Redirect Me Quotes

Ron, you're making it snow," said Hermione patiently, grabbing his wrist and redirecting his wand away from the ceiling from which, sure enough, large white flakes had started to fall. Lavender Brown, Harry noticed, glared at Hermione from a neighboring table through very red eyes, and Hermione immediately let go of Ron's arm. "Oh yeah," said Ron, looking down at his shoulders in vague surprise." Sorry...looks like we've all got horrible dandruff now...." He brushed some of the fake snow off Hermione's shoulder. Lavender burst into tears. Ron looked immensely guilty and turned his back on her. "We split up," he told Harry out of the corner of his mouth. "Last night. When she saw me coming out of the dormitory with Hermione. Obviously she couldn't see you, so she thought it had just been the two of us." "ah," said Harry. "Well - you don't mind it's over, do you?" "No," Ron admitted. "It was pretty bad while she was yelling, but at least I didn't have to finish it." "Coward," said Hermione, though she looked amused. "Well, it was a bad night for romance all around. Ginny and Dean split up too, Harry." Harry thought there was a rather knowing look in her eye as she told him that, but she could no possibly know that his insides were suddenly dancing the conga.

Accepting God’s acceptance of me doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying. It means I’m going to stop trying out. And I am intentionally redirecting my obsession.

GONE. You're gone. ...Another case of not getting what I thought I wanted. Instead I'll get what I'm supposed to have because the Powers That Be can make better decisions for me than I can.

The whole crazy business seemed to pull out of my guts the very worst in me—my worst fears—the worst aspects of my character—my worst insecurities and feelings of shame and guilt. I didn't know it at the time, but that was exactly what was supposed to be happening. That's what Solomonic magick is all about. The worst in me was my problem. The worst in me was the demon. When it finally dawned on me that I had successfully evoked the demon, and I had the worst of me trapped in that magick Triangle, I had no alternative but to harness and redirect its monstrous power and give it new marching orders. From then on, that particular demon would be working for me rather than against me.

We don’t need the money that badly,” my mother said. “According to my sisters, we do.” I slid the photograph with dollar signs toward her. Mom swung toward Grandma Frida. “Mom!” Grandma Frida’s eyes got really big. “What? Don’t look at me!” “You started this.” Ha! Attack deflected and redirected. “I did no such thing. I’m innocent. You always blame me for everything.” “You started it and you encouraged it. Now look, she’s taking on murders because you’re guilt-tripping her to put food on the table. And what kind of message does this send?” “A true-love kind of message.” Grandma Frida grinned.

I would like to buy about three dollars worth of gospel, please. Not too much – just enough to make me happy, but not so much that I get addicted. I don't want so much gospel that I learn to really hate covetousness and lust. I certainly don't want so much that I start to love my enemies, cherish self-denial, and contemplate missionary service in some alien culture. I want ecstasy, not repentance; I want transcendence, not transformation. I would like to be cherished by some nice, forgiving, broad-minded people, but I myself don't want to love those from different races – especially if they smell. I would like enough gospel to make my family secure and my children well behaved, but not so much that I find my ambitions redirected or my giving too greatly enlarged. I would like about three dollars worth of gospel, please.

What did you do?’ I whisper to Aithinne. Aithinne pushes to her feet, dusting off her clothes.‘I redirected its blast away from us so it used its weapon on itself. ’ She scans the destruction.‘Easy.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ I murmur, trying to quell the emotions that rush through me at seeing my childhood home destroyed. ‘Simple’s sibling, Easy. I don’t even want to imagine the levels of chaos that would prompt visits from their cousins Straightforward and Uncomplicated.

Donia looked away. "I pushed her toward you.I just made a mistake when I let myself think that you'd be mine for a few years... She's your match. I'm not." "Maybe someday, but right now... I was carried away by the first summer. It's a heady thing, but I can redirect that energy. Let me have the dream of us for as long as we can. That's what the court needs--a happy king, a king who can't stop dreaming of being lost in someone who wants to be just as lost. Tell me you'll let me get lost in you.

