Grip On The Situation Quotes

     Illicit flight Alfa Bravo Charlie quickly reached a predetermined altitude and stopped dead. The passengers on board screamed the way people do on fairground rides. The shuttle hesitated momentarily and then shot forward accelerating rapidly to reach a blistering 145,222 miles per hour. They were in a Mach 22 situation. The cries from on-board could not be heard from the ground. Neither did anyone in the great metropolis of Llar witness the bright blue vapour trail the craft left behind in its wake. It was after all overcast and raining heavily.

About the time he threatened her nose with his finger, Peaseblossom lost her grip on the situation with the boys. The door crashed open, and three irate fairies launched themselves at the Stage Manager. Cobweb and Moth pelted him with sequins while Mustardseed rammed beads into his ears. "Dance!" they commanded, and dance he did, hopping with impotent anger and pain from one foot to the other as he batted his meaty hands at them.

You must learn to call on the Lord. Don’t sit all alone or lie on the couch, shaking your head and letting your thoughts torture you. Don’t worry about how to get out of your situation or brood about your terrible life, how miserable you feel, and what a bad person you are. Instead, say, “Get a grip on yourself, you lazy bum! Fall on your knees, and raise your hands and eyes toward heaven. Read a psalm. Say the Lord’s Prayer, and tearfully tell God what you need.

I was in the situation of someone who has assumed, all his life, that madness was on eway, and suddenly in its grip, discovers that it is not only different from the way he'd imagined but that the person suffering from it is someone else, and that this someone else is not interested in finding out what madness is like: he is simply immersed in it, or it has descended on him, and that's that.

Unknown situations offer us opportunities for fresh learning. When we judge these situations solely by our conscious logic, fear grips us; we turn these opportunities down. We close ourselves from new experiences. We stagnate. On the contrary, when we embrace these opportunities, we force our intuition to work in the face of risks. And then, when we observe our perceptions, actions, and reactions in these situations, we see our evolution. We break out of our limits.

Honesty can force any dysfunction in your life to the surface. Are you in an abusive relationship? A refusal to lie to others – How did you get that bruise? – would oblige you to come to grips with this situation very quickly. Do you have a problem with drugs or alcohol? Lying is the lifeblood of addiction. If we have no recourse to lies, our lives can unravel only so far without others noticing. Telling the truth can also reveal ways in which we want to grow but haven’t.

The lack of ability of those in charge to get a grip on a situation, and to take immediate, decisive action rather than simply debate everything endlessly, is one of the major problems in the State education system.

Russkie, promise me a simple thing?" Out of the blue when they had finished, after a mouthful from the mug. Dan seemed relaxed, leaning on his side. Resting back, savoring the taste, Vadim turned his head to look at Dan. Oh, that body. The effect it had on him, all the time, even when Dan wasn't there. Twelve months. "Promise what?" Sometimes, that kind of thing was about letters. Tell my girl I love her. Tell my mother I didn't suffer. Almost painful. Letters. Words that would hurt worse than the killing bullet. "Simple." Dan nodded, "if I'm unlucky, and if you find my body, will you bury it? Some rocks would do, I can't stand the thought of carrion's. As if that mattered, eh? I'd be fucking dead." Dan shrugged, tossed a grin towards the other, made light of an entirely far too heavy situation. He took the bottle once more, washing down the taste of death and decay, chasing away unbidden images. Vadim felt a shudder race over his skin. The thought of death chilled him to the bone, like a premonition. For a moment he saw himself stagger through enemy territory, looking for something that had been Dan. Minefields, snipers, fucking Hind hellfire. He might be able to track him. He might be able to guess where he had gone, where he had fallen. He had found the occasional pilot. But he had had help. Finding a dead man in a country full of dead people was more of a challenge. "I'll send you home," he murmured. Stay alive, he thought. Stay alive like you are now. I don't want to carry your rotting body to fucking Kabul and hand myself in to whatever bastard is your superior or handler there, but it must be Kabul. I can't hand myself over. But I will. Fuck you. He felt his face twitch, and turned away, breathing. "No, I have no home anymore." Dan's hand stopped Vadim from turning over fully. Fingers digging into the muscular thigh. "Not my brother's family. Nowhere to send the body to. Forget it." Grip tightening while he moved closer. Ignored the heat, the damned fan and its monotonous creaking, pressed his body behind the other. "You're as close to a fucking home as I get.

Studying history aims to loosen the grip of the past. It enables us to turn our head this way and that, and begin to notice possibilities that our ancestors could not imagine, or didn’t want us to imagine. By observing the accidental chain of events that led us here, we realise how our very thoughts and dreams took shape – and we can begin to think and dream differently. Studying history will not tell us what to choose, but at least it gives us more options. Movements seeking to change the world often begin by rewriting history, thereby enabling people to reimagine the future. Whether you want workers to go on a general strike, women to take possession of their bodies, or oppressed minorities to demand political rights – the first step is to retell their history. The new history will explain that ‘our present situation is neither natural nor eternal. Things were different once. Only a string of chance events created the unjust world we know today. If we act wisely, we can change that world, and create a much better one.’ This is why Marxists recount the history of capitalism; why feminists study the formation of patriarchal societies; and why African Americans commemorate the horrors of the slave trade. They aim not to perpetuate the past, but rather to be liberated from it.

One of the team members perished, and a second was badly injured.” “Sounds like an ideal situation for involving a fourteen-year-old girl,

It is distressing to have to act under the impulsive orders of someone who, in a situation which concerns you deeply, does not know what he is talking about.

The lack of fulfillment we feel is natural and normal. That's true enlightenment. It's when we feel fulfilled that we're deluded. By doing zazen practice, we gradually begin to loosen our grip on the idea that we ought to be fulfilled. We begin to see that our normal condition of feeling that something is missing in our lives is not really such a terrible thing. It's just a feeling. No more and no less. We no longer desperately seek to shove something into that void. We can just let it be just as it is and accept that it's all right... If we can accept this lack of fulfillment as our natural condition, we can be totally free. We can accept good and bad equally. We can accept loneliness, and we can accept love. We no longer feel that things ought to be different from how they actually are. At the same time we do not complacently accept things that actually do need to be changed. We can understand that it is often our duty to change a situation.

Grief and anger shrink my world, and I resent this. They seem to paralyze my memory of happier times, of friends, places, things; options. Squeezed by the grip of intense, unsettling emotion, I grow smaller in my single-mindedness. I suppose it is partly because I have discarded a range of choices, impairing in some measure my freedom of will. I don't like this, but after a point I have small control over it. It makes me feel that I have surrendered to a kind of determinism, which irritates me even more. Then, vicious cycle, this feeds back into the emotion that drives me and intensifies it. The simple way of ending this situation is the headlong rush to remove its object. The difficult way is more philosophical, a drawing back, the reestablishment of control. As usual, the difficult way is preferable. A headlong rush may also result in a broken neck.

In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on, out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe and to cry, and then got up and hurried away. By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a hundred ways.

If I'm out of my own control, I'm within someone else's— that's what Mom used to tell us. She meant that the moment we lose our grip on a situation, it becomes an opportunity for someone else to take advantage of us. I heard it another way. I heard: It is up to you to demand people see you as you, or they will almost always decide you are someone else.

Many men find themselves unable to cope with even minor frustration. They get angry over trivial things, such as a broken pencil lead or an overcooked hamburger. Their anger erupts and gets out of control. They feel as though they are constantly under attack, that everyone is out to get them, and that nobody understands or cares about them. They may even get superstitious and believe that fate has it in for them, or that God has turned against them. This feeling of having no control leads to a state of continual frustration and anger. This tendency to react with instant anger can be called rage. Rage is anger that never completely goes away. Unlike regular anger, it is not a response to a specific event; rather, it is a response set, or tendency. In other words, it is an automatic way of reacting to the world without much thought. When you react to more and more situations with anger, it becomes your habitual response. You may often find yourself furiously yelling or seething inside without even knowing what it was that made you so angry. Rage sees personal attack in every disagreement. Rage causes you to feel threatened when there is no threat. And rage causes you to viciously counter-attack even a minor threat. Rage is like a wounded animal. It attacks anything that moves. And as with a wounded animal, the attacks do nothing to ease the pain. Rage depersonalizes individual people and events into a faceless, nameless "them".

Good riding techniques result in immediate automated control forces, resulting in controlling scary situations automatically. Sliding changes seat, peg and grip positions relative to the rider. Good riding techniques use these changes to your advantage. Good body posture, weight distribution and muscle tension then result in the desired immediate automated control forces.

We should be in my bed right now. I should be kissing your breasts, sucking your nipples, tasting your honey. I should be sinking inside you slow and hot and so deep that you’ll be begging me to make it fast, then make it last. I should be feeling your sweet grip on my cock, and I bet you grip hard, Harper, ’cause you’re the kind of woman who takes no prisoners. I should be squeezing that gorgeous ass of yours while I pump in and out, looking for that spot that’ll light you up. I need you to know that in another universe, this would be a done deal, and the only thing stopping me from making you mine is that in this universe, my current employment situation stops me from making good on all the dirty things I’m dying to do to you. You understand?

Virtually every inner city of size in America—New York City, Detroit, Chicago, Baltimore, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Milwaukee, Newark, Atlanta—is 100 percent controlled by the Democrat Party and has been for fifty to a hundred years.5 These cities account for the majority of the homicides and robberies in America, for the lion’s share of urban poverty, welfare dependency, and drug addiction, and for a majority of the failed schools where, year in and year out, 40 percent of the students don’t graduate, and 40 percent of those who do are functionally illiterate. No reforms to remedy this unconscionable situation are possible, moreover, thanks to the iron grip of Democrat teacher unions who run the schools to benefit the adults in the system rather than their student charges.

I’ve never in my life had someone put their hands on me and my mind is racing about how to escape. He grabs me tighter and pushes me against the wall, knocking one of the gold plaques off-center. He pins both of my arms against the wall. I’m writhing in his grip but he’s so much stronger than me. “You let him hit it and not me, huh?” His eyes are wide and glassy. “I get you into a good situation and you still want to act like a bougie-ass bitch!

it too. We become more forgiving as we receive His forgiveness. And as we find Him in every situation and circumstance of our lives, we can relax. We don’t have to hide anything because nothing is hidden from His view. And knowing us, He loves us. Our awareness of His love will transform our lives as we come to grips with the fact that His love has never been dependent on our good behavior. That’s awe-inspiring and humbling. Now we’re getting wiser.

When others witness or comment on abusive behaviors, the little voice that the upscale abused wife once heard inside her and ignored or muffled becomes amplified. Slowly she starts to recognize that she must stop enduring the abuse. . . . each woman comes to grips with her situation at her own pace. However, talking to others is key to her growing capacity to recognize and label her experiences, reclaim herself, target important turning points, and ultimately leave her tormentor.

She opened the book. “Don’t,” said Arin. “Please.” But she had already seen the inscription. For Arin, it read, from Amma and Etta, with love. This was Arin’s home. This house had been his, this library his, this book his, dedicated to him by his parents, some ten years ago. Kestrel breathed slowly. Her fingers rested on the page, just below the black line of writing. She lifted her gaze to meet Irex’s smirk. Her mind chilled. She assessed the situation as her father would a battle. She knew her objective. She knew her opponent’s. She understood what she could afford to lose, and what she could not. Kestrel closed the book, set it on a table, and turned her back to Arin. “Lord Irex,” she said, her voice warm. “It is but a book.” “It is my book,” Irex said. There was a choked sound behind her. Without looking, Kestrel said in Herrani, “Do you wish to be removed from the room?” Arin’s answer was low. “No.” “Then be silent.” She smiled at Irex. In their language, she said, “This is clearly not a case of theft. Who would dare steal from you? I’m certain he meant only to look at it. You can’t blame him for being curious about the luxuries your house holds.” “He shouldn’t have even been inside the library, let alone touching its contents. Besides, there were witnesses. A judge will rule in my favor. This is my property, so I will decide the number of lashes.” “Yes, your property. Let us not forget that we are also discussing my property.” “He will be returned to you.” “So the law says, but in what condition? I am not eager to see him damaged. He holds more value than a book in a language no one has any interest in reading.” Irex’s dark eyes flicked to look behind Kestrel, then returned to her. They grew sly. “You take a decided interest in your slave’s well-being. I wonder to what lengths you will go to prevent a punishment that is rightfully mine to give.” He rested a hand on her arm. “Perhaps we can settle the matter between us.” Kestrel heard Arin inhale as he understood Irex’s suggestion. She was angry, suddenly, at the way her mind snagged on the sound of that sharp breath. She was angry at herself, for feeling vulnerable because Arin was vulnerable, and at Irex for his knowing smile. “Yes.” Kestrel decided to twist Irex’s words into something else. “This is between us, and fate.” Having uttered the formal words of a challenge to a duel, Kestrel stepped back from Irex’s touch, drew her dagger, and held it sideways at the level of her chest like a line drawn between him and her. “Kestrel,” Irex said. “That isn’t what I had in mind when I said we might solve the matter.” “I think we’ll enjoy this method more.” “A challenge.” He tsked. “I’ll let you take it back. Just this one.” “I cannot take it back.” At that, Irex drew his dagger and imitated Kestrel’s gesture. They stood still, then sheathed their blades. “I’ll even let you choose the weapons,” Irex said. “Needles. Now it is to you to choose the time and place.” “My grounds. Tomorrow, two hours from sunset. That will give me time to gather the death-price.” This gave Kestrel pause. But she nodded, and finally turned to Arin. He looked nauseated. He sagged in the senators’ grip. It seemed they weren’t restraining him, but holding him up. “You can let go,” Kestrel told the senators, and when they did, she ordered Arin to follow her. As they left the library, Arin said, “Kestrel--” “Not a word. Don’t speak until we are in the carriage.

We are saved by God’s love, and we grow by it too. We become more forgiving as we receive His forgiveness. And as we find Him in every situation and circumstance of our lives, we can relax. We don’t have to hide anything because nothing is hidden from His view. And knowing us, He loves us. Our awareness of His love will transform our lives as we come to grips with the fact that His love has never been dependent on our good behavior. That’s awe-inspiring and humbling. Now we’re getting wiser.

