And I Wondered What It Was Like To Be Chosen Quotes

God will invade. But I wonder whether people who ask God to interfere openly and directly in our world quite realise what it will be like when He does. When that happens, it is the end of the world. When the author walks on to the stage the play is over. God is going to invade, all right: but what is the good of saying you are on His side then, when you see the whole natural universe melting away like a dream and something else - something it never entered your head to conceive - comes crashing in; something so beautiful to some of us and so terrible to others that none of us will have any choice left? For this time it will God without disguise; something so overwhelming that it will strike either irresistible love or irresistible horror into every creature. It will be too late then to choose your side. There is no use saying you choose to lie down when it has become impossible to stand up. That will not be the time for choosing; it will be the time when we discover which side we really have chosen, whether we realised it before or not. Now, today, this moment, is our chance to choose the right side. God is holding back to give us that chance. It will not last for ever. We must take it or leave it.

This was like no library I had ever seen because, well, there were no books. Actually, I take that back. There was one book, but it was the lobby of the building, encased in a heavy glass box like a museum exhibit. I figured this was a book that was here to remind people of the past and the way things used to be. As I walked over to it, I wondered what would be one book chosen to take this place of honor. Was it a dictionary? A Bible? Maybe the complete works of Shakespeare or some famous poet. "Green Eggs and Ham?" Gunny said with surprise. "What kind of doctor writes about green eggs and ham?" "Dr. Seuss," I answered with a big smile on my face. "It's my favorite book of all time." Patrick joined us and said, "We took a vote. It was pretty much everybody's favorite. Landslide victory. I'm partial to Horton Hears A Who, but this is okay too." The people of Third Earth still had a sense of humor.

Imagine that you were on the threshold of this fairytale, sometime billions of years ago when everything was created. And you were able to choose whether you wanted to be born to a life on this planet at some point. You wouldn’t know when you were going to be born, nor how long you’d live for, but at any event it wouldn’t be more than a few years. All you’d know was that, if you chose to come into the world at some point, you’d also have to leave it again one day and go away from everything. This might cause you a good deal of grief, as lots of people think that life in the great fairytale is so wonderful that the mere thought of it ending can bring tears to their eyes. Things can be so nice here that it’s terribly painful to think that at some point the days will run out. What would you have chosen, if there had been some higher power that had gave you the choice? Perhaps we can imagine some sort of cosmic fairy in this great, strange fairytale. What you have chosen to live a life on earth at some point, whether short or long, in a hundred thousand or a hundred million years? Or would you have refused to join in the game because you didn’t like the rules? (...) I asked myself the same question maybe times during the past few weeks. Would I have elected to live a life on earth in the firm knowledge that I’d suddenly be torn away from it, and perhaps in the middle of intoxicating happiness? (...) Well, I wasn’t sure what I would have chosen. (...) If I’d chosen never to the foot inside the great fairytale, I’d never have known what I’ve lost. Do you see what I’m getting at? Sometimes it’s worse for us human beings to lose something dear to us than never to have had it at all.

Maybe secrets were part of life; maybe everyone had something they were lying to themselves about, or something they were hiding. I looked up at the cross again and wondered if I was supposed to hear this particular sermon at this particular moment for a reason. I decided that the people who had said God didn’t love me, who said I didn’t have a place on Earth—they were wrong. God wanted me to live, and this was the only way I knew how to survive, so this was what God wanted. This was what I wanted. I had chosen to live, and it seemed like, finally, I was doing just that.

You okay?" he says, touching my cheek. His hand cradles the side of my head, his long fingers slipping through my hair. He smiles and holds my head in place as he kisses me. Heat spreads through me slowly.And fear, buzzing like an alarm in my chest. His lips still on mine,he pushes the jacket from my shoulders.I flinch when I hear it drop,and push him back,my eyes burning. I don't know why I feel this way. I didn't feel like this when he kissed me on the train.I press my palms to my face,covering my eyes. "What? What's wrong?" I shake my head. "Don't tell me it's nothing." His voice is cold.He grabs my arm. "Hey. Look at me." I take my hands from my face and lift my eyes to his.The hurt in his eyes and the anger in his clenched jaw surprise me. "Sometimes I wonder," I say,as calmly as I can, "what's in it for you. This...whatever it is." "What's in it for me," he repeats. He steps back,shaking his head. "You're an idiot,Tris." "I am not an idiot," I say. "Which is why I know that it's a little weird that,of all the girls you could have chosen,you chose me.So if you're just looking for...um,you know...that..." "What? Sex?" He scowls at me. "You know, if that was all I wanted, you probably wouldn't be the first person I would go to." I feel like he just punched me in the stomach. Of course I'm not the first person he would go to-not the first, not the prettiest,not desirable. I press my hands to my abdomen and look away, fighting off tears. I am not the crying type.Nor am I the yelling type. I blink a few times, lower my hands, and stare up at him. "I'm going to leave now," I say quietly. And I turn toward the door. "No,Tris." He grabs my wrist and wrenches me back. I push him away,hard, but he grabs my other wrist, holding our crossed arms between us. "I'm sorry I said that," he says. "What I meant was that you aren't like that. Which I knew when I met you." "You were an obstacle in my fear landscape." My lower lip wobbles. "Did you know that?" "What?" He releases my wrists, and the hurt look is back. "You're afraid of me?" "Not you," I say. I bite my lip to keep it still. "Being with you...with anyone. I've never been involved with someone before,and...you're older, and I don't know what your expectations are,and..." "Tris," he says sternly, "I don't know what delusion you're operating under,but this is all new to me, too." "Delusion?" I repeat. "You mean you haven't..." I raise my eyebrows. "Oh. Oh.I just assumed..." That because I am so absorbed by him, everyone else must be too. "Um. You know." "Well,you assumed wrong." He looks away. His cheeks are bright,like he's embarrassed. "You can tell me anything, you know," he says. He takes my face in his hands,his fingertips cold and his palms warm. "I am kinder than I seemed in training. I promise." I believe him.But this has nothing to do with his kindness. He kisses me between the eyebrows, and on the tip of my nose,and then carefully fits his mouth to mine. I am on edge.I have electricity coursing through my veins instead of blood. I want him to kiss me,I want him to; I am afraid of where it might go.

Why is God landing in this enemy-occupied world in disguise and starting a sort of secret society to undermine the devil? Why is He not landing in force, invading it? Is it that He is not strong enough? Well, Christians think He is going to land in force; we do not know when. But we can guess why He is delaying. He wants to give us the chance of joining His side freely. I do not suppose you and I would have though much of a Frenchman who waited till the Allies were marching into Germany and then announced he was on our side. God will invade. But I wonder whether people who ask God to interfere openly and directly in our world quite realise what it will be like when He does. When that happens, it is the end of the world. When the author walks on to the stage the play is over. God is going to invade, all right: but what is the good of saying you are on His side then, when you see the whole natural universe melting away like a dream and something else -something it never entered your head to conceive- comes crasing in; something so beautiful to some of us and so terrible to others that none of us will have any choice left? For this time it will be God without disguise; something so overwhelming that it will strike either irresistible love or irresistible horror into every creature. It will be too late then to choose your side. There is no use saying you choose to lie down when it has become impossible to stand up. That will not be the time for choosing: it will be the time when we discover which side we really have chosen, whether we realised it before or not. Now, today, this moment, is our chance to choose the right side. God is holding back to give us that chance. It will not last forever. We must take it or leave it.

I question what it would be like to just let someone in, to tell them all of your unforgivable truths and discover they still love you in return. I find myself utterly fascinated, awe-struck even, that there are people actually capable of truly loving someone without wondering when and how they will be betrayed.

I’m mesmerized by lipstick prints on coffee cups. By the lines of lips against white pottery. By the color chosen by the woman who sat and sipped and lived life. By the mark she leaves behind. Some people read tea leaves and others can tell your future through the lines on your palm. I think I’d like to read lipstick marks on coffee mugs. To learn how to differentiate yearning from satiation. To know the curve of a deep-rooted joy or the line of bottomless grief. To be able to say, this deep blue red you chose and how firmly you planted your lips, this speaks of love on the horizon. But, darling, you must be sure to stand in your own truth. That barely-there nude that circles the entire rim? You are exploding into lightness and possibilities beyond what you currently know. The way the gloss only shows when the light hits it and the coffee has sloshed all over the saucer? people need to take the time to see you whole but my god, you’re glorious and messy and wonderful and free. The deep purple bruise almost etched in a single spot and most of the cup left unconsumed? Oh love. Let me hold the depth of your ache. It is true. He’s not coming back. I know you already know this, but do you also know this is not the end? Love. This is not the end. I imagine that I can know entire stories by these marks on discarded mugs. Imagine that I know something intimate and true of the woman who left them. That I could take those mugs home one day and an entire novel worth of characters would pour out, just like that.

Find a person once deeply involved in church who has chosen to leave it, and you will likely hear that something harsh obtruded into that person's faith. Perhaps it was some Christians' judgmental attitude about a marriage situation. How many divorced people have left the church when made to feel like second-class citizens? Or perhaps it was disapproval of a habit, like smoking. Having treated emphysema and removed cancerous lungs, I hate smoking. And I hate what divorce does to its victims, especially the children. But I must not allow my views on smoking or divorce to drive people away. For a model, I must look to Jesus, who opposed the sin but loved the sinner. Though he openly declared God's laws, somehow he conveyed them with such love that he became known as the friend of sinners.

But I wonder whether people who ask God to interfere openly and directly in our world quite realise what it will be like when He does. When that happens, it is the end of the world. When the author walks on to the stage the play is over. God is going to invade, all right: but what is the good of saying you are on His side then, when you see the whole natural universe melting away like a dream and something else—something it never entered your head to conceive—comes crashing in; something so beautiful to some of us and so terrible to others that none of us will have any choice left? For this time it will be God without disguise; something so overwhelming that it will strike either irresistible love or irresistible horror into every creature. It will be too late then to choose your side. There is no use saying you choose to lie down when it has become impossible to stand up. That will not be the time for choosing: it will be the time when we discover which side we really have chosen, whether we realised it before or not. Now, today, this moment, is our chance to choose the right side. God is holding back to give us that chance. It will not last for ever. We must take it or leave it.

Kereseth, I presume. Cyra didn’t say you were so…” She paused. Cyra’s eyebrows popped up like they were on springs. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, chewing on a lock of hair. Sometimes she stuck it in her mouth without noticing. Then she’d spit it out, with a look of surprise, like it had crept into her mouth on its own. “…tall,” Otega finished. Akos wondered what word she would have chosen, if she felt comfortable being honest. “Not sure why she would have mentioned that,” Akos replied. It was easy to be comfortable around Otega; he slid into it without thinking much about it. “She’s tall, too, after all.” “Yes. Quite tall, the lot of you,” Otega said, distantly.

