Compass Pose Quotes

I am not posing these questions only to the world at large. I query us who own Christ as our life. Can God be pleased by the vast and increasing inequities among us? Is he not grieved by our arrogant accumulation, while Christian brothers and sisters elsewhere languish and die? Is it not obligatory upon us to see beyond the nose of our own national interest, so that justice may roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever flowing stream? Is there not an obligation upon us to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God is we want to live in his wonderful peace?

The election of Obama was a profoundly unserious act by an unserious nation, and, if you were Putin, the ChiComs, or the ayatollahs, you would have to be awfully virtuous not to take advantage of it....He's WEIRD in the sense of those students in the behavioral studies: Western Educated Idle Rich Deadbeat. He's not, even in Democrat terms, a political figure--as Bill Clinton or Joe Biden are. Instead, he's a creature of the broader culture: there are millions of people like Barack Obama, the eternal students of an unbounded lethargic transnational campus for whom global compassion and the multicultural pose are merely the modish gloss on a cult of radical grandiose narcissism. Even as he denies American exceptionalism, he gets turned on by his own.

I’d been wrong about one thing. These were not average men and women. Time had not given them a gloss they had not earned. Even those I wanted to loathe, based on my own research and conclusions, conducted themselves with fervor and honest conviction. These weren’t posing politicians. They were patriots whose blood and sacrifice deserved history’s pardon and Ireland’s compassion.

We lessen the sin of the world by joining the Lamb of God in bearing sin and pardoning sinners. But as the church as become a powerful institution, a consort with kings and queens, a confidante of presidents and prime ministers, our dispensing of grace has become distorted. We show grace to the institutions of systematic sin while condemning the individual sinner. It should be the other way around. It was never the “rank and file” sinners who gnashed their teeth at Jesus, but those for whom the present arrangement of systematic sin was advantageous. Jesus condemned the systematic sin that preserved the status quo for the Herodians and the Sadducees, but showed compassion to publicans and prostitutes. This is grace. But the church, courting the favor of the powerful, has forgotten this kind of grace. We coddle the mighty whose ire we fear and condemn the sin of the weak who pose no threat. We enthusiastically endorse the systems of greed that run Wall Street while condemning personal greed in the life of the individual working for the minimum wage. We will gladly preach a sermon against the sin of personal greed, but we dare not offer a prophetic critique of the golden calf of unfettered capitalism. Jesus and Saint Francis and Dorothy Day did the opposite. They shamed the principalities and powers, but offered pardon to the people. This is the grace of God the church is to embody.

Our northern brethren buried their dead, were skilled toolmakers, kept fires going, and took care of the infirm just like early humans. The fossil record shows survival into adulthood of individuals afflicted with dwarfism, paralysis of the limbs, or the inability to chew. Going by exotic names such as Shanidar I, Romito 2, the Windover Boy, and the Old Man of La Chapelle-aux-Saints, our ancestors supported individuals who contributed little to society. Survival of the weak, the handicapped, the mentally retarded, and others who posed a burden is seen by paleontologists as a milestone in the evolution of compassion. This communitarian heritage is crucial in relation to this book’s theme, since it suggests that morality predates current civilizations and religions by at least a hundred millennia.

