5 Rhythms Quotes

All around, everywhere you look, is dullness and uncertainty. Even something born of beauty soon leads to boredom and banality, commonplace, the human ritual, the tedious rhythm of life.

Sweet Crescent Moon, up in the sky, Won't you sing your song to Earth as she passes by? Your sweetest silver melody, a rhythm and a ryme, A lullaby of pleasant dreams as you make your climb. Send the forests off to bed, the mountains tuck in tight, Rock the ocean gently, and the deserts kiss goodnight. Sweet Crescent Moon, up in the sky, You sing your song so sweetly after sunshine passes by.

I...I'm sorry," Kylie mumbled. "Don't you even try to talk your way out of me being pissed!" Burnett growled. "Not a word!" "I just..." "That's two words and I said not one!" he snapped, and he swiped his hand through the air for emphasis. Kylie bit down on her lip, and wouldn't you know it that's when the tears started flowing. Big, fat, and fast tears. She sniffled and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her breath caught in her chest. But damn it. Why couldn't this have happened when she was alone? "Those tears do not affect me, young lady!" He pointed a finger at her. While she couldn't hear his heart beat to the rhythm of a lie, she heard it in his voice. *** "I just..." "Did I say you could talk?" he asked. He did three more pacing laps, as if working off steam, before he looked at her again. "Where were you going, Kylie?" When she just looked at him, he bit out, "Answer me." "You said I couldn't talk.

The rhythm of her conversation. The perfection of her creation. The sex she slipped into my coffee. The way she felt when she first saw me. Hate to love and love to hate her. Like a broken record player. Back and forth and here and gone and on and on and on and on...

There's a story here. A catastrophic silence where our thoughts and feelings collide ... Where your sweetness overrides my senses and our bodies move to the same tune. The same song. The same melody. The same stroke. The same rhythm. It's our story, Trinity, and it's just begging to be told.

Mother-infant inter-brain synchrony algorithms of compassionate artificial intelligence and social robots are developed based on brain-to-brain synchrony of gaze, facial expressions and heart rhythms between mother and child.

One of the key algorithms of compassionate artificial intelligence is Mother-Infant Inter-brain Synchrony algorithm, which mimics the brain-to-brain synchrony of gaze, facial expressions, touch and heart rhythms of mother and child.

the most efficient breathing rhythm occurred when both the length of respirations and total breaths per minute were locked in to a spooky symmetry: 5.5-second inhales followed by 5.5-second exhales, which works out almost exactly to 5.5 breaths a minute. This was the same pattern of the rosary. The results were profound, even when practiced for just five to ten minutes a day. “I have seen patients transformed by adopting regular breathing practices,” said Brown.

She rose with the grace that was inherent to her every move ... Perhaps she did everything to a rhythm only she could hear.

I saw the Light,saw the myriad spirits flying loose up the Tunnel towards the celestial blaze, the Tunnel perfectly round and widening as they rose and for one blessed moment, one blessed tiny instant, the songs of Heaven resounded down the tunnel as if its curves were not made of wind but of something solid that could echo these ethereal songs, and their organized rhythm, their heartbreaking beauty piercing the catastrophic suffering of this place-Lestat

If we do not respect our Earth, the World of Emotions & Mental development will suffer. We all need Rhythm in our food consumption, sleep patterns, cleanliness & exercise regime. This Routine does not come naturally and it is learned and exercised from very young age.’ Conscious Parenting by Natasa Pantovic Nuit Quotes about kids development Routine

Today I made love to my woman. Not because I wanted to right then, But because I knew i'd want to when we started, And that the walk on the beach we took afterward would be more romantic, The cocktail I made at 5:45 would taste better, The shrimp I seasoned would have more savour, The all-star game we watched at 7:00 would be more exciting, The music we danced to til midmight would have more rhythm, And the conversation about life we had together, sitting across the table from each other, until 3:00 am in the morning would be more inspiring. And it was.

The world is a clock winding down. I hear it in the wind’s icy fingers scratching against the window. I smell it in the mildewed carpeting and the rotting wallpaper of the old hotel. And I feel it in Teacup’s chest as she sleeps. The hammering of her heart, the rhythm of her breath, warm in the freezing air, the clock winding down.

No matter the trial you face, do not lose the peace and rhythm of life.

Language is art, language is imagery, music, rhythm, thought, responsibility and communication. With the extensive English vocabulary available to us, an abundance of words allow for precision of depiction - well almost

You go out into your world, and try and find the things that will be useful to you. Your weapons. Your tools. Your charms. You find a record, or a poem, or a picture of a girl that you pin to the wall and go, "Her. I'll try and be her. I'll try and be her - but here." You observe the way others walk, and talk, and you steal little bits of them - you collage yourself out of whatever you can get your hands on. You are like the robot Johnny 5 in Short Circuit, crying, "More input! More input for Johnny 5! as you rifle through books and watch films and sit in front of the television, trying to guess which of these things that you are watching - Alexis Carrington Colby walking down a marble staircase; Anne of Green Gables holding her shoddy suitcase; Cathy wailing on the moors; Courtney Love wailing in her petticoat; Dorothy Parker gunning people down; Grace Jones singing "Slave to the Rhythm" - you will need when you get out there. What will be useful. What will be, eventually, you? And you will be quite on your own when you do all this. There is no academy where you can learn to be yourself; there is no line manager slowly urging you toward the correct answer. You are midwife to yourself, and will give birth to yourself, over and over, in dark rooms, alone. And some versions of you will end in dismal failure - many prototypes won't even get out the front door, as you suddenly realize that no, you can't style-out an all-in-one gold bodysuit and a massive attitude problem in Wolverhampton. Others will achieve temporary success - hitting new land-speed records, and amazing all around you, and then suddenly, unexpectedly exploding, like the Bluebird on Coniston Water. But one day you'll find a version of you that will get you kissed, or befriended, or inspired, and you will make your notes accordingly, staying up all night to hone and improvise upon a tiny snatch of melody that worked. Until - slowly, slowly - you make a viable version of you, one you can hum every day. You'll find the tiny, right piece of grit you can pearl around, until nature kicks in, and your shell will just quietly fill with magic, even while you're busy doing other things. What your nature began, nature will take over, and start completing, until you stop having to think about who you'll be entirely - as you're too busy doing, now. And ten years will pass without you even noticing. And later, over a glass of wine - because you drink wine now, because you are grown - you will marvel over what you did. Marvel that, at the time, you kept so many secrets. Tried to keep the secret of yourself. Tried to metamorphose in the dark. The loud, drunken, fucking, eyeliner-smeared, laughing, cutting, panicking, unbearably present secret of yourself. When really you were about as secret as the moon. And as luminous, under all those clothes.

She spent every night that week on the roof with the asp, watching it, copying its movements, internalizing its rhythm and sounds until she could move like it moved, until they could face each other and she could anticipate how it would lunge; until she could strike like the asp, swift and unflinching.

We do not go to church to worship. But as continuing worshipers, we gather ourselves together to continue our worship, but now in the company of brothers and sisters.5

The scene reminded Lita of a Marvel Comics movie where the hero tries to blend in among mortals, but is so obviously everyone’s savior. Her savior. If he would only allow himself to be.

Although I had never envisioned marriage, I had thought of love. Not the furtive love I heard muffled in the corners or rooms of some of the harem wives. What I wanted was a connection, a shared heartbeat that kept rhythm across oceans and worlds. Not some alliance cobbled out of war. I didn’t want the prince from the folktales or some milk-skinned, honey-eyed youth who said his greetings and proclaimed his love in the same breath. I wanted a love thick with time, as inscrutable as if a lathe had carved it from night and as familiar as the marrow in my bones.

A few months ago on a school morning, as I attempted to etch a straight midline part on the back of my wiggling daughter's soon-to-be-ponytailed blond head, I reminded her that it was chilly outside and she needed to grab a sweater. "No, mama." "Excuse me?" "No, I don't want to wear that sweater, it makes me look fat." "What?!" My comb clattered to the bathroom floor. "Fat?! What do you know about fat? You're 5 years old! You are definitely not fat. God made you just right. Now get your sweater." She scampered off, and I wearily leaned against the counter and let out a long, sad sigh. It has begun. I thought I had a few more years before my twin daughters picked up the modern day f-word. I have admittedly had my own seasons of unwarranted, psychotic Slim-Fasting and have looked erroneously to the scale to give me a measurement of myself. But these departures from my character were in my 20s, before the balancing hand of motherhood met the grounding grip of running. Once I learned what it meant to push myself, I lost all taste for depriving myself. I want to grow into more of a woman, not find ways to whittle myself down to less. The way I see it, the only way to run counter to our toxic image-centric society is to literally run by example. I can't tell my daughters that beauty is an incidental side effect of living your passion rather than an adherence to socially prescribed standards. I can't tell my son how to recognize and appreciate this kind of beauty in a woman. I have to show them, over and over again, mile after mile, until they feel the power of their own legs beneath them and catch the rhythm of their own strides. Which is why my parents wake my kids early on race-day mornings. It matters to me that my children see me out there, slogging through difficult miles. I want my girls to grow up recognizing the beauty of strength, the exuberance of endurance, and the core confidence residing in a well-tended body and spirit. I want them to be more interested in what they are doing than how they look doing it. I want them to enjoy food that is delicious, feed their bodies with wisdom and intent, and give themselves the freedom to indulge. I want them to compete in healthy ways that honor the cultivation of skill, the expenditure of effort, and the courage of the attempt. Grace and Bella, will you have any idea how lovely you are when you try? Recently we ran the Chuy's Hot to Trot Kids K together as a family in Austin, and I ran the 5-K immediately afterward. Post?race, my kids asked me where my medal was. I explained that not everyone gets a medal, so they must have run really well (all kids got a medal, shhh!). As I picked up Grace, she said, "You are so sweaty Mommy, all wet." Luke smiled and said, "Mommy's sweaty 'cause she's fast. And she looks pretty. All clean." My PRs will never garner attention or generate awards. But when I run, I am 100 percent me--my strengths and weaknesses play out like a cracked-open diary, my emotions often as raw as the chafing from my jog bra. In my ultimate moments of vulnerability, I am twice the woman I was when I thought I was meant to look pretty on the sidelines. Sweaty and smiling, breathless and beautiful: Running helps us all shine. A lesson worth passing along.

