Exercising In The Rain Quotes

Dirk turned on the car wipers, which grumbled because they didn't have quite enough rain to wipe away, so he turned them off again. Rain quickly speckled the windscreen. He turned on the wipers again, but they still refused to feel that the exercise was worthwhile, and scraped and squeaked in protest.

I believe that marijuana, aka cannabis should be recognized for what it is - an effective herb, grown from soil and seed, nurtured by sun and rain.

People", Shai said, rising to fetch another seal, "by nature attempt to exercise power over what is around them. We build walls to shelter us from the wind, roofs to stop the rain. We tame the elements, bend nature to our wills. It make us feel as if we're in control. Except in doing so, we merely replace one influence with another. Instead of the wind affecting us, it is a wall. A man-made wall. The fingers of man's influence are all about, touching everything. Man-made rugs, man-made food. Every single thing in the city that we touch, see, feel, experience comes as the result of some person's influence.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.

Then it started to rain, so she went inside and made some coffee and did what she had never done in her life: tried the newspaper crossword. “What a stupid exercise,” said her dæmon after five minutes. “Words belong in contexts, not pegged out like biological specimens.

KINDNESS IS one of the most powerful qualities a person can possess. It is like a gentle rain that falls everywhere, without excluding a single place.

People,” Shai said, rising to fetch another seal, “by nature attempt to exercise power over what is around them. We build walls to shelter us from the wind, roofs to stop the rain. We tame the elements, bend nature to our wills. It makes us feel as if we’re in control.

It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.’ I could see that Rosie could not place the line from The Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused. ‘Don, what are you…what have you done to yourself?’ ‘I’ve made some changes.’ ‘Big changes.’ ‘Whatever behavioural modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.’ Rosie made a downwards movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. Then she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realised that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care. ‘You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required. ‘I need a minute to think,’ she said. I automatically started the timer on my watch. Suddenly Rosie started laughing. I looked at her, understandably puzzled at this outburst in the middle of a critical life decision. ‘The watch,’ she said. ‘I say “I need a minute” and you start timing. Don is not dead. 'Don, you don’t feel love, do you?’ said Rosie. ‘You can’t really love me.’ ‘Gene diagnosed love.’ I knew now that he had been wrong. I had watched thirteen romantic movies and felt nothing. That was not strictly true. I had felt suspense, curiosity and amusement. But I had not for one moment felt engaged in the love between the protagonists. I had cried no tears for Meg Ryan or Meryl Streep or Deborah Kerr or Vivien Leigh or Julia Roberts. I could not lie about so important a matter. ‘According to your definition, no.’ Rosie looked extremely unhappy. The evening had turned into a disaster. 'I thought my behaviour would make you happy, and instead it’s made you sad.’ ‘I’m upset because you can’t love me. Okay?’ This was worse! She wanted me to love her. And I was incapable. Gene and Claudia offered me a lift home, but I did not want to continue the conversation. I started walking, then accelerated to a jog. It made sense to get home before it rained. It also made sense to exercise hard and put the restaurant behind me as quickly as possible. The new shoes were workable, but the coat and tie were uncomfortable even on a cold night. I pulled off the jacket, the item that had made me temporarily acceptable in a world to which I did not belong, and threw it in a rubbish bin. The tie followed. On an impulse I retrieved the Daphne from the jacket and carried it in my hand for the remainder of the journey. There was rain in the air and my face was wet as I reached the safety of my apartment.

While in principle groups for survivors are a good idea, in practice it soon becomes apparent that to organize a successful group is no simple matter. Groups that start out with hope and promise can dissolve acrimoniously, causing pain and disappointment to all involved. The destructive potential of groups is equal to their therapeutic promise. The role of the group leader carries with it a risk of the irresponsible exercise of authority. Conflicts that erupt among group members can all too easily re-create the dynamics of the traumatic event, with group members assuming the roles of perpetrator, accomplice, bystander, victim, and rescuer. Such conflicts can be hurtful to individual participants and can lead to the group’s demise. In order to be successful, a group must have a clear and focused understanding of its therapeutic task and a structure that protects all participants adequately against the dangers of traumatic reenactment. Though groups may vary widely in composition and structure, these basic conditions must be fulfilled without exception. Commonality with other people carries with it all the meanings of the word common. It means belonging to a society, having a public role, being part of that which is universal. It means having a feeling of familiarity, of being known, of communion. It means taking part in the customary, the commonplace, the ordinary, and the everyday. It also carries with it a feeling of smallness, or insignificance, a sense that one’s own troubles are ‘as a drop of rain in the sea.’ The survivor who has achieved commonality with others can rest from her labors. Her recovery is accomplished; all that remains before her is her life.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. —Jane Eyre From Gradesaver.com

People,” Shai said, rising to fetch another seal, “by nature attempt to exercise power over what is around them. We build walls to shelter us from the wind, roofs to stop the rain. We tame the elements, bend nature to our wills. It makes us feel as if we’re in control. “Except in doing so, we merely replace one influence with another. Instead of the wind affecting us, it is a wall. A man-made wall. The fingers of man’s influence are all about, touching everything. Man-made rugs, man-made food. Every single thing in the city that we touch, see, feel, experience comes as the result of some person’s influence. “We may feel in control, but we never truly are unless we understand people. Controlling our environment is no longer about blocking the wind, it’s about knowing why the serving lady was crying last night, or why a particular guard always loses at cards. Or why your employer hired you in the first place.” Gaotona

He finds he cannot think of the dying men at all. Into his mind instead strays the picture of More on the scaffold, seen through the veil of rain: his body, already dead, folding back neatly from the impact of the axe. The cardinal when he fell had no persecutor more relentless than Thomas More. Yet, he thinks, I did not hate him. I exercised my skills to the utmost to persuade him to reconcile with the king. And I thought I would win him, I really thought I would, for he was tenacious of the world, tenacious of his person, and had a good deal to live for. In the end he was his own murderer. He wrote and wrote and he talked and talked, then suddenly at a stroke he cancelled himself. If ever a man came close to beheading himself, Thomas More was that man.

