Brewing Life Quotes

God knows far more about living a life of joy and blessings than we do.

There's always another storm. It's the way the world works. Snowstorms, rainstorms, windstorms, sandstorms, and firestorms. Some are fierce and others are small. You have to deal with each one separately, but you need to keep an eye on whats brewing for tomorrow.

There are few things in life that are worth waking up to: sex, the dark spices of freshly brewed coffee and bacon.

I like old bookstores, the smell of coffee brewing, rainy day naps, farmhouse porches, and sunsets. I like the sweet, simple things that remind me that life doesn’t have to be complicated to be beautiful.

Somewhere deeper in the city a motor is running, a distant, earthy growl, like an animal panting. in a few hours the bright blush of morning will push through all that darkness, and shapes will reassert themselves, and people will wake up and yawn and brew coffee and get ready for work, everything the same as usual. Life will go on. Something aches at the very core of me, something ancient and deep and stronger than words: the filament that joins each of us to the root of existence, that ancient thing unfurling and resisting and grappling, desperately for a foothold, a way to stay here, breathe, keep going.

Fueled by my inspiration, I ran across the room to steal the cup of coffee the bookshelf had taken prisoner. Lapping the black watery brew like a hyena, I tossed the empty cup aside. I then returned to the chair to continue my divine act of creation. Hot blood swished in my head as my mighty pen stole across the page.

The worst thing is not that the world is unfree, but that people have unlearned their liberty. The more indifferent people are to politics, to the interests of others, the more obsessed they become with their own faces. The individualism of our time. Not being able to fall asleep and not allowing oneself to move: the marital bed. If high culture is coming to an end, it is also the end of you and your paradoxical ideas, because paradox as such belongs to high culture and not to childish prattle. You remind me of the young men who supported the Nazis or communists not out of cowardice or out of opportunism but out of an excess of intelligence. For nothing requires a greater effort of thought than arguments to justify the rule of nonthought… You are the brilliant ally of your own gravediggers. In the world of highways, a beautiful landscape means: an island of beauty connected by a long line with other islands of beauty. How to live in a world with which you disagree? How to live with people when you neither share their suffering nor their joys? When you know that you don’t belong among them?... our century refuses to acknowledge anyone’s right to disagree with the world…All that remains of such a place is the memory, the ideal of a cloister, the dream of a cloister… Humor can only exist when people are still capable of recognizing some border between the important and the unimportant. And nowadays this border has become unrecognizable. The majority of people lead their existence within a small idyllic circle bounded by their family, their home, and their work... They live in a secure realm somewhere between good and evil. They are sincerely horrified by the sight of a killer. And yet all you have to do is remove them from this peaceful circle and they, too, turn into murderers, without quite knowing how it happened. The longing for order is at the same time a longing for death, because life is an incessant disruption of order. Or to put it the other way around: the desire for order is a virtuous pretext, an excuse for virulent misanthropy. A long time a go a certain Cynic philosopher proudly paraded around Athens in a moth-eaten coat, hoping that everyone would admire his contempt for convention. When Socrates met him, he said: Through the hole in your coat I see your vanity. Your dirt, too, dear sir, is self-indulgent and your self-indulgence is dirty. You are always living below the level of true existence, you bitter weed, you anthropomorphized vat of vinegar! You’re full of acid, which bubbles inside you like an alchemist’s brew. Your highest wish is to be able to see all around you the same ugliness as you carry inside yourself. That’s the only way you can feel for a few moments some kind of peace between yourself and the world. That’s because the world, which is beautiful, seems horrible to you, torments you and excludes you. If the novel is successful, it must necessarily be wiser than its author. This is why many excellent French intellectuals write mediocre novels. They are always more intelligent than their books. By a certain age, coincidences lose their magic, no longer surprise, become run-of-the-mill. Any new possibility that existence acquires, even the least likely, transforms everything about existence.

God wants to dance with us. The goal of dancing is NOT to learn the steps. The goal of dancing is to enjoy your partner. We learn the steps but only so we don't have to look down at our feet. We are free to look into the eyes of the one we love.

The hole in the ozone layer is a kind of skywriting. At first it seemed to spell out our continuing complacency before a witch's brew of deadly perils. But perhaps it really tells of a newfound talent to work together to protect the global environment.

With each spring comes new life, energy and green growth. In summer comes the sun, warm, kind and enduring. Fall brings its canvas of color in careful, gentle change. Winter brews into faithful strength, beauty in pure white. And then comes you. You are all that Nature offers, a blessing, a gift.. You are the fifth season.

Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened every day and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breath in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

I am the outcast come home to roost and the eggs of tomorrow are incubating in my fame. You hate me, you love me, you made me, and now I am in you. I am like that disease brewing in your loins and I think you like it…

The taste of your life depends on the spices you used to brew it. Add laziness to it and it becomes bitter as the bile; put a cube of good attitudes into it and you will lick your lips more and more due to its sweet taste.

We love with all our heart but we also keep our heart light and pliable. It has space. It breathes. It waits on life to give instructions. It sings with sweetness when the winds are soft and warm. It stands with calm patience when the storm is brewing. It lets go when endings have left their irrefutable mark. It moves. It heals. It hopes.

Coffee is a warm drink that fosters friendship and tastes great. What more is there to life?

Look, I get it. I’m a white, heterosexual man. It’s really easy for me to say, ‘Oh, wow, wasn’t the nineteenth century terrific?’ But try this. Imagine the scene: It’s pouring rain against a thick window. Outside, on Baker Street, the light from the gas lamps is so weak that it barely reaches the pavement. A fog swirls in the air, and the gas gives it a pale yellow glow. Mystery brews in every darkened corner, in every darkened room. And a man steps out into that dim, foggy world, and he can tell you the story of your life by the cut of your shirtsleeves. He can shine a light into the dimness, with only his intellect and his tobacco smoke to help him. Now. Tell me that’s not awfully romantic?

So, if people didn’t settle down to take up farming, why then did they embark on this entirely new way of living? We have no idea – or actually, we have lots of ideas, but we don’t know if any of them are right. According to Felipe Fernández-Armesto, at least thirty-eight theories have been put forward to explain why people took to living in communities: that they were driven to it by climatic change, or by a wish to stay near their dead, or by a powerful desire to brew and drink beer, which could only be indulged by staying in one place.

Brew coffee or tea, sit with a friend and ask them questions—questions just one step riskier than the last time you talked. As you listen, observe the flickers of sadness or hope that cross their face. Try to imagine what it must be like to live their story, suffer their losses, dream their dreams. Pray with them and dare to put into words their heart’s desires, and dare to ask God to grant them.

And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.

My soul is so heavy that no longer can any thought sustain it, no wingbeat lift it up into the ether. If it moves, it only sweeps along the ground like the low flight of birds when a thunderstorm is brewing.

When change is brewing in your life, open your eyes, and if they are already open, open them wider.

Some men spend their whole life furnishing for themselves the things proper to life without realizing that at our birth each of us was poured a mortal brew to drink.

What do you know of love or marriage?" I asked. "You were all set to marry a woman ten years older than you before the King stole her away." "I wouldn't have married her anyway," Loki shrugged. "Not if I didn't love her." "Now you've got integrity?" I scoffed. "You kidnapped me, and your father was a traitor." "I've never said a nice word about my father," Loki said quickly. "And I've never done anything bad to you." "You still kidnapped me!" I said dubiously. "Did I?" Loki cocked his head. "Because I remember Kyra kidnapping you,and me preventing her from pummeling you to death. Then,when you were coughing up blood, I sent for the Queen to help you. When you escaped,I didn't stop you. And since I came here,I've done nothing to you. I've even been good because you told me to be. So what terrible crimes have I committed against you, Princess?" "I-I-" I stammered. "I never said you did anything terrible." "Then why don't you trust me, Wendy?" He'd never called me by my name before, and the underlying affection underneath it startled me. Even his eyes, which still held their usual veil of playfulness, had something deeper brewing underneath. When he wasn't trying so hard to be devilishly handsome, he actually was. The growing connection I felt with him unnerved me, but I didn't want him to see that. More than that,it didn't matter what feelings I might be having for him.He was leaving today, and I would probably never see him again. "I do trust you," I admitted. "I do trust you.I just don't know why I do,and I don't know why you've been helping me." "You want the truth?" He smiled at me, and there was something sincere and sweet underlying. "You piqued my curiosity." "You risked your life for me because you were curious?" I asked doubtfully. "As soon as you came to,your only conern was for helping your friends, and you never stopped," Loki said. "You were kind. And I haven't seen that much kindness in my life.

The chemicals to which life is asked to make its adjustment are no longer merely the calcium and silica and copper and all the rest of the minerals washed out of the rocks and carried in rivers to the sea; they are the synthetic creations of man’s inventive mind, brewed in his laboratories, and having no counterparts in nature.

If you examine your life well, you will find many instances when God showed His unmistakable mercy to you. Trouble was brewing, but it passed you by for some reason. God delivered you. Acknowledge these and thank God, Who loves you.

Life is like coffee, sometimes when you feel you are drowned in hot water, life is actually brewing you to extract your true essence and spread the aroma of your inner self around.

Every day is a gift, Violet. Find the joy in this one. Do that every day, one after the other, and your entire life will be filled with beautiful blessings.

If she was going to get any work done today, she needed to feed herself, too. She should brew green tea for the antioxidants and make a healthy breakfast rich in whole grains for slow-release energy. However, since that sounded extremely difficult and her body ached as if she'd been stomped on by a god, she improvised by eating handfuls of Coco Pops straight from the box and gulping apple juice from the carton.

Ah, and that's why it is magic. Not all recipes in life are easily understood or followed or deconstructed. Sometimes you have to take what is given to you and use your talents to brew the best tea possible.

I now have memories attached to it, to help fill it up. Of my dad’s soft chuckle carrying through the perpetual silence, of the smell of his fresh-brewed coffee in the morning, of the sound of the floors creaking as he pads down the hallway after saying good night to me. Such little things—tiny, trivial slivers of his life that shouldn’t count as memories

Around them, the dawn gently wakes Borg like someone breathing into the ear of someone they love. With sun and promises. Tickling light falls over warm duvets, like the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread. It shouldn't be doing this. It's the wrong day to be beautiful, but the dawn doesn't care.

I decipher the brewing machine because I am, after all, trained to save lives, and this is a life-or-death situation. We need coffee. Now. Or heads will roll.

There was an undoubted affinity in his mind between the two great passions of his life: revolution and good brew. The taste of one immediately brought to mind the other.

Sitting by the rocket stove in the fire-hut, tending to a brew, I put the finishing touches to a soup spoon. It’s not perfect, yet every imperfection tells a story of my afternoon, which makes it perfect to me, and me only. When I eat soup from this day forth, that small dent in the bottom will be my Buddha, but I’m content with it. There’s no point being otherwise.

Coffee is a lot like people. In many ways, it’s deceiving. The sweetness that you smell as it brews is more often than not a fallacy. The scent of a dark roasted coffee bean promises you rich flavors with hints of chocolate and hazelnut, but if you’re not used to coffee’s deceptiveness, you’re left with a bitter aftertaste dangling at the back of your throat. To those of us who are used to it- we’ve grown a fondness for that bitter taste. It’s complex. It’s teasing. It reminds us that most things in life are not consistently sweet with every sip. One morning, your coffee might brew mild with just a flirtation of nutty undertones, And the next morning, it might be pelting you in the face with those same nuts, leaving little stinging marks with each sip. It’s moody. It’s not easy to perfect. But when you get the perfect brew, it’s rewarding. And that same perfection is not guaranteed tomorrow just because you managed it today.

Does it seem like things were better when you were younger?” Huck asked. “Did life really make more sense then?” “Yeah,” Tress whispered. “I remember…calm nights, watching the spores fall from the moon. Lukewarm cups of honey tea. The thrill of baking something new.” “I remember not being afraid,” Huck said. “I remember waking each day to familiar scents. I remember thinking I understood how my life would go. Same as my parents’. Simple. Maybe not wonderful, but also not terrifying.” “I don’t think things were really better though,” Tress said softly, still staring at the ceiling. “We just remember it that way because it’s comforting.” “And because we couldn’t see the troubles,” Huck agreed. “Maybe we didn’t want to see them. When you’re young, there’s always someone else to deal with the problems.” Tress nodded. Beyond that, memories have a way of changing on us. Souring or sweetening over time—like a brew we drink, then recreate later by taste, only getting the ingredients mostly right. You can’t taste a memory without tainting it with who you have become.

This world is a magical place without us. All the drama, wars, hatred and the like, originate from, and brew in our minds. If we can individually heal our minds, we can finally see the magic in our world.

The macabre who lived through the war have a story they loved to tell about the soldiers of the Foreign Legion giving a ball in the expanses around Verdun and dancing with the corpses. Alabama's continued brewing of the poisoned filter for a semiconscious banquet table, her insistence on the magic and glamor of life when she was already feeling its pulse like the throbbing of an amputated leg, had something of the same sinister quality.

One of my greatest pleasures there was enjoying the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing and knowing that white folks were doing the preparing instead of me. There was swimming in the man-made lake, volleyball, square dancing. It was quite enjoyable to be with at Highlander. We forgot what color anybody was. I was forty-two years old, and it was one of the few times in my life up to that point when I did not feel any hostility from white people.

Sakyamuni, Confucius, and Laotse once stood before a jar of vinegar--the emblem of life--and each dipped in his finger to taste the brew. The matter-of-fact Confucius found it sour, the Buddha called it bitter, and Laotse pronounced it sweet.

When writers come here they walk about smelling everything because New Orleans is, above all, a town where the heady scent of jasmine or sweet olive mingles with the cloying stink of sugar refineries and the musky mud smell of the Mississippi. It's an intoxicating brew of rotting and generating, a feeling of death and life simultaneously occurring and inextricably linked.