There is another dangerous component to armed robberies, one that I could never understand. I noticed some time ago that with each robbery I committed there was an intense out of control anger that gripped me. It was as if I was there to get something that was inherently mine, and I came to take it by force. I’ve heard many stories directly from individuals about how they just burst into stores with their guns drawn. They would be shouting at people, gun butting them sometimes for no reason at all. One individual told me that he ran into a store and jump kicked a fella who just stood there. The only reason he was kicked is that he was there. It’s as if once you’ve overridden your conscience of going through with the act, it is replaced with anger and a level of brutality that is usually reserved for when you are fighting for your life. This, to me, is what makes armed robberies so dangerous—because the slightest provocation or any sudden movement by anyone could lead to them being shot or killed. It is always an extremely delicate and dicey situation, because the armed robber is pulling the trigger out of fear more than anything else.

Originally, the word power meant able to be. In time, it was contracted to mean to be able. We suffer the difference. Iwas waiting for a plane when I overheard two businessmen. One was sharing the good news that he had been promoted, and the other, in congratulation, said, “More power to you.” I've heard this expression before, but for some reason, I heard it differently this time and thought, what a curious sentiment. As a good wish, the assumption is that power is the goal. Of course, it makes a huge difference if we are wishing others worldly power or inner power. By worldly power, I mean power over things, people, and situations—controlling power. By inner power, I mean power that comes from being a part of something larger—connective power. I can't be certain, but I'm fairly sure the wish here was for worldly power, for more control. This is commonplace and disturbing, as the wish for more always issues from a sense of lack. So the wish for more power really issues from a sense of powerlessness. It is painfully ironic that in the land of the free, we so often walk about with an unspoken and enervating lack of personal freedom. Yet the wish for more controlling power will not set us free, anymore than another drink will quench the emptiness of an alcoholic in the grip of his disease. It makes me think of a game we played when I was nine called King of the Hill, in which seven or eight of us found a mound of dirt, the higher the better, and the goal was to stand alone on top of the hill. Once there, everyone else tried to throw you off, installing themselves as King of the Hill. It strikes me now as a training ground for worldly power. Clearly, the worst position of all is being King of the Hill. You are completely alone and paranoid, never able to trust anyone, constantly forced to spin and guard every direction. The hills may change from a job to a woman to a prized piece of real estate, but those on top can be so enslaved by guarding their position that they rarely enjoy the view. I always hated King of the Hill—always felt tense in my gut when king, sad when not, and ostracized if I didn't want to play. That pattern has followed me through life. But now, as a tired adult, when I feel alone and powerless atop whatever small hill I've managed to climb, I secretly long for anyone to join me. Now, I'm ready to believe there's more power here together.

A monkey can run amazingly fast, it can jump long distances, and it uses its tail as a gripper or a hook. It also has a mind. Nancy thought, An angry monkey is like a flying pit bull terrier with five prehensile limbs—these critters can do a job on you. A monkey directs its attacks toward the face and head. It will grab you by the head, using all four limbs, and then it will wrap its tail around your neck to get a good grip, and it will make slashing attacks all over your face with its teeth, aiming especially for the eyes. This is not a good situation if the monkey happens to be infected with Ebola virus.

Rycca?" "Yes..." "I will take two breaths. Then I am coming out of here, taking that gown off you, and you are going to learn to swim.Clear?" Clear.She took another step back and glanced over her shoulder,looking for a likely route for flight. It was a mistake. Wet hands gripped her. He was there so suddenly she had no time to anticipate it.Just as quickly he removed her gown, prompting the gnawing thought that he was very adept at dispensing with women's garments. The water was...not unpleasant. "Relax," Dragon said. He held her snug against him as he waded in deeper. Her stare was chiding.He saw it and laughed. "All right,perhaps that is too much to ask.But try not to drown us both." "I could do that?" "No,of course not,it was a joke. Just breathe normally.You're doing fine." She was clinging to him as the water rose ever higher around them. Why did people do this? Why couldn't they stay on land where they belonged? "I don't think-" "Good,thinking is a mistake in situations like this." "I meant this is not a good idea." He stopped and looked down at her, his eyes suddenly tender. "Rycca, fish swim." "Of course they do." "Fish are very stupid.How else do you think we catch them? Yet they swim and you, a woman of intelligence and spirit, will do the same.

I don't like to make mistakes. Which is why I haven't been with a man before now." He as thrown off balance so quickly and completely, he coud hear his own brain stumble. "Well,that's...that's wise." He took one definite step back, like a chessman going from square to square. "It's interesting that makes you nervous," she said, countering his move. "I'm not nervous,I'm...finished up here, it seems." He tried another tactic, stepped to the side. "Interesting," she continued, mirroring his move, "that it would make you nervous,or uneasy if you prefer, when you've been...I think it's safe to use the term 'hitting on me' since we met." "I don't think that's the proper term at all." Since he seemed to be boxed into a corner,he decided he was really only standing his ground. "I acted in a natural way regarding a physical attraction. But-" "And now that I've reacted in a natural way, you've felt the reins slip out of your hands and you're panicked." "I'm certainly not panicked." He ignored the terror gripping claws into his belly and concentrated on annoyance. "Back off, Keeley." "No." With her eyes locked on his, she stepped in.Checkmate. His back was hard up against a stall door and he'd been maneuvered there by a woman half his weight.It was mortifying. "This isn't doing either of us any credit." It took a lot of effort when the blood was rapidly draining out of his head, but he made his voice cool and firm. "The fact is I've rethought the matter." "Have you?" "I have,yes,and-stop it," he ordered when she ran the palms of her hands up over his chest. "You're hearts pounding," she murmured. "So's mine.Should I tell you what goes on inside my head,inside my body when you kiss me" "No." He barely managed a croak this time. "And it's not going to happen again." "Bet?" She laughed, rising up just enough to nip his chin. How could she have known how much fun it was to twist a man into aroused knots? "Why don't you tell me about this rethinking?" "I'm not going to take advantage of your-of the situation." That,she thought,was wonderfully sweet. "At the moment,I seem to have the advantage.This time you're trembling,Brian." The hell he was.How could he be trembling when he couldn't feel his own legs? "I won't be responsible.I won't use your inexperience.I won't do this." The last was said on a note of desperation and he pushed her aside. "I'm responsible for myself.And I think I've just proven to both of us,that if and when I decide you'll be the one, you won't have a prayer." She drew a deep, satisfied breath. "Knowing that's incredibly flattering." "Arousing a man doesn't take much skill, Keeley. We're cooperative creatures in that area." If he'd expected that to scratch at her pride,and cut into her power,he was mistaken. She only smiled,and the smile was full of secret female knowledge. "If that was true between us, if that were all that's between us, we'd be naked on the tack room floor right now." She saw the change in his eyes and laughed delightedly. "Already thought of that one, have you? We'll just hold that thought for another time.

In my anguish I cried to the LORD, and he answered by setting me free. Psalm 118:5 You must learn to call on the Lord. Don’t sit all alone or lie on the couch, shaking your head and letting your thoughts torture you. Don’t worry about how to get out of your situation or brood about your terrible life, how miserable you feel, and what a bad person you are. Instead, say, “Get a grip on yourself, you lazy bum! Fall on your knees, and raise your hands and eyes toward heaven. Read a psalm. Say the Lord’s Prayer, and tearfully tell God what you need.” This passage teaches us to call on him. Similarly, David said, “I pour out my complaint before him; before him I tell my trouble” (Psalm 142:2). God wants you to tell him your troubles. He doesn’t want you to keep them to yourself. He doesn’t want you to struggle with them all alone and torture yourself. Doing this will only multiply your troubles.

A serious reader of fiction is an adult who reads, let's say, two or more hours a night, three or four nights a week, and by the end of two or three weeks he has read the book. A serious reader is not someone who reads for half an hour at a time and then picks the book up again on the beach a week later. While reading, serious readers aren't distracted by anything else. They put the kids to bed, and then they read. They don't watch TV intermittently or stop off and on to shop on-line or to talk on the phone. There is, indisputably, a rapidly diminishing number of serious readers, certainly in America. Of course, the cause is something more than just the multitudinous distractions of contemporary life. One must acknowledge the triumph the screen. Reading, whether serious or frivolous, doesn't stand a chance against the screen: first, the movie screen, then the television screen, now the proliferating computer screen, one in your pocket, one on your desk, one in your hand, and soon one imbedded between your eyes. Why can't serious reading compete? Because the gratifications of the screen are far more immediate, graspable, gigantically gripping. Alas, the screen is not only fantastically useful, it's fun, and what beats fun? There was never a Golden Age of Serious Reading in America but I don't remember ever in my lifetime the situation being as sad for books – with all the steady focus and uninterrupted concentration they require – as it is today. And it will be worse tomorrow and even worse the day after. My prediction is that in thirty years, if not sooner, there will be just as many people reading serious fiction in America as now read Latin poetry. A percentage do. But the number of people who find in literature a highly desirable source of sustaining pleasure and mental stimulation is sadly diminished.

In a fear-based, failure-averse culture, people will consciously or unconsciously avoid risk. They will seek instead to repeat something safe that’s been good enough in the past. Their work will be derivative, not innovative. But if you can foster a positive understanding of failure, the opposite will happen. How, then, do you make failure into something people can face without fear? Part of the answer is simple: If we as leaders can talk about our mistakes and our part in them, then we make it safe for others. You don’t run from it or pretend it doesn’t exist. That is why I make a point of being open about our meltdowns inside Pixar, because I believe they teach us something important: Being open about problems is the first step toward learning from them. My goal is not to drive fear out completely, because fear is inevitable in high-stakes situations. What I want to do is loosen its grip on us. While we don’t want too many failures, we must think of the cost of failure as an investment in the future. I

He never spoke of his past, for fear of evoking sympathy and also because he had not yet come to grips with it in his mind. He prided himself on his coldness and pragmatism, but in truth he was an incorrigible dreamer. His childhood of privation and terror had given him the ability to sense intuitively the dark side of situations and people, with a clairvoyance that flared before him like a powder flash, but his pretense of rationalism kept him from giving credence to those mysterious warnings or following his impulses. He denied his emotions, but at any unguarded moment was demolished by them. He also refused to respond to the demands of his senses, and tried to control the part of his nature inclined toward voluptuousness and pleasure. He understood that La Colonia was a naive dreamworld he had stumbled into by accident, and believed that life was filled with harshness that would require strong armor if he was to survive. Nonetheless, those who knew him could see that his shell underneath was nothing but smoke and that it would dissipate in the slightest breeze.

Many potential readers will skip the shopping cart or cash-out clerk because they have seen so many disasters reported in the news that they’ve acquired a panic mentality when they think of them. “Disasters scare me to death!” they cry. “I don’t want to read about them!” But really, how can a picture hurt you? Better that each serve as a Hallmark card that greets your fitful fevers with reason and uncurtains your valor. Then, so gospeled, you may see that defeating a disaster is as innocently easy as deciding to go out to dinner. Remove the dread that bars your doors of perception, and you will enjoy a banquet of treats that will make the difference between suffering and safety. You will enter a brave new world that will erase your panic, and release you from the grip of terror, and relieve you of the deadening effects of indifference —and you will find that switch of initiative that will energize your intelligence, empower your imagination, and rouse your sense of vigilance in ways that will tilt the odds of danger from being forever against you to being always in your favor. Indeed, just thinking about a disaster is one of the best things you can do —because it allows you to imagine how you would respond in a way that is free of pain and destruction. Another reason why disasters seem so scary is that many victims tend to see them as a whole rather than divide them into much smaller and more manageable problems. A disaster can seem overwhelming when confronted with everything at once —but if you dice it into its tiny parts and knock them off one at a time, the whole thing can seem as easy as eating a lavish dinner one bite at a time. In a disaster you must also plan for disruption as well as destruction. Death and damage may make the news, but in almost every disaster far more lives are disrupted than destroyed. Wit­ness the tornado that struck Joplin, Missouri, in May 2011 and killed 158 people. The path of death and destruction was less than a mile wide and only 22 miles long —but within thirty miles 160,000 citizens whose property didn’t suffer a dime of damage were profoundly disrupted by the carnage, loss of power and water, suspension of civic services, and inability to buy food, gas, and other necessities. You may rightfully believe your chances of dying in a disaster in your lifetime may be nearly nil, but the chances of your life being disrupted by a disaster in the next decade is nearly a sure thing. Not only should you prepare for disasters, you should learn to premeditate them. Prepare concerns the body; premeditate concerns the mind. Everywhere you go, think what could happen and how you might/could/would/should respond. Use your imagination. Fill your brain with these visualizations —run mind-movies in your head —develop a repertoire —until when you walk into a building/room/situation you’ll automatically know what to do. If a disaster does ambush you —sure you’re apt to panic, but in seconds your memory will load the proper video into your mobile disk drive and you’ll feel like you’re watching a scary movie for the second time and you’ll know what to expect and how to react. That’s why this book is important: its manner of vivifying disasters kickstarts and streamlines your acquiring these premeditations, which lays the foundation for satisfying your needs when a disaster catches you by surprise.