It's the way she says Cathy that makes me listen, the way a woman pleads to any deity that has damned all her prayers, redirected them to death. A woman deboned of hope.

Strong passions are the precious raw material of sanctity. Individuals that have carried their sinning to extremes should not despair or say, “I am too great a sinner to change,” or “God would not want me.” God will take anyone who is willing to love, not with an occasional gesture, but with a “passionless passion,” a “wild tranquility.” A sinner, unrepentant, cannot love God, any more that a man on dry land can swim; but as soon as he takes his errant energies to God and asks for their redirection, he will become happy, as he was never happy before. It is not the wrong things one has already done which keep one from God; it is the present persistence in that wrong.

I remember how covered in blood Rhys was. All over his shirt, his jeans, caked on his neck, his hands. I didn't even think about it then, but it must have belonged to his mother, father. For seven days, he wore their deaths and he never said a word to any of us about it. I feel so bad for him and I don't know how to tell him, so I reach for his hand and hold it as hard as I can, crushing his fingers in mine. It's a futile attempt to redirect his pain. He lets me hurt him for a few minutes before gently pulling away.

Oh, crap,” Keely breathes. “You were supposed to stay in my room.” Asmoday shrugs. “You needed me.” “I—I did not.” “Why was he in your room?” Nick grumbles. “Why is he in our house?” Kimberly seethes. “Who is he? Who are you?” Kevin redirects his question.

My parents must have sensed my queerness, possibly as young as three, but instead of sitting me down and saying, We love you, we love you. Here’s what you need to know about the people who won’t, my father ignored me, and my mother redirected me toward princess crowns and pink frilly dresses.

Monroe is about sixty miles outside of New York City. It’s home to approximately eight thousand people. It’s a small community where most everyone knows one another. There’s nothing but strip malls and second-tier grocery chains you never see elsewhere. If you click on the “Attractions” tab on TripAdvisor’s Monroe page, it brings up a message that says, “I’m sorry, you must have clicked here by mistake. No one could possibly be planning a trip to Monroe to see its ‘Attractions.’ I have a feeling about why you’d want to go to Monroe. Here, let me redirect you to a suicide-prevention site.

Rage that has nowhere to go is redirected against the self, in the form of depression, self-hatred, and self-destructive actions. One of my patients told me, ‘It is like hating your home, your kitchen and pots and pans, your bed, your chairs, your table, your rugs.’ Nothing feels safe – least of all your own body.

Straining to hear, I can make out something acoustic. Coming from...the backyard? I glance down from my bedroom window and feel my jaw fall open. Matt Finch is standing below my window, guitar strapped across his chest. I pull my window up, and I expect the song from that old movie - the one about a guy with a trench coat and the big radio and his heart on his sleeve. But it's not that. It's not anything I recognise, and I strain to make out the lyrics: Stop being ridiculous, stop being ridiculous, Reagan. What an asshole. The mesh screen and two floors between us don't seem like enough to protect him from my anger. "Nice apology," I call down to him. "I've apologised thirteen times," he yells back, "and so far you haven't called me back." I open my mouth to say it doesn't matter, but he's already redirecting the song. "Now I'm gonna stand here until you forgive me," he sings loudly, "or at least until you hear me out, la-la, oh-la-la. I drove seven hours overnight, and I won't leave until you come out here." (...) "This is private property!" My throat feel coarse from how loudly I'm yelling. "And that doesn't even rhyme!" The guitar chord continues as he sings, "Then call the cops, call the cops, call the cops..." I storm downstairs, my feet pounding against the staircase. When I turn the corner, my dad looks almost amused from his seat in the recliner. Noticing my expression, he stares back at his newspaper, as if I won't notice him. (...) "Dad. How did Matt know which window was mine?" "Well..." he peeks over the sports section. "I reckon I told him." "You talked to him?" My voice is no longer a voice. It's a shriek. "God, Dad!" He juts out his chin, defensive. "How was I supposed to know you had some sort of drama with him? He shows up, lookin' to serenade my daughter. Thought it seemed innocent enough. Sweet, even. Old-fashioned." "It's not any of those things! I hate him!

