Lifelong Memories Quotes

Yet how often is it that we are rescued by a stranger, if ever at all? And how is it that our lives can become drained of the possibility of forgiveness and kindness - so drained that even one small act of mercy becomes a potent lifelong memory? How do our lives reach these points?

Dr. Webb says that losing a sibling is oftentimes much harder for a person than losing any other member of the family. "A sibling represents a person's past, present, and future," he says. "Spouses have each other, and even when one eventually dies, they have memories of a time when they existed before that other person and can more readily imagine a life without them. Likewise, parents may have other children to be concerned with--a future to protect for them. To lose a sibling is to lose the one person with whom one shares a lifelong bond that is meant to continue on into the future.

I had read it some time ago but was so completely immersed that I retained nothing. This has been an intermittent, lifelong enigma. Through early adolescence I sat and read for hours in a small grove of weed trees near the railroad track in Germantown. Like Gumby I would enter a book wholeheartedly and sometimes venture so deeply it was as if I were living within it. I finished many books in such a manner there, closing the covers ecstatically yet having no memory of the content by the time I returned home. This disturbed me but I kept this strange affliction to myself. I look at the covers of such books and their contents remain a mystery that I cannot bring myself to solve. Certain books I loved and lived within yet cannot remember.

Perhaps the body has its own memory system, like the invisible meridian lines those Chinese acupuncturists always talk about. Perhaps the body is unforgiving, perhaps every cell, every muscle and fragment of bone remembers each and every assault and attack. Maybe the pain of memory is encoded into our bone marrow and each remembered grievance swims in our bloodstream like a hard, black pebble. After all, the body, like God, moves in mysterious ways. From the time she was in her teens, Sera has been fascinated by this paradox - how a body that we occupy, that we have worn like a coat from the moment of our birth - from before birth, even - is still a stranger to us. After all, almost everything we do in our lives is for the well-being of the body: we bathe daily, polish our teeth, groom our hair and fingernails; we work miserable jobs in order to feed and clothe it; we go to great lengths to protect it from pain and violence and harm. And yet the body remains a mystery, a book that we have never read. Sera plays with this irony, toys with it as if it were a puzzle: How, despite our lifelong preoccupation with our bodies, we have never met face-to-face with our kidneys, how we wouldn't recognize our own liver in a row of livers, how we have never seen our own heart or brain. We know more about the depths of the ocean, are more acquainted with the far corners of outer space than with our own organs and muscles and bones. So perhaps there are no phantom pains after all; perhaps all pain is real; perhaps each long ago blow lives on into eternity in some different permutation and shape; perhaps the body is this hypersensitive, revengeful entity, a ledger book, a warehouse of remembered slights and cruelties. But if this is true, surely the body also remembers each kindness, each kiss, each act of compassion? Surely this is our salvation, our only hope - that joy and love are also woven into the fabric of the body, into each sinewy muscle, into the core of each pulsating cell?

Each person is born with an unencumbered spot, free of expectation and regret, free of ambition and embarrassment, free of fear and worry; an umbilical spot of grace where we were each first touched by God. It is this spot of grace that issues peace. Psychologists call this spot the Psyche, Theologians call it the Soul, Jung calls it the Seat of the Unconscious, Hindu masters call it Atman, Buddhists call it Dharma, Rilke calls it Inwardness, Sufis call it Qalb, and Jesus calls it the Center of our Love. To know this spot of Inwardness is to know who we are, not by surface markers of identity, not by where we work or what we wear or how we like to be addressed, but by feeling our place in relation to the Infinite and by inhabiting it. This is a hard lifelong task, for the nature of becoming is a constant filming over of where we begin, while the nature of being is a constant erosion of what is not essential. Each of us lives in the midst of this ongoing tension, growing tarnished or covered over, only to be worn back to that incorruptible spot of grace at our core. When the film is worn through, we have moments of enlightenment, moments of wholeness, moments of Satori as the Zen sages term it, moments of clear living when inner meets outer, moments of full integrity of being, moments of complete Oneness. And whether the film is a veil of culture, of memory, of mental or religious training, of trauma or sophistication, the removal of that film and the restoration of that timeless spot of grace is the goal of all therapy and education. Regardless of subject matter, this is the only thing worth teaching: how to uncover that original center and how to live there once it is restored. We call the filming over a deadening of heart, and the process of return, whether brought about through suffering or love, is how we unlearn our way back to God

To lose a sibling is to lose the one person with whom one shares a lifelong bond that is meant to continue on into the future.” I understood this to mean that as a seventeen-year-old whose brother was most likely dead, I was acting t like a complete ass-hat for a good reason. Not only had my brother disappeared, but–and bear with me here–a part of my very being had gone with him. Stories about us could, from then on, be told from only one perspective. Memories could be told but not shared.

If you are lucky enough to have a childhood friend, try your hardest to grow old with them. These friends are a unique, irreplaceable breed. These friends lived through curfews and Polaroid pictures with you. These friends know your parents and siblings because they had to call your house first to speak with you. Your memories are not frozen in time on social media, but live on nonetheless. Most importantly, they remember the person you were before the world got ahold of you, so they have this crazy ability to love you no matter what. They are the living, breathing reflection of where you have been. And so, just when you think you’ve lost yourself for good, they are there to bring you face-to-face with your true self, simply by sharing a cup of coffee with them. As your world grows and becomes larger and more complicated than your backyard, even if you establish a life elsewhere, I hope your childhood friends remain lifelong allies, because mine have saved my life on more than one occasion.

When my head hits the pillow each night, I want to know that I have done the one most important thing: I have fostered warm, happy memories and created lifelong bonds with my kids—even when the rest of life feels hard.

We ought to know the history of our ancient ancestors.

He spoke in the hoarse, cadenced tones of a lifelong teller of tales - one of those divine fools born to merge memory and mendacity into dreams as airily gorgeous as cobwebs string with drops of dew.