I saw it myself. An endless succession of mongrels and malingerers, the laziest dropouts who fancied themselves explorers. He made his policy clear: he was not responsible for their food, their shelter, their safety, or their health. He didn't waste his time discouraging them because frankly there was no discouragement they could not withstand. All of the energy they could have put into their intelligence they had used to develop their tenacity. But what I quickly learned was that their tenacity was for going, not for staying. Once they were out on the trail they fell like flies. Some took a day, two days, others were gone in a matter of hours, and Dr. Rapp never stopped for them. He remained beautifully consistent: he was to work and he would continue to work. He would not ferry back the weak and the lame. They had chosen to get themselves in and they would simply have to figure the means to get themselves out. People were quick to accept these terms until they themselves were weak. Then they changed their tune entirely, then they said Dr. Rapp was heartless. They couldn't slander him as a scientist but they said no end of scurrilous things about him as a man. He hadn't rescued them! He hadn't been their father and mother! I will tell you, none of that troubled his sleep. If he had made them his responsibility, either by dissuading them from their ambitions or by bailing them out of their folly, the greatest botanist of our time would have been reduced to a babysitter. It would have been an incalculable blow to science, all in the name of saving the stupid.

Let’s imagine that many years ago, way way back in history, someone observed a particular characteristic or oddity – maybe soldiers who claimed that their whole life passed before their eyes in times of extreme danger, or perhaps people who simply walked out on work they hated, or those who when they loved someone it was with every ounce of their being, and who never apologised for who they were. People who were different. People who the fairies and goblins recognised. And just imagine that the person observing these Scamps decided to do something about it, such as start a cult with a weird set of beliefs and practices that aimed at improving the genetic quality of the human race, breeding people with the desirable heritable characteristics in order to improve future generations. Just suppose this eugenically based cult was based on those with a childlike curiosity, on those who loved to be around people who lit them up, and only those with the most powerful experiences were chosen. Over a number of generations this careful and choosy breeding may have created a community who were without question so free that their very survival on earth was an act of insurgency. Think about it! What if you and I are simply a subdivision, if you like, of that groove of humanity?

The novel is that art form that burns most easily. It so happened that in the middle of the nineteenth century, all the citizens of our shtetl - every man, woman, and child - was convinced he had at least one novel in him This period was likely the result of the traveling Gypsy salesman who brought a wagonload of books to the shtetl square on the third Sunday of every other month, advertising them as 'Worthy would-be worlds of words, whorls of working wonder.' What else could come to the lips of a Chosen People but 'I can do that?

He had in fact gone to the office, ignoring Willem’s texts, and had sat there at his computer, staring without seeing the file before him and wondering yet again why he had joined Ratstar. The worst thing was that the answer was so obvious that he didn’t even need to ask it: he had joined Ratstar to impress his parents. His last year of architecture school, Malcolm had had a choice—he could have chosen to work with two classmates, Jason Kim and Sonal Mars, who were starting their own firm with money from Sonal’s grandparents, or he could have joined Ratstar. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jason had said when Malcolm had told him of his decision. “You realize what your life is going to be like as an associate at a place like that, don’t you?” “It’s a great firm,” he’d said, staunchly, sounding like his mother, and Jason had rolled his eyes. “I mean, it’s a great name to have on my résumé.” But even as he said it, he knew (and, worse, feared Jason knew as well) what he really meant: it was a great name for his parents to say at cocktail parties. And, indeed, his parents liked to say it. “Two kids,” Malcolm had overheard his father say to someone at a dinner party celebrating one of Malcolm’s mother’s clients. “My daughter’s an editor at FSG, and my son works for Ratstar Architects.” The woman had made an approving sound, and Malcolm, who had actually been trying to find a way to tell his father he wanted to quit, had felt something in him wilt. At such times, he envied his friends for the exact things he had once pitied them for: the fact that no one had any expectations for them, the ordinariness of their families (or their very lack of them), the way they navigated their lives by only their own ambitions.

Pay attention to everything the dying person says. You might want to keep pens and a spiral notebook beside the bed so that anyone can jot down notes about gestures, conversations, or anything out of the ordinary said by the dying person. Talk with one another about these comments and gestures. • Remember that there may be important messages in any communication, however vague or garbled. Not every statement made by a dying person has significance, but heed them all so as not to miss the ones that do. • Watch for key signs: a glassy-eyed look; the appearance of staring through you; distractedness or secretiveness; seemingly inappropriate smiles or gestures, such as pointing, reaching toward someone or something unseen, or waving when no one is there; efforts to pick at the covers or get out of bed for no apparent reason; agitation or distress at your inability to comprehend something the dying person has tried to say. • Respond to anything you don’t understand with gentle inquiries. “Can you tell me what’s happening?” is sometimes a helpful way to initiate this kind of conversation. You might also try saying, “You seem different today. Can you tell me why?” • Pose questions in open-ended, encouraging terms. For example, if a dying person whose mother is long dead says, “My mother’s waiting for me,” turn that comment into a question: “Mother’s waiting for you?” or “I’m so glad she’s close to you. Can you tell me about it?” • Accept and validate what the dying person tells you. If he says, “I see a beautiful place!” say, “That’s wonderful! Can you tell me more about it?” or “I’m so pleased. I can see that it makes you happy,” or “I’m so glad you’re telling me this. I really want to understand what’s happening to you. Can you tell me more?” • Don’t argue or challenge. By saying something like “You couldn’t possibly have seen Mother, she’s been dead for ten years,” you could increase the dying person’s frustration and isolation, and run the risk of putting an end to further attempts at communicating. • Remember that a dying person may employ images from life experiences like work or hobbies. A pilot may talk about getting ready to go for a flight; carry the metaphor forward: “Do you know when it leaves?” or “Is there anyone on the plane you know?” or “Is there anything I can do to help you get ready for takeoff?” • Be honest about having trouble understanding. One way is to say, “I think you’re trying to tell me something important and I’m trying very hard, but I’m just not getting it. I’ll keep on trying. Please don’t give up on me.” • Don’t push. Let the dying control the breadth and depth of the conversation—they may not be able to put their experiences into words; insisting on more talk may frustrate or overwhelm them. • Avoid instilling a sense of failure in the dying person. If the information is garbled or the delivery impossibly vague, show that you appreciate the effort by saying, “I can see that this is hard for you; I appreciate your trying to share it with me,” or “I can see you’re getting tired/angry/frustrated. Would it be easier if we talked about this later?” or “Don’t worry. We’ll keep trying and maybe it will come.” • If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. Sometimes the best response is simply to touch the dying person’s hand, or smile and stroke his or her forehead. Touching gives the very important message “I’m with you.” Or you could say, “That’s interesting, let me think about it.” • Remember that sometimes the one dying picks an unlikely confidant. Dying people often try to communicate important information to someone who makes them feel safe—who won’t get upset or be taken aback by such confidences. If you’re an outsider chosen for this role, share the information as gently and completely as possible with the appropriate family members or friends. They may be more familiar with innuendos in a message because they know the person well.

But I can cite ten other reasons for not being a father." "First of all, I don't like motherhood," said Jakub, and he broke off pensively. "Our century has already unmasked all myths. Childhood has long ceased to be an age of innocence. Freud discovered infant sexuality and told us all about Oedipus. Only Jocasta remains untouchable; no one dares tear off her veil. Motherhood is the last and greatest taboo, the one that harbors the most grievous curse. There is no stronger bond than the one that shackles mother to child. This bond cripples the child's soul forever and prepares for the mother, when her son has grown up, the most cruel of all the griefs of love. I say that motherhood is a curse, and I refuse to contribute to it." "Another reason I don't want to add to the number of mothers," said Jakub with some embarrassment, "is that I love the female body, and I am disgusted by the thought of my beloved's breast becoming a milk-bag." "The doctor here will certainly confirm that physicians and nurses treat women hospitalized after an aborted pregnancy more harshly than those who have given birth, and show some contempt toward them even though they themselves will, at least once in their lives, need a similar operation. But for them it's a reflex stronger than any kind of thought, because the cult of procreation is an imperative of nature. That's why it's useless to look for the slightest rational argument in natalist propaganda. Do you perhaps think it's the voice of Jesus you're hearing in the natalist morality of the church? Do you think it's the voice of Marx you're hearing in the natalist propaganda of the Communist state? Impelled merely by the desire to perpetuate the species, mankind will end up smothering itself on its small planet. But the natalist propaganda mill grinds on, and the public is moved to tears by pictures of nursing mothers and infants making faces. It disgusts me. It chills me to think that, along with millions of other enthusiasts, I could be bending over a cradle with a silly smile." "And of course I also have to ask myself what sort of world I'd be sending my child into. School soon takes him away to stuff his head with the falsehoods I've fought in vain against all my life. Should I see my son become a conformist fool? Or should I instill my own ideas into him and see him suffer because he'll be dragged into the same conflicts I was?" "And of course I also have to think of myself. In this country children pay for their parents' disobedience, and parents for their children's disobedience. How many young people have been denied education because their parents fell into disgrace? And how many parents have chosen permanent cowardice for the sole purpose of preventing harm to their children? Anyone who wants to preserve at least some freedom here shouldn't have children," Jakub said, and fell into silence. "The last reason carries so much weight that it counts for five," said Jakub. "Having a child is to show an absolute accord with mankind. If I have a child, it's as though I'm saying: I was born and have tasted life and declare it so good that it merits being duplicated." "And you have not found life to be good?" asked Bertlef. Jakub tried to be precise, and said cautiously: "All I know is that I could never say with complete conviction: Man is a wonderful being and I want to reproduce him.

Suddenly a violent noise leaped at them from no source that he could identify. He gasped in terror at what sounded like a man trying to gargle while fighting off a pack of wolves. “Shush!” said Ford. “Listen, it might be important.” “Im … important?” “It’s the Vogon captain making an announcement on the tannoy.” “You mean that’s how the Vogons talk?” “Listen!” “But I can’t speak Vogon!” “You don’t need to. Just put this fish in your ear.” Ford, with a lightning movement, clapped his hand to Arthur’s ear, and he had the sudden sickening sensation of the fish slithering deep into his aural tract. Gasping with horror he scrabbled at his ear for a second or so, but then slowly turned goggle-eyed with wonder. He was experiencing the aural equivalent of looking at a picture of two black silhouetted faces and suddenly seeing it as a picture of a white candlestick. Or of looking at a lot of colored dots on a piece of paper which suddenly resolve themselves into the figure six and mean that your optician is going to charge you a lot of money for a new pair of glasses. He was still listening to the howling gargles, he knew that, only now it had somehow taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English. This is what he heard … * Ford Prefect’s original name is only pronounceable in an obscure Betel-geusian dialect, now virtually extinct since the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster of Gal./Sid./Year 03758 which wiped out all the old Praxibetel communities on Betelgeuse Seven. Ford’s father was the only man on the entire planet to survive the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster, by an extraordinary coincidence that he was never able satisfactorily to explain. The whole episode is shrouded in deep mystery: in fact no one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven particularly. Ford’s father, magnanimously waving aside the clouds of suspicion that had inevitably settled around him, came to live on Betelgeuse Five, where he both fathered and uncled Ford; in memory of his now dead race he christened him in the ancient Praxibetel tongue. Because Ford never learned to say his original name, his father eventually died of shame, which is still a terminal disease in some parts of the Galaxy. The other kids at school nicknamed him Ix, which in the language of Betelgeuse Five translates as “boy who is not able satisfactorily to explain what a Hrung is, nor why it should choose to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven.

