word and it isn’t technically a “running stream”, either, but there is enough moisture and clear fluids that I can feel following a particularly brutal allergy day. It is clear and odorless, but ever present. It is also gross. 

-The Impossible Itch – Don Quixote had the Impossible Dream. We have the Impossible Itch. An itch so deep and nearly impossible to access, to the point that you are driven to near insanity with the desire to scratch and rub and rage in the pursuit of relief. Deep in the ear canal where no Q-tip can ever reach, lies the center of the itch. It is ever present and always inaccessible. I have tried it all – pinky fingers; short Q-tip swabs with fluffy ends; long handled Q-tip swabs with a small puff of cotton; and in desperation I have considered inserting freshly sharpened pencils in my ear canals. What is the worst that can happen? Hearing loss!? It is beyond agitating and is a special form of torture reserved for those of us with hearing aids. 

Fortunately, the season is short and the symptoms are temporary – but then comes the advent of Summer which brings a whole other set of complications, which will be covered in a future blog post. 

On a lighter note, as I was writing about Spring, I suddenly remembered a favorite piece of music, “Spring” from the Peer Gynt Suite. It is a beautiful, lively and light listening experience made more special by it being the first classical piece I learned how to play on the piano. I would open my well-loved and worn copy of “Rolf’s Very First Book of Classic Themes” – complete with Rolf the piano playing muppet on the cover – and settle in at the keys to pound out what I am sure is an insult to classical musicians everywhere, but to me it was music to my ears. 

Here is an image of my anthology of classics and a link to hear Edvard Grieg’s “Peer Gynt Suite (Morning Mood) (Spring)” 

Spring – Edvard Grieg ‘Peer Gynt Suite (Morning Mood)’