...and the chaplain was ready now to capitulate to despair entirely but was restrained by the memory of his wife, whom he loved and missed so pathetically with such sensual and exalted ardor, and by the lifelong trust he had placed in the wisdom and justice of an immortal, omnipotent, omniscient, humane, universal, anthropomorphic, English-speaking, Anglo-Saxon, pro-American God, which had begun to waver.

For most of my life, I would have automatically said that I would opt for conscientious objector status, and in general, I still would. But the spirit of the question is would I ever, and there are instances where I might. If immediate intervention would have circumvented the genocide in Rwanda or stopped the Janjaweed in Darfur, would I choose pacifism? Of course not. Scott Simon, the reporter for National Public Radio and a committed lifelong Quaker, has written that it took looking into mass graves in former Yugoslavia to convince him that force is sometimes the only option to deter our species' murderous impulses. While we're on the subject of the horrors of war, and humanity's most poisonous and least charitable attributes, let me not forget to mention Barbara Bush (that would be former First Lady and presidential mother as opposed to W's liquor-swilling, Girl Gone Wild, human ashtray of a daughter. I'm sorry, that's not fair. I've no idea if she smokes.) When the administration censored images of the flag-draped coffins of the young men and women being killed in Iraq - purportedly to respect "the privacy of the families" and not to minimize and cover up the true nature and consequences of the war - the family matriarch expressed her support for what was ultimately her son's decision by saying on Good Morning America on March 18, 2003, "Why should we hear about body bags and deaths? I mean it's not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?" Mrs. Bush is not getting any younger. When she eventually ceases to walk among us we will undoubtedly see photographs of her flag-draped coffin. Whatever obituaries that run will admiringly mention those wizened, dynastic loins of hers and praise her staunch refusal to color her hair or glamorize her image. But will they remember this particular statement of hers, this "Let them eat cake" for the twenty-first century? Unlikely, since it received far too little play and definitely insufficient outrage when she said it. So let us promise herewith to never forget her callous disregard for other parents' children while her own son was sending them to make the ultimate sacrifice, while asking of the rest of us little more than to promise to go shopping. Commit the quote to memory and say it whenever her name comes up. Remind others how she lacked even the bare minimum of human integrity, the most basic requirement of decency that says if you support a war, you should be willing, if not to join those nineteen-year-olds yourself, then at least, at the very least, to acknowledge that said war was actually going on. Stupid fucking cow.

This is one of the pleasures of a lifelong friendship: so many of your memories are shared.

Not the sadness of death, but the silver clarity of these moments, casting a lifelong memory.

I suppose I've never set out to write a novel in which nothing happens . . . only to write a novel about the lives of certain characters. That nothing 'happens' in their lives is beside the point to me; I'm still interested in how they live, and think, and speak, and make some sense of their own experience. Incident (in novels and in life) is momentary, and temporary, but the memory of an incident, the story told about it, the meaning it takes on or loses over time, is lifelong and fluid, and that's what interests me and what I hope will prove interesting to readers. We're deluged with stories of things that have happened, events, circumstances, actions, etc. We need some stories that reveal how we think and feel and hope and dream.

There’s also the small detail that . . . I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. Not a blink. And if past is prologue, there are going to be a lot of sleepless nights in my future. I’m a high school senior—I have exams to study for, projects to complete, extracurricular activities to activitize, lifelong memories to make—and now I have a business to run. Who the fuck has time for sleep? I jack up the volume on my phone and scoop a tablespoon of instant coffee grounds into my mouth—washing the bitter, spiky granules down with a gulp of black, cold coffee. We don’t serve instant for the coffee shop. Instant coffee is disgusting. But it serves a purpose. It’s effective—efficient. I love caffeine. Love it. The high, the rush, the feeling that I’m Wonder Woman’s long-lost cousin and there ain’t shit I can’t do. I would mainline it, if that were actually a thing. I would probably become a meth-head if it weren’t for the rotting-teeth, ruined-life, most-likely-dying-by-overdose elements of it all. I’m a high school senior, not an asshole.

It is quite strange, almost romantic how we attach certain things to memories and people. They just stay there and become life-long associations, whether we like it or not.

I have had a lifelong association with these things. (Odd that the word 'trees' does not apply.) I can accept them and their power and their age because I was early exposed to them. ON the other hand, people lacking such experience begin to have a feeling of uneasiness here, of danger, of being shut in, enclosed and overwhelmed. It is not only the size of these redwoods but their strangeness that frightens them. And why not? For these are the last remaining members of a race that flourished over four continents as far back in geologic time as the upper Jurassic period. Fossils of these ancients have been found dating from the Cretaceous era while in the Eocene and Miocene they were spread over England and Europe and America. And then the glaciers moved down and wiped the Titans out beyond recovery. And only these few are left--a stunning memory of what the world was like once long ago. Can it be that we do not love to be reminded that we are very young and callow in a world that was old when we came into it? And could there be a strong resistance to the certainty that a living world will continue its stately way when we no longer inhabit it?

He spoke in the hoarse, cadenced tones of a lifelong teller of tales – one of those divine fools born to merge memory and mendacity into dreams as airily gorgeous as cobwebs strung with drops of dew.

Godzilla, you see, is toppled, is depleted, is immobile and breathless, the non-conversative dictator and his polemical primeval tyranny dashed to social smithereens... for some his demise will evince agitation, adulation and appraisal, but for me, Yasuhiro Dustin T-Bird, it returns the lingering largesse of an inconsolable fear. The fear is this: that there's a thing as big as pirate continents in the China Sea that we've together mythologised up to now currently obstructing the procession of metropolitan traffic all the way to Yoyogi. His formidable draconian jaw with its legend of gargantuan teeth slacks open like a lifelong foe's long-withheld liability, and sulphur rents the air in acrid, acid plumes as though the most cultured and violent yellowcake fart in categorical memory.