He'd found a sweet-water stream that I drank from, and for dinner we found winkles that we ate baked on stones. We watched the sun set like a peach on the sea, making plans on how we might live till a ship called by. Next we made a better camp beside a river and had ourselves a pretty bathing pool all bordered with ferns; lovely it was, with marvelous red parrots chasing through the trees. Our home was a hut made of branches thatched with flat leaves, a right cozy place to sleep in. We had fat birds that Jack snared for our dinner, and made fire using a shard of looking glass I found in my pocket. We had lost the compass in the water, but didn't lament it. I roasted fish and winkles in the embers. For entertainment we even had Jack's penny whistle. It was a paradise, it was." "You loved him," her mistress said softly, as her pencil resumed its hissing across the paper. Peg fought a choking feeling in her chest. Aye, she had loved him- a damned sight more than this woman could ever know. "He loved me like his own breath," she said, in a voice that was dangerously plaintive. "He said he thanked God for the day he met me." Peg's eyes brimmed full; she was as weak as water. The rest of her tale stuck in her throat like a fishbone. Mrs. Croxon murmured that Peg might be released from her pose. Peg stared into space, again seeing Jack's face, so fierce and true. He had looked down so gently on her pitiful self; on her bruises and her bony body dressed in salt-hard rags. His blue eyes had met hers like a beacon shining on her naked soul. "I see past your always acting the tough girl," he insisted with boyish stubbornness. "I'll be taking care of you now. So that's settled." And she'd thought to herself, so this is it, girl. All them love stories, all them ballads that you always thought were a load of old tripe- love has found you out, and here you are. Mrs. Croxon returned with a glass of water, and Peg drank greedily. She forced herself to continue with self-mocking gusto. "When we lay down together in our grass house we whispered vows to stay true for ever and a day. We took pleasure from each other's bodies, and I can tell you, mistress, he were no green youth, but all grown man. So we were man and wife before God- and that's the truth." She faced out Mrs. Croxon with a bold stare. "You probably think such as me don't love so strong and tender, but I loved Jack Pierce like we was both put on earth just to find each other. And that night I made a wish," Peg said, raising herself as if from a trance, "a foolish wish it were- that me and Jack might never be rescued. That the rotten world would just leave us be.

FEBRUARY 2 Two Heart Cells Beating If you place two living heart cells from different people in a Petrie dish, they will in time find and maintain a third and common beat. —MOLLY VASS This biological fact holds the secret of all relationship. It is cellular proof that beneath any resistance we might pose and beyond all our attempts that fall short, there is in the very nature of life itself some essential joining force. This inborn ability to find and enliven a common beat is the miracle of love. This force is what makes compassion possible, even probable. For if two cells can find the common pulse beneath everything, how much more can full hearts feel when all excuses fall away? This drive toward a common beat is the force beneath curiosity and passion. It is what makes strangers talk to strangers, despite the discomfort. It is how we risk new knowledge. For being still enough, long enough, next to anything living, we find a way to sing the one voiceless song. Yet we often tire ourselves by fighting how our hearts want to join, seldom realizing that both strength and peace come from our hearts beating in unison with all that is alive. It feels incredibly uplifting that without even knowing each other, there exists a common beat between all hearts, just waiting to be felt. It brings to mind the time that the great poet Pablo Neruda, near the end of his life, stopped while traveling at the Lota coal mine in rural Chile. He stood there stunned, as a miner, rough and blackened by his work inside the earth, strode straight for Neruda, embraced him, and said, “I have known you a long time, my brother.” Perhaps this is the secret—that every time we dare to voice what beats within, we invite some other cell of heart to find what lives between us and sing.

The Council Leader nodded, but there was a thoughtful expression on his face. “Have you noticed that she saved a child?” he said slowly, cocking his head to the side. “This creation of Blaise’s might not be as monstrous as you imagine.” “What?” Augusta stared at him in disbelief. “No. That doesn’t mean anything. One act of compassion—if that’s what it was—does not eliminate the threat that this thing poses. You know that as well as I do.

Dear God (if this really is you), I hate the church. I hate religion and everything about it. It seems so obvious that religion causes more problems than it solves. It manipulates and separates people with fear. The church is nothing more than a place for people to pose as someone they’re not. How can you defend all this hypocrisy?” Chelsea chuckled. “That’s from someone named Spencer, if I remember correctly.” “You’re good,” Tony said. “Dear Spencer, I don’t even try to defend hypocrisy. Now I have a question for you. Do you really think I started that? Don’t you think I’ve had my fill of worship charades, religious games, and fearmongering, as you and your friends say? You think I want this? No thank you. Yet, Spencer, I haven’t seen much compassion out of you, have I? You pride yourself in authenticity, yet behave like everyone in your own circle. You make irreligion a religion. Leave the hypocrites up to me. And from time to time, look up. Focus on me. I think you might be surprised by what you’ll find. Love, God.