With our desire to have more, we find ourselves spending more and more time and energy to manage and maintain everything we have. We try so hard to do this that the things that were supposed to help us end up ruling us. We eventually get used to the new state where our wishes have been fulfilled. We start taking those things for granted and there comes a time when we start getting tired of what we have. We're desperate to convey our own worth, our own value to others. We use objects to tell people just how valuable we are. The objects that are supposed to represent our qualities become our qualities themselves. There are more things to gain from eliminating excess than you might imagine: time, space, freedom and energy. When people say something is impossible, they have already decided that they don't want to do it. Differentiate between things you want and things you need. Leave your unused space empty. These open areas are incredibly useful. They bring us a sense of freedom and keep our minds open to the more important things in life. Memories are wonderful but you won't have room to develop if your attachment to the past is too strong. It's better to cut some of those ties so you can focus on what's important today. Don't get creative when you are trying to discard things. There's no need to stock up. An item chosen with passion represents perfection to us. Things we just happen to pick up, however, are easy candidates for disposal or replacement. As long as we stick to owning things that we really love, we aren't likely to want more. Our homes aren't museum, they don't need collections. When you aren't sure that you really want to part with something, try stowing it away for a while. Larger furniture items with bold colors will in time trigger visual fatigue and then boredom. Discarding things can be wasteful. But the guilt that keeps you from minimizing is the true waste. The real waste is the psychological damage that you accrue from hanging on to things you don't use or need. We find our originality when we own less. When you think about it, it's experience that builds our unique characteristics, not material objects. I've lowered my bar for happiness simply by switching to a tenugui. When even a regular bath towel can make you happy, you'll be able to find happiness almost everywhere. For the minimalist, the objective isn't to reduce, it's to eliminate distractions so they can focus on the things that are truly important. Minimalism is just the beginning. It's a tool. Once you've gone ahead and minimized, it's time to find out what those important things are. Minimalism is built around the idea that there's nothing that you're lacking. You'll spend less time being pushed around by something that you think may be missing. The qualities I look for in the things that I buy are: - the item has a minimalistic kind of shape and is easy to clean - it's color isn't too loud - I'll be able to use it for a long time - it has a simple structure - it's lightweight and compact - it has multiple uses A relaxed moment is not without meaning, it's an important time for reflection. It wasn't the fallen leaves that the lady had been tidying up, it was her own laziness that she had been sweeping away. We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit. With daily cleaning, the reward may be the sense of accomplishment and calmness we feel afterward. Cleaning your house is like polishing yourself. Simply by living an organized life, you'll be more invigorated, more confident and like yourself better. Having parted with the bulk of my belongings, I feel true contentment with my day-to-day life. The very act of living brings me joy. When you become a minimalist, you free yourself from all the materialist messages that surround us. All the creative marketing and annoying ads no longer have an effect on you.

It's only that... well, if Olivia cannot be with the man she loves, as he has vanished like a bloody 'cowardly'..." She stopped talking abruptly. Yanking herself back like a dog on a leash. Which was a pity, as the words had acquired a fascinating whiff of venom and had begun to escalate in volume. She would have done some squeaking of her own. Genevieve Eversea was beginning to interest him. "If she cannot be with the man she loves..." he prompted. "I do believe she can only to be with someone... impressive." "Impressive..." He pretended to ponder this. "I hope you do not think I presume, but I cannot help but wonder if you're referring to me. Given my rank and fortune, some might describe me as such. And I'm flattered indeed, given that there really are so many other words you could have chosen to describe me." A pause followed. The girl was most definitely a 'thinker.' "We have only just become acquainted, Lord Moncrieffe. I might elect to use other words to describe you should I come to know you better." Exquisite and refined as convent lace, her manners, her delivery. And still he could have sworn she was having one over on him. She seemed to be watching her feet now. The scenery didn't interest her, or it caused her discomfort. And as he watched her, something unfamiliar stirred. He was... 'genuinely' interested in what she might say next.

Our education system is like a money plant, which looks beautiful with big green leaves, but fails to produce any fruit or a flower. Undoubtedly, we are a home to the best doctors, scientists, poets, artists, and whatnot. But I feel, we miserably fail to evoke humanism, compassion, and tolerance in students. If we would count all the do’s and don’ts taught to us in our school, surely don’ts would exceed the number of the do's. I was forced to mug up certain things I was not interested in. Now, I understand the importance of questioning. I wish if our schools could teach us the art of questioning instead of just hunting for answers. Various facts are stuffed in delicate minds, but what about teachings on life, tutoring to never give up, and asking for students’ opinions on a subject? Yes, teaching these things would not directly increase the ‘GDP’ by creating human-machines, but would definitely create better minds and wonderful souls. I really wish our syllabus could preach to us the sheer value of knowledge, wisdom, and awareness. I wish our schools could nurture educated intellectuals, rather than literate persons. I wish we could pay more heed to the education ratio instead of just literacy ratio. We need more thinkers and fewer money makers. We are directed towards a goal already chosen for us, but not asked about our big fantasies and little dreams.

A postscript on Ryan: Ryan did recover, but he was left permanently blind. His girlfriend Kelly stayed by his side through his recovery, and they soon married. I’m happy to say that we all became good friends. Ryan had an indomitable spirit that infected everyone he met. He used to say that he suspected God had chosen him to be wounded, rather than someone else, because He knew he could bear it. If so, it was an excellent choice, for Ryan inspired many others to deal with their own handicaps as he dealt with his. He went hunting with the help of friends and special devices. His wound inspired the logo Chris would later use for his company; it was a way for Chris to continue honoring him. Ryan and his wife were expecting their first child in 2009 when Ryan went into the hospital for what seemed like a routine operation, part of follow-up treatment for his wounds. Tragically, he ended up dying. I remember looking at his wife at the funeral, so brave yet so devastated, and wondering to myself how we could live in such a cruel world. My enduring vision of Ryan is outside one of the hospitals where he was recovering from an operation. He was in his wheelchair with some of the Team guys. Head bandaged and clearly in pain, he asked to be pointed toward the American flag that flew in the hospital yard; once there, he held his hand up in a long and poignant salute, still a patriot.

What does a mind that is focused on hope look like? I read recently about a woman who had been diagnosed with cancer and was given three months to live. Her doctor told her to make preparations to die, so she contacted her pastor and told him how she wanted things arranged for her funeral service—which songs she wanted to have sung, what Scriptures should be read, what words should be spoken—and that she wanted to be buried with her favorite Bible. But before he left, she called out to him, “One more thing.” “What?” “This is important. I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.” The pastor did not know what to say. No one had ever made such a request before. So she explained. “In all my years going to church functions, whenever food was involved, my favorite part was when whoever was cleaning dishes of the main course would lean over and say, You can keep your fork. “It was my favorite part because I knew that it meant something great was coming. It wasn’t Jell-O. It was something with substance—cake or pie—biblical food. “So I just want people to see me there in my casket with a fork in my hand, and I want them to wonder, What’s with the fork? Then I want you to tell them, Something better is coming. Keep your fork.” The pastor hugged the woman good-bye. And soon after, she died. At the funeral service people saw the dress she had chosen, saw the Bible she loved, and heard the songs she loved, but they all asked the same question: “What’s with the fork?” The pastor explained that this woman, their friend, wanted them to know that for her—or for anyone who dies in Christ—this is not a day of defeat. It is a day of celebration. The real party is just starting. Something better is coming.

I was standing amid floor-to-ceiling shelves of books in wonder and awe when my view of stories suddenly and forever changed. There were enormous piles of books lying in corners. Books covered the walls. Books even lined the staircases as you went up from one floor to the next. It was as if this used bookstore was not just a place for selling used books; it was like the infrastructure itself was made up of books. There were books to hold more books, stories built out of stories. I was standing in Daedalus Books in Charlottesville, Virginia, and I had recently read Mortimer J. Adler's How to Read a Book. I was alive with the desire to read. But at that particular moment, my glee turned to horror. For whatever reason, the truth of the numbers suddenly hit me. The year before, I had read about thirty books. For me, that was a new record. But then I started counting. I was in my early twenties, and with any luck I'd live at least fifty more years. At that rate, I'd have about 1,500 books in me, give or take. There were more books than that on the single wall I was staring at. That's when I had a realization of my mortality. My desire outpaced reality. I simply didn't have the life to read what I wanted to read. Suddenly my choices in that bookstore became a profound act of deciding. The Latin root of the word decide—cise or cide— is to "cut off' or "kill." The idea is that to choose anything means to kill off other options you might have otherwise chosen. That day I realized that by choosing one story, I would have to cut off other stories. I had to choose one thing at the expense of many, many other things. I would have to choose carefully. I would have to curate my stories.... Curating stories used to be a matter of luxury. Now it's a matter of necessity—and perhaps even urgency.

The only point that everyone I spoke with in Rome agrees upon is that Armando al Pantheon is one of the city's last true trattorie. Given the location, Claudio and his family could have gone the way of the rest of the neighborhood a long time ago and mailed it in with a handful of fresh mozzarella and prosciutto. But he's chosen the opposite path, an unwavering dedication to the details- the extra steps that make the oxtail more succulent, the pasta more perfectly toothsome, the artichokes and favas and squash blossoms more poetic in their expression of the Roman seasons. "I experiment in my own small ways. I want to make something new, but I also want my guests to think of their mothers and grandmothers. I want them to taste their infancy, to taste their memories. Like that great scene in Ratatouille." I didn't grow up on amatriciana and offal, but when I eat them here, they taste like a memory I never knew I had. I keep coming back. For the cacio e pepe, which sings that salty-spicy duet with unrivaled clarity, thanks to the depth charge of toasted Malaysian peppercorns Claudio employs. For his coda alla vaccinara, as Roman as the Colosseum, a masterpiece of quinto quarto cookery: the oxtail cooked to the point of collapse, bathed in a tomato sauce with a gentle green undertow of celery, one of Rome's unsung heroes. For the vegetables: one day a crostini of stewed favas and pork cheek, the next a tumble of bitter puntarelle greens bound in a bracing anchovy vinaigrette. And always the artichokes. If Roman artichokes are drugs, Claudio's are pure poppy, a vegetable so deeply addictive that I find myself thinking about it at the most inappropriate times. Whether fried into a crisp, juicy flower or braised into tender, melting submission, it makes you wonder what the rest of the world is doing with their thistles.