The words we choose can build communities, reunite loved ones, and inspire others. They can be a catalyst for change. However, our words also have the power to destroy and divide: they can start a war, reduce a lifelong relationship to a collection of memories, or end a life.

At this point Si roused himself, and his voice captured the travellers at once. He spoke in the hoarse cadenced tones of a lifelong teller of tales-one of those divine fools born to merge memory and mendacity into dreams as airily gorgeous as cobwebs strung with drops of dew.

One of their first decisions was to donate Robin’s body to Memorial Sloan Kettering. The doctors told them that they could learn from studying her disease, and my parents hoped that Robin’s death might lead to some benefit for other suffering children. Childhood cancer research became a lifelong cause for them.

Brightly and merrily swaying, like an April shower, came the young lady. Perhaps if she had been sad and conscience stricken, like certain dames of old who left the site of their illicit love as woe-begone as the passing moment that never returns; if the lady had approached in full cognizance of her frailty, ready to forego a man's respectful handkisses of greeting, and trembling in shame at the tryst exposed in broad daylight, like Risoulette, sixty-six times, whenever having misbehaved, she hastened back home teary-eyed to her Captain; or if a lifelong memory's untearable veil had floated over her fine features, like the otherworldly wimple of a nun . . . Then Pistoli would have stood aside, closed his eyes, swallowed the bitter pill, and come next winter, might have scrawled on the wall something about women's unpredictability. Then he would have glimpsed ghostly, skeletal pelvic bones reflected in his wine goblet, and strands of female hair, once wrapped around the executioner's wrist, hanging from his rafters; and would have heard wails and cackles emanating from the cellar's musty wine casks, but eventually Pistoli would have forgiven this fading memory, simply because women are related to the sea and the moon, and that is why at times they know not what they do.

Learning is indeed a lifelong process. And as Alison Gopnik and colleagues argued in another recent book, every time the infant learns something, his or her brain is changed in a way that helps it learn something else. In a review of this book, a prominent developmental expert, Mark Johnson, noted that the early years are crucial not because the window of opportunity closes but because what is learned at this time becomes the foundation for subsequent learning. Indeed, much of the self is learned by making new memories out of old ones. Just as learning is the process of creating memories, the memories created are dependent on things we've learned before.

Each of us, actually every animal, is a data scientist. We collect data from our sensors, and then we process the data to get abstract rules to perceive our environment and control our actions in that environment to minimize pain and/or maximize pleasure. We have memory to store those rules in our brains, and then we recall and use them when needed. Learning is lifelong; we forget rules when they no longer apply or revise them when the environment changes. Learning

And I realized that people, from new-made friends to life-long family, inevitably come and go in the composition of our lives, but that once they have appeared, they never really leave. And I realized too that the people we love—the memory of the people we love, their enduring, pulsing presence in our lives—is like those violins. Every day, in one form or another, we take them out and play them, if just for a while. We become them, swooping, spiraling, soaring to the apex of our minds. We honor them and keep them alive—as they do us, intertwined.

I had read it some time ago but was so completely immersed that I retained nothing. This has been an intermittent, lifelong enigma. Through early adolescence I sat and read for hours in a small grove of weed trees. . . I would enter a book wholeheartedly and sometimes venture so deeply it was as if I were living within it. I finished many books in such a manner there, closing the covers ecstatically yet having no memory of the content by the time I returned home. This disturbed me but I kept this strange affliction to myself. I look at the covers of such books and their contents remain a mystery that I cannot bring myself to solve. Certain books I loved and lived within yet cannot remember.

Obviously, in those situations, we lose the sale. But we’re not trying to maximize each and every transaction. Instead, we’re trying to build a lifelong relationship with each customer, one phone call at a time. A lot of people may think it’s strange that an Internet company is so focused on the telephone, when only about 5 percent of our sales happen through the telephone. In fact, most of our phone calls don’t even result in sales. But what we’ve found is that on average, every customer contacts us at least once sometime during his or her lifetime, and we just need to make sure that we use that opportunity to create a lasting memory. The majority of phone calls don’t result in an immediate order. Sometimes a customer may be calling because it’s her first time returning an item, and she just wants a little help stepping through the process. Other times, a customer may call because there’s a wedding coming up this weekend and he wants a little fashion advice. And sometimes, we get customers who call simply because they’re a little lonely and want someone to talk to. I’m reminded of a time when I was in Santa Monica, California, a few years ago at a Skechers sales conference. After a long night of bar-hopping, a small group of us headed up to someone’s hotel room to order some food. My friend from Skechers tried to order a pepperoni pizza from the room-service menu, but was disappointed to learn that the hotel we were staying at did not deliver hot food after 11:00 PM. We had missed the deadline by several hours. In our inebriated state, a few of us cajoled her into calling Zappos to try to order a pizza. She took us up on our dare, turned on the speakerphone, and explained to the (very) patient Zappos rep that she was staying in a Santa Monica hotel and really craving a pepperoni pizza, that room service was no longer delivering hot food, and that she wanted to know if there was anything Zappos could do to help. The Zappos rep was initially a bit confused by the request, but she quickly recovered and put us on hold. She returned two minutes later, listing the five closest places in the Santa Monica area that were still open and delivering pizzas at that time. Now, truth be told, I was a little hesitant to include this story because I don’t actually want everyone who reads this book to start calling Zappos and ordering pizza. But I just think it’s a fun story to illustrate the power of not having scripts in your call center and empowering your employees to do what’s right for your brand, no matter how unusual or bizarre the situation. As for my friend from Skechers? After that phone call, she’s now a customer for life. Top 10 Ways to Instill Customer Service into Your Company   1. Make customer service a priority for the whole company, not just a department. A customer service attitude needs to come from the top.   2. Make WOW a verb that is part of your company’s everyday vocabulary.   3. Empower and trust your customer service reps. Trust that they want to provide great service… because they actually do. Escalations to a supervisor should be rare.   4. Realize that it’s okay to fire customers who are insatiable or abuse your employees.   5. Don’t measure call times, don’t force employees to upsell, and don’t use scripts.   6. Don’t hide your 1-800 number. It’s a message not just to your customers, but to your employees as well.   7. View each call as an investment in building a customer service brand, not as an expense you’re seeking to minimize.   8. Have the entire company celebrate great service. Tell stories of WOW experiences to everyone in the company.   9. Find and hire people who are already passionate about customer service. 10. Give great service to everyone: customers, employees, and vendors.