Today, community service is sometimes used as a patch to cover over inarticulateness about the inner life. Not long ago, I asked the head of a prestigious prep school how her institution teaches its students about character. She answered by telling me how many hours of community service the students do. That is to say, when I asked her about something internal, she answered by talking about something external. Her assumption seemed to be that if you go off and tutor poor children, that makes you a good person yourself. And so it goes. Many people today have deep moral and altruistic yearnings, but, lacking a moral vocabulary, they tend to convert moral questions into resource allocation questions. How can I serve the greatest number? How can I have impact? Or, worst of all: How can I use my beautiful self to help out those less fortunate than I? The atmosphere at Hull House was quite different. The people who organized the place had a specific theory about how to build character, equally for those serving the poor and for the poor themselves. Addams, like many of her contemporaries, dedicated her life to serving the needy, while being deeply suspicious of compassion. She was suspicious of its shapelessness, the way compassionate people tended to ooze out sentiment on the poor to no practical effect. She also rejected the self-regarding taint of the emotion, which allowed the rich to feel good about themselves because they were doing community service. “Benevolence is the twin of pride,” Nathaniel Hawthorne had written. Addams had no tolerance for any pose that might put the server above those being served. As with all successful aid organizations, she wanted her workers

The progressives pose as the champions not only of fairness and social justice but also of compassion. They are the ones who insist on our obligation to those from whom we have allegedly stolen. Let’s leave aside for the moment whether they are right about the theft. What we do know for sure is that progressives assert there has been a theft. They further acknowledge that they are among the beneficiaries of it. Based on this, they would seem to have a clear obligation to return the stolen goods that they are currently enjoying. We might expect, from this analysis, to discover that progressives are the most generous people in America. We can anticipate that they contribute the highest portion of their incomes and time to help their wronged and less fortunate fellow men and women. The truth, however, is that progressives are the least generous people in America. I saw this personally with Obama, who unceasingly declares that “we are our brother’s keeper” even as he refuses to help his own half brother, George, who lives in a hut in the Huruma slum of Nairobi. I met George in early 2012 when I interviewed him for my film 2016: Obama’s America. A few months after that, when I was back in America, George called me from Kenya to ask me to give him $1,000 because his baby son was sick. Surprised, I asked him, “Why are you calling me? Isn’t there someone else you can call?” He said, “No.” So I sent him the money. I guess on that occasion it was I, not Obama, who proved to be his brother’s keeper. And besides George, the president has other relatives in dire need—his aunt Hawa Auma, for example, sells charcoal on the roadside in rural Kenya, and desperately needs money to get her rotting teeth fixed. Although Obama is aware of their plight, he refuses to help them.

If you place two living heart cells from different people in a Petrie dish, they will in time find and maintain a third and common beat. —MOLLY VASS This biological fact holds the secret of all relationship. It is cellular proof that beneath any resistance we might pose and beyond all our attempts that fall short, there is in the very nature of life itself some essential joining force. This inborn ability to find and enliven a common beat is the miracle of love. This force is what makes compassion possible, even probable. For if two cells can find the common pulse beneath everything, how much more can full hearts feel when all excuses fall away? This drive toward a common beat is the force beneath curiosity and passion. It is what makes strangers talk to strangers, despite the discomfort. It is how we risk new knowledge. For being still enough, long enough, next to anything living, we find a way to sing the one voiceless song. Yet we often tire ourselves by fighting how our hearts want to join, seldom realizing that both strength and peace come from our hearts beating in unison with all that is alive. It feels incredibly uplifting that without even knowing each other, there exists a common beat between all hearts, just waiting to be felt. It brings to mind the time that the great poet Pablo Neruda, near the end of his life, stopped while traveling at the Lota coal mine in rural Chile. He stood there stunned, as a miner, rough and blackened by his work inside the earth, strode straight for Neruda, embraced him, and said, “I have known you a long time, my brother.” Perhaps this is the secret—that every time we dare to voice what beats within, we invite some other cell of heart to find what lives between us and sing.