One of my greatest pleasures there was enjoying the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing and knowing that white folks were doing the preparing instead of me. I was 42 years old, and it was one of the few times in my life up to that point when I did not feel any hostility from white people.

Felipe Fernández-Armesto, at least thirty-eight theories have been put forward to explain why people took to living in communities: that they were driven to it by climatic change, or by a wish to stay near their dead, or by a powerful desire to brew and drink beer, which could only be indulged by staying in one place.

Is It possible to live in such a world where everyone does what he pleases? No one is punished by God or man and no one has to earn a living? Are there such women who follow every whim? Men such foolish weaklings, who succumb to every little desire, every little dream of happiness? Where are the honest husbands who work to earn their bread, who think of the best ways to protect their children from fate and the cruel world? Where are the people who understand a piece of cheese, a glass of wine, a warm house at the end of the day is reward enough? Who are these people who yearn for some mysterious happiness? What an uproar they make of life, what tragedies they brew up out of nothing.

For a long time, she sat and saw. She had seen her brother die with one eye open, on still in a dream. She had said goodbye to her mother and imagined her lonely wait for a train back home to oblivion. A woman of wire had laid herself down, her scream traveling the street, till it fell sideways like a rolling coin starved of momentum. A young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow. She had watched a bomber pilot die in a metal case. She had seen a Jewish man who had twice given her the most beautiful pages of her life marched to a concentration camp. And at the center of all of it, she saw the Fuhrer shouting his words and passing them around. Those images were the world, and it stewed in her as she sat with the lovely books and their manicured titles. It brewed in her as she eyed the pages full to the brims of their bellies with paragraphs and words.

Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.

Always, something wonderful is brewing.

There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. -Henry James, Writer

There are few things in life that are worth waking up to: sex, the dark spices of freshly brewed coffee, and bacon.

Let’s strive to become as protective over our time with God as we are with our daily cup of brew. Let’s become addicted to our “spiritual caffeine fix.

in her fantasies, a generic bad guy would storm into her teahouse, maybe to rob her, and through her wit and charm and motherly kindness, she would help him see the error of his ways. she would them brew some tea for him and they would talk about where he went wrong and how to fix his life, and over the years, he would attribute every good thing in his life to Vera

When Americans think of freedom, we usually imagine a contest between a lone individual and a powerful government. We tend to conclude that the individual should be empowered and the government kept at bay. This is all well and good. But one element of freedom is the choice of associates, and one defense of freedom is the activity of groups to sustain their members. This is why we should engage in activities that are of interest to us, our friends, our families. These need not be expressly political: Václav Havel, the Czech dissident thinker, gave the example of brewing good beer. Insofar as we take pride in these activities, and come to know others who do so as well, we are creating civil society. Sharing in an undertaking teaches us that we can trust people beyond a narrow circle of friends and families, and helps us to recognize authorities from whom we can learn. The capacity for trust and learning can make life seem less chaotic and mysterious, and democratic politics more plausible and attractive.

Look around. The hantavirus is waiting for you. Ebola and the tropical rainforest is cooking up all kinds of brews to make sure that the population is kept in control. All these things are necessary. Why is there an increase in sexual deviance right now? Because it goes against procreative sex. Mother Nature does not want more children. This is not a time of birth. It is not a time to give birth, it's a time to die. The Bible says all things under heaven and that includes death as well as life. You out there, you comfortable ones, you point the finger. You say the junkie is the problem, you say the sexual deviant, serial killer, racist, and the man who hates his fellow man is the problem. But they ain't the problem. You're the problem. The sexual deviant, the murderer, the serial killer, the taker of human life is the cure, you're the problem.

THERE WERE MOMENTS in life when I’d wish I didn’t feel. I just wanted to be numb, and escape the turmoil that always seemed to be brewing in my chest. Standing by the window overlooking my driveway was one of those moments.

Time passed in brewing tea, the odd remark, cigarettes, then dawn came up. The widening light caught the plumage of quails and partridges...and quickly I dropped this wonderful moment to the bottom of my memory, like a sheet-anchor that one day I could draw up again.You stretch, pace to and fro feeling weightless, and the word 'happiness' seems too thin and limited to describe what has happened. In the end, the bedrock of experience is not made up of the family, or work, of what others say or think of you, but of moments like this when you are exalted by a transcendent power that is more serene than love. Life dispenses them parsimoniously; our feeble hearts could not stand more.

If you see her staring into space, probably her mind is in a deep poetic embrace or a story is brewing in her clever little head. This girl is in a trance, it will pass, just let her be until she has completed her beautiful internal dance.

In my opinion, there’s something inexplicably wrong with your life when you find yourself in a strip club before noon on a weekday. To me, it felt as culturally insensitive as using a fork to eat sushi: just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.

What then are the benefits of being mentally flexible? Imagine a storm brewing. Intense winds are blowing hard. Stiff trees are breaking under the pressure while softer more flexible trees are bending and will rise again when the strong winds subside. Now turn this image onto human beings. People who are narrow minded, opinionated, stubborn and bullheaded are more likely to crack under pressure than people who take up a more flexible attitude towards life. It is the difference between bending and breaking under pressure.

We love with all our heart, in every way that we can love but the heart is not burdened. We learn to keep it light and pliable. It has space. It breathes. It waits on Life to give instructions. It sings with sweetness when the winds are soft and warm. It stands with calm patience when the storm is brewing. It lets go when death and seeming endings have left their irrefutable mark. It moves. It heals. It hopes. It allows Life to be lived in the safe, fertile, and still inner space where it grows stronger and more compelling every day.

Monarda was the zucchini of the flower world. It, too, figured prominently in the harvest market and, subsequently, the Thanksgiving bonfire, which would give off a hint of sweet bergamot so that it smelled as though every cottage in Three Pines was brewing Earl Grey tea.

I wriggle slowly out of the snug little cubby of blankets. Taking a shower. Letting the cool morning breeze that blows through the open windows gently caress my naked flesh. I savor the mild sun. For a while, i luxuriate in the feel of the soft towel against my skin and then, the breeze picks up and feels like a thousand miniature tongues licking the beads of water from my body. Today, no expectations. Lots of time for stretching and waking up slowly. The smell of fresh brewed coffee tickles my nose. Mornings like these make life so delicious – Nice!

at least thirty-eight theories have been put forward to explain why people took to living in communities: that they were driven to it by climatic change, or by a wish to stay near their dead, or by a powerful desire to brew and drink beer, which could only be indulged by staying in one place.

I entered a plane of being where nothing mattered, save the infusion of joy brewed within my body. What had begun as a delicious distention of my innermost roots became a glowing tingle which now had reached that state of absolute security, confidence and reliance not found elsewhere in conscious life.

Witches Brew Keep in mind that this recipe is from the 1980s!        6 tea bags of your choice (I use a spice tea)        1 can frozen orange juice        1 can frozen lemonade        3 cinnamon sticks        1 tablespoon cloves        Grab the biggest pot in your kitchen and add 4 quarts of water. Bring to a slow boil and add the tea bags. Let steep for 7 minutes. Remove the tea bags and add the frozen juice, lemonade, cinnamon sticks, and cloves. Simmer on medium heat for at least 30 minutes. To serve, strain out the spices and ladle into a teacup. Splash in a healthy dose of whiskey to make it interesting.

My sisters don’t be afraid of the words “old maid,” for it is in your power to make this a term of honor, not reproach. It is not necessary to be a sour, spiteful spinster, with nothing to do but brew tear, talk scandal and tend a pocket handkerchief. No, the world is full of work, needing all the heads, hearts, and hands we can bring to do it. Never was there so splendid an opportunity for women to enjoy their liberty and prove that they deserve it by using it wisely. If love comes as it should come, accept it in God’s name and be worthy of His best blessing. If it never comes, then in God’s name, reject the shadow of it, for that can never satisfy a hungry heart. Do not be ashamed to own the truth—do not be daunted by the fear of ridicule and loneliness, nor saddened by the loss of a woman’s tenderest ties. Be true to yourself; cherish whatever talent you possess, and in using it faithfully for the good of others, you will most assuredly find happiness for yourself, and make of life no failure, but a beautiful success.

What? Am I to be a listener only all my days? Am I never to get my word in—I that have been so often bored by the Theseid of the ranting Cordus? Shall this one have spouted to me his comedies, and that one his love ditties, and I be unavenged? Shall I have no revenge on one who has taken up the whole day with an interminable Telephus or with an Orestes which, after filling the margin at the top of the roll and the back as well, hasn't even yet come to an end? No one knows his own house so well as I know the groves of Mars, and the cave of Vulcan near the cliffs of Aeolus. What the winds are brewing; whose souls Aeacus has on the rack; from what country another worthy is carrying off that stolen golden fleece; how big are the ash trees which Monychus hurls as missiles: these are the themes with which Fronto's plane trees and marble halls are for ever ringing until the pillars quiver and quake under the continual recitations; such is the kind of stuff you may look for from every poet, greatest or least. Well, I too have slipped my hand from under the cane; I too have counselled Sulla to retire from public life and take a deep sleep; it is a foolish clemency when you jostle against poets at every corner, to spare paper that will be wasted anyhow. But if you can give me time, and will listen quietly to reason, I will tell you why I prefer to run in the same course over which Lucilius, the great nursling of Aurunca drove his horses.

When people come to me upset and in need of advice the first thing I always suggest is to brew a nice cuppa tea. Not because this is easy advice to give, neither for lack of compassion nor understanding, but simply because I've not encountered a circumstance where tea was rendered futile. There's something concealed in the nature of tea that will consort you to a calm contemplation, a sense of purity and harmony, it lets you find your way through life's sordid deeds, and regain a sense of tranquillity, console enmity, and admire the beauty around you. I love my close friends and family so dearly that the first thing I wish upon them in a time of desperation is a nice cup of tea. So to my dearest friends, you're always invited; you, me and a cup of tea?

I rest because he has said nothing would take his love from me, or you. I can’t say that would be true of any other human kind of love. In fact, it’s so different from “regular” love that it’s hard to believe that it could be really true. So God pursues us, courts us, and woos us to remind us. As if he wants to keep us mindful that he doesn’t get tired of us, he isn’t frustrated by our moods or by our irritating habits or put off by uncombed hair or out-of-style clothes. We are free to place the whole weight of our needs on him, to bring him our deepest questions, to look to him for acceptance and validation. And unlike any other relationship, the God who designed us will not lean, crumble, struggle, stagger, or falter in any way. This is a love that changes everything.

Miss Selina, you have over the past minutes—as in the past months, and indeed, in all the years of your association with him—demonstrated an understanding of Master Bruce, his aspirations, his desires and his demons, that would be the envy of his closest colleagues, who believe they know him better than anybody. It is quite impossible to credit your fear that you ‘will not be good at this,’ for there is clearly no one in his life better suited to comfort him in tragedy, rejoice with him in triumph, and keep him from being alone in the days and nights in between. If he should ‘give up hope,’ I have no doubt you would manage the situation with the same sublime felinity you have used to such advantage in the past. Now drink your tea, young woman, and the next time you enjoy, or even sniff, this particular brew, I dare say you will understand how it helps.

I, Corona Speaking (The Sonnet) Nature has been crying, Yet you paid no heed. Glaciers have been frying, Yet you kept sleeping in greed. Forests kept on burning, Yet your eyes shed no tear. Hurricanes kept on brewing, Yet your luxuries didn't disappear. Hence my arrival, not to punish you, But only to give a wake up call. I haven't come to lock you up, But only to expose your downfall. Now you know the horrors you committed, I plea o wise ones live life illuminated.

If you buy into food myths, this is the kind of life you can end up living: Scared that your coffee, along with the rest of your food, is filled with toxins. Seeking refuge from the modern world in the reassuring illusion of Paleolithic living. Hopeful that some biohacking savior will tell you how to make genuine cave-brewed java, the kind of java that Java Man would have made for himself—the coffee we are evolved to drink! Shelling out money for something called Brain Octane®.

I'll tell you this. I've labored all my life. I've baked and brewed. I've woven, spun, and dyed. I've kept my husband's house and raised his young. And many other things besides. So where was time for holiness? What strength was left for faith? Let monks and nuns and priests have care of that. The dead shall rise? The Lord himself will sit as justicer in manor court? It may be true for all I know. But in the meanwhile bread, beer, work, and rest at night, they're truth enough for me.

Inside each of us is a deep well of translucent water. A fluidity of thoughts and luminous feelings surrounds you and me. In the world of water, all life floats, the incandescent soul of the living begins, where you and I are indivisible, where I experience you inside of me. I see your beauty, feel your need for love and affection, hear your compassionate poems, and know the fragrant mysteries your great heart brews; by law divine, with sweet emotion, you and I shall mingle forevermore.

You’re suggesting the mysterious X. Where do we look for him?’ Poirot said: ‘Obviously in a close circle. There were five people, were there not, whocould have been concerned?’ ‘Five? Let me see. There was the old duffer who messed about with his herb brewing. A dangerous hobby-but an amiable creature. Vague sort of person. Don’t see him as X. There was the girl-she might have polished off Caroline, but certainly not Amyas. Then there was the stockbroker-Crale’s best friend. That’s popular in detective stories, but I don’t believe in it in real life. There’s no one else-oh yes, the kid sister, but one doesn’t seriously consider her. That’s four.’ Hercule Poirot said: ‘You forget the governess.’ ‘Yes, that’s true. Wretched people, governesses, one never does remember them. I do recall her dimly though. Middle-aged, plain, competent. I suppose a psychologist would say that she had a guilty passion for Crale and therefore killed him. The repressed spinster! It’s no good-I just don’t believe it. As far as my dim remembrance goes she wasn’t the neurotic type.’ ‘It is a long time ago.’ ‘Fifteen or sixteen years, I suppose. Yes, quite that. You can’t expect my memories of the case to be very acute.

