The timeline’s different for each of us but at some point you have to stop fighting your parents or religion or 1950s America or your no-good-son-of-a-bitch-ex-spouse or quite possibly even yourself. Yes, yourself. Signify this truce by beating your sword into a plowshare. Actually, scratch that. I propose beating it into windchimes. That way you’ll be gently recalled to the forgiveness when subsequent winds blow. Those notes will be a charmer’s tune easing the air around you, an alarming remembrance that by no means did you give up, but that by choice you gave in to an older song.