Muscular Pain Quotes

If your body is screaming in pain, whether the pain is muscular contractions, anxiety, depression, asthma or arthritis, a first step in releasing the pain may be making the connection between your body pain and the cause. “Beliefs are physical. A thought held long enough and repeated enough becomes a belief. The belief then becomes biology.

This would go a lot easier if you'd stop screaming in pain,' Zoe told the muscular man lying beneath her.

Yeah, I must have been really bad in a past life or something." He smiled, his eyes still in pain. Reaching up, he touched a strand of mt hair. " Don't leave, OK?" "Shhh. I'm not going anywhere." I kept stroking his forehead, trailing my fingers across it. His muscular shoulders gradually relaxed, his eyes closing again. His breathing slowed, became more regular. I could hear the TV on in the other room, the sound of voices. None of it mattered to me. I stayed there until long after Alex had fallen asleep-- gently caressing the vbrow of the boy I loved, trying to keep his pain at bay.

Since the experience is different for each individual, the tension will reflect that experience. In some persons the whole lower half of the body is relatively immobilized and held in a passive state; in others the muscular tensions are localized in the pelvic floor and around the genital apparatus. If the latter sort of tension is severe, it constitutes a functional castration; for, although the genitals operate normally, they are dissociated in feeling from the rest of the body. Any reduction of sexual feeling amounts to a psychological castration. Generally the person is unaware of these muscular tensions, but putting pressure upon the muscles in the attempt to release the tension is often experienced as very painful and frightening.

sensations of somatic distress occurring in waves lasting from twenty minutes to an hour at a time, a feeling of tightness in the throat, choking with shortness of breath, need for sighing, and an empty feeling in the abdomen, lack of muscular power, and an intense subjective distress described as tension or mental pain.” Tightness in the throat.

In his books, Dr. Alexander Lowen put into words the anguish I could not describe. He explained how a repressed experience was converted into a physical symptom. Intense sexual energy that had not been resolved or discharged would be forced into muscles, causing chronic muscular tensions. Finally, someone understood my pain…at least that one. Chronic muscular tension may not sound like a big deal but I have lived in a body primed for lifting a car. The muscles never let go. Even when I awaken, they are flexed to the max. It’s called “muscular armoring.

He pulled me toward him so that I was resting on my side. I coughed up some more water. He took off his wet shirt and folded it. Then he gently lifted me and placed it under my sore head, which hurt too much to appreciate his…bronzed…sculpted…muscular…bare chest. Well I guess I must be okay if I can appreciate the view, I thought. Sheesh, I’d have to be dead not to appreciate it. I winced as Ren’s hand brushed against my head, shaking me from my reverie. “You’ve got a major bump here.” I reached up to feel the giant lump on the back of my skull. I gingerly touched it and recalled the source of my headache. I must have lost consciousness when the rock hit me. Ren saved my life. Again. I looked up at him. He was kneeling next to me with a look of desperation on his face, and his body was shaking. I realized that he must have changed to a man, dragged me out of the pool, and then remained by my side until I woke up. Who knows how long I’ve been laying here unconscious. “Ren, you’re in pain. You’ve been in this form too long today.” He shook his head in denial, but I saw him grit his teeth. I pressed my hand on his arm. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a bump on the head. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure Mr. Kadam has some aspirin tucked away in the backpack. I’ll just take that and lie down to rest for a while. I’ll be alright.” He trailed his finger slowly from my temple to my cheek and smiled softly. When he pulled back, his whole arm shook and tremors rippled under the surface of his skin. “Kells, I-“ His face tightened. He threw his head to the side, snarled angrily, and morphed to a tiger again. He softly growled, then quieted, and drew close beside me. He lay down next to me and watched me carefully with his alert blue eyes. I stroked his back, partly to reassure him and partly because it soothed me too.

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.

Then someone else appeared from the crowd, and Annabeth's vision tunneled. Percy smiled at her-that sarcastic, troublemaker's smile that had annoyed her for years but eventually had become endearing. His sea-green eyes were as gorgeous as she remembered. His dark hair was swept to one side, like he'd just come from a walk on the beach. He looked even better than he had six months ago-tanner and taller, leaner and more muscular. Annabeth was to stunned to move. She felt that if she got any closer to him, all the molecules in her body might combust. She'd secretly had a crush on him sonar they were twelve years old. Last summer, she'd fallen for him hard. They'd been a happy couple together for four months-and then he'd disappeared. During their separation, something had happened to Annabeth's feelings. They'd grown painfully intense-like she'd been forced to withdraw from a life-saving medication. Now she wasn't sure which was more excruciating-living with that horrible absence, or being with him again... Annabeth didn't mean to, but she surged forward. Percy rushed toward her at the same time. The crowds tensed. Some reach d for swords that weren't there. Percy threw his arms around her. They kissed, and for a moment nothing else mattered. An asteroid could have hit the planet and wiped out all life, Annabeth wouldn't have cared. Percy smelled of ocean air. His lips were salty. Seaweed Brain, she thought giddily. Percy pulled away and studied her face. "Gods, I never thought-" Annabeth grabbed his wrist and flipped him over her shoulder. He slammed into the stone pavement. Romans cried out. Some surged forward, but Reyna shouted, "Hold! Stand down!" Annabeth put her knee on Percy's chest. She pushed her forearm against his throat. She didn't care what the Romans thought. A white-hot lump of anger expanded in her chest-a tumor of worry and bitterness that she'd been carrying around since last autumn. "Of you ever leave me again," she said, her eyes stinging, "I swear to all the gods-" Percy had the nerve to laugh. Suddenly the lump of heated emotions melted inside Annabeth. "Consider me warned," Percy said. "I missed you, too." Annabeth rose and helped him to his feet. She wanted to kiss him again SO badly, but she managed to restrain herself. Jason cleared his throat. "So, yeah…It's good to be back…" "And this is Annabeth," Jason said. "Uh, normally she doesn't judo-flip people.

The right use of the exercise of the will is a condition of salvation, necessary without a doubt, but remote, inferior, very subordinated, purely negative. Muscular effort pulls up weeds, but only the sun and water can make wheat grow. The will cannot produce any good in the soul. The efforts of the will are only in place for accomplishing specific obligations. Wherever there is no specific obligation, we must follow our natural inclination or our vocation, which to say the commandment of God. The acts proceeding from inclination are evidently not efforts of the will. And in acts of obedience to God, we remain passive. Whatever pains might accompany it, whatever deployment of activity might be apparent, they produce nothing analogous in the soul to muscular effort. There is only expectant waiting, attentiveness, silence and immobility through suffering and joy. The crucifixion of Christ is the model of all acts of obedience.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something. To pause, towards the close of one's three hour day, and consider: the darkening ease, the brightening trouble; the pleasure pleasure because it was, the pain pain because it shall be; the glad acts grown proud, the proud acts growing stubborn; the panting the trembling towards a being gone, a being to come; and the true true no longer, and the false true not yet. And to decide not to smile after all, sitting in the shade, hearing the cicadas, wishing it were night, wishing it were morning, saying, No, it is not the heart, no, it is not the liver, no, it is not the prostate, no it is not the ovaries, no, it is muscular, it is nervous. Then the gnashing ends, or it goes on, and one is in the pit, in the hollow, the longing for longing gone, the horror of horror, and one is in the hollow, at the foot of all the hills at last, the ways down, the ways up, and free, free at last, for an instant free at last, nothing at last.