The things that we mortals see as setbacks are, in truth, simply God’s way of redirecting our paths toward Him. And what sometimes seems to be a terrible setback (to us) can always be transformed into a great victory (for Him). After all, no problem is too big for God. Criswell Freeman (the man who helped me write this book)

If I'm being rejected from one thing, it's really just the path redirecting me elsewhere to where I'm supposed to be.

brokenhearted and feeling so lost that no compass in the world could redirect me.

Every ounce of his attention had redirected toward me, and I could feel the weight of it on my skin like a lover’s rough caress.

An idea, a notion, love, hate, formed in childhood, was hard to redirect because it was so ingrained and so accepted as normal.

the perpetrator redirects his partner’s attention away from his abuse to her faults: if she wasn’t so this, he wouldn’t be so that.

I began to read. What I discovered in books led me to think, to question, to explore, and finally to redirect my life.

It's hard to trust your child to find his or her own path, especially when we're told everyday by professionals that children must fit into rigid boxes. We all want to give our kids the best opportunities we can, which is why it feels like such a disservice if we don't push them in the "right" direction. Celebrating you children's passions rather than redirecting them, especially when those passions don't line up neatly with a checklist for future success, can feel like jumping off a cliff. It certainly did for me. But that leap of faith is necessary if your kids are going to fly.

When the two swords crash, the impact neither rattles my bones nor has me tasting blood. It’s as if all the force stopped at the blade before it vibrated down to me. As if all that tremendous killing power got redirected. Burnt’s blade shatters.

Either the gods have power or they don’t. If they don’t, why pray? If they do, then why not pray for something else instead of for things to happen or not to happen? Pray not to feel fear. Or desire, or grief. If the gods can do anything, they can surely do that for us.—But those are things the gods left up to me. Then isn’t it better to do what’s up to you—like a free man —than to be passively controlled by what isn’t, like a slave or beggar? And what makes you think the gods don’t care about what’s up to us? Start praying like this and you’ll see. Not “some way to sleep with her”—but a way to stop wanting to. Not “some way to get rid of him”—but a way to stop trying. Not “some way to save my child”—but a way to lose your fear. Redirect your prayers like that, and watch what happens.

The sociopath child’s needs must be acknowledged as legitimate but limited in socially acceptable ways through the use of redirecting the child’s attention to acceptable substitutes until the child can learn to meet his own needs “in a way that is productive rather than destructive.

You did the right thing, in the cosmic order of things. There is no rejection, there is only redirection. You know, I’ve been thinking a lot. About the cosmos. I’ve been tuning in. And the cosmos has been telling me I need to get my shit together. It’s balance, man. What we had was too intense and our lives are too intense and it’s like Darwin’s third law of motion. About an action leading to a reaction. Something had to give. And you were the one who saw that and now we are just particles floating in the universe that may reconnect one day at the Chateau Marmont

If we think of eroticism not as sex per se, but as a vibrant, creative energy, it’s easy to see that Stephanie’s erotic pulse is alive and well. But her eroticism no longer revolves around her husband. Instead, it’s been channeled to her children. There are regular playdates for Jake but only three dates a year for Stephanie and Warren: two birthdays, hers and his, and one anniversary. There is the latest in kids’ fashion for Sophia, but only college sweats for Stephanie. They rent twenty G-rated movies for every R-rated movie. There are languorous hugs for the kids while the grown-ups must survive on a diet of quick pecks. This brings me to another point. Stephanie gets tremendous physical pleasure from her children. Let me be perfectly clear here: she knows the difference between adult sexuality and the sensuousness of caring for small children. She, like most mothers, would never dream of seeking sexual gratification from her children. But, in a sense, a certain replacement has occurred. The sensuality that women experience with their children is, in some ways, much more in keeping with female sexuality in general. For women, much more than for men, sexuality exists along what the Italian historian Francesco Alberoni calls a “principle of continuity.” Female eroticism is diffuse, not localized in the genitals but distributed throughout the body, mind, and senses. It is tactile and auditory, linked to smell, skin, and contact; arousal is often more subjective than physical, and desire arises on a lattice of emotion. In the physicality between mother and child lie a multitude of sensuous experiences. We caress their silky skin, we kiss, we cradle, we rock. We nibble their toes, they touch our faces, we lick their fingers, let them bite us when they’re teething. We are captivated by them and can stare at them for hours. When they devour us with those big eyes, we are besotted, and so are they. This blissful fusion bears a striking resemblance to the physical connection between lovers. In fact, when Stephanie describes the early rapture of her relationship with Warren—lingering gazes, weekends in bed, baby talk, toe-nibbling—the echoes are unmistakable. When she says, “At the end of the day, I have nothing left to give,” I believe her. But I also have come to believe that at the end of the day, there may be nothing more she needs. All this play activity and intimate involvement with her children’s development, all this fleshy connection, has captured Stephanie’s erotic potency to the detriment of the couple’s intimacy and sexuality. This is eros redirected. Her sublimated energy is displaced onto the children, who become the centerpiece of her emotional gratification.