I sat at my table, had my brown toast with olive oil, and opened Camus’s The First Man. I had read it some time ago but was so completely immersed that I retained nothing. This has been an intermittent, lifelong enigma. Through early adolescence I sat and read for hours in a small grove of weed trees near the railroad track in Germantown. Like Gumby I would enter a book wholeheartedly and sometimes venture so deeply it was as if I were living within it. I finished many books in such a manner there, closing the covers ecstatically yet having no memory of the content by the time I returned home. This disturbed me but I kept this strange affliction to myself. I look at the covers of such books and their contents remain a mystery that I cannot bring myself to solve. Certain books I loved and lived within yet cannot remember.

The thought is immediately accompanied by a dull ache below her shoulder. It is a phantom pain, she knows, a psychosomatic ache, but still she feels the hurt. After all, it has been many years since the blow that made her arm swell and ache for days. On the other hand, who knows? Perhaps the body has its own memory system, like the invisible meridian lines those Chinese acupuncturists always talk about. Perhaps the body is unforgiving, perhaps every cell, every muscle and fragment of bone remembers each and every assault and attack. Maybe the pain of memory is encoded into our bone marrow and each remembered grievance swims in our bloodstream like a hard, black pebble. After all, the body, like God, moves in mysterious ways. From the time she was in her teens, Sera has been fascinated by this paradox—how a body that we occupy, that we have worn like a coat from the moment of our birth—from before birth, even—is still a stranger to us. After all, almost everything we do in our lives is for the well-being of the body: we bathe daily, polish our teeth, groom our hair and fingernails; we work miserable jobs in order to feed and clothe it; we go to great lengths to protect it from pain and violence and harm. And yet the body remains a mystery, a book that we have never read. Sera plays with this irony, toys with it as if it were a puzzle: How, despite our lifelong preoccupation with our bodies, we have never met face-to-face with our kidneys, how we wouldn’t recognize our own liver in a row of livers, how we have never seen our own heart or brain. We know more about the depths of the ocean, are more acquainted with the far corners of outer space than with our own organs and muscles and bones. So perhaps there are no phantom pains after all; perhaps all pain is real; perhaps each long-ago blow lives on into eternity in some different permutation and shape; perhaps the body is this hypersensitive, revengeful entity, a ledger book, a warehouse of remembered slights and cruelties. But if this is true, surely the body also remembers each kindness, each kiss, each act of compassion? Surely this is our salvation, our only hope—that joy and love are also woven into the fabric of the body, into each sinewy muscle, into the core of each pulsating cell?

The biology of potential illness arises early in life. The brain’s stress-response mechanisms are programmed by experiences beginning in infancy, and so are the implicit, unconscious memories that govern our attitudes and behaviours toward ourselves, others and the world. Cancer, multiple sclerosis, rheumatoid arthritis and the other conditions we examined are not abrupt new developments in adult life, but culminations of lifelong processes. The human interactions and biological imprinting that shaped these processes took place in periods of our life for which we may have no conscious recall. Emotionally unsatisfying child-parent interaction is a theme running through the one hundred or so detailed interviews I conducted for this book. These patients suffer from a broadly disparate range of illnesses, but the common threads in their stories are early loss or early relationships that were profoundly unfulfilling emotionally. Early childhood emotional deprivation in the histories of adults with serious illness is also verified by an impressive number of investigations reported in the medical and psychological literature. In an Italian study, women with genital cancers were reported to have felt less close to their parents than healthy controls. They were also less demonstrative emotionally. A large European study compared 357 cancer patients with 330 controls. The women with cancer were much less likely than controls to recall their childhood homes with positive feelings. As many as 40 per cent of cancer patients had suffered the death of a parent before the age of seventeen—a ratio of parental loss two and a half times as great as had been suffered by the controls. The thirty-year follow-up of Johns Hopkins medical students was previously quoted. Those graduates whose initial interviews in medical school had revealed lower than normal childhood closeness with their parents were particularly at risk. By midlife they were more likely to commit suicide or develop mental illness, or to suffer from high blood pressure, coronary heart disease or cancer. In a similar study, Harvard undergraduates were interviewed about their perception of parental caring. Thirty-five years later these subjects’ health status was reviewed. By midlife only a quarter of the students who had reported highly positive perceptions of parental caring were sick. By comparison, almost 90 per cent of those who regarded their parental emotional nurturing negatively were ill. “Simple and straightforward ratings of feelings of being loved are significantly related to health status,” the researchers concluded.

No organism in nature is separate from the system in which it lives, functions and dies, and no natural process can be understood in isolation from its physical and biological context. From an ecological perspective, the addiction process doesn’t happen accidentally, nor is it preprogrammed by heredity. It is a product of development in a certain context, and it continues to be maintained by factors in the environment. The ecological view sees addiction as a changeable and evolving dynamic that expresses a lifelong interaction with a person’s social and emotional surroundings and with his own internal psychological space. Healing, then, must take into account the internal psychological climate — the beliefs, memories, mind-states and emotions that feed addictive impulses and behaviours — as well as the external milieu. In an ecological framework recovery from addiction does not mean a “cure” for a disease but the creation of new resources, internal and external, that can support different, healthy ways of satisfying one’s genuine needs. It also involves developing new brain circuits that can facilitate more adaptive responses and behaviours.