Bloody rain” says Mr Chivers Bouncing a basketball On the one dry patch of court bloody rain” he nods to our Sports class And gives us the afternoon off. Bloody rain all right As Annabel and I run to Megalong Creek hut Faster than we ever have in Chivers’s class And the exercise we have in mind We’ve been training for all year But I doubt if old Chivers Will give us a medal if he ever finds out. We high jump into the hut And strip down Climb under the blankets And cheer the bloody rain As it does a lap or two Around the mountain While Annabel and me Embrace like winners should Like good sports do As Mr. Chivers sips his third coffee And twitches his bad knee From his playing days While miles away Annabel and I Score a convincing victory And for once in our school life The words “Physical Education” Make sense…

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, “She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner— something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were—she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children.” What does Bessie say I have done?” I asked. Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.

The rain is letting up, Mr. B. What do you want to do?' 'Oh, I’m gonna go fix the Weed Eater, and then, I’m gonna do dog patrol. At 97, I gotta find ways to keep moving!' He pushes himself up from the table. 'See ya later, kiddo.' Joe has decided to get fit. Every day he hops onto our stationary bike that we left sitting on the back porch. He says it helps his balance. He times himself to ensure he rides it ten minutes a day. I bring him a glass of cool water to keep him hydrated. He refuses the water. 'I’m not used to drinking water, Miss.' His exercise routine would never be approved by a local gym.

In the same way that a word repeated over and over begins to sound bizarre, so an object scrutinized with such attention will start to shed its everyday invisibility. So pepper grinders become armless women who scream when their heads are twisted and rain bitterness, a cheese-grater becomes a steel wall of tears, or a light bulb the lost eye of a Cyclops. The

Emotional intelligence is knowledge of the “Self,” understanding who we are, and employing this knowledge to exercise self-control in our relationships with other beings and the world. Only by knowing ourselves can we responsibly and efficiently manage our senses, thoughts, words and actions, and behave in a benevolent manner toward other beings and the world.

My vocation in life is to wonder about at the nature of the universe. This leads me into philosophy, psychology, religion, and mysticism, not only as subjects to be discussed but also as things to be experienced, and thus I make an at least tacit claim to be a philosopher and a mystic. Some people, therefore, expect me to be their guru or messiah or exemplar, and are extremely disconcerted when they discover my “wayward spirit” or element of irreducible rascality, and say to their friends, “How could he possibly be a genuine mystic and be so addicted to nicotine and alcohol?” Or have occasional shudders of anxiety? Or be sexually interested in women? Or lack enthusiasm for physical exercise? Or have any need for money? Such people have in mind an idealized vision of the mystic as a person wholly free from fear and attachment, who sees within and without, and on all sides, only the translucent forms of a single divine energy which is everlasting love and delight, as which and from which he effortlessly radiates peace, charity, and joy. What an enviable situation! We, too, would like to be one of those, but as we start to meditate and look into ourselves we find mostly a quaking and palpitating mess of anxiety which lusts and loathes, needs love and attention, and lives in terror of death putting an end to its misery. So we despise that mess, and look for ways of controlling it and putting “how the true mystic feels” in its place, not realizing that this ambition is simply one of the lusts of the quaking mess, and that this, in turn, is a natural form of the universe like rain and frost, slugs and snails, flies and disease. When the “true mystic” sees flies and disease as translucent forms of the divine, that does not abolish them. I—making no hard-and-fast distinction between inner and outer experience—see my quaking mess as a form of the divine, and that doesn’t abolish it either. But at least I can live with it.

It was a sticky wicket yesterday, sir, owing to the rain." "Eh?" "The wicket was sticky, sir." "Come again." "I mean that the reason why the game yesterday struck you as slow was that the wicket—I should say the turf—was sticky—that is to say wet. Sticky is the technical term, sir. When the wicket is sticky, the batsmen are obliged to exercise a great deal of caution, as the stickiness of the wicket enables the bowlers to make the ball turn more sharply in either direction as it strikes the turf than when the wicket is not sticky.

share the same bad traits: They drink too much, or cheat on you. Maybe you have been trying to improve your health by going on a diet and exercise program. Except that you’ve started and stopped this same exercise and diet program about eleven times. You can stay on the diet for about six days and then you go on a feeding frenzy! And you wake up at 6 A.M. for three days and go for a run but on day four it’s raining and you never make it to the park again. Until the twelfth time you start the program. Or perhaps you’ve been meaning to get along better with your mother. You love her and

Energy doesn't speak English, Spanish or Chinese, but it does speak clearly. It speaks through the metaphors of our lived experiences, through the rain, floods, drought, earthquakes, excessive heat, unseasonable cold or the erupting volcanoes of nature. It communicates through the itches, pains, boils and pimples, through congestion, vertigo and backaches of the body. Energy speaks through our feelings that have nothing at all do with us, but are reflective of what is happening in the field. And, lastly, it speaks through synchronicities, coincidences and dreams that communicate messages which our conscious minds could not have known. This language of Energy, like any new tongue, is challenging.

We are here this afternoon to mourn the passing of two good friends, Terrence Dace and Felix Beider. They were homeless. Their ways were not those we most desire for ourselves, but that didn’t make them wrong. We seem determined to save the homeless, to fix them, to change them into something other than what they are. We want them to be like us, but they are not. The homeless do not want our pity, nor do they deserve our scorn. Our judgments about them, for good or for ill, negate their right to live as they please. Both the urge to rescue and the need to condemn fail to take into account the concept of their personal liberty, which they may exercise as they see fit as long as their actions fall within the law. The homeless are not lesser mortals. For Terrence and Felix, their battles were within and their victories hard-won. I think of these two men as soldiers of the poor, part of an army of the disaffiliated. The homeless have established a nation within a nation, but we are not at war. Why should we not coexist in peace when we may be in greater need of salvation than they? This is what the homeless long for: respect, freedom from hunger, shelter from the elements, safety, the companionship of the like-minded. They want to live without fear. They want to enjoy the probity of the open air without the risk of bodily harm. They want to be warm. They want the comfort of a clean bed when they are ill, relief from pain, a hand offered in friendship. Ordinary conversation. Simple needs. Why are their choices so hard for us to accept? What you see before you is their home. This is their dwelling place. This grass, this sunlight, these palms, this mighty ocean, the moon, the stars, the clouds overhead though they sometimes harbor rain. Under this canopy they have staked out a life for themselves. For Terrence and for Felix, this is also the wide bridge over which they passed from life into death. Their graves will be unmarked but that does not mean they are forgotten. The Earth remembers them, even as it gathers them tenderly into its