If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I had a miserable time last night.” “Good. You deserved to.” She smiled. “Not that I care one way or the other.” “Stop pretending that you don’t care,” he said hoarsely. “We both care, and you know it. I care more than you can possibly imagine.” She wanted to believe him, but how could she? “You say that only to coax me into your bed.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I don’t need to coax women into my bed, my dear. They usually leap there of their own accord.” His smile faded. “This is the first time I’ve apologized to a woman. I’ve never given a damn what any woman thought of me, though plenty of them tried to make me do so. So please forgive me if I’m not handling this to your satisfaction. It’s not a situation I’m accustomed to.” He was holding her so tenderly, it made her want to weep. Every move they made was a seduction-his leg advancing as hers went back, his hand gripping her waist, the waltz beating a rhythm that made her want to whirl around the ballroom with him forever. Her mind told her she should resist him, but her heart didn’t want to listen. Her heart was a fool. She gazed past his shoulder. “My father used to go to a brothel. He never remarried, so he went there to…er…feed his needs. I had to go fetch him a few times when my cousins were working and my aunt was looking after my grandmother, who lived nearby.” She didn’t know why she was telling him this, but it was a relief to speak of it to someone. Even her aunt and cousins preferred to pretend it never happened. “It was mortifying. He would…forget to come home, and we would need money for something, so I would have to go after him.” “Good God.” Her gaze locked with his. “I swore I’d never let myself be put in such a position again.” She tipped up her chin. “That’s why I’m happy to have Nathan as my fiancé. He’s genteel and proper. He would never frequent a brothel.” Oliver’s eyes glittered darkly at her. “No. He would just abandon you to the tender mercies of men who do.” She forced a smile. “There’s more than one way to be abandoned. If a woman’s husband is forever at a brothel, he might as well be halfway across the sea. The result is the same.” A stricken expression crossed his face as he stared at her. Then he glanced away.

could do nothing but cast frightened glances in all directions, expressing incomprehension, indignation at the attack on him and mute calls for help. And yet M. de Charlus could call on all the resources not only of eloquence but of boldness when, possessed by a rage which had been bubbling up inside him against someone, he would transfix him, reduce him to utter despair by the cruelest words in the hearing of polite people who stood aghast, never having imagined that anyone could go so far. In those situations M. de Charlus was on fire, in the grip of genuine nervous attacks which left everyone trembling. But in those cases he had the initiative, he could go on the attack, say whatever he pleased (just as Bloch could make jokes against Jews, but blushed if anyone mentioned their name to him). When he hated people, it was because he thought those people despised him. If they had been pleasant to him, then instead of becoming intoxicated with rage against them, he would have put his arms round them. In a situation so cruelly unforeseen as this one, the great talker could only stammer, “What’s the meaning of this? What’s going on?” He could hardly even be heard.

As the Model S fever gripped Silicon Valley, I visited Ford’s small research and development lab in Palo Alto. The head of the lab at the time was a ponytailed, sandal-wearing engineer named T. J. Giuli, who felt very jealous of Tesla. Inside of every Ford were dozens of computing systems made by different companies that all had to speak to each other and work as one. It was a mess of complexity that had evolved over time, and simplifying the situation would prove near impossible at this point, especially for a company like Ford, which needed to pump out hundreds of thousands of cars per year and could not afford to stop and reboot. Tesla, by contrast, got to start from scratch and make its own software the focus of the Model S. Giuli would have loved the same opportunity. “Software is in many ways the heart of the new vehicle experience,” he said. “From the powertrain to the warning chimes in the car, you’re using software to create an expressive and pleasing environment. The level of integration that the software has into the rest of the Model S is really impressive. Tesla is a benchmark for what we do here.” Not long after this chat, Giuli left Ford to become an engineer at a stealth start-up. There

I remember my very first day in the gym back in Indiana. My palms were soft and quickly got torn up on the bars because they weren’t accustomed to gripping steel. But over time, after thousands of reps, my palms built up a thick callous as protection. The same principle works when it comes to mindset. Until you experience hardships like abuse and bullying, failures and disappointments, your mind will remain soft and exposed. Life experience, especially negative experiences, help callous the mind. But it’s up to you where that callous lines up. If you choose to see yourself as a victim of circumstance into adulthood, that callous will become resentment that protects you from the unfamiliar. It will make you too cautious and untrusting, and possibly too angry at the world. It will make you fearful of change and hard to reach, but not hard of mind. That’s where I was as a teenager, but after my second Hell Week, I’d become someone new. I’d fought through so many horrible situations by then and remained open and ready for more. My ability to stay open represented a willingness to fight for my own life, which allowed me to withstand hailstorms of pain and use it to callous over my victim’s mentality. That shit was gone, buried under layers of sweat and hard fucking flesh, and I was starting to callous over my fears too. That realization gave me the mental edge I needed to outlast Psycho Pete one more time.

Rejecting failure and avoiding mistakes seem like high-minded goals, but they are fundamentally misguided. Take something like the Golden Fleece Awards, which were established in 1975 to call attention to government-funded projects that were particularly egregious wastes of money. (Among the winners were things like an $84,000 study on love commissioned by the National Science Foundation, and a $3,000 Department of Defense study that examined whether people in the military should carry umbrellas.) While such scrutiny may have seemed like a good idea at the time, it had a chilling effect on research. No one wanted to “win” a Golden Fleece Award because, under the guise of avoiding waste, its organizers had inadvertently made it dangerous and embarrassing for everyone to make mistakes. The truth is, if you fund thousands of research projects every year, some will have obvious, measurable, positive impacts, and others will go nowhere. We aren’t very good at predicting the future—that’s a given—and yet the Golden Fleece Awards tacitly implied that researchers should know before they do their research whether or not the results of that research would have value. Failure was being used as a weapon, rather than as an agent of learning. And that had fallout: The fact that failing could earn you a very public flogging distorted the way researchers chose projects. The politics of failure, then, impeded our progress. There’s a quick way to determine if your company has embraced the negative definition of failure. Ask yourself what happens when an error is discovered. Do people shut down and turn inward, instead of coming together to untangle the causes of problems that might be avoided going forward? Is the question being asked: Whose fault was this? If so, your culture is one that vilifies failure. Failure is difficult enough without it being compounded by the search for a scapegoat. In a fear-based, failure-averse culture, people will consciously or unconsciously avoid risk. They will seek instead to repeat something safe that’s been good enough in the past. Their work will be derivative, not innovative. But if you can foster a positive understanding of failure, the opposite will happen. How, then, do you make failure into something people can face without fear? Part of the answer is simple: If we as leaders can talk about our mistakes and our part in them, then we make it safe for others. You don’t run from it or pretend it doesn’t exist. That is why I make a point of being open about our meltdowns inside Pixar, because I believe they teach us something important: Being open about problems is the first step toward learning from them. My goal is not to drive fear out completely, because fear is inevitable in high-stakes situations. What I want to do is loosen its grip on us. While we don’t want too many failures, we must think of the cost of failure as an investment in the future.

One day the Galloways got a little more excitement than we were prepared for. We moved around a lot and at this point we were living in a trailer park in Auburn, Alabama. Hoss and I were out in the front yard on our regular patrol while my older sister Jennifer and younger sister Sara were playing by themselves. Sara was three years old and I guess she decided she wanted to go for a ride. My dad’s blue truck was out in front of the house and apparently he’d forgotten about the parking brake. The truck was in gear as Sara managed to pull the door open and muscle herself up into the cab. As she climbed in and got situated she kicked the truck out of gear with her tiny sneakered foot. The truck started rolling down the driveway toward a ditch. Jennifer started screaming. Faster than a speeding bullet I leapt into action! I ran toward her, blue cape flying in the wind behind me. I reached the truck. I grabbed on to the door frame of the open passenger side of the truck. I told Sara everything would be okay, and I stuck my heels down in the mud and pulled back with all my might. The mud was spewing from either side of my firmly planted boots as I started to slide along with the truck. I never lost my grip and I am convinced I was able to slow the roll down enough for Mom and Dad to come running out of the house. Dad jumped up into the truck and was able to throw the brake to stop the truck while Mom scooped up Sara. Super Noah saved the day. At least I wanted to believe that.

Life is pretty short yet magnanimous if we know just how to live right. It isn't that easy, it takes a lot of our soul, sometimes too many broken pieces to finally come together in binding a masterpiece that smiles like a solitary star forever gazing around at the music of an eternal cosmos. The most brutal yet beautiful truth about Life is that It is marked, marked with Time where every moment takes us closer to death, it doesn't have to sound or feel bad or scary because death is the most inevitable truth in this mortal world. While the knowledge of death jolts our mind with the uncertainty of Life, clutches us in the emotion of fear to think of pain or the loss of bonds, when we acknowledge that as a part of our souls' journey and take every moment as our precious gift, a blessing to experience this Life with its beautiful garden of emotions blossoming with wonderful smiles that we can paint on others, then we make our Life magnanimous, then we make even the very face of death as that of an angel coming to take us to a different voyage, soaked in a lot of memories and experiences beautifully binding our soul. I have realised that when we live each day as if it's the last day of our life, we become more loving and gentle to everyone around and especially to our own selves. We forgive and love more openly, we grace and embrace every opportunity we get to be kind, to stay in touch with everything that truly matters. I have realised that when we rise every morning with gratitude knowing that the breath of air still passes through our body, just in the mere understanding that we have one more day to experience Life once again, we stay more compassionate towards everything and everyone around and invest more of our selves into everything and everyone that truly connect and resonate with our soul. I have realised that when we consciously try to be good and kind, no matter however bad or suffocating a situation is we always end up taking everything at its best holding on to the firm grip of goodness, accepting everything as a part of our souls' lesson or just a turn of Time or Fate and that shapes into our strength and roots our core with the truest understanding of Life, the simple act of going on and letting go. Letting go of anything and everything that chains our Soul while going on with a Heart open to Love and a Soul ready to absorb all that falls along the pathway of this adventure called Life. I have realised that when we are kind and do anything good for another person, that gives us the most special happiness, something so pure that even our hearts don't know how deep that joy permeates inside our soul. I have realised that at the end of the day we do good not because of others but because of our own selves, for if tomorrow death comes to grace me I hope to smile and say I have Lived, loved unconditionally and embraced forgiveness, kindness and goodness and all the other colours of Love with every breath I caught, I have lived a Life magnanimous. So each time someone's unkind towards you, hold back and smile, and try to give your warmth to that person. Because Kindness is not a declaration of who deserves it, it's a statement of who you are. So each time some pieces of your heart lay scattered, hold them up and embrace everyone of them with Love. Because Love is not a magic potion that is spilled from a hollow space, it's a breath of eternity that flows through the tunnel of your soul. So each time Life puts up a question of your Happiness, answer back with a Smile of Peace. Because Happiness is not what you look for in others, it's what you create in every passing moment, with the power of Life, that is pretty short when we see how counted it stands in days but actually turns out absolutely incredibly magnanimous when loved and lived in moments.

A series of surprising experiments by the psychologist Roy Baumeister and his colleagues has shown conclusively that all variants of voluntary effort—cognitive, emotional, or physical—draw at least partly on a shared pool of mental energy. Their experiments involve successive rather than simultaneous tasks. Baumeister’s group has repeatedly found that an effort of will or self-control is tiring; if you have had to force yourself to do something, you are less willing or less able to exert self-control when the next challenge comes around. The phenomenon has been named ego depletion. In a typical demonstration, participants who are instructed to stifle their emotional reaction to an emotionally charged film will later perform poorly on a test of physical stamina—how long they can maintain a strong grip on a dynamometer in spite of increasing discomfort. The emotional effort in the first phase of the experiment reduces the ability to withstand the pain of sustained muscle contraction, and ego-depleted people therefore succumb more quickly to the urge to quit. In another experiment, people are first depleted by a task in which they eat virtuous foods such as radishes and celery while resisting the temptation to indulge in chocolate and rich cookies. Later, these people will give up earlier than normal when faced with a difficult cognitive task. The list of situations and tasks that are now known to deplete self-control is long and varied. All involve conflict and the need to suppress a natural tendency. They include: avoiding the thought of white bears inhibiting the emotional response to a stirring film making a series of choices that involve conflict trying to impress others responding kindly to a partner’s bad behavior interacting with a person of a different race (for prejudiced individuals) The list of indications of depletion is also highly diverse: deviating from one’s diet overspending on impulsive purchases reacting aggressively to provocation persisting less time in a handgrip task performing poorly in cognitive tasks and logical decision making The evidence is persuasive: activities that impose high demands on System 2 require self-control, and the exertion of self-control is depleting and unpleasant. Unlike cognitive load, ego depletion is at least in part a loss of motivation. After exerting self-control in one task, you do not feel like making an effort in another, although you could do it if you really had to.

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

Christopher entered the room, having to bend his head to pass through the small medieval doorway. Straightening, he surveyed their surroundings briefly before his piercing gaze found Beatrix. He stared at her with the barely suppressed wrath of a man to whom entirely too much had happened. Beatrix wished she were a swooning sort of female. It seemed the only appropriate response to the situation. Unfortunately, no matter how she tried to summon a swoon, her mind remained intractably conscious. “I’m so sorry,” she croaked. No reply. Christopher approached her slowly, as if he thought she might try to bolt again. Reaching her, he took her upper arms in a hard grip that allowed no chance of escape. “Tell me why you did it,” he said, his voice low and vibrant with…hatred? Fury? “No, damn you, don’t cry. Was it a game? Was it only to help Prudence?” Beatrix looked away with a wretched sob. “No, it wasn’t a game…Pru showed me your letter, and she said she wasn’t going to answer it. And I had to. I felt as if it had been written for me. It was only supposed to be once. But then you wrote back, and I let myself answer just once more…and then one more time, and another…” “How much of it was the truth?” “All of it,” Beatrix burst out. “Except for signing Pru’s name. The rest of it was real. If you believe nothing else, please believe that.” Christopher was quiet for a long moment. He had begun to breathe heavily. “Why did you stop?” She sensed how difficult it was for him to ask. But God help her, it was infinitely worse to have to answer. “Because it hurt too much. The words meant too much.” She forced herself to go on, even though she was crying. “I fell in love with you, and I knew I could never have you. I couldn’t pretend to be Pru any longer. I loved you so much, and I couldn’t--” Her words were abruptly smothered. He was kissing her, she realized dazedly. What did it mean? What did he want? What…but her thoughts dissolved, and she stopped trying to make sense of anything. His arms had closed around her, one hand gripping the back of her neck. Shaken to her soul, she molded against him. Taking her sobs into his mouth, he licked deep, his kiss strong and savage. It had to be a dream, and yet her senses insisted it was real, the scent and warmth and toughness of him engulfing her. He pulled her even more tightly against him, making it difficult to breathe. She didn’t care. The pleasure of the kiss suffused her, drugged her, and when he pulled his head back, she protested with a bewildered moan. Christopher forced her to look back at him. “Loved?” he asked hoarsely. “Past tense?” “Present tense,” she managed to say. “You told me to find you.” “I didn’t mean to send you that note.” “But you did. You wanted me.” “Yes.” More tears escaped her stinging eyes. He bent and pressed his mouth to them, tasting the salt of grief. Those gray eyes looked into hers, no longer bright as hellfrost, but soft as smoke. “I love you, Beatrix.” Maybe she was capable of swooning after all.