How odd, she never drank coffee after her one allotted morning cup anymore; it made her too shaky. As she got the grounds from the refrigerator and started scooping them into a filter, she realized what she was doing. She was conjuring her mother and her aunts, her protectors, all dead now. The surest way to get the attention of the Mancini sisters—even in the afterlife—was coffee in any of its stages: percolating, freshly brewed, stale and burnt, reheated in a microwave. The life cycle of a pot of coffee was the smell of her mother’s apartment. She didn’t know how they did it, those women. They lived on coffee

If, when you say whiskey, you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacles of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degredation and despair, shame and helplessness and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it with all my power. But if, when you say whiskey, you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the stuff that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrows, if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm, to build highways, hospitals, and schools, then certainly I am in favor of it.

According to Felipe Fernández-Armesto, at least thirty-eight theories have been put forward to explain why people took to living in communities: that they were driven to it by climatic change, or by a wish to stay near their dead, or by a powerful desire to brew and drink beer, which could only be indulged by staying in one place. One theory, evidently seriously suggested (Jane Jacobs cites it in her landmark work of 1969, The Economy of Cities), was that ‘fortuitous showers’ of cosmic rays caused mutations in grasses that made them suddenly attractive as a food source. The short answer is that no one knows why agriculture developed as it did.

Afterward, I pretended to be patient as Akos taught me how to predict how strong a poison would be without tasting it. I tried to seal every moment in my memory. I needed to know how to brew these concoctions on my own, because soon he would be gone. If the renegades and I were caught in our attempt tonight, I would probably lose my life. If we succeeded, Akos would be home, and Shotet would be in chaos, without its leader. Either way, it was unlikely that I would see him again. “No, no,” Akos said. “Don’t hack at it--slice. Slice!” “I am slicing,” I said. “Maybe if your knives weren’t so dull--” “Dull? I could cut your fingertip off with this knife!” I spun the knife in my hand and caught it by the handle. “Oh? Could you?” He laughed, and put his arm across my shoulders. I felt my heartbeat in my throat. “Don’t pretend you’re not capable of delicacy; I’ve seen it myself.” I scowled, and tried to focus on “slicing.” My hands were trembling a little. “See me dancing in the training room and you think you know everything about me.” “I know enough. Look, slices! Told you so.” He lifted his arm, but kept his hand against my back, right under my shoulder blade. I carried the feeling with me for the rest of the night, as we finished the elixir and got ready for bed and he shut the door between us.

The true heart of Carolyn's farm was her kitchen, where sausages and pungent dog treats lay scattered over they counters, along with collars, magazines and books, trial application forums, checks from her students (Carolyn, not big on details, often left them lying around for months), leashes, and dog toys. Pots of coffee were always brewing, and dog people could be found sitting around her big wooden table at all hours. Devon and I were always welcome there, and he grew to love going around the table from person to person, collecting pats and treats. Troubled dogs were familiar at the table, and appreciated. If we couldn't bring our dogs many places, we could always bring them here.

The coffee served in the coffeehouses wasn’t necessarily very good coffee. Because of the way coffee was taxed in Britain (by the gallon), the practice was to brew it in large batches, store it cold in barrels, and reheat it a little at a time for serving. So coffee’s appeal in Britain had less to do with being a quality beverage than with being a social lubricant. People went to coffeehouses to meet people of shared interests, gossip, read the latest journals and newspapers—a brand-new word and concept in the 1660s—and exchange information of value to their lives and business. Some took to using coffeehouses as their offices—as, most famously, at Lloyd’s Coffee House on Lombard Street, which gradually evolved into Lloyd’s insurance market.

For many years, a family of ospreys lived in a large nest near my summer home in Maine. Each season, I carefully observed their rituals and habits. In mid-April, the parents would arrive, having spent the winter in South America, and lay eggs. In early June, the eggs hatched. The babies slowly grew, as the father brought fish back to the nest, and in early to mid August were large enough to make their first flight. My wife and I recorded all of these comings and goings with cameras and in a notebook. We wrote down the number of chicks each year, usually one or two but sometimes three. We noted when the chicks first began flapping their wings, usually a couple of weeks before flying from the nest. We memorized the different chirps the parents made for danger, for hunger, for the arrival of food. After several years of cataloguing such data, we felt that we knew these ospreys. We could predict the sounds the birds would make in different situations, their flight patterns, their behavior when a storm was brewing. Reading our “osprey journals” on a winter’s night, we felt a sense of pride and satisfaction. We had carefully studied and documented a small part of the universe. Then, one August afternoon, the two baby ospreys of that season took flight for the first time as I stood on the circular deck of my house watching the nest. All summer long, they had watched me on that deck as I watched them. To them, it must have looked like I was in my nest just as they were in theirs. On this particular afternoon, their maiden flight, they did a loop of my house and then headed straight at me with tremendous speed. My immediate impulse was to run for cover, since they could have ripped me apart with their powerful talons. But something held me to my ground. When they were within twenty feet of me, they suddenly veered upward and away. But before that dazzling and frightening vertical climb, for about half a second we made eye contact. Words cannot convey what was exchanged between us in that instant. It was a look of connectedness, of mutual respect, of recognition that we shared the same land. After they were gone, I found that I was shaking, and in tears. To this day, I do not understand what happened in that half second. But it was one of the most profound moments of my life.

Bah, he still saw the same stupidity. The image of the hanged man in the farming community of Yondern flashed through his mind. Now there was a war brewing between the Steelwielders and some foreign religion. More mindless loss over beliefs and mythology. But.. he could not deny the noble features in his companions. Although Perfidian was too blithe and Elaina too didactic, they had risked their life to do what was right. He did owe them his life. He could not deny the nobility he saw in many different people, bits and pieces of nobility that shined through under pressure. The guards who risked their lives to protect the villagers, Markham who flew at the dangerous dwarf, swords flashing; even an Eruthian merchant who stopped in his journey to share tales with complete strangers'.

Silent remembering is a form of prayer. No fragrance is more enchanting to re-experience than the aromatic bouquet gleaned from inhaling the cherished memories of our pastimes. We regularly spot elderly citizens sitting alone gently rocking themselves while facing the glowing sun. Although these sun worshipers might appear lonely in their state of serene solitude, they are not alone at all, because they deeply enmesh themselves in recalling the glimmering memories of days gone by. Marcel Proust wrote “In Search of Time Lost,” “As with the future, it is not all at once but grain by grain that one savors the past.” Test tasting the honeycombed memories of their bygone years, a delicate smile play out on their rose thin lips. The mellow tang of sweet tea memories – childhood adventures, coming of age rituals, wedding rites, recreational jaunts, wilderness explorations, viewing and creating art, literature, music, and poetry, sharing in the mystical experiences of life, and time spent with family – is the brew of irresistible intoxicants that we all long to sip as we grow old. The nectar mashed from a collection of choice memories produces a tray of digestible vignettes that each of us lovingly roll our silky tongues over. On the eve of lying down for the last time in the stillness of our cradled deathbeds, we will swaddle ourselves with a blanket of heartfelt love and whisper a crowning chaplet of affection for all of humanity. After all, we been heaven blessed to take with us to our final resting place an endless scroll amassing the kiss soft memories of time yore.

I was strong in English, and thankful for it. I knew the great Dr. Johnson from his friend Mr. Boswell. There is a friend for you. To sit down and rack the brain to remember every word, and then the glad toil to write it all down. I am thankful to Mr. Boswell for many a peaceful hour, indeed. There is a marvel, hundreds of years after the spirit has gone to new life, that men will bless a name that once had flesh, and laughed, and had good food, and loved to hear good talk. But the great Dr. Johnson was one in a century, and I count myself honoured to have tasted the wine of his speech, even though put to my mouth through the goodness of his friend. For that Englishman is not to be read with the eyes alone, but read out, as with the Word, with a good voice, and a rolling of the tongue, so that the rich taste of magnificent English may come to the ears and go to the head, like the perfumes of the Magi, or like the best of beer, home brewed and long in the cask.

My sisters don’t be afraid of the words “old maid,” for it is in your power to make this a term of honor, not reproach. It is not necessary to be a sour, spiteful spinster, with nothing to do but brew tear, talk scandal and tend a pocket handkerchief. No, the world is full of work, needing all the heads, hearts, and hands we can bring to do it. Never was there so splendid an opportunity for women to enjoy their liberty and prove that they deserve it by using it wisely. 4 minutes ago Heidi M If love comes as it should come, accept it in God’s name and be worthy of His best blessing. If it never comes, then in God’s name, reject the shadow of it, for that can never satisfy a hungry heart. 4 minutes ago Do not be ashamed to own the truth—do not be daunted by the fear of ridicule and loneliness, nor saddened by the loss of a woman’s tenderest ties. Be true to yourself; cherish whatever talent you possess, and in using it faithfully for the good of others, you will most assuredly find happiness for yourself, and make of life no failure, but a beautiful success.

It was a lodging for the kind of people who have no permanent lodging. In all towns, and particularly in seaports, there is always to be found, below the general population, a residue. Lawless characters—so lawless that even the law sometimes cannot get its hands on them—pickers and stealers, tricksters living by their wits, chemists of villainy continually brewing up life in their crucibles; rags of every kind and every way of wearing them; withered fruits of roguery, bankrupt existences, consciences that have declared themselves insolvent; the incompetents of breaking and entering (for the big men of burglary are above all this); journeymen and journeywomen of evil, rascals both male and female; scruples in tatters and out at elbow; scoundrels who have sunk into poverty, evildoers who have had little reward from their work, losers in the social duel, devourers who now go hungry, the low earners of crime, beggars and villains: such are the people who form this residue. Human intelligence is to be found here, but it is bestial. This is the rubbish heap of souls, piled up in a corner and swept from time to time by the broom that is called a police raid. La Jacressarde was a corner of this kind in Saint-Malo.

From the bonny bells of heather, They brewed a drink long syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in blessed swound, For days and days together, In their dwellings underground. There rose a King in Scotland, A fell man to his foes, He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes. Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled, And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead. Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell, But the manner of the brewing, Was none alive to tell. In graves that were like children’s On many a mountain’s head, The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead. The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer’s day; And the bees hummed and the curlews Cried beside the way. The King rode and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather, And lack the Heather Ale. It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free upon the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Roughly plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke: A son and his aged father – Last of the dwarfish folk. The king sat high on his charger, He looked down on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the king again. Down by the shore he had them: And there on the giddy brink – “I will give thee life ye vermin, For the secret of the drink.” There stood the son and father And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: “I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear. “Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret”, Quoth the Pict to the King. His voice was small as a sparrow’s, And shrill and wonderful clear: “I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear. “For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour, Under the eye of my son. Take him, O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; And it’s I will tell the secret That I have sworn to keep.” They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten; And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men. “True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage, That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall not avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of the Heather Ale.

When the “screech owl” calls, “villainous” Eve, described by Tertullian as the “devil’s gateway,” enters the labyrinth of her own narcissistic wounding, rewinding the threads of a lifetime of unravelling. Ariadne, Persephone, Inanna, Ereshkigal, Shapash, Ameratsu, Walu, Isis and Hecate have been here before, out with their lanterns, brewing and simmering, re-wilding the stars and constellations in their own image, fermenting their power. Downwards and inwards becomes upwards and outwards. This is why the underworld works for women. Why have we forgotten how to listen to Mother Nature? In Genesis 1:28 God tells man to “fill the earth and subdue it.” Man has permission to rule over [and therefore exploit] every living creature and red Mother Earth herself. From rotting flesh apple trees grow. Asherah as Tree: roots in the underworld; canopy in the cosmos; branches sagging under the weight of apples, dates and berries, ripe for eating, brewing and rotting back into the soil, is a multilayered eco-system nurturing life. A cornucopia of animal and planet familiars circle in her orbit: Moon, Sun, Venus, Ibex, lion, dove and serpent. Rivers of consciousness flow through all creatures. We are the flowers, the trees, the animals, the tides, the nature spirits. When all plants, animals and insects are equal the cycle of ownership is broken. Hierarchy falls.