Tell me what to do." His warm breath tickled my ear. "Relax." "Please, Noah, I don't want to do this wrong. Tell me how to make you feel good." He shifted so that his body rested beside mine, his leg and arm still draped over me. I felt small under his warmth and strength. His chocolate-brown eyes softened. "Being with you feels good. Touching you-"he tucked a curl behind my ear"-feels good. I have never wanted anyone like I want you. There's nothing you can do wrong when just breathing makes everything right." His hand framed my face and his tone was edget with husky authority. "I want you, but only if you want me." I kissed him back, allowing my arms to wrap around him. His fingers gently massaged my neck, releasing the tension, erasing my unease. The kiss became a drug and i craved more with every touch. Our bodies twined so tightly to one another, i had no idea where i began and he ended. Noah felt strong and warm and muscular and safe and he smelled, oh, God, delicious. I couldn't stop kissing him if my life depend it upon it: his lips, his neck, his chest, and Noah seemed as hungry as me. We rolled and we touched and we shed unwanted clothes. I moaned and he moaned and my mind and soul and body stood on the edge of pure ecstasy. And i waited. I waited for that moment of pausing for protection and the burning pain my friends described, but Noah never stopped and the pain never came, not even when i whispered his name and praise God several times in a row. Both of us gasped for air while kissing each other softly and i struggled to comprehend i was still a virgin. He shifted off of me and tugged me close to him. My entire body became lazily warm, happy and sated. I listened to his heartbeat and closed my eyes, enjoying the relaxing pull of his hand in my hair. "Noah," i whispered. "I thought..." we were going to make love. He tipped my chin, forcing me to look at him. "We have forever to work up to that, Echo. Let's enjoy every step of the way." My mind drifted this way and that. Mostly between focusing on his heart, his touch and the sweetest word i had ever heard: forever. One clear thought forced my eyes open. "You 're putting me to sleep." "So?" he asked a little too innocently. I swallowed. "I'll have nightmares." "Then we 'll have an excuse to do this again.

That’s why just about every top professional athlete has been laid low by injury, sometimes a career-ending injury. There was a moment in my career when I seriously wondered whether I’d be able to continue competing at the top level. I play through pain much of the time, but I think all elite sports people do. All except Federer, at any rate. I’ve had to push and mold my body to adapt it to cope with the repetitive muscular stress that tennis forces on you, but he just seems to have been born to play the game. His physique—his DNA—seems perfectly adapted to tennis, rendering him immune to the injuries the rest of us are doomed to put up with.

The redirection of orientation and attention can be as simple as asking clients to become aware of a "good" or "safe" feeling in the body instead of focusing on their physical pain or elevated heart rate. Or the therapist can ask clients to experiment with focusing attention away from the traumatic activation in their body and toward thoughts or images related to their positive experiences and competencies, such as success in their job. This shift is often difficult for clients who have habituated to feeling pulled back repetitively into the most negative somatic reminders of their traumatic experiences. However, if the therapist guides them to practice deeply immersing themselves in a positive somatic experience (i.e., noting the changes in posture, breath, and muscular tone that emerge as they remember their competence), clients will gain the ability to reorient toward their competencies. They experience their ability to choose to what they pay attention and discover that it really is possible to resist the somatic claims of the past.

A sedentary lifestyle—too much time spent on couches or at desks and not enough movement—is the most common trigger for muscular atrophy. When we move our muscles as little as possible, with a sedentary lifestyle, we turn down our furnaces and literally cause our muscles to atrophy. When the cells atrophy, we feel even more tired because we have fewer mitochondria generating ATP. A vicious circle begins: less energy leading to less movement, which leads to less energy, which leads to less movement. Atrophy from a sedentary lifestyle leads to weight gain, loss of energy, and chronic aches and pains. But atrophy can be easily prevented, stopped, and even reversed with daily gentle full-body exercise.

Then, there was a sudden, sharp pain in the bum and everything went dizzy, then dark. A poison peppermint dart had been shot into his muscular buttocks from afar. Later, in recollection, Kid Christmas had to admit that bending over to lick the lollipop fence post with his musculus bumulus high in the air was an easy red target, something very hard to miss.

I learned that my new lover was hard, but always good. She did not tease. If you pursued her, she would reveal her sweetest secrets and uncover her hidden places. Yes, she would grant those who came to her by car a measured beauty. There were wonderful things to be seen from the road. Her lesser suitors would jump out of their autos, snapping pictures, trying to save memories before having them, and hurry on. But what can be seen from a road is more enticing than revealing – like a shapely woman whose fleshly mystery cannot be hidden by modest garments but is made more alluring. From the roadside her eyes would invite and challenge: “Will you pursue me?” I did. And though my pursuit cost me a lot – pain, humiliation, hunger and sleepless nights – she was good.

Endocannabinoids appear to be profoundly connected with the concept of homeostasis (maintaining physiological stability), helping redress specific imbalances presented by disease or by injury. Endocannabinoids’ role in pain signaling has led to the hypothesis that endocannabinoid levels may be responsible for the baseline of pain throughout the body, which is why cannabinoid-based medicines may be useful in treating conditions such as fibromyalgia (a condition marked by muscular pain and stiffness). This could also mean that the constant release of the body’s own endocannabinoids could have a “tonic” effect on muscle tightness (spasticity) in multiple sclerosis, neuropathic pain, inflammation, and even baseline appetite. The value of proper “endocannabinoid tone” throughout the body could be very significant to general well-being.

He lived for nearly a year, however, almost paralyzed from head to toe. Since even his face had lost muscular control, his eyelids drooped, exposing their red interior. It was as if his whole face had melted like wax, and we could hardly recognize him—except for the eyes, which were always filled with emotion, usually unspeakable pain. But occasionally, and more frequently toward the end, they evidenced hope and a confidence that came from another place.