If a man can only obey and not disobey, he is a slave; if he can only disobey and not obey, he is a rebel (not a revolutionary); he acts out of anger, disappointment, resentment, yet not in the name of a conviction or a principle. … Obedience to a person, institution or power (heteronomous obedience) is submission; it implies the abdication of my autonomy and the acceptance of a foreign will or judgment in place of my own. Obedience to my own reason or conviction (autonomous obedience) is not an act of submission but one of affirmation. My conviction and my judgment, if authentically mine, are part of me. If I follow them rather than the judgment of others, I am being myself; (p. 6) In order to disobey, one must have the courage to be alone, to err and to sin. ... …; hence any social, political, and religious system which proclaims freedom, yet stamps out disobedience, cannot speak the truth. (p. 8) At this point in history the capacity to doubt, to criticize and to disobey may be all that stands between a future for mankind and the end of civilization. (p. 10) It is the function of the prophet to show reality, to show alternatives and to protest; it is his function to call loudly, to awake man from his customary half-slumber. It is the historical situation which makes prophets, not the wish of some men to be prophets. (p. 12) Disobedience, then, in the sense in which we use it here, is an act of the affirmation of reason and will. It is not primarily an attitude directed against something, but for something: for man’s capacity to see, to say what he sees, and to refuse to say what he does not see (p. 17) That which was the greatest criticism of socialism fifty years ago—that it would lead to uniformity, bureaucratization, centralization, and a soulless materialism—is a reality of today’s capitalism. (p. 31) Man, instead of being the master of the machines he has built, has become their servant. But man is not made to be a thing, and with all the satisfactions of consumption, the life forces in man cannot be held in abeyance continuously. We have only one choice, and that is mastering the machine again, making production into a means and not an end, using it for the unfolding of man—or else the suppressed life energies will manifest themselves in chaotic and destructive forms. Man will want to destroy life rather than die of boredom. (p. 32) The supreme loyalty of man must be to the human race and to the moral principles of humanism. (p. 38) The individual must be protected from fear and the need to submit to anyone’s coercion. (p. 42) Not only in the sphere of political decisions, but with regard to all decisions and arrangements, the grip of the bureaucracy must be broken in order to restore freedom. (p. 42) According to its basic principles, the aim of socialism is the abolition of national sovereignty, the abolition of any kind of armed forces, and the establishment of a commonwealth of nations. (p. 43) It is exactly the weakness of contemporary society that it offers no ideals, that it demands no faith, that it has no vision—except that of more of the same. (p. 49) Socialism must be radical. To be radical is to go to the roots; and the root is Man. (p. 49)

He recognized her deft hand and eye for detail immediately. He flipped through the pages, past vignettes of the dairymaid and her vague-featured gentleman engaged in a courtship of sorts: a kiss on the hand, a whisper in the ear. By the book’s midpoint, the chit’s voluminous petticoats were up around her ears, and the illustrations comprised a sequence of quite similar poses in varying locales. Not just the dairy, but a carriage, the larder, in a hayloft lit with candles and strewn with…were those rose petals? I’ll be damned. Gray was fast divining the true source of the French painting master’s mythic exploits. More unsettling by far, however, as he perused the book, he noted a subtle alteration in the gentleman lover’s features. With each successive illustration, the hero appeared taller, broader in the shoulders, and his hair went from a cropped style to collar length in the space of two pages. The more pages Gray turned, the more he recognized himself. It was unmistakable. She’d used him as the model for these bawdy illustrations. She’d sketched him in secret; not once, but many times. And here he’d nearly gone mad with envy over each scrap of foolscap she’d inked for once crewman or another. His emotions underwent a dizzying progression-from surprised, to flattered, to (with the benefit of one especially inventive situation in an orchard) undeniably aroused. But as he lingered over a nude study of this amalgam of the real him and some picaresque fantasy, he began to feel something else entirely. He felt used. She’d rendered his form with astonishing accuracy, given that it must have been drawn before she’d any opportunity to actually see him unclothed. Not that she’d achieved an exact likeness. Her virgin’s imagination was rather generous in certain aspects and somewhat stinting in others, he noted with a bitter sort of amusement. But she’d laid him bare in these pages, without his knowledge or consent. God, she’d even drawn his scars. All in service of some adolescent erotic fantasy. And now he began to grow angry. He had been handling the leaves of the book with his fingertips only, anxious he might smudge or rip the pages. Now he abandoned all caution and flipped roughly through the remainder of the volume. Until he came to the end, and his hand froze. There they were, the two of them. He and she fully clothed and unengaged in any physical intimacies-yet intimate, in a way he had never known. Never dreamed. Sitting beneath a willow tree, his head in her lap. One of her hands lay twined with his, atop his chest. The other rested on his brow. The sky soared vast and expansive above, gauzy clouds spinning into forever. The hot fist of desire that had gripped his loins loosened, moved upward through his torso, churning the contents of his gut along the way. Then it clutched at his heart and squeezed until it hurt. Somehow, this illustration was the most dismaying of all. So naïve, so ridiculous. at least the bawdy situations were plausible, if sometimes physically improbable. This was utterly impossible. To her, he'd never been more than a fantasy. It occurred to Gray that more secrets might be packed within these trunks. If he sorted through her belongings, he might find the answers to all his questions. Perhaps answers to questions he'd never thought to ask. In spite of this, he let the lid of the trunk clap shut and fastened the strap with shaking fingers. He'd suffered as many of her fantasies as he could bear for one day. It was time to acquaint her with reality.

The problem for many people, however, is that they do not accept that they too can cultivate the habits and skills needed to excel at something. Instead they create a story for why their situation is different and why their family and friends are really to blame for all that is wrong in their life. But while other people can make our life much more difficult, it is our choices and actions, or lack thereof, that really shape who we become. If we can just drown out the noise of our social environment for a portion of the day and focus on cultivating the skills and habits needed to move us in the direction of who we wish to become, then slowly but surely the grip of our social environment will loosen.

Moments of doubt are unavoidable when we take on any strenuous task. I've used the One-Second Decision to regain my composure and win hundreds of small battles during ultra races, on the pull-up bar, and in stressful work situations. And the first step is to mentally take a knee. The best person in any combat scenario is the one who is composed enough to take a knee when the bullets are flying at them. They know they need to evaluate the situation and the landscape to find a way forward and that it's impossible to make a conscious decision if they or their team is running around like fire ants. Taking a knee in battle is not as easy as it sounds, but it's the only way to give yourself time to breathe through the panic and rein in your spinning mind so you are able to operate. The battle hasn't stopped. Gunfire is still lighting up the night, and you dont have any time to waste. In that one second, you must take a breath and decide to bring the fight. When you are in the grip of life and in danger of losing your shit, just think, It's time to take a knee. Get a couple of breaths and flash to your future. If you fold, what will happen next? What's your plan B? This is not some deep contemplation. There is no time to order a pizza and hash it out with your people. This must happen in seconds! p90

The ability to self-regulate is important when dealing with stress. The demands of competition, the noise from the stands, and the team dynamics will cause stress for athletes. These stressors will be compounded by the athlete’s personal life and the stress they carry into these performance situations. Overall, athletes will get gripped by stress, whether in a championship game or a mundane practice.

If we’re not aware of what is happening in the moment because we are caught up in our thoughts or reveries, or in the grip of worry or other strong emotions, it’s as if we have left our house. If we stay away for a long time, dust accumulates and unwanted visitors may take up residence in our home. Things like stress and tension accumulate in our bodies and minds, and over time, if we don’t tend to them, they can lead to physical or psychological illness. But the beauty of awareness is that we can always return home to ourselves. Our home is always there, waiting for us to come back. There are numerous ways we can go home to ourselves: by being aware of our breath, by being aware of body sensations or bodily movements, and by connecting with the reality around us, like the sounds in our environment. And when we come back home in these ways, we are able to take stock and survey the territory of our being, seeing clearly what parts of our inner landscape need more support, where we need to pay more attention. It is especially tempting in times of transition and challenge to abandon our homes, to leave our territory, in search of answers, perhaps by worrying about what will happen in the future. This is precisely the moment when we need to return to the present moment, feel our bodies, and take good care of ourselves now. Because the future is made of this moment. If we take good care of this moment, even if it is very difficult, we are taking good care of the future. It may also be hard to come home if we sense that unresolved pain has accumulated and we don’t want to face it. We may get into the habit of avoiding our home completely. We don’t want to be with those raw, unprocessed parts of our experience that are painful and may be quite scary. If this is our situation, it is important to have compassion for ourselves for not wanting to return home to face these difficulties inside of us. And yet the only way we can heal them, move through them, and make our home a more cozy place is to turn towards them. As the teaching goes: “The only way out is in.” Or through.

I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” he said in a dangerous drawl, “and you just gave me the excuse I needed.” “What—what are you talking about?” Lily demanded, stepping backwards. A drop of rainwater from the leaky roof landed with a disconcerting ker-plop on the top of her head. Caleb was unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m talking,” he replied evenly, “about raising blisters on your sweet little backside.” Lily was careful to keep to the opposite side of the table. “Now, Caleb, that wouldn’t be wise.” “Oh, I think it would be about the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” Caleb answered, advancing on her again. Lily kept the table between them. “I might be pregnant!” she reasoned desperately. “Then again,” Caleb countered, “you might not.” The muscles of his forearms were corded, the skin covered with maple-sugar hair. “I wasn’t going to shoot you—I only wanted to scare you away.” Lily dodged him, moving from one side of the table to the other, always keeping it between them. “Caleb, be reasonable. I wouldn’t shoot you—I love you!” “I love you, too,” Caleb returned in a furious croon, “and right now I’d like nothing better than to shoot you!” Lily picked up a chair and held it as she’d seen a lion tamer do in an illustration in one of her beloved dime novels. Helga of the Circus, if she remembered correctly. “Now, just stay back, Caleb. If you lay a hand on me, I assure you, you’ll regret it!” “I doubt that very much,” Caleb replied. And then he gripped one leg of the chair, and Lily realized what a pitiful defense it had been. He set it easily on the floor even as his other arm shot out like a coiled snake and caught Lily firmly by the wrist. Like a man sitting down to a cigar and a glass of port after a good dinner Caleb dropped comfortably into the chair. With a single tug he brought Lily facedown across his lap. Quick as mercury he had her skirts up and her drawers down, and when she struggled he simply imprisoned her between his thighs scissor fashion. “Caleb Halliday,” Lily gasped, writhing between his legs, “you let me go this instant!” “Or else you’ll do what?” he asked evenly. Lily felt his hand caress one cheek of her bottom and then the other, as though charting them for assault. “I’ll scream, and Hank Robbins will run over here and shoot you for the rascal you are!” Caleb laughed thunderously at that. “You’ve had your little joke,” Lily huffed, “now let me up!” “No,” Caleb replied. Lily threw back her head and screamed as loudly as she could. “You can do better than that,” Caleb said. “Hell, nobody would hear a whimper like that in this rain.” Lily filled her lungs to capacity and screamed again. She was as surprised as Caleb when the door flew open and Velvet burst in, ready for battle. Color filled her face when she understood the situation. In no particular rush, Caleb released Lily, and she scrambled to her feet unassisted, blushing painfully as she righted her drawers and lowered her skirts. Caleb chuckled at her indignation and then stood up respectfully.

Yeah I see,” Syn said quietly. Ro’s phone rang and he picked it up, giving Syn a couple of private minutes, which were needed because his heart was beating a mile a minute. The fates can’t be that cruel. To make the only man, no forget that; the only person that Syn had been interested in in over ten years a suspect in a murder case he was overseeing. On top of everything else, the man is married. This isn’t good. Ro disconnected his call and Syn asked him, “How soon before this one arrives?” “He’s already here in room five. You coming?” Ro asked, taking Furious’ file from his hands. “I’ll watch.” Syn walked beside Ro to the interrogation rooms. Then he thought better of it, and decided he needed to be honest with his men. They worked effectively together, but most of all they had each other's backs. Ro was a good man and Syn felt he could trust him. “Ro wait.” “What’s up?” Syn blew out a breath and scratched at the hair on top of his head, which was grown out enough that it was already starting to curl. “Syn what’s going on?” Ro looked genuinely concerned, his vibrant blue eyes staring intently at him. Syn looked back and forth as uniforms brushed passed them in the hall. Ro clasped a firm grip on Syn’s shoulder and ushered him into one of the vacant offices. “Talk to me man. You’re my Sarge but I consider you a friend first. That’s the way we operate. If you have a problem, then I have a fuckin’ problem, and so do twenty-one other men. But between you and me right now, what’s up?” Syn rubbed the back of his neck and tried to ease some of the tension there. “This guy Furious.” Ro shook his head indicating he was listening. “I’m kind of, um … we uh … he’s my,” Syn stuttered not quite finding the right words. “You know him and you like him,” Ro finished for him. Syn looked Ro in the eye. “Yeah, I like him.” Syn took a deep breath. “He’s the first him that I’ve liked in a very long time.” “I see.” Ro rubbed his hand over his cheek again. Syn knew the gesture meant Ro was thinking. “Shit’s all fucked up now. I can’t date a goddamn suspect, a married goddamn suspect.” “Hey whoa. We don’t know the situation with the marriage yet. The reasons I thought he could be a suspect? They might be easily explained away.” “You’re the one said you think he’s hiding something,” Syn argued. “Yes, I did. This guy is married, right? He leaves his husband in a way that makes the man file a missing persons on him, and then Furious changes his name, and not back to his birth name. It looks like he’s hiding from him, I just need to find out why.” Ro pulled a paper from the file. “This shows him making regular deposits to an account in a bank located in Los Angeles. The account is under a different name and has over ninety thousand dollars in it.” “So he stole his husband’s money and hauled ass in the middle of the night. Fuckin’ great.” Syn yanked the door open, ready to charge into interrogation room five and tell Furious he could go to hell. “Geez, hold on a minute, Sarge.” Ro grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside, slamming the door closed. “No wonder Day likes you so much. Both of you go off half-cocked all the fucking time. That money wasn’t stolen. It was life insurance proceeds from when his father died. He might’ve been hiding it from the husband. The contributions he’s been making since then have been small but frequent.” “He’s a porn star, Ronowski! I can’t date a damn porn star! Fucking other women and probably men. What the fuck?” Syn was yelling and pacing now. He knew it wasn’t fair to yell at Ro, but he was the only one there now.