Compassion is not a replacement for stupidity. Tearful concern cannot stand in the stead of cold recognition. Sympathy does not cancel out the hard facts of brutal, unwavering observation. It was too easy, too cheap, to fret and wring one’s hands, moaning with heartfelt empathy – it was damned self-indulgent, in fact, providing the perfect excuse for doing precisely nothing while assuming a pious pose. Enough of that.

baseball field, and one by one, the homies come over to talk briefly. This day, there’s quite a lineup. The next kid approaching, I can tell, is all swagger and pose. His walk is chingon in its highest gear. His head bobs, side-to-side, to make sure all eyes are riveted. He sits down, we shake hands, but he seems unable to shake the scowl etched across his face. “What’s your name? I ask him. “SNIPER,” he sneers. “Okay, look (I had been down this block before), I have a feeling you didn’t pop outta your mom and she took one look at your ass and said, ‘Sniper.’ So, come on, dog, what’s your name?” “Gonzalez,” he relents a little. “Okay now, son, I know the staff here will call you by your last name. I’m not down with that. Tell me, mijo, what’s your mom call you?” “Cabrón.” There is even the slightest flicker of innocence in his answer.

Kafka knew precisely what he did *not* want: he did not even consider becoming an attorney or using his linguistic gifts to earn a living. Having his afternoons free was more important to him than the prospects of bourgeois prosperity [...] He often appeared passive and overly despondent, yet he stuck to his avoidance schemes even when they posed critical challenges to his psyche. It was as though he were carrying a compass that pointed out to him nothing but the *wrong* direction

I start almost every workshop, lecture or therapy session I give on compassion asking what the word brings to mind. I then ask, 'If I were to see you being compassionate, what would I see?' Common responses include listening, being present, touching or giving a hug. These capture some of what I mean by courage and wisdom. But to fully unpack it, I pose a third and final question: 'How would you like someone to be compassionate towards you?' At this point someone usually says, 'I'd like some space.' Other common responses include wanting to be heard, to be given time, to be validated and to be touched. As you will have noticed, there can be overlaps in how we give and receive compassion, but there are also slight differences.

If judges pose a party or compassion in any context are termite of the judicial system and spot on the transparent judiciary, it causes concern, which can break trust in impartiality.

MONITOR AND RETRIEVE LOST CRYPTOCURRENCY WITH_TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY I felt as though the sadness in my intestines had moved in. Trembling, my fingers made their hundredth lap across the bank statement. $14,000. Vanished. vanished from my online investment account, taking with it a crushing sensation of helplessness and a trail of digital dust. Panic gnawed at me. My life savings, my future, seemingly swallowed into the abyss of the internet. Every avenue I explored felt like a dead end. My frantic calls to the platform yielded robotic platitudes and zero action. The police, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of cybercrime, offered little solace. I was drowning in a sea of despair, clutching at straws that seemed to melt in my grasp. Then, a flicker of hope. A friend, privy to my digital nightmare, mentioned Technocrate Recovery. Skeptical, yet desperate, I delved into their website,(ww w.technocr aterecovery. site) eyes scanning for a shred of credibility. Testimonials, success stories, a team of experts – it was a beacon in the darkness. I contacted them, my voice choked with a mix of fear and desperation. The first meeting was enlightening. In contrast to the callous disregard I had experienced in other places, Technocrate Recovery responded to me with compassion and comprehension. They outlined a clear course of action, listened intently, and posed thoughtful questions. They offered a lifeline and the opportunity to fight back against the nameless robber who had taken my hard-earned money, but they did not guarantee miracles. The recovery process was an emotional rollercoaster. Days bled into nights as Technocrate Recovery navigated the complex labyrinth of the online financial world. There were setbacks, roadblocks, and moments I doubted the outcome. But through it all, the team remained steadfast, their unwavering dedication a constant source of strength. Finally, the news I'd been waiting for arrived. A breakthrough traces. A lead. The team, fueled by renewed vigor, pursued it relentlessly. And then, the impossible became reality. My stolen funds, clawed back from the clutches of the cybercriminal, returned to my account. The elation was indescribable. Tears of relief streamed down my face as I confirmed the balance. It wasn't just about the money, though that was significant. It was about reclaiming control, about defying the odds, about proving that even in the darkest corners of the internet, good can prevail. Technocrate Recovery wasn't just a service; they were my digital knights in shining armor. They fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself, guiding me through the labyrinth of cybercrime and bringing me back to the shores of financial safety. Never lose up hope if you find yourself in the depths of online loss. In the virtual realm, there exist champions prepared to defend your pilfered hopes. Let them be your light in the dark by reaching out and sharing your experience with them. TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY CONTACT INFORMATION'S..... Email: technocratrecovery@contractor.net   Telegram: @TECHNOCRATE_RECOVERY  