My back hit the wall. He closed in with an almost terrifying intensity. His muscular body boxed me in. “Rogan,” I warned. In my head, a song played over and over, singing to me in a seductive voice, Rogan, Rogan, Rogan, sex . . . want . . . “Remember that dream you had?” His voice was low, commanding. “Rogan!” The delicious warmth danced around my neck. “Where I had no clothes?” The warmth split and slid over me, over the sensitive nerves in the back of my neck, over my collarbone, around my breasts, cupping them and sliding fast to the tips, tightening my nipples, then sliding down, over my stomach, over my sides and butt, down between my legs. It was everywhere at once, and it flowed over me like a cascade of sensual ecstasy, overloading my senses, overriding my reason, and rendering me speechless. I hurtled through it, trying to sort through the sensations and failing. My head spun. He was right there, masculine, hot, sexy, so incredibly sexy, and I wanted to taste him. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted him to press himself against the aching spot between my legs. His arms closed around me. His face was too close, his eyes enticing, compelling, excited. “Let’s talk about that dream, Nevada.” I was trapped. I had nowhere to go. If he kissed me, I would melt right here. I would moan and beg him, and I would have sex with him right here, in the Galleria, in public. A spark of pain drained down my arm, driven by pure instinct. I grabbed his shoulder. Feathery lightning shot out and singed him. Agony exploded in me, cleansing like an ice-cold shower. Rogan’s body jerked, as if struck by an electric current. It lasted only a second, and I didn’t push as hard as I could have. I was learning to control it. Rogan whipped back to me, his eyes feral. His voice was a ragged growl. “Was that supposed to hurt?” “It was supposed to get your attention.” I pushed him back with my hand. “You were getting really excited.” “‘No’ would’ve been sufficient.” “I wasn’t sure.” I pushed from the wall and headed for the exit. “I said ‘once.’ That was more than once. I wanted you to stop.” “I was encouraged by you breathlessly moaning my name.” I spun on my foot. “I wasn’t moaning your name. I was shrieking in alarm.” “That was the sexiest throaty shrieking I’ve ever heard.” “You need to get out more.” My cheeks were burning.

The proselyte to a pure diet must be warend to expect a temporary dimunition of muscular strength. The subtraction of a powerful stimulus will suffice to account for this event. But it is only temporary, and is succeeded by an equable capability for exertion far surpassing his former various and fluctuating strength. Above all, he will acquire an easiness of breathing, by which the same exertion is performed with a remarkable exemption from that painful and difficult panting now felt by almost every one after hastily climbing an ordinary mountain. He will b e equally capable of bodily exertion of mental application after as before his simple meal. He will feel none of the narcotic effects of ordinary diet.

If you hurt her, you will not leave here alive,” I growled at him. “I will kill you with my bare fucking hands, Bayle.” Bayle started to laugh. “Oh, you really think so?” Something flashed in Tilda’s eyes, and her body tensed up. Her expression hardened, and there was a resolve in her that I knew all too well from training with her. Tilda was a master of restraint, but she could destroy someone if she wanted to. “Wait,” Tilda said in a stilted voice. “This is Bayle Lundeen? Bayle, who conspired with Kennet? Bayle, who’s one of the reasons my husband is dead?” I nodded once. “Yeah. That’s him.” For the first time, Bayle seemed to realize he might have bitten off more than he could chew, and he looked down at Tilda with new appreciation. Tilda may be pregnant, but she was still tall and strong, with muscular arms and powerful legs. I was sure that when Bayle had first captured her, she’d been more docile so as not to risk him hurting the baby. But now she was pissed. With one sudden jerk, she flung her head backward, smashing into Bayle’s face. From where I stood several feet away from her, I heard the sound of his nose crunching. Before he could tilt the knife toward her, she grabbed his wrist, bent it backward, and, using her other arm as leverage, she broke his arm with a loud snap. It all happened within a few seconds, and Bayle screamed in pain and stumbled back. His arm hung at a weird angle, and blood streamed down his face. But Tilda wasn't done yet. With a swipe of her leg, she kicked his legs out from under him. He fell back into the mud, and Tilda kicked him hard in the groin, causing Konstantin to wince behind me. Then she jumped on top of him, punching him repeatedly in the face with both fists. His body had gone limp but I wasn't sure if that was because he was unconscious or dead. Either way, Tilda apparently decided that she wanted to be certain. She grabbed the knife that he’d dropped on the ground beside them, and she stabbed him straight through the heart. And then she just sat there, kneeling on his dead body and breathing hard. None of us said anything or moved. It felt like she needed the moment to herself. When she finally stood up, she shook her arms out, probably both because her fists hurt from hitting Bayle so hard and also to get rid of some of the blood. “Do you feel better?” I asked her. She nodded, still catching her breath as she walked over to me. “Yeah. We have to do something about these bodies, though. The humans will get suspicious.” “That girl is a fucking beast,” Konstantin whispered as she walked by, and he looked at her with newfound admiration. “You should see her when she’s not pregnant,” I said.

Studentdom, he felt, must pass its own Examinations and define its own Commencement--a slow, most painful process, made the more anguishing by bloody intelligences like the Bonifacists of Siegfrieder College. Yet however it seemed at times that men got nowhere, but only repeated class by class the mistakes of their predecessors, two crucial facts about them were at once their hope and the limitation of their possibility, so he believed. One was their historicity: the campus was young, the student race even younger, and by contrast with the whole of past time, the great collegiate cultures had been born only yesterday. The other had to do with comparative cyclology, a field of systematic speculation he could not review for me just then, but whose present relevance lay in the correspondency he held to obtain between the life-history of individuals and the history of studentdom in general. As the embryologists maintained that ontogeny repeats phylogeny, so, Max claimed, the race itself--and on a smaller scale, West-Campus culture--followed demonstrably--in capital letters, as it were, or slow motion--the life-pattern of its least new freshman. This was the basis of Spielman's Law--ontogeny repeats cosmogeny--and there was much more to it and to the science of cyclology whereof it was first principle. The important thing for now was that, by his calculations, West-Campus as a whole was in mid-adolescence... 'Look how we been acting,' he invited me, referring to intercollegiate political squabbles; 'the colleges are spoilt kids, and the whole University a mindless baby, ja? Okay: so weren't we all once, Enos Enoch too? And we got to admit that the University's a precocious kid. If the history of life on campus hadn't been so childish, we couldn't hope it'll reach maturity.' Studentdom had passed already, he asserted, from a disorganized, pre-literate infancy (of which Croaker was a modern representative, nothing ever being entirely lost) through a rather brilliant early childhood ('...ancient Lykeion, Remus, T'ang...') which formed its basic and somewhat contradictory character; it had undergone a period of naive general faith in parental authority (by which he meant early Founderism) and survived critical spells of disillusionment, skepticism, rationalism, willfulness, self-criticism, violence, disorientation, despair, and the like--all characteristic of pre-adolescence and adolescence, at least in their West-Campus form. I even recognized some of those stages in my own recent past; indeed, Max's description of the present state of West-Campus studentdom reminded me uncomfortably of my behavior in the Lady-Creamhair period: capricious, at odds with itself, perverse, hard to live with. Its schisms, as manifested in the Quiet Riot, had been aggravated and rendered dangerous by the access of unwonted power--as when, in the space of a few semesters, a boy finds himself suddenly muscular, deep-voiced, aware of his failings, proud of his strengths, capable of truly potent love and hatred--and on his own. What hope there was that such an adolescent would reach maturity (not to say Commencement) without destroying himself was precisely the hope of the University.