Although not all latter-day Americans sit as much as some alarmists suggest, we are more sedentary than earlier generations. There is evidence that the total time Americans spent sitting increased 43 percent between 1965 and 2009, and slightly more for people in England and other postindustrial countries.22 So I probably spend two to three hours more in chairs during a given day than my grandparents did when they were my age. My grandparents, however, were not much more sedentary than most hunter-gatherers and subsistence farmers. Researchers have used accelerometers, heart rate monitors, and other sensors to measure activity levels in hunter-gatherers in Tanzania,23 farmer-hunters in the Amazonian rain forest,24 and several other non-industrialized populations.25 In these groups, people tend to be sedentary between five and ten hours a day. The Hadza, for example, spend about nine “non-ambulatory” hours on a typical day, mostly sitting on the ground with their legs in front of them, but also squatting about two hours a day and kneeling an hour a day.26 So while nonindustrial people engage in considerably more physical activity than average industrialized and postindustrialized people, they also sit a lot.

Dear Kitty, Another birthday has gone by, so now I’m fifteen. I received quite a lot of presents. All five parts of Sprenger’s History of Art, a set of underwear, a handkerchief, two bottles of yoghurt, a pot of jam, a spiced gingerbread cake, and a book on botany from Mummy and Daddy, a double bracelet from Margot, a book from the Van Daans, sweet peas from Dussel, sweets and exercise books from Miep and Elli and, the high spot of all, the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Kraler. A lovely bunch of peonies from Peter, the poor boy took a lot of trouble to try and find something, but didn’t have any luck. There’s still excellent news of the invasion, in spite of the wretched weather, countless gales, heavy rains, and high seas. Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower, and Arnold visited French villages which have been conquered and liberated. The torpedo boat that Churchill was in shelled the coast. He appears, like so many men, not to know what fear is—makes me envious! It’s difficult for us to judge from our secret redoubt how people outside have reacted to the news. Undoubtedly people are pleased that the idle (?) English have rolled up their sleeves and are doing something at last. Any Dutch people who still look down on the English, scoff at England and her government of old gentlemen, call the English cowards, and yet hate the Germans deserve a good shaking. Perhaps it would put some sense into their woolly brains. I hadn’t had a period for over two months, but it finally started again on Saturday. Still, in spite of all the unpleasantness and bother, I’m glad it hasn’t failed me any longer. Yours, Anne

Hello, my name is Francine Luftson and I’m from San Diego! And I just want to say, I’m such a fan even if you don’t believe in God! I was just wondering: Is there some sort of diet you recommend? I know I need to lose weight, but I really don’t want to feel hungry. I do take diet pills every day. Thank you!” “Thanks, Francine,” Elizabeth said. “But I can clearly see that you are not overweight. Therefore, I have to assume you’ve been unduly influenced by the relentless imagery of the too-thin women that now fill our magazines, destroying your morale and submerging your self-worth. Instead of dieting and taking pills—” She paused. “Can I ask?” she said. “How many people in this audience take diet pills?” A few nervous hands went up. Elizabeth waited. Most of the other hands went up. “Stop taking those pills,” she demanded. “They’re amphetamines. They can lead to psychosis.” “But I don’t like to exercise,” Francine said. “Maybe you haven’t found the right exercise.” “I watch Jack LaLanne.” At the mention of Jack’s name, Elizabeth closed her eyes. “What about rowing?” she said, suddenly tired. “Rowing?” “Rowing,” she repeated, opening her eyes. “It’s a brutal form of recreation designed to test every muscle in your body and mind. It takes place before dawn, too often in the rain. It results in thick calluses. It broadens the arms, chest, and thighs. Ribs crack; hands blister. Rowers sometimes ask themselves, ‘Why am I doing this?’ ” “Jeepers,” Francine said, worried. “Rowing sounds awful!” Elizabeth looked confused. “My point is rowing precludes the need for both diet and pills. It’s also good for your soul.” “But I thought you didn’t believe in souls.” Elizabeth sighed. She closed her eyes again. Calvin. Are you actually saying women can’t row?

Another day, sheltering beneath trees in a rain-shower, I uncovered a doorway long obliterated by undergrowth. After pulling shrubbery aside, I stepped inside a long deserted summerhouse, fronted by cracked marble columns and ironwork, the rear extending deep into the hillside. Though still filthy, even after I cleared away the tenacious vines, the windowpanes gave sufficient greenish light for me to sketch indoors. In a cobwebbed corner stood a gardener's burner that must once have coaxed oranges or other delicate shrubs to life. With that alight, I found a chair and sat with my shawl muffled around me as I sketched. The marble statues that lined the walls were fine copies of the Greek masters, with muscular limbs and serene faces, though sadly disfigured with a blueish-green patina. As an exercise, I copied a figure of a handsome boy, admiring the sculptor's rendering of tensed muscle, the body frozen just an instant before extending in action. My mind drifted to Michael, the uncertainty hanging over us, my urges to please him, my need to move beyond this stupid impasse. As I sketched the statue's blind eyes I half-heartedly followed his line of sight. I stood and looked more closely at the statue. "What are you looking at?" I said out loud. A green stain blotted the boy's cheek, ugly but also strangely beautiful, for the color was a peacock's viridian. For the first time I noticed the description, "HARPOCRATES- SILENCE", engraved on the pediment, and had a vague recollection of a Roman boy-god who personified that virtue. He held one index finger raised coyly to his lips, while his other hand pointed towards a low arch in the wall. I paced over to the spot at which he pointed. The niche was filled with gardener's trellis that I removed with rising excitement. Behind stood an oak doorway set low in the wall. As I lifted the latch, it opened onto a blast of chilly darkness. Lighting the stub of a candle at the stove, I propped the door open and ventured inside. At once I knew this was no gardeners' store, but another tunnel burrowing into the hillside. Setting forth with the excitement of new discovery, my footsteps rang out and my breath fogged before me in clouds. The place had a mossy, mineral smell, and save for the dripping of water, was silent. Though at first the tunnel ran straight, it soon descended an incline, and my feet splashed into muddy puddles. Who, I wondered, had last passed through that door?

