Olson Quotes

Any guilt borne by the casualties wrought by his hands had long ago been buried by the honor of the cause. That was enough for Olson. He’d been programmed to think about the cause. Nothing else mattered. He knew that by exterminating the bad guys, he was pro­tecting the good guys.

Successful people do what unsuccessful people are not willing to do.

Love is a fake!” Olson was blaring. “There are three great truths in the world and they are a good meal, a good screw, and a good shit, and that’s all!

The truth is, what you do matters. What you do today matters. What you do every day matters. Successful people just do the things that seem to make no difference in the act of doing them and they do them over and over and over until the compound effect kicks in.

The journey starts with a single step—not with thinking about taking a step.

Joys come from simple and natural things; mist over meadows, sunlight on leaves, the path of the moon over water. Even rain and wind and stormy clouds bring joy.

Whatever you have to say, leave The roots on, let them Dangle And the dirt Just to make clear Where they come from.

Successful people do whatever it takes to get the job done, whether or not they feel like it.

Some of these guys will go on walking long after the laws of biochemistry and handicapping have gone by the boards. There was a guy last year that crawled for two miles at four miles an hour after both of his feet cramped up at the same time, you remember reading about that? Look at Olson, he's worn out but he keeps going. That goddam Barkovitch is running on high-octane hate and he just keeps going and he's as fresh as a daisy. I don't think I can do that. I'm not tired -not really tired- yet. But I will be." The scar stood out on the side of his haggard face as he looked ahead into the darkness "And I think... when I get tired enough... I think I'll just sit down

Instead of writing down what you’re going to do (chances are you’ve been doing that your whole adult life anyway, and it doesn’t make you any better at doing them), write down at the end of the day what you did do that day.

Wilderness to the people pf America is a spiritual necessity, an antidote to the high pressure of modern life, a means of regaining serenity and equilibrium.

The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson (attrib.)

Knowledge is the harvest of attention

Sometimes you need to slow down to go fast.

A poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it (he will have some several causations), by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader.

this is the abstract, this is the cold doing, this is the almost impossible

I spent most of my life believing l was crazy because all the crazy things I experienced in childhood were treated as nonexistent or normal. This belief colored every decision made, from something so basic as what to wear today, to the more esoteric boundaries of whether I should kill myself. I understood very well that killing myself under the wrong circumstances would establish my insanity forever. So I analyzed every word, every gesture, before committing myself. (Which probably accounts for why I am alive today.)

The reality is, no matter what you were told, whatever happened to you as a child was not legally or morally your fault. Abused children are instilled with guilt regarding their "participation." It's an especially complex issue if the abuser is a family member. The child is told and believes that by his word his family will disintegrate, or harm may descend upon other loved ones. He fears he will lose more by telling than not.

Survival is fighting, every single day, to climb out of the ruins and into the unknown, come what may. We are all as strong as we have to be.

Any time you see what looks like a breakthrough, it is always the end result of a long series of little things, done consistently over time.

There are two kinds of habits: those that serve you, and those that don’t.

People on the success curve live a life of responsibility. They take full responsibility for who they are, where they are, and everything that happens to them.

Showing up is essential. Showing up consistently is powerful. Showing up consistently with a positive outlook is even more powerful.

A love for books is the best indicator of a curious mind.

You're dumb, Garraty. You and me and Pearson and Barkovitch and Stebbins, we're all dumb. Scramm's dumb because he thinks he understands and he doesn't. Olson's dumb because he understood too much too late.

If they want me to be a nightmare, then a nightmare I shall be.

I imagine the Wolves are sandcastles, easily crushed and easily washed away. I imagine there will be a day when they are nothing but a memory.

Art holds magic. It captures how it feels to be alive, with all its aches and sorrows and joy.

Being in a state of denial is a universally human response to situations which threaten to overwhelm. People who were abused as children sometimes carry their denial like precious cargo without a port of destination. It enabled us to survive our childhood experiences, and often we still live in survival mode decades beyond the actual abuse. We protect ourselves to excess because we learned abruptly and painfully that no one else would.

of rhythm is image/ of image is knowing/ of knowing there is/ a construct

take care with what you think. Because what you think, multiplied by action plus time, will create what you get.

I’ve been fighting so hard for so long, clinging desperately to the things that I can control. Perhaps it’s time to accept that there are things I cannot and never will be able to control. And maybe it’s time to stop punishing myself for those things.

Yesterday that new lipstick made me very happy," I tell the counselor. "But today, it just doesn't seem like enough.

Is it not the play of the mind we are after? Is it not that that shows a mind is there at all?

Vanilla people are very quick to judge what they don’t understand.

As soon as politicians have learnt to buy political support from the ‘public purse’, and conditioned electorates to embrace looting and bribery, the democratic process reduces itself to the formation of (Mancur Olson’s) ‘distributional coalitions’ – electoral majorities mortared together by common interest in a collectively advantageous pattern of theft.

...only when one comes to listen, only when one is aware and still, can things be seen and heard.

The original in man is that which articulates him from the very outset upon something other than himself.

There is a natural progression to everything in life: plant, cultivate, harvest.

The difficult is what takes a little time; the impossible is what takes a little longer.

No matter how many paintbrushes I might use or which colors I might blend, I could never capture this moment. This moment that a past me might have found flawed. This moment that is so unutterably flawless.

It was the way he looked at me when he climbed on top of me that excited me the most. The look of pure dominance that told me that this was going to go his way and not mine made me so eager for it that I pulled him down gruffly toward me and kissed him deeply.

Olson sat up. He put his hands against his belly and stared calmly at the poised soldiers on the deck of the squat vehicle. the soldiers stared back. 'You bastards!' McVries sobbed. 'You bloody bastards!' Olson began to get up. Another volley of bullets drove him flat again. Now there was a sound from behind Garraty. He didn't have to turn his head to know it was Stebbins. Stebbins was laughing softly. Olson sat up again. The guns were still trained on him, but the soldiers did not shoot. Their silhouettes on the halftrack seemed almost to indicate curiosity. Slowly, reflectively, Olson gained his feet, hands crossed on his belly. He seemed to sniff the air for direction, turned slowly in the direction of the Walk, and began to stagger along.

Before you disagree make sure you understand. In other words, we must make sure that we can describe another's theological position as he would describe it before we criticize or condemn. Another guiding principle should be 'Do not impute to others beliefs you regard as logically entailed by their beliefs but that they explicitly deny'.

The paranormal world is a much more desired realm. There’s no limit to possibilities, no comparison to probabilities, no concept of actualities. There’s no solid platform for racism, judgment or hierarchy. It is exactly the manifestation you choose it to be, darkness and death included.

I shook my head. "Not Interested" I said. he straightened up. "Not interested in what?" In you." I couldn't be more blunt. Excuse me, miss, but I was going to ask if you would like to sign up for karaoke.

HANDCUFFS (hănd kŭfs) n. Trendy techno-pop jewelry worn by the poor.