How long do you intend for us to wait? Obviously you’re not perfect, but--” “‘Not perfect’ is having a bald spot or pockmarks. My problems are a bit more significant than that.” Beatrix answered in an anxious tumble of words. “I come from a family of flawed people who marry other flawed people. Every one of us has taken a chance on love.” ‘I love you too much to risk your safety.” “Love me even more, then,” she begged. “Enough to marry me no matter what the obstacles are.” Christopher scowled. “Don’t you think it would be easier for me to take what I want, regardless of the consequences? I want to hold you every night. I want to make love to you so badly I can’t even breathe. But I won’t allow any harm to come to you, especially from my hands.” “You wouldn’t hurt me. Your instincts wouldn’t let you.” “My instincts are those of a madman.” Beatrix wrapped her arms around her bent knees. “You’re willing to accept my problems,” she said dolefully, “but you won’t allow me to accept yours.” She buried her face in her arms. “You don’t trust me.” “You know that’s not the issue. I don’t trust myself.” In her volatile state, it was difficult not to cry. The situation was so vastly unfair. Maddening. “Beatrix.” Christopher knelt beside her, drawing her against him. She stiffened. “Let me hold you,” he said near her ear. “If we don’t marry, when will I see you?” she asked miserably. “On chaperoned visits? Carriage drives? Stolen moments?” Christopher smoothed her hair and stared into her swimming eyes. “It’s more than we’ve had until now.” “It’s not enough.” Beatrix wrapped her arms around him. “I’m not afraid of you.” Gripping the back of his shirt, she gave it a little shake for emphasis. “I want you, and you say you want me, and the only thing standing in our way is you. Don’t tell me that you survived all those battles, and suffered through so much, merely to come home for this--” He laid his fingers against her mouth. “Quiet. Let me think.” “What is there to--” “Beatrix,” he warned.

The storm turned out to be much worse even than our captain had imagined. Winds that must have been near hurricane force whipped the seas into a frenzy. The couple busied themselves with trying to handle the boat and keep it afloat, and I’m glad they did. But that left Sandy and me to fend for ourselves. Of the two of us, Sandy is the bigger sissy (he’s always more afraid he’s going to break a nail than I am). He had no idea what to do. Soon it became clear to both of us what to do: hold on for dear life! Waves began washing over the rear deck, and I started to get really scared. It takes a lot for me to take my shoes off, but this is one time I decided I could forgo the five-inch heels. I took them off, and it wasn’t long before “my little slings,” as I always called them, got slung. They went overboard with a wave, and all I could do was watch them go. The next wave almost got me. A wall of water came crashing over the boat, slapping it around like a toy. I slid across the deck, completely out of control. I felt a rush of cold water surround me as the sea swept me in. I managed to grab a railing and stay with the boat, but my whole body was dangling overboard. I could think of nothing but the shark stories the captain had told us earlier. Just as I began to lose my grip, I became aware of Sandy making his way across the pitching deck, reaching his hand out for me He somehow got a hold of me and dragged me back onto the boat and into the little cabin. It felt good to be out of the water, but by all appearances, the sharks’ dinner had only been delayed. There seemed to be no way our little boat could ride out this storm. You never know how you’re going to respond to a situation like that until you’re actually in it. The way Sandy and I chose to deal with it is still a source of wonder to me. We held a brief high-level discussion and unanimously decided that we were doomed. Sandy’s gutsy “They can kill us, but they won’t eat us” didn’t apply to sharks. Then we simply and calmly lay down on the little bunk, held hands, and waited to die. I thought to myself, “If this don’t beat all.” Here I am, a country girl from East Tennessee, about to die somewhere off the coast of Australia, side by side with a gay man from New York.

Our 182-passenger Boeing Classic this morning is under the able command of Captain Hiram Slatt, discharged from service in the United States Air Force mission in Afghanistan after six heroic deployments and now returned, following a restorative sabbatical at the VA Neuropsychiatric Hospital in Wheeling, West Virginia, to his “first love”—civilian piloting for North American Airways. Captain Slatt has informed us that, once we are cleared for takeoff, our flying time will be between approximately seventeen and twenty-two hours depending upon ever-shifting Pacific Ocean air currents and the ability of our seasoned Classic 878 to withstand gale-force winds of 90 knots roaring “like a vast army of demons” (in Captain Slatt’s colorful terminology) over the Arctic Circle. As you have perhaps noticed Flight 443 is a full—i.e., “overbooked”—flight. Actually most North American Airways flights are overbooked—it is Airways protocol to persist in assuming that a certain percentage of passengers will simply fail to show up at the gate having somehow expired, or disappeared, en route. For those of you who boarded with tickets for seats already taken—North American Airways apologizes for this unforeseeable development. We have dealt with the emergency situation by assigning seats in four lavatories as well as in the hold and in designated areas of the overhead bin. Therefore our request to passengers in Economy Plus, Economy, and Economy Minus is that you force your carry-ons beneath the seat in front of you; and what cannot be crammed into that space, or in the overhead bin, if no one is occupying the overhead bin, you must grip securely on your lap for the duration of the flight. Passengers in First Class may give their drink orders now. SECURITY:

Rachel,” he said, cutting me off. Abruptly he’d stopped pacing and placed a hand on each side of me, his face directly in front of me. “I refuse to take care of myself alone. You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you, and together we’ll take care of Trip.” “Okay . . .” “And don’t ever tell me again to love another woman the way I have loved you, and will always love you. There is no way you could have expected me to move on after you.” “You say that now, but you don’t know how you would have felt in a few years.” He grabbed my face in his hands and his voice shook as he shouted, “I don’t give a shit! I know I don’t know how I would feel in that situation, there’s no way to know that. But I know that no matter what happens in our lives, if you were taken from me for good, there would never be anyone else like you. There would never be anyone else I could love the way I love you.” “Kash, okay. I’m sorry,” I whispered and brushed the tips of my fingers against the angry set of his face. Something in my touch broke him, because a pained cry burst from his chest at the same time heavy tears fell down his cheeks. He dropped to his knees on the floor and pressed his head against my stomach, his hands gripping my back as he cried into my lap. “I’ve come too close to losing you too many times,” he forced out. “I will do anything to keep you by my side for the rest of my life.” Looking up at me, I felt helpless staring back at his broken expression. “Knowing that you even had to consider me moving on with someone else because you might die, kills me. I hate that you went through that, and I hate that you prepared yourself for that.” “Okay, but I’m—” My voice gave out and I had to clear my throat. “I’m here, we’re together.” “I’m not letting you go, Rachel, for anything. It’s you and me. Always, got it?” I nodded, unable to respond, and his head dropped back against my stomach as another sob ripped through him. I’d only ever seen Kash begin to cry twice. Usually when he was upset, he got angry. So to see him break like this was absolutely breaking my heart. I kept one hand holding his head in my lap, and ran the other over his back. The muscles bunched and shuddered beneath my fingertips as he let everything out. As

I was staring at one of the two holes above the bathroom doorframe where Taylor had shot, when his hand grabbed my chin and turned my head to face him. “You okay?” I nodded and swallowed through the tightening in my throat. When I opened my mouth to reassure his worried-looking eyes, nothing came out and tears clouded my vision again. The hand holding my chin released me and grabbed around the back of my neck, bringing me into his chest so he could wrap his other arm around me. “I won’t let them get to you, Rachel. I swear I won’t.” He held me as I cried, and when I could speak again, the questions came out all at once. “W-what is going on? Why am I here? Who were they talking about? Don’t give me your bullshit about not being able to answer! Who are you?” When he didn’t respond for a few minutes, I thought he wouldn’t say anything at all. But with a heavy exhale that hinted at the stress he was carrying, he tightened his grip and whispered into my neck, “I’m just a guy who got caught up in a bad situation a long time ago.” I pulled back and cradled his cheeks roughly as I pleaded, “Then get out of it! Get me out of here; you don’t have to be this guy. You’re not him. I don’t know what you did, but I know what you’ve done for me. I’ve told you, you’re not a bad person, Taylor.” “Trent.” When I just sat there staring at him, he placed his large hands over mine and repeated, “Trent Cruz. That’s my name.” I knew what this meant. I knew how big this was. He trusted me with that; and in giving me his name, he was letting me know again that I could trust him. As bizarre as that sounded. “You don’t like Taylor?” I asked and earned a somewhat-relieved smile from him. “If it’s coming from you, then, yeah, I like Taylor.” Pushing me away gently, he stood from the bed and waited until I was lying down. “Go back to sleep, Rachel. It’s going to be practically impossible for them to get back in, but if they somehow do, I’ll always protect you.” My

CHAPTER 11: RELY ON FAITH 1. The acrostic FAITH stands for Fully Abandoned to God In Trust and Humility. What meaning could this have in relation to the anxiety-producing situations you are facing? 2. I listed a number of statements contrasting faith with fear. Choose one or two of the faith statements that were relevant to you, and tell the group why you found them meaningful. 3. Pray for one another, asking God to help you identify your fears and develop your own faith statements. Use your worries to trigger a prayer similar to the one offered at the end of the chapter. CHAPTER 12: RELAX YOUR GRIP 1. Have you ever thought that you could somehow prevent a negative outcome by worrying? Please explain. 2. What ideas in this chapter did you find helpful, and why were they particularly meaningful at this time in your life? 3. Pray for one another, asking God to help each group member become proficient in using the techniques learned in this class. Ask God to lead you into peace, and make a commitment to take His hand and hang on for all you’re worth.

As Zane drove toward the exit, Phoebe searched frantically for a topic of conversation. Nothing brilliant came to mind. She nibbled on her lower lip as she considered risking the truth. When nothing better occurred to her, she decided to dive right into the cowboy-infested water. “So this is really strange, huh?” Zane glanced at her but didn’t speak. She cleared her throat. “Me being here. I mean you don’t know me from a rock, and I’m going to be staying at the ranch for a couple of days. Maybe we should get to know each other, so the situation isn’t so awkward.” “If you don’t feel like you belong, why did you come?” She spent a good three seconds mentally swooning over the sound of his voice before processing his words. He wasn’t exactly welcoming. “Well, um, several reasons,” she said, stalling, then couldn’t think of any but one. She sighed. “Maya guilted me into it.” “What did she tell you? That I keep Chase locked in a tower and feed him bread and water?” Phoebe winced. “Not exactly.” “But close.” “Um, maybe.” Zane’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “She’s always had a soft spot for Chase.” “He must be really smart. That must make you proud. I certainly couldn’t design a website and entice people to sign up for a cattle-drive vacation.” Zane’s ever-so-perfect mouth tightened. “He lied, stole and committed fraud. Pride doesn’t much enter into it for me.” Phoebe hunched down in her seat. “If you’re going to put it like that,” she mumbled and turned her attention to the scenery.

What is the book (or books) you’ve given most as a gift, and why? Or what are one to three books that have greatly influenced your life? The 15 Commitments of Conscious Leadership by Jim Dethmer and Diana Chapman. Though most people will typically blame other people or circumstances in their life when they are unhappy, Buddhists believe that we are the cause of our own suffering. We can’t control the fact that bad things are going to happen, but it’s how we react to them that really matters, and that we can learn to control. Even if you don’t accept that this is true in all cases, giving it consideration in moments of unhappiness or anxiety will often give you a new perspective and allow you to relax your grip on a negative story. This book is an approachable manual for how to do that tactically, and the lessons it teaches have transformed the way I engage with difficult situations and thus reduced the suffering I experience in big and small ways. Though it is written with leaders in mind, I find myself recommending it to everyone, and we give it to every new employee at Asana.

Touching Like nodding, touching shows interest. Upon meeting someone, the best way to show respect and sincere interest is to shake hands. A warm, firm handshake shows that you have an open, friendly social attitude. Don’t be afraid to be the first to smile, offer your name, and extend your hand—people will appreciate your interest and willingness to connect. With whom should you shake hands? These days, it’s appropriate to shake hands man to man, woman to woman, or man to woman—in both social and business contexts while exchanging names with other people. (Of course, a man should use a slightly gentler grip when shaking a woman’s hand.) A number of clients who have come to me say that their previous therapists or their parents have advised them to take a dance class in order to gain interactive skills and desensitize themselves to social anxiety. That’s a good idea. But it’s not that simple. The ideal situation would be one in which you could progress through the various levels of intimacy at a natural pace in an actual interactive situation. Developing a keen sense of interactive chemistry will help you to understand what type of touching behavior is appropriate. As for other, more personal forms of touch, these should be undertaken more cautiously, and with keen attention to the body language of the other person. When it seems appropriate, gestures such as taking someone’s arm or offering your own as you enter or leave a room or cross the street, touching a companion’s back as you introduce him or her to an acquaintance—all of these are fairly noncommittal, but are a display of caring and interest. When you try these things, take special note of the response you get. Remember that body language involves communication between two people. Not only do you need to give signals of friendliness and approval but also to take cues from the other person involved.

The rabbit wine opener does complete integrity to its name in rapports of both, looks and performance. It looks like a bunny with 2 parallel handles serving as the trademark bunny ears and can open stubborn corks with utmost neatness. Manufacturers boast that the whole process of opening your precious bottle of wine will be over in 3 seconds to be precise. Because of the advanced in wine accessories, most people nowadays enjoy a rabbit wine opener set - especially the wine lovers as it offers the best time frame for the money. One of the most important features of the rabbit wine opener is that it can turn the bottle opening experience into a breeze for anyone. With it you don't require to use any type of force. In fact, if you do attempt to open a bottle by force with this accessory you might end up breaking it. Its two handles will softly remove the cork, relieving you of all the efforts. This way, there will be no more accidents when opening a bottle and the wine tasting process converts a lot more pleasant. Basic anatomy of this device consists of two handles which allow you to grip the opener tightly around the neck of the bottle, a worm or spiral which slices into the cork and removes it and a lever which pushes the worm in and out of the cork. With Rabbit Wine Openers you can handle traditional corks made of wood and also, synthetic corks. Though the synthetic ones can be trickier to remove, they are best dealt with rabbit wine opener. You can use this instrument on bottles of any size too. When using a new rabbit wine opener, or one that has not been abused, you will not experience situations in which the cork is broken into pieces inside the bottle, as when using other types of openers. This device makes the cork come out without damaging it in any way, even if the cork material is soft in nature or even if you are not accustomed to opening bottles.