In general it may be said that, when we speak of “common grace,” we have in mind, either (a) those general operations of the Holy Spirit whereby He, without renewing the heart, exercises such a moral influence on man through His general or special revelation, that sin is restrained, order is maintained in social life, and civil righteousness is promoted; or, (b) those general blessings, such as rain and sunshine, food and drink, clothing and shelter, which God imparts to all men indiscriminately where and in what measure it seems good to Him.

The contradiction in our relation to nature is that the more vigorously we attempt to force its agreement with our own designs the more subject we are to its indifference, the more vulnerable to its unseeing forces. The more power we exercise over natural process the more powerless we become before it. In a matter of months we can cut down a rain forest that took tens of thousands of years to grow, but we are helpless in repulsing the desert that takes its place. And the desert, of course, is no less natural than the forest.

13 The carpenter stretcheth out his rule; he marketh it [the idol he is making] out with a line; he fitteth it with planes, and he marketh it out with the compass [your craftsmen exercise great care and skill in manufacturing your idols], and maketh it after the figure of a man, according to the beauty of a man; that it may remain in the house [your craftsmen put great care into making your idols; implication: if you were as careful worshipping God as you are in making idols . . .]. 14 He heweth him down cedars, and taketh the cypress and the oak, which he strengtheneth [cultivates and grows] for himself among the trees of the forest: he planteth an ash [tree], and the rain doth nourish it. 15 Then shall it be for a man to burn: for he will take thereof, and warm himself; yea, he kindleth it, and baketh bread; yea, he maketh a god, and worshippeth it [you use most of the tree’s wood for normal daily needs; how can you possibly turn around and worship wood from the same tree in the form of idols!]; he maketh it a graven image, and falleth down thereto. 16 He burneth part thereof in the fire; with part thereof he eateth flesh; he roasteth roast, and is satisfied: yea, he warmeth himself, and saith, Aha, I am warm, I have seen the fire [normal uses]: 17 And the residue thereof [with the rest of the tree] he maketh a god, even his graven image: he falleth down unto it, and worshippeth it, and prayeth unto it, and saith, Deliver [save] me; for thou art my god [Isaiah is saying how utterly ridiculous it is to assign part of a tree to have powers over yourselves]. 18 They [idol worshipers; see 45:20] have not known [German: know nothing] nor understood [German: understand nothing]: for he hath shut their eyes [German: they are blind], that they cannot see [are spiritually blind]; and their hearts, that they cannot understand [they are as blind and unfeeling, insensitive, as the idols they make and worship]. 19 And none considereth in his heart [if idol worshipers would just stop and think], neither is there knowledge nor understanding [they don’t have enough common sense] to say, I have burned part of it [the tree spoken of in verse 44] in the fire; yea, also I have baked bread upon the coals thereof; I have roasted flesh, and eaten it: and shall I make the residue thereof an abomination [is it reasonable to make the leftover portion into an abominable idol]? shall I fall down to the stock of a tree [is it rational to worship a chunk of wood]? 20 He [the idol worshiper] feedeth on ashes [German: takes pleasure in ashes, perhaps referring to ashes left over from some forms of idol worship]: a [German: his own] deceived heart hath turned him aside [German: leads him astray], that he cannot deliver [save] his soul, nor say [wake up and think], Is there not a lie in my right hand [covenant hand—am I not making covenants with false gods]? 21 ¶ Remember these, O Jacob and Israel; for thou art my servant: I have formed thee [the exact opposite of idol worshipers who form their gods]; thou art my servant: O Israel, thou shalt not be forgotten of me.

Tiger, what are you doing out here hitting balls at three a.m.?” “It doesn’t rain very often in Northern California,” replied the kid who went on to become one of the most successful golfers in history. “It’s the only chance I have to practice hitting in the rain.” You might expect this kind of diligence from the best athlete in his field. What is fascinating is how narrow the exercise’s scope was. He wasn’t practicing putting or hitting from a sand bunker. He spent four hours standing in the rain, hitting the same shot from the same spot, pursuing perfection in an intensely specific skill. It turns out that’s the best way to learn. K. Anders Ericsson, a professor of psychology at Florida State University, has studied the acquisition of expert-level skill for decades. The conventional wisdom is that it takes ten thousand hours of effort to become an expert. Ericsson instead found that it’s not about how much time you spend learning, but rather how you spend that time. He finds evidence that people who attain mastery of a field, whether they are violinists, surgeons, athletes,144 or even spelling bee champions,145approach learning in a different way from the rest of us. They shard their activities into tiny actions, like hitting the same golf shot in the rain for hours, and repeat them relentlessly. Each time, they observe what happens, make minor—almost imperceptible—adjustments, and improve. Ericsson refers to this as deliberate practice: intentional repetitions of similar, small tasks with immediate feedback, correction, and experimentation.