DRY SAUNA Numerous cultures use sweat lodges, steam baths, or saunas for cleansing and purification. Many health clubs and big apartment buildings have saunas and steam baths, and more and more people are building saunas in their own homes. Low-to-moderate-temperature saunas are one of the most important ways to detoxify from pesticide exposure. Head-to-toe perspiration through the skin, the largest organ of elimination, releases stored toxins and opens the pores. Fat that is close to the skin is heated, mobilized, and broken down, releasing toxins and breaking up cellulite. The heat increases metabolism, burns off calories, and gives the heart and circulation a workout. This is a boon if you don’t have the energy to exercise. It is well known in medicine that a fever is the body’s way of burning off an infection and stimulating the immune system. Fever therapy and sauna therapy are employed at alternative medicine healing centers to do just that. The controlled temperature in a sauna is excellent for relaxing muscular aches and pains and relieving sinus congestion. The only way I made it through my medical internship was by having regular saunas to reduce the daily stress. FAR-INFRARED (FIR) SAUNAS FIR saunas are inexpensive, convenient, and highly effective. Detox expert Dr. Sherry Rogers says that FIR is a proven and efficacious way of eliminating stored environmental toxins, and she thinks everyone should use one. There are one-person Sauna Domes that you lie under or more elaborate sauna boxes that seat several people. The far infrared provides a heat that increases the body temperature but the surrounding air is not overly heated. One advantage of the dome is that your head remains outside, which most people find more comfortable and less confining. Sweating begins within minutes of entering the dome and can be continued for thirty to sixty minutes. Besides the hundreds of toxins that can be removed through simple sweating, the heat of saunas creates a mild shock to the body, which researchers feel acts as a stimulus for the body’s cells to become more efficient. The outward signs are the production of sweat to help decrease the body temperature, but there is much more going on. Further research on sauna therapy is destined to make it an important medical therapy.

If you’d convinced Nancy to marry you, you might not have had to go off to be a Bow Street runner. You could have had an easier life, a better life in high society than you could have had with me if you’d married me. Without being able to access my fortune, I could only have dragged you down.” “You don’t really believe that I wanted to marry her for her money,” he gritted out. “It’s either that or assume that you fell madly in love with her in the few weeks we were apart.” They were nearly to the inn now, so she added a plaintive note to her voice. “Or perhaps it was her you wanted all along. You knew my uncle would never accept a second son as a husband for his rich heiress of a daughter, so you courted me to get close to her. Nancy was always so beautiful, so--” “Enough!” Without warning, he dragged her into one of the many alleyways that crisscrossed York. This one was deeply shadowed, the houses leaning into each other overhead, and as he pulled her around to face him, the brilliance of his eyes shone starkly in the dim light. “I never cared one whit about Nancy.” She tamped down her triumph--he hadn’t admitted the whole truth yet. “It certainly didn’t look that way to me. It looked like you had already forgotten me, forgotten what we meant to each--” “The hell I had.” He shoved his face close to hers. “I never forgot you for one day, one hour, one moment. It was you--always you. Everything I did was for you, damn it. No one else.” The passionate profession threw her off course. Dom had never been the sort to say such sweet things. But the fervent look in his eyes roused memories of how he used to look at her. And his hands gripping her arms, his body angling in closer, were so painfully familiar... “I don’t…believe you,” she lied, her blood running wild through her veins. His gleaming gaze impaled her. “Then believe this.” And suddenly his mouth was on hers. This was not what she’d set out to get from him. But oh, the joy of it. The heat of it. His mouth covered hers, seeking, coaxing. Without breaking the kiss, he pushed her back against the wall, and she grabbed for his shoulders, his surprisingly broad and muscular shoulders. As he sent her plummeting into unfamiliar territory, she held on for dear life. Time rewound to when they were in her uncle’s garden, sneaking a moment alone. But this time there was no hesitation, no fear of being caught. Glorying in that, she slid her hands about his neck to bring him closer. He groaned, and his kiss turned intimate. He used lips and tongue, delving inside her mouth in a tender exploration that stunned her. Enchanted her. Confused her. Something both sweet and alien pooled in her belly, a kind of yearning she’d never felt with Edwin. With any man but Dom. As if he sensed it, he pulled back to look at her, his eyes searching hers, full of surprise. “My God, Jane,” he said hoarsely, turning her name into a prayer. Or a curse? She had no time to figure out which before he clasped her head to hold her for another darkly ravishing kiss. Only this one was greedier, needier. His mouth consumed hers with all the boldness of Viking raiders of yore. His tongue drove repeatedly inside in a rhythm that made her feel all trembly and hot, and his thumbs caressed her throat, rousing the pulse there. Thank heaven there was a wall to hold her up, or she was quite sure she would dissolve into a puddle at his feet. Because after all these years apart, he was riding roughshod over her life again. And she was letting him. How could she not? His scent of leather and bergamot engulfed her, made her dizzy with the pleasure of it. He roused urges she’d never known she had, sparked fires in places she’d thought were frozen. Then his hands swept down her possessively as if to memorize her body…or mark it as belonging to him. Belonging to him.

The great significance of the facts that we all eat, grow, reproduce, react alike to pleasure and pain, and are linked together in the marvelous interdependencies of physical nature is all too often stifled and buried under the less fundamental observations that we do not all think or feel or worship in exactly the same ways. And, lost in our thoughts, we often omit to do those things that would turn our best ideas into physical realities, because we can easily forget that “the activities of the nervous system can have no external significance until they are expressed to our fellow men by muscular activity, be it action, writing, or speech”12. Helping to correct the solipsistic tendencies of abstract contemplation is one of the most important roles of bodywork.

It doesn't take a big muscular man with a big dangerous gun to be courageous. Sometimes courage is in the heart of a survivor who refuses to give in to the fear and the pain.