Do you love me, Hunter? Truly love me?” “I have great love for you.” “Then take me away from here,” she whispered raggedly. “It’s the only way for us to have a future together. The only way. Please think about it? If you love me, truly love me, you won’t torture me like this.” The words of the prophecy returned to haunt Hunter. Lifting his hand, he touched Loretta’s braid and lost himself in the fascinating azure depths of her gaze. As the song predicted, she had divided his Comanche heart. Only moments ago he had turned his back on a lifelong friend. Now she asked him to turn his back on his people. “Blue Eyes, I cannot leave.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I love you, Hunter, but my mother’s screams call out to me. I’ll never be free of that, not as long as I stay here. One morning you will awaken and I won’t be here. And I’ll make sure this time that you never find me.” He started to speak, but she silenced him, touching her fingertips to his lips. “Don’t. Empty threats won’t keep me here. You won’t beat me.” She moved her palm to his cheek. “Do you think I don’t know that by now?” He clamped a hand behind her head and drew her against his chest, burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder. “It is not the way of a Comanche to beat his woman,” he rasped. “Just as it is not his way to let her go away from him.” She turned her face to touch her lips to his neck. “Make a memory with me, Hunter,” she whispered huskily. “One more beautiful memory.” Cinching an arm around her waist, Hunter stretched out with her on the fur. Never before had she initiated lovemaking. His hand trembled as he skimmed his palm down her spine. Make a memory with me, Hunter. As he dipped his head to kiss her, he wondered why it was that those words had a ring of farewell. One more beautiful memory.

Appreciate the little things in life Enjoy the moment Fun days will become lifelong memories that can only be repeated in your mind.

A train moves high above the river, with the sun setting in distance, a reminder of all that’s passing and to take away the light as much as you can, to start a flicker of imagination and faith. As you are lost in thoughts, it is suddenly night but the memories take over your mind and you are there, in those scenes of the past, while the train still chugs along…

There’s nothing to be sorry about. I had the best forty-five years of my life with my best friend by my side. I trusted her with my life. She was an amazing woman and I could never love her more than I do right now. She filled my heart with so many beautiful memories; I couldn’t be more blessed than I was to have her as my wife and lifelong companion.

Journey to the Plain July 1972–June 1976 I was raised to respect soldiers, leaders, and heroes. They were who I wanted to be. They were why I was there. And in the unblinking sunlight of an August morning at the United States Military Academy in 1972, the colonel in front of me looked like the embodiment of all I admired. Hanging on his spare frame, his pine green uniform was covered with patches, badges, and campaign ribbons. Even the weathered lines of his face seemed to reflect all he’d done and all he was. It was the look I’d seen in my father’s face. For a moment I could envision my father in combat in Korea, or as the lean warrior embracing my mother as he came home from Vietnam. He was my lifelong hero. From my earlier memories I’d wanted to be like him. I’d always wanted to be a soldier. Yet the colonel’s words were not what I wanted and expected to hear. As he stood in front of me and my fellow new cadets, he talked about collar stays, the twenty-five-cent pieces of wire cadets used to secure the collars of the blue gray shirts we would wear to class during the academic year. As he spoke, we tried not to squirm under the sun. Our backs were arched, arms flat to our sides, elbows slightly bent, fingers curled into tight palms, chests out, chins forward, eyes ahead. Mouths shut. I was five weeks into my education at West Point. We were still in Beast Barracks, or simply Beast, the initial eight-week indoctrination and basic-training phase during the summer before the fall term of our freshman year—plebe year, in West Point’s timeworn terminology. There were not many full colonels at West Point, so it was rare for cadets, particularly new cadets like us, to interact with them. It seemed like an extraordinary opportunity to hear from a man who’d done so much. But he wasn’t discussing his experiences and the truths they had yielded; he was talking about collar stays.

The Curse of First Love The vessel of our first love, wrecked on the shallows of mutually immature egos, can be displaced, but rarely replaced. I efface you from my memories with serial lovers that come and go. I make music to mattress springs that sing lust, not love. No matter how hard I try, I cannot forget you by distraction. Each attempt at erasure makes the stain of your love more indelible. First love, you are a deep pain, a lifelong curse, forever hovering above my bed ~ as I go through love’s motions, half dreaming, half dead.

I always knew I would have to face an occasional tragedy as a physician. This one came early in my career and remains etched forever in my memory. Even the birth of our first child on the same day couldn’t erase it. How many such heartbreaks would I witness during a lifelong career in medicine? Would there be enough Baby Kristin success stories to provide balance?" (page 24)

Why We Develop Faulty Mental Models of Ourselves as Learners It is very puzzling, in fact, that as lifelong users of our memories and learning capabilities, we do not end up with a more accurate mental model of how we learn, or fail to learn. Why is it, in short, that we are not educated by the “trials and errors of everyday living and learning” (R. A. Bjork, 1999, p. 455)? One consideration is that the functional architecture of how humans forget, remember, and learn is unlike the corresponding processes in man-made devices. Most of us do not, of course, understand the engineering details of how information is stored, added, lost, or overwritten in man-made devices, such as a computer or video recorder, but the functional architecture of such systems is simpler and more understandable than is the complex architecture of human learning and memory. To the extent, for example, that we do think of ourselves as working like such devices, we become prone to assuming that exposing ourselves to information and procedures will lead to storage (i.e., recording) of such information or procedures in our memories—that the information will write itself in one’s memory, so to speak.

Ephesians bids us to shod our feet with the preparation of the gospel. One of my aims as a young man was to commit large portions of the Bible to memory. This I did, and over the period of many years, I have memorized many great passages of scripture. But when we come to the Word, we really are coming to something which would teach us of the Infinite, and now with forty years of being a Christian, I have realized there are many gems to yet be appreciated within Bible study, and if I am to get them, I must dig diligently. “All scripture is given by inspiration of God” says the Bible, and God has many treasures left for those of us who will search the scriptures. Shodding your feet is a lifelong process, and one I suspect may continue with us in the hereafter.