When Mora came in with my hot chocolate, she also brought me a gift: a book. I took it eagerly. The book was a memoir from almost three hundred years before, written by the Duchess Nirth Masharlias, who married the heir to a principality. Though she never ruled, three of her children married into royalty. I had known of her, but not much beyond that. There was no letter, but slipped in the pages was a single petal of starliss. The text it marked was written in old-fashioned language, but even so, I liked the voice of the writer at once: …and though the Count spoke strictly in Accordance with Etiquette, his words were an Affront, for he knew my thoughts on Courtship of Married Persons… I skipped down a ways, then started to laugh when I read: …and mock-solemn, matching his Manner to the most precise Degree, I challenged him to a Duel. He was forced to go along with the Jest, lest the Court laugh at him instead of with him, but he liked it Not… …and at the first bells of Gold we were there on the Green, and lo, the Entire Court was out with us to see the Duel. Instead of Horses, I had brought big, shaggy Dogs from the southern Islands, playful and clumsy under their Gilt Saddles, and for Lances, we had great paper Devices which were already Limp and Dripping from the Rain… Twice he tried to speak Privily to me, but knowing he would apologize and thus end the Ridiculous Spectacle, I heeded him Not, and so we progressed through the Duel, attended with all proper Appurtenances, from Seconds to Trumpeteers, with the Court laughing themselves Hoarse and No One minding the increasing Downpour. In making us both Ridiculous I believe I put paid to all such Advances in future… The next page went on about other matters. I laid the book down, staring at the starliss as I thought this over. The incident on this page was a response--the flower made that clear enough--but what did it mean? And why the mystery? Since my correspondent had taken the trouble to answer, why not write a plain letter? Again I took up my pen, and I wrote carefully: Dear Mysterious Benefactor: I read the pages you marked, and though I was greatly diverted, the connection between this story and my own dilemma leaves me more confused than before. Would you advise my young lady to act the fool to the high-ranking lady--or are you hinting that the young one already has? Or is it merely a suggestion that she follow the duchess’s example and ward off the high-ranking lady’s hints with a joke duel? If you’ve figured out that this is a real situation and not a mere mental exercise, then you should also know that I promised someone important that I would not let myself get involved in political brangles; and I wish most straightly to keep this promise. Truth to tell, if you have insights that I have not--and it’s obvious that you do--in this dilemma I’d rather have plain discourse than gifts. The last line I lingered over the longest. I almost crossed it out, but instead folded the letter, sealed it, and when Mora came in, I gave it to her to deliver right away. Then I dressed and went out to walk.

I wished that I had Nee to talk to, or better, Oria. Except what would be the use? Neither of them had ever caused someone to initiate a courtship by letter. I sighed, glad for the gentle rain, and for the darkness, as I made myself reconsider all of my encounters with Shevraeth--this time from, as much as I was able, his perspective. This was not a pleasant exercise. By the time we stopped, sometime after white-change, to get fresh horses and food and drink, I was feeling contrite and thoroughly miserable.

You will invariably face jobs that are associated with uncomfortable feelings, ranging from relatively minor annoyance (e.g., taking out the garbage in the rain) to more persistent and recurring feelings of stress and discomfort (e.g., dissertation, organizing income taxes) that activate your procrastination script. Even a minimal degree of stress or inconvenience (what we have come to describe as the feeling of “Ugh”) can be potent enough to make you delay action. Think about some of the mundane examples of procrastination, such as watching a boring television show because the remote control is out of reach (e.g., “It’s ALL THE WAY over there.”) or exercise (e.g., “I’m TOO TIRED to change into my workout clothes.”). The use of capital letters is meant to illustrate the tone of voice of your selftalk, which serves to exaggerate and convince you of the difficulty of what you want to do. You are capable to perform the action, but your thoughts and feelings (including feeling tired or “low energy”) makes you conclude that you are not at your best and therefore cannot and will not follow through (for seemingly justifiable reasons). You might think, “I have to be in the mood to do some things.” But, how often are any of us in the mood to do many of the tasks on which we end up procrastinating? The very fact that we have to plan them indicates that these tasks require some targeted planning and effort. When facing emotional discomfort, ADHD adults are particularly at risk for bolting to pleasant, easy, and yet often unsatisfying activities, such as eating junk food, watching television, social networking, surfing the Internet, etc. In fact, sometimes you may escape from stressful tasks by performing other, lower priority errands or chores. Thus, you rationalize violating your high-priority project plan in order to run out to fill your car with gas. This strategy can be seen as a form of “plea bargaining”—“I will do something productive in order to justify not doing the higher priority but less appealing task.” Moreover, these errands are often more discrete and time limited than the task you are putting off (i.e., “If I start mowing the lawn now, I will be done in 1 hour. I don’t know how long taxes will take me.”), which is often their appeal—even though they are low priority, you are more confident you will get them done. You need not be “in the mood” for a task in order to perform it. A useful reframe is the reminder that you have “enough” energy to get started and recall that once you get started on the first step, you usually feel better and more engaged. Breaking the task down into its discrete steps and setting an end time help you to reframe the plan (e.g., “I’m tired, but I have enough energy to do this task for 15 minutes.”). Rather than setting up the unrealistic expectation that you must be stress-free and 100% energized before you can do tasks, the notion of acceptance of discomfort is a useful mindset to adopt and practice.

Especially did his [Seth Jones] intense belief in the efficacy of the “Prayer of Faith” produce a deep impression—partly due to this unquestioned fact: During a distressing drought (I think near Sackett’s Harbor, N.Y.) an assemblage of farmers in open field expressed in his presence utter hopelessness with regard to rain, saying that a single day more would ruin every crop. “If you would pray for rain with Faith it would come,” he said. “But we have no faith! Will not you exercise it for us?” Whereupon he knelt down upon a stump and prayed mightily for three hours, while (it was related) copious showers fell from the eyes of his hearers. When he descended , the first great drops of a “glorious rain” were dashing down. At eighty-three he presided over a Universalist convention…” ~ Amanda Jones

In fact, there are many lines of evidence to suggest that apes were specially selected to have unusually low levels of physical activity to help them thrive in the rain forest. As we saw, apes usually don’t need to travel far to get food, and their highly fibrous diet requires them to spend much time resting and digesting between bouts of feeding. In addition, their adaptations to climb trees make them outlandishly inefficient at walking. A typical chimpanzee spends more than twice as much energy to walk a mile as most mammals, including humans.23 When walking is so calorically costly, natural selection inevitably pushes apes to spend as little energy as possible schlepping about the forest so they can devote as much energy as possible to reproduction. Apes are adapted to be couch potatoes.