So it is necessary that we have a means of monitoring the tension developed by muscular activity, and equally necessary that the threshold of response for the inhibitory function of that monitor be a variable threshold that can be readily adjusted to suit many purposes, from preventing tissue damage due to overload, to providing a smooth and delicate twist of the tuning knob of a sensitive shortwave receiver. And such a marvelously adaptable tension-feedback system we do have in our Golgi tendon organs, reflex arcs which connect the sensory events in a stretching tendon directly to the motor events which control that degree of stretch, neural feed-back loops whose degree of sensory and motor stimulation may be widely altered according to our intent, our conscious training, and our unconscious habits. This ingenious device does, however, contain a singular danger, a danger unfortunately inherent in the very features of the Golgi reflex which are the cleverest, and the most indispensable to its proper function. The degree of facilitation of the feed-back loop, which sets the threshold value for the “required tension,” is controlled by descending impulses from higher brain centers down into the loop’s internuncial network in the brain stem and the spinal cord. In this way, conscious judgements and the fruits of practice are translated into precise neuromuscular values. But judgement and practice are not the only factors that can be involved in this facilitating higher brain activity. Relative levels of overall arousal, our attitudes towards our past experience, the quality of our present mood, neurotic avoidances and compulsions of all kinds, emotional associations from all quarters—any of these things can color descending messages, and do in fact cause considerable alterations in the Golgi’s threshold values. It is possible, for instance, to be so emotionally involved in an effort—either through panic or through exhilaration—that we do not even notice that our exertions have torn us internally until the excitement has receded, leaving the painful injury behind to surprise us. Or acute anxiety may drive the value of the “required tension” so high that our knuckles whiten as we grip the steering wheel, the pencil suddenly snaps in our fingers, or the glass shatters as we set it with too much force onto the table. On the other hand, timidity or the fear of being rejected can so sap us of “required tension” that it is difficult for us to produce a loud, clear knock upon a door that we tremble to enter.

The lowest level of this modifying intermediate network is the spinal cord. The cord still possesses many features that were first developed in the segmented earthworm. It is largely made up of neurons completely contained within it, which form bridges between the sensory and motor elements throughout the whole body. Each peripheral nerve trunk still innervates a specific segment of the body, and still joins the cord at a specific level, creating a ganglion. Sensory signals entering into a single segment may be processed by its own ganglion, and cause localized motor response within the segment; or the signals may pass to adjacent segments, or be carried even further up or down the line, involving more ganglia in a more widely distributed response. In this way, the cord can monitor a large number of sensorimotor reactions without having to send signals all the way up to the brain. Thus stereotyped responses can be made without our having to “think” about them on a conscious level. Most of these localized and segmentally patterned responses are not the result of experience or training, but of genetically consistent wiring patterns in the internuncial network of the cord itself. These basic wiring patterns unfold in the foetus during the “mapping” process of the nervous system, and they have been pre-established by millions of years of development and usage. The spinal cord can be surgically sectioned from the higher regions of the internuncial net, and the experimental animal kept alive, so that we can isolate the range of responses that are primarily controlled by these cord reflexes. Almost all segmentally localized responses can be elicited, such as the knee jerk caused by tapping the tendon below the knee cap, or the elbow jerk caused by tapping the bicep tendon. These simple responses can also be spread into other segments, so that a painful prick on a limb causes the whole body to jerk away in a general withdrawal reflex. The bladder and rectum can be evacuated. A skin irritation elicits scratching, and the disturbance can be accurately located with a paw. Some of the basic postural and locomotive reflex patterns seem to reside in the wiring of the cord as well. If an animal with only its cord intact is assisted in getting up, it can remain standing on its own. The sensory signals from the pressure on the bottoms of the feet are evidently enough to trigger postural contractions throughout the body and hold the animal in the stance typical of its species. And if the animal is suspended with its legs dangling down, they will spontaneously initiate walking or running movements, indicating that the fundamental sequential arrangements of the basic reflexes necessary for walking are in the cord also. All of these localized and intersegmental responses are rapid and automatic, follow specific routes through the spinal circuitry, and elicit stereotyped patterns of muscular response. Most of them appear to consistently use the same neurons, synapses, and motor units every time they are initiated.

I'll stay if you'll tell me about the time you broke your nose.” Bronson's smile lingered as he touched the angled bridge of his nose reflectively. “I got this while sparring with Tom Crib, the former coal porter they called the ‘Black Diamond.’ He had fists as big as hams and a left hook that made you see stars.” “Who won?” Holly asked, unable to resist. “I outlasted Crib after twenty rounds and finally knocked him down. It was after that fight that I got my name—‘ Bronson the Butcher.’” The obvious masculine pride he took in the name made Holly feel slightly queasy. “How charming,” she murmured in a dry tone that made him laugh. “It didn't improve my looks much, having Crib smash my beak,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I wasn't a pretty sort to begin with. Now I'll definitely never be mistaken for an aristocrat.” “You wouldn't have anyway.” Bronson pretended to wince. “That's as painful a jab as any I received in the rope ring, my lady. So you don't exactly fancy my beat-up mug, is that what you're saying?” “You know very well that you're an attractive man, Mr. Bronson. Just not in an aristocratic way. For one thing, you have too many… that is, you're too… muscular.” She gestured to his bulging coat sleeves and shoulders. “Pampered noblemen don't have arms like that.” “So my tailor tells me.” “Isn't there any way to make them, well… smaller?” “Not that I'm aware of. But just to satisfy my curiosity, how much would I have to shrivel to pass for a gentleman?” Holly laughed and shook her head. “Physical appearance is the least of your worries, sir. You need to acquire a proper air of dignity. You're far too irreverent.” “But attractive,” he countered. “You did say I was attractive.” “Did I? I'm certain I meant to use the word ‘incorrigible.

To the west, the sinking sun was a red orb, streaking the evening sky with wisps of dark gray and pink. Loretta no longer sat erect on the horse to keep her breasts from touching the Comanche’s naked back. She slumped against him, her lolling head pillowed by the muscular cleavage of his spine. Pain shot up her cramped legs from the bonds of coarse wool braid. The rawhide around her wrists had cinched tight, cutting into her skin. Her tongue was a parched lump. One more mile, and she felt sure she would die. She imagined herself sinking into blackness, escaping. It would be cool and dark in heaven. The water there would flow sparkling and icy. There would be no Comanche with cruel, midnight blue eyes. Hunter’s voice rumbled inside him, vibrating against her cheek. Loretta felt the stallion slowing down. Angry words in a language she couldn’t understand ricocheted around her, high, low, growling, shrill. She fluttered her lashes, too miserable to care why the men argued, just thankful for the reprieve. She felt Hunter shift his weight backward, felt his hard hands fumbling with the tight band of leather that bound her wrists. The next second her arms were freed and fell like dead weights to her sides. Hunter’s strong back disappeared. She slumped forward on the horse, not caring about anything as long as she could rest. Something cold touched her left ankle. In some distant part of her mind, she realized that someone was cutting the wool braid that bound her feet. She kept her eyes closed, her cheek pressed against the horse’s sweaty neck, her arms hanging. A moment later her right ankle was freed as well. And then came a new kind of pain. Not fire, but thousands of needles pricking her legs, the agony shooting to her hips. She gasped and bolted upright. When she did, she pitched sideways. The world turned upside down. Arms caught her. The sky spun above her. Someone yelled. Torture. She was being carried, but the arms that cradled her were made of white-hot fire, singeing her wherever they touched. She didn’t think there could be any pain more excruciating. Then cruel hands lowered her to a soft mat of grass, but the blades of the grass turned to sharp spikes, piercing her flesh. Loretta closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pain. Someone held her and rocked her--someone strong with a deep voice that whispered like silk through her mind. The words were sometimes strange, but the few she understood made the meaning of the others absolutely clear. She was safe where she was, sure enough safe--forever.