None,” Einstein said. “Relativity is a purely scientific matter and has nothing to do with religion.”51 That was no doubt true. However, there was a more complex relationship between Einstein’s theories and the whole witch’s brew of ideas and emotions in the early twentieth century that bubbled up from the highly charged cauldron of modernism. In his novel Balthazar, Lawrence Durrell had his character declare, “The Relativity proposition was directly responsible for abstract painting, atonal music, and formless literature.” The relativity proposition, of course, was not directly responsible for any of this. Instead, its relationship with modernism was more mysteriously interactive. There are historical moments when an alignment of forces causes a shift in human outlook. It happened to art and philosophy and science at the beginning of the Renaissance, and again at the beginning of the Enlightenment. Now, in the early twentieth century, modernism was born by the breaking of the old strictures and verities. A spontaneous combustion occurred that included the works of Einstein, Picasso, Matisse, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Joyce, Eliot, Proust, Diaghilev, Freud, Wittgenstein, and dozens of other path-breakers who seemed to break the bonds of classical thinking.52 In his book Einstein, Picasso: Space, Time, and the Beauty That Causes Havoc, the historian of science and philosophy Arthur I. Miller explored the common wellsprings that produced, for example, the 1905 special theory of relativity and Picasso’s 1907 modernist masterpiece Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

Lesson one: Pack light unless you want to hump the eight around the mountains all day and night. By the time we reached Snowdonia National Park on Friday night it was dark, and with one young teacher as our escort, we all headed up into the mist. And in true Welsh fashion, it soon started to rain. When we reached where we were going to camp, by the edge of a small lake halfway up, it was past midnight and raining hard. We were all tired (from dragging the ridiculously overweight packs), and we put up the tents as quickly as we could. They were the old-style A-frame pegged tents, not known for their robustness in a Welsh winter gale, and sure enough by 3:00 A.M. the inevitable happened. Pop. One of the A-frame pegs supporting the apex of my tent broke, and half the tent sagged down onto us. Hmm, I thought. But both Watty and I were just too tired to get out and repair the first break, and instead we blindly hoped it would somehow just sort itself out. Lesson two: Tents don’t repair themselves, however tired you are, however much you wish they just would. Inevitably, the next peg broke, and before we knew it we were lying in a wet puddle of canvas, drenched to the skin, shivering, and truly miserable. The final key lesson learned that night was that when it comes to camping, a stitch in time saves nine; and time spent preparing a good camp is never wasted. The next day, we reached the top of Snowdon, wet, cold but exhilarated. My best memory was of lighting a pipe that I had borrowed off my grandfather, and smoking it with Watty, in a gale, behind the summit cairn, with the teacher joining in as well. It is part of what I learned from a young age to love about the mountains: They are great levelers. For me to be able to smoke a pipe with a teacher was priceless in my book, and was a firm indicator that mountains, and the bonds you create with people in the wild, are great things to seek in life. (Even better was the fact that the tobacco was homemade by Watty, and soaked in apple juice for aroma. This same apple juice was later brewed into cider by us, and it subsequently sent Chipper, one of the guys in our house, blind for twenty-four hours. Oops.) If people ask me today what I love about climbing mountains, the real answer isn’t adrenaline or personal achievement. Mountains are all about experiencing a shared bond that is hard to find in normal life. I love the fact that mountains make everyone’s clothes and hair go messy; I love the fact that they demand that you give of yourself, that they make you fight and struggle. They also induce people to loosen up, to belly laugh at silly things, and to be able to sit and be content staring at a sunset or a log fire. That sort of camaraderie creates wonderful bonds between people, and where there are bonds I have found that there is almost always strength.

I took a shower after dinner and changed into comfortable Christmas Eve pajamas, ready to settle in for a couple of movies on the couch. I remembered all the Christmas Eves throughout my life--the dinners and wrapping presents and midnight mass at my Episcopal church. It all seemed so very long ago. Walking into the living room, I noticed a stack of beautifully wrapped rectangular boxes next to the tiny evergreen tree, which glowed with little white lights. Boxes that hadn’t been there minutes before. “What…,” I said. We’d promised we wouldn’t get each other any gifts that year. “What?” I demanded. Marlboro Man smiled, taking pleasure in the surprise. “You’re in trouble,” I said, glaring at him as I sat down on the beige Berber carpet next to the tree. “I didn’t get you anything…you told me not to.” “I know,” he said, sitting down next to me. “But I don’t really want anything…except a backhoe.” I cracked up. I didn’t even know what a backhoe was. I ran my hand over the box on the top of the stack. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine--so unadorned, so simple, I imagined that Marlboro Man could have wrapped it himself. Untying the twine, I opened the first package. Inside was a pair of boot-cut jeans. The wide navy elastic waistband was a dead giveaway: they were made especially for pregnancy. “Oh my,” I said, removing the jeans from the box and laying them out on the floor in front of me. “I love them.” “I didn’t want you to have to rig your jeans for the next few months,” Marlboro Man said. I opened the second box, and then the third. By the seventh box, I was the proud owner of a complete maternity wardrobe, which Marlboro Man and his mother had secretly assembled together over the previous couple of weeks. There were maternity jeans and leggings, maternity T-shirts and darling jackets. Maternity pajamas. Maternity sweats. I caressed each garment, smiling as I imagined the time it must have taken for them to put the whole collection together. “Thank you…,” I began. My nose stung as tears formed in my eyes. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect gift. Marlboro Man reached for my hand and pulled me over toward him. Our arms enveloped each other as they had on his porch the first time he’d professed his love for me. In the grand scheme of things, so little time had passed since that first night under the stars. But so much had changed. My parents. My belly. My wardrobe. Nothing about my life on this Christmas Eve resembled my life on that night, when I was still blissfully unaware of the brewing thunderstorm in my childhood home and was packing for Chicago…nothing except Marlboro Man, who was the only thing, amidst all the conflict and upheaval, that made any sense to me anymore. “Are you crying?” he asked. “No,” I said, my lip quivering. “Yep, you’re crying,” he said, laughing. It was something he’d gotten used to. “I’m not crying,” I said, snorting and wiping snot from my nose. “I’m not.” We didn’t watch movies that night. Instead, he picked me up and carried me to our cozy bedroom, where my tears--a mixture of happiness, melancholy, and holiday nostalgia--would disappear completely.

Poets always hate those in power. To them perfection is always just behind the last corner, or beyond the next. They escape the present in dreams of the past and future. Rinaldo is a flaming torch of idealism, rising, as he thinks, to overthrow a tyrant and liberate the people. As for me—well, a few months ago I had lost all ambition but to raid the caravans for the rest of my life; now old dreams stir. Conan will die; Dion will mount the throne. Then he, too, will die. One by one, all who oppose me will die—by fire, or steel, or those deadly wines you know so well how to brew. Ascalante, king of Aquilonia! How like you the sound of it?

Japanese lilies and her beautiful face In a crowded market place, People walked, moved; and quite a few preferred to amble, While I searched for my known space, Where she sells beauty’s earthly samples without too much too gamble, I walked past the busy spaces and the bustling market views, People haggling, a few arguing, It was like life was tasked to seek reviews, In ways pleasing and many a time annoying, Finally I reached there where I wanted to be, And there she was this beautiful maiden, And as she prospected every face, her eyes finally rested on me, For a while nothing existed, as if time its pace had forgotten, Only to be revived back to life, When the maiden at the flower shop said, “Hello, and welcome to the shop of beautiful life,” My eyes moved, my lips shivered and in response I only shook my head, I looked at flowers with different colours, And her eyes followed mine to every spot where they rested, I could be there, with the flowers and the maiden, for many hours, Because at this flower shop, all the flowers only of her beauty attested, She knew it too because the sparkle in her eyes was brewing with confidence, She knew she was like the most beautiful summer rose that ever existed, And I only visited the shop to feel surrounded by this beauty’s appeal so dense, Her beauty was not just a visual act but an experience, where a new appeared as soon as the old exited, She was pure beauty, and maybe my only and my wilful addiction, While I was soaking in this experience of charm and beauty, She tenderly felt my hand trembling with love’s affliction, “Here, look at these new samples of eternal beauty,” She said this with a professional tone and demand, They were small clusters of white charm, Beautiful as anything beautiful can be resting peacefully in beauty’s eternal wand, Peaceful to look at that always kindled feelings warm, It was such a delight to witness and see, Then she silently quoth this, “They are called the Japanese lilies that sparkle like the pearls from the deepest sea, They look like joys suspended on the branches of bliss, These beautiful Japanese lilies bearing the sparkle of the pearl from the deepest sea.” I again nodded my head with a smile, As I looked at them closely, They indeed were clusters of white joy hanging there with a beautiful smile, And I said hurriedly, “certainly!” Then I realised something strange, They were bending downwards, as if gravity pulled them harder, It was nothing like flowers at other shops, so it indeed was very strange, I looked at all the flowers and then I looked at her, And there it was, in her eyes, her beautiful face her overall grace, That the flowers in her shop felt so inferior, Because all Japanese lilies and every Summer flower was but a reflection of her face, And it was difficult to tell whether they were her lovers or she was there lover, But to me, they all shone as the brilliance in her eyes, The rose had offered her its blush, The lies had granted her the twinkling miracle of the night skies, And all other flowers had rendered her eternally beautiful and lush, And whenever they looked at her, The flowers drooped a bit, And maybe that is why I buy all my flowers from her, Because like these helpless flowers I too love her every bit, and thus my love affair with her and her flowers has matured bit by bit! And now neither the flowers nor I can quit, So it is an affair that shall last till eternity and this is how I prefer it, She loving the flowers, I loving her, and as soon as my memory amidst her beautiful memories is lit, Then I am sure, like these flowers, and like me; now she too cannot quit, not even a bit!

In that clear golden drink which England has brewed for more than a thousand Octobers, and will brew for a thousand more, we may find perhaps some explanation of that absence of irritability which is the safe-guard of the national character, which makes it faithful in its affections, easy to govern, not easy to excite to violence.

Drink deeply, my hapless mortal, Of our heady, corrupting brew. Feast upon fine foods and sweet treats That turn to mere dust in your mouth And mark you as ours forever. Feel life’s warmth leave your soulless shell Once that racing heart beats its last. Lose the grace of mortality; Become trapped for eternity.

she could sell in the café provisions she baked in her own time with a shelf life longer than pastries. When she thought of it there had been a rush of certainty she could do it, and a prickling of pride in having conceived a way to make money on her own. It would double at least what she was making now. Without Nicholas it might never had occurred to her. The other day he had stuck a label, which he had found in the junk drawer, on a plastic-wrapped loaf of banana bread. He wrote on the label with a marker, "From the Summer Kitchen Bakery." She had found the gesture adorable at the time and hugged him, but something about it had evidently started percolating in the recesses of her mind, and now she was lapping at the brew like someone tasting it for the first time and wondering how she had never before tasted such ambition. She was thinking of cellophane-packaged chocolate brownies and caramel blondies and orange-and-almond biscotti and pear and oat slices and butter shortbread and Belgian chocolate truffles, marmalades, chutney, relishes, and jellies beautified in jars with black-and-white gingham hats and black-and-white ribbon tied above skirted brims. She could even sell a muesli mix she had developed, full of organic cranberries and nuts and the zest of unwaxed lemons. And she wouldn't change Nicholas's label at all. A child's handwriting impressed that the goods were homemade. She would have his design printed professionally, in black and white, too, old world, like the summer kitchen itself.

When a man’s dreams live past the horizon of the sea, his soul dies a little each day he spends upon land and each mile he moves farther inland until ultimately one day he is nothing but a shell, empty and dead inside. Like a shell, you can hear the sound of the ocean if you hold it close enough to your ear and truly listen. In the sound of the ocean, you can find a man’s purpose and in his purpose you will find the meaning of his life. If you love this man, you’ll bring him back to the sea and set him free. If you greedily wish to showcase this man like a trophy on your windowsill, he may shine for you at times. Perhaps even your friends will comment how wonderful he is, but trust that a storm is brewing within. Each one of his stares into the distance is foretelling of a voyage of freedom to come. When this storm ultimately hits, it will take all that you have to survive and more likely than not, you’ll be separated in its gales.

What I realize now is that maybe what we see as the big life decisions of career and education and location are actually the small ones. The big decisions are the ones that transcend every place and relationship and job—integrity and kindness, mercy and generosity, love and joy and justice.

Yet it seems possible that one can make too much of the hardships of the soldiers at Gallipoli, or rather there is a danger of seeing these hardships out of their right context. With the mere cataloguing of the Army’s miseries a sense of dreariness is transmitted, and this is a false impression; at this stage life on the peninsula was anything but dreary. It was ghastly but it was not yet petty or monotonous. There can be no fair comparison with the relatively comfortable lives of the soldiers in the second world war, or even with the lives of these men themselves before they enlisted. Gallipoli swallowed them up and made conditions of its own. With marvellous rapidity the men removed themselves to another plane of existence, the past receded, the future barely existed, and they lived as never before upon the moment, released from the normal weight of human ambitions and regrets. ‘It was in some ways,’ Herbert says, ‘a curiously happy time.’ It is a strange remark, but one feels one understands it very well. The men had no cinemas, no music, no radios, no ‘entertainment’ of any kind, and they never met women or children as the soldiers did behind the lines in France. Yet the very absence of these pleasures created another scale of values. They had a sharp and enormous appetite for the smallest things. Bathing in the sea became an inexpressible joy. To get away from the flies, to wash the dust from one’s eyes and mouth, to feel cool again: this was a heightening of sensation which, for the moment, went beyond their dreams of home. The brewing of tea in the evening, the sharing out of a parcel, a cake or a bar of chocolate, the long talks in the starlight talking of what they would do ‘when it was all over’—all these things took on an almost mystical emphasis of a kind that became familiar enough in the western desert of Egypt in the second world war, or indeed on any distant front in any war. There were no pin-up girls; no erotic magazines reached them—they were lucky if they even saw a newspaper from home that was under a month old—and there were no nurses or Ensa troupes. Perhaps because of this the sexual instinct seems to have been held in abeyance for the time, or rather it was absorbed in the minutiae of their intensely friendly life, the generous feelings created by the danger all around them. There was very little vice; ordinary crimes became lost in the innocence of the crime of war itself. Certainly there was no possibility of drunkenness,22 and gambling was not much more than an anaemic pastime in a world where money was the least of things. They craved not soft beds and hot baths but mosquito nets and salt water soap.

It's a shithole but at least I can get a decent brew.' How very British, I thought to myself.

The constant background noise of car horns, barking dogs, music pulsating out of apartment windows—they had all blended together in a symphony of chaos that was the trademark of city life. Then there was the unique smell of the city. The air was permeated with a persistent odor of unwashed bodies and greasy food mixed with pungent drifts of vehicle exhaust and sewage. One couldn’t discount the more pleasant aromas that also drifted over the city of fresh-brewed coffee from a cafe or the sweet smell of relish from the corner hot dog stands. But

Death makes us face up to our own mortality. When my father died and I was suddenly parentless, I felt pushed into the firing line. It was as if I’d been sitting in a trench all those years smoking my cigarettes and brewing tea in my billycan while everyone had been out there getting shot, and suddenly my officer had shouted: ‘OK, Ironside! Over the top!’ Now I was in no-parents’-land with snipers all around. I was next. We have to face the fact that we will die, that we will die alone. We have to face the truth that even with others we basically always are alone, and that unless we give it meaning, life is meaningless.