Ma mère chérie, please hear this and get it through your beautiful, well-coifed, but thick head, I am not ever going to act older than maybe…twelve. I will be a girl with a girl’s delights and a girl’s tantrums exercising a girl’s prerogative to change her mind and be whatever she wants to be until the day I die.

Then the Jetsun reflected, “All you ghosts, as well as all other phenomena that exist, are just projections of the mind. There is nothing that isn’t like that. This is taught in all of the sutras, tantras, and treatises. This very essence of mind that is naturally luminous and free from all elaborations is what was pointed out to me through the nectar of my noble guru’s oral instructions. The nature of mind is free of arising and ceasing. Even if the Lord of Death’s army of millions and billions should surround it and rain down a myriad of weapons, they could not kill, cut, or transform [mind’s nature] into something bad. Even if a billion light rays of the buddhas of the three times and ten directions should gather with their good qualities combined, it could not be fabricated to be made truly existent as the form of something with color or form. [Mind’s nature] is this very uncontrived basic character. “This present body is taken as real due to clinging to perceiver and perceived. And the end of these aggregates made up of the base elements that have been born is death. So, if you devas and ghosts have a need for them, then I will happily give them to you. All things are impermanent and changing phenomena. Right now, while I have control, if I exercise generosity with my mind, then I would do great benefit by giving away my body. “Now, because of the confused concepts of perceived and perceiver, I see all the images of these devas and ghosts here. These appearances of harmers and someone to be harmed are like floaters that appear to an obscured eye. Since beginningless samsara, by the power of ignorance—the cause—obscurations arose through continual habituation to negative tendencies, these concepts which are adventitious coverings like clouds or fog. So then, why do I have such fear and anguish toward them?” Then he rested evenly in the abiding nature—the base—and sang this song of realization about confidence in realization through complete mastery of fearlessness:

The opinions of previous generations of magicians have been formed through prolonged thought in peaceful atmospheres, without distractions, in unhurried evenings of study, experiment and recording. They come from a time when occult knowledge was hard to obtain and resources were few, but what there were, had a reliable provenance. Each tool, each exercise in spiritual development, had significance and was valued accordingly.

Corvallis and most of the other techies hated this idea because of its sheer bogosity, which was screamingly obvious to any person of technical acumen who thought about it for more than a few seconds. If their pattern-recognition software could identify the moving travelers and vectorize their body positions well enough to translate their movements into T’Rain, then it could just as easily notice, automatically, with no human intervention, when one of those figures was walking the wrong way and sound the alarm. There was no need at all to have human players in the loop. They should just spin out the pattern-recognition part of it as a separate business. Richard understood and acknowledged all of this—and did not care. “Did you, or did you not, tell me that this was all marketing? What part of your own statement did you not understand?” The purpose of the exercise was not really to build a rational, efficient airport security system. It was, rather (to use yet another of those portentous phrases cribbed from the math world), an existence proof. Once it was up and running, they could point to it and to its 100 percent success rate as vindicating the premise of APPIS, which was that real-world problems—especially problems that were difficult to solve because of hard-wired deficiencies of the human neurological system, such as the tendency to become bored when given a terrible job—could be tackled by metaphrasing them into Medieval Armed Combat scenarios, and then (here brandishing two searingly hip terms from high tech) putting them out on the cloud so that they could be crowdsourced.

I’ve got to let him suffer a bit or he’ll never learn to take care of himself.” Sedric pondered his words. “Do you think I should do the same Relpda? Let her be hungry?” Even as he spoke the words aloud, he felt his dragon become aware of the thought. No! I don’t like to be hungry! Don’t be mean to me! “I know it seems harsh,” Carson said, almost as if he, too, had shared Relpda’s thought. “But we have to do something, Sedric. It can’t go on this way. Even if I hunted morning until night every day and was successful in every hunt, it wouldn’t be enough to feed them all. All of them are hungry, all the time, some more than others. But there’s a limit to what we keepers can do. The dragons need to make an effort to fly and to feed themselves. And they need to do it now, before it’s too late.” “Too late?” Carson looked grim. “Look at them Sedric. They should be creatures of the air, but they are living like ground animals. They aren’t growing properly. Their wings are weak, and on some they’re simply too small. Rapskal had the right of it. From the time he first took charge of Heeby, he made her try to fly, every day. Look at her some time and compare the lines of her body to those of the other dragons. Look where the muscle is developed and where it’s not.” He shook his head. “Trying to get Spit to exercise his wings is difficult. He’s willful, and he knows full well that he’s bigger and stronger then I am. My only handle on him is food. He knows my rule. He tries to fly. And then I feed him. He has to try every day. And that’s what the other dragons have to do. But I don’t think they will until they’re forced to it.” Not liking Carson. But we know it’s true, Relpda. You’re too big for me to keep you fed. I know how hungry you get. I bring you food, but it’s never enough. It’s never going to be enough until you can fly and make your own kills. We both know that. Falling hurts. Being hungry hurts, too. All the time. Being hurt from falling will stop once you learn to fly. But if you don’t learn to fly, the hurt of being hungry will go on always. You have to try. Carson is right. You have to try harder, and you have to try every day. Not liking YOU, now.

Several years ago a violent storm struck Pawleys Island and the Carolina coast. Two men riding in a car during the storm wondered what they should do. One mad said, “We sure need the Gray Man to tell us whether or not we should leave.” The other man responded quickly, “Well, there he is up ahead! Why don’t you ask him?” And it was! They saw the figure of a man, dressed all in gray, his shoulders hunched up against the driving wind and rain, while he strode purposefully along the island road. They stopped the car near the man. “Sir, are you the Gray Man?” one of them asked out the window. “No!” the man exploded. His head bent against the rain. The men in the car were disappointed. One said, “I’m sorry, sir. You’re dressed all in gray and out in this storm. No offense, sir.” They started to drive on. “Look,” the man in the storm said, “I had a heart attack, and my doctor told me I had to exercise. So I’m going to exercise if it kills me!” And he plodded on. The man was wearing a dull gray, knitted warm-up suit, with the hood pulled over his head. Today we depend on the Weather Bureau for warnings, watches, and evacuation notices in the face of a threatening hurricane or coastal storm. Certainly you should heed these warnings. But if you happen to see the Gray Man—take his advice and leave quickly!