The yolk of an egg is incredibly nutritious. It contains 100 percent of the carotenoids; essential fatty acids; fat-soluble vitamins A, E, D, and K that our body requires; and more than 90 percent of the calcium, iron, phosphorus, zinc, thiamine, folate, B12, pantothenic acid, as well as the majority of the copper, manganese, and selenium our body requires. They are also excellent sources of lutein and zeaxanthin, which evidence has shown are highly protective against developing macular degeneration—the major cause of blindness in the elderly. Since most people don’t eat liver, egg yolks are the only major source of choline, which helps to protect against fatty liver disease, which afflicts about one-third of Americans. Additionally, animal studies indicate that when you get three times more than the recommended amount of choline early in life, you can have lifelong protection against senility and dementia, along with major boosts in memory and mental performance throughout your life. Eggs yolks are primarily feared by people because of their cholesterol content, but they are jam-packed with really important nutrients, some of which are very difficult to get anywhere else in your diet.” –Dr. Chris Masterjohn

I started to see a serious decline in health in high altitude professional astronomy. Most noticeable was the onset of constant fatigue, memory issues and confusion. The condition progressed during my time in the commercial and utility solar industry where I started falling asleep at work and developed hot skin. The doctors tested me and said I had shift work disorder in 2008 and vitamin D and Vitamin B12 deficiencies in 2011. In 2015 I had a COVID-19 like sickness that made everyone in the family really sick. I never recovered and this started regular visits to the doctors. They diagnosed severe sleep apnea and mental illness and prescribed a CPAP machine. Under the care of the doctors I became much sicker on their prescription drugs and treatments. I eventually got smart and figured out I was not going to recover under their care and they may actually kill me! In 2021, moving to Hawaii island revealed that I had ‘Altitude Hypersensitivity’ and a high altitude commuting disease called ‘Magee’s Disease’. By the end of 2023 I had developed the treatments for these conditions and made a reasonable recovery. There is no cure for either condition. They are life-long illnesses. I now have to live well below 1,000 feet near sea level and take the treatments for the rest of my life. I documented the conditions in the books ‘Toxic Altitude’ and ‘Magee’s Disease’. The treatments for the hypoxic high altitude damage appeared transferable into COVID-19 and Long COVID and these are documented in the books “COVID Supplements” and ‘Long COVID Supplements’.

A part war drama, part coming-of-age story, part spiritual pilgrimage, Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is the story of a young woman who experienced more hardships before graduating high school than most people do in a lifetime. Yet her heartaches are only half the story; the other half is a story of resilience, of leaving her lifelong home in Germany to find a new home, a new life, and a new love in America. Mildred Schindler Janzen has given us a time capsule of World War II and the years following it, filled with pristinely preserved memories of a bygone era. Ken Gire New York Times bestselling author of All the Gallant Men The memoir of Mildred Schindler Janzen will inform and inspire all who read it. This is a work that pays tribute to the power and resiliency of the human spirit to endure, survive, and overcome in pursuit of the freedom and liberty that all too many take for granted. Kirk Ford, Jr., Professor Emeritus, History Mississippi College Author of OSS and the Yugoslav Resistance, 1943-1945 A compelling first-person account of life in Germany during the rise of Adolph Hitler and the Nazi Party. A well written, true story of a young woman overcoming the odds and rising above the tragedies of loss of family and friends during a savage and brutal war, culminating in her triumph in life through sheer determination and will. A life lesson for us all. Col. Frank Janotta (Retired), Mississippi Army National Guard Mildred Schindler Janzen’s touching memoir is a testimony to God’s power to deliver us from the worst evil that men can devise. The vivid details of Janzen’s amazing life have been lovingly mined and beautifully wrought by Sherye Green into a tender story of love, gratitude, and immeasurable hope. Janzen’s rich, post-war life in Kansas serves as a powerful reminder of the great promise of America. Troy Matthew Carnes, Author of Rasputin’s Legacy and Dudgeons and Daggers World War II was horrific, and we must never forget. Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is a must-read that sheds light on the pain the Nazis and then the Russians inflicted on the German Jews and the German people. Mildred Schindler Janzen’s story, of how she and her mother and brother survived the war and of the special document that allowed Mildred to come to America, is compelling. Mildred’s faith sustained her during the war's horrors and being away from her family, as her faith still sustains her today. Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is a book worth buying for your library, so we never forget. Cynthia Akagi, Ph.D. Northcentral University I wish all in the world could read Mildred’s story about this loving steel magnolia of a woman who survived life under Hitler’s reign. Mildred never gave up, but with each suffering, grew stronger in God’s strength and eternal hope. Beautifully written, this life story will captivate, encourage, and empower its readers to stretch themselves in life, in love, and with God, regardless of their circumstances. I will certainly recommend this book. Renae Brame, Author of Daily Devotions with Our Beloved, God’s Peaceful Waters Flow, and Snow and the Eternal Hope How utterly inspiring to read the life story of a woman whose every season reflects God’s safe protection and unfailing love. When young Mildred Schindler escaped Nazi Germany, only to have her father taken by Russians and her mother and brother hidden behind Eastern Europe’s Iron Curtain, she courageously found a new life in America. Surviving Hitler, Evading Stalin is her personal witness to God’s guidance and provision at every step of that perilous journey. How refreshing to view a full life from beginning to remarkable end – always validating that nothing is impossible with God. Read this book and you will discover the author’s secret to life: “My story is a declaration that choosing joy and thankfulness over bitterness and anger, even amid difficult circumsta

Excessive body acidity is regarded to become the first step in premature aging, vision and memory problems, wrinkling, age spots, hormone system failure, and a slew of other age-related issues. In addition, body acidity is linked to practically most diseases.