You’re allowed to be angry and frustrated with your situation. You’re even allowed to be angry with my stalking you. Life strips you of power often, but what you can control is pointing the blame in the right direction. Don’t misplace Max’s and Mark’s ill intentions onto me when I’ve been doing my best to keep you safe from them. What we’ve been doing all week is to keep you safe. So, you can either redirect all the effort you’ve been putting into acting like a brat and apply it towards something useful, or you can continue to be powerless in the situations life throws you in. You choose, baby, because I’m not going to keep making these decisions for you.

How often do we experience delays, changes of plans, and redirections and treat them as intrusions? God can use inconveniences in our lives if we look at them as divine appointments. From Our Daily Bread: " Disappointment - His appointment, change one letter, then I see; That the thwarting of my purpose is God's better choice for me".

No human is ever meant to be the person who fills our souls or holds in place our worth. Only God can do that. But until I throw off the lie that God’s love isn’t for me, my emotions, decisions, behaviors, and relationships will remain twisted up in the mistaken belief that I’m worthless. When we begin to think about our thoughts, perhaps for the first time, we can stop the downward spiral. We can reset and redirect them. That’s our hope. Not that we would wrestle each and every fear, but that we would allow God to take up so much space in our thinking that our fears will shrink in comparison. I love the quote from A. W. Tozer that says, if God is “exalted…a thousand minor problems will be solved at once.

We followed the tale laid out for us, the prose pinned down in every square foot of space we’d acquired. We were content with the plot twists that only mildly redirected our lives. We signed on the dotted line for the things we didn’t know we cared about. We ate the things we shouldn’t, spent money when we couldn’t, lost sight of the Earth we had to inhabit and wasted wasted wasted everything. Food. Water. Resources. Soon

Sometimes, when I’m teaching, when I interject a comment without anyone calling on me, without caring that I just spoke a moment before, or when I interrupt someone to redirect the conversation away from an eddy I personally find fruitless, I feel high on the knowledge that I can talk as much as I want to, as quickly as I want to, in any direction that I want to, without anyone overtly rolling her eyes at me or suggesting I go to speech therapy. I’m not saying this is good pedagogy. I am saying that its pleasures are deep. It’s

Let’s go.” He wrapped an arm round her waist. “Are you sure you don’t want to try this alone?” “If I knew I’d be able to fly, no problem,” she said. “But I told my folks I’d be there for roast dinner, and if I plunge to my death before that they’ll just think it’s rude, so …” They lifted up and drifted beyond the ledge, the world opening up beneath them. Skulduggery redirected the freezing winds so that not a single hair was disturbed on Valkyrie’s head. It was strangely quiet as they flew, surrounded by the howls and shrieks of the mountains but tucked away from it all. “The thought has occurred to me that maybe you’ll only start flying when you absolutely need to,” Skulduggery said. “Do not drop me.” “Indulge me for a moment. The range of your powers is still largely unknown to us, yes? You can fire lightning from your fingertips, you certainly have destructive potential, and you have the burgeoning psychic abilities of at least a Level 4 Sensitive. Plus, you have flown before.” “Hovering is not flying.” “I bet if I were to drop you, you’d fly.” “I’m not sure if I can emphasise this enough, but do not drop me.