The course of training of the yogī was divided into eight stages, reminding us of the eightfold path of Buddhism, but far less practical: (1) Self-control (yama), the practice of the five moral rules: non-violence, truthfulness, not stealing, chastity, and the avoidance of greed. (2) Observance (niyama), the regular and complete observance of the above five rules. (3) Posture (āsana), sitting in certain postures, difficult without practice, which are thought to be essential to meditation. The most famous of these is padmāsna, the “Lotus Posture”, in which the feet are placed on the opposite thighs, and in which gods and sages are commonly depicted. (4) Control of the Breath (prānāyāma), whereby the breath is held and controlled and the respiration forced into unusual rhythms, which are believed to be of great physical and spiritual value. (5) Restraint (pratyāhāra), whereby the sense organs are trained to take no note of their perceptions. (6) Steadying the Mind (dhāranā), by concentration on a single object, such as the tip of the nose, the navel, an icon, or a sacred symbol. (7) Meditation (dhyāna), when the object of concentration fills the whole mind. (8) Deep Meditation (samādhi), when the whole personality is temporarily dissolved.

Silence descended on us. I turned the music on, my favorite playlist. The pounding bass of “Candy Shop” by 50 Cent filled the car. I drummed my fingers in rhythm to the sound. Gemma frowned. “This song doesn’t make sense. Why does a rapper sing about lollipops and rodeos?

No wings. No markings. And did you see that first pass? Mach 2 at least. Unless we’ve launched some kind of classified aircraft, no way this thing is terrestrial.” As he spoke, Hutchfield was popping his fist up and down in the dirt, beating out a rhythm to match the words.

In Detroit, it was an average night to go and hear the Stooges, Parliament-Funkadelic and the MC5 on the same show. We were all into the 'Free Jazz' movement, the musics of Ornette Coleman and Sun Ra; and experimenting with guitar sounds, and trying different beats, and pushing the rhythm farther...

Sweet Crescent Moon, up in the sky, Won’t you sing your song to Earth as she passes by? Your sweetest silver melody, a rhythm and a rhyme, A lullaby of pleasant dreams as you make your climb. Send the forests off to bed, the mountains tuck in tight, Rock the ocean gently, and the deserts kiss good night. Sweet Crescent Moon, up in the sky, You sing your song so sweetly after sunshine passes by.

We know, however, that the mind is capable of understanding these matters in all their complexity and in all their simplicity. A ball flying through the air is responding to the force and direction with which it was thrown, the action of gravity, the friction of the air which it must expend its energy on overcoming, the turbulence of the air around its surface, and the rate and direction of the ball's spin. And yet, someone who might have difficulty consciously trying to work out what 3 x 4 x 5 comes to would have no trouble in doing differential calculus and a whole host of related calculations so astoundingly fast that they can actually catch a flying ball. People who call this "instinct" are merely giving the phenomenon a name, not explaining anything. I think that the closest that human beings come to expressing our understanding of these natural complexities is in music. It is the most abstract of the arts - it has no meaning or purpose other than to be itself. Every single aspect of a piece of music can be represented by numbers. From the organization of movements in a whole symphony, down through the patterns of pitch and rhythm that make up the melodies and harmonies, the dynamics that shape the performance, all the way down to the timbres of the notes themselves, their harmonics, the way they change over time, in short, all the elements of a noise that distinguish between the sound of one person piping on a piccolo and another one thumping a drum - all of these things can be expressed by patterns and hierarchies of numbers. And in my experience the more internal relationships there are between the patterns of numbers at different levels of the hierarchy, however complex and subtle those relationships may be, the more satisfying and, well, whole, the music will seem to be. In fact the more subtle and complex those relationships, and the further they are beyond the grasp of the conscious mind, the more the instinctive part of your mind - by which I mean that part of your mind that can do differential calculus so astoundingly fast that it will put your hand in the right place to catch a flying ball- the more that part of your brain revels in it. Music of any complexity (and even "Three Blind Mice" is complex in its way by the time someone has actually performed it on an instrument with its own individual timbre and articulation) passes beyond your conscious mind into the arms of your own private mathematical genius who dwells in your unconscious responding to all the inner complexities and relationships and proportions that we think we know nothing about. Some people object to such a view of music, saying that if you reduce music to mathematics, where does the emotion come into it? I would say that it's never been out of it.

PIETT: But truly, what man doth not wear a mask? For all of us are masked in sone way -- Some choose sharp cruelty as their outward face, Some put themselves behind a king's facade, Some put on the disguise of arrogance, But underneath our masks, are we not one? Do not all wish for love, and joy, and peace? And whether rebel or Imperial, Do not our hearts all beat in time to make The pounding rhythm of the galaxy?

Marriage suddenly didn’t seem like enough to safeguard what she meant to me. Why wasn’t there something more binding than a mere piece of paper that gave me the right to call her my wife? Vows were a promise, but what I needed was a guarantee that every day of my life would have her in it. I wanted my heart to beat in rhythm with hers and stop when hers did. Inextricably entwined, so I would never live even a moment without her.

The Lord wants to have an ongoing conversation with us throughout the daily rhythms of our life. He is intimately acquainted with all of our ways. As we speak to Him, we acknowledge His presence and His involvement in our lives. This is what Paul means by praying continually (1 Thessalonians 5:17). Since our minds continue working all the time, our silent thoughts and prayers can constantly be offered to him in a running dialogue.

When you leave a job, one of the hardest decisions you have to make on cleaning out your desk is what to do with the coffinlike cardboard tray holding 958 fresh-smelling business cards. You can’t throw them out— they and the nameplate and a few sample payroll stubs are proof to yourself that you once showed up at that building every day and solved complicated, utterly absorbing problems there; unfortunately, the problems themselves, though they once obsessed you, and kept you working late night after night, and made you talk in your sleep, turn out to have been hollow: two weeks after your last day that already have contracted into inert pellets one-fiftieth of their former size; you find yourself unable to create the sense of what was really at stake, for it seems to have been the Hungarian 5/2 rhythm of the lived workweek alone that kept each fascinating crisis inflated to its full interdepartmental complexity. But coterminously, while the problems you were paid to solve collapse, the nod of the security guard, his sign-in book, the escalator ride, the things on your desk, the site of colleagues’ offices, their faces seen from characteristic angles, the features of the corporate bathroom, all miraculously expand: and in this way what was central and what was incidental end up exactly reversed.

You can have the perfect message, but it may fall on deaf ears when the listener is not prepared or open to listening. These listening "planes" were first introduced by the American composer Aaron Copland (1900-1990) as they pertain to music . . . 1. The Sensual Plane: You’re aware of the music, but not engaged enough to have an opinion or judge it. 2. The Expressive Plane: You become more engaged by paying attention, finding meaning beyond the music, and noticing how it makes you feel. 3. The Musical Plane: You listen to the music with complete presence, noticing the musical elements of melody, harmony, pitch, tempo, rhythm, and form.

16.5 Confucius said, “Finding enjoyment in three kinds of activities will be a source of personal improvement; finding enjoyment in three other kinds of activities will be a source of personal injury. One stands to be improved by the enjoyment found in attuning oneself to the rhythms of ritual propriety (li ) and music (yue ),283 by the enjoyment found in talking about what others do well (shan ), and by the enjoyment found in having a circle of many friends of superior character (xian ); one stands to be injured by finding enjoyment in being arrogant, by finding enjoyment in dissolute diversions, and by finding enjoyment in the easy life.

The Bible is full of evidence that God’s attention is indeed fixed on the little things. But this is not because God is a Great Cosmic Cop, eager to catch us in minor transgressions, but simply because God loves us—loves us so much that the divine presence is revealed even in the meaningless workings of daily life. It is in the ordinary, the here—and—now, that God asks us to recognize that the creation is indeed refreshed like dew—laden grass that is “renewed in the morning” (Ps 90:5), or to put it in more personal and also theological terms, “our inner nature is being renewed every day” (2 Cor 4:16). Seen in this light, what strikes many modern readers as the ludicrous attention to detail in the book of Leviticus, involving God in the minutiae of daily life—all the cooking and cleaning of a people’s domestic life—might be revisioned as the very love of God. A God who cares so much as to desire to be present to us in everything we do. It is this God who speaks to us through the psalmist as he wakes from sleep, amazed, to declare, “I will bless you, Lord, you give me counsel, and even at night direct my heart” (Ps 16:7, GR). It is this God who speaks to us through the prophets, reminding us that by meeting the daily needs of the poor and vulnerable, characterized in the scriptures as the widows and orphans, we prepare the way of the Lord and make our own hearts ready for the day of salvation. When it comes to the nitty—gritty, what ties these threads of biblical narrative together into a revelation of God’s love is that God has commanded us to refrain from grumbling about the dailiness of life. Instead we are meant to accept it gratefully, as a reality that humbles us even as it gives us cause for praise. The rhythm of sunrise and sunset marks a passage of time that makes each day rich with the possibility of salvation, a concept that is beautifully summed up in an ancient saying from the monastic tradition: “Abba Poeman said concerning Abba Pior that every day he made a new beginning.