But of course, not every misattuned interpersonal interaction that isn’t repaired morphs into debilitating life-long shame. What we recognize as chronic shame has a dynamic and logic of its own that builds on many repetitions of disconnection, in one pattern or another, that are cumulatively traumatic. Shame starts as a simple right-brain to right-brain dysregulating event, but as those events, unrepaired, cluster in memory and wire up consistently with other neural events, shame becomes a chronic relational emotion shaped and colored by the relational contexts in which it came to be. In other words, although a “dysregulation/disintegration

Summer 1963: I had graduated with HONORS, and was going off to HUNTINGDON COLLEGE in the fall. Several people told me: 'You have to learn to smoke, if you are going to HUNTINGDON.' So---I tried to learn to smoke---and I just could not learn to smoke. Well---when I got to HUNTINGDON---I fit right in-------NOBODY WAS SMOKING!!!!!!

He said, And once again I feel alive.. as if a stone wolf turned into a real one but it's true too that you can admire the stone for a while but can't tame it for lifelong. Turn me into a beautiful memory and throw me into the river that's my destiny.

A leaf and you! A leaf from tree, in Autumn fell, It had a story to tell, As it swayed in the lap of air, Nobody noticed the act unfair, For it alone fell, The rest clung to the branches and didn’t experience hell, Which they all would someday, Few early, few later, few did yesterday and the leaf that just fell, experienced it today, It did not shout, it did not scream or yell, As it thought of moments, few lived in agony and few lived so well, Finally it rested on the surface of the bare ground, And every natural force leapt on it like a famished hound, To consume it in their own ways, For death has a game that it with all plays, So time kissed it, life forsook it, gravity constricted it; and finally it was lost, there was nothing left of it, Just a memory of a falling leaf that everyone consumed bit by bit, bit by bit, Surprising that time sometimes moans its departure, Because it had reared it in its lap with love and composure, Alas time the greatest force of all, is the most cursed of all, For in the end it loses everything to its own existential virtues, and kills us all, Then it lies there moaning the loss, Whenever a beautiful corner of life that it loved it does happen to pass, Just like the leaf that fell and was forever lost, There on the branch a moment of time hangs still seeking the past, For it loved the leaf, but it had duty to perform as well, So it mournfully stood there as the leaf fell, It buried it too, And then it hurried too, For it had new leaves to tend, A new leaf to break and bend, To keep gravity happy, who blames time for all crimes, But it is someone else who in shadows creates these moments of depraved times, And lays the blame on time, the eternal subject of everyone's hate, But time has a companion who shares this blame, we all know it as fate, However, the real force lies in the shadows always plotting to bend and break a leaf, And blame it all on time, the eternal and infamous thief, Who actually steals nothing, because it is always losing a part of it, Whenever present becomes past, it loses its own precious bit, It always has been so, and maybe it will always be so, until time has nothing to spare any more, Then the Universe shall fall apart because then it shall not be needed anymore, And a new order shall rise, a new leaf shall emerge and grow, Then time shall rule every place high and low, Then my darling Irma, I will love you again, and again, Because then my love, a moment of love, shall be a lifelong gain, Where every kiss shall be remembered and felt again and again, And you shall not hurt me, and I shall not have the power to cause you any pain, Because now time will be judging us all in the present, A gift that indeed is the precious moment in the present, So my love Irma, love me now, but love me true, Before another leaf falls and as long as the sky is still happy and blue!

Intimate Diplomacy by Stewart Stafford Love comes as drought and flood, Lost and found since primal mud, Lifelong search for a vacant shape, A vision strange from toe to nape. Love can and does self-mutate; Irresistible, immovable to immolate, Intangible, yet taken to the grave, A survivor's firestorm for the brave. Fireside dote, in loving memory, A dusty portrait in life's treasury, Unknown sought, dear friend missed, An inner smile that fortune kissed. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

As I cannot drive and am the daughter of lifelong non-drivers, my not driving has calcified over the years into a personality trait. Like my love of a good laugh, or Henry’s notoriously sharp memory.

The “evangelical law of love knows no exception. May Christians come to realize this at last and redress their crying injustices. At this moment, when a curse seems to weigh upon the whole human race, it is the urgent duty to which we are called by the memory of Auschwitz.

When Ged comments to her that they have passed beyond the malign influence of the gods, Tenar experiences her release from the burden of relinquishing through tears, and in his company: "She did feel it. A dark hand had let go its lifelong hold upon her heart. But she did not feel joy, as she had in the mountains. She put her head down in her arms and cried, and her cheeks were salt and wet. She cried for the waste of her years in bondage to a useless evil. She wept in pain, because she was free" (Ursula K. Le Guin, "The Tombs of Atuan"). Tenar literally cries freedom, with "the pain of memory" for an originary lack, that of freedom and of self. Her ability to cry is returned to her by Ged's knowledge of her true name, a word from a language other than his own, a thing of great value that both restores her to herself and places him in her trust.

A CLASSIC WAITS for me, it contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking if taste were lacking, or if the endorsement of the right man were lacking. O clublife, and the pleasures of membership, O volumes for sheer fascination unrivalled. Into an armchair endlessly rocking, Walter J. Black my president, I, freely invited, cordially welcomed to membership, My arm around John Kieran, Pearl S. Buck, My taste in books guarded by the spirits of William Lyon Phelps, Hendrik Willem Van Loon, (From your memories, sad brothers, from the fitful risings and callings I heard), I to the classics devoted, brother of rough mechanics, beauty-parlor technicians, spot welders, radio-program directors (It is not necessary to have a higher education to appreciate these books), I, connoisseur of good reading, friend of connoisseurs of good reading everywhere, I, not obligated to take any specific number of books, free to reject any volume, perfectly free to reject Montaigne, Erasmus, Milton, I, in perfect health except for a slight cold, pressed for time, having only a few more years to live, Now celebrate this opportunity. Come, I will make the club indissoluble, I will read the most splendid books the sun ever shone upon, I will start divine magnetic groups, With the love of comrades, With the life-long love of distinguished committees. I strike up for an Old Book. Long the best-read figure in America, my dues paid, sitter in armchairs everywhere, wanderer in populous cities, weeping with Hecuba and with the late William Lyon Phelps, Free to cancel my membership whenever I wish, Turbulent, fleshy, sensible, Never tiring of clublife, Always ready to read another masterpiece provided it has the approval of my president, Walter J. Black, Me imperturbe, standing at ease among writers, Rais'd by a perfect mother and now belonging to a perfect book club, Bearded, sunburnt, gray-neck'd, astigmatic, Loving the masters and the masters only (I am mad for them to be in contact with me), My arm around Pearl S. Buck, only American woman to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature, I celebrate this opportunity. And I will not read a book nor the least part of a book but has the approval of the Committee, For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which they hinted at, All is useless without readability. By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms (89¢ for the Regular Edition or $1.39 for the DeLuxe Edition, plus a few cents postage). I will make inseparable readers with their arms around each other's necks, By the love of classics, By the manly love of classics.