How, then, do you make failure into something people can face without fear? Part of the answer is simple: If we as leaders can talk about our mistakes and our part in them, then we make it safe for others. You don’t run from it or pretend it doesn’t exist. That is why I make a point of being open about our meltdowns inside Pixar, because I believe they teach us something important: Being open about problems is the first step toward learning from them. My goal is not to drive fear out completely, because fear is inevitable in high-stakes situations. What I want to do is loosen its grip on us. While we don’t want too many failures, we must think of the cost of failure as an investment in the future.

Although we have shared lodgings for seven years, we are not--on intimate terms." I spoke earnestly, for I certainly could not afford to have her misunderstand the situation. She regarded me seriously. "You are very fond of him, however, and would wish things otherwise," she said. I gripped the edge of my seat and did not reply. Turning to look at the street, I observed that we were just passing the door of the Cafe Royal and were approaching Regent Circus. I shifted my gaze abruptly to the swaying interior of the hansom. I felt Miss D'Arcy's eyes upon me. "Is it so very obvious?" I said at last.

In April, 1926, France and the United States finally negotiated a war debt settlement at forty cents on the dollar. The [French] budget was at last fully balanced. Still the franc kept falling. By May, the exchange rate stood at over thirty to the dollar. With a currency in free-fall, prices now rising at 2% a month - over 25% a year - and the Government apparently impotent, everyone made the obvious comparison with the situation in Germany four years earlier. In fact, there was no real parallel. Germany in 1922 had lost all control of its budget deficit and in that single year expanded the money supply ten fold. By contrast, the French had largely solved their fiscal problems and its money supply was under control. The main trouble was the fear that the deep divisions between the right and left had made France ungovernable. The specter of chronic political chaos associated with revolving door governments and finance ministers was exacerbated by the uncertainty over the governments ability to fund itself given the overhang of more than $10 billion in short term debt. It was this psychology of fear, a generalized loss of nerve, that seemed to have gripped French investors and was driving the downward spiral of the franc. The risk was that international speculators, those traditional bugaboos of the Left, would create a self-fulfilling meltdown as they shorted the currency in the hope of repurchasing it later at a lower price thereby compounding the very downward trend that they were trying to exploit. It was the obverse of a bubble where excessive optimism translates into rising prices which then induces even more buying. Now excessive pessimism was translating into falling prices which were inducing even more selling. In the face of this all embracing miasma of gloom neither the politicians nor the financial establishment seemed to have any clue what to do.

By learning to observe without becoming involved, the pattern of stimulus-response which underlies most human behaviour can be broken. Little by little the realisation dawns that one is free to choose how to react in all situations … The grip of long-standing habits is weakened and replaced with a new sense of freedom.

With this sad state of affairs, today we often see a world where greed, dishonesty, avarice, hate and sometimes violence exists side by side with fear, poverty and suffering. For a very long time the entire world has been in the grip of a major imbalance, an imbalance that has not only been escalating over the decades but indeed now threatens the entire immediate future of humanity and indeed the entire planet. Mankind is directly responsible for this state of affairs, bought about by the gross misuse of the very freewill granted by our Creator. Accordingly only mankind can now reverse this situation and bring about a state of harmony, peace, happiness and balance for everyone, the “kingdom of heaven on Earth

Juliet?" Charles whispered, his stunned brain trying to absorb what he was seeing and sort it out into something he could understand . . . trying to reason why she was still pregnant when she should've delivered the baby months and months ago . . . trying to put together the pieces of this puzzle that made absolutely no sense.  "Juliet, will you not come and greet me?" As though for approval, she glanced toward Gareth, who had also risen and now stood almost protectively beside her.  And as Charles's confused and uncomprehending gaze went from Gareth's hand, which now supported Juliet's elbow, to his fiancée's swollen belly and finally, to the high chair drawn up beside her which contained a toddler whose curling hair was as bright a gold as Charles's own, he began to understand. It felt as though God had slammed a fist into his stomach. "No," he murmured, shaking his head in denial and stepping backward, his gaze still fixed on Juliet's gently rounded abdomen.  Involuntarily, his fists clenched and he was suddenly afraid that he was going to call out Gareth, his own brother, right here in front of everyone, for what he had done to her.  "No, I . . . this cannot be —" And then Lucien was there, his hand like a vise on Charles's arm as he firmly turned him around and began dragging him out of the room.  Charles resisted, trying to twist his head around, unable to take his disbelieving stare from Juliet's belly, from her face, from her eyes, which met and held his in a silent plea for forgiveness, but Lucien only tightened his grip and pulled him away from the table.  Away from the others. Out the door, which he shut behind him. "Now you know why I did not want you to charge unannounced into this house," he said quietly, as Charles walked a little distance away and leaned his brow against his forearm, and his forearm against the cold stone wall.  There he remained, head bent, totally undone by the confusion and despair of his discovery.  "I am not angry with you, and there is nothing to forgive.  But since you were unaware of the situation, and Juliet is obviously in a delicate condition, you can be sure that I would do everything in my power to protect you both from shock and upset.  I am sorry that you had to learn of things this way." When Charles made no move to acknowledge him, he turned to Amy.  "Who are you?" Amy had stepped up beside Charles, who stood with head bent, shoulders quaking.  "My name's Amy Leighton," she answered.  "I'm a friend of your brother's." "How close a friend are you?" "Well, that's hard to say, really, because —" "She's the only person in this bloody world who hasn't betrayed me!

Shane, I asked you to stay away.” Mitch turned cool eyes on her. “You didn’t tell me you’d talked to your family.” Guilt knifed through her. “Um . . .” “And you didn’t tell me you were screwing a perfect stranger,” Shane said flatly. “Um . . .” She gulped. “Shit, all your talk about independence.” Shane’s expression turned thunderous. “Fucking the first random guy you happen across so he’ll give you a place to stay doesn’t count, Maddie.” Even as anger flared bright inside her, she winced at the words. She opened her mouth to give him hell, but before she could, Mitch turned on her brother, moving faster than she’d ever seen him. Before she could blink, Shane was up against the wall with Mitch’s hand around his throat. “Don’t. Ever. Talk to her like that.” His tone shook with rage and barely contained violence. “Mitch, please.” Maddie ran over to him, gripping his arm to pull him off. It was like trying to move granite. He didn’t even budge. James walked up behind her, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her back as Sam grabbed Mitch’s shoulder. “Let him go, Mitch.” Sam’s voice was calm and controlled. “This isn’t the way to handle the situation.” “Fuck. Off.” Mitch’s tone was like ice. Sam’s fingers tightened. “Trust me on this.” Shane’s face reddened, and Mitch’s hand tightened. Shane gripped the wrist that had him pinned to the wall, but he didn’t attempt to free himself. This struck Maddie as strange. Her oldest brother was a known ass-kicker. Half of Chicago was scared of him. “If you ever talk to her like that again,” Mitch said, in a deadly tone, “I will rip your fucking throat out.” The air shifted, swirling with tension and far too much male testosterone. Maddie’s heart thumped hard against her chest. Shane sputtered. “Mitch, this isn’t going to solve anything,” Sam said. Mitch increased the pressure around Shane’s throat, turning his complexion another shade darker. “Do you understand me?” Shane tugged at Mitch’s wrist, his gaze flashing with what Maddie could only suspect was fury. There was going to be bloodshed soon. James ran his hand up her arm, giving her a squeeze. She pulled away and touched Mitch’s forearm. The muscles were taut under her touch. Inflexible. She said softly, “Mitch, please let him go.” Mitch turned his head to her, unnamed emotion flickering in his eyes. She pleaded silently, and finally, he gave a slight nod. A second later, he released her brother. Shane coughed, bringing his hand up to rub at his neck. Cool as ever, James shook his head as though dealing with a bunch of unruly toddlers.

We turn around and there stands Aidan, looking like he just won a million dollars. He can't keep his eyes off Ivy. "Hey, Aidan," I greet. "I'd like you to meet Ivy." "I am quite pleased to meet your acquaintance." Ivy gently shakes his hand. Finally getting a grip, Aidan returns the shake, his goofy grin reappearing on his face. "Yeah. I'm Aidan. Good to meet you, too." "Rylan has told me so much about you." Aidan rubs his chin, a comically sly glint in his eyes. "Oh really? Did he say how dashing, brilliant, and incredibly handsome I am?" "No." I shakes, completely unaware it's all a joke. "Rylan said you were loud and that if it was not for him, you'd still be stuck in the third grade." I snort into my water as Aidan scowls. "But he also says you're a good brother, a trustworthy friend, and very funny." She breaks off giggling. "And I see what he means. You should see the look on your face!" Oh, ya mean this?" Aidan puts his hands up and wiggles his fingers as his expression contorts into something even crazier. Ivy continues giggling; even I let out a chuckle feeling my nerves disappear. No more worrying with the whole "meet my friends" situation.

It only takes the right situation, however, to show us that our grip on righteousness was nonexistent and that our falls can be as spectacular as anyone else’s. Today, let us remember that we are like other people, and have no righteousness of our own. But our salvation is a gift that covers the darkest part of human nature, and redeems us forever.

The sun had reached its noon zenith in the sky in the world that lay outside the dark and grimy warehouse, and coming in slantwise through the small window sent a dusty shaft that fell like a theatrical spotlight about Jennie’s head and shoulders as she lectured. “If you have committed any kind of an error and anyone scolds you – wash,” she was saying. “If you slip and fall off something and somebody laughs at you – wash. If you are getting the worst of an argument and want to break off hostilities until you have composed yourself, start washing. Remember, every cat respects another cat at her toilet. That’s our first rule of social deportment, and you must also observe it. “Whatever the situation, whatever difficulty you may be in you can’t go wrong if you wash. If you come into a room full of people you do not know, and who are confusing to you, sit right down in the midst of them and start washing. They’ll end up by quieting down and watching you. Some noise frightens you into a jump, and somebody you know saw you were frightened – begin washing immediately. “If somebody calls you and you don’t care to come and still you don’t wish to make it a direct insult – wash. If you’ve started off to go somewhere and suddenly can’t remember where it was you wanted to go, sit right down and begin brushing up a little. It will come back to you. Something hurt you? Wash it. Tired of playing with someone who has been kind enough to take time and trouble and you want to break off without hurting his or her feelings? Start washing. “Oh, there are dozens of things! Door closed and you’re burning up because no one will open it for you – have yourself a little wash and forget it. Somebody petting another cat or dog in the same room, and you are annoyed over that – be nonchalant; wash. Feel sad – wash away your blues. Been picked up by somebody you don’t particularly fancy and who didn’t smell good – wash him off immediately and pointedly where he can see you do it. Overcome by emotion – a wash will help you to get a grip on yourself again. Any time, anyhow, in any manner, for whatever purpose, wherever you are, whenever and why ever that you want to clear the air, or get a moment’s respite or think things over – WASH!

A monkey directs its attacks toward the face and head. It will grab you by the head, using all four limbs, and then it will wrap its tail around your neck to get a good grip, and it will make slashing attacks all over your face with its teeth, aiming especially for the eyes. This is not a good situation if the monkey happens to be infected with Ebola virus.

Am I dead?” he asks, his gaze rising to mine once more. “Are you here to lead my soul to the afterlife?” The afterlife? “What are you talking about?” I say. I step back, out of his embrace. “My name is Selene, not Roxi.” His brows pull together, his mouth twisting into a frown. This man is obviously confused. He thinks I’m someone else and that we’re somewhere else, and I don’t know enough about this entire situation to figure out how to handle it well. His gaze moves to the writing scrawled on the walls. He narrows his eyes as he takes in the inscriptions. I follow his gaze. …Memnon the Cursed will sleep the sleep of gods… …bound to this room… …powers muted… …memory cast from the minds of the living… …forced to sleep… …never aging, never dying… I clear my throat. “I…take it you were cursed?” When Memnon’s face returns to me, his expression has changed, hardened, that scar of his looking stark against his skin. It takes effort not to piss myself at how frightening he appears. “It was true, wasn’t it? It was all true. I didn’t believe Eislyn, but she was right.” He catches me by the chin and tugs me to him. “My queen, what have you done?” “Whoever you are,” I say slowly, “you need to let go of me. Now.” Only after the words are out do I realize I spoke in English. “What has addled your tongue?” he demands, tightening his grip. His scowl deepens. “Or is this some new language you’ve learned to curse me in?” All around us, I see his magic thickening “Whatever it is you have done to me, wife,” he says, pulling me in close. “I vow to you that it will not happen again.” Despite his nearness, there’s no warmth to his touch. Only a punishing sort of possessiveness. “I will make you pay for what you have done for the rest of our days.” He steps in close and presses his mouth to mine. I fight against the kiss, but it’s not actually a kiss at all. Memnon’s power swarms around us. I feel it slipping down my throat and coiling in my lungs. “Sleep,” he murmurs against my lips. And the world goes dark.

It was quiet. Then he asked, “What do you have to do?” I pointed at his stress grip. “Things like that. I mean there’s more, but that’s a great place to start. But hey, I’m pretty similar to you in all this. I’ll show you a few things. You know, different ways to breathe, for example. How to talk to yourself in a positive way. How to realize that it’s the anxiety and not the situation. But on the positive side, do you know what happened when I learned to live with my anxiety instead of trying to find a way to get rid of it?” “What?” he asked. “Well, my life got better. I got happier. I started smiling more, and I stopped being so afraid all the time. And when I look back at my life thus far, I’ve gone to college. I’ve gotten married, gotten a good job, and had three amazing kids. All of it with my anxiety in the back seat. Life’s been pretty good despite my anxiety. Pretty sure it’s going to be the same for you.” I gave him one of those soft, fatherly punches to the arm. He let out this long breath, and I could almost see the steam of feeling odd or like he was holding on to some great burden alone come pouring out of him. Then he said something I think all dads never, ever, get tired of hearing. “Thanks, Dad.” “Anytime, kiddo. Anytime.