14 Ways to Become an Incredible Listener 1. Be present and provide your undivided attention. 2. Seek first to understand, then to be understood. 3. Listen attentively and respond appropriately. 4. Minimize or eliminate distractions. 5. Focus your attention and energy with singleness of purpose on what the other person is saying. 6. Quiet your mind and suspend your thoughts to make room in your head to hear what is said—in the moment! 7. Ask questions and demonstrate empathy. 8. Use your body language and nonverbal cues constructively and pay attention to theirs. 9. Follow the rhythm of their speech; hear their tone. 10. Repeat and summarize what you have heard them say to confirm understanding. 11. Be open-minded and non-defensive. 12. Respond rather than react. 13. Be respectful, calm, and positive. 14. Try to resolve conflicts, not win them.

Are you going to sleep in the bed with me?” Jensen shrugged. “I hadn’t really gotten that far. If we share a bed . . .” His meaning was clear. “You think if we share a bed, we might have sex.” He nodded, studying me. “We might.” I could barely move, I was shaking so intensely. “Do you want sex?” I laughed at myself immediately. “I mean, not that we—it’s just, tonight when you kissed me, it felt like you weren’t just playing.” “I fucking love sex,” he said in a quiet growl. “Of course I want it. But tonight was complicated, and I don’t just have sex with someone on impulse.” “God.” I let my head fall back against the headboard. “That’s incredibly hot, and I don’t even know why.” “Pippa.” I grinned up at him. “Jensen.” My heart beat a savage rhythm in my chest as he reached forward, lifting a hand and touching my bottom lip with the tip of his index finger. “Do you like sex?” he whispered. Oh, fuck me. “Yes.

On Contemporary Jazz—‘Bebop’” (from a handwritten journal dated February 24–May 5, 1947) focuses more intently on the effects of speed and virtuosity on stylistic changes in the jazz idiom, as embodied in the playing of figures such as Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Thelonious Monk—all of whom Kerouac had seen perform in New York’s Fifty-second Street jazz clubs by the mid-1940s. Flexing his talents as a music writer, Kerouac presents an informed, condensed jazz history of the 1930s and 1940s. He not only recognizes the significance of bebop’s modern, avant-garde revision of jazz’s compositional vocabulary, but views those compositional developments in rhythm and harmony as the virtuosic equivalent of the European classical tradition. If “A Couple of Facts Concerning Laws of Decadence” displays Kerouac’s tendency at times to sentimentalize the premodern, this early essay on bebop valorizes propulsive, forward-looking art, the avant-garde abandon that came to characterize American expressive culture in the decades following World War II.

And still I had not admitted to myself that I should have stopped seeing Albertine long before, for she had entered, in relation to me, that wretched period when a being, dispersed in space and time, is no longer a woman in our eyes, but a series of events on which we cannot shed light, a series of insoluble problems, a sea which, like Xerxes, we absurdly try to beat, to punish it for all that it has swallowed up. Once this period has begun, one is inevitably defeated. Happy are those who see it in time not to be drawn into a useless, exhausting battle, surrounded on all sides by the limits of our imagination, where jealousy struggles so humiliatingly that the same man who once, if the eyes of his constant companion fell for a moment on another man, imagined a conspiracy, suffered who knows what torments, may later allow her to go out alone, sometimes with the man he knows is her lover, choosing this torture which is at least familiar in preference to the terrible unknown. It is a question of finding a rhythm which one afterward follows from habit.

Aelin lifted onto her toes. She felt Rowan’s eyes on her the whole time, felt his body go still with predatory focus, as she kissed the corner of his mouth, the bow of his lips, the other corner. Soft, taunting kisses. Designed to see which one of them yielded first. Rowan did. With a sharp intake of breath, he gripped her hips, tugging her against him as he slanted his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss until her knees threatened to buckle. His tongue brushed hers—lazy, deft strokes that told her precisely what he was capable of doing elsewhere. Embers sparked in her blood, and the moss beneath them hissed as rain turned to steam. Aelin broke the kiss, breathing ragged, satisfied to find Rowan’s own chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. So new—this thing between them was still so new, so … raw. Utterly consuming. The desire was only the start of it. Rowan made her magic sing. And maybe that was the carranam bond between them, but … her magic wanted to dance with his. And from the frost sparkling in his eyes, she knew his own demanded the same.

Truce,” she managed to say. “I can’t bear any more.” “But you will.” Reaching up to her, he drew her down and kissed her. “Please. Finish it.” “Not yet.” He trailed his hands down her back. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “So sensitive. I could make love to you forever.” “Christopher--” “Let me bring you to pleasure one more time.” “No, I’m exhausted.” She took his lower lip between her teeth in a gentle nip. “Finish it now,” she said. “Not yet.” “I’ll make you.” “How?” Beatrix considered him, the arrogantly handsome features, the glitter of challenge in his eyes. Lowering herself over him, her body gently rocked by his ceaseless thrusts, she put her mouth near his ear. “I love you,” she whispered, catching his rhythm, riding it. “I love you.” Nothing more was needed. His breath stopped on a groan, and he drove into her and held, his powerful body trembling with the force of his release. Sliding his arms around her, he poured the years of anguished longing into her. And she continued to murmur to him, promising love, safety, new dreams to replace the broken ones. Promising forever.

Her legs splayed wide as he dropped her onto the mattress, his big body settling between them, and she cried out as he slid back inside her, his hardness stretching her lusciously. He began to pump in a slow, steady motion that wouldn't alter no matter how she writhed and begged him to go harder, faster, deeper. His mouth went to her breast, sucking at a nipple, tugging sweetly in time to his thrusting. Her body contracted every time he pushed inward, clasping him hungrily, sensation building until a powerful climax began, wringing every inch of her body with raw force. She fell silent, her hips locked in a steep arch against his weight. Still the measured rhythm went on, extracting every last flicker of sensation. He was tireless, unhurried, using himself to satisfy her. At last Phoebe collapsed down on the bed, shivering uncontrollably. West plunged into her... once, twice, thrice... and pulled out to crush the thick wet rod of his sex against her stomach. He buried a savage growl in the bedclothes and clutched the mattress on either side of her so hard she thought he might gouge holes in it. As she felt the hot spill of his release, an unfamiliar croon came from her throat, a sound of primal satisfaction at having pleased her mate.

The impression conveyed by these phrases of Vinteuil’s was different from any other, as if, in spite of the conclusions which science seems to be reaching, individuals did exist. And it was just when he was doing his utmost to be novel, that one could recognize, beneath the apparent differences, the deep similarities and the planned resemblances that underlay a work, when Vinteuil would pick up a given phrase several times, diversify it, playfully change its rhythm, bring it back again in the original form; this kind of deliberate echo, the product of intelligence, inevitably superficial, could never be so striking as the hidden, involuntary resemblances which sprang to the surface, under different colors, between the two distinct masterpieces; for then Vinteuil, striving powerfully to produce something new, searched into himself, and with all the force of creative effort touched his own essence, at a depth where, whatever question one asks, the soul replies with the same accent—its own. A particular accent, this accent of Vinteuil’s, separated from the accent of other musicians by a distinction much more marked than the one we perceive between the voices of different people, or even between the bellowing and the cry of two animal species; a real difference, the one that existed between the thought of some other musician and the eternal investigations of Vinteuil, the question that he put to himself in so many different forms, his speculation, endlessly painstaking but as free from the analytical forms of reasoning as if it had been conducted in the realm of the angels, so that we can measure its depth but no more translate it into human speech than disembodied spirits can when they are called up by a medium and interrogated about the secrets of death; his own accent, for in the end and even taking into account the acquired originality which had struck me in the afternoon, the family relationship which musicologists could trace between composers, it is to a single, personal voice that those great singers, the original musicians, always return in spite of themselves, a voice which is the living proof of the irreducible individuality of each soul.

SEA” Sounds of the Pacific Ocean at Big Sur “SEA” Cherson! Cherson! You aint just whistlin Dixie, Sea— Cherson! Cherson! We calcimine fathers here below! Kitchen lights on— Sea Engines from Russia seabirding here below— When rocks outsea froth I’ll know Hawaii cracked up & scramble up my doublelegged cliff to the silt of a million years— Shoo—Shaw—Shirsh— Go on die salt light You billion yeared rock knocker Gavroom Seabird Gabroobird Sad as wife & hill Loved as mother & fog Oh! Oh! Oh! Sea! Osh! Where’s yr little Neppytune tonight? These gentle tree pulp pages which’ve nothing to do with yr crash roar, liar sea, ah, were made for rock tumble seabird digdown footstep hollow weed move bedarvaling crash? Ah again? Wine is salt here? Tidal wave kitchen? Engines of Russia in yr soft talk— Les poissons de la mer parle Breton— Mon nom es Lebris de Keroack— Parle, Poissons, Loti, parle— Parlning Ocean sanding crash the billion rocks— Ker plotsch— Shore—shoe— god—brash— The headland looks like a longnosed Collie sleeping with his light on his nose, as the ocean, obeying its accomodations of mind, crashes in rhythm which could & will intrude, in thy rhythm of sand thought— —Big frigging shoulders on that sonofabitch Parle, O, parle, mer, parle, Sea speak to me, speak to me, your silver you light Where hole opened up in Alaska Gray—shh—wind in The canyon wind in the rain Wind in the rolling rash Moving and t wedel Sea sea Diving sea O bird—la vengeance De la roche Cossez Ah Rare, he rammed the gate rare over by Cherson, Cherson, we calcify fathers here below —a watery cross, with weeds entwined—This grins restoredly, low sleep—Wave—Oh, no, shush—Shirk—Boom plop Neptune now his arms extends while one millions of souls sit lit in caves of darkness —What old bark? The dog mountain? Down by the Sea Engines? God rush—Shore— Shaw—Shoo—Oh soft sigh we wait hair twined like larks—Pissit—Rest not —Plottit, bisp tesh, cashes, re tav, plo, aravow, shirsh,—Who’s whispering over there—the silly earthen creek! The fog thunders—We put silver light on face—We took the heroes in—A billion years aint nothing— O the cities here below! The men with a thousand arms! the stanchions of their upward gaze! the coral of their poetry! the sea dragons tenderized, meat for fleshy fish— Navark, navark, the fishes of the Sea speak Breton— wash as soft as people’s dreams—We got peoples in & out the shore, they call it shore, sea call it pish rip plosh—The 5 billion years since earth we saw substantial chan—Chinese are the waves—the woods are dreaming