A man can fail many times, but he isn’t a failure until he begins to blame somebody else.

A poem is a ‘line’ between any two points in creation.

O.K. I'm running out of appetite. Let this swirl— a bit like Crab Nebula— do for now.

anything worth having is worth paying that price for.

the soul is / proprioceptive

I pretend to be human, but the mirror does not lie.

Nature's a balance. There's always a price. For every give, there's a take, and for every success, a sacrifice.

At root what is, is no longer THINGS but what happens BETWEEN things, these are the terms of the reality contemporary to us – and the terms of what we are. Olson (1983)

Religion is the politics of spirituality.

Distributional coalitions slow down a society's capacity to adopt new technologies and to reallocate resources in response to changing conditions, and thereby reduce the rate of economic growth.

Trying to get rid of an unwanted habit is a bit like trying not to think about an elephant (the more you try not to think about it, the more you think about it). That’s because what you focus on, grows. Which is why people who put a lot of energy into focusing on what they don’t want, by talking about it, thinking about it, complaining about it, or fretting about it, usually get precisely that unwanted thing. It’s tough to get rid of the habit you don’t want by facing it head on. The way to accomplish it is to replace the unwanted habit with another habit that you do want. And creating new and better habits, ones that empower and serve you, is something you know how to do. You do it the same way you built any habit you have: one step at a time. Baby steps. The slight edge.

No, you're not getting exhausted yet, Garraty." [Stebbins] jerked a thumb at Olson's silhouette. "That's exhausted. He's almost through now." Garraty watched Olson, fascinated, almost expecting him to drop at Stebbins's word. "What are you driving at?" "Ask your cracker friend, Art Baker. A mule doesn't like to plow. But he likes carrots. So you hang a carrot in front of his eyes. A mule without a carrot gets exhausted. A mule with a carrot spends a long time being tired. You get it?" "No." Stebbins smiled again. "You will. Watch Olson. He lost his appetite for the carrot. He doesn't quite know it yet, but he has. Watch Olson, Garraty. You can learn from Olson." Garraty looked at Stebbins closely, not sure how seriously to take him. Stebbins laughed aloud. His laugh was rich and full-a startling sound that made other Walkers turn their heads. "Go on. Go talk to him, Garraty. And if he won't talk, just get up close and have a good look. It's never too late to learn.

I don’t claim to be a great Prodigy—or even a good one. But I’ve never let my own mediocrity stop me from trying.

He seems to know the ache I feel. The ache of trying so hard to be something that seems impossible. Of wanting desperately to do more, be more.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been trying to live up to this life he’s made for me. And I’ve come up short at every turn.

I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really. You get busy living, or get busy dying.” —Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption

And some more shocking news: your ship’s not coming—it’s already here. Docked and waiting. You already have the money. You already have the time. You already have the skill, the confidence. You already have everything you need to achieve everything you want.

Checking the address, he knocked on the door. The door opened a crack. “We’re closed.” He recognized those violet eyes. His throat went dry. “Oh. You again.” Her eyes narrowed as she chuckled. “You must have women throwing themselves at you with lines like that. What are you doing here?” “I came to see if Flynn Enterprises has made an offer to buy your property.” His gaze wandered against his better judgement. On his ship, she’d been wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Now her curves were covered by a quality replica of a pirate’s frock coat, complete with deck boots, a bandana covering her hair, and a single hoop earring. “Didn’t take you for a pirate earlier today.” “You seriously came over here to talk to a stranger about private financial information, and then you have the balls to comment on her work attire?” She raised a brow. “We’re hardly strangers.” He struggled to hold back a smile and offered his hand. “I don’t think I introduced myself earlier. I’m Colton. Colton Hayes.” She looked at his hand and finally opened the door. “Skye Olson. And apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.

Someday Never Comes “Some day my prince will come.…” Good old Walt Disney. Well, that may have worked out for Snow White. Back here on Earth, it’s a recipe for disappointment. In flesh-and-blood life, waiting for “some day” is no strategy for success, it’s a cop-out. What’s more, it’s one that the majority follow their whole lives. Someday, when my ship comes in … Someday, when I have the money … Someday, when I have the time … Someday, when I have the skill … Someday, when I have the confidence … How many of those statements have you said to yourself? Have I got some sobering news for you: “some day” doesn’t exist, never has, and never will. There is no “some day.” There’s only today. When tomorrow comes, it will be another today; so will the next day. They all will. There is never anything but today.

Of course, fall isn't just about preparing for winter. It's also about sitting on the patio in a worn wool sweater and warming your hands over the swirl of steam rising from a coffee cup. It's about walking across a darkened yard and seeing a flight of geese cross the face of a full moon. It's about settling in, relishing sights and sensations of a world slowing down.

Wholly absorbed into my own conduits to an inner nature or subterranean lake the depths or bounds of which I more and more explore and know more of, in that sense that other than that all else closes out and I tend further to fall into the Beloved Lake and I am blinder from spending time as insistently in and on this personal preserve from which what I do do emerges more well-known than other ways and other outside places which don’t give as much and distract me from keeping my attentions as clear Charles Olson, "Additions", March 1968—2

Old-growth forests met no needs. They simply were, in a way that bore no questions about purpose or value. They could not be created by men. They could not even be understood by men. They had too many parts that were interconnected in too many ways. Change one part and everything else would change, but in ways that were unpredictable and often inexplicable. This unpredictability removed such forests from the realm of human perspectives and values. The forest did not need to justify or explain itself. It existed outside of instrumental human considerations.

I could tell you that if you would agree to read ten pages of one of these good books every single day, over time, you could not help but accumulate all the knowledge you’d ever need to be as successful as you could ever want to be. Like a penny over time, reading ten pages a day would compound, just like that, and create inside you a ten-million-dollar bank of knowledge. If you kept this up for a year, you would have read 3,650 pages—the equivalent of one or two dozen books of life-transforming material. Would your life have changed? Absolutely. No question.

One must consider that small children are virtually incapable of making much impact on their world. No matter what path taken as a child, survivors grow up believing they should have done something differently. Perhaps there is no greater form of survivor guilt than “I didn't try to stop it." Or “I should have told." The legacy of a helpless, vulnerable, out-of-control, and humiliated child creates an adult who is generally tentative, insecure, and quite angry. The anger is not often expressed, however, as it is not safe to be angry with violent people. Confrontation and conflict are difficult for many survivors.

HALLUCINATION (hə lū sə nā shən) n. The tingle of happiness when two humans fall in love. See Agreement; God; Laughter; Love; Marriage; Oasis; Optimism; Progress; Supreme Being.

To say a situation is ‘lost’ or hopeless is in one sense equivalent to saying it is perfect, for in both cases efforts at improvement can bring no positive results.

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.

Being kind is much more important than being able to give impressive speeches, and creativity is the sign of a brilliant mind.