The Bechuanan know not the story of the Zungu of old. Remember him, my people; he caught a lion’s whelp and thought that, if he fed it with the milk of his cows, he would in due course possess a useful mastiff to help him in hunting valuable specimens of wild beats. The cub grew up apparently tame and meek, just like an ordinary domestic puppy; but one day Zungu came home and found, what? It had eaten his children, chewed up two of his wives and, in destroying it, he himself narrowly escaped being mauled. So, if Tauana and his gang of brigands imagine that they shall have rain and plenty under the protection of these marauding wizards from the sea, they will gather some sense before long. ‘Shaka served us just as treacherously. Where is Shaka’s dynasty now? Extinguished, by the very Boers who poisoned my wives and are pursuing us today. The Bechuana are fools to think that these unnatural Kiwas (white men) will return their so-called friendship with honest friendship. Together they are laughing at my misery. Let them rejoice; they need all the laughter they can have today for when their deliverers begin to dose them with the same bitter medicine they prepared for me; when the Kiwas rob them of their cattle, their children and their lands, they will weep their eyes out of their sockets and get left with only their empty throats to squeal in vain for mercy. ‘They will despoil them of the very lands they have rendered unsafe for us; they will entice the Bechuana youths to war and the chase, only to use them as pack-oxen; yea, they will refuse to share with them the spoils of victory. ‘They will turn Becuana women into beasts of burden to drag their loaded wagons to their granaries, while their own bullocks are fattening on their hillside and pining for exercise. They will use the whiplash on the bare skins of women to accelerate their paces and quicken their activities: they shall take Bechuana women to wife and, with them, bread a race of half man and half goblin, and they will deny them their legitimate lobolo. With their cries unheeded, these Bechuana will waste away in helpless fury till the gnome of offspring of such miscegenation rise up against their cruel sires; by that time their mucus will blend with their tears past their chins down to their heels. Then shall come our turn to laugh. [178 – 189]

MILD HYPOTHERMIA Mild hypothermia has been termed by some experts as “a case of the umbles”: the patient typically first stumbles, then fumbles, grumbles, and later, mumbles. As gross motor skills are affected a stumbling gait begins. Fine motor skills decrease and give rise to fumbling. The patient begins to draw inward, becoming less and less sociable. Designed to function optimally at approximately 98.6 degrees F (37 degrees C), the brain will begin to malfunction when its temperature drops below the ideal. In the case of hypothermia, normal thought processes become impaired. Mild hypothermia could be termed “mild stupidity.” Patients begin to make poor decisions, such as not putting on rain gear when rain begins to fall. Patients typically show increasing confusion and apathy. Fine shivering, relatively controllable by the patient, begins. A healthy sign, shivering is the body’s involuntary form of exercise to increase core heat. But mild hypothermia is insidious, affecting the ability of the patient to think, to be aware of its onset, to take care of self. When the brain first senses heat loss is gaining on heat production, it stimulates the primary defense mechanism against further heat loss—vasoconstriction of the peripheral circulation (shrinking of the blood vessels in the skin). This vasoconstriction dramatically slows blood flow to the surface of the skin, where it will lose heat into the surrounding environment. The lack of blood causes the skin to become pale and cool. BMR will increase in response to the threat of cold, with an accompanying increase in heart rate and respiratory rate.

Avoiding the facility’s tangle of Life Cycles and Cybex machines, he had focused instead on a series of punches, blocks, and kicks to the air that, to the uninitiated, might have looked like some kind of martial dance routine. Actually, his moves were good—smooth, practiced, and powerful. They would have been impressive in any twenty-year-old, but this guy looked at least twice that. I do some similar solo exercises myself, from time to time, although nothing so formal and stylized. And when I do work out this way, I don’t do it in public. It draws too much attention, especially from someone who knows what to look for. Someone like me. In my line of work, drawing attention is a serious violation of the laws of common sense, and therefore of survival. Because if someone notices you for one thing, he’ll be inclined to look more closely, at which point he might notice something else. A pattern, which would have remained quietly hidden, might then begin to emerge, after which your cloak of anonymity will be methodically pulled apart, probably to be rewoven into something more closely resembling a shroud.

may never have an opportunity like that again. It is then you please God by faith. Persistent faith—the faith that is exhibited by those stalwarts described in Hebrews 11—is what you are called to exercise. Without faith it is impossible to please Him. The one who comes to God “must believe that he exists”—that He “is”—and that He “rewards those who earnestly seek him” (Hebrews 11:6). The reward is worth waiting for. I do not think Elijah was happy when the brook dried up or when he lived in a Gentile town with a poor widow and her son. But Elijah stayed ready. So after a “long time” God gave him a tap on the shoulder: “Rain is coming at last. Present yourself to Ahab.” Things were starting to happen again!

If she was wearing a bra it was a soft wisp of one, a silk rag encircling her ribs. Her nipples rained down in his mind in the form of hard glittering gems, diamonds and quartzes and those faceted clumps of rock crystal one grew in a jar on a string. Her breasts were ideally small, precisely the size of the cup of his hand. He weighed them and measured them, marveling, brushing them, with his palms or the tips of his fingers, the same way again and again. With his now-cast-off girlfriend from his previous school he’d evolved the Formula and had then become imprisoned by it: first Kissing with Tongue for the fixed interval, then Tits for the fixed interval, then Fingering Her for the fixed interval before, culminatingly, Fucking. Never a step neglected nor a change to the order. A sex recipe. Now with a shock he realized that it needn’t be thus.