We tend to be unaware that stars rise and set at all. This is not entirely due to our living in cities ablaze with electric lights which reflect back at us from our fumes, smoke, and artificial haze. When I discussed the stars with a well-known naturalist, I was surprised to learn that even a man such as he, who has spent his entire lifetime observing wildlife and nature, was totally unaware of the movements of the stars. And he is no prisoner of smog-bound cities. He had no inkling, for instance, that the Little Bear could serve as a reliable night clock as it revolves in tight circles around the Pole Star (and acts as a celestial hour-hand at half speed - that is, it takes 24 hours rather than 12 for a single revolution). I wondered what could be wrong. Our modern civilization does not ignore the stars only because most of us can no longer see them. There are definitely deeper reasons. For even if we leave the sulphurous vapours of our Gomorrahs to venture into a natural landscape, the stars do not enter into any of our back-to-nature schemes. They simply have no place in our outlook any more. We look at them, our heads flung back in awe and wonder that they can exist in such profusion. But that is as far as it goes, except for the poets. This is simply a 'gee whiz' reaction. The rise in interest in astrology today does not result in much actual star-gazing. And as for the space programme's impact on our view of the sky, many people will attentively follow the motions of a visible satellite against a backdrop of stars whose positions are absolutely meaningless to them. The ancient mythological figures sketched in the sky were taught us as children to be quaint 'shepherds' fantasies' unworthy of the attention of adult minds. We are interested in the satellite because we made it, but the stars are alien and untouched by human hands - therefore vapid. To such a level has our technological mania, like a bacterial solution in which we have been stewed from birth, reduced us. It is only the integral part of the landscape which can relate to the stars. Man has ceased to be that. He inhabits a world which is more and more his own fantasy. Farmers relate to the skies, as well as sailors, camel caravans, and aerial navigators. For theirs are all integral functions involving the fundamental principle - now all but forgotten - of orientation. But in an almost totally secular and artificial world, orientation is thought to be un- necessary. And the numbers of people in insane asylums or living at home doped on tranquilizers testifies to our aimless, drifting metaphysic. And to our having forgotten orientation either to seasons (except to turn on the air- conditioning if we sweat or the heating system if we shiver) or to direction (our one token acceptance of cosmic direction being the wearing of sun-glasses because the sun is 'over there'). We have debased what was once the integral nature of life channelled by cosmic orientations - a wholeness - to the ennervated tepidity of skin sensations and retinal discomfort. Our interior body clocks, known as circadian rhythms, continue to operate inside us, but find no contact with the outside world. They therefore become ingrown and frustrated cycles which never interlock with our environment. We are causing ourselves to become meaningless body machines programmed to what looks, in its isolation, to be an arbitrary set of cycles. But by tearing ourselves from our context, like the still-beating heart ripped out of the body of an Aztec victim, we inevitably do violence to our psyches. I would call the new disease, with its side effect of 'alienation of the young', dementia temporalis.

Aelin lifted onto her toes. She felt Rowan’s eyes on her the whole time, felt his body go still with predatory focus, as she kissed the corner of his mouth, the bow of his lips, the other corner. Soft, taunting kisses. Designed to see which one of them yielded first. Rowan did. With a sharp intake of breath, he gripped her hips, tugging her against him as he slanted his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss until her knees threatened to buckle. His tongue brushed hers—lazy, deft strokes that told her precisely what he was capable of doing elsewhere. Embers sparked in her blood, and the moss beneath them hissed as rain turned to steam. Aelin broke the kiss, breathing ragged, satisfied to find Rowan’s own chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. So new—this thing between them was still so new, so … raw. Utterly consuming. The desire was only the start of it. Rowan made her magic sing. And maybe that was the carranam bond between them, but … her magic wanted to dance with his. And from the frost sparkling in his eyes, she knew his own demanded the same. Rowan leaned forward until they were brow-to-brow. “Soon,” he promised, his voice rough and low. “Let’s get somewhere safe—somewhere defensible.” Because her safety always would come first. For him, keeping her protected, keeping her alive, would always come first. He’d learned it the hard way. Her heart strained, and she pulled back to lift a hand to his face. Rowan read the softness in her eyes, her body, and his own inherent fierceness slipped into a gentleness that so few would ever see. Her throat ached with the effort of keeping the words in. She’d been in love with him for a while now. Longer than she wanted to admit. She tried not to think about it, whether he felt the same. Those things—those wishes—were at the bottom of a very, very long and bloody priority list. So Aelin kissed Rowan gently, his hands again locking around her hips. “Fireheart,” he said onto her mouth. “Buzzard,” she murmured onto his. Rowan laughed, the rumble echoing in her chest.

with Patrick he’s putting in plenty of time on his knees. Pride rushes in him like the pulse of blood in Patrick’s cock against his tongue: strong, steady, and surging—pulling him up into a place higher than he was before. He glances up to see the effect of his work. Patrick’s eyes are rolled back in his head, and his stomach tenses and releases in rhythm with Will’s sucks. His head rolls gently against the back of the sofa and he groans softly. His hands tighten in Will’s hair, and he pulls Will up and off his cock. Will grins at the slick pop and Patrick’s curse as he squirms against the couch.

Pausing for a breath, he uses his hand to keep Patrick right up at the edge before shoving Patrick’s cock back in his mouth, lapping at the leaking head and sucking deep into his throat. Patrick growls, his deep voice vibrating in the back of Will’s head like an urgent, needy buzz, and humps his mouth in frustration. “Stop teasing.” Will hums and taps Patrick’s squeezing hole in rhythm to his slurps. He’s happy with Patrick’s cock in his mouth, but the low hum that starts in his veins, an emptiness he recognizes as his blood sugar dropping, means he needs to have dinner soon. So he stops teasing and reaches for the open bottle of juice on the coffee table. He takes a few swigs, and then starts sucking just the way Patrick likes best: pulling his entire shaft in, then sliding up with a long, wet drag before diving down again. “Puddin’-pop,” Patrick grits out. “Yeah, yeah—like that.” A spurt of liquid hits his tongue, and Will pulls back to lick at the slit. Patrick’s cock thrums against his palm, rigid and throbbing. “Tastes good,” Will murmurs and then swoops down again. “Ungh,” Patrick grunts, tugging Will’s hair. “Get me off.” Will hollows his cheeks, sucks back up, and uses his hand to jerk the base of Patrick’s cock as he works. “Yes, yeah.” Patrick arches his hips up and his stomach tenses as he clenches Will’s hair in his fists. “Suck it.” Will slurps hard and steady while Patrick whispers filthy things and struggles to get there or hold back, thighs clenching and stomach quivering. “Gonna come,” Patrick groans. Will gets ready to swallow, and Patrick’s thighs jump and his asshole pulses against Will’s finger. “Fuck!” Patrick curls up, his hips bucking, and his cock shoves deep into Will’s throat. Choking, tangy spurts of come fill Will’s mouth, but he swallows all of it down while Patrick shakes and curses, tugging hard against Will’s hair. “Stop, stop,” Patrick whines, holding Will down on his dick despite his words. “Too much. Stop.” Will lets Patrick’s cock twitch in his mouth until Patrick loosens his grip, and then he pulls off with a wet, sweet slurp. Patrick falls back to the sofa, panting and rolling his head limply back and forth. Sweat shines on his forehead and in the notch at the base of his neck. He’s trembling all over, and Will beams up at him, his own cock throbbing against the placket of his jeans. “Good?” “A+ cock sucking,” Patrick whimpers. “Wins all the awards.” “I know.” “Mmm.” Will

The Ekarv method, named after Margareta Ekarv of the Swedish Postal Museum, is a proven set of guidelines, the effectiveness of which has been substantiated by research and has been widely adopted. 1. Use simple language to express complex ideas. 2. Use normal spoken word order. 3. One main idea per line, the end of the line coinciding with the natural end of the phrase. "The robbers were sentenced to death by hanging" is short and to the point. 4. Lines of about 45 letters; text broken into short paragraphs of four or five lines. 5. Use the active form of verbs and state the subject early in the sentence. 6. Avoid: subordinate clauses, complicated constructions, unnecessary adverbs, hyphenating words and the end of lines. 7. Read texts aloud and note natural pauses. 8. Adjust wording and punctuation to reflect the rhythm of speech. 9. Discuss texts with colleagues and consider their comments. 10. Pin draft texts in their final positions to assess affect. 11. Continually reverse and refine the wording. 12. Concentrate the meaning to an "almost poetic level".