Then, as if he’d figured out what produced the maximum reaction in her, he switched back to Chopin. Just like that night in her childhood, the music slipped past her defenses and produced a deep contraction inside her, equal parts pain and pleasure. It went deeper still, until the tears began to rise, and she could only sit there, crying, trying to display only her expressionless left side so he wouldn’t notice. She’d been numb and it had felt good. Okay, not good. But safe. Manageable. He kept playing, soulful, stirring pieces that seemed chosen for their ability to pierce her heart deeper, deeper. She was crying audibly now, and he stopped and regarded her impassively. It couldn’t have been more awkward. She worked to compose herself and only then did she look up and meet his eyes. “Well,” he said, “I think it’s safe to say that dance is not done with you yet.” She stared at him in disbelief. “You did this on purpose. Tried to provoke a reaction.” “I suppose I did.” What a horrible, disreputable person he was. No wonder Misha had seemed anxious about having him around this weekend. “That was a pretty shitty thing to do.” “Not at all,” he replied. “I was just helping you see where you stand with your art. You need it. It nourishes you. That’s not going to go away just because you’re sidelined for a year or two.” “Two years?” She wasn’t sure which appalled her more, his words or his casual attitude. “Whatever. Point being, you’re still a dancer. It couldn’t be more obvious. That gorgeous body of yours, the way it moves. The way you’re sitting there now, all swept away by the music. You’re a dancer. You can’t not be one. Ever.” The truth of this, the twin emotions of fragile hope and crushing despair, crashed into her. He was right. And right then, the truth hurt. Now that the numbness was gone, it all hurt. The tears rose up again and spilled out. She heard Misha come in through the front door. David looked anxious. “Look, Dena. I just want to make sure you’re looking at the issue clearly.” Misha

The turning-point [in Klosters, Switzerland in 1988] [Diana’s sister] Jane’s wonderfully solid. If you ring up with a drama, she says: ‘Golly, gosh, Duch, how horrible, how sad and how awful’ and gets angry. But my sister Sarah swears: ‘Poor Duch, such a shitty thing to happen.’ My father says: ‘Just remember we always love you.’ But that summer [1988] when I made so many cock-ups I sat myself down in the autumn, when I was in Scotland, and I remember saying to myself: ‘Right, Diana, it’s no good, you’ve got to change it right round, this publicity, you’ve got to grow up and be responsible. You’ve got to understand that you can’t do what other 26- and 27-year olds are doing. You’ve been chosen to do a position so you must adapt to the position and stop fighting it.’ I remember my conversation so well, sitting by water. I always sit by water when contemplating. Stephen Twigg [a therapist] who comes to see me said once: ‘Whatever anybody else thinks of you is none of your business.’ That sat with me. Then once someone said to me, when I said I’ve got to go up to Balmoral, and they said: ‘Well, you’ve got to put up with them but they’ve also got to put up with you.’ This myth about me hating Balmoral--I love Scotland but just the atmosphere drains me to nothing. I go up ‘strong Diana.’ I come away depleted of everything because they just suck me dry, because I tune in to all their moods and, boy, are there some undercurrents there! Instead of having a holiday, it’ the most stressful time of the year. I love being out all day. I love the stalking. I’m much happier now. I’m not blissful but much more content than I’ve ever been. I’ve really gone down deep, scraped the bottom a couple times and come up again and it’s very nice meeting people now and talking about tai-chi and people say: ‘Tai-chi--what do you know about tai-chi?’ and I said: ‘An energy flow,’ and all this and they look at me and they say: ‘She’s the girl who’s supposed to like shopping and clothes the whole time. She’s not supposed to know about spiritual things.

You, then, are very much at play in the Kingdom, like a child in a sandbox. And each event that arises for you need not be judged. I have shared with you many times that it is the egoic mind that compares and contrasts. Therefore, never compare or contrast your experience with another person’s. Yours is unique. And though the world would say, perhaps, that your experience is not as valuable because you are only worth twenty thousand dollars and somebody else is worth four hundred million, therefore, they have manifested more powerfully, that is simply not true. For manifestation is simply the expression that reveals where the mind has been focusing. The real power is the very mystery that anything can be manifested at all. And you are free to constantly choose anew. Cultivate, then, a very childlike attitude toward all of your experience. Learn to ponder it, to wonder about it, to look upon it like a father does to a child, like your Father does to you: Behold, I have created all things and it is good! In your Bible in the creation story that is told there, it is said that God said something like that. For God looked upon all that She had created and said, “Behold, it is very good!” You are the father of your creations. You are the father of your thoughts, your attitudes, and your choices. Look upon all of these things and say, “Behold, it is very good.” For goodness begets goodness. Judgment begets judgment. For nothing can produce except that which is like itself. An acorn cannot produce a fish. A man and a woman cannot produce an acorn. The thoughts you hold about yourself will reproduce themselves. When you look upon all things as good, goodness will be begotten from that decision. Each time, then, that you have chosen to hold a negative thought about yourself, or about anyone, you have only insured the kind of inconsistency in your mind that interrupts the power of your ability to create, more and more, as a living embodied master. This can only be because you have held deep within the mind some belief that says, “No matter what I do, it won’t work out.” There is some conflicted belief. A belief in goodness and a belief in evil create a conflict that must entrap the soul.

Christianity agrees with Dualism that this universe is at war. But it does not think this is a war between independent powers. It thinks it is a civil war, a rebellion, and that we are living in a part of the universe occupied by the rebel. Enemy-occupied territory — that is what this world is. Christianity is the story of how the rightful king has landed, you might say landed in disguise, and is calling us all to take part in a great campaign of sabotage. When you go to church you are really listening-in to the secret wireless from our friends: that is why the enemy is so anxious to prevent us from going... Why is God landing in this enemy-occupied world in disguise and starting a sort of secret society to undermine the devil? Why is He not landing in force, invading it? Is it that He is not strong enough? Well, Christians think He is going to land in force; we do not know when. But we can guess why He is delaying. He wants to give us the chance of joining His side freely. I do not suppose you and I would have thought much of a Frenchman who waited till the Allies were marching into Germany and then announced he was on our side. God will invade. But I wonder whether people who ask God to interfere openly and directly in our world quite realize what it will be like when He does. When that happens, it is the end of the world. When the author walks on to the stage the play is over. God is going to invade, all right: but what is the good of saying you are on His side then, when you see the whole natural universe melting away like a dream and something else — something it never entered your head to conceive — comes crashing in; something so beautiful to some of us and so terrible to others that none of us will have any choice left? For this time it will be God without disguise; something so overwhelming that it will strike either irresistible love or irresistible horror into every creature. It will be too late then to choose your side. There is no use saying you choose to lie down when it has become impossible to stand up. That will not be the time for choosing: it will be the time when we discover which side we really have chosen, whether we realized it or not. Now, today, this moment, is our chance to choose the right side. God is holding back to give us that chance. It will not last forever. We must take it or leave it.

Kestrel.” She discarded a tile and drew another. She didn’t look at him. He’d noticed--of course he had--how she avoided looking at him now. And no wonder. Arin’s face stung. The stitches itched. He was tempted to rip them out. “Look at me,” he said. She did, and Arin suddenly wished she hadn’t. He cleared his throat. He said, “I won’t try anymore to convince you not to marry him.” She slowly added the new tile to her hand. She stared at it, and said nothing. “I don’t understand your choice,” Arin said. “Or maybe I do. It doesn’t matter. You want it. That’s clear. You’ve always done exactly what you wanted.” “Have I.” Her voice was flat and dull. He plunged ahead. “I was wondering…” Arin had an idea. He’d had it for some time now. He didn’t like it. The words lay bitter on his tongue, but he had thought about it, and thought about it, and if he said nothing… Arin made himself study his tiles again. He tried to think which Sting tile would profit Kestrel least. He discarded a bee. The instant he set the tile down, he regretted it. He pulled a high Bite tile. This should have encouraged him, yet Arin had the sense of flying toward the inevitable moment when Kestrel won and he asked her what she wanted. “I thought…” “Arin?” She looked concerned. That decided him. Arin took a deep breath. His stomach changed to iron. His body was girding itself in a way he knew well. Arin was tightening the muscles needed before a plunge into deep water. A punch to the gut. The lift of the hardest, lowest, highest notes he could possibly sing. His stomach knew what he’d have to sustain. “Marry him,” Arin said, “but be mine in secret.” Her hand lifted from the tiles as if scorched. She sat back in her chair. She rubbed at her inner elbow. She drank the dregs of her wine and was silent. Finally, she said, “I can’t do that.” “Why?” Arin was hot with humiliation, hating himself for having asked. The cut burned in his cheek. “It’s not so different than what you would have chosen before. When you kissed me in your carriage on Firstwinter, you thought to keep me your secret. If you thought of anything. I would have been one of those special slaves, the ones called for at night when the rest of the house is sleeping. Well? Isn’t that how it was?” “No.” She spoke low. “It wasn’t.” “Then tell me.” Arin was damning himself with every word. “Tell me how it was.” Slowly, Kestrel said, “Things have changed.” Arin jerked his head to the side, chin up, stitched left cheek tilted to catch the light. “Because of this?” She replied as if the answer was obvious. “Yes.” He shoved back from the table. “I think I’ll have that drink.” Arin began to walk away, then glanced back over his shoulder. He made sure his words were an insult. “Don’t touch the tiles.

Since my visit to the Hermitage, I had become more aware of the four figures, two women and two men, who stood around the luminous space where the father welcomed his returning son. Their way of looking leaves you wondering how they think or feel about what they are watching. These bystanders, or observers, allow for all sorts of interpretations. As I reflect on my own journey, I become more and more aware of how long I have played the role of observer. For years I had instructed students on the different aspects of the spiritual life, trying to help them see the importance of living it. But had I, myself, really ever dared to step into the center, kneel down, and let myself be held by a forgiving God? The simple fact of being able to express an opinion, to set up an argument, to defend a position, and to clarify a vision has given me, and gives me still, a sense of control. And, generally, I feel much safer in experiencing a sense of control over an undefinable situation than in taking the risk of letting that situation control me. Certainly there were many hours of prayer, many days and months of retreat, and countless conversations with spiritual directors, but I had never fully given up the role of bystander. Even though there has been in me a lifelong desire to be an insider looking out, I nevertheless kept choosing over and over again the position of the outsider looking in. Sometimes this looking-in was a curious looking-in, sometimes a jealous looking-in, sometimes an anxious looking-in, and, once in a while, even a loving looking-in. But giving up the somewhat safe position of the critical observer seemed like a great leap into totally unknown territory. I so much wanted to keep some control over my spiritual journey, to be able to predict at least a part of the outcome, that relinquishing the security of the observer for the vulnerability of the returning son seemed close to impossible. Teaching students, passing on the many explanations given over the centuries to the words and actions of Jesus, and showing them the many spiritual journeys that people have chosen in the past seemed very much like taking the position of one of the four figures surrounding the divine embrace. The two women standing behind the father at different distances the seated man staring into space and looking at no one in particular, and the tall man standing erect and looking critically at the event on the platform in front of him--they all represent different ways of not getting involved. There is indifference, curiosity, daydreaming, and attentive observation; there is staring, gazing, watching, and looking; there is standing in the background, leaning against an arch, sitting with arms crossed, and standing with hands gripping each other. Every one of these inner and outward postures are all too familiar with me. Some are more comfortable than others, but all of them are ways of not getting directly involved," (pp. 12-13).