While the issues we each face are different, God’s Word remains the same. If we look to Jesus, we will find that the challenging situations in our lives will pass. Why? Because He orchestrates the beginning and directs the ending. He is sitting at the right hand of God’s throne, watching us try to come to grips with something that He knew was coming before we were even born. Be reassured that God knows that the lesson is greater than the difficulty.2 The ultimate victory that He provides is greater than the ultimate challenge!

My leverage was that I knew that you knew my abilities and your own inabilities. That I did not mention these two facts strengthened my situation. You didn’t know what I would do, but you knew what I could do. Those arguments I presented were correct, but not crucial. What was crucial was the balance of power between us at that moment.

However, I remember when the buildings came down, the first words out my mouth were: That looks like controlled demolition. There is a term, cognitive dissonance, and it refers to a human being who is faced with a situation that is outside of his or her paradigm. The event sort of short circuits them mentally, because they cannot come to grips with it.[133]

wrong one is sought it will ensure that you cannot claim it,' Molly explained. Charlotte wondered how they were supposed to find the right wand when each one was packaged and out of sight, but Molly simply smirked at the girls’ bewildered expressions. Then, with a flick of her own wand, dozens of wands burst from their boxes and floated in the room around them. 'When you've found the right one, it will light up in your hand.' Molly gestured for the girls to go ahead. Each of the girls went wild, chuckling as they chased after a wand. Demi was the first to find hers and Molly gave her an impressed look that caused Margaret to scowl. Stef was trying to catch a long black, and gold trimmed wand, but it kept shooting out of her reach. Gerty was trying to grasp for any wand that she could, giggling when each one shot away from her. Charlotte did not attempt to take any of the wands; she concentrated on studying them, wondering which one would accept her. Her eyes then fell upon a plain oak wand that was floating alongside her. No one else seemed interested in it, but Charlotte stood on tiptoes and reached out for it, half expecting it to fly away. Instead, however, it remained in place. Her hand firmly gripped it, and immediately it glowed. She studied it carefully, noticing that close up it had orange patterns intricately carved into the wood; it wasn't plain at all. 'Great, we have two more,' Molly said, as she looked from Charlotte to Margaret who was also holding a glowing wand. Realizing that Charlotte had found hers at around the same time, Margaret gave her a stern look then walked over and stood next to Demi. Gerty was the next to find her wand, followed by Stef. Last up was Alice who was still chasing an elegant looking silver wand even though it kept whizzing away from her. 'That wand clearly does not want you!' Margaret exclaimed, and Demi and a few of the other girls giggled. 'Alice, some wands just aren't right for the person, regardless of their appearance,' Molly continued. Begrudgingly Alice stopped chasing the silver wand and reached out for the one that was closest, a straight mahogany one. It glowed as she touched it and her face lit with a huge smile. 'Right then, that's your wands sorted. It is of the greatest importance that you look after your wand. Never misplace it or put it in a situation where it may break. A wand is a witch’s most important item, and each of you must remember that. Also, it should go without saying that you are not to use these to perform harmful or distressing spells on each other, unless you want to face your first warning or worse, be expelled.' Charlotte looked down at the wand in her hand. It had stopped glowing, and this made its intricate patterning appear more discreet. She found herself wondering how something so small could be so powerful. Her mom must have had a wand at some point, and she wondered if she still had it, hidden away somewhere so that her dad would never find it. 'Next up are broomsticks.' Molly

Karl Pribram, professor of neuroscience and a pioneering brain researcher at Stanford University, explains it in terms of hypothetical brain-body systems. He starts with a “habitual behavior system” that operates at a level deeper than conscious thought. This system involves the reflex circuit in the spinal cord as well as in various parts of the brain to which it is connected. This habitual system makes it possible for you to do things—return a scorching tennis serve, play a guitar chord, ask directions in a new language—without worrying just how you do them. When you start to learn a new skill, however, you do have to think about it, and you have to make an effort to replace old patterns of sensing, movement, and cognition with new. This brings into play what might be called a cognitive system, associated with the habitual system, and an effort system, associated with the hippocampus (situated at the base of the brain). The cognitive and effort systems become subsets of the habitual system long enough to modify it, to teach it a new behavior. To put it another way, the cognitive and effort systems “click into” the habitual system and reprogram it. When the job is done, both systems withdraw. Then you don’t have to stop and think about, say, the right grip every time you shift your racket.

ST-12 Chinese Point name: Que Pen;7 English translation: “Empty Basin;” Special Attributes: It is an intersection point of the Stomach Meridian and the Yin Heel Vessel. It is bilateral and is one of the 36 Vital Points listed in the Bubishi; Location: At the midpoint of the collarbone, which is about four inches lateral from the centerline of the body; and bilateral. Western Anatomy: The transverse cervical artery, intermediate supraclavicular nerve and the supraclavicular portion of the brachial plexus are present; Comments: This point is an excellent target when your opponent is at close range. By gripping the collarbone you can dig your fingers down behind the natural curve of the bone and towards the centerline of the body. It is most active when your opponent has their arms raised, given the structural weakness of the body at this location, will drop the majority of attackers. A sharp thrust down into this point will cause your opponents knees to bend. ST-9 Chinese Point name: Ren Ying;8 English translation: “Man’s Prognosis;” Special Attributes: ST-9 is an intersection point for the Stomach Meridian, Gall Bladder Meridian and the Yin Heel Vessel. It is a bilateral point that sets over the carotid artery. It is one of the 36 Vital Points listed in the Bubishi; Location: About 1.5 inches to the outside of the Adam’s apple on the throat; Western Anatomy: The superior thyroid artery, the anterior jugular vein, the internal jugular vein, the carotid artery, the cutaneous cervical nerve, the cervical branch of the facial nerve, the sympathetic trunk, and the ascending branch of the hypoglossal and vagus nerves are all present; Comments: This is one of the weakest points on the human body and regardless of the size and muscular strength of an opponent it is extremely sensitive. Strikes to this point can kill due to the structural weakness of the area. Strikes should be aimed toward the center of the spine on a 90-degree angle. A variety of empty hand weapons can be employed in striking this point. Forearms, edge of hand strikes, punches, kicks, and elbow strikes are all effective. BL-1 Chinese Point name: Jing Ming;9 English translation: “Bright Eyes;” Special Attributes: It is an intersection point of the Small Intestine Meridian, Bladder Meridian, Stomach Meridian, Yin Heel Vessel and the Yang Heel Vessel. It is also bilateral; Location: About .25 of an inch from the inner corner of the eye; Western Anatomy: The angular artery and vein and branches of the oculomotor and ophthalmic nerve are present; Comments: Strike this point slightly upward and towards the centerline of the head. This point is fairly difficult to strike in a combative situation due to the location. Forceful strikes to the eye socket area can activate this point, as well as traumatize the eye and possible breaking the bone structure in the general area.

This brings into play what might be called a cognitive system, associated with the habitual system, and an effort system, associated with the hippocampus (situated at the base of the brain). The cognitive and effort systems become subsets of the habitual system long enough to modify it, to teach it a new behavior. To put it another way, the cognitive and effort systems “click into” the habitual system and reprogram it. When the job is done, both systems withdraw. Then you don’t have to stop and think about, say, the right grip every time you shift your racket.

If we try to dominate a situation with some kind of aggressive action, this becomes our only option. We cannot give in, or adapt, or bide our time—that would mean letting go of our grip, and we fear that. Having such narrow options makes it hard to solve problems. Forcing people to do what we want makes them resentful—inevitably they sabotage us or assert themselves against our will.

chapter with a quotation from the Greek Stoic philosopher Epictetus, but we could just as easily have quoted Buddha (“Our life is the creation of our mind”)2 or Shakespeare (“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so”)3 or Milton (“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven”).4 Or we could have told you the story of Boethius, awaiting execution in the year 524. Boethius reached the pinnacle of success in the late Roman world—he had been a senator and scholar who held many high offices—but he crossed the Ostrogoth king, Theodoric. In The Consolation of Philosophy, written in his jail cell, he describes his (imaginary) encounter with “Lady Philosophy,” who visits him one night and conducts what is essentially a session of cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT). She chides him gently for his moping, fearfulness, and bitterness at his reversal of fortune, and then she helps him to reframe his thinking and shut off his negative emotions. She helps him see that fortune is fickle and he should be grateful that he enjoyed it for so long. She guides him to reflect on the fact that his wife, children, and father are all still alive and well, and each one is dearer to him than his own life. Each exercise helps him see his situation in a new light; each one weakens the grip of his emotions and prepares him to accept Lady Philosophy’s ultimate lesson: “Nothing is miserable unless you think it so; and on the other hand, nothing brings happiness unless you are content with it.”5

root of our fear isn't about the potential of things falling apart or others causing us pain but rather a concern over our own adequacy to manage these situations. When we recognize our ability to navigate the unpredictability of life, fear loses its grip. It’s about trusting in our own resilience,

Having uttered this pseudoscientific flim-flam, whose very incomprehensibility was intended to calm the commotion gripping the nation, the prime minister ended by stating that the government was prepared for all humanly imaginable eventualities, and determined to face with courage and with the vital support of the population the complex social, economic, political and moral problems that the definitive extinction of death would inevitably provoke, if, as everything seemed to indicate, this situation was confirmed. We will accept the challenge of the body’s immortality, he exclaimed in exalted tones, if that is the will of god, to whom we will always offer our grateful prayers for having chosen the good people of this country as his instrument.

WhatsApp info:+12723 328 343 Telegram info: https:// t.me/adwarerecoveryspecialist1 Since I wouldn't mind administering legality myself, I wish I could challenge these deceitful individuals. I'm humbled by ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST and thank God for it as I reflect on what transpired. These deceitful individuals made no effort, rather they kept emptying my Bitcoin wallet. They forced me to invest even after I didn’t see any returns, and when I refused to do so any longer, their attention and persistent emails dwindled, which only increased my level of skepticism. I was in danger of losing my mental stability and health, and I am aware of how frightening and confusing it can be to try to escape a fraudulent investment. Living in New Zealand, I had always felt secure about my financial decisions. However, this investment turned out to be a nightmare I couldn't have anticipated. The emotional toll was immense. At first, I thought I had made a good decision by investing in what appeared to be a legitimate opportunity. However, the more I poured my money into it, the less I saw in return. The promises of high returns turned out to be nothing more than elaborate lies. With each passing day, my hope diminished, but the pressure from these fraudsters only increased. They pressured me to invest more, convincing me that the next payment would yield returns that would “make everything right.” It felt like a trap I could not escape, and it seemed like there was no way out. It was during one of these dark moments that I stumbled upon the ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST. After doing some research, I found countless testimonials from people who had experienced similar situations and had managed to recover their funds through ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST. These success stories gave me a glimmer of hope. I knew I had to act quickly before it was too late. The mental and emotional strain I was under had already taken a significant toll on me, and I could feel myself spiraling further. It was clear that I needed professional help to reclaim what I had lost and regain control of my life. Divine guidance led me to choose ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST, a trusted team that was able to recover my lost funds after I had tried so many other avenues without success. The process wasn’t easy, but it was worth every effort. What I had feared to lose my hard-earned Bitcoin was returned to me, and with it, my peace of mind. It felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. To anyone reading this, if you find yourself in a similar situation, I urge you not to wait any longer. Reach out to a recovery team like ADWARE RECOVERY SPECIALIST . It’s never too late to make moral decisions and recover what’s rightfully yours. These fraudsters thrive on your silence and fear, but with the right help, you can break free from their grip. You are not alone, and there is always hope.

Review of Haunted by Obsession Overall Impression Haunted by Obsession is a gripping and intense story that skillfully blends elements of suspense, romance, and psychological intrigue. The narrative is immersive, drawing readers into a world where obsession, passion, and fear intertwine. The author does a commendable job of maintaining a tense atmosphere while developing complex and multi-layered characters. Strengths Engaging Plot – The storyline is compelling, keeping readers hooked with its mystery and emotional depth. The pacing is well-balanced, allowing tension to build gradually while delivering impactful revelations at the right moments. Character Development – The characters are well-crafted with distinct motivations and backstories. The protagonist's struggles feel real and evoke empathy, making them relatable despite the dark themes. Atmospheric Writing – The descriptions and settings contribute to the eerie and unsettling tone of the novel. The use of sensory details enhances the haunting ambiance, immersing the reader fully. Emotional Depth – The themes of obsession, love, and trauma are explored with sensitivity. The psychological elements add layers to the narrative, making it more than just a suspense story. Areas for Improvement Pacing in Certain Sections – While the overall pacing is strong, some sections could benefit from tighter editing to maintain tension and avoid unnecessary slowdowns. Character Motivations – Some characters' actions could be clarified further to deepen understanding of their psychological states and enhance believability. Dialogue Authenticity – While generally well-written, some dialogues could be more natural, reflecting how people speak in high-stakes situations. Ending Resolution – If the novel leans heavily on suspense, ensuring a satisfying resolution that ties up major plot points is crucial. Depending on the intended ending, more clarity might be needed to ensure reader satisfaction. Final Thoughts Haunted by Obsession is a compelling novel that masterfully explores dark emotions and intense relationships. With some fine-tuning in pacing and character depth, it has the potential to be even more impactful. Fans of psychological thrillers and dark romance will likely find it an engaging and thought-provoking read.

Each of us, first, must take whatever “Egypt” we’re living in seriously. As we’ve seen, living in the grip of a narcissist can be immobilizing. We shut down. We find alternative strategies to cope. We blame ourselves. We resign ourselves to the painful situation. Like the frog in the slow-boiling pot of water, we’re in imminent danger, but even as the water heats up we rationalize away the dire reality of our circumstances. We’re created with an extraordinary capacity to disassociate—a gift in certain painful circumstances, but a sentence of soul death for the long run. Like the Israelites, we must awaken to the reality of our circumstances, crying out under the burden with a longing for something better, even if we lack the imagination for it. It was the groans and cries of God’s people that awakened God’s rescuing response in the Exodus story

And then I swallow, which feels embarrassing, so tighten my grip on the steering wheel, because I clearly don’t have one on this situation.