1. Making new choices based on your goals and core values 2. Putting those choices to work through new positive behaviors 3. Repeating those healthy actions long enough to establish new habits 4. Building routines and rhythms into your daily disciplines 5. Staying consistent over a long enough period of time

10 Best Weight Loss Exercises The best exercises to lose weight in the gym are aerobics, for example: 1. Hiit Training The hit workout burns about 400 calories per hour and consists of a set of high intensity workouts that eliminate localized fat in just 30 minutes per day in a faster and fun way. The exercises are performed intensively to raise your heart rate a lot and so it is more suitable for those who already practice some kind of physical activity, although there are beginner hit exercises, but they consist of a series of exercises 'easier'. 2. Cross fit Training Cross fit training is also quite intense and burns about 700 calories per hour, however, this type of workout is quite different from the bodybuilding workout that people are more accustomed to seeing in gyms. Different weights are used, ropes, tires and often the exercises are performed, outside the gym, outdoors. 3. Dance Classes Dancing is a great way to strengthen muscles and burn some calories, 1 hour of ballroom dancing burns approximately 300 calories, and the person still increases flexibility and has fun, having a greater contact with other students. In this type of activity besides cardio respiratory benefits, and to lose weight, it is still possible to promote socialization. The university is a very lively type of dance, where you can burn about 400 calories per hour, in a fun way. In the buzz you can burn up to 800 kcal per hour. 5. Muay Thai Muay Thai is a type of intense martial art, where you can burn about 700 calories per hour. The workouts are very intense and also strengthen the muscles, as well as help increase self-esteem and self-defense. 6. Spinning The spinning classes are done in different intensities, but always on top of a bicycle, in a classroom with at least 5 bikes. The classes are very intense and promote the burning of about 600 calories per hour, and still strengthens the legs very much, being great to burn the fat of the legs and strengthen the thighs. 7. Swimming A swimming lesson can burn up to 400 calories per hour as long as the student does not slow down and keeps moving. Although the strokes are not too strong to reach the other side of the pool faster, it takes a constant effort, with few stops. When the goal is to lose weight, one should not only reach the other side of the pool, it is necessary to maintain a constant and strong rhythm, that is, one can cross the swimming pool crawl and turn back, for example, as a form of 'rest' . 8. Hydrogeology Water aerobics is also great for slimming, but to burn about 500 calories per hour you should always keep moving, enough to keep your breath away. As the water relaxes the tendency is to slow down, but if you want to lose weight, the ideal is to be in a group with this same purpose, because doing exercises at a pace for the elderly to stay healthy may not be enough to burn fat. 9. Race The workouts are excellent to burn fat, being possible to burn about 600 to 700 calories per hour, provided that a good pace is respected, without pauses, and with an effort able to leave the person breathless, unable to talk during the race . You can start at a slower pace, on the treadmill or outdoors, but each week you must increase the intensity to achieve better goals. Here's how to start running to lose weight. 10. Body pump Body pump classes are a great way to burn fat because it burns about 500 calories per hour. This is a class made with weights and step, which strengthens the muscles, working the main muscle groups. These are some examples of exercises that help you to lose weight fast, but that should be performed under professional guidance, to be performed correctly and to avoid injuries to muscles and joints.

1. The Principle of Mentalism. 2. The Principle of Correspondence. 3. The Principle of Vibration. 4. The Principle of Polarity. 5. The Principle of Rhythm. 6. The Principle of Cause and Effect. 7. The Principle of Gender.

O sight most tragic, this - a robot-man, who doth require a mask to stay alive. What situation e'er did lead to this? How can he stand to live beneath a mask? But soft, Piett, reconsider this: Aye, verily, how shall I judge? The mask he wears is far more obvious than most. With Vader it is plain he wears a mask, though few have seen the scarring underneath. But truly, what man doth not wear a mask? For all of us are masked in some way - some choose sharp cruelty as their outward face, some put themselves behind a king's facade, some hide behind the mask of bravery, some put on the disguise of arrogance. But underneath our masks, are we not one? Do not all wish for love, and joy, and peace? And whether rebel or Imperial, do not our hearts all beat in time to make the pounding rhythm of the galaxy? So while Darth Vader's mask keeps him alive, and sits upon his face for all to see, 'tis possible he is more honest than a man who wears no mask, but hides his self. But come, Piett, now still thy prating tongue - his private time is done, his mask back on.

My wrecked heart thumped out of rhythm, my trick fizzled and vanished. I wasn’t sure if I could breathe, but that was all right. I’d saved him. I’d saved him, and that was a good thing. A good ending then… for me. I fought to keep my eyes open, fearing when they closed, oblivion waited for me on the other side, but weakness took hold, my eyes closed. If it was truly over, and I’d given my life for the man I loved, then I was ready.

Flori believes that everyone has a song within them—even if they don’t think of it as music—and that each life has a rhythm of breaths and a heartbeat, creating a melody that can be drawn on for strength, healing, and comfort. She created the song that finally calmed Sophie’s echoes from the Neverseen’s shadowflux attack by carefully drawing inspiration from vesperlace, dimmetines, respitillis, and hushspurs. The Panakes tree is also believed to sprout twice as many blossoms whenever Flori sings to it.

To not be afraid of a little dirt here and there, but instead, more consciously follow the rhythms of nature and embrace the healing power that surrounds us every day.

More than 80 percent of public high schools in the United States begin before 8:15 a.m. Almost 50 percent of those start before 7:20 a.m. School buses for a 7:20 a.m. start time usually begin picking up kids at around 5:45 a.m. As a result, some children and teenagers must wake up at 5:30 a.m., 5:15 a.m., or even earlier, and do so five days out of every seven, for years on end. This is lunacy. Could you concentrate and learn much of anything when you had woken up so early? Keep in mind that 5:15 a.m. to a teenager is not the same as 5:15 a.m. to an adult. Previously, we noted that the circadian rhythm of teenagers shifts forward dramatically by one to three hours. So really the question I should ask you, if you are an adult, is this: Could you concentrate and learn anything after having forcefully been woken up at 3:15 a.m., day after day after day? Would you be in a cheerful mood? Would you find it easy to get along with your coworkers and conduct yourself with grace, tolerance, respect, and a pleasant demeanor? Of course not. Why, then, do we ask this of the millions of teenagers and children in industrialized nations?

I closed my eyes and let the rhythm of his heartbeat seep into my soul.

Everything has a rhythm, Moncrieffe couldn't help but think, watching. The sea, our breathing, our anguish, our love. We couldn't endure the force of any of it all at once.

I tugged her body against mine, tits pressing to me and damn near making me groan with longing before she slid her hands up my chest as we began to dance with one another. My body fell into a rhythm with hers so naturally that I swear even my heart was pounding to the tune. Her chest brushed mine, fingers skimming up my neck as my hand fell to the round curve of her ass and I tugged her closer. My gaze was on her mouth as the heat between us built in time with the movements of our bodies and our breaths mingled in the small space left dividing us. But just as I was starting to give serious consideration to an absolutely terrible idea, she turned in my arms, her ass pushing back into my crotch as she hooked one arm around the back of my neck. A real growl escaped me then as she ground herself against me, making my cock swell and my thoughts scatter as I lost all sense of everything other than this fucking girl in my arms as we danced together. I was vaguely aware of Seth dancing with Gwen beside us, but I couldn't tear my eyes from this perfect temptation in my arms. It was hotter than any sex I could ever remember having and neither of us had removed so much as a single item of clothing. Roxy kept dancing with her hand clasped around the back of my neck, the arch of her spine giving me a view down her shirt which I was having a damn hard time tearing my attention from. The fabric shifted and slipped across her skin, offering me the barest glimpse of her hardened nipples with every thump of the music and I licked my lips with the desire to suck on them. My dick was definitely letting itself be known as she continued to grind herself against me and as much as I was enjoying that friction, I really needed to make some effort to control myself. I grasped her hip and turned her around, the beast in me purring as she instantly looped her arms around my neck to draw me closer. I didn't even know how many songs had played while we'd been dancing and I didn't care because I knew it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. My gaze met hers and the fire in her was enough to set me alight too as she tilted her chin up and bit down on that full bottom lip. My attention was instantly hooked on her mouth, our bodies still moving together in this hot, endless friction which was begging for some relief. My resolve was snapping, all the reasons I had to pull away falling from my mind like flakes of snow trying to land on an inferno and I found myself leaning in, devouring the distance that parted us like I wanted to devour this beautiful creature in my arms. I tightened my grip on her waist, letting her feel the throbbing press of my dick driving into her and making it more than clear what I wanted to spend the rest of the night doing to her. I didn't care if she was a Vega, a princess, the architect of my fall from power, none of that mattered. Because all there was in that moment was her and me and the press of the heavens above us driving us together like we might burn up in the fire which blazed between us if we didn't just dive into it now. (Darius POV)

Yet God doesn’t intend for us to do nothing about our growth. Sloth is not spiritual. As Dallas Willard wrote, “Grace is not opposed to effort, but [it] is opposed to earning.”[5] The difference between legalism and spiritual discipline is not the work or energy involved; it’s the motivation. Are we doing things to impress God and earn his favor? Or are we doing them because we are dearly loved children of God who are being conformed to the image of his Son by the power of the Spirit (Romans 8:1-17, 29)?