Mariabella is divine,” Maximus said, leaning in toward Cass. “Beautiful and talented. She used to assist me in my act from time to time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the beauty your brother fell in love with.” “What did--does--she look like?” Cass asked. Maximus pulled a rose out of thin air. “She has silky dark hair and the most delicious set of lips.” He reached out his index finger as though to touch Cass’s lips and then seemed to think better of it. “You resemble her, in a way. Except you don’t have her birthmark.” He traced the shape of a heart in the air. Cass’s blood accelerated in her veins. A heart-shaped birthmark. It had to be the same girl. Mariabella. A maid missing from Joseph Dubois’s estate, and now a dead courtesan, one of his chosen companions. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Emotions churned together in her stomach--excitement and wonder and fear. And more excitement. She leaned in to give the conjurer an impulsive peck on the cheek. The conjurer pressed the rose into her palm. “I think your master is watching us.” Cass glanced up and saw Falco staring at her--no, at them--from the doorway of the portego. Cass hadn’t even heard the front doors open. “I see you’ve met my beautiful signorina,” Falco said, nodding to the conjurer as he snaked his fingers around one of Cass’s small wrists. The conjurer winked at Cass. “Indeed. There’s something magical about her, wouldn’t you say?” “You’ve no idea,” Falco said. He pulled her across the room, out of the conjurer’s earshot. “Is it safe to leave you alone for a few minutes while I go speak to the owner of the house?” “No need,” Cass said. She couldn’t help but smile triumphantly. “I’ve not only learned the name of the dead girl, but I also know where she lives.” Falco arched an eyebrow. “All that, and you still found the time to bat your eyelashes at some traveling con man? That is impressive.” “I wasn’t batting anything,” Cass said. “I was appreciating his performance. Come on. I’ll fill you in on the way to her place.” As the two passed the conjurer, Falco’s grip on her was so tight, she was afraid he was going to leave a bruise. “Good-bye, Maximus,” she called behind her. “Thank you for the magic.

By some quirk of fate, I had been chosen—along with five others—as a candidate to be the next equerry to the Princess of Wales. I knew little about what an equerry actually did, but I did not greatly care. I already knew I wanted to do the job. Two years on loan to the royal household would surely be good for promotion, and even if it was not, it had to be better than slaving in the Ministry of Defense, which was the most likely alternative. I wondered what it would be like to work in a palace. Through friends and relatives I had an idea it was not all red carpets and footmen. Running the royal family must involve a lot of hard work for somebody, I realized, but not, surely, for the type of tiny cog that was all I expected to be. In the wardroom of the frigate, alongside in Loch Ewe, news of the signal summoning me to London for an interview had been greeted with predictable ribaldry and a swift expectation that I therefore owed everybody several free drinks. Doug, our quiet American on loan from the U.S. Navy, spoke for many. He observed me in skeptical silence for several minutes. Then he took a long pull at his beer, blew out his mustache, and said, “Let me get this straight. You are going to work for Princess Di?” I had to admit it sounded improbable. Anyway, I had not even been selected yet. I did not honestly think I would be. “Might work for her, Doug. Only might. There’re probably several smooth Army buggers ahead of me in the line. I’m just there to make it look democratic.” The First Lieutenant, thinking of duty rosters, was more practical. “Whatever about that, you’ve wangled a week ashore. Lucky bastard!” Everyone agreed with him, so I bought more drinks. While these were being poured, my eye fell on the portraits hanging on the bulkhead. There were the regulation official photographs of the Queen and Prince Philip, and there, surprisingly, was a distinctly nonregulation picture of the Princess of Wales, cut from an old magazine and lovingly framed by an officer long since appointed elsewhere. The picture had been hung so that it lay between the formality of the official portraits and the misty eroticism of some art prints we had never quite got around to throwing away. The symbolic link did not require the services of one of the notoriously sex-obsessed naval psychologists for interpretation. As she looked down at us in our off-duty moments the Princess represented youth, femininity, and a glamour beyond our gray steel world. She embodied the innocent vulnerability we were in extremis employed to defend. Also, being royal, she commanded the tribal loyalty our profession had valued above all else for more than a thousand years, since the days of King Alfred. In addition, as a matter of simple fact, this tasty-looking bird was our future Queen. Later, when that day in Loch Ewe felt like a relic from another lifetime, I often marveled at the Princess’s effect on military people. That unabashed loyalty symbolized by Arethusa’s portrait was typical of reactions in messhalls and barracks worldwide. Sometimes the men gave the impression that they would have died for her not because it was their duty, but because they wanted to. She really seemed worth it.

At Ardennes she conceived a desire to strangle the young woman who prepped and held down garde manger. The woman, Becky Hemerling, was a culinary-institute grad with wavy blond hair and a petite flat body and fair skin that turned scarlet in the kitchen heat. Everything about Becky Hemerling sickened Denise—her C.I.A. education (Denise was an autodidact snob), her overfamiliarity with more senior cooks (especially with Denise), her vocal adoration of Jodie Foster, the stupid fish-and-bicycle texts on her T-shirts, her overuse of the word “fucking” as an intensifier, her self-conscious lesbian “solidarity” with the “latinos” and “Asians” in the kitchen, her generalizations about “right-wingers” and “Kansas” and “Peoria,” her facility with phrases like “men and women of color,” the whole bright aura of entitlement that came of basking in the approval of educators who wished that they could be as marginalized and victimized and free of guilt as she was. What is this person doing in my kitchen? Denise wondered. Cooks were not supposed to be political. Cooks were the mitochondria of humanity; they had their own separate DNA, they floated in a cell and powered it but were not really of it. Denise suspected that Becky Hemerling had chosen the cooking life to make a political point: to be one tough chick, to hold her own with the guys. Denise loathed this motivation all the more for harboring a speck of it herself. Hemerling had a way of looking at her that suggested that she (Hemerling) knew her better than she knew herself—an insinuation at once infuriating and impossible to refute. Lying awake beside Emile at night, Denise imagined squeezing Hemerling’s neck until her blue, blue eyes bugged out. She imagined pressing her thumbs into Hemerling’s windpipe until it cracked.    Then one night she fell asleep and dreamed that she was strangling Becky and that Becky didn’t mind. Becky’s blue eyes, in fact, invited further liberties. The strangler’s hands relaxed and traveled up along Becky’s jawline and past her ears to the soft skin of her temples. Becky’s lips parted and her eyes fell shut, as if in bliss, as the strangler stretched her legs out on her legs and her arms out on her arms…    Denise couldn’t remember being sorrier to wake from a dream.    “If you can have this feeling in a dream,” she said to herself, “it must be possible to have it in reality.

You can gaze over the fence and covet another person’s life or tell yourself that God has blessed you in ways you never could have earned. Do you ever battle with envy? Have you ever wondered why someone else’s life seems easier than yours? Have you ever struggled to celebrate the blessings of someone else who had what you thought you needed? Have you ever wished you could just switch lives with someone? Perhaps there are ways in which envy haunts us all, so it’s worth examining the heart of envy. What things prepare the heart for envy? Envy is forgetful. In concentrating on what we don’t have that we think we should have, we fail to keep in mind the huge catalog of blessings that are ours simply because God has chosen to place his bountiful love on us. This forgetfulness causes us to do more comparing and complaining than praising and resting. Envy misunderstands blessing. So often envy is fueled by misunderstanding what God’s care looks like. It is not always the care of provision, relief, or release. Sometimes God’s blessing comes in the form of trials that are his means of giving us things we could get no other way. Envy is selfish. Envy tends to put us in the center of our own worlds. It tends to make everything about our comfort and ease, our wants, needs, and feelings, and not about the plan and the glory of the God we serve. Envy is self-righteous. Envy has an “I deserve _____ more than they do” posture to it. It forgets that we all deserve immediate and eternal punishment, and that any good thing we have is an undeserved gift of God’s amazing grace. Envy is shortsighted. Envy has a right here, right now aspect to it that overlooks the fact that this moment is not all there is. Envy cannot see that this moment isn’t meant to be a destination, but a preparation for a final destination that will be beautiful beyond our wildest imagination. Envy questions God’s wisdom. When you and I envy, we tend to buy into the thought that we are smarter than God. In envy, we tend to think we know more and better, and if our hands were on the joystick, we would be handling things a different way. Envy is impatient. Envy doesn’t like to wait. Envy complains quickly and tires easily. Envy doesn’t just cry for blessings; it cries for blessings now. What is devastating about envy is that it questions God’s goodness, and when you do that, you quit running to him for help. So cry out for rescue—that God would give you a thankful, humble, and patient heart. His transforming grace is your only defense against envy. For further study and encouragement: Psalm 34

Boys evaluate themselves and feel ‘less’ that what they want to be; but it is not the comparison to others that is the problem here — it is the belief that they cannot be as developed, skilful, athletic, intelligent, mature and strong as they would like to be: this is what ‘breaks’ the boy as he looks upon those who are ‘more’ than him in some way. The comparison to others only exposes a desire in them, to be more, just as those others have become more in their way; but the trauma of the realisation that they would never be that, is what shatters the inner self. It is the death of hope — the hope all children are born with — that shatters the boy’s inner self into pieces which he then spends a lifetime trying to collect and organise in hope of putting up a facade that would somehow make life easier and worth living. ‘It’s just who I am’, such a heart-broken boy would say to himself as he comes face-to-face with his own limitations. Having been deprived of what was needed to help him become the man he would have liked to be, having then been judged for being something he wouldn’t particularly have chosen to be, he then judges himself and believes that this is the hand he had been dealt by fate... Then, disappointed by his own self and lacking a strong, wise presence to direct him away from making unhealthy agreements that would shape his future personality and life, he has only one choice: to look at himself as he currently is, and make a judgement based on what he sees. What follows is always tragic... Not fully possessing the 'natural' feelings of self worth, confidence and boyish wonder, (which only come as that ‘seed’ is nurtured with much love and physical affection, first by the mother, later by the father) the boy does not feel whole, strong, and 'good enough' to think that he is indeed a man, that he does have the seed of manhood within himself... Therefore, instead of being fully open and eager to receive more and learn more, he shuts down, covering what he sees as emptiness in him, with falsehood, pretending the empty places have been filled, that he is indeed a strong, confident man. He learns to feel scorn for the ‘needy’ little boy within and he ‘moves on’ into adulthood without him. From that moment on, a part of him — that little boy; that particular aspect of himself he has been disappointed in — is pushed out of reach, out of sight, and out of his conscious life.