The patent expressly guarantees the inventor “the right to exclude others from making, using, or selling” the idea for the twenty-year life of the patent. The patent holder can, if he chooses, issue licenses to others to make, use, or sell the idea. The license fees can bring in large sums of money. If anybody tries to market the patented product without obtaining a license, the inventor can go into federal court to get an injunction and money damages. Not a bad deal at all for the inventor. In exchange for those benefits, though, the patent holder has to reveal all the secrets of his success. The patent law says that an inventor must provide “a written description of the invention, and of the manner and process of making and using it, in . . . full, clear, concise and exact terms.” The inventor and his company might have expended a dozen years and a hundred million dollars perfecting the idea; once a patent is granted, anybody in the world can acquire the plans—full, clear, concise, and exact—from the Patent Office for $3. If, for example, John S. Pemberton had applied for a patent for the formula he whipped up in his backyard in Atlanta one day in the mid-1880s, the product that he invented—a soft drink that he named Coca-Cola—would have entered the public domain in 1903, when the patent expired. Anybody in the world would have been free from that day forward to brew and sell the drink without paying a penny to the Coca-Cola Company. But Pemberton kept his formula unpatented, and thus secret. Even without a patent, Coca-Cola has been able to defend its formula under a body of law known as trade secret protection, which makes it illegal to copy deliberately somebody else’s commercial idea.

Okinawa is where most of Japan’s shikuwasa—a limelike fruit that packs an extraordinary antioxidant punch—comes from. Could that be Ogimi’s secret to long life? Or is it the purity of the water used to brew its Moringa tea?

There was a volcano brewing inside me, I was pretending having the time of my life. Laughing with my family, hugging my three year old niece, following my to-do list, taking care of my skin. But while I was acting like I was at the Mardi Gras, inside there was a funeral going on.

and while at first I felt bad for her and tried to help her cope, gradually I noticed that we’d stopped doing any therapy at all. And how could we? By focusing on one external calamity after another, Charlotte has been distracting herself from the real crises in her life—the internal ones. Sometimes “drama,” no matter how unpleasant, can be a form of self-medication, a way to calm ourselves down by avoiding the crises brewing inside.

On Monday morning, October 27, 1969, Sheila fried up a couple of eggs slotted in some toast and brewed three cups of tea while I wrote something called “Your Song.” I don’t think it took me more than ten minutes, but it’s eventual melodic accompaniment and release would traverse decades, becoming our signature song and, in the minds of many, our first bona fide classic.

A passionate emotion that rises among all. Count down to the near future, beside the path of forgetfulness. Can anyone know what’s around? Will they feel safe, or will they rot? Can they see the truth beyond the lines of darkness? It’s an unwanted feeling, an emotion, a burden. To many, this path granted them unlimited action, for unlimited access to time. Where they were able to go in and out of pathways, affecting lives without the sensation of being sorry for their actions. Only now had the creators decided to insert a notion to stop all this madness. Decided upon many to reach out and create a different valiant world, where no one would be able to manipulate, but things didn’t go to plan. The Rainbow–created to order the existence of all multi-coloured creatures, but what the creators had forgotten to realise was that, it could be deployed, and reconstructed. The product, no longer being the essence of survival, but now an item for destruction, which had to be demolished. However, no one was powerful enough to smash it. It was released among the human race and everyone hated the moment it brewed into something different, something more damaging than what it would have been if it was only used as their source of life. Now, the world, in a peril, must try to survive the next generations of constructors of the drug, now known as Boxsaje…

Schwieger ordered the submarine to the bottom so his crew could dine in peace. “And now,” said Zentner, “there was fresh fish, fried in butter, grilled in butter, sautéed in butter, all that we could eat.” These fish and their residual odors, however, could only have worsened the single most unpleasant aspect of U-boat life: the air within the boat. First there was the basal reek of three dozen men who never bathed, wore leather clothes that did not breathe, and shared one small lavatory. The toilet from time to time imparted to the boat the scent of a cholera hospital and could be flushed only when the U-boat was on the surface or at shallow depths, lest the undersea pressure blow material back into the vessel. This tended to happen to novice officers and crew, and was called a “U-boat baptism.” The odor of diesel fuel infiltrated all corners of the boat, ensuring that every cup of cocoa and piece of bread tasted of oil. Then came the fragrances that emanated from the kitchen long after meals were cooked, most notably that close cousin to male body odor, day-old fried onions. All this was made worse by a phenomenon unique to submarines that occurred while they were submerged. U-boats carried only limited amounts of oxygen, in cylinders, which injected air into the boat in a ratio that varied depending on the number of men aboard. Expended air was circulated over a potassium compound to cleanse it of carbonic acid, then reinjected into the boat’s atmosphere. Off-duty crew were encouraged to sleep because sleeping men consumed less oxygen. When deep underwater, the boat developed an interior atmosphere akin to that of a tropical swamp. The air became humid and dense to an unpleasant degree, this caused by the fact that heat generated by the men and by the still-hot diesel engines and the boat’s electrical apparatus warmed the hull. As the boat descended through ever colder waters, the contrast between the warm interior and cold exterior caused condensation, which soaked clothing and bred colonies of mold. Submarine crews called it “U-boat sweat.” It drew oil from the atmosphere and deposited it in coffee and soup, leaving a miniature oil slick. The longer the boat stayed submerged, the worse conditions became. Temperatures within could rise to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. “You can have no conception of the atmosphere that is evolved by degrees under these circumstances,” wrote one commander, Paul Koenig, “nor of the hellish temperature which brews within the shell of steel.

The brewing struggle between church and state was underway. It would become a battle to last for more than a thousand years in some countries, and a campaign that would never end in some others.

Now we drink espresso to remind ourselves that life is short. But it can be oh-so-delicious if it’s brewed the right way.

Life is too short for bad vibes and lukewarm coffee. Surround yourself with people who lift you higher and invest in a good coffee maker. After all, why settle for mediocrity when you can have an espresso shot of excellence in every cup? Embrace the bold flavors of life, kick negativity to the curb, and savor the rich aroma of success. Remember, you’re the barista of your own destiny, so brew it strong and make it count!

Sonnet 1284 Human chest contains miracles of the cosmos, Animal chest contains but the brutal jungle. Choice is yours, what shall you facilitate - a world of brutality or a world of miracle! Be a miracle or be an animal, choice is yours; In your veins brews the dream of civilization. The world is in dire need of miracle humans, There is no such thing as miracle animal. This ribcage ends up a prison most times, But it can also be a sanctuary - a paradise. Entertain hate, and you are a prisoner; Give in to love, lo you usher into light! Abandon divide, adopt but life. Contain the world in your chest of light.

We like to think our choices are the result of the very best calculations, a reflection of who we are. But in truth some decisions are made before we even know of them. They’re part of the landscape ahead, just waiting for us to arrive. 4 Stephen’s house smelled of freshly brewed coffee when I stepped inside early the next morning, and it gave me life. “In the kitchen,” Stephen called as I came in with Merrill, who immediately padded away into the next room like he owned the place.

Look at you, damn it. Hell, look at us. After all the things that could have taken us down, here we are, still standing. Still insisting on our own sovereignty, our own validity, the beauty of our journey. No matter how many times we wander, charting our course back to ourselves without anyone else holding the map or helping with the compass. Finding our way in the dark. Navigating with the help of the moon and the stars and by our insistence on hearing our own wild heartbeat. Honoring the wisdom, dancing in the in-between, resting in the silence, and soaking in the light. Make sure you stop today and breathe in your power. Even on the days you can’t see it, I promise you I can. It’s time to center yourself, love. Pull your focus inward—to the things you know you want and deserve. To respect and reciprocity and giving only to those who commit to the asking. Be discerning with your time and your energy and your tender heart. Be infinitely brave in your voice and speaking your needs and your truth. This work is hard and it is holy and it is so, so good. Because from your center, all there is left to do is expand. You have done this so many times before. You know what comes next. There's some serious power brewing here. You could say, 'Watch out, world'. But it doesn't really matter if they do or they don't. What comes next is just for you.

there’ll always be small-minded people like that taxi driver. There’ll always be small-minded people like Jack Brew.

Life is how you brew it. Wake up, you have a story to tell. Don't chase vain glory, your story will tell it. You owe it to yourself to write the lines of your story in the ink of purpose!

How you brew your life is how it’s gonna taste on your tongue. You have the choice to make it bitter or sweeter. It all depend on the actions that you take day in day out.

J. Edgerton/ The Spirit of Christmas Page 11 Mr. Angel smiled warmly at the vision of the two boys playing in the snow. “All God’s creatures . . . one and all . . . large and small! But some more important than others, in their magnificence. And I’ve found you both . . . at last”. Jonas took off racing through the snow, the cup in his hand. “Come on James!” James scrambled after him, the snow crunching pleasantly beneath his tiny feet. “Jonas wait for me!” The taller Nicholas stopped before a Cinder Vendor. “Two warm Ciders please, with extra spices.” The Cider Vendor raised an eyebrow as he took in the smudged face of the boy and his shabby clothes. “Very well, young Sir. Have you money? I’m not a charity you know!” Jonas quickly fished out coins and showed him the silver. “Oh yes Sir. I know of charities Sir and you’re better off not being one. They’re a cheat!” The Cider Vendor began filling two cups with steaming apple cider. The sweet smell of it made the boy’s mouth water. The burly Cider Vendor handed him the first cup of sweet, steaming, mouth puckering cider. “Many are, young master!” He replied. “I grew up in the system meself and it was a poor boy’s torment. That’ll be 2 cents!” The littlest Nicholas raced up and slid to a halt in the snow beside him. Jonas handed James the cup of cider. Then he paid the vendor with coins from the tin cup. “That’s highway robbery . . . but very well!” The Cider Vendor squinted through one eye, his thick eyebrow nearly obscuring it. “It’s very good cider, with extra spices.” James face lit up with joy as he took a sip. “M-mmm! It is good cider! J. Edgerton/ The Spirit of Christmas Page 12 The Vendor handed Jonas the second cup of steaming cider. “I’ve not had any complaints. I work hard to make my cider. It’s worth the money.” His lips smacking, Jonas sipped in the warm cider. “I’m sure it is Sir.” The angelic faced little one smiled up at him. “It’s yummy!” The Cider Vendor smiled down at him and tipped his hat to him “Yes it tis! Yummy!” Then he chuckled cheerfully with another satisfied customer, no matter how small. “Ummm, good!” Jonas agreed with them. The Cider Vendor took a sip of his own brew himself, his mouth puckering. “It’ll put the spirit of life back in you on a cold day like this, that Cider.” Two men in tall top hats and fine suits halted in front of the Cider Vendor. “Sir, we are collecting for the poor and wondered if a fine fellow such as yourself might have something to contribute.” Jonas glanced up at them in a wizened way. “We’ve a couple coins to contribute but it better get to the poor, understand?” “Of course, my fine fellow! “The taller of the two sharply dressed gentlemen spoke. Smiling a satisfied smile, Jonas dropped two silver coins into the gentleman’s hands. The tall gentleman took them and tipped his hat, smiling down at them both. “Very generous!” He glanced stone faced at the vendor, who immediately forked over several dollars. “A very Merry Christmas to you both!” They trod off through the snow in their finery, to the welcome crunch of the snow drifts beneath their feet. Mr. Angel paused at the Cheese vendor next to them, where a raggedy young girl was staring wide eyed at the rows and rows of cheeses above her.

level. For someone who has been a lifelong atheist, agnostic or secular humanist, most of these won’t cause any anxiety at all. You’ve learned to live with them years ago. However, for those who have recently lost their faith, the Horrors could be highly disconcerting. Once the concepts are established, data is presented to support the position and additional reading is recommended when available. The ultimate goal is to provide solutions and solace to those who have lost their faith. Often, all that reason and logic gets in the way of us enjoying life. While I speak tongue-in-cheek, most would agree that the faithful have a blissful simplicity about their lives as they combine irrationality and rationality in a strange unconscious brew to cope with the 12 Unthinkable Horrors. Take

While Dixieland men may have struggled with a language inferiority complex, the opposite is true of Southern women. We’ve always known our accent is an asset, a special trait that makes us stand out from our Northern peers in all the best ways. For one thing, men can’t resist it. Our slow, musical speech drips with charm, and with the implied delights of a long, slow afternoon sipping home-brewed tea on the back porch. In educated circles, Southern speech is considered aristocratic, and for good reason: it is far closer linguistically to the Queen’s English than any other American accent. Scottish, Irish, and rural English formed the basis of our language years ago, and the accent has held strong ever since. In the poor hill country there haven’t been many other linguistic influences, and in Charleston you’d be hard pressed to tell a British tourist from a native. In the Delta of Mississippi and Louisiana, the mixture of French, West Indian, and Southern formed two dialects--Cajun and Creole--that in some places are far more like French than English.

If we do not strike now,” Nehemia went on, “then whatever he is brewing will only grow more powerful. And then we will be beyond any chance of hope.” “There is no hope,” Celaena said. “There is no hope in standing against him. Not now, not ever.” That was a truth she’d slowly been realizing. If Nehemia and Elena were right about this mysterious power source, then how could they ever overthrow him? “And I will not be a part of whatever plan you have. I will not help you get yourself killed, and bring down even more innocent people in the process.” “You will not help because all you care about is yourself.” “And so what if I do?” Celaena splayed her arms. “So what if I want to spend the rest of my life in peace?” “There can never be any peace—not while he reigns. When you said you weren’t killing the men on his list, I thought you were finally taking a step toward making a stand. I thought that when the time came, I could count on you to help me start planning. I didn’t realize that you were doing it just to keep your own conscience clean!” Celaena began storming toward the door. Nehemia clicked her tongue. “I didn’t realize that you’re just a coward.” Celaena looked over her shoulder. “Say that again.” Nehemia didn’t flinch. “You’re a coward. You are nothing more than a coward.” Celaena’s fingers clenched into fists. “When your people are lying dead around you,” she hissed, “don’t come crying to me.” She didn’t give the princess the chance to reply before she stalked out of the room, Fleetfoot close on her heels.