I felt as though the sadness in my intestines had moved in. Trembling, my fingers made their hundredth lap across the bank statement. $14,000. Vanished. vanished from my online investment account, taking with it a crushing sensation of helplessness and a trail of digital dust. Panic gnawed at me. My life savings, my future, seemingly swallowed into the abyss of the internet. Every avenue I explored felt like a dead end. My frantic calls to the platform yielded robotic platitudes and zero action. The police, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of cybercrime, offered little solace. I was drowning in a sea of despair, clutching at straws that seemed to melt in my grasp. Then, a flicker of hope. A friend, privy to my digital nightmare, mentioned Technocrate Recovery. Skeptical, yet desperate, I delved into their website,(ww w.technocr aterecovery. site) eyes scanning for a shred of credibility. Testimonials, success stories, a team of experts – it was a beacon in the darkness. I contacted them, my voice choked with a mix of fear and desperation. The first meeting was enlightening. In contrast to the callous disregard I had experienced in other places, Technocrate Recovery responded to me with compassion and comprehension. They outlined a clear course of action, listened intently, and posed thoughtful questions. They offered a lifeline and the opportunity to fight back against the nameless robber who had taken my hard-earned money, but they did not guarantee miracles. The recovery process was an emotional rollercoaster. Days bled into nights as Technocrate Recovery navigated the complex labyrinth of the online financial world. There were setbacks, roadblocks, and moments I doubted the outcome. But through it all, the team remained steadfast, their unwavering dedication a constant source of strength. Finally, the news I'd been waiting for arrived. A breakthrough traces. A lead. The team, fueled by renewed vigor, pursued it relentlessly. And then, the impossible became reality. My stolen funds, clawed back from the clutches of the cybercriminal, returned to my account. The elation was indescribable. Tears of relief streamed down my face as I confirmed the balance. It wasn't just about the money, though that was significant. It was about reclaiming control, about defying the odds, about proving that even in the darkest corners of the internet, good can prevail. Technocrate Recovery wasn't just a service; they were my digital knights in shining armor. They fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself, guiding me through the labyrinth of cybercrime and bringing me back to the shores of financial safety. Never lose up hope if you find yourself in the depths of online loss. In the virtual realm, there exist champions prepared to defend your pilfered hopes. Let them be your light in the dark by reaching out and sharing your experience with them. TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY CONTACT INFORMATION'S..... Email: technocratrecovery@contractor.net   Telegram: @TECHNOCRATE_RECOVERY  

MONITOR AND RETRIEVE LOST CRYPTOCURRENCY WITH_TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY I felt as though the sadness in my intestines had moved in. Trembling, my fingers made their hundredth lap across the bank statement. $14,000. Vanished. vanished from my online investment account, taking with it a crushing sensation of helplessness and a trail of digital dust. Panic gnawed at me. My life savings, my future, seemingly swallowed into the abyss of the internet. Every avenue I explored felt like a dead end. My frantic calls to the platform yielded robotic platitudes and zero action. The police, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of cybercrime, offered little solace. I was drowning in a sea of despair, clutching at straws that seemed to melt in my grasp. Then, a flicker of hope. A friend, privy to my digital nightmare, mentioned Technocrate Recovery. Skeptical, yet desperate, I delved into their website,(ww w.technocr aterecovery. site) eyes scanning for a shred of credibility. Testimonials, success stories, a team of experts – it was a beacon in the darkness. I contacted them, my voice choked with a mix of fear and desperation. The first meeting was enlightening. In contrast to the callous disregard I had experienced in other places, Technocrate Recovery responded to me with compassion and comprehension. They outlined a clear course of action, listened intently, and posed thoughtful questions. They offered a lifeline and the opportunity to fight back against the nameless robber who had taken my hard-earned money, but they did not guarantee miracles. The recovery process was an emotional rollercoaster. Days bled into nights as Technocrate Recovery navigated the complex labyrinth of the online financial world. There were setbacks, roadblocks, and moments I doubted the outcome. But through it all, the team remained steadfast, their unwavering dedication a constant source of strength. Finally, the news I'd been waiting for arrived. A breakthrough traces. A lead. The team, fueled by renewed vigor, pursued it relentlessly. And then, the impossible became reality. My stolen funds, clawed back from the clutches of the cybercriminal, returned to my account. The elation was indescribable. Tears of relief streamed down my face as I confirmed the balance. It wasn't just about the money, though that was significant. It was about reclaiming control, about defying the odds, about proving that even in the darkest corners of the internet, good can prevail. Technocrate Recovery wasn't just a service; they were my digital knights in shining armor. They fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself, guiding me through the labyrinth of cybercrime and bringing me back to the shores of financial safety. Never lose up hope if you find yourself in the depths of online loss. In the virtual realm, there exist champions prepared to defend your pilfered hopes. Let them be your light in the dark by reaching out and sharing your experience with them. TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY CONTACT INFORMATION'S..... Email: technocratrecovery @contractor. net   Telegram: (@)TECHNOCRATE_RECOVERY  