Gregori stepped away from the huddled mass of tourists, putting distance between himself and the guide. He walked completely erect,his head high, his long hair flowing around him. His hands were loose at his sides, and his body was relaxed, rippling with power. "Hear me now, ancient one." His voice was soft and musical, filling the silence with beauty and purity. "You have lived long in this world, and you weary of the emptiness. I have come in anwer to your call." "Gregori.The Dark One." The evil voice hissed and growled the words in answer. The ugliness tore at sensitive nerve endings like nails on a chalkboard. Some of the tourists actually covered their ears. "How dare you enter my city and interfere where you have no right?" "I am justice,evil one. I have come to set your free from the bounaries holding you to this place." Gregori's voice was so soft and hypnotic that those listening edged out from their sanctuaries.It beckoned and pulled, so that none could resist his every desire. The black shape above their head roiled like a witch's cauldron. A jagged bolt of lightning slammed to earth straight toward the huddled group. Gregori raised a hand and redirected the force of energy away from the tourists and Savannah. A smile edged the cruel set of his mouth. "You think to mock me with display,ancient one? Do not attempt to anger what you do not understand.You came to me.I did not hunt you.You seek to threaten my lifemate and those I count as my friends.I can do no other than carry the justice of our people to you." Gregori's voice was so reasonable, so perfect and pure,drawing obedience from the most recalcitrant of criminals. The guide made a sound,somewhere between disbelief and fear.Gregori silenced him with a wave of his hand, needing no distractions. But the noise had been enough for the ancient one to break the spell Gregori's voice was weaving around him. The dark stain above their heads thrashed wildly, as if ridding itself ot ever-tightening bonds before slamming a series of lightning strikes at the helpless mortals on the ground. Screams and moans accompanied the whispered prayers, but Gregori stood his ground, unflinching. He merely redirected the whips of energy and light, sent them streaking back into the black mass above their heads.A hideous snarl,a screech of defiance and hatred,was the only warning before it hailed. Hufe golfball-sized blocks of bright-red ice rained down toward them. It was thick and horrible to see, the shower of frozen blood from the skies. But it stopped abruptly, as if an unseen force held it hovering inches from their heads. Gregori remained unchanged, impassive, his face a blank mask as he shielded the tourists and sent the hail hurtling back at their attacker.From out of the cemetery a few blocks from them, an army of the dead rose up. Wolves howled and raced along beside the skeletons as they moved to intercept the Carpathian hunter. Savannah. He said her name once, a soft brush in her mind. I've got it, she sent back instantly.Gregori had his hands full dealing with the abominations the vampire was throwing at him; he did't need to waste his energy protecting the general public from the apparition. She moved out into the open, a small, fragile figure, concentrating on the incoming threat. To those dwelling in the houses along the block and those driving in their cars, she masked the pack of wolves as dogs racing down the street.The stick=like skeletons, grotesque and bizarre, were merely a fast-moving group of people. She held the illusion until they were within a few feet of Gregori.Dropping the illusion, she fed every ounce of her energy and power to Gregori so he could meet the attack.