children from pain and loss and tragedy and illness. You cannot be sure that you will always be married, let alone happily married. You cannot be sure you will always be employed, or healthy, or relatively sane. All you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference. Humility does not mean self-abnegation, lassitude, detachment; it’s more like a calm recognition that you must trust in that which does not make sense, that which is unreasonable, illogical, silly, ridiculous, crazy by the measure of most of our culture; you must trust that you being a very good you matters somehow. That trying to be an honest and tender parent will echo for centuries through your tribe. That doing your chosen work with creativity and diligence will shiver people far beyond your ken. That being an attentive and generous friend and citizen will somehow matter in the social fabric, save a thread or two from unraveling. And you must do all of this with the sure and certain knowledge that you will never get proper credit for it, at all, one bit, and in fact the vast majority of the things you do right will go utterly unremarked; except, perhaps, in ways we will never know or understand, by the Arab Jew who once shouted about his cloak, and may have been somehow also the One who invented and infuses this universe and probably a million others—not to put a hard number on it or anything. Humility, the final frontier, as my late brother Kevin used to say. When we are young we build a self, a persona, a story in which to reside, or several selves in succession, or several at once, sometimes; when we are older we take on other roles and personas, other masks and duties; and you and I both know men and women who become trapped in the selves they worked so hard to build, so desperately imprisoned that sometimes they smash their lives simply to escape who they no longer wish to be; but finally, I think, if we are lucky, if we read the book of pain and loss with humility, we realize that we are all broken and small and brief, that none among us is actually rich or famous or more beautiful than another; and then, perhaps, we begin to understand something deep and true finally about humility. This is what I know: that the small is huge, that the tiny is vast, that pain is part and parcel of the gift of joy, and that there is love, and then there is everything else. You either walk toward love or away from it with every breath you draw. Humility is the road to love. Humility, maybe, is love. That could be. I wouldn’t know; I am a muddle and a conundrum, shuffling slowly along the road, gaping in wonder, trying to just see and say what is, trying to leave shreds and shards of ego along the road like wisps of litter and chaff.

I run with him, two steps to his one just to keep up. We hit the water and plow into it, struggling to stay upright against the waves. I give in and pull my hand away, diving headfirst into one. It crashes over me and fills my ears with the sound of a rushing train. I push through, rising and diving again, until the waves become rolling hills. Before long, Gen and Paul join us. We splash each other and play until eventually the sea wears us out. Then we float, letting the rise and fall of the waves lift us to the sky and bring us back to earth, again and again. I stare up at the perfect blue sky, wondering how it’s possible there could be more to life than this. And by the time we turn to go back inside, I’ve come to the terrifying realization that it’s not possible. Up and down like the waves, to the sky and back to earth again, that’s what life is for me. I might not have chosen it, but it has unquestionably chosen me.

I’m mesmerized by lipstick prints on coffee cups. By the lines of lips against white pottery. By the color chosen by the woman who sat and sipped and lived life. By the mark she leaves behind. Some people read tea leaves, and others can tell your future through the lines on your palm. I think I’d like to read lipstick marks on coffee mugs. To learn how to differentiate yearning from satiation. To know the curve of deep-rooted joy or the line of bottomless grief. To be able to say this deep blue-red you chose and how firmly you planted your lips, speaks of love on the horizon. But, darling, you must be sure to stand in your own truth. That barely-there nude that circles the entire rim? You are exploding into lightness and possibilities beyond what you currently know. The way the gloss only shows when the light hits it, and the coffee has sloshed all over the saucer? People need to take the time to see you whole but my god, you’re glorious and messy and wonderful and free. The deep purple bruise was almost etched in a single spot, and most of the cup left unconsumed. Oh, love. Let me hold the depth of your ache. It is true. He’s not coming back. I know you already know this, but do you also know this is not the end? Love. This is not the end. I imagine that I can know entire stories by these marks on discarded mugs. I imagine that I know something intimate and true about the woman who left them. I imagine that I could take those mugs home one day, and an entire novel worth of characters would pour out, just like that.

I am grappling with fullness and emptiness and the unnameable something that could change everything. I am thinking of spells chosen, not cast, of polarity, of clear mirrors. I wonder at how the body can brace itself and choose surrender all at once. I contemplate the way Ink bleeds through from one page to the next, and how all the stories do this really, the way the lines of my tattoo soften into my skin over time. The way all lines blur in the end. I hold the language and complexity and sovereignty of my yes. I imagine the spaces where sacred and tender and profane and primal meet and dance. The intimacy that exists between us and how it takes me by surprise every single time. I dream of the way a future want can also feel like a memory lived, where the body inexplicably knows what it has not yet experienced. Of the way that the doing and the undoing of me are sometimes the very same thing. Of the hunger of my skin and my holy pleasure and the turning inward and the space where they collide. Of lighting seeking ground. Of the first taste of coffee in the morning and the way my body unfolds into it. Of the infinities of her and how and where I might one day find and taste them. How sometimes, when I dive into the root of what my lonely feels like, it is just that the light is so beautiful here, and I want someone else to feel it with me. Do you feel it? Tell me you do. Please. Tell me you do.

But they still did not know for what purpose David was being anointed. There were few offices that such consecration was used for: elders of Israel, prophet, priest or king. David was too young to be an elder. Could he be a prophet? He was not a Levite, so priesthood was not a possibility. Kingship was out of the question. Saul was clearly Yahweh’s chosen one for warrior king. The people murmured and debated amongst themselves. Jesse gathered up the courage to ask Samuel what everyone else was wondering. “Pray tell, Seer Samuel, for what purpose is my son being anointed?” Samuel gave a long hard stare at David, who felt his skin crawl with the holiness. “Yahweh will reveal in his own good time.” Suddenly, a rushing wind blew through the town square. David felt a gust enter him like a breath, and he knew everything had changed. Everything was different. Samuel capped the horn, and drew his servants near him and walked away through the crowd. David and the others were confused. David called to Samuel. Samuel just kept walking. David ran after him. “Samuel! Samuel! Where are you going?” “Back to Ramah.” He kept walking. David had to keep up. “What am I supposed to do?” “I have told you everything I know. Yahweh will let you know more when he is good and ready.” “What am I supposed to do until then?” “What do you do now?” “I shepherd. Play music. Train for battle.” “That sounds good. Keep it up.

Being invisible to your father hurts,” Val said. He fell silent, wondering where the words had come from. Growing up, he’d been the runt, too young, too dreamy, too artistic to keep up with his brothers or their friends. As a younger man, he’d been disinclined to academic brilliance, social wit, or business acumen, and denied by ducal fiat from buying his colors. For the first time, he wondered if he’d chosen the piano or simply chained himself to it by default. Nick shot him a curious glance. “Would it be so much better if you’d ended up like Bart and Victor? If Esther and Percy had to bury three sons instead of two, while you were spared the pains of living the life God gave you? I think the more important question now, Val, is are you invisible to yourself?” “No, Nick.” A mirthless laugh. “I am not, but just when I realize what a pit I had fallen into with my slavish devotion to a simple manual skill, just when I can begin to hope there might be more to life than benumbing myself on a piano bench, I find a woman I can love, but she can’t love me back.” “I think she does love you,” Nick replied, remaining seated as Val rose and crossed the room. “And you certainly do love her.” Val considered Nick’s words. They settled something inside him, in his head—where he planned and worked out strategies—and in his heart, where his music and his love for Ellen both resided. “I do love her.” Val lowered himself to sit on the little stage enthroning the piano. “I most assuredly do. It’s helpful to be reminded of this.” “Now I am going to cry,” Nick said with mock disgust as he crossed the room and once again sat right next to Val. “What will you do about Ellen?” “About Ellen? I agree with you: We love each other. She believes her love for me requires us to part. I believe our love requires us to be together for whatever time the good Lord grants.” “So you must convince her,” Nick concluded with a nod. “How will you go about this?” “I have some ideas.” Those ideas were like the first stirrings of a musical theme in Val’s head. Tenuous, in need of development, but they were taking hold in Val’s mind with the same tenacity as a lovely new tune. “God alone knows if my ideas will work.” Val

I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he said, his rumbly voice barely a whisper. “It’s kept me awake at night…wondering what it would feel like to be buried inside of you. Wondering if I’d survive it.” “Survive

Learn That Your Feelings Are as Important as Theirs. Some of us can’t see our own feelings because we have learned somewhere along the way that other people’s feelings are more important than ours. For example, it was always assumed that your father would move in with your family when his health began to fail. But now that he has, his constant demands and crankiness are beginning to take a toll, especially on top of managing his medications and frequent doctor’s visits. You are exhausted and frustrated, and wonder why your brother isn’t willing to do his share. Yet you don’t raise it with parent or sibling. “It’s hard, but it’s not that hard,” you reason. “Besides, I don’t want to rock the boat.” Your girlfriend calls and says she can’t have dinner on Friday after all. She’s wondering whether Saturday is okay. She says a friend of hers is in town and wants to see a movie on Friday. You say, “Sure, if that’s better for you.” Although you said yes, Saturday is actually not as good for you, because you had planned to go to a baseball game. Still, you’d rather see your girlfriend, so you give your ticket away. In each of these situations, you’ve chosen to put someone else’s feelings ahead of your own. Does this make sense? Is your father’s frustration or your brother’s peace of mind more important than yours? Is your girlfriend’s desire to see a movie with her friend more important than your desire to see a baseball game? Why is it that they express their feelings and preferences, but you cope with yours privately? There are several reasons why you may choose to honor others’ feelings even when it means dishonoring your own. The implicit rule you are following is that you should put other people’s happiness before your own. If your friends or loved ones or colleagues don’t get their way, they’ll feel bad, and then you’ll have to deal with the consequences. That may be true, but it’s unfair to you. Their anger is no better or worse than yours. “Well, it’s just easier not to rock the boat,” you think. “I don’t like it when they’re mad at me.” If you’re thinking this, then you are undervaluing your own feelings and interests. Friends, neighbors, and bosses will recognize this and begin to see you as someone they can manipulate. When you are more concerned about others’ feelings than your own, you teach others to ignore your feelings too. And beware: one of the reasons you haven’t raised the issue is that you don’t want to jeopardize the relationship. Yet by not raising it, the resentment you feel will grow and slowly erode the relationship anyway.