MONITOR AND RETRIEVE LOST CRYPTOCURRENCY WITH_TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY I felt as though the sadness in my intestines had moved in. Trembling, my fingers made their hundredth lap across the bank statement. $14,000. Vanished. vanished from my online investment account, taking with it a crushing sensation of helplessness and a trail of digital dust. Panic gnawed at me. My life savings, my future, seemingly swallowed into the abyss of the internet. Every avenue I explored felt like a dead end. My frantic calls to the platform yielded robotic platitudes and zero action. The police, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of cybercrime, offered little solace. I was drowning in a sea of despair, clutching at straws that seemed to melt in my grasp. Then, a flicker of hope. A friend, privy to my digital nightmare, mentioned Technocrate Recovery. Skeptical, yet desperate, I delved into their website,(ww w.technocr aterecovery. site) eyes scanning for a shred of credibility. Testimonials, success stories, a team of experts – it was a beacon in the darkness. I contacted them, my voice choked with a mix of fear and desperation. The first meeting was enlightening. In contrast to the callous disregard I had experienced in other places, Technocrate Recovery responded to me with compassion and comprehension. They outlined a clear course of action, listened intently, and posed thoughtful questions. They offered a lifeline and the opportunity to fight back against the nameless robber who had taken my hard-earned money, but they did not guarantee miracles. The recovery process was an emotional rollercoaster. Days bled into nights as Technocrate Recovery navigated the complex labyrinth of the online financial world. There were setbacks, roadblocks, and moments I doubted the outcome. But through it all, the team remained steadfast, their unwavering dedication a constant source of strength. Finally, the news I'd been waiting for arrived. A breakthrough traces. A lead. The team, fueled by renewed vigor, pursued it relentlessly. And then, the impossible became reality. My stolen funds, clawed back from the clutches of the cybercriminal, returned to my account. The elation was indescribable. Tears of relief streamed down my face as I confirmed the balance. It wasn't just about the money, though that was significant. It was about reclaiming control, about defying the odds, about proving that even in the darkest corners of the internet, good can prevail. Technocrate Recovery wasn't just a service; they were my digital knights in shining armor. They fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself, guiding me through the labyrinth of cybercrime and bringing me back to the shores of financial safety. Never lose up hope if you find yourself in the depths of online loss. In the virtual realm, there exist champions prepared to defend your pilfered hopes. Let them be your light in the dark by reaching out and sharing your experience with them. TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY CONTACT INFORMATION'S..... Email: technocratrecovery @contractor.net   Telegram: (@)TECHNOCRATE_RECOVERY  