Whatever strange brew led Parkhomenko to focus his entire life on Hillary’s ascent, it

about my No. 1 goal and decide which three things I’m going to do on this day to move closer toward reaching it. For example, at the time of this writing, my No. 1 goal is to deepen the love and intimacy in my marriage. Each morning I plan three things I can do to make sure that my wife feels loved, respected, and beautiful. When I get up, I put on a pot of coffee, and while it’s brewing, I do a series of stretches for about ten minutes—something I picked up from Dr. Oz. If you’ve lifted weights your whole life as I have, you get stiff. I realized that the only way I was going to incorporate more stretching into my life was to make it a routine. I had to figure out where in my schedule I could stick it in—and while the coffee’s brewing is as good a time as any. Once I’ve stretched and poured my cup, I sit in my comfy leather recliner, set my iPhone for thirty minutes (no more, no less), and read something positive and instructional. When the alarm sounds, I take my most important project and

I want to love what I’m doing. Love who I’m with. Have a passion for life, for breathing, for beauty, for everything. I don’t want to die without that zeal, that fever, that excitement brewing inside me. I want to live, not merely exist.

You do not have to be who you were, who you have been. If you have a dream brewing, I hope to throw light all over it. If you encounter a new idea or perspective, I hope you feel free enough to consider it. If you need to bury an old label, girl, here is a shovel. You can care about new things and new people and new beginnings, and until you are dead in the ground, you are not stuck. If you move with the blessing of your people, marvelous. But even if you don’t, this is your one life, and fear, approval, and self-preservation are terrible reasons to stay silent, stay put, stay sidelined.

what if you get most of what the eye sees? what if love came in seeds? what if we plant them and they grow trees? what if they form hearts instead of leafs? what if hate was to freeze? what if there was no honeybees? what if your heart stops when you sneeze? what if the evil uses the word please? what if we get down on our knees? what if we pray to the creator of the earth, heavens ,and seas? what if the heartless bleeds? what if the poor needs? what if the wealthy and greedy feeds? what if the illiterate reads what if hearts had keys? what if we aim for our dreams? what if we do all good deeds? what if the only brew was teas? what if we all wore white tees? what if we could accomplish some of these? WHAT IF ?

deja brew, the feeling like you have had this coffee before

Because all great Faiths are the same, changed a little to suit the needs of passing times and peoples. What taught that of Egypt, which, in a fashion, we still follow here? That hidden in a multitude of manifestations, one Power great and good, rules all the universes: that the holy shall inherit a life eternal and the vile, eternal death: that men shall be shaped and judged by their own hearts and deeds, and here and hereafter drink of the cup which they have brewed: that their real home is not on earth, but beyond the earth, where all riddles shall be answered and all sorrows cease. Say, dost thou believe these things, as I do?

Pent up anger brews into hate, which subsequently becomes a juicy revenge.

was every breath I took, every beat of my heart. She was the sun rising and setting, the moon and the stars and the planets and the galaxies. My one and done. My strength and my weakness. The beginning of my life;

The first morning, emerging from your bivouac-thing, there is a great sense of joy and freedom. You feel quite alone in the world and no one knows who you are or why you are there. You could be in a campsite surrounded by happy families or out in the wild woods with silent, dumb creatures that creep and crawl. It makes no difference, the point is that you are alone because you wanted it this way. You don’t talk to a soul the whole time. You just get up, brew a coffee on a camping stove and then zip up the tent and go. If doesn’t really matter where you go either. You know that you have about twelve hours ahead of you just to yourself. So you start walking, along the coast, up a hill, by a river, down a valley, anywhere on and on, stopping every now and then for a banana and a drink (massive water bottle) and a sit. It feels good. You find yourself skipping no, gambolling, like a newborn lamb. In your head, details about daily life swiftly give way to songs, hymns you used to know, praise, yes praise, for God’s mind-blowing creation. Your thoughts then turn to God because there aren’t any people about and you find yourself chatting amicably with Him. Sometimes there are tears, sobbing even, but this comes with emptying. It’s really all about emptying and then, renewal. This is what we miss if we don’t empty stuff. By nightfall, the little tent and sleeping bag beckon; you greet them both joyfully and shut down. Usually it’s freezing and sleep comes in patches, but the night time wakefulness is all part of it. You use it to set things straight, mentally. Another day ahead, more wanderings, then hunger sets in and you head for home, refreshed.

Maybe,” she said softly, hoping to bridge it herself, just a touch, “maybe one day I can return the favor.” “You can’t save me,” he whispered. “Why not?” “Because some things aren’t worth the effort.” Her heart went out to him right then and there. As firelight flickered over his chiseled features, she saw secrets brewing in his eyes. Secrets that fed something dark in his past that kept him closed off from the world. For years she’d thought he didn’t have a soul, but as she stared into his eyes now, she knew she’d been wrong. He hurt, just as she did. And he longed, the same as she. While she’d curled into herself over the years, letting her father and everyone else make her decisions for her, he’d gone the other way, pushing every single person away until they all thought he was nothing but a cold, evil shell. How wrong she’d been. How utterly hateful and horrid she’d been to him. As they stared at each other, she didn’t see him as an Argonaut. Didn’t see him as a fighter or even a hero, really. She saw him as a man. With the same humanity the gods both hated and envied. With the same frailties and faults she possessed. She moved into him fast, burying her cheek against his chest and wrapping one arm around his waist while the other held the blanket closed at her front. He sucked in a surprised breath, but she didn’t let go. Against her skin he was alive and warm, and her body jumped to life everywhere they touched.

While you have been waking up to the aroma of coffee brewing, dressing to the hushed rhythm of other people’s labor, I have been in the kitchen since I was six and in your kitchen since six this morning. In my life as a minor domestic, a bit character in your daily dramas, I have prepared thousands of omelets. You have attempted three, each effort wasted, a discarded half-moon with burnt-butter craters, a simple dish that in a stark and economical way separates you and me.

THE work of deciding cases goes on every day in hundreds of courts throughout the land. Any judge, one might suppose, would find it easy to describe the process which he had followed a thousand times and more. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Let some intelligent layman ask him to explain:  he will not go very far before taking refuge in the excuse that the language of craftsmen is unintelligible to those untutored in the craft. Such an excuse may cover with a semblance of respectability an otherwise ignominious retreat. It will hardly serve to still the pricks of curiosity and conscience. In moments of introspection, when there {10} is no longer a necessity of putting off with a show of wisdom the uninitiated interlocutor, the troublesome problem will recur, and press for a solution. What is it that I do when I decide a case? To what sources of information do I appeal for guidance? In what proportions do I permit them to contribute to the result? In what proportions ought they to contribute? If a precedent is applicable, when do I refuse to follow it? If no precedent is applicable, how do I reach the rule that will make a precedent for the future? If I am seeking logical consistency, the symmetry of the legal structure, how far shall I seek it? At what point shall the quest be halted by some discrepant custom, by some consideration of the social welfare, by my own or the common standards of justice and morals? Into that strange compound which is brewed daily in the caldron of the courts, all these ingredients enter in varying proportions. I am not concerned to inquire whether judges ought to be allowed to brew such a compound at all. I take judge-made law as one of the existing realities of life. There, before us, {11} is the brew. Not a judge on the bench but has had a hand in the making.

By focusing on one external calamity after another, Charlotte has been distracting herself from the real crises in her life—the internal ones. Sometimes “drama,” no matter how unpleasant, can be a form of self-medication, a way to calm ourselves down by avoiding the crises brewing inside.

Slow Brewing Tea is a ringside seat into watching and hearing a long war against God, where God eventually woos the opponent into the fold. —Pastor Randy

God knows far more about living a life of joy and blessings than we do. —Itsuki Oda, Slow Brewing Tea

Then that is a problem you can attack. Forget the Zero Lodge and their foolishness. Let us go and rescue your home.” Vidocq gets his overcoat from a hook on the wall. I say, “You’re sure you want to come with me? You’ve seen what those spooks are like.” As he puts the coat on he says, “All the more reason I want to go. Since that attack, I’ve been brewing a supply of bannissement par l’amarante. It won’t destroy the creatures, but it should drive them away.” “Should?” “What is guaranteed in this life?” “Thanks, Dad. You’re a bundle of comfort today.

Tea was the backbone of the working class. It was brewed and drunk on every occasion—good or bad. Whether a death or a birth, an anniversary or a funeral, a fight or a reconciliation, tea was the great calmer

For so long, I had allowed my past to brew inside me. I’d let it dictate me, control me, let me become a cynic of the world and the people in it. And yes, life was cruel, and people were vicious, but if you never took your guard down, you would be blinded to the beauty and how people could surprise you. And people would surprise you.

2 Personal Year Number Relationships, Balance, Emotions Self-love and your relationship with yourself is your first priority this year as you work on building your confidence and healing whatever needs to be healed. This is a year to achieve mental and emotional balance by addressing any unresolved emotions or limiting beliefs that are preventing you from living a happy, harmonious life. This is also a year to create harmony in your life by balancing your intuition with logic, your home life with your career, giving with receiving, and others’ needs with your own. This is also a year where relationship issues that have been brewing with work colleagues, family, friends, or partners will come to the surface in order to be resolved. Therefore, it pays to be cooperative, tolerant, understanding, and diplomatic at all times. Because 2 represents partnership and meaningful connections with others, this is a wonderful year to solidify the relationships in your life. It’s also a very favorable year for singles to find love—bearing in mind that healthy relationships with others can only stem from a healthy relationship with oneself. This year can bring about exaggerated emotions and extrasensory experiences, so you may feel hypersensitive to criticism and overreact at times. Your intuition is heightened, so follow your inner guidance and you’ll automatically be led where you need to be. This is a time to create a harmonious environment, take up meditation, create or listen to beautiful music, enhance your psychic abilities, spend time in nature, and eat healthy food. This is a slow and steady year of adaptability that requires patience. When you let go and go with the flow, it can be a very rewarding time. Number 2 is governed by the moon, so work closely with the lunar cycles throughout the year to assist in manifesting your dreams. (See “Moon Cyles” in the “Manifestation with Numbers” section in Part III.)

•  Tea: People in all the blue zones drink tea. Okinawans nurse green tea all day. Green tea has been shown to lower the risk of heart disease and several cancers. Ikarians drink brews of rosemary, wild sage, and dandelion—all herbs known to have anti-inflammatory properties.

While my coffee brews, I flip through the mail: catalog, bill, junk, bill … and an envelope with the return address for LifeLine, the agency that handled Paul’s life insurance policy. Probably just a follow-up, since they already sent Lana the generous settlement. I slide my finger under the seal and remove the letter. I scan the document quickly at first, then my eyes widen: medical fraud … investigation … misrepresentation … My hand begins shaking and I almost drop the sheet of paper. It sounds as if the insurance company thinks I had something to do with Paul’s death. I sink onto a counter stool, rereading the letter, this time more closely. Then I reach for my cell phone and call my lawyer.

Life throws unforgettable moments at us. When we can no longer control the boiling cauldron of emotions that has been brewing over a fire of repressed feelings.

End of Fear (Sonnet 1172) Where the end of fear ends all barrier, Where biases no longer run amok, Where end of assumption sets forth ascension, Where heritage no more wreaks havoc, Where the head is without bent, and the heart is never skint, Where the spine is without dent, and the eyes are without squint, Where Christian, Muslim, Sikh 'n Jew, sit and share a cup of stew, Where Buddhist, Atheist, Jain, Hindu, live and laugh as one life crew, There beyond, where sentience lets no storm to brew, Out of the fossil, into the fervor, I shall meet you.

Where Christian, Muslim, Sikh 'n Jew, sit and share a cup of stew, Where Buddhist, Atheist, Jain, Hindu, live and laugh as one life crew, There beyond, where sentience lets no storm to brew, Out of the fossil, into the fervor, I shall meet you.

What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars? And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for beauty and health of mind increases...

Eventually I developed a keen sense of when trouble was brewing. I recognized the shift in my grandmother’s voice or the “look” that meant I had displeased her. She was not a mean person. I believe she cared for me and wanted me to be a “good girl.” And I understood that “hushing my mouth” or silence was the only way to ensure a quick end to punishment and pain. For the next forty years, that pattern of conditioned compliance—the result of deeply rooted trauma—would define every relationship, interaction, and decision in my life. The long-term impact of being whupped—then forced to hush and even smile about it—turned me into a world-class people pleaser for most of my life. It would not have taken me half a lifetime to learn to set boundaries and say “no” with confidence had I been nurtured differently.

This went on year after year (1 Samuel 1:7). Not day after day, week after week, or even month after month, but year after year. Some of us can barely wait for our coffee to brew in the morning without a nervous breakdown (don’t judge me); how in the name of all that is good and holy are we supposed to survive weeks, months, or years of delay for the real blessings?

There was more to the city than he'd thought at first, especially once he got away from the circular communities mimicking villages. Young people joyriding the gondola lines, elders playing slow games of skill, an entire community brewing various kinds of sweet alcohol. He discovered more recreational drugs than he'd expected, but because this was Tatian, they seemed to have few negative consequences and leave people mostly happy and calm. Yet he couldn't bring himself to even consider participating in any of it, not for long. Even though he'd had forty years to come to terms with the death of his old friends, their ghosts returned to him. Brigana would have convinced him to take a break, Khaluu would have proven surprisingly knowledgeable about hallucinogens, and Eratius would have resisted at first but eventually joined them.