Sometimes I consider chopping my hair down to a nice manageable three inches, but I would miss it too much. It’s less useful and more confidence-boosting, like Superman’s cape.

His accent was absolutely delicious and I didn’t mind talking to him for a little while.

I had no schedule, no plan for today or the next, or the week after. Everything in my life just seemed to kind of roll together, collect speed and go thundering downhill.

Love cannot be hidden. It even shines in the darkest places." ~ Carla Olson Gade, The Shadow Catcher's Daughter

If you’ve ever been told, “You’ll get it if you just want it bad enough,” I’m here to let you off the hook: it simply isn’t true.

To hell with you. You just don't want to admit it. Those people, they're animals. They want to see someone's brains on the road, that's why they turn out. They'd just as soon see yours." "That isn't the point," McVries said calmly. "Didn't you say you went to see the Long Walk when you were younger?" "Yes, when I didn't know any better!" "Well, that makes it okay, doesn't it?" McVries uttered a short, ugly-sounding laugh. "Sure they're animals. You think you just found out a new principle? Sometimes I wonder just how naive you really are. The French lords and ladies used to screw after the guillotinings. The old Romans used to stuff each other during the gladiatorial matches. That's entertainment, Garraty. It's nothing new." He laughed againd. Garraty stared at him, fascinated. [...] "Death is great for the appetites," McVries said. [...] "But even that's not the real point of this little expedition, Garraty. The point is, they're the smart ones. They're not getting thrown to the lions. They're not staggering along and hoping they won't have to take a shit with two warnings against them. You're dumb, Garraty. You and me and Pearson and Barkovitch and Stebbins, we're all dumb. Scramm's dumb because he thinks he understands and he doesn't. Olson's dumb because he understood too much too late. They're animals, all right. But why are you so goddam sure that makes us human beings?" He paused, badly out of breath. [...] "Then why are you doing it? Garraty asked him. "If you know that much, and if you're that sure, why are you doing it?" "The same reason we're all doing it," Stebbins said. He smiled gently, almost lovingly. His lips were a little sun-parched; otherwise, his face was still unlined and seemingly invincible. "We want to die, that's why we're doing it. Why else, Garraty? Why else?

Surely we can only come to understand each other's beliefs by means of direct encounter and open, honest discussion. In the meantime, many free churches invite all believers in Jesus Christ to the Table for the sake of true spiritual unity that transcends intellectual differences of interpretation. Withholding sacramental sharing on the basis of disagreement about the nature of the Lord's Supper seems odd to us. What two people think exactly alike about the act? We are not offended by Catholics' closed Communion, but we find it odd and exclusive. It places intellectual understanding above fellowship among disciples of Jesus Christ.

Down through the druid wood I saw Wildman join with Cleaver Creek, put on weight, exchange his lean and hungry look for one of more well-fed fanaticism. Then came Chichamoonga, the Indian Influence, whooping along with its banks war-painted with lupine and columbine. Then Dog Creek, then Olson Creek, then Weed Creek. Across a glacier-raked gorge I saw Lynx Falls spring hissing and spitting from her lair of fire-bright vine maple, claw the air with silver talons, then crash screeching into the tangle below. Darling Ida Creek slipped demurely from beneath a covered bridge to add her virginal presence, only to have the family name blackened immediately after by the bawdy rollicking of her brash sister, Jumping Nellie. There followed scores of relatives of various nationalities: White Man Creek, Dutchman Creek, Chinaman Creek, Deadman Creek, and even a Lost Creek, claiming with a vehement roar that, in spite of hundreds of other creeks in Oregon bearing the same name, she was the one and only original...Then Leaper Creek...Hideout Creek...Bossman Creek...I watched them one after another pass beneath their bridges to join in the gorge running alongside the highway, like members of a great clan marshaling into an army, rallying, swelling, marching to battle as the war chant became deeper and richer.

Your happiness is affected by 1) your outlook, that is, how you choose to view the events and circumstances of your everyday life; 2) specific actions with positive impact—things like writing down three things your grateful for, or sending appreciative emails, doing random acts of kindness, practicing forgiveness, meditating, and exercising; and 3) where you put your time and energy, and especially investing more time into important relationships and personally meaningful pursuits.

You’re right,” he says, his voice quiet but certain. “This anxiety will always be a part of me. It’s not going anywhere, and I’m going to have to live with it for the rest of my life. But I am not broken because of it.” The governor opens his mouth to speak, but August goes on, his grip on me tight and solid. “I’ve been apologizing to you for who I am for years, but I’m done believing the lie you’ve fed to me, the lie that says I’m less of a man because I’m not exactly like you. The lie that says I deserve less respect because I struggle.” He lifts his chin. “I’m far stronger than you’ll ever be. Because I’ve fought for every victory. Because those fights have taught me compassion and kindness. They’ve taught me to see the world for what it is, not for what I think it should be. So step aside, Father. I’m done minimizing my greatness so you can feel superior.

..this is your dream. Every moment, all of it. Even when you're tired or afraid. You're braver than you realize, and you will do this, and do it well." ~ Carla Olson Gade, The Shadow Catcher's Daughter

The inescapable truth... is that, within a miraculously short period of five years, your Government reduced this country from a position of world supremacy and absolute security to one of mortal peril. It took the Roman Empire a hundred years of the most enjoyable decadence to achieve the same result.

If he stays inside himself, if he is contained within his nature as he is participant in the larger force, he will be able to listen, and his hearing through himself will give him secrets objects share.

You were right. Everything I’ve been doing has been all for the wrong reasons. Solely to make my parents happy. To do what was expected of me, what would make me look like less of a failure.” He lets out a slow breath. “I’m done pretending to be what the want me to be. I’m ready to live my life the way I want it.

She never typed her real name into her netbook in case it got key-logged, had no physical hard drive, and would boot up from a tiny microSD card that she could quickly swallow if the police ever came to her door.

Natural disasters are revelatory. The manner in which a society interprets a catastrophe and responds to the chaos exposes many of the accepted truths, prejudices, hopes, and fears of a culture. —Nicholas Shrady, The Last Day

Things like taking a few dollars out of a paycheck, putting it into savings, and leaving it there. Or doing a few minutes of exercise every day—and not skipping it. Or reading ten pages of an inspiring, educational, life-changing book every day. Or taking a moment to tell someone how much you appreciate them, and doing that consistently, every day, for months and years. Little things that seem insignificant in the doing, yet when compounded over time yield very big results. You could call these “little virtues” or “success habits.” I call them simple daily disciplines. Simple productive actions, repeated consistently over time. That, in a nutshell, is the slight edge.

You get to choose, Myra,” August says quietly, as though reading my mind. He takes the notebook back and tucks it into his pocket. “Choose what?” I ask on a breath. “Which you want to be.” His words are soft, but they strike me to my core. I can choose to imprison my heart, be the warden and executioner of my own dreams… Or I could liberate myself from the weight of all the guilt I carry for the many ways my life has become so far out of control.