Lily paused on a ragged breath, admiring the sight of his bared chest and rippled abdomen. He was so strong, so tightly contained. Muscle and bone formed a rigid structure- a beautiful design of masculinity. It was hard to imagine the pain and vulnerability that had resided beneath such strength for so long.

ST-9 This point is a bilateral point that is found on both sides of the neck and is located about 1.5 inches to the outside of the edge of the Adam’s apple of the throat. The fact that the point lays directly over the carotid artery allows strikes to have an immediate reaction to the flow of blood to the brain and head in general. It has a cryptic name in Chinese, Ren Ying,9 which means “Man’s Prognosis” and provides no clues to its location or use from a martial standpoint. Its proximity to the carotid artery allows this point to be one of the weakest points on the human body and regardless of the size and muscular strength of an opponent it is extremely sensitive. 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. Just the structurally aspects of all these sensitive and vital nerves, arteries and veins should place it high on the list of potential targets. I personally consider it as one of the most important Vital Points because of this alone. Additionally, ST-9 is an intersection point for the Stomach Meridian, Gall Bladder Meridian and the Yin Heel Vessel. Strikes to this point can kill due to the overall 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. The same defensive tactics outlined under the SI-16 should be employed against attacks to this extremely vital point. CV-22 This is one of the two most important acupuncture points to the martial arts that is concerned with the hostile actions of life-or-death combatives. It sets in the horseshoe notch located at the extreme upper part of the chest structure and at the centerline of the front of the neck. Resting under it is the trachea, or commonly known as the “windpipe,” and a hard and vicious strike to this point can cause the surrounding tissue to swell, which can shut off the body’s ability to pull oxygen into the lungs. A hard strike to this point can be deadly. Attacking this point should only be done in the most extreme life-or-death situations. Energetically, the Conception Vessel and the Yin Linking Vessel intersect at this point. The implications of that, from a Traditional Chinese Medicine perspective, is included in this book. Additionally, the structure of the suprasternal notch is an excellent “touch point” for situations when sight is reduced and you find yourself at extremely close range with your opponent. This allows for utilization of this point in a self-defense situation that is not as extreme as full force strikes, as only a finger or two are inserted and rolled to the backside of the notch causing pain for the opponent.

They touched their faces, put their fingers in their mouths, tugged on their ears and stomped the ground, their bodies moving and creating a new rhythm that the men had to change their claps to fit, the claps now being determined by the dancers moving, while the men got to stomping and shouting joyfully, syncopating their palms to the women and children and if the men got off beat they fixed that by paying close attention to the feet blurring and kicking and stomping near the fire so they laid down their instruments and played a song with their bodies and their heads got to nodding and hips to rocking to gyrating to the claps pulsating around them changing changing changing and their mouths open and the funk of the body let loose the sweat the stink all in the hair until somebody hollered something beyond a word and they kept on hollering it the sound leading into another sound into a new sound loud from the mouth like a spirit trying to answer the bodies or the bodies trying to answer the spirit that wouldn’t be contained as their legs kicked and their heads rolled until their movements spoke in Tongues and the throat got to letting out a moan here and a groan there and the sound of pain left their flesh while their muscular bodies and their thin bodies and their fat bodies and their sickly bodies glistened in the fire and every child screamed as they jumped and spun and every man clapped moaned and testified with their feet to what sounded like it hurt so bad must have hurt them so bad coming up out the body out the burning well of the throat out the wet of their spit wailing lifting up from the bodies now contortion-flexed and contracting on the ground eyes fluttering in their heads the body creating a new way of being a new way of thinking creating a new knowledge that belonged to them—then Saint stopped moving and stood up; her body shook and shined.

Delicious” might sound excessive, but it was the only word that properly described how he looked in worn blue jeans and chaps. Since she’d started coming down to the barns, she’d seen the other hands wearing chaps, but those cowboys hadn’t made her heart thump painfully or feel as if she should suddenly start fanning her face. Ward wore the kind that zippered down his long muscular legs, hugging them. Made of dark tan suede, they didn’t have the fringes or ornamentation that she’d noticed on some of the ones worn by the wranglers. There was nothing to distract her eyes or to keep her gaze from zeroing in on where the chaps buckled, framing the bulge of his sex. Her internal thermostat soared just from not looking at that particular spot. But the brim of his hat was angled downward—the better to study her new boots, she assumed. With his gaze shielded, she found the temptation impossible to resist. Yup, his crotch was truly the finest eye candy: yummy and calorie free.

Dom?” she asked, her cheeks flaming as she stood naked before him. She’d never stood naked before anyone, even a maid. But the way Dom was scouring her with his rough gaze felt like a caress. A very carnal caress, which loosed a bevy of butterflies in her belly. “I’ve spent years dreaming of you like this, sweeting,” he rasped. “Give me a moment to take it all in.” “If you wish,” she whispered. And that would give her a moment to take him in. Although, sweet Lord in heaven, it might require more than a moment. She’d seen men half-dressed in paintings and even less-dressed in sculptures. But those smooth-skinned bodies were insipid compared to Dom’s hard contours and scarred male beauty. How could she have guessed that such sheer virility lay beneath his subdued clothes? His deliciously muscular chest gleamed with sweat in the warm stable, and his powerful arms lay tense at his sides. Then there was his lean waist, which gave way to rangy hips sporting quite a bulge beneath his drawers. Lord help her. She couldn’t take her eyes from that impressive thickness. And the more she stared, the more it seemed to grow. “This is what you do to me, Jane,” he said in a voice raw with hunger. He grabbed her hand to press it against him there. “I’ve desired you from the day we first met.” As his flesh moved beneath the stockinette, she swallowed. “I don’t recall ever seeing you like this back then--all…big and thrusting. I think I would have noticed.” He choked back a laugh. “It’s the sort of thing a gentleman generally takes great pains to keep his lady from seeing. But tonight you’re making it difficult for me to behave.” “Good! I don’t want you to behave. I want you to be wicked.” She fondled him shamelessly. “With me.” A harsh breath escaped him. “You have no idea what being wicked entails.” “Then perhaps you should show me.” His eyes glinted in the lantern light and he growled, “Perhaps I should.