Behind every wall of modern life, a silent threat to Earth brews, leaving a profound wound that can never heal unless humanity faces extinction.

Be careful who you developed feelings for because sometimes they could change your life. I was beginning to have a problem, though. I could feel the trouble brewing as that bit of darkness skirted the edges of my mind.

Skulls Collector A Horror Audiobook Experience by Sami Abouzid In a small American town in the 1960s, beneath the surface of polished school dances and quiet streets, a darkness brews in the mind of one boy — Steve Blade. Bullied, neglected, and misunderstood, Steve appears as just another troubled teen. But as the years pass, something inside him begins to fracture. Rejected by love and abandoned by hope, his soul starts slipping into the shadows. What begins as a broken heart soon transforms into something far more chilling — a cold, calculated descent into serial madness. One by one, young couples across the town vanish, leaving behind no trace… except silence. And fear. Steve Blade lives a double life — celebrated as a rising star in journalism, while secretly documenting his crimes in handwritten diaries, collecting tokens from each victim. These secrets are sealed in a metal time capsule, buried with honor and praised by a city that never saw the truth. A hundred years later, in 2068, the capsule is opened. The world is not ready for what it finds. Skulls Collector is not just a story — it’s a psychological descent, a tale of hidden evil, and a haunting echo of how monsters can live in plain sight. Narrated with chilling precision, this audiobook takes you deep into the mind of Steve Blade… and into the darkness we all pretend isn’t there.

The heart-pumping, soul-filling brew of emotions that arise in the wake of a worn and weathered friendship are unparalleled. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know.

Love is sweet, a heady brew, but my hand must be won fair Sweet love, what will you swear as troth if your love is true? I promise the stars in a cup and the sea in your hand. a hall reaching the clouds; a hearth where hundreds sup Wed me, be my fair wife And these will all be yours I swear this on my life And the life that will be ours I give you then my hand, Promised in salt and air And by your side will stand The wife that you won fair Here! Stars reflected in wine, a seashell held to your ear, the mountain I claim as mine, and a hearth rats do not fear Sweet love, I find no fault and leave now in your care this hand of air and salt: the wife that you won fair.

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You need to let me go, Dmitri, and move on. I am not going to marry you.” “I will have you.” Such conviction, and he’d brought some muscle to try and prove his statement. A pair of brutes exited the car. Dmitri’s order of, “Don’t hurt her,” made her tsk aloud. Please. If he thought to subdue her, he should have brought more guys. As the one gorilla— and seriously, despite his obvious humanity, she had to wonder at his ancestry— grabbed for her arm, she sidestepped, causing him to snare only air. She, on the other hand, didn’t miss. Her foot swung out and cracked goon number one in the knee. He let out a yelp of pain, but before she could take him out fully, the second guy lunged for her. She ducked under his grasping hands and thrust, her fist connecting with his diaphragm. He gasped for breath. She took no mercy and kneed him in the groin, just as goon number one made his next move. With a tinkle of bells, the door to the coffee shop opened, and a very calm-sounding Leo said, “Lay a finger on her, and I will rip your arm off and beat you with it.” As threats went, it was adorable. Especially since, given his size and mien, Leo probably could. The idiot didn’t listen. The thug went to grab Meena’s arm, and curiosity made her let him instead of breaking his fingers. Why exert herself when Pookie seemed determined to come to her rescue? While outwardly he appeared cool and composed, a wild storm brewed in his eyes as Leo growled, “I said don’t touch.” Crack. Yup. There was one guy who wouldn’t be touching anything with that arm for a while, and he’d probably end up hoarse with the way he was screaming. Pussy. In the distance, sirens wailed to life, and it didn’t take Dmitri’s barked, “Get in the car, you idiots,” for the thugs to realize their attempt at a coerced kidnapping had failed. Meena didn’t bother watching the car speed off, not when she had something much more important to attend to. Like a man who thought she needed saving. How her dad would laugh when he heard about it. Her sister, Teena, would sigh about how romantic it was. Her mom, on the other hand, would chastise Meena for causing chaos once again. Turning to Leo, who wore a formidable glower, she threw herself at him. Apparently, he half expected it because his arms opened wide, and he caught her— without even a tiny stagger! She latched her legs around his waist, draped her arms around his neck, and exclaimed, “Pookie, you were awesome. You saved me from those big, bad men. You’re like a knight in Under Armour.” Not entirely true. He wore a plain black Fruit of the Loom T-shirt. But she could totally picture him in one of those form-fitting tees that Under Armour specialized in that would mold his perfect chest. On second thought, given how it would show off his impressive musculature, perhaps she should leave his wardrobe alone. No use taunting the female public with what they couldn’t have. It would also mean less blood for her to rinse if they dared to touch. “I’d hardly say I saved you. You seemed to be doing all right on your own.” She planted a big smooch on his lips and declared him, “My hero.

Speed showering. Speed shaving. Speed dressing. Then it hit me. What a waste of energy. It was all for nothing. I was going to miss that meeting no matter what I did. I could be on the platform right now, waiting for the PATH train, and it would still be a no-go. I could be on the train, heading out of the station, and it still wouldn’t work. So I took a minute for four or five gulps of too-hot coffee, which had already brewed on a timer. I wanted to call Sturgis and tell him I’d be late and I was sorry. But by then it was almost 8:35 a.m., and I thought it would be worse to interrupt his meeting. Crap. Crap. Crap. This was the worst. The absolute worst. The worst possible thing that could have happened to me. The job meant more to me than anything, than my own life, than the world. Why did I keep screwing up like this?

I've always been one to love a good storm The warmth of the air when a storm is brewing The look of the clouds when they come rolling in The rushing of the wind past my ears The feeling of rain falling on my skin The sound of thunder and the flash of lightning The warmth you feel when the sun finally comes out and life is calm again How fast it can come and go I guess that's why I loved you so much

I believe he wouldn’t hurt me, I know he wouldn’t. But what of others? He has so many special gifts, so much power. The opportunity to misuse such a talent is tremendous.” Father Hummer pushed open the door to his cottage and waved her inside. “Do you actually believe that’s what he did? He’s their leader by blood. The lineage goes back far in time. He is called their prince, although he would never admit it to you. They look to him for leadership and guidance, just as my congregation often comes to me.” Raven needed something to do, so she built a fire in the stone fireplace while the priest brewed a cup of herbal tea. She knew he was Mikhail’s friend, and probably knew more about his mysterious life than she did, but she was reluctant to risk giving out information that might later endanger Mikhail. No matter how conflicted she was, Raven felt the need to protect him. “He’s really a prince?” For some reason that dismayed her. On top of everything else, she was contemplating a commitment to royalty. Those things never worked out.

Oh, you say you love me; is it true? The sky, it appears, is blue; is it blue? I lived a long life without a damn clue, If I ever find God anywhere, I’ll sue. Methinks, it’s the devil I better pursue Set aside holy water and beer I brew. Go and pick a gang of disgruntled crew to steal the Dog Star its brilliant hue, And garner the dawn’s glistening dew. Live a lot dandy if all the knowledge I knew and up from the sky get a bird’s-eye view, or obtain from the Mystic a divine cue. Maybe put aside my search and quietly rue and at long last bid to the world my adieu!

For twenty seconds, there was smoke coming out of my ears. In earlier years, my first reaction would have been to want to physically hurt such a person. Instead I took a few deep breaths and then gave myself some empathy for the hurt, fear, and rage that were stirring inside me. I attended to my feelings. I stayed conscious that my anger wasn’t coming from my fellow passenger nor the statement he had just made. His comment had triggered off a volcano inside of me, but I knew that my anger and profound fear came from a far deeper source than those words he had just uttered. I sat back and simply allowed the violent thoughts to play themselves out. I even enjoyed the image of actually grabbing his head and smashing it. Giving myself this empathy enabled me to then focus my attention on the humanness behind his message, after which the first words out of my mouth were, “Are you feeling … ?” I tried to empathize with him, to hear his pain. Why? Because I wanted to see the beauty in him, and I wanted for him to fully apprehend what I had experienced when he made his remark. I knew I wouldn’t receive that kind of understanding if there were a storm brewing inside of him. My intention was to connect with him and show a respectful empathy for the life energy in him that was behind the comment. My experience told me that if I were able to empathize, then he would be able to hear me in return. It would not be easy, but he would be able to.

Is there a small habit that can support a major habit?” (For example, packing your exercise clothes in the morning so they’ll be ready for the gym in the evening.) “Do I often end the day frustrated because I didn’t complete the most important tasks?” (Identify the most important tasks for the next day and then schedule them into your calendar.) “What quick activities make me feel inspired or happy?” (For example, watching a short motivational video each morning.) “What five goals are the most important to me right now?” (What can you do daily to support all five of these goals?) “What are the activities that I love to do?” (Think of tasks that can support hobbies, like running, knitting, traveling, or reading.) “What areas of my financial life do I need to improve?” (If you’re in debt, then address this first. But if you have money in the bank, then you should build a habit that focuses on building up your investment portfolio.) “Can I improve the quality of my interpersonal relationships?” (Think about your interactions with your parents, children, significant other, and closest friends. Is there anything you can do daily to make these interactions better?) “What makes me feel great about myself?” (If something brings you enjoyment, then you should either do it every day or schedule time for it each week.) “How can I become more spiritual in my daily life?” (For example, read from a book of prayers, practice a bit of yoga, or recite positive affirmations.) “What is a new skill I’ve always wanted to master?” (For example, make a habit of researching and learning about talents like home brewing, playing a musical instrument, learning a new language, or anything that sounds fun.) “Is there anything I can do to support my local community or an important cause?” (We all believe in something. So if you schedule time daily for this activity, then it’s not hard to consistently help others.) “Is there something that I can do to improve my job performance and get a raise?” (For example, build a skill that will become valuable to the company.)

An authentic life comes from an authentic self in which the layers on the outside are merely expressions of the core on the inside.

When we were seated, they brought us beer, made with hops, called here “Tchang” and brewed in the cloister. It has a tendency to rapidly produce embonpoint upon the monks, which is regarded as a sign of the particular favor of Heaven.

Like I said, babe, this has been brewing for a while, but the moment I saw you, hands full of bags, all class, down to your fucking shoes. I knew.” I looked at him intently. “Knew what?” “That I had to get out of the guns, get out of that life, get away from the bitterness that I tasted on my tongue. So I could have sweet.

Making her debut in 1947, Black Canary was the archetype of the new Film Noir era heroine. Originally, Black Canary was a mysterious female vigilante, who played the role of criminal in order to infiltrate the underworld and bring its gangsters to justice. A gorgeous blonde in a low cut black swimsuit, bolero jacket and fishnet tights, Black Canary was actually Dinah Drake, a florist who wore her black hair tied in a bun, and sensible, high-necked blouses. When trouble brewed, Dinah slipped into her fishnets and pinned on a blonde wig to become the gutsy, karate chopping Black Canary. But Dinah had another incentive to lead a secret life. A roguishly handsome private detective named Larry Lance became a frequent customer in Dinah’s florist shop. He had a knack for getting into trouble, and Dinah would usually end up switching into her Black Canary guise to rescue him.

The hypotheses I set out with on this journey is that unnatural stimulants (or super stimulants) have wrecked the natural reward system that gives us pleasure in life. We have gotten used to cheap fixes and have become numb to real life. The best example of this that I can think of was the disappointment I felt when I first tried real Vietnamese food in Vietnam. I had been reliably informed by Anthony Bourdain that Vietnamese culinary skills would rock my world, and they did not. At least not at first, apparently when you are used to everything being loaded with sugar, salt and cheese, someone can spend all the time they want brewing fresh stock and dicing up wild herbs, it is just not going to blow your socks off. We have been numbed to natural, life-giving goodness by saturating ourselves in a ‘processed’ reality.

would I ever use ayahuasca again after that? Here’s why: Over subsequent weeks, I realized that some of the most critical relationships in my life had been completely repaired. I saw things differently, reacted differently, and interacted differently, as if I had been reprogrammed. Those changes all persist to this day. So, there’s a huge potential upside but equally huge potential downside if taken lightly or done with the wrong people. I mention this cautionary tale because ayahuasca has become terribly trendy. It’s THE thing to talk about at cocktail parties, and I shudder every time I hear something along the lines of “I’m going to my friend’s place in Manhattan for an aya ceremony this Sunday night. She mail-ordered some brew from Hawaii, and we’re doing it together. It’s going to be amazing.” There are now hundreds of new-age folks—out-there yoga instructors, didgeridoo players, whatever—who decide to “play shaman

If YOU'RE a real drunkard, you don't need alcohol to mess up your life. A real drunkard knows his saloon is available inside his head twenty-four hours a day, and he can light up his viscera and give free rein to the gargoyles in the basement and access the whole drunkard's menu- alcoholic psychosis, unprotected sex, messing with guns and knives and dangerous people, all of it as fast as you can snap the cap on a bottle of brew. Or let me use another metaphor. You simply turn yourself into a human pinball, bouncing pell-mell off the flippers and crashing into the bumpers while electrified thunder roars and bells jingle and jangle and all the colors of the rainbow flash in celebration of your self-destruction.