Life has always seemed to me like a restaurant,' said Peter. 'When you’re born, you come in and sit down...' 'Oh, my God,' said Brenda. '...and they show you the menu,' went on Peter, frowning at Brenda. 'And it’s a swell menu. It’s got everything on it. And they tell you that you can have anything you want, the rarest and tastiest and most wonderful dishes imaginable.' 'Who’s they?' asked Brenda. 'They is a sort of waiter-cum-proprietor,' said Peter, 'and he represents organized society in the parable.' 'It’s a parable, is it?' 'Yes. So you study the menu and you pick out the dishes that appeal to you most. Some people pick more exotic viands than others, but everybody picks out something he thinks is swell and the waiter-cum-proprietor pats him on the back and says it’s an excellent choice. And you sit back and wait to be served. That represents the period of adolescence. ... Damn it, where was I?' 'You were adolescent.' 'So you sit and wait to be served your fondly chosen dish,' resumed Peter, 'and pretty soon the waiter comes in and what does he bring you? He brings you hash! "Hey," you say, "this isn’t what I ordered." "Oh isn’t it?" says the waiter who is no longer friendly. "Well, it’s what you’re gonna get." Now this is the important part. Some people meekly eat their hash. Some drown it with catsup and try to enjoy it.' 'I get it,' said Brenda. 'Those are the drunks.' 'But there are a few who say, "Goddamn it, I didn’t order hash and I don’t want hash and I won’t eat hash." They get out of their chairs and the waiter tries to push them back, but they say, "Get out of my way, who the hell are you?" And they fight their way into the kitchen while the waiter hollers and protests and there they find mountains and mountains of hash. But they keep looking around and pretty soon in odd corners of the kitchen they find the dishes they ordered, the rare and costly viands they had their hearts set on. And they eat ’em and they enjoy ’em and then they go out of the restaurant the same as the hash eaters do, but boy, they’ve dined!' He threw down his cigarette and stamped on it. 'That’s all,' he said. 'Thank you for your attention.' 'Who pays the bill?' asked George with interest. 'I don’t know,' said Peter irritably. 'That would complicate the parable to the point of chaos.' 'Who did you say the waiter was?' asked George. 'Organized society?' 'That’s right. A pale flabby guy with a walrus mustache.' 'I don’t quite see it,' said George. 'I do,' said Harriet, sitting up on the day bed. 'I see it. It’s beautiful.' 'It isn’t so bad at that,' said Brenda. 'You’re damn right it’s not.

My God!” Sophia sat back, her eyes wide with horror. “It’s a drug! He’s drugging her and she doesn’t even know it.” Here we go. “It’s common knowledge that we’re genetic traders—the fact that we have more than one means to attract a mate of an entirely different species should come as no surprise,” he pointed out. “You…you cold blooded bastard.” Sophia shook her head. “Poor Liv—she has no idea what he’s doing to her.” “It wouldn’t matter even if she did,” Sylvan explained patiently, ignoring her insults. “The mating scent is too strong to fight, even with advanced warning. Stronger species than yours have tried and they have all failed. With very few exceptions.” He closed his eyes briefly thinking of Feenah, of her pure white hair and pale crystal eyes. I’m sorry, Sylvan… “It’s not right. You’re not fighting fair.” Sophia’s words pushed back the painful memory and Sylvan opened his eyes again to see the look of despair and anger on her lovely face. She looked almost on the brink of tears. Wonderful—she was even more upset and irrational than he had thought she would be. He supposed he ought to feel irritated. Instead, the illogical urge to hold and comfort her came over him so strongly that he had to sit back and cross his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her. “I believe you humans have a saying that covers this—‘All’s fair in love and war.’ Is that right?” he said softly. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean—” Sylvan leaned forward again and took her soft, small hands between his own larger ones. “You must understand, Sophia—Baird isn’t trying to trick your sister into anything. He’s simply using every power at his disposal to keep her. Because he needs her—he loves her. She is the only woman in the entire universe for him and the bond that will form between them will be one of undying love and devotion.” “Maybe for him.” She looked down as though mesmerized by the sight of her own small hands being engulfed in his much larger ones. “But not for Liv. He’s going to trick her into having bonding sex with him —whatever that is—and then she’ll spend the rest of her life hating him once she finds out how he did it.” She looked up at Sylvan. “You don’t know her like I do—she hates being lied to. Her last boyfriend cheated on her and then lied about it and she dumped him and never looked back. If she knew what Baird was doing to her…” “It’s not as though it’s a conscious choice on his part,” Sylvan tried to explain. “It’s the way our bodies react chemically to our chosen mates. We can’t turn it off, even if we try. Sometimes it comes even when it’s not wanted. We have a saying for it—‘The blood knows what the mind does not wish to see.’” Lifting a hand, he cupped her cheek and brushed away the single tear that had escaped her wide green eyes with his thumb. “It cannot be helped.” Sophia

Desire is a contract you make with yourself to be unhappy until you get what you want. I don’t think most of us realize that’s what it is. I think we go about desiring things all day long and then wonder why we’re unhappy. I like to stay aware of it, because then I can choose my desires very carefully. I try not to have more than one big desire in my life at any given time, and I also recognize it as the axis of my suffering. I realize the area where I’ve chosen to be unhappy. [5] Desire is a contract you make with yourself to be unhappy until you get what you want.

She and the star The feeling was fair, It felt like a perfect pair, There appeared to be no room for any despair, As my imagination got caught in her beautiful eyes and her long hair, Well, the sun had finally risen, My heart too had eventually chosen, Her, and her beautiful eyes where I wished to awaken, Every morning and every day, because in them I did not feel forsaken, So I waited at the crossing of life where I had met her sometime ago, Where I just felt an existence without an ego, Yes, it was many years and many months ago, I am there at the same crossing now, wondering where to go, For it is uncertain which way she took, Whether she went towards the mountain tall or there where flows the brook, Or there, where the summer breeze, a few leaves had tenderly shook, Or maybe there, from where she had left while offering me that strange parting look, But then it is true too, few things shine like stars, For those who believe in love without bars, And those who deal with emotional battles and feeling induced wars, Realise that in order to shine one must burn, and that is the fate of all stars, So I seek her in the sky instead, assuming she is the star I can see, From anywhere, from everywhere, or wherever I might be, And this has made me fall in love with the night, where it creates a world just for me, The starry world, where finally, in the stars those eyes and that smile, I can see, And during the day I lie asleep because the sky means nothing, It just has the burning sun, the bright light and perhaps everything, But it is not the sky that shines with that fairest thing, Those beautiful eyes, that subtle smile, and her shimmer that is so charming, And here I am witnessing another night, Looking at the star that is in the sight, Seeking from it a pseudo delight, Because what burns may not always create the beauty’s eternal light, But that is not the star’s fault nor the skies folly, For the munificent star burns for me willingly, So that I think of her lovingly, And that I accept silently, that my heart too loved what I loved with my mind finally!

She and the star The feeling was fair, It felt like a perfect pair, There appeared to be no room for any despair, As my imagination got caught in her beautiful eyes and her locks of hair, Well, the sun had finally risen, My heart too had eventually chosen, Her, and her beautiful eyes where I wished to awaken, Every morning and every day, because in them I did not feel forsaken, So I waited at the crossing of life where I had met her sometime ago, Where I just felt an existence without an ego, Yes, it was many years and many months ago, I am there at the same crossing now, wondering where to go, For it is uncertain which way she took, Whether she went towards the mountain tall or there where flows the brook, Or there, where the summer breezer a few leaves had tenderly shook, Or maybe there, from where she had left while offering me that strange parting look, But then I realise few things shine like stars, For those who believe in love without bars, And those who deal with emotional battles and feeling induced wars, To realise that in order to shine one must burn, and that is the fate of all stars, So I seek her in the sky instead, assuming she is the star I can see, From anywhere, from everywhere, or wherever I might be, And this has made me fall in love with the night, where it creates a world just for me, The starry world, where finally, in the stars those eyes and that smile I can see, And during the day I lie asleep because the sky means nothing, It just has the burning sun, the bright light and perhaps everything, But it is not the sky, that shines with that fairest thing, Those beautiful eyes, that subtle smile, and her shimmer that is so charming, And here I am witnessing another night, Looking at the star that is in the sight, Seeking from it a pseudo delight, Because what burns may not always create the beauty’s eternal light, But that is not the star’s fault nor the skies folly, For the munificent star burns for me willingly, So that I think of her lovingly, And that I accept silently, that my heart too loved what I loved with my mind finally!

Sometimes you look back on a particular moment and wonder, What if I’d chosen differently? Those moments where everything branches off. If I’d turned around there and then, not gone to Jubilee. Would that have spared us all what came next? I guess you can’t really answer a question like that.

Mor rubbed her face. 'You were right about me, though. You were...' Her hand shook as she lowered it. She gnawed on her lip, throat bobbing. Her eyes at last met mine- bright and fearful and anguished. Her voice broke as she said, 'I don't love Azriel.' I remained perfectly still. Listening. 'No, that's not true, either. I- I do love him. As my family. And sometimes I wonder if it can be... more, but... I do not love him. Not the way he- he feels for me.' The last words were a trembling whisper. 'Have you ever loved him? That way?' 'No.' She wrapped her arms around herself. 'No, I don't... You see...' I'd never seen her at such a loss for words. She closed her eyes, fingers digging into her skin. 'I can't love him like that.' 'Why?' 'Because I prefer females.' For a heartbeat, only silence rippled through me. 'But- you sleep with males. You slept with Helion...' And had looked terrible the next day. Tortured and not sated. Not just because of Azriel, but... because it wasn't what she wanted. 'I do find pleasure in them. In both.' Her hands were shaking so fiercely that she gripped herself even tighter. 'But I've known, since I was little more than a child, that I prefer females. That I'm... attracted to them more over males. That I connect with them, care for them more on that soul-deep level But at the Hewn City... All they care about is breeding their bloodlines, making alliances through marriage. Someone like me... If I were to marry where my heart desired, there would be no offspring. My father's bloodline would have ended with me. I knew it- knew that I could never tell them. Ever. People like me... we're reviled by them. Considered selfish, for not being able to pass on the bloodline. So I never breathed a word of it. And then... then my father betrothed me to Eris, and... And it wasn't just the prospect of marriage to him that scared me. No, I knew I could survive his brutality, his cruelty and coldness. I was- I am stronger than him. It was... It was the idea of being bred like a prize mare, of being forced to give up that one part of me...' Her mouth wobbled, and I reached for her hand, prying it off her arm. I squeezed gently as tears began sliding down her flushed face. 'I slept with Cassian because I knew it would mean little to him, too. Because I knew doing it would buy me a shot at freedom. If I had told my parents that I preferred females... You've met my father. He and Beron would have tied me to that marriage bed for Eris. Literally. But sullied... I knew my shot at freedom lay there. And I saw how Azriel looked at me... knew how he felt. And if I'd chosen him...' She shook her head. 'It wouldn't have been fair to him. So I slept with Cassian, and Azriel though I deemed him unsuitable, and then everything happened and...' Her fingers tightened on mine. 'After Azriel found me with that note nailed to my womb... I tried to explain. But he started to confess what he felt, and I panicked, and... and to get him to stop, to keep him from saying he loved me, I just turned and left, and... and I couldn't face explaining it after that. To Az, to the others.' She loosed a shuddering breath. 'I sleep with males in part because I enjoy it, but... also to keep people from looking too closely.