Well?” Baird gestured again, obviously waiting for her to precede him but still Liv hung back. “Uh…I think I forgot something on the ship,” she said, backing away. “Do you mind if I go get it?” “You didn’t bring anything to forget.” There was a definite hint of impatience in the deep, growling voice. “Are you coming in or not?” “I choose not.” Liv shook her head. “I just…I don’t think so. No thanks.” Baird looked at her with obvious disbelief. “You have to come in—this is where I live. Where else would you stay?” “Um—well, do you guys have guest rooms or anything like that? I mean, it’s a big ship so you must have someplace else, right?” Liv was feeling more and more nervous and it wasn’t just the fact that he was big and dangerous and scary looking. She had a feeling that if she went into his suite, that she might not come out again as the same person. That somehow being near him twenty-four/seven for the next month would change her, make her lose control. “Olivia, you can’t stay in the guest quarters. You’re my bride and this is our claiming period.” The big warrior was practically growling with impatience. “What’s the problem?” “How can you ask me that?” she flared at him, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. “You stand there staring at me like I’m an antelope and you’re a really hungry lion and you’ve told me about twelve times how you can’t wait to get me in bed, or up against the wall, or anywhere at all for that matter. And now you want to know why I’m scared to go into a dark room and be alone with you? What do you think I am—crazy?” He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I can’t believe this. Haven’t I told you I would never hurt you?” Liv frowned up at him. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure about your definition of ‘hurt.’ I mean, forced sex isn’t always painful but just because it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it isn’t rape.” “Is that what you think of me? That I want to take you by force?” He swooped down on her suddenly, eyes blazing a molten gold. Liv backed up but before she knew it she was pinned against one cold metal wall with his thick, muscular arms on either side of her and his face inches from hers. “Well what am I supposed to think?” she demanded, hoping her voice didn’t tremble too much. “You can think whatever you want, Olivia, but you should know one thing.” He leaned even closer, his hot breath stirring her hair as he murmured in her ear. “When I take you—because I will take you—make no mistake about that,” he said, cutting off her protest. “When I do, I promise you’ll want it every bit as bad as I do. You’ll beg for it, Linlenta. Beg to have my shaft inside you, filling you up as I bond you to me forever.” “You arrogant bastard.” Liv narrowed her eyes at him. “You must have a pretty high opinion of yourself if you think I’ll welcome you with open arms and beg for more.” “It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact.

palate is a wall or septum that separates the oral cavity from the nasal cavity, forming the roof of the mouth. This important structure makes it possible to chew and breathe at the same time. The hard palate—the anterior portion of the roof of the mouth—is formed by the maxillae and palatine bones and is covered by a mucous membrane; it forms a bony partition between the oral and nasal cavities. The soft palate, which forms the posterior portion of the roof of the mouth, is an arch-shaped muscular partition between the oropharynx and nasopharynx that is lined with mucous membrane. Hanging from the free border of the soft palate is a conical ¯ muscular process called the uvula ( U-vu¯ -la � little grape). During swallowing, the soft palate and uvula are drawn superiorly, closing off the nasopharynx and preventing swallowed • C L I N I C A L C O N N E C T I O N Per i toni t is A common cause of peritonitis, an acute inflammation of the peritoneum, is contamination of the peritoneum by infectious microbes, which can result from accidental or surgical wounds in the abdominal wall, or from perforation or rupture of abdominal organs.If, for example, bacteria gain access to the peritoneal cavity through an intestinal perforation or rupture of the appendix, they can produce an acute, life-threatening form of peritonitis. A less serious (but still painful) form of peritonitis can result from the rubbing together of inflamed peritoneal surfaces. Peritonitis is of particularly grave concern to those who rely on peritoneal dialysis, a procedure in which the peritoneum is used to filter the blood when the kidneys do not function properly (see page 1048). •

We weaken—not strengthen—our faith when we silence sincere questions. Faith in Christ is not an airy substance that rests on unquestioning souls. Biblical faith is muscular, thickened more through trials than ease.[2] To strengthen our faith in God, we need to be honest when we are disillusioned with God.

cortical inhibition. This is your nervous system’s response to injury, where neurons that control muscular force production around the injured area are selectively inhibited. This is another reason why training through joint pain is a fool’s errand.

Eccentric contraction: A contraction where the muscle lengthens under load or tension. Think of this as the lowering or lengthening phase of an exercise. For example, the downward phase of a push-up forces your chest muscles to lengthen and simultaneously contract to control the lowering movement. By definition, eccentric contractions occur when the opposing force is greater than the muscular contraction force.

Even though you might think of muscular force as the process of muscle fibers contracting, much of the force production process depends on connective tissue.

muscular endurance in your low back (the most common pain point) is more important than muscular strength or mobility.

Upwards of 80% of muscular force produced transfers to surrounding connective tissue

From an athletic training perspective, collagen synthesis should get the same amount of attention as muscular strength, speed, and performance training.

Each has a different role in the muscular force production process, which depends not only on its anatomical structure but also on the collagen content and arrangement

More than any other location in your muscular system, the MTJ acts as a shock absorber and spring during explosive movements.

Take the case of Jackson Silva, who as a newborn in 2014, started showing signs of pain and was diagnosed with a form of spinal muscular atrophy. When his parents were informed that nothing could be done, they found a clinical trial in Ohio. “Jackson was the third child in the world to receive treatment. And while 90% of children with SMA pass away before the age of two, and 50% pass away before 6 months old, Jackson is still here because of the investigational drug he is receiving. Jackson’s parents want all children with SMA to have access to this drug, not just the lucky few who have been accepted into a clinical trial.”5 For those interested, please visit RightToTry.Org.