Coll swung a glare on Kruppe. ‘What outrageous lies have you uttered now?’ The round man looked offended. ‘Kruppe and the truth are lifelong partners, friend Coll! Indeed, wedded bliss – we only yesterday celebrated our fortieth anniversary, the mistress of veracity and I.

For the best bounce house rentals and party rentals in New Braunfels & San Marcos, TX, trust the experts at Texas Party Hoppers to provide the fun! If you are planning a birthday party, school field day, church picnic or corporate event, Texas Party Hoppers is your one stop shop for all your party rentals, bounce houses, inflatable water slide rentals, carnival games, concession machines and more. We have the equipment and the experience to create lifelong memories for your guests.

A second legacy from Nancy might seem more a curse than a gift, but it may have helped to give us the Lincoln our nation reveres. She would pass on to him her own struggle with depression, with that enveloping darkness that lurks, for some, ever at the soul’s door. This would merge with a Lincoln family heritage of mental illness to become a force in Abraham that he fought to subdue all his days. It would leave him scarred, and it would even deform parts of his personality, but by striving to master it and by remembering what he had experienced in those hours of suffocating gloom, he emerged a man of greater wisdom, wit, and humanity. It was said by those who knew Nancy that her life was “beclouded by a spirit of sadness.”13 Herndon, Lincoln’s friend, law partner, and biographer, wrote that her face “was marked with an expression of melancholy which fixed itself in the memory of everyone who ever saw or knew her.”14 It is tempting to believe that this was simply fruit of the life she led. It was true she passed most of her days in bleak frontier settlements, the wife of an unsympathetic man and chained to mindless, soul-numbing work. Sandburg wrote that when she died, she had only “memories of monotonous, endless everyday chores.”15 Then, too, there was the lifelong cloud of her illegitimacy. Lesser burdens were known to drive some frontier women insane. But something darker, more ominous, tortured her, and it was more than what we now call “the

Because in reality, God knows our hearts better than we do and wants to bless us with a romance full of life-long memories.

O Lord, Bend my hands and cut them off, for I have often struck thee with a wayward will, when these fingers should embrace thee by faith. I am not yet weaned from all created glory, honor, wisdom and esteem of others, for I have a secret motive to eye my name in all I do. Let me not only speak the word sin, but see the thing itself. Give me to view a discovered sinfulness, to know that though my sins are crucified they are never wholly mortified. Hatred, malice, ill-will, vain-glory that hungers for and hunts after man’s approval and applause, all are crucified, forgiven, but they rise again in my sinful heart. O my crucified but never wholly mortified sinfulness! O my life-long damage and daily shame! O my indwelling and besetting sins! O the tormenting slavery of a sinful heart! Destroy, O God, the dark guest within whose hidden presence makes my life a hell. Yet thou hast not left me here without grace; The cross still stands and meets my needs in the deepest straits of the soul. . . . The memory of my great sins, my many temptations, my falls, bring afresh into my mind the remembrance of thy great help, of thy support from heaven, of the great grace that saved such a wretch as I am. There is no treasure so wonderful as that continuous experience of thy grace towards me which alone can subdue the risings of sin within: Give me more of it.6

The night embarks, or dark ages, Flocks returning to nests, congesting the city, Rush hours begin, honking and jamming, Few like us aren’t in hurry, waiting by the bus stop, Chatting over trivial episodes, perhaps making memories of lifelong, Evenings spent miles across, freedom, I could return at anytime, No one to ask, hardly any anticipation, I am home now, thus my phone rings, cozy wintry dewdrop.

Discover the Best Bus Trips to New York City with New York Iconic Cruises Searching for an easy way to experience the wonders of New York City? For those who like convenience and adventure, bus tours to New York City are the best option. With our custom excursions, famous sights, and stunning skyline views, New York Iconic Cruises makes your trip one to remember. Our cruise packages work well with your bus trip, providing a smooth entry into the heart of New York City, whether you're organising a solitary getaway or a group vacation. Imagine taking in the expansive views of Manhattan as you glide by the Statue of Liberty and making lifelong memories. So why wait? Make reservations for your bus tour to New York City right now, and let New York Iconic Cruises be the high point of your journey. Start organising your ideal vacation by looking through our packages

Discover the Best Bus Trips to New York City with New York Iconic Cruises Searching for an easy way to experience the wonders of New York City? For those who like convenience and adventure, bus tours to New York City are the best option. With our custom excursions, famous sights, and stunning skyline views, New York Iconic Cruises makes your trip one to remember. Our cruise packages work well with your bus trip, providing a smooth entry into the heart of New York City, whether you're organising a solitary getaway or a group vacation. Imagine taking in the expansive views of Manhattan as you glide by the Statue of Liberty and making lifelong memories. So why wait? Make reservations for your bus tour to New York City right now, and let New York Iconic Cruises be the high point of your journey. Start organising your ideal vacation by looking through our packages