People," Shai said, rising to fetch another seal, "by nature attempt to exercise power over what is around them. We build walls to shelter us from the wind, roofs to stop the rain. We tame the elements, bend nature to our wills. It makes us feel as if we're in control. "Except in doing so, we merely replace one influence with another. Instead of the wind affecting us, it is a wall. The fingers of man's influence are all about, touching everything. Man-made rugs, man-made food. Every single thing in the city that we touch, see, feel, experience comes as the result of some person's influence. "We may feel in control, but we never truly are unless we understand people. Controlling our environment is no longer about blocking the wind, it's about knowing why the serving lady was crying last night, or why a particular guard always loses at cards. Or why your employer hired you in the first place.

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Maybe democracies, maybe all cultures, had life cycles, the same as the humans who comprised them. And maybe there were things cultures could do to extend their lives—the equivalent of exercise and eating right, or, to analogize to what Horton had done, the equivalent of radical surgery—but those things would, in the end, matter only at the margins. Maybe, regardless of the efforts of the exceptional few, the genes hidden and inherent in a culture’s own DNA would dictate a length of years, and make inevitable the onset of sclerosis, and senility, and death, as ineluctably as the Fates cutting the thread of an individual life.

He especially gave voice to the words of Jesus, whose “advice and encouragement” in the Sermon on the Mount spoke to them in their desperate crisis. Drawing on these resources, he urged his people to respond to this time of danger and suffering by imitating God. “It [is] not at all remarkable if we cherish only our own brethren with a proper observance of love.” Instead, Christians should do “more than the publican or the pagan.” They should overcome evil with good and exercise “a divine-like clemency, loving even their enemies . . . and praying for the salvation of their persecutors.” For doesn’t God make the sun to rise and rain to fall upon all people, not merely on his own friends? And shouldn’t “one who professes to be a son of God imitate the example of his Father”? Cyprian’s flock were deeply schooled in Jesus’s teaching that they should love their enemies. And Cyprian extended this teaching by applying it to the provision of crisis nursing for our brothers but “not only our brothers.” Let us imagine the rhetorician Cyprian as he warmed to his point: You Christians, you are my people and flock, you know the mercy of God, and you demonstrate this by providing visits, bread, and water for other believers who are suffering. I praise God for your faithfulness. Now I am calling you to broaden your view, to exercise “a divine-like clemency” by loving your pagan neighbors. Visit them, too; encourage them; provide bread and water for them. I know that in recent months some pagans have been involved in persecuting you. Pray for them; “pray for their salvation,” and help them. You are God’s children: the descendants of a good Father should “prove the imitation of his goodness.

There was another whole bunch of hopefuls. They would diminish down at a startling rate. We had seen it happen before. This time, though, we were there as the “old hands.” And it helped. We knew what to expect; the mystique had gone, and the prize was up for grabs. That was empowering. It was now wintertime, and winter Selection is always considered the tougher course, because of the mountain conditions. I tried not to think about this. Instead of the blistering heat and midges, our enemies would be the freezing, driving sleet, the high winds, and the short daylight hours. These made Trucker and me look back on the summer Selection days as quite balmy and pleasant! It is strange how accustomed you become to hardship, and how what once seemed horrific can soon become mundane. The DS had often told us: “If it ain’t raining, it ain’t training.” And it rains a lot in the Brecon Beacons. Trust me. (I recently overheard our middle boy, Marmaduke, tell one of his friends this SAS mantra. The other child was complaining that he couldn’t go outside because it was raining. Marmaduke, age four, put him straight. Priceless.) The first few weekends progressed, and we both shone. We were fitter, stronger, and more confident than many of the other recruits, but the winter conditions were very real. We had to contend with winds that, on one weekend exercise, were so strong on the high ridges that I saw one gust literally blow a whole line of soldiers off their feet--including the DS. Our first night march saw one recruit go down with hypothermia. Like everyone else, he was wet and cold, but in the wind and whiteout he had lost that will to look after himself, and to take action early. He had forgotten the golden rule of cold, which the DS had told us over and over: “Don’t let yourself get cold. Act early, while you still have your senses and mobility. Add a layer, make shelter, get moving faster--whatever your solution us, just do it.” Instead, this recruit had just sat down in the middle of the boggy moon grass and stopped. He could hardly talk and couldn’t stand. We all gathered round him, forming what little shelter we could. We gave him some food and put an extra layer of clothing on him. We then helped him stagger off the mountain to where he could be picked up by Land Rover and taken to base camp, where the medics could help him. For him, that would be his last exercise with 21 SAS, and a harsh reminder that the struggles of Selection go beyond the demons in your head. You also have to be able to survive the mountains, and in winter that isn’t always easy. One of the other big struggles of winter Selection was trying to get warm in the few hours between the marches. In the summer it didn’t really matter if you were cold and wet--it was just unpleasant rather than life-threatening. But in winter, if you didn’t sort yourself out, you would quickly end up with hypothermia, and then one of two things would happen: you would either fail Selection, or you would die. Both options were bad.

If someone says something to me, I have an arsenal of glares I’ll be happy to exercise until they get their nosy asses out of my business. The

It was a fabulous sundress though. With it's soft yellow fabric and lime green threading. What wasn't there to like? Especially considering it had pockets. I mean really, dear reader, who doesn't like a dress with pockets? Imagine all the twine you could put in there. Or lint, or pennies, or even a helpless puppy lost and alone. That would make an especially good use of a sundress pocket.

Physical exhaustion can be a fantastic feeling, if brought on by arduous exercise—swimming in a lake, scaling a peak, galloping on a horse along a beach. But when brought on by standing on your feet for ten hours, plucking chickens, or digging a ditch in the rain, there’s little pleasure in the pain.

I canceled class the week after the rain exercise. In an email, I informed my students that I was feeling under the weather. In truth, I felt myself giving up on language. I was becoming moved less and less to speak. I was becoming a poet with nothing at all to say. Sentences were boulders I didn't want to carry. I wanted to throw my sentences into the ocean and watch them sink.