I could barely manage to talk to you when we first met. Imagine me in front of a crowd of strangers.” Was that what his cold indifference had been? Fear? “I guess people aren’t really your thing?” I ask. “That’s an understatement.

Do the thing, and you shall have the power.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson Essay on Compensation

I've been depressed all day. I feel like such a fraud. People say how special and wonderful I am. I think, "Can't they tell? " —Nita, September 18, 1984

HADES (hā dēz) n. To those with eyes to see, the surface of the Earth.

Your mind is stronger than your circumstances. Remember that.

Thank you to those gentle, dancing lights in my life for remembering that within this monster under my skin, there is a throbbing, beating heart of magic.

we’re inclined to say what we think, even when we have not thought very much.

You may not have loved me,' I whisper, my tears dropping onto his face and trailing down the smile lines around his mouth. 'But I loved you, and my love was never a lie.

Despite what my mother thinks, I’m not totally inept,” August says quietly. “Let me help you.

You said yourself you didn’t like him.” He frowns. “Just because I didn’t like him doesn’t mean I didn’t love him. He was my brother. Surely I shouldn’t have to explain that.

Why are you wincing like that?” “I’m not wincing. This is just my face.

Fainting is for preteen girls and those really weird goats. I do not faint!

Killing someone in the middle of the sentence leaves a disturbing lack of closure.

It’s never too late to start. It’s always too late to wait.

The predominant state of mind displayed by those people on the failure curve is blame. The predominant state of mind displayed by those people on the success curve is responsibility.

Every morning write down three new things you’re grateful for. Journal for two minutes a day about a positive experience from the past 24 hours. Meditate daily for a few minutes. At the start of every day, write an email to someone praising or thanking them. Get fifteen minutes of simple cardio exercise a day.

Show up. Show up consistently. Show up consistently with a positive outlook. Be prepared for and committed to the long haul. Cultivate a burning desire backed by faith. Be willing to pay the price. And do the things you’ve committed to doing—even when no one else is watching.

July 15, 1991 Nita: My mother was a paragon of our neighborhood, People always come up to us with hugs, saying "You have the most wonderful mother." l'd think. “Don't you see what's going on in this house?” To this day, if somehow even in jest raises their hand to me, I will do this (raises hands to protect face and cowers) I cringe. Then they look at me like, what's your probem? You don't get that from a great childhood.

some men expressed the view that it can be easier to come out as gay in their communities of faith than to come out as religiously oriented in the gay community. . . To suggest that people must choose between their sexual orientation or their religious beliefs can only prolong their internal dissonance.

In the process of learning to walk, did you spend more time falling down or standing up? If you were anything like most babies, you failed (fell) far more than you succeeded (walked). It didn’t matter: you were on the path of mastery.

I could tell him I love him, but love seems too cliché, too overdone. I feel love, but I also feel jokes and front porch fights, pinky promises and friendship bracelets. I feel rolling my eyes when he made fun of my favorite songs, yelling at him when he paired up with Ashley Olson on our seventh-grade field day. I feel love, but I also feel our history, years and years of choosing him, the good and bad, highs and lows. Choosing to love. Not despite the flaws. Because of them. Because the mistakes prove we were together long enough to make them. Because we knew each other at our worst and even then, no one else compared.

They think they can keep me here. That the iron and stone will intimidate me. That darkness will break me. They forgot I was raised in the darkness, that I've been imprisoned my whole life. They can threaten me with blade or poison or death, but they cannot make me afraid. Not anymore. I close my eyes and wait.

There’s only one condition to this outing.” “Oh, you asked me, and now you’re saying it’s conditional?” I raise a brow. “What kind of gentleman are you anyway?” “I’m charming.” “Is that what they’re calling ‘incorrigible’ these days?

No truth is more pervasive in Scripture and Christian tradition than this one—that real freedom is found in obedience and servanthood. And yet no truth is more incongruent with modern culture. Here we stand before a stark either-or: the gospel message of true freedom versus the culture's ideal of self-creation, autonomy, and living "my way.

Maybe that's what the answer really is to the aches and the toils of this cruel world. Finding people we can lean on and love. Because no matter how many paintbrushes I might use or which colors I might blend, I could never capture this moment. This moment that a past me might have found flawed. This moment that is so unutterably flawless.

The great Baseball Hall-of-Famer Tom Seaver put it perfectly: In baseball, my theory is to strive for consistency, not to worry about the numbers. If you dwell on statistics you get shortsighted; if you aim for consistency, the numbers will be there at the end.

My whole life is mapped out, and that map doesn’t include any detours for things like poetry readings, literary accolades, or publications.” “Can’t you do both?” He snorts. “You obviously haven’t met my father.” “No, I’m afraid I haven’t yet had the pleasure.” “He’s a strict man with very rigid ideas about what sorts of things are worthy uses of time.

Because time will either promote you or expose you.

The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Survival is born as much from fear as it is from bravery.

It's the forgetting that's the hardest. And the remembering, too.

Because what you need to transform your life is not more information.

Then he smiled, and his face looked for a moment

For now, I want you to just sit there. I’ll let you know when you have permission to touch me, permission to touch yourself, and when the time comes, permission to come,

Bide the Wiccan Law ye must In perfect love and perfect trust Eight words the Wiccan Reed fulfill An' ye harm none, do what you will" - Unknown

Haven’t you guessed by now? I’m a monster. I don’t hide under your bed or in your closet. I don’t lurk in dark corners or only come out at night.

Remember: success does not lead to happiness—it’s the other way around.

I’m like one of those rich society girls—ridiculously famous in certain circles but only for stupid reasons.

never doubt that a single thoughtful, committed person can change the world.

So many assume what the world would be like when disaster comes upon them, but so few know.

Your income tends to equal the average income of your five best friends,

I was discovering that the cross of Christ meant more then joy and peace. It meant suffering, too- suffering that was necessary to bring a later hope.

could only fight evil so long without a bra.

It wasn’t the greatest bargain I’d ever made, but I didn’t see a lot of alternatives, short of moving into Charlie’s bedroom or trying to convince John to move to Belize.

For a moment I can almost imagine my mask is gone. That he's seeing me - all of me. Monster. Manipulator. Girl.

So let them come for me. I will burn them up until nothing remains but ashes and smoke.

Fulfillment doesn't automatically happen as a result of linking up with the "right" person, job, or even ministry. Fulfillment happens as a result of being in God's will.

Simplifying our temporal environment leads to discovery in the spiritual environment. Finding Christ opens the world we yearn to enter but cannot fathom on our own.

If there’s anything life has taught me, it’s that I can’t count on anyone but my sister. We’re all each other has.

I’ve never been great with people.

Every day since Will was born, it’s always been ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’ and ‘That’s not how Wilburt does it.

...he is handsome in the way you'd like your husband to be handsome. Someone you can look at for the rest of your life.