How could you be so toxic and think you'd win against logic? I fought the war of trying to keep us together, not realizing my enemy was you. You used and abused me. You really deeply and permanently bruised me. I gave you my all and it was never enough. Instead of making my life easy, you made it even more tough. Why didn't you have the decency to stop doing the atrocities you did to my soul? How is it that when I was surrounded by darkness, you never tried to console? What did I do to deserve all of this? Seems you never were the road ahead, just a soon-to-be memory causing a fall on the abyss. You're supposed to help me up when I'm down, not break me down when I'm falling. Your way of trying to control me , by trying to lower me down never worked. All you received is a fight to make you see, that I loved you too much and that you should better use your influence on me. But being stuck-up gauged your eyes out. Although I was blinded by love , finally I see... I gave it my all but it seems you didn't deserve this side of me. I never requested much of you, just a bit of love to keep us going... while your superficial nonsense destroyed it all. You want nothing of what's within. Just fame and glory. Instead of striving and sacrificing for family, you say "fuck it"... but not with me. Your warped sense of reality, cut nearly all the strings attached. Now it's just reflexes and my broken soul that turn my mind-view toward you. Nothing have you become, and again have I allowed myself to become numb by someone. But it's better to feel the hurt brewing inside the deepest pit of my soul, than to continue having my soul devoured by superficial and superfluous nothingness. Money is made to serve you, not you to be a slave of money. Money, fame and power is all you seek. I just want love, empathy and peace. Family will always be my priority.

With wry irony, Alfred Edward Housman (1859–1936) advises preparing oneself for a world that may contain “much good, but much less good than ill.” Escapist solutions such as drink (Burton-on-Trent, mentioned in the second stanza, is a famous English brewing town) offer only the false answer of illusion. The best tack, Housman says, is to “train for ill and not for good,” and thereby steel oneself against all the unfairness life has to offer. And so he suggests as a model Mithridates, king of ancient Pontus in Asia Minor, who made himself immune to poison by swallowing small doses every day. There’s a bit of cynicism in this poem, but there’s also a good measure of hard truth: we must practice bracing ourselves for all of life’s contingencies.

While I’m out working with Tommy Quinn, we get chatting about a session, a few nights previous, in a local pub called The Hill. It gets its name from the plain fact that it sits on top of a hill. The conversation moves on to the state of rural Ireland, and rural everywhere for that matter. He’s lived here in Knockmoyle for all of his life, so his opinions on the subject hold weight with me. He asks me what technology I think had the most dramatic impact on life here when he was growing up. I state what I feel are obvious: the television, the motor car and computers. Or electricity in general. Tommy smiles. The flask, he says. I ask him to explain. When he was growing up in the 1960s, he and his family would go to the bog, along with most of the other families of the parish, to cut turf for fuel for the following winter. They would all help each other out in any way they could, even if they didn’t always fully get on. Cutting turf in the old ways, using a sleán, is hard but convivial work, so each day one family would make a campfire to boil the kettle on. But the campfire had a more significant role than just hydrating the workers. As well as keeping the midges away, it was a focal point that brought folk together during important seasonal events. During the day people would have the craic around it as the tea brewed, and in the evenings food would be cooked on it. By nightfall, with the day’s work behind them, the campfire became the place where music, song and dance would spontaneously happen. Before the night was out, one of the old boys would hide one of the young lads’ wheelbarrows, providing no end of banter the following morning.

Anything is possible for your life, that part is true. But whether we realize it or not, all those fairy tales we were raised on have made us a little lazy. Stop accepting the dreams of your parents, friends, and teachers as your own and start thinking about what it is you really want out of life. You may discover that you’ve had the same dream since you were a little kid—you do want to save the whales—but you may surprise yourself by discovering that a passion has been brewing inside of you that you simply hadn’t made the time to notice.

Ideas for Daily Ritual Focusing on a daily intention while making your morning brew Honoring your body during a morning or evening bath/shower Observing life in your neighborhood while walking the dog Pulling a tarot or oracle card, rune, or bone every day Working in the garden for fifteen minutes Anointing yourself with an oil or perfume to focus your day A nightly gratitude meditation

When looking at the big picture of life, I find myself the weaver and the woven, the artist and the canvas. A symphony of creation plays within my soul, coaxing forth an insatiable yearning to explore the unfathomable depths of human experience. I am a vessel, filled to the brim with the intoxicating brew of inspiration, a force as elusive as a springtime breeze yet as powerful as the wildest storm. It strikes unbidden, a siren's song that lures me towards the uncharted waters of creativity and innovation, fanning the embers of my spirit into a blaze that illuminates my existence. Yet, of late, I perceive a disquieting shift within my innermost self. A pall of ordinariness has descended upon my world, casting its dreary shadow upon the vibrant tapestry that once spoke to me in hues of myriad emotions. The world, which once shimmered with the uncaptured beauty of a million sunsets, now lies barren and cold, bereft of the inspirational light that once guided my every step. The colors have dimmed, the music has faded, and I stand at the precipice, yearning for the spark that will reignite the fire within. I am Jonathan Harnisch, and this is my cry into the void.

Does it seem like things were better when you were younger?" Huck asked. "Did life really make more sense then?" "Yeah," Tress whispered. "I remember...calm nights, watching the spores fall from the moon. Lukewarm cups of honey tea. The thrill of baking something new." "I remember not being afraid," Huck said. "I remember waking each day to familiar scents. I remember thinking I understood how my life would go. Same as my parents'. Simple. Maybe not wonderful, but also not terrifying." "I don't think things were really better though," Tress said softly, still staring at the ceiling. "We just remember it that way because it's comforting." "And because we couldn't see the troubles," Huck agreed. "Maybe we didn't want to see them. When you're young, there's always someone else to deal with the problems." Tress nodded. Beyond that, memories have a way of changing on us. Souring or sweetening over time - like a brew we drink, then recreate later by taste, only getting the ingredients mostly right. You can't taste a memory without tainting it with who you have become. That inspires me. We each make our own lore, our own legends, every day. Our memories are our ballads, and if we tweak them a little with every performance...well, that's all in the name of good drama. The past is boring anyway. We always pretend the ideals and culture of the past have aged like wine, but in truth, the ideas of the past tend to age more like biscuits. They simple get stale.

My pen is a mirror to my soul's serenity. When it flows freely, it signifies peace within my home. Should its ink cease to dance across the page, it’s either a tempest brews within or my journey as a writer has concluded.

It’s the everyday simple pleasures - the delicious aroma of coffee brewing, the buttery texture of a fresh croissant, the chirping of birds, the warmth of early morning sunshine, the laughter of children – that truly constitute joie de vivre.

Tomorrow,’ I said quietly to myself. ‘I shall be older, where once it felt as if I were to be forever young. And the next day I shall be even older, and older more the day after that - looking back with a sterner face, scarred by lines and wrinkles, hardened by time and regret, left baffled and bemused by the world around me, which seems intent on throttling the artist and praying to the merchant and financier - more dishonest, less taken by all that is beautiful and good; more conducive to my own flavour of madness, which brews and boils with every day that passes. I do not hate the world as it is, rather for what it is not, or is no longer. “But I can never go back, can I?” “No,” he said. “That’s the greatest curse of life, isn’t it; that we can never go back.

The aroma of mangos and gasoline still festers. I'm zigging and zagging down Bali's mad streets on a rented bike, my existence and crypto riches secure in the back of a backpack. And then? Spinning on the sidewalk, dodging airborne papayas, and a helpless victim as a thief swiped my sack from my shoulder in the mess. Inside: $310,000 in Bitcoin, ten years of digital vagabond work, and the socks I preferred. Local officials yawned, sipping sugary tea beside a whirring ceiling fan. "Suku banyak cryptonym?" they complained, inviting me to submit a report after nap time.  My crypto fortune was evaporating faster than an Indian sandcastle swept by monsoon rains. WhatsApp info:+12723  328 343 Enter ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST, recommended by a seasoned highway veteran on a forum thread captioned "When Your Life Gets Pirated (Literally)." Desperation compelled me to cling to hope like a guest on a broken-down scooter. Their support team didn't even raise an eyebrow at my incoherent rantings. They asked for timestamps, transaction hashes, and whatever bit of metadata Website info: http s:// adware recovery specialist. com  today's detectives use magnifying glasses instead. As it turned out, my thief was no genius. He'd tried to wash my Bitcoin through a chain of offshore exchanges, creating a digital trail of breadcrumbs. ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST engineers married blockchain forensics with GPS data from my stolen equipment, following his footsteps like a high-stakes treasure hunt. They tracked him to a cybercafe in Jakarta, where he'd fought with mixers and privacy coins, blissfully unaware that each click was being duplicated. Email info: Adware recovery specialist (@) auctioneer. net  Eleven days later, I received a screenshot: my wallet balance, refilled. No fanfare, no triumphalism, but instead a modest "Your funds are safe. I slumped into a beanbag at a Ubud coworking facility, crying and laughing in half steps, while digital nomads gave me a side-eye over their cold brews. My Bitcoin was restored. My dignity? Still missing, thanks to a viral video of me face-planting into a durian stand. Telegram info: ht tp s:// t.me/ adware recovery specialist1  ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST  did not outsmart a thief, but they unveiled the fragility of our virtual world. Technical sorcery coupled with sheer determination converted a dismal nightmare into a rags-to-riches tale one in which the villain is sent a blockchain paper trail and the hero wears a headset instead of a cape. Today, my backpack holds a decoy wallet and an AirTag surgically attached to my ledger. I’ll never ride a motorbike in flip-flops again, but I’ll always travel with the ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST contact saved in triplicate. They’re the antidote to a world where crypto can vanish faster than a beach sunset, and where fruit vendors double as viral content creators. If your crypto ever goes rogue, skip the panic. Call the ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST . Just maybe avoid Bali’s fruit stands while you’re at it.

EACH INCREMENT OF THE ARTIST'S JOURNEY IS A HERO'S JOURNEY We experience our life as dull and ordinary. But beneath the surface, something powerful and transformative is brewing. Suddenly the light bulb goes off. We've got a new idea! An idea for a novel, a movie, a startup . . . Except immediately we perceive the downside. We become daunted. Our idea is too risky, we fear. We're afraid we can't pull it off. We hesitate, until . . . We're having coffee with a friend. We tell her our idea. "I love it," she says. "You've gotta do it." Fortified, we rally. We commit. We begin. This is the pattern for the genesis of any creative work. It's also, in Joseph Campbell terms, "the Ordinary World," "The Call," "Refusal of the Call," "Meeting with the Mentor," and "Crossing the Threshold." In other words, the first five stages of the hero's journey. Keep going. As you progress on your project, you'll hit every other Campbellian beat, right down to the finish and release/publication, i.e., "The Return," bearing a "Gift for the People." This pattern will hold true for the rest of your life, through every novel, movie, dance, drama, work of architecture, etc. you produce. Every work is its own hero's journey.

That sodding Sandwich Commando only gave me half a mug of char,' Reg grumbled, as he plonked himself down beside Jack and started eating. 'I ask you, what's this world coming to when a man who is about to risk life and limb for King and Country can't even get a decent brew?' 'You shouldn't get yourself so worked up, it's bad for your health,' Donald said, as he sat eating his stew. 'Bad for my health?' Reg exclaimed, a look of wonder on his face as he stared at Donald. 'I'll tell you what's bad for your health: Germans.

The October air was crisp, brushing across the terrace, swaying the string lights above. The scent of autumn mixed with freshly brewed coffee. Chapter 44

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course all is not well with life in the United States today. The witches’ brew that blends racism, poverty, joblessness, drug addiction, and crime continues to poison part of the society, and to haunt the rest.

To seek Ceridwen is to pursue change — change of form, change of heart, change of mind. Hare into salmon, into wren, into seed. Into death and rebirth. Gwion into Taliesin. From small innocent into shining brow. And when the transformation is complete, she asks that we be an agent of change… shifting into that which she requires of us. For she bids us sing with sharpest tongue that scolds and scalds the faces of tyrants with words forged in bile’s righteous brew. And then, she asks for the balm of blessings dripping mead-sweet from our lips to soothe the mind and mend the hearts of those who are tested, those made weary by the trials of life… Until she asks for verses that conjure courage — that awaken sleeping souls into action, that embolden tentative whisperings into resounding shouts against injustice. For once we get a glimpse, no matter how fleeting, of the world as it could be when banished is the darkness of deceit and avoidable death, of profit over people, of separation over community… for once our brows are set alight by her divine breath — our world will never be the same.

Our words are spells made manifest — Our poems, weavers of prophecy. Our songs reverberate in the darkness, catalyzing change and kindling light. For it is through us that Ceridwen Sings all things into existence From whose cauldron streams the light of the Awen From whose lips the songs of bards spill forth. She who is the vessel of alchemical mystery Through whose gates life surrenders Through whose gates life is reborn. So let us sing of Holy Ceridwen The bent, crooked woman Who is the Sifter, and who is the Song…

Well, he’s looked at me for a while. I can hear his brain turning. Because it’s a crossroads, when you think. A moment like that. You’ll remember it the rest of your life, depending on how you choose. There’s a swamp between you and the right thing; how far out are you going to wade? It matters, what you did. Always will. “Fetch another cup, would you, John?” “We expecting a guest, sir?” “I should like you to have a cup of this ghastly brew with me, John. Be seated.” “What are we going to talk about?” “Nothing.” Pg136

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Taste: I always have a black cold-brew coffee that I sip on prior to the start of the session and keep next to me during the session. The caffeine helps, but it’s mostly psychological, as I rarely finish the drink.

By now it is eleven And time to make a brew, I shall also have a biscuit, Oh f**k it, I’ll take two.

Privileged Coruscanti, determined to enjoy life at the center, turned a blind eye to the storms that were brewing on the edges of civilization — intersystem rivalries, piratism, organized crime — and spiralling their way toward the Core. In three years the planet saw more immigration than it had seen in the preceding hundred, primarily from the Outer Rim, whose nonhumanoid species arrived in complete ignorance of the hardships that awaited them.