The ceremony was beautiful, and as Hope and Mark stood beneath the towering floral arch, I couldn't help but think this scene truly looked like something out of a fairytale wedding. I even started feeling a little emotional--- until they started to recite their vows. Hope had told me earlier that she and Mark had written their own vows but failed to say more about them. At first, I thought my hearing had failed or I was having some kind of stroke. "What language is that?" I whispered to Dom from our perch in the back. "I... I actually think it's a pretend language," he replied. "What are you talking about?" I asked. "What do you mean pretend language?" "Do you have one of the programs with you?" he asked. "I bet there's a note in there about it." "No, but let me grab one." I didn't have to go far before I found the table at the back of the aisle and a basket full of programs. Each program was iridescent, in the shape of a flower with a beautiful lilac ribbon tied at the bottom. Under the order of service, a small line read: "The bride and groom have chosen to recite their own vows to one another in their favorite mythical tongue: Sindarin, one of the Elvish languages of Tolkein." My eyes were wide as saucers. Both the Elvish and English translations were printed below for everyone to follow along. Dom was going to lose it for sure. I quietly moved back to my seat next to Dom, who was still filming. "You're not going to believe what I'm about to tell you," I whispered as I casually fanned myself with the floral program. "What is it?" he asked. "It's Elvish," I said, holding back a laugh. "What?" he replied a little too loud. "Keep your voice down," I said, now pointing to the line in the program as proof. "Like, from The Lord of the Rings?" "I can't believe she didn't mention this to me earlier," I said. "But yes, I think so. This wedding is just full of surprises." "For once, I'm at a loss for words," Dom said. "They are clearly perfect for each other if this was something they both enjoyed. I bet they go to all those conferences for people who like fantasy stuff." "Maybe that's what they're doing for their honeymoon," I added. "I haven't asked them about it yet. If it is, I'm going to die." We were both holding back giggles at this point, but thankfully the couple finished reciting whatever it was they were saying to each other. I wondered whether we'd need to add subtitles to our video if we showed this part of the ceremony. As soon as the officiant pronounced them man and wife, the ceremony musicians played a set of chimes and the officiant asked for every guest to open the small box that was placed at the base of every bench. Inside each box was a butterfly that flew into the air and fluttered around the entire area above all the guests. I supposed that since real fairies weren't available, butterflies were the next best option. It was actually the perfect ending to this mythical ceremony, and everyone cheered in delight.

I'd sent that note to Tamlin... and he'd chosen to ignore it. Just as he'd ignored or rejected nearly all of my requests, acted out of his deluded sense of what he believed was right for my well-being and safety. And Lucien had been prepared to take me against my will. Fae males were territorial, dominant, arrogant- but the ones in the Spring Court... something had festered in their training. Because I knew- deep in my bones- that Cassian might push and test my limits, but the moment I said no, he'd back off. And I knew that if... that if I had been wasting away and Rhys had done nothing to stop it, Cassian or Azriel would have pulled me out. They would have taken me somewhere- wherever I needed to be- and dealt with Rhys later. But Rhys... Rhys would never have not seen what was happening to me, would never have been so misguided and arrogant and self-absorbed. He'd know what Ianthe was from the moment he'd met her. And he'd understood what it was like to be a prisoner, and helpless, and to struggle- every day- with the horrors of both. I had loved the High Lord who had shown me the comforts and wonders of Prythian; I had loved the High Lord who let me have the time and food and safety to paint. Maybe a small part of me might always care for him, but... Amarantha had broken us both. Or broken me so that who he was and what I now was no longer fit. And I could let that go. I could accept that. Maybe it would be hard for a while, but... maybe it'd get better.

there were nights when I lay awake, stripped of all confidence and pretense, wondering who the hell I was and what I was doing. Had I chosen the wrong path? Was there even a right path for me, or was I destined to drift through life like an aimless ghost? No meaning, no purpose, just day after day of routine and drudgery. A life wasted on bad decisions and short-term highs.

You likely have had your own version of house fires and tick bites—perhaps much more dire than this account—and if you have, I am truly sorry. We each construct a home of beliefs and values, relationships and work that makes up our reality. When the one you’ve made burns, how do you respond? How do you navigate these times when you’re just starting a new dream or in the middle of one? Is the highest aim merely to get through the day as unscathed as possible? If you view life as a quest, as I do, then you acknowledge that challenges are part and parcel of what to expect on this path you’ve chosen. But, whoa!—and woe!—when those challenges are relentless, accumulative, and seemingly personal.

It was like someone had died-like I had died. Because it had to be more than just losing the truest of true love as if that were not enough to kill anyone. It was also losing a whole future, a whole family- the whole life that I'd chosen… Mr. Anderson went on in a hopeless tone. ‘I don't know if she's going to get over it-I'm not sure if it's in her nature to heal from something like this. She's always been such a constant little thing. She doesn't get past things, change her mind.’ ‘She's one of a kind,’ Olivia agreed in a dry voice. ‘And Olivia…’ Mr. Anderson hesitated. ‘Now, you know how fond I am of you, and I can tell that she's happy to see you, but… I'm a little worried about what your visit will do to her.’ ‘So am I, Mr. Anderson, so am I. I wouldn't have come if I'd had any idea. I'm sorry.’ ‘Don't apologize, honey. Who knows? Maybe it will be good for her.’ ‘I hope you're right.’ There was a long break while Pittsburgh scraped plates and Mr. Anderson chewed. I wondered where Olivia was hiding the food. ‘Olivia, I have to ask you something,’ Mr. Anderson said awkwardly. Olivia was calm. ‘Go ahead.’ ‘He's not coming back to visit, too, is he?’ I could hear the suppressed anger in Mr. Anderson’s voice. Olivia answered in a soft, reassuring tone. ‘He doesn't even know I'm here. The last time I spoke with him, he was in South America.’ I stiffened as I heard this added information and listened harder. ‘That's something, at least.’ Mr. Anderson snorted. ‘Well, I hope he's enjoying himself.’ For the first time, Olivia's voice had a bit of steel in it. ‘I wouldn't make assumptions, Mr. Anderson.’ I knew how her eyes would flash when she used that tone. A chair scooted from the table, scraping loudly across the floor. I pictured Mr. Anderson getting up; there was no way Olivia would make that kind of noise. The faucet ran, splashing against a dish.

She began to cry, looking at it. What is she to me? Except for a hazard, a danger, you’ve chosen to inflict on all of us. They glanced quietly at the sun. ‘Oh. Oh. And OH!’ A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and their mouths. The sun faded behind a stir of mist. His voice is nearly noiseless. He turned to look at me with a wistful manifestation. The wonderful eyes held mine, and I lost my train of belief. I stared at him until he looked away. ‘You haven’t asked me, with a wind blowing cold around them. Are you still fainting from the run? Or was it my kissing expertise? They turned and started to walk back toward the anti-establishment house, their hands at their sides, their smiles vanishing away. Lightning struck… A flourishing of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they stumbled upon each other and ran. Ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half-mile. The sky darkened into midnight in a flash. They stood in the doorway of the underground for a moment until it was raining hard. Then they closed the door and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in heaps and falls, everywhere and forever. ‘Will it be seven more years, till?’ ‘Yes. Seven.’ Then one of them gave a little cry.’ You- her- she- Karly! ‘What?’ ‘She’s still in the closet where we locked her.’ They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many stakes, into the floor. They observed each other and then beheld and looked away. They could not encounter each other’s glimpses. They glanced out at the world that was raining now and drizzling and raining progressively. IT’S ALL RUNNING OUT OF ME! It’s a -Full moon… I FELT LIKE I WAS IMPRISONED IN ONE OF THOSE CHILLING… hallucinations, the one where you have to run, trip until my lungs would surely burst to my heartbeat, but you can't make your body move fast enough nor your breath to your heart. Holding it all in… My legs seemed to move sluggish, leisure-liner and dawdling as I crashed my way finished the callous horde, but the hands-on the huge timepiece of the tower didn't slow me the way. With unyielding, heartless strength, they turned inescapably in the direction of the termination of the whole thing.

Are you Italian?” Nico asked, putting down his drink. I looked up at him. “A quarter, and how did you know that? I don’t look it.” “You kind of do, plus you use a spoon like Gina, that’s the waitress, and she’s half Italian.” I shrugged, having picked up the habit from my nonna. “What else are you?” he asked. “I’m also a quarter Māori, part French, Welsh, Danish, and English.” His eyes twinkled at me. “Add a few more countries in there and you’ll be a one-woman United Nations.” I smiled at that and lifted the pasta to my mouth. Gina returned with Nico’s plate of food, causing me to lower the fork momentarily, making me wonder whether I should wait for him, but Gina started asking him questions about university, so I took a bite. I shivered at the delicious taste of garlic, the chef having put the perfect amount in, just how my nonna would’ve made it. The waitress disappeared as Nico picked up his fork, twirling the spaghetti onto it without the aid of a spoon. “Looks like you got the best parts out of all of those nationalities,” he said. I blushed at the compliment, always embarrassed when people said nice things about my looks. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome,” he replied, popping the spaghetti into his mouth, his unusual eyes once more twinkling at me, so bright that I understood why his adoptive parents had chosen him.

Being an innovator is something that most people just won't get. It's still yummy doing this thang over here though. The older I get I've come to place where I just love to create so much that I do me regardless of what it looks like to anyone else. Just think: The people in the world who just know they'll make it (In their way) regardless- Always make it to their chosen destinations. It's wonderful to see. So DO you always, And do so unapologetically with happiness! Peace and love.

Work hard. Don’t be like that loafer, Mary! Who’s going to get this stuff done? I wonder how important that stuff was to Martha after her friend had been crucified, resurrected, and taken up into heaven. I wonder what she would have given for just a few moments to sit at his feet. “Mary has chosen what is better.” That’s a choice we can make every single day when we choose to make our relationship with God more important than anything else on our to-do list. I know I’ve already said this, but I want to be clear: Working hard and achieving goals are an important part of leading a God-glorifying life. But they are not life. They are not even a measuring stick for the worth of life.