[He used] as English accent, for no apparent reason except that it's perhaps easier to say what's most true when you can pretend you're someone else.

it is just as easy to step back into the habit of succeeding as it is to slip into the habit of failing.

You don't know how to fight. You just leave it up to me.

We're alive because we're lucky, noy because we're better.

I deserved to be with a man that truly loved me, no matter how different I was. I deserved to be with a man who saw past all of my faults, no matter how many I had. But most of all, I deserved to be with a man that would submerge himself as far into my darkness as I would into his.

But I have heard you sing. I've felt the vibratos and crescendos of your soul in every part of mine. You are no more a monster than I. You are a song. One composed of a thousand different instruments all perfectly harmonizing into the melody they were crafted to create. A masterpiece.

The Imagination is the Manifestation of the Visible from the Invisible. It is the Engine of the Unconscious, and it is there that all desires, all dreams, all plans, and all achievements are born.

It is often said that great works of art are “inexhaustible”—capable, as Stanley Olson put it, of “endless interpretation. But Lubin, the Charlotte C. Weber Professor of Art at Wake Forest University, demonstrates in painful if inadvertently hilarious detail that this does not mean that works of art are immune from - that they are not in fact often subject to—wild and perverse misinterpretation.

I always wondered what he looked like; if the devil was the beautiful fallen angel that bible camp led me to believe as a child or if he was as ugly as the intentions that swelled deep inside of him.

I’m sorry. I only thought about what it would have been like if I had been in your place. I didn’t stop to consider that it was unfair of me to assume we face the same battles in any given situation.

In fact, I think that our society expects schools to get students to the point where they do things only for outside rewards. People who perform tasks for their internal reasons are hard to control. Now, I don't think teachers get up in the morning and say to themselves, 'I', going to go to school today and take away all those young people's internal motivations' ...but that's exactly what often happens.

We say, "It wasn't that bad. It was all my fault. I’m making all this stuff up. " All my life, I spoke bitterly of my mother's treatment of me as a child. Friends asked, “What did she do to you?“ I couldn't really describe it, and in frustration would say, “Well, she didn't lock us up in closets." in fact, my mother behaved much worse than that, but by focusing on the empty closet, I avoided looking at what waited beyond it.

But could it have been so hard for my parents to acknowledge me? To love me the way they loved him? I’m their son, but everyone in this whole blasted country has forgotten I exist.” “As far as I’m concerned,” I say quietly, “you’re by far the most memorable person in your family, and for reasons that count.” He gives me a soft smile. “That’s very kind of you to say, but I’ve given up hoping my parents will ever see me as more than a disappointment.

Nita: I think I overdid the vulnerability stuff in this last letter. and that’s why I’m having an anxiety attack. Howard: With the vulnerability comes the possibility that you’ll be betrayed. Now that you’ve laid yourself wide open, I am the agent of this betrayal? It’s not my style. Nita: I’ve thought it wasn't other people’s style, too.

Shawn Achor’s five happy habits:   Every morning write down three new things you’re grateful for. Journal for two minutes a day about a positive experience from the past 24 hours. Meditate daily for a few minutes. At the start of every day, write an email to someone praising or thanking them. Get fifteen minutes of simple cardio exercise a day.

Everything is always in motion. Every day, every moment, your life path is either curving upward, or curving downward. Growing up we heard five times as many nos as yeses. Life has a downward pull. People on the success curve live in responsibility. People on the failure curve live in blame. People on the success curve are pulled by the future. People on the failure curve are pulled by the past. No matter where you are, at any moment you can choose to step onto the success curve.

Before you, music was just music. But not anymore. Where everything was dull and mute before, you've brought brightness and life. I don't want to lose that.' He grasps my arms and pulls me around to face him. 'Please don't go to that ball, Isda.

How do evil, death and deception find power over the Motilone people?' I asked. "Through the ears,' Bobby answered, because language is so important to the Motilones. It is the essence of life. If evil language comes through the ears, it means death.

There was no bombing of the U.S. mainland, no civilian casualties, no destruction of millions of homes. Indeed, while the standard of living plummeted for the vast majority of Britons during the war, many if not most Americans lived better than ever before.

Take Lucy as an example. Yes, she has an illness, and fools may claim that makes her weak, yet she is the furthest thing from weak I’ve ever known. She deals with everything I do—the grief of losing our parents, the fear of the unknown, even the days of hunger when we can’t afford meals—and then a whole array of things I don’t. Physical pain, eating restrictions, fatigue, not to mention the emotional weight of living in a world that refuses to accommodate her. As far as I’m concerned, I may be the one with magic, but she’s the truly powerful one. Because she’s fought where I have never had to.” I lean forward. “And if anyone ever even insinuated that her illness needed to be cured in order for to amount to anything, well…” My jaw tightened. “Let’s say I would have some very choice words for those people.

All too frequently in today's world, a Christian is defined on the basis of the horizontal relationship between oneself and "neighbor" rather than the vertical relationship with Deity. In this distorted view of Christianity, our relationship with others becomes more important than loving God, having faith in Christ, and being a devoted disciple of His gospel. If God isn't first, sooner or later He will simply be a nice embellishment to our lives. When we put God first, we are empowered to love each other better, even if our love is not at first understood. The trouble is that too often we ignore things that should be first in our lives and go after secondary things, thereby losing both.

Make them see your strength like you just made me see.” “I…I can’t,” he says. “You’re whole life, they’ve forced you aside, trampled over you because they’ve made you believe you have to earn their love by hiding the truth. Don’t give them that power. They don’t deserve it.” I step closer. “You are one of the fiercest people I know, and I hate watching them treat you like you need to be ashamed of the things that have made you that way.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Your battles are as valid as theirs, mine, as anyone’s. I’m sorry I let myself forget that.

I bet they’d be proud of you.” I shake my head. “They most certainly would not.” “What do you mean?” “I’ve sort of made a mess of things.” He gives a bleach chuckle. “Then we make a fine pair. I’ve been ruining my parents’ plans and embarrassing the family name basically since birth.

You’re very lucky you had such a good relationship with him. My father loathes me.” “Why?” “You know, to be honest, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m too much like him.” His expression sours. “He probably doesn’t like being reminded of his own worst traits. Can’t blame him for that, I suppose.

Oh, though: I should know by now that you can't always trust feelings-which is especially problematic when you can't even trust the things that masquerade as facts. Hindsight; that's the only thing worth trusting these days. Two roads diverge in a wood, and I-I take the one less traveled by.

No matter what you have done in your life up until today, no matter where you are and how far down you may have slid on the failure curve, you can start fresh, building a positive pattern of success, at any time. Including right now. But you need to have faith in the process, because you won’t see it happening at first.

Christ’s enabling power helps us feel happiness and cheer amid mortal gloom and doom. Misfortune and hardship lose their tragedy when viewed through the lens of the Atonement. The process could be explained this way: The more we know the Savior, the longer our view becomes. The more we see His truths, the more we feel His joy.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been trying to live up to this life he’s made for me. And I’ve come up short at every turn.” “I didn’t.” “And then there was me. So humiliatingly awkward. More elbows and knees than man. Terrible at mathematics, an embarrassment at public events, and to top it off, I inherited my grandmother’s damn ears.