Shiva raised both his arms in an elegant circular movement to the sides to bring them in line with his shoulder. His right hand was holding an imaginary dumru, a small, handheld percussion instrument. His left hand was open with its palm facing upward, almost like it was receiving some divine energy. He held this pose for some time; his glowing face indicated that Shiva was withdrawing into his inner world. His right hand then moved effortlessly forward, almost as if it had a mind of its own. Its palm was now open and facing the audience. Somehow, the posture seemed to convey a feeling of protectiveness to a very surprised Sati. Almost languidly, his left arm glided at shoulder height and came to rest with the palm facing downwards and pointing at the left foot. Shiva held this pose for some time. And then began the dance. Sati stared in wonder at Shiva. He was performing the same steps as her. Yet it looked like a completely different dance. His lyrical hand movements graced the mystical motion of his body. How could a body this muscular also be so flexible? The Guruji tried helplessly to get his dhol to give Shiva the beats. But clearly that wasn’t necessary. As it was Shiva’s feet which were leading the beat for the dhol! The dance conveyed the various emotions of a woman. In the beginning it conveyed her feelings of joy and lust as she cavorted with her husband. The next emotion was anger and pain at the treacherous killing of her mate. Despite his rough masculine body, Shiva managed to convey the tender yet strong emotions of a grieving woman. Shiva’s eyes were open. But the audience realised that he was oblivious to them. Shiva was in his own world. He did not dance for the audience. He did not dance for appreciation. He did not dance for the music. He danced only for himself. In fact, it almost seemed like his dance was guided by a celestial force. Sati realised that Shiva was right. He had opened himself and the dance had come to him. After what seemed like an eternity the dance came to an end, with Shiva’s eyes firmly shut. He held the final pose for a long time as the glow slowly left him. It was almost as if he was returning to this world. Shiva gradually opened his eyes to find Sati, Krittika and the Guruji gaping at him wonder-struck.

It was not difficult for an intelligent physicist to understand what was behind his gazes. The longer we sit, the more he looks at my smallest detail, he keeps looking at my lips, my neck, and my shoulders, with a gaze full of passion. Shy but still a female, who will not fail to feel a man’s desires toward her which is one of her most important strengths that was inherited from her ancestors. She looks away, but still sees her surroundings with a wider panoramic view than a man does. her sensors pick up risks, feelings, and repressed desires, many times as much as he can. It is enough for her to stand in front of the wardrobe and without moving her head or her eyes, she sees all its contents, she finds what she wants in a second, while a man has to move his eyes, head, and probably most of his organs and all of his senses to find what he is looking for, and often fails. Thus, our mind has developed these physical abilities, over thousands of years, as needed. The man’s need was to focus on his arrow and his prey, and his foresight has evolved, it has become more focused, while the woman’s need is to protect the home and children from dangers, her panoramic view has evolved to see her surroundings more broadly than the man’s. So, our mind programmed itself, and in this way, it developed our abilities. What it does not need, it leaves or neglects until this thing withers and dies, but what it thinks is important or needed, it keeps, strengthens it. Necessity is the key to evolution. Even athletes are well aware of this: in the body-building halls, they gradually lift weights, to force their brains to feed and build muscles. And as long as they’re still in pain to lift a weight, their brains realize they need more muscle power, so they can handle that weight without danger, and the brain starts to protein the muscles, thereby strengthening them and increasing their size. If it didn’t find enough protein in the diet, it creates it. As the muscles became stronger, and the weight on the trainee became easier to carry, he increased it, and the brain began to strengthen the muscles more to handle the new weight. If the muscle ceases to gain weight, it freezes at enough force and size to carry the current weight. The principle of negligence and usage; what has a need remains, and what has no need perishes. But Mousa’ need recently while going to the bodybuilding gym is not to stimulate the mind to meet his muscular needs. Rather, his causes are more profound, dangerous, and insane… But whom of us would need this?

In addition to this, chronically high levels of pressure upon nerve trunks is itself detrimental to their electrical activity, apart from such general circulatory complications. Some researchers have estimated that five pounds of pressure for five minutes on a nerve trunk can reduce its transmission efficiency by as much as forty per cent. In time, the results of these pressures can be the sharp ache of sciatica generated by the rotator muscles of the hip, numbness or tingling sensations in the hands from the neck muscles clamping down on the brachial plexus, chronic pains in the face and the head from pressure on the trigeminal nerve, and so on. And of course, since the nerve supply to internal organs can be similarly effected, such chronic constrictions can bring along a wide range of organ dysfunctions in its train of events as well—organ dysfunctions that can be extremely difficult to diagnose and treat because no “disease” state exists and no observable damage has been done to specific organ tissues. Indeed, the complications for circulation and neural transmission which follow in the wake of chronic muscular contraction present some of the gravest potential dangers for the health of the nervous system, and of the body as a whole. Loss of neural efficiency means a less and less vivid reception of the messages that the nerves convey, both from the sensory endings and to the motor units. And areas of the body that are not adequately irrigated stagnate precisely like the choked and swampy backwaters of a sluggish stream, creating septic situations that are ripe for discomfort, disease, and decay. Nor should we forget the facts that increasingly constricted capillaries require higher and higher blood pressure to make them function at all, and that once they either collapse from the muscles squeezing them or burst from increased blood pressure, they will be replaced with scar tissue and not by new capillaries, thus making the local loss permanent.

There seems to be a link between vitamin D deficiency and fibromyalgia and chronic pain. In addition, in the case of the muscular and skeletal pain of autoimmune or inflammatory origin, vitamin D is the treatment of choice due to its rate of remission in the order of 95% obtained by the protocol of Dr. Coimbra in his clinical practice.

Moral imagination means to view other people’s problems as if they were your own, and to begin to discern how to tackle those problems. And then to act accordingly. It summons us to understand and transcend the realities of current circumstances and to envision a better future for ourselves and others. Moral imagination starts with empathy, but it does not content itself simply to feel another’s pain. Empathy without action risks reinforcing the status quo. Rather, moral imagination is muscular, built from the bottom up and grounded through immersion in the lives of others. It involves connecting on a human level, analyzing the systemic issues at play, and only then envisioning how to go beyond applying a Band-Aid to making a long-term difference.

My mind replayed the evening’s events over and over, until exhaustion tangled the thoughts, and began to merge them with dreams. I dreamed of a blue-green river, with sunlight gleaming off the magical, flow of the waterfall. The same place where I saw Cade for the first time. I was sitting alone on a blanket wearing a solid black, one-piece bathing suit. Cade slowly rose up out of the water. He smiled and waved then began swimming toward the riverbank. He stood up once he reached the shallow water. He was only wearing shorts, and the water glistened off his bronzed, muscular body. When he reached the blanket, he kneeled and kissed me passionately. Heat radiated through the core of my body, I slowly laid back and closed my eyes. He placed his hand on my thigh, and began gently stroking, but then more firmly, more violently. I suddenly felt pain instead of passion. I quickly opened my eyes. It wasn’t Cade anymore.

Without any supplementary body support, the victim would die from muscular spasms and asphyxia in a very short time, certainly within two or three hours. . . . In order to prolong the agony, Roman executioners devised two instruments that would keep the victim alive on the cross for extended periods of time. One, known as a sedile, was a small seat attached to the front of the cross, about halfway down. This device provided some support for the victim’s body. . . . Both Erenaeus and Justin Martyr describe the cross of Jesus as having five extremities rather than four; the fifth was probably the sedile. To increase the victim’s suffering, the sedile was pointed, thus inflicting horrible pain.