1. the law of perpetual transmutation 2. the law of relativity 3. the law of vibration 4. the law of polarity 5. the law of rhythm 6. the law of cause and effect 7. the law of gender

Though energy fields are invisible, they shape matter. Albert Einstein said that, “The field is the sole governing agency of the particle.” Many studies show that human beings are influenced by the energy fields of others. In a series of 148 1-minute trials involving 25 people, trained volunteers going into heart coherence were able to induce coherence in test subjects at a distance. They didn’t have to touch their targets to produce the effect. Their energy fields were sufficient. When you are in a heart coherent state, your heart radiates a coherent electromagnetic signal into the environment around you. This field is detectable by a magnetometer several meters away. When other people enter that coherent energy field, their heart coherence increases too, producing a group field effect. Not only are we affected by the fields of other people; we’re affected by the energies of the planet and solar system. A remarkable series of experiments, conducted by a research team led by Rollin McCraty, director of research at the HeartMath Institute, has linked individual human energy to solar cycles. McCraty and his colleagues track solar activity using large magnetometers placed at strategic locations on the earth’s surface. Solar flares affect the electromagnetic fields of the planet. The researchers compare the ebbs and flows of solar energy with the heart coherence readings of trained volunteers. They have found that when people are in heart coherence, their electromagnetic patterns track those of the solar system. 8.15. The heart coherence rhythms of a volunteer compared to solar activity over the course of a month. A later study of 16 participants over 5 months found a similar effect. McCraty writes: “A growing body of evidence suggests that an energetic field is formed among individuals in groups through which communication among all the group members occurs simultaneously. In other words, there is an actual ‘group field’ that connects all the members” together. The results of this research confirm a hypothesis McCraty and I discussed at a conference when I was writing Mind to Matter: Not only are these heart-coherent people in sync with large-scale global cycles, they’re also in sync with each other. McCraty continues, “We’re all like little cells in the bigger Earth brain—sharing information at a subtle, unseen level that exists between all living systems, not just humans, but animals, trees, and so on.” When we use selective attention to tune ourselves to positive coherent energy, we participate in the group energy field of other human beings doing the same. We may also resonate in phase with coherent planetary and universal fields. 8.16. The brain functions as receiver of information from the field. The Brain’s Ability to Detect Fields The idea of invisible energy fields has always been difficult for many scientists to swallow. Around 1900, when Dutch physician Willem Einthoven proposed that the human heart had an energy field, he was ridiculed. He built progressively more sensitive galvanometers to detect it, and he was eventually successful.

FIELD EFFECTS Emotional contagion is just one explanation for the growth of meditation. Another is field effects. Everything begins as energy, then works its way into matter. Though energy fields are invisible, they shape matter. Albert Einstein said that, “The field is the sole governing agency of the particle.” Many studies show that human beings are influenced by the energy fields of others. In a series of 148 1-minute trials involving 25 people, trained volunteers going into heart coherence were able to induce coherence in test subjects at a distance. They didn’t have to touch their targets to produce the effect. Their energy fields were sufficient. When you are in a heart coherent state, your heart radiates a coherent electromagnetic signal into the environment around you. This field is detectable by a magnetometer several meters away. When other people enter that coherent energy field, their heart coherence increases too, producing a group field effect. Not only are we affected by the fields of other people; we’re affected by the energies of the planet and solar system. A remarkable series of experiments, conducted by a research team led by Rollin McCraty, director of research at the HeartMath Institute, has linked individual human energy to solar cycles. McCraty and his colleagues track solar activity using large magnetometers placed at strategic locations on the earth’s surface. Solar flares affect the electromagnetic fields of the planet. The researchers compare the ebbs and flows of solar energy with the heart coherence readings of trained volunteers. They have found that when people are in heart coherence, their electromagnetic patterns track those of the solar system. 8.15. The heart coherence rhythms of a volunteer compared to solar activity over the course of a month. A later study of 16 participants over 5 months found a similar effect. McCraty writes: “A growing body of evidence suggests that an energetic field is formed among individuals in groups through which communication among all the group members occurs simultaneously. In other words, there is an actual ‘group field’ that connects all the members” together. The results of this research confirm a hypothesis McCraty and I discussed at a conference when I was writing Mind to Matter: Not only are these heart-coherent people in sync with large-scale global cycles, they’re also in sync with each other. McCraty continues, “We’re all like little cells in the bigger Earth brain—sharing information at a subtle, unseen level that exists between all living systems, not just humans, but animals, trees, and so on.” When we use selective attention to tune ourselves to positive coherent energy, we participate in the group energy field of other human beings doing the same. We may also resonate in phase with coherent planetary and universal fields. 8.16. The brain functions as receiver of information from the field. The Brain’s Ability to Detect Fields The idea of invisible energy fields has always been difficult for many scientists to swallow. Around 1900, when Dutch physician Willem Einthoven proposed that the human heart had an energy field, he was ridiculed. He built progressively more sensitive galvanometers to detect it, and he was eventually successful.

Our solar system, in turn, is just one tiny corner of the Milky Way galaxy, that thick band of stars visible in the darkest night skies stretching far over our heads. We’re about 25,000 light-years away from the center of the rotating galaxy, which astronomers estimate contains somewhere between 100 and 400 billion stars—and at least that number of planets—and stretches across some 87,400 light-years. What we see in our skies from Earth is the equivalent of staring at the side of the Milky Way stretching off before us, as if we’re looking at the edge of a plate or a Frisbee. It is spiral-shaped, like an enormous spinning pinwheel, first mentioned, as far as we know, by the Persian astronomer Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi in AD 964, recorded in his The Book of the Fixed Stars. In 1610, Galileo was the first astronomer to piece together, using a telescope, that the Milky Way visible in our skies was a collection of faint stars; a century later, Immanuel Kant surmised that it was a rotating body of stars, and over the next two hundred years, astronomers came to begin to grasp how enormous the universe truly is. Now we understand that our Milky Way is about 2.5 million light-years from the next closest galaxy, known as Andromeda. Together, these two massive galaxies—and all the stuff in between them, including a number of so-called dwarf galaxies and satellite galaxies, as well as a third large galaxy known as Triangulum—make up what astronomers call the “Local Group,” which is one corner of a larger cosmic structure known as a “supercluster.”II For most of the last fifty years, our particular galactic neighborhood was believed to be part of the “Virgo Supercluster,” a gathering of about one hundred galaxies, but in 2014 a team of astronomers led by Hawaii’s R. Brent Tully realized we were more connected to our neighbors than anyone had realized; they redrew the boundaries of the galactic map after realizing that our supercluster was far more vast and in fact consisted of what had been four separate superclusters that all moved in the same gravitational rhythm. They dubbed the new supercluster “Laniakea,” Hawaiian for “immense heaven,” and we now believe it encompasses about one hundred thousand other galaxies that astronomers define as “nearby,” despite the fact that they stretch across more than 520 million light-years of outer space. Laniakea, in turn, is now understood to be part of the Pisces-Cetus Supercluster Complex, an enormous structure of about sixty superclusters that together stretch across a billion light-years. The Pisces-Cetus Supercluster Complex is what’s known as a “galaxy filament,” the largest structures known to exist in our universe, in which NASA now estimates there are about 200 billion galaxies stretching across 46 billion light-years.III (Each of those galaxies is estimated to have perhaps 100 million stars—although the largest, known as supergiants, can contain 100 trillion.)

1:                            SA node 2:                            AV node 3:                            Bundle of His 4:                            Left bundle branch 5:                            Left posterior fascicle 6:                            Left anterior fascicle 7:                            Left ventricle 8:                            Ventricular septum 9:                            Right ventricle 10:                            Right bundle branch Left bundle branch block

the California case, the rhythms of tax reduction are strong indicators of structural change and, as table 3 demonstrates, show how the Keynesian state’s delegitimation accumulated in waves, culminating, rather than originating, in Tom Bradley’s 1982 and 1986 gubernatorial defeats. The first wave, or capital’s wave, is indicated by the 50 percent decline in the ratio of bank and corporation taxes to personal income taxes between 1967 and 1986 (California State Public Works Board 1987). Starting as early as 1968, voters had agitated for tax relief commensurate with the relief capital had won after putting Ronald Reagan in the governor’s mansion (Mike Davis 1990). But Sacramento’s efforts were continually disappointing under both Republican and Democratic administrations (Kirlin and Chapman 1994). This set in motion the second, or labor’s, wave, in which actual (and aspiring) homeowner-voters reduced their own taxes via Proposition 13 (1978).25 The third, or federal wave, indicates the devolution of responsibility from the federal government onto the state and local levels, as evidenced by declines of 12.5 percent (state) to 60 percent (local) in revenues derived from federal aid. The third wave can be traced to several deep tax cuts the Reagan presidential administration conferred on capital and the wealthiest of workers in 1982 and again in 1986 (David Gordon 1996; Krugman 1994). The sum of these waves produced state and local fiscal crises following in the path of federal crisis that James O’Connor ([1973] 2000) had analyzed early in the period under review when he advanced the “welfare-warfare” concept. As late as 1977–78, California state and local coffers were full (CDF-CEI 1978; Gramlich 1991). By 1983, Sacramento was borrowing to meet its budgetary goals, while county and city governments reached crisis at different times, depending on how replete their reserves had been prior to Proposition 13. Voters wanted services and infrastructure at lowered costs; and when they paid, they tried not to share. Indeed, voters were quite willing to pay for amenities that would stick in place, and between 1977–78 and 1988–89, they actually increased property-based taxes going to special assessment districts by 45 percent (Chapman 1991: 19).

Conversations carry a momentum, there’s a path they are expected to take, a cycle, a season, like the growing of crop. Take the rhythm of seasons away and farmers grow confused. Turn a conversation at right angles and men lose their surety.