I was looking at the sensoriums of heroes. I was sensing through the eyes and nose of Shelley and John Webster, and using the hearing and touch of Ginsberg and Duncan and Kerouac–– and the jazz lucidity of Creeley, and the Doug fir of Snyder, and the almost mystical, physical perceptions of D.H. Lawrence and of Olson himself. I was convinced that poetry was about, by, and from, the meat, that poetry was the product of flesh brushing itself against experience. We are seekers moving in the Tathagata brushing ourselves against the universe of the real, solid illusions. It is by our touches that we become ourselves –– as our ancestors became us and as we became our maturing, sharpening, brightening selves.

But a foreign army would actually have to occupy my country, build a Wall through my land, destroy my father’s livelihood, jeopardize my education, imprison my cousins, build a checkpoint between my pregnant sister and the hospital, bulldoze my neighbor’s house, and kill thousands of my countrymen in order for me to be able to really stand in their shoes.

You're right, though. You do deserve to dance, wear pretty dresses, and eat fine foods. You are worth celebrating.' Words have stuck in my throat. My body has gone completely numb. 'But they'll kill you if they find out the truth.' He pushes a lock of hair back over my shoulder. 'And a world without you in it? That's not a world I want to even imagine.

Warm tingles trail under my skin, and I shiver. “Please,” he says, dropping my hands so he can tuck one of his into my hair and tilt my head up to him. “Come with me to the symposium. And then come with me to the pub and the museum, to the park, to the sunset, to the sky.” His cinnamon breath is warm on my lips, and I remember the night on the balcony under the stars when I wanted so badly for him to close the distance between us. “You speak like a poet,” I whisper. When he laughs, I feel the rumble of it where my hands rest against his chest, and my whole body trembles. “Just say yes!” Lucy cries from behind the curtain. “For Artist’s sake, Myra!” “Go to sleep!” I shout back, not taking my eyes from August.

I’ve spent my whole life striving for perfection, running myself into the ground searching for how to make things right, how to control every outcome, every moment. But maybe perfection does not mean there aren’t things we wish were different. Maybe perfection comes from leaning into the things that we have to fight for because those are the things that bind us to the people worth keeping. Maybe that’s what the answer really is to the aches and the toils of this cruel world. Finding people we can lean on and love. Because no matter how many paintbrushes I might use or what colors I might blend, I could never capture this moment. This moment a past me might have found flawed. This moment that is so utterly flawless.

Don’t you understand? You are my entire life. Fighting this by your side isn’t holding me back. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” She hiccups against me as we cry together for several minutes, clinging to each other the way we always have. The two of us like a rock against a storm, a little huddled piece of security in a world set on tearing us down. Finally, Lucy’s sobs slow, and she sits back, rubbing the heels of her hands across her cheeks. “You know what else I feel?” “Tell me.” “Determined. I am still Lucy. I still want the same things I’ve always wanted.” She clenches her fists. “Yes, the path to my dreams may be harder and longer and far more painful than I want it to be. It may take me twice as much time and effort as someone else to attain my goals, but I will get there.” I brush the hair from her face. “And I will be there with you every step of that road, every doctor’s appointment, every treatment. I will find a job to pay for the things you need, and we will do this together. The highs and the lows. The successes and the failures. You do not have to climb this mountain alone.

Each morning, write down three things you’re grateful for. Not the same three every day; find three new things to write about. That trains your brain to search your circumstances and hunt for the positive. Journal for two minutes a day about one positive experience you’ve had over the past twenty-four hours. Write down every detail you can remember; this causes your brain to literally reexperience the experience, which doubles its positive impact. Meditate daily. Nothing fancy; just stop all activity, relax, and watch your breath go in and out for two minutes. This trains your brain to focus where you want it to, and not get distracted by negativity in your environment. Do a random act of kindness over the course of each day. To make this simple, Shawn often recommends a specific act of kindness: at the start of each day, take two minutes to write an email to someone you know praising them or thanking them for something they did. Exercise for fifteen minutes daily. Simple cardio, even a brisk walk, has a powerful antidepressant impact, in many cases stronger (and more long-lasting) than an actual antidepressant!

Objectivism is the getting rid of the lyrical interference of the individual as ego, of the “subject” and his soul, that peculiar presumption by which western man has interposed himself between what he is as a creature of nature (with certain instructions to carry out) and those other creations of nature which we may, with no derogation, call objects. For a man is himself an object, whatever he may take to be his advantages, the more likely to recognize himself as such the greater his advantages, particularly at that moment that he achieves an humilitas sufficient to make him of use. It comes to this: the use of a man, by himself and thus by others, lies in how he conceives his relation to nature, that force to which he owes his somewhat small existence. If he sprawl, he shall find little to sing but himself, and shall sing, nature has such paradoxical ways, by way of artificial forms outside of himself. But if he stays inside himself, if he is contained within his nature as he is participant in the larger force, he will be able to listen, and his hearing through himself will give him secrets objects share. And by an inverse law his shapes will make their own way. It is in this sense that the projective act, which is the artist’s act in the larger field of objects, leads to dimensions larger than the man. For a man’s problems, the moment he takes speech up in all its fullness, is to give his work his seriousness, a seriousness sufficient to cause the thing he makes to try to take its place alongside the things of nature. This is not easy.

I shudder, gasping for air. “Myra!” Something grips my shoulders, and I flail against it. “Breathe!” August’s voice is suddenly loud in my ears, and it jolts my vision clear. He moved his hands from my shoulders to my face, cupping either side of it, holding my gaze steady with his. “Breathe with me,” he says, more quietly this time. And then he inhales slowly. The dagger drops from my hand, clattering away on the floor, and I wrap my hands around his, grounding myself in them. And I breathe. Together, we stand in the sunlight. In and out. In and out. And slowly, ever so slowly, the tidal wave of panic and fear ebbs. Air fills my lungs, and my body sags. “I’m sorry,” I whisper after several moments. “Never apologize for feeling your fear,” August says, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Not to me.

I would have loved you forever,' he says, his breath hot on my mouth. I meet his gaze. 'And I will.' His mouth dips against mine once more, but this time it is soft and gently, quiet and questioning, as though he is exploring every inch of my lips with his so that he might memorize them. They are gentle kisses. Kisses that know they cannot last. Kisses that beg for just a breath longer. Kisses that mean goodbye.