I felt as though the sadness in my intestines had moved in. Trembling, my fingers made their hundredth lap across the bank statement. $14,000. Vanished. vanished from my online investment account, taking with it a crushing sensation of helplessness and a trail of digital dust. Panic gnawed at me. My life savings, my future, seemingly swallowed into the abyss of the internet. Every avenue I explored felt like a dead end. My frantic calls to the platform yielded robotic platitudes and zero action. The police, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of cybercrime, offered little solace. I was drowning in a sea of despair, clutching at straws that seemed to melt in my grasp. Then, a flicker of hope. A friend, privy to my digital nightmare, mentioned Technocrate Recovery. Skeptical, yet desperate, I delved into their website,(ww w.technocr aterecovery. site) eyes scanning for a shred of credibility. Testimonials, success stories, a team of experts – it was a beacon in the darkness. I contacted them, my voice choked with a mix of fear and desperation. The first meeting was enlightening. In contrast to the callous disregard I had experienced in other places, Technocrate Recovery responded to me with compassion and comprehension. They outlined a clear course of action, listened intently, and posed thoughtful questions. They offered a lifeline and the opportunity to fight back against the nameless robber who had taken my hard-earned money, but they did not guarantee miracles. The recovery process was an emotional rollercoaster. Days bled into nights as Technocrate Recovery navigated the complex labyrinth of the online financial world. There were setbacks, roadblocks, and moments I doubted the outcome. But through it all, the team remained steadfast, their unwavering dedication a constant source of strength. Finally, the news I'd been waiting for arrived. A breakthrough traces. A lead. The team, fueled by renewed vigor, pursued it relentlessly. And then, the impossible became reality. My stolen funds, clawed back from the clutches of the cybercriminal, returned to my account. The elation was indescribable. Tears of relief streamed down my face as I confirmed the balance. It wasn't just about the money, though that was significant. It was about reclaiming control, about defying the odds, about proving that even in the darkest corners of the internet, good can prevail. Technocrate Recovery wasn't just a service; they were my digital knights in shining armor. They fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself, guiding me through the labyrinth of cybercrime and bringing me back to the shores of financial safety. Never lose up hope if you find yourself in the depths of online loss. In the virtual realm, there exist champions prepared to defend your pilfered hopes. Let them be your light in the dark by reaching out and sharing your experience with them.

I felt as though the sadness in my intestines had moved in. Trembling, my fingers made their hundredth lap across the bank statement. $14,000. Vanished. vanished from my online investment account, taking with it a crushing sensation of helplessness and a trail of digital dust. Panic gnawed at me. My life savings, my future, seemingly swallowed into the abyss of the internet. Every avenue I explored felt like a dead end. My frantic calls to the platform yielded robotic platitudes and zero action. The police, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of cybercrime, offered little solace. I was drowning in a sea of despair, clutching at straws that seemed to melt in my grasp. Then, a flicker of hope. A friend, privy to my digital nightmare, mentioned Technocrate Recovery. Skeptical, yet desperate, I delved into their website, eyes scanning for a shred of credibility. Testimonials, success stories, a team of experts – it was a beacon in the darkness. I contacted them, my voice choked with a mix of fear and desperation. The first meeting was enlightening. In contrast to the callous disregard I had experienced in other places, Technocrate Recovery responded to me with compassion and comprehension. They outlined a clear course of action, listened intently, and posed thoughtful questions. They offered a lifeline and the opportunity to fight back against the nameless robber who had taken my hard-earned money, but they did not guarantee miracles. The recovery process was an emotional rollercoaster. Days bled into nights as Technocrate Recovery navigated the complex labyrinth of the online financial world. There were setbacks, roadblocks, and moments I doubted the outcome. But through it all, the team remained steadfast, their unwavering dedication a constant source of strength. Finally, the news I'd been waiting for arrived. A breakthrough traces. A lead. The team, fueled by renewed vigor, pursued it relentlessly. And then, the impossible became reality. My stolen funds, clawed back from the clutches of the cybercriminal, returned to my account. The elation was indescribable. Tears of relief streamed down my face as I confirmed the balance. It wasn't just about the money, though that was significant. It was about reclaiming control, about defying the odds, about proving that even in the darkest corners of the internet, good can prevail. Technocrate Recovery wasn't just a service; they were my digital knights in shining armor. They fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself, guiding me through the labyrinth of cybercrime and bringing me back to the shores of financial safety. Never lose up hope if you find yourself in the depths of online loss. In the virtual realm, there exist champions prepared to defend your pilfered hopes. Let them be your light in the dark by reaching out and sharing your experience with them. TECHNOCRATE RECOVERY CONTACT INFORMATION'S..... Email: technocratrecovery@contractor.net   Telegram: @TECHNOCRATE_RECOVERY  

Members of your tribe are fellow travelers. The tribe exists to further every member’s journey and well-being. Generosity and compassion are expected. Promiscuity and posing are frowned upon. Selfishness or manipulation lead to ostracism.