In the course of a short city-block this frantic old woman frenetically caricatured the features of forty or fifty passers-by, in a quick-fire sequence of kaleidoscopic imitations, each lasting a second or two, sometimes less, and the whole dizzying sequence scarcely more than two minutes. And there were ludicrous imitations of the second and third order; for the people in the street, startled, outraged, bewildered by her imitations, took on these expressions in reaction to her; and those expressions, in turn, were re-reflected, re-directed, re-distorted, by the Touretter, causing a still greater degree of outrage and shock. This grotesque, involuntary resonance, or mutuality, by which everyone was drawn into an absurdly amplifying interaction, was the source of the disturbance I had seen from a distance. This woman who, becoming everybody, lost her own self, became nobody. This woman with a thousand faces, masks, personae- how must it be for her in this whirlwind of identities? The answer came soon- and not a second too late; for the build-up of pressures, both hers and others’, was fast approaching the point of explosion. Suddenly, desperately, the old woman turned aside, into an alley-way which led off the main street. And there, with all the appearances of a woman violently sick, she expelled, tremendously accelerated and abbreviated, all the gestures, the postures, the expressions, the demeanours, the entire behavioural repertoires, of the past forty or fifty people she had passed. She delivered one vast, pantomimic egurgitation, in which the engorged identities of the last fifty people who had possessed her were spewed out. And if the taking-in had lasted two minutes, the throwing-out was a single exhalation- fifty people in ten seconds, a fifth of a second or less for the time-foreshortened repertoire of each person. I was later to spend hundreds of hours, talking to, observing, taping, learning from, Tourette patients. Yet nothing, I think, taught me as much, as swiftly, as penetratingly, as overwhelmingly as that phantasmagoric two minutes in a New York street.

How do we respond when someone criticizes the state of our home or tries to “help” us by giving advice that doesn’t really fit? My favorite phrase for well-meaning family is, “I know you want to see me in a functioning environment and I want you to know that I want that for myself also. I am on my own journey to find what works for me and what I need most from you is nonjudgmental support. One thing that could really help me right now is ________.” And then give them a tangible task they can do! “Take these bags of clothes to the donation bin,” “sit with me while I clean my room,” “help me call a cleaning service or make a doctor’s appointment.” Sometimes all our loved ones need is to be redirected to a way they can actually help. If after you give them ways to help they decline, it’s okay to say, “Then the most helpful thing you can do for me is not make comments about my space.

In her book The Government-Citizen Disconnect, the political scientist Suzanne Mettler reports that 96 percent of American adults have relied on a major government program at some point in their lives. Rich, middle-class, and poor families depend on different kinds of programs, but the average rich and middle-class family draws on the same number of government benefits as the average poor family. Student loans look like they were issued from a bank, but the only reason banks hand out money to eighteen-year-olds with no jobs, no credit, and no collateral is because the federal government guarantees the loans and pays half their interest. Financial advisers at Edward Jones or Prudential can help you sign up for 529 college savings plans, but those plans' generous tax benefits will cost the federal government an estimated $28.5 billion between 2017 and 2026. For most Americans under the age of sixty-five, health insurance appears to come from their jobs, but supporting this arrangement is one of the single largest tax breaks issued by the federal government, one that exempts the cost of employer-sponsored health insurance from taxable incomes. In 2022, this benefit is estimated to have cost the government $316 billion for those under sixty-five. By 2032, its price tag is projected to exceed $6oo billion. Almost half of all Americans receive government-subsidized health benefits through their employers, and over a third are enrolled in government-subsidized retirement benefits. These participation rates, driven primarily by rich and middle-class Americans, far exceed those of even the largest programs directed at low income families, such as food stamps (14 percent of Americans) and the Earned Income Tax Credit (19 percent). Altogether, the United States spent $1.8 trillion on tax breaks in 2021. That amount exceeded total spending on law enforcement, education, housing, healthcare, diplomacy, and everything else that makes up our discretionary budget. Roughly half the benefits of the thirteen largest individual tax breaks accrue to the richest families, those with incomes that put them in the top 20 percent. The top I percent of income earners take home more than all middle-class families and double that of families in the bottom 20 percent. I can't tell you how many times someone has informed me that we should reduce military spending and redirect the savings to the poor. When this suggestion is made in a public venue, it always garners applause. I've met far fewer people who have suggested we boost aid to the poor by reducing tax breaks that mostly benefit the upper class, even though we spend over twice as much on them as on the military and national defense.

The Czech novelist Milan Kundera made a famous observation. ‘Kitsch,’ he wrote, ‘causes two tears to flow in quick succession. The first tear says: How nice to see children running on the grass! The second tear says: how nice to be moved, together with all mankind, by children running on the grass!’ Kitsch, in other words, is not about