This was the first of the St. Augustines. Previous memos had borne messages from Zwingli, Lévi-Strauss, Rilke, Chekhov, Tillich, William Blake, Charles Olson and a Kiowa chief named Satanta. Naturally the person responsible for these messages became known throughout the company as the Mad Memo-Writer. I never referred to him that way because it was much too obvious a name. I called him Trotsky. There was no special reason for choosing Trotsky; it just seemed to fit. I wondered if he was someone I knew. Everybody seemed to think he was probably a small grotesque man who had suffered many disappointments in life, who despised the vast impersonal structure of the network and who was employed in our forwarding department, the traditional repository for all sex offenders, mutants and vegetarians. They said he was most likely a foreigner who lived in a rooming house in Red Hook; he spent his nights reading an eight-volume treatise on abnormal psychology, in small type, and he told his grocer he had been a Talmudic scholar in the old country. This was the consensus and maybe it had a certain logic. But I found more satisfaction in believing that Trotsky was one of our top executives. He made eighty thousand dollars a year and stole paper clips from the office.

So, uh…” I gesture around the room with my other hand. “Who’s paying for all of this? Because I certainly can’t afford it.” “My father is, actually.” “But your father thinks I’m a demon.” A shy grin steals across August’s face. “It’s true, but I also pointed out that unless he did something substantial to help, you might not be willing to keep quiet about what Will did to your family.” “You blackmailed him?” My brows rise. “I did.” He grins, almost bashful. I squeeze his hand again. “Thank you. I can’t imagine what a difficult conversation that must have been for you.” “I’ll be completely honest, seeing you like that…You looked dead, Myra. I was so angry, it took all my self-control not to throttle the man.” I snort. “I would pay good money to see that.” “Well, I, unlike some people, actually know how to use a broadsword.” “How hard is it to hack and stab? I mean, honestly.

I was going to do some more work when I got home, but…” She sighs, rubbing her knuckles against her eyes. “I didn’t have enough juice.” “Ah,” I say. For her birthday this summer, I splurged and bought a small bushel of oranges, which we squeezed into glasses and pretended was the real, gourmet orange juice our father used to make. As we sat at the table, acting like the drink wasn’t sour and pulpy, we got to talking about how her illness had come to affect her life. She explained to me that her energy reserves were like that glass of yellow juice. Every action of daily life—getting out of bed, bathing, dressing, doing research—siphoned juice away. Once the glass was empty, no matter how much she had left she needed to do or how much she’d hoped to get done, her body needed to rest. To refill the glass. If she tried to push beyond that, it could knock her out for days. Even weeks.

You've seen my past. You know I'm not perfect.' 'That's not the point.' His jaw hardens. 'That's exactly the point. We're all monsters. Every single person in this Memory-damned world.' He places his hands on either side of my face. 'What someone looks like isn't what determines their humanity.' ... 'I may not be able to see your memories,' he murmurs, 'but I have heard you sing. I've felt the vibratos and crescendos of your soul in every part of mine. You are no more a monster than I. You are a song.

The maze looms ahead, its leafless branches dripping icicles like jagged claws. After taking my first three lefts, I come upon a tiny circular area with a frozen pond at its heart. One one side sits a bench in the sun. August, who was perched there, stands as soon as he sees me. “You found it.” “Yes. It was very difficult to follow those extremely complicated directions.” He frowns. “Wait, are you joking?” “No, no…there were two whole steps. Way too many to follow unless one happens to be a genius like I am.” A grin quirks the corner o his mouth. “You are joking.” “You are observant.” He points a menacing finger at me. “I’m the one who brought lunch. You be nice, or I won’t share.” “Are you threatening me, young Master Harris?” “What if I am?” “Then I’ll have you know that I learned how to use a longsword last night, so you should be very terrified.” “It was a broadsword, actually. For a genius, your memory needs work.” I throw him a mock glare. “For a gentleman, your manners need work.” He hisses as though burnt and laughs. “Do you want a sandwich or not?

What I wouldn’t give to have him look at me the way he looked at Will. Like I’m worth something. Like I’m an Artist-damned human being.” He tugs his gloves off one finger at a time. Pursing his lips, he holds his hands up so I can see the cracked cuticles. “They hate that I’m like this,” he says, his voice so quiet I have to lean in to hear him. “I try so hard to be the man who has it all together, who doesn’t worry, who’s solid as stone. And yet it’s never enough for them. Mother’s always looking for new treatments, a cure-all that would make me calm and collected like my brother, as though she cannot be happy with me as I am.” I grasp his hands and pull them down to his knees so I can meet his eyes. “You are not weak because you are not stone. In fact, I would say you’re stronger because you feel things so acutely. The internal battles you fight every day—you’ve conquered far more than you give yourself credit for. Despite what they’ve made you believe, you do not need to apologize for the things that make you different. And you shouldn’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies.

But I don’t do crowds.” “Why?” I search his face, desperate to understand, desperate to see. “Because that’s how it is.” “But—” “No. Don’t do that.” His voice hardens. I take a step back. “Do what?” “Stand there and tell me that if I just tried, if I just ‘put myself out there,’ I could get over it.” Though he’s still speaking barely above a whisper, it feels as though he’s shouting, and I take a step back. “Have you ever felt like your heart was about to beat itself to death? Like your lungs were seizing up? It’s not a pleasant experience. Your vision goes splotchy, and your body feels like it’s shredding itself inside. Hot sweats. Dry mouth. It feels like dying, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have to force myself to go through that because you think I should.” He pauses to take a slow breath and turns away. “The more I try to force myself to be something I’m not, the worse the attacks get. So no. I’m not going.

From assorted challenges, diverse gifts, unique personalities, and varied contributions, Mary and Martha lead us to the Necessary One--Jesus Christ. Like the sisters of Bethany, we do not fully acknowledge Him as necessary until we confront our lost and fallen condition without Him. Most often that occurs when we face a crisis greater than alternative methods can help us to survive. In such dire circumstances, when neither our finest skills nor those of anyone else on earth are effective, we become profoundly humble. We cry out to the One who is necessary, and we wait--wait for Him--because we realize that no other power can rescue us.

I am full of hope and light, power and fight. Viridians and alizarins and ultramarines swirl within me, and I weave my hands through his hair, feel those light lashes butterfly across my cheeks, taste cinnamon in his breath. “Ew are you two kissing? I’m right here,” Lucy says. August and I laugh and continue without pause. This kiss is not the passionate tryst that I always imagined a kiss would be. Our noses knock against each other, and I can’t quite figure out how to breathe. We break apart to laugh and then dive back in for more. I feel his smile against my own, and it sets my heart galloping. This is a kiss of light. Of hope. Of trust.