The day I realized I had been scammed was a Friday night that I had been eagerly looking forward to. I had planned to go out with friends to unwind and enjoy some well-deserved free time. With that in mind, I logged into my account to complete a simple peer-to-peer (P2P) exchange. I intended to convert some USDT to Dollars, a process I had done countless times before without a hitch. Naturally, I wasn’t expecting any problems. But to my shock and disbelief, after completing the transaction, I discovered that the 25,000 USDT I had just transferred was gone instantly. The merchant had vanished with my funds. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. My heart sank, and panic gripped me. What was I going to do? How could I ever recover that much cryptocurrency? In that moment, I felt like I had lost everything. The idea of recovering stolen crypto seemed almost impossible. I was devastated, unsure of where to turn or how to fix my mess. Looking for a solution, I reached out to a few close friends and explained what had happened. They were shocked and sympathetic, but having heard of similar cases, one of them suggested that I try TECH CYBER FORCE RECOVERY. They had dealt with situations like mine before and thought it might be worth reaching out to them. Without wasting any time, I contacted TECH CYBER FORCE RECOVERY, and their team jumped into action right away. They immediately identified the fraudulent merchant's wallet and used their specialized tools to trace the stolen funds. The speed with which they worked was impressive. They contacted major exchanges and coordinated efforts to freeze the transactions and block any further movement of my crypto. For the first time since the scam, I felt a glimmer of hope. TECH CYBER FORCE RECOVERY kept me updated throughout the entire process, ensuring I knew exactly what was happening every step of the way. Then, just when I thought it was too good to be true, the impossible happened: all 25,000 USDT were returned to me. It felt surreal. What had seemed like an insurmountable loss was reversed. Thanks to the extraordinary efforts of TECH CYBER FORCE RECOVERY, my funds were safely returned, and my faith in the crypto world was restored. If you’ve been scammed and feel hopeless, don’t give up. TECH CYBER FORCE RECOVERY provided me with exceptional recovery services and turned my loss into a success story. They saved my 25,000 USDT.     VISIT TECH CYBER FORCE RECOVERY FOR SPECIAL HELP TO RETRIEVE YOUR LOST USDT     WhatsApp OR CALL  +.1.5.6.1.7.2.6.3.6.9.7

grip” on the grievance and rob ourselves of our ability to use our personal power more constructively. For every grudge we hang on to because we choose not to forgive and release, we divert, scatter, misdirect, or mis-express our energy and power. Powerful people – that is to say, people who express their inherent power in constructive ways – are more interested in experiencing their power in the present – in every situation – including (and especially) difficult situations which seem disappointing or hurtful. They understand that the experience of power is available to all of us at any given moment simply by shifting our focus to that which supports the inherent infinite power and intrinsic perfection of who we really are – and doesn’t distract us from our path. If you really are an intrinsically powerful being, how can anyone or anything compromise or take away your power? We only hold grudges when we

if I know there is potential good hidden within each chaotic situation, I can loosen my grip on control.

What happens when you’re intimidated? Run to the nearest corner and hide, do you?” “I should say not,” she said primly, wondering if she were being teased. “I do what has to be done, no matter what the situation.” Winterborne’s smile widened until she saw the flash of white teeth against that deep bronze complexion. “I suppose I know that better than most,” he said softly. Understanding that he was referring to how she had helped him through the fever…and remembering how she had held that black head in the crook of her arm, and bathed his face and neck…Helen felt a blush start. Not the ordinary kind of blush that faded soon after it started. This one kept heating and heating, spreading all through her until she was so uncomfortable that she could scarcely breathe. She made the mistake of glancing into his simmering coffee-black eyes, and she felt positively immolated. Her desperate gaze settled upon the battered pianoforte in the corner. “Shall I play something for you?” She stood without waiting for a reply. It was the only alternative to bolting from the room. Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw Winterborne automatically grip the arms of his chair in preparation to rise, before he remembered that he was in a leg cast. “Yes,” she heard him say. “I’d like that.” He maneuvered the chair a few inches so that he could see her profile as she played. The pianoforte seemed to offer a small measure of protection as she sat at the keyboard and pushed up the hinged fallboard that covered the keys. Taking a slow, calming breath, Helen arranged her skirts, adjusted her posture, and placed her fingertips on the keys. She launched into a piece she knew by memory: the allegro from Handel’s Piano Suite in F Major. It was full of life and complexity, and challenging enough to force her to think about something besides blushing. Her fingers danced in a blur over the keys, the exuberant pace unfaltering for two and a half minutes. When she finished, she looked at Winterborne, hoping he had liked it. “You play with great skill,” he said. “Thank you.” “Is that your favorite piece?” “It’s my most difficult,” Helen said, “but not my favorite.” “What do you play when there’s no one to hear?” The gentle question, spoken in that accent with vowels as broad as his shoulders, caused Helen’s stomach to tighten pleasurably.

...In any case there had been no cause for panic, she beetled up the stairs under her own steam and it was all he could do to keep up with her. It was at the top of the stairs, along the corridor, that the situation became dicey. She'll pass out here, he thought and then I'll have had it. He tried to coax her down towards the kitchen door but her condition appeared to deteriorate as they approached. She ricocheted from wall to wall; sometimes he would manage to get a grip on her, when she would slump, slide out of his grasp and go hurtling off again like a cannonball, until she came slap up against a wall, which would send her off in the opposite direction.

37. Be Kind Enthusiasm, ability and aptitude all have to be on someone’s CV before I’ll take them into a life or death situation, but when I am putting a team together for an expedition, there’s one other quality I’m always looking out for - kindness. Expeditions into jungles or across deserts or raging oceans are never easy. However much we might romanticize the lives of explorers, when you are in the middle of an inflatable boat with 50-foot waves all around, you haven’t slept for three days, or you have been struggling with an injury in silence for a week, it is the little things that count. What you really want from the people you are with is that they are kind - to know that they are on your side when the chips are down. Let me give you a couple of examples: once you get above 25,000 feet (7,500 metres) on a mountain, and the temperature drops to minus 45°, if you don’t get a headache - the kind that grips your head like a nut in a pair of pliers - then you’re not human. Part of this is the altitude, part is the inevitable dehydration that comes from the thin air. So working hard 24/7 to keep hydrated is essential. The only way to get water, though, is to melt the ice. But at that height, at that temperature, melting enough snow and ice to drink can take hours. The good expedition member is the one who gives their buddies the first sip or the last swig of that precious water. In the extremes it is the little things that stand out. So try and look at all those sorts of moments as chances to distinguish yourself - and it is the kind, unselfish mountaineer who is loved and is often the real bedrock of a great team.

Loss, at first it naturally brings the pain, the restlessness, the feeling of being trapped; we struggle, try harder, but our mind stops thinking about the reason of loss, it just signals our body to go for the win, we keep running, mentally exhausted, physically drained but still no win; we try harder & harder but keep doing similar work which earlier decorated us with success, eventually it becomes a ritual triggering the euphoria of a absolute surrender, we get used to the loss. Every day the ritual is followed, but we get used to the loss like we get used to the unanswered prayers, we stop thinking about the win, although bad feelings grip us from time to time but it passes very quickly, And just as losers justify their loss, we become addicted to a thought process which only blames other people and situation for our loss.

Our gazes met from across the room, and we stared at each other in surprise. Then his eyes dropped down to my—his—shirt, and the corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk. I stood, putting Stuntman on the chair as the guy set down his groceries and walked toward me. I held my breath, waiting to see how he was going to play this. Brandon laid his book over the arm of the recliner and got up. “Josh, this is Kristen Peterson, Sloan’s best friend. Kristen, Josh Copeland.” “Well, hello—it’s so nice to meet you,” he said, gripping my hand just a little too tightly. I narrowed my eyes. “Nice to meet you too.” Josh didn’t let go of my hand. “Hey, Brandon, didn’t you get a new truck this weekend?” he asked, talking to his friend but staring at me. I glared at him, and his brown eyes twinkled. “Yeah. Want to see it?” Brandon asked. “After breakfast. I love that new-car smell. Mine just smells like coffee.” I gave him crazy eyes and his smirk got bigger. Brandon didn’t seem to notice. “Got any more bags? Want help?” Brandon asked. Sloan had already dived in and was in the kitchen unbagging produce. “Just one more trip. I got it,” Josh said, his eyes giving me a wordless invitation to come outside. “I’ll walk out with you,” I announced. “Forgot something in the truck.” He held the door for me, and as soon as it was closed, I whirled on him. “You’d better not say shit.” I poked a finger at his chest. At this point it was less about the coffee spill and more about not wanting to reveal my brazen attempt at covering up my crime. I didn’t lie as a rule, and of course the one time I’d made an exception, I was immediately in a position to be blackmailed. Damn. Josh arched an eyebrow and leaned in. “You stole my shirt, shirt thief.” I crossed my arms. “If you ever want to see it again, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Remember, you rear-ended me. This won’t go over well for you either.” His lips curled back into a smile that was annoyingly attractive. He had dimples. Motherfucking dimples. “Did I rear-end you? Are you sure? Because there’s no evidence of that ever happening. No damage to his truck. No police report. In fact, my version of the event is I saw a hysterical woman in distress in the Vons parking lot and I gave her my shirt to help her out. Then she took off with it.” “Well, there’s your first mistake,” I said. “Nobody would ever believe I was hysterical. I don’t do hysterics.” “Good info.” He leaned forward. “I’ll adjust my story accordingly. A calm but rude woman asked for my help and then stole my favorite shirt. Better?” He was smiling so big he was almost laughing. Jerk. I pursed my lips and took another step closer to him. He looked amused as I encroached on his personal space. He didn’t back up and I glowered up at him. “You want the shirt. I want your silence. This isn’t a hard situation to work out.” He grinned at me. “Maybe I’ll let you keep the shirt. It doesn’t look half-bad on you.” Then he turned for his truck, laughing.

He looked up at me after a few moments, the storm in his eyes quieted, and he kissed me slow and languidly while he caught his breath, putting soft pecks along my jaw, brushing the hair off my forehead with his fingers. I loved it. It was so sweet and tender. And I couldn’t allow it. “Can you get me a towel?” I asked, putting a stop to it. He kissed my forehead. “Sure.” He got up and I watched him walk across the room, his perfect naked body silhouetted by the light coming from my bathroom. He came back in a second later and smiled at me as he handed me a towel. My heart yearned for him. I wanted to cuddle with him. I wanted him to stay. “Okay, time to go.” He got under the covers. “Nope.” He scooted in and threw an arm over me. “What do you mean ‘nope’? We’re done here. Thank you, and go home now.” This was the price. The payment for what I stole. I couldn’t have it all. I tried lifting his arm off me. It weighed, like, a million pounds. God, he was muscly. He rolled me onto my side, pulled my back into his chest, and snuggled me. “Nope. I’m staying the night. You took time off my sleep schedule. I’m not driving a half an hour to my apartment just to lose more sleep before a forty-eight-hour shift.” “Well, you’re sleeping in the guest room, then,” I said, pulling at his hand. He went into a vise grip over my rib cage. “Nope. Your futon sucks.” It wasn’t that I didn’t want him there. I did. I’d never wanted anyone to stay the night more in my life. And that’s exactly why he needed to leave. This had to be sex and only sex. This wasn’t a relationship. It couldn’t be. Ever. I could never let him mistake it for one. I had to be crystal clear about that. I was a dead end worse than Celeste, and if he ever developed feelings or things ever got fuzzy, I’d have to end it. He needed to go. “Josh, we’re not cuddling. This is a sex thing.” I tried to wriggle away from him and he laughed, nuzzling my neck. “Knock it off. We’re two grown-ass adults. We can share a bed for a night. And I’m not cuddling you—I’m using you as a body pillow.” I gave him side-eye that he couldn’t see. “Well, I’m not making you breakfast in the morning.” “Thank God.” I smirked. “Fine. Stay. But don’t go catching feelings. I mean it. We are not a thing. Got it?” “Using me for sex. Got it.” He pulled me closer and kissed my shoulder. “Stop!” “Good night.” I could tell he was smiling. I gave up my struggles and tried to relax. The rise and fall of his chest moved rhythmically against my back, and with every exhale, I sank deeper into him, like I belonged there. Like I was loved. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push the feelings down. This was a bad idea. I didn’t know if I could compartmentalize this like I thought I could. Especially if he was going to be pulling this shit. And why was he pulling this shit? Didn’t guys prefer noncommittal sex-only situations? Didn’t he say he wasn’t ready to date? I was making this easy for him. My tired mind drifted off into sleep, and while I was somewhere in the fog, buried in his strong arms, he put his nose to my hair and breathed in.

Jacques!” Gregori gripped his arm. “It is part of the trap set for you specifically. The vampire knew you would come, and you are caught in the web. He is amplifying your own fears and the pain you suffered. He is not here; it is merely a warp you are trapped in. Know it is not real, and fight your way out.” “I do not understand.” Pinpricks of scarlet dotted Jacques’ body, stained his shirt. His eyes were alive with pain and madness. I do. Shea snatched at the information in his mind. She wrapped him in the warmth of her love. Feel me, Jacques. Concentrate only on me and what you feel when we touch, when we kiss. She pictured it in her head, him holding her so possessively, so tenderly, his mouth finding hers hungrily. The way she felt, hot and silken with heat, needing and wanting him. Her mouth as hungry as his. Her hands tangled in his thick hair. Feel me, Jacques. Her whisper moved over his skin like the touch of her fingers. Jacques narrowed his focus until he blocked out everything but the smell and taste of her, the touch of her fingers, her soft, sexy voice. She became his world, was his world, would always be. Nothing else was real. She was his heart and his very breath. Her breathing regulated his back to a steady in and out. Her heart brought the rhythm of his slowly back to a normal pattern. His skin was on fire, but with sensual hunger rather than the pain of torture. Her breath seemed to warm his ear, his mind. I love you, Jacques. Do what you must, then hurry home to me. She released him with great reluctance, the warmth of her love lingering behind. Jacques shook his head to bring himself back to the present situation. Almost at once the earth moved beneath his feet, and the pain tried to hammer at him. But the vampire would not snag him twice in the same trap. He wrenched himself forward, concentrating on the way Shea’s mouth tasted, the curve of her hip beneath his hand, the way her eyes lit up just before she laughed. He held her close to his heart, kept the vision of her wild mane of hair in front of him as he pushed his way through the warp and out into the open land.