Fuck.” Cael moaned, soft high-pitched sounds that grew faster and louder. Ash could feel the pressure building. He released Cael and got on his knees, his fingers digging into Cael’s hips as he fucked him. “Oh God, yes, please. Ash,” Cael moaned, his breath coming out in pants. “I’m going to come. Oh fuck.” Ash thrust into Cael hard, his hips losing their rhythm as he chased after his orgasm. Cael pulled off him and turned to take hold of Ash’s cock. He rolled the condom off and sucked Ash’s cock into his mouth while bringing himself closer to his own impending orgasm. It was all Ash needed. He gently took hold of Cael’s head and thrust into his mouth, his release almost causing him to double over. His body shuddered as he came inside Cael, intensified by the sounds Cael made as he came. Cael continued to suck him off until Ash hissed and gently pulled out. The two of them flopped down onto the bed next to each other, trying to catch their breaths. With

There's a jangle to the music of the dead. I mean that certain something that's so happy and so sad at the same time. The notes almost make a perfect harmony but don't. Then they do but quickly crash into dissonance. They simmer in that sweet in-between, rhythm section rattling along all the while. Chords collapse chaotically into each other, and just when you think it's gonna spill into total nonsense, it stands back up and comes through sweet as a lullaby on your mami's lips. Songs that'll make people tap their feet and drink melancholically but not realize the twisting genius lurking within until generations later. That's the kind of music I make, and the dead do too. We make it together. *

Tom’s tongue dragged up his spine, too lightly to be anything but squirm-inducing. And then he began to bite the taut skin along Prophet’s back, biting, sucking, claiming . . . It was the same area he’d been drawing on, almost obsessively. Definitely mapping out his space on Prophet’s body. “Marking me?” Prophet asked, like he did every time. Because he liked to hear Tom’s answer. “Better fucking believe it. Problem?” “Fuck. No. No problem.” “Good.” Tom’s finger slid inside of him. At some point, he’d lubed his fingers, so a second finger quickly joined it. Tom twisted them as he worked them back and forth, with Prophet rocking gently to his easy rhythm. “Tommy, please . . .” Tom

The frequency of these brain waves has been crudely correlated with states of consciousness. Delta waves (0.5 to 3 cycles per second) indicate deep sleep. Theta waves (4 to 8 cycles per second) indicate trance, drowsiness, or light sleep. Alpha waves (8 to 14 cycles per second) appear during relaxed wakefulness or meditation. And beta waves (14 to 35 cycles per second), the most uneven forms, accompany all the modulations of our active everyday consciousness. Underlying these rhythms are potentials that vary much more slowly, over periods as long as several minutes. Today's EEG machines are designed to filter them out because they cause the trace to wander and are considered insignificant anyway. There's still no consensus as to where the EEG voltages come from. They would be most easily explained by direct currents, both steady state and pulsing, throughout the brain, but that has been impossible for most biologists to accept. The main alternative theory, that large numbers of neurons firing simultaneously can mimic real electrical activity, has never been proven.

Finally, in chapter 5, we turn toward the art of the sermon, exploring ways in which an enhanced emphasis upon contextuality in preaching can also contribute to sermons that are more fitting for local congregations in regard to their language, illustrations, and form. Here preaching is likened to folk art-more particularly to a circular folk dance-in which the preacher stays close to the ground of the hearers, enfleshing the sermon in language, rhythms, and forms that encourage local hearers to want to put on their own dancing shoes and join in the dance of faith.

There's a jangle to the music of the dead. I mean that certain something that's so happy and so sad at the same time. The notes almost make a perfect harmony, but don't. Then they do but quickly crash into dissonance. They simmer in that sweet in-between rhythm section rattling along all the while. Chords collapse chaotically into one another and just when you think it's gonna spill into total nonsense, it stands back up and comes through sweet as a lullaby on your mami's lips. Songs that'll make people tap their feet and drink melancholically but not realize the twisting genius lurking within until generations later.

So, young lady, you want to hear this baby’s heartbeat. Well, let’s just see what we can find. How about that?” He used a strange thick wand over her tummy, turning it this way and that. Then, just when she thought she wouldn’t hear it, a heartbeat echoed through the room. Then a second heartbeat kicked up a rhythm almost as fast as the first. Shannon gasped and almost bolted upright. “Is that my heartbeat too?” Dr. Wehrum blinked, then a slow grin cracked his face. “No, I believe that’s a second baby.” Shannon’s mouth dropped open in shock and she looked at John. Her big, strong, tough as nails former Marine looked like he’d just been mule-kicked. “Did you say two babies?” His voice was too quiet. John didn’t speak that quietly unless he was really out of his depth. “You have two babies. This kind of steps up your care. Let’s see if we can get our ultrasound tech in here to get some pictures. I know it’s a little early but let’s see what we can see.” Shannon

5 Tips for Mirroring Others 1. Body language. When they smile, you smile. When they lean back in their chair, you lean back in your chair. When they cross their legs or fold their arms, you do the same. 2. Vocabulary or specific words. Notice their language and the words they choose and use—their keywords, expressions, expletives, or phrases. 3. Communication style. People receive, process, and deliver information in different ways. Notice whether someone is results driven or relaxed, emotional or pragmatic, talkative or observant. Recognizing their style will enable you to adapt your style to theirs to build rapport and improve communication. 4. Vocal style. a. Speech rate—If they are talking fast, you talk fast. If they are talking slowly, you talk slowly. Consider rhythm, pace, and tempo. b. Volume—If they are speaking quietly and softly, match their volume. c. Tone—Mirror their emotion, tone, and pitch. You can even seek to mirror their grammar and dialect, as long as it is discreet and respectful.

To remember people’s names, use rhyming, rhythm, adjectives, and alliteration—Use rhyming (trim Kim), rhythm (Sally sells seashells), adjectives (kind Kevin), and alliteration (Mike likes milk). These ideas may sound silly, but they stimulate your mind to improve your memory.

The synchronicity found in nature extends to the rhythm and patterns in our relationships; it explains how random events can come together to achieve harmony, flow, and order. Similarly, social synchronicity plays a large role in the art of constructive communication by helping us understand how social patterns can positively impact our relationships.

The Rhythm of Relationships It’s not a mystery that there are certain people with whom we "click" and others with whom we don’t. In the movie, Forrest Gump, Forrest proclaimed that he and Jenny got along like "peas and carrots." I once heard Tony Robbins say that if you are with the right person, a relationship does not take a lot of work. When relationships are in rhythm, everything is made easier.

In 1990, Elizabeth Newton earned a Ph.D. in psychology at Stanford by studying a simple game in which she assigned people to one of two roles: “tappers” or “listeners.” Tappers received a list of twenty-five well-known songs, such as “Happy Birthday to You” and “The StarSpangled Banner.” Each tapper was asked to pick a song and tap out the rhythm to a listener (by knocking on a table). The listener’s job was to guess the song, based on the rhythm being tapped. Over the course of Newton’s experiment, 120 songs were tapped out. Listeners guessed only 2.5 percent of the songs: 3 out of 120. But here’s what made the result worthy of a dissertation in psychology. Before the listeners guessed the name of the song, Newton asked the tappers to predict the odds that the listeners would guess correctly. They predicted that the odds were 50 percent. The tappers got their message across 1 time in 40, but they thought they were getting their message across 1 time in 2. Why? When a tapper taps, she is hearing the song in her head. Go ahead and try it for yourself — tap out “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It’s impossible to avoid hearing the tune in your head. Meanwhile, the listeners can’t hear that tune — all they can hear is a bunch of disconnected taps, like a kind of bizarre Morse Code. In the experiment, tappers are flabbergasted at how hard the listeners seem to be working to pick up the tune. Isn’t the song obvious? The tappers’ expressions, when a listener guesses “Happy Birthday to You” for “The Star-Spangled Banner,” are priceless: How could you be so stupid? It’s hard to be a tapper. The problem is that tappers have been given knowledge (the song title) that makes it impossible for them to imagine what it’s like to lack that knowledge. When they’re tapping, they can’t imagine what it’s like for the listeners to hear isolated taps rather than a song. This is the Curse of Knowledge. Once we know something, we find it hard to imagine what it was like not to know it. Our knowledge has “cursed” us. And it becomes difficult for us to share our knowledge with others, because we can’t readily re-create our listeners’ state of mind. The tapper/listener experiment is reenacted every day across the world. The tappers and listeners are CEOs and frontline employees, teachers and students, politicians and voters, marketers and customers, writers and readers. All of these Groups rely on ongoing communication, but, like the tappers and listeners, they suffer from enormous information imbalances. When a CEO discusses “unlocking shareholder value,” there is a tune playing in her head that the employees can’t hear.

When the three-week period was up, we sensed the prayer should not stop, so we continued to pray and fast for 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I would pray for four to seven hours each day, crying out to God to have mercy on our nation. This rhythm of prayer and fasting ended up going on for several years, with members taking shifts all through the day and night. God heard our cries. After five years of war, our country was given religious freedom. Out of a population of approximately six million, an estimated 150,000 people, mostly civilians, had been killed. Some 1.5 million had been displaced internally, driven from their homes, and had escaped into neighboring countries as refugees.

How do you get Big Mo to pay you a visit? You build up to it. You get into the groove, the “zone,” by doing the things we’ve covered so far: 1. Making new choices based on your goals and core values 2. Putting those choices to work through new positive behaviors 3. Repeating those healthy actions long enough to establish new habits 4. Building routines and rhythms into your daily disciplines 5. Staying consistent over a long enough period of time Then, BANG! Big Mo kicks in your door (that’s a good thing)! And you’re virtually unstoppable.

1.   Balance 2.   Momentum 3.   Steady swing center 4.   Relaxed arms 5.   Rhythm

Continue with what?” Myron interrupted. Rule twenty-six of lawyering: Never let the interrogator—cop or fellow attorney—get a rhythm. “You asked her when she last saw her father. She told you.