As it is there isn't a single thing isn't an opportunity for some 'alert' person, including practically everybody by the 'greed', that, they are 'alive', therefore. Etc. That, in fact, there are 'conditions'. Gravelly Hill or any sort of situation for improvement, when the Earth was properly regarded as a 'garden tenement messuage orchard and if this is nostalgia let you take a breath of April showers let's us reason how is the dampness in your nasal passage -- but I have had lunch in this 'pasture' (B. Ellery to George Girdler Smith 'gentleman' 1799, for £ 150) overlooking 'the town' sitting there like the Memphite lord of all Creation ... It is not bad to be pissed off

I'm sorry," he says, his fingers closing around mine. "You shouldn't be looking at such..." "Such what?" I ask, a question that is rapidly chased by another. "And why not?" He glances down at the pictures, then tears his gaze away, dragging it back to my face. "Well, because it's improper, for one thing." How cruel it would be of me to ask for a second thing, if only to watch him stumble and stammer while his gaze struggles not to dip down to those portraits a second time. "It may have escaped your notice at some point during our acquaintance, but I am a woman. And as shocking as it may be for you to believe, I have seen myself naked on more than one occasion, so you'll pardon me if I am not offended by anything these ladies have to offer.

As it is there isn't a single thing isn't an opportunity for some 'alert' person, including practically everybody by the 'greed', that, they are 'alive', therefore. Etc. That, in fact, there are 'conditions'. Gravelly Hill or any sort of situation for improvement, when the Earth was properly regarded as a 'garden tenement messuage orchard and if this is nostalgia let you take a breath of April showers let's us reason how is the dampness in your nasal passage -- but I have had lunch in this 'pasture' (B. Ellery to George Girdler Smith 'gentleman' 1799, for £150) overlooking 'the town' sitting there like the Memphite lord of all Creation with my back -- with Dogtown over the Crown of gravelly hill It is not bad to be pissed off

Some things are worth that kind of fight, Myra, and you are worth every fight.” “Are you sure?” My voice warbles dangerously close to sobs. He tosses his hat aside and gathers my fingers in both of his hands. “You make me happier being me than I’ve ever been in my life. I can’t tell you how freeing it is to be seen.” He pauses, offering me a tentative smile. “I can’t promise you I won’t mess up. I can’t promise that there won’t be hard times, times where the battle might be too much to bear. There will be many anxious moments to come, because that’s part of who I am and the reality of what going against my parents will be like, but I’m willing to take the harder road if that means I get to keep you in my life.” His voice drops to a bear whisper. “I’ll be honest, there are so many unknowns about the future I’m choosing here that I can’t bank on, and that terrifies the hell out of me. But there is one thing I can promise you.” He brings my hands up to his mouth and brushes his lips along my fingertips one by one. “You will never have to face anything alone again. I will do whatever it takes to be the person you can count on when everyone and everything else fails you.

The concept of waiting seems counterintuitive in a frantic, chaotic world. Nothing less than instant gratification is acceptable in such a society. We want results today, eliminating all consternation from the unknown. Perhaps that is one reason why scripture reinforces that our responsibility in salvation depends not upon our merits but on our faith in Christ. And faith in Christ requires us to wait for Him.... For those who faithfully wait, the Lord promised compensatory blessings to enable success and fulfillment: "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint" (Isaiah 40:31). Mary and Martha experienced that requisite waiting and the Lord's abundant response when their brother Lazarus fell seriously ill and died.

That pain of wanting, the burning desire to possess what you lack, is one of the greatest allies you have. It is a force you can harness to create whatever you want in your life. When you took an honest look at your life back in the previous chapter and rated yourself as being either on the up curve or the down curve in seven different areas, you were painting a picture of where you are now. This diagram shows that as point A. Where you could be tomorrow, your vision of what’s possible for you in your life, is point B. And to the extent that there is a “wanting” gap between points A and B, there is a natural tension between those two poles. It’s like holding a magnet near a piece of iron: you can feel the pull of that magnet tugging at the iron. Wanting is exactly like that; it’s magnetic. You can palpably feel your dreams (B) tugging at your present circumstances (A). Tension is uncomfortable. That’s why it sometimes makes people uncomfortable to hear about how things could be. One of the reasons Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s famous “I have a dream” speech made such a huge impact on the world and carved such a vivid place in our cultural memory is that it made the world of August 1963 very uncomfortable. John Lennon painted his vision of a more harmonious world in the song Imagine. Within the decade, he was shot to death. Gandhi, Jesus, Socrates … our world can be harsh on people who talk about an improved reality. Visions and visionaries make people uncomfortable. These are especially dramatic examples, of course, but the same principle applies to the personal dreams and goals of people we’ve never heard of. The same principle applies to everyone, including you and me. Let’s say you have a brother, or sister, or old friend with whom you had a falling out years ago. You wish you had a better relationship, that you talked more often, that you shared more personal experiences and conversations together. Between where you are today and where you can imagine being, there is a gap. Can you feel it?

Mrs. Harris’s coach should be here any minute. I trek toward the curb, but just as I reach it, the latch on my bag drops open again, and the contents spill into the snow. Cursing, I bend to retrieve my things, but a violent gale whips me backward into the slush, snatching petticoats, chemises, and knickers into the air. “No!” I cry, scrambling after my clothes and stuffing them one by one back into my bag, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one has caught a glimpse of my underthings dancing across the street. A man snores on a stoop nearby, but no one else is out. Relieved, I scuttle through the snow, jamming skirts and books and socks into the bag and gritting my teeth as the wind burns my ears. A clatter of hooves breaks through the howling tempest, and I catch sight of a cab headed my way. My stomach clenches as I snap my bag closed once more. That must be Mrs. Harris’s coach. I’m really going to do this. But as I make my way toward it, a white ghost of fabric darts in front of me. My eyes widen. I missed a pair of knickers. Panic jolting through my every limb, I sprint after it, but the wind is too quick. My underclothes gust right into the carriage door, twisting against its handle as the cab eases to a stop. I’m almost to it, fingers reaching, when the door snaps open and a boy about my age steps out. “Miss Whitlock?” he asks, his voice so quiet I almost don’t hear it over the wind. Trying not to draw attention to the undergarments knotted on the door just inches from his hand, I give him a stiff nod. “Yes, sir, that’s me.” “Let me get your things,” he says, stepping into the snow and reaching for my handbag. “Uh—it’s broken, so I’d—I’d better keep it,” I mumble, praying he can’t feel the heat of my blush from where he is. “Very well, then.” He turns back toward the coach and stops. Artist, no. My heart drops to my shoes. “Oh…” He reaches toward the fabric knotted tightly in the latch. “Is…this yours?” Death would be a mercy right about now. I swallow hard. “Um, yes.” He glances at me, and blood floods my neck. “I mean, no! I’ve never seen those before in my life!” He stares at me a long moment. “I…” I lurch past him and yank at the knickers. The fabric tears, and the sound of it is so loud I’m certain everyone in the world must have heard it. “Here, why don’t I—” He reaches out to help detangle the fabric from the door. “No, no, no, I’ve got it just fine,” I say, leaping in front of him and tugging on the knot with shaking hands. Why. Why, why, why, why, why? Finally succeeding at freeing the knickers, I make to shove them back into my bag, but another gust of wind rips them from my grasp. The boy and I both stare after them as they dart into the sky, spreading out like a kite so that every damn stitch is visible. He clears his throat. “Should we—ah—go after them?” “No,” I say faintly. “I—I think I’ll manage without…