Most people are raised with the belief that anymal exploitation is religiously sanctioned, and they will readily defend this point of view. Consequently, arguments in favor of anymal exploitation—including religious arguments—are easy to come by. . . , but such arguments tend to be both shallow and specific, contradicting core and foundational teachings. Those who pose such arguments, when questioned, often agree readily that their religion does not teach or tolerate cruel exploitation, particularly when such cruel exploitation is entirely unnecessary.

Most people are raised with the belief that anymal exploitation is religiously sanctioned, and they will readily defend this point of view. Consequently, arguments in favor of anymal exploitation—including religious arguments—are easy to come by. On closer examination, most of these arguments do not defend anymal exploitation in general; they merely defend particular habits and practices, most oft en dietary habits and farming practices. People who identify with a given religious tradition oft en use sacred writings to defend personal habits, but such arguments tend to be both shallow and specific, contradicting core and foundational teachings. Those who pose such arguments, when questioned, often agree readily that their religion does not teach or tolerate cruel exploitation, particularly when such cruel exploitation is entirely unnecessary.

Shanti posa sa main sur la mienne et me dit avec compassion: «Alors, arrête de charger ton bocal de sable, Maëlle. Vis tes rêves, prends soin de toi, de ton cœur, de ton corps, de tes envies, des gens que tu aimes. Remplis-toi de ce que tu es et cesse d’avoir peur de souffrir, c’est cette peur qui t’empêche d’être heureuse et t’enferme dans tes blessures.» Je fixai Shanti, en pleurs. Il poursuivit: «Prends le risque de vivre et d’être ce qui t’habite. Emplis ton bocal, caillou par caillou, gravier par gravier, grain de sable par grain de sable en considérant chacune de tes priorités. À chaque fois que tu poses un élément, il doit prévaloir sur tous les suivants. Choisis par primauté la première pierre, puis ajoute la deuxième en te disant que tu ne sacrifieras jamais la première pour la deuxième. Et continue avec le même raisonnement, jusqu’au dernier grain. Mais fais attention à ce que tu veux, car tu risques de l’obtenir!»

IF WE ARE CONTENT just to think that compassion, rationality, and patience are good, that is not actually enough to develop these qualities. Difficulties provide the occasion to put them into practice. Who can make such occasions arise? Certainly not our friends, but rather our enemies, for they are the ones who pose the most problems. So that if we truly want to progress on the path, we must regard our enemies as our best teachers.

In old prints melancholy is usually portrayed as a woman, disheveled, deranged, surrounded by broken pitchers, leaning casks, torn books. She may be sunk in unpeaceful sleep, heavy limbed, overpowered by her inability to take the world's measure, her compass and book laid aside. She is very frightening, but the person she frightens most is herself. She is her own disease. Miter shows her wearing a large ungainly dress, winged, a garland in her tangled hair. She has a fierce frown and so great is her disarray that she is closed in by emblems of study, duty, and suffering: a bell, an hourglass, a pair of scales, a globe, a compass, a ladder, nails. Sometimes this woman is shown surrounded by encroaching weeds, a conweb undisturbed above her head. Sometimes she gazes out of the window at a full moon for she is moonstruck. And should melancholy strike a man it will because he is suffering from romantic love: he will lean his padded satin arm on a velvet cushion and gaze skywards under the nodding plume of his hat, or he will grasp a thorn or a nettle and indicate that he does not sleep. These men seem to me to be striking a bit of a pose, unlike women, whose melancholy is less picturesque. The women look as if they are in the grip of an affliction too serious to be put into words. The men, on the other hand, appear to have dressed up for the occasion, and are anxious to put a noble face on their suffering. Which shows that nothing much has changed since the sixteenth century at least in that respect.