Trey Mills, the rhythm guitarist of Sinners, stood just beside the studio door. He checked her out a little and then a little more. Just enough to make her want him to inspect her closely. And naked.

the practitioner perceives the inner activity of the body as the manifestation of numerous energy currents (rlung). The term rlung literally means “moving air,” such as the “wind,” or the “breath.” Here it refers to subtle energy currents that move throughout the body. They move in channels (rtsa), which become increasingly discernible with experience. The quality of movement of these currents as well as their direction are correlated with both the rhythm of the breath and the flow of events within the mental continuum. The more chaotic the elaboration of thought within the mental continuum, the greater the disorganization of energy flow within the body. There are five main channels (rlung lnga) as well as numerous subsidiary ones (yan lag gi rlung) described in the Buddhist tantras. Each of the five main channels is associated with one of the five elements (’byung ba lnga), one of the five conflicting emotional states (nyon mong), one of the coarse bodily functions, and one of the body points. Table 6 gives these correlations. TABLE 6: CORRELATION OF ENERGY CURRENTS WITH BODY POINTS AND PHYSIOLOGICAL FUNCTIONSa Name of Energy Current Related Body Points Physiological Function 1. Inspiration (thur sel) Crossed legs Excretion 2. Expiration (kyen rgyu) Hands in equipose Speaking 3. Firelike (me mnyam) Spine and upper trunk Digestion 4. All-pervasive (khyab byed) Neck and tongue Muscular activity 5. Vital force (srog ’dzin) Gaze Breathing a

those doing intense physical activity, 10 hours is not too much. •The best way to figure out the right amount of sleep for you is to spend 10 to 14 days going to sleep when you are tired and waking up without an alarm clock. Take the average sleep time. That’s what you need. •For a better night’s sleep, follow these tips, consolidated from the world’s leading researchers: Ensure you expose yourself to natural (i.e., non-electric) light throughout the day. This will help you maintain a healthy circadian rhythm. Exercise. Vigorous physical activity makes us tired. When we are tired, we sleep. But don’t exercise too close to bedtime. Limit caffeine intake, and phase it out completely 5 to 6 hours prior to your bedtime. Only use your bed for sleep and sex. Not for eating, watching television, working on your laptop, or anything else. The one exception is reading a paper book prior to bed. Don’t drink alcohol close to bedtime. Although alcohol can hasten the onset of sleep, it often

Having switched from beer to Jack and coke an hour ago, the night will probably end in disaster.

It’s easy to find people who think work is good and leisure is bad (i.e., you rest to work). You can also find people who think leisure is good and work is bad (i.e., you work to rest). But according to the Bible, both work and rest can be good if they are done to the glory of God.4 The Bible commends hard work (Prov. 6:6–11; Matt. 25:14–30; 1 Thess. 2:9; 4:11–12; 2 Thess. 3:10) and it also extols the virtue of rest (Ex. 20:8–11; Deut. 5:12–15; Ps. 127:2). Both have their place. The hard part is putting them in the right places. Many of us are less busy than we think, but life feels constantly overwhelming because our days and weeks and years have no rhythm.

It was to be the longest flight I had ever made in my young life and one of the most interesting. Having always been interested in the magic of aviation I knew that the DC-6B, I boarded was an approximately 75 seat, trans-ocean, Pan Am Clipper. It would also be the last long distance propeller driven commercial airliner. The only difference between it and the DC-6A was that it didn’t have a large cargo door in its side, and it was also approximately 5 feet longer than the DC-6A. 1955 was a good year and people felt relatively safe with Dwight D. Eisenhower in the White House. “I like Ike” had been his political motto since before he assumed office on January 20, 1953, even many Democrats held him in high esteem for his military service and winning the war in Europe. Eisenhower obtained a truce in Korea and worked diligently trying to ease the tensions of the Cold War. He did however fail to win over Georgy Malenkov, or Nikolai Bulganin who succeeded him, as Premier of the Soviet Union in February of 1955. As a moderate Conservative he left America, as the strongest and most productive nation in the world, but unfortunately because of his lack of diplomacy and love of golf, failed to prevent Cuba from slipping into the communist camp. WFLA inaugurated its broadcasting in the Tampa Bay area on February 14, 1955. The most popular music was referred to as good music, and although big bands were at their zenith in 1942, by 1947 and music critics will tell you that their time had passed. However, Benny Goodman was only 46 in 1955, Tommy Dorsey was 49 and Count Basie was 51. So, in many sheltered quarters they were still in vogue and perhaps always will be. I for one had my Hi-Fidelity 33 1/3 rpm multi stacked record player and a stash of vinyl long play recordings shipped to Africa. For me time stood still as I listened and entertained my friends. Some years later I met Harry James at the Crystal Ballroom in Disneyland. Those were the days…. Big on the scene was “Rhythm in Blues,” an offshoot of widespread African-American music, that had its beginnings in the ‘40s. It would soon become the window that Rock and Roll would come crashing through.

The rain softens to a gentle rhythm that seems almost apologetic, and I close my eyes, her image burned into my mind. The path ahead is unclear, but the certainty of her impact is undeniable. Mariya has changed the game entirely, and there's no going back.

There's a synchronicity to our movements, a rhythm that's ours alone. It's as if every moment leading up to this was a prelude, every letter, a verse in a song that's reaching its crescendo.

The old man danced to a rhythm Celaena could not hear or make out, and looked more like someone’s benevolent, clumsy grandfather than the master of some of the world’s greatest assassins.

Then I closed my eyes and let the rhythm of his heartbeat seep into my soul. “Merry Christmas.” He kissed my hair and pulled me tighter into his embrace. “Merry Christmas.

Her kiss woos me in the water. Her fingers on my skin are poetry. Her lips, prose. The rhythm of her heart against mine, iambic. Every touch, eloquence.

When Crick and Watson began, they knew very little about DNA for sure, and part of what they were most sure of was wrong. To consider DNA as a physical object, they wanted diameters, lengths, linkages and rotations, screw pitch, density, water content, bonds, and bonds and again bonds. The sport would be to see how little data they could make do with and still get it right: the less scaffolding visible, the more elegant and astonishing the structure. More than sport was involved. Crick, following Pauling, elevated this penurious elegance into a theoretical principle, the corollary of model-building. “You must remember, we were trying to solve it with the fewest possible assumptions,” Crick said. “There’s a perfectly sound reason—it isn’t just a matter of aesthetics or because we thought it was a nice game—why you should use the minimum of experimental data. The fact is, you remember, that we knew that Bragg and Kendrew and Perutz had been misled by the experimental data. And therefore every bit of experimental evidence we had got at any one time we were prepared to throw away, because we said it may be misleading just the way that 5.1 reflection in alpha keratin was misleading.” We were in his office in Cambridge; thinking out loud, he got up and began to pace back and forth, with long, loping steps, in the clear lane in front of his desk, speaking in the rhythm of his stride. “They missed the alpha helix because of that reflection! You see. And the fact that they didn’t put the peptide bond in right. The point is that evidence can be unreliable, and therefore you should use as little of it as you can. And when we confront problems today, we’re in exactly the same situation. We have three or four bits of data, we don’t know which one is reliable, so we say, now, if we discard that one and assume it’s wrong—even though we have no evidence that it’s wrong—then we can look at the rest of the data and see if we can make sense of that. And that’s what we do all the time. I mean, people don’t realize that not only can data be wrong in science, it can be misleading. There isn’t such a thing as a hard fact when you’re trying to discover something. It’s only afterwards that the facts become hard.

The twin flames await. You must answer the call of your ally and go to their aid. The world needs you, Gabriel Nox. -Falling Star Visions flashed through my mind in a blur and I saw a terrible fate befalling the twins from my dreams, Lance Orion and Darius Acrux. My heart beat out of rhythm as I saw so many dark fates playing out before my eyes and I knew in the depths of my soul, that I needed to take the job Orion had offered me.

It turned out that the most efficient breathing rhythm occurred when both the length of respirations and total breaths per minute were locked in to a spooky symmetry: 5.5-second inhales followed by 5.5-second exhales, which works out almost exactly to 5.5 breaths a minute. This was the same pattern of the rosary. The results were profound, even when practiced for just five to ten minutes a day. “I have seen patients transformed by adopting regular breathing practices,” said Brown. He and Gerbarg even used this slow breathing technique to restore the lungs of 9/11 survivors who suffered from a chronic and painful cough caused by the debris, a horrendous condition called ground-glass lungs. There was no known cure for this ailment, and yet after just two months, patients achieved a significant improvement by simply learning to practice a few rounds of slow breathing a day.

believe that the rosary may have partly evolved because it synchronized with the inherent cardiovascular (Mayer) rhythms, and thus gave a feeling of wellbeing, and perhaps an increased responsiveness to the religious message,” the Pavia researchers wrote. In other words, the meditations, Ave Marias, and dozens of other prayers that had been developed over the past several thousand years weren’t all baseless. Prayer heals, especially when it’s practiced at 5.5 breaths a minute.

Even in a galaxy filled with danger, there was joy. And in that moment, it sank in that what I—what we were doing—was worth it. The pain and frustration and danger, all of it. It was worth it for moments like this, where Icky could dance with an alien insect while we tapped our feet in a rhythm so universal, no one missed a beat.

There’s a rhythm to everyday life within this club. Steady pulses, like heartbeats. I’m learning them, finding a way to count them. I don’t know what “normal” is for other people, but this is the new normal for me, and it is wonderful. We are connected. We are family. Blood is measured by halves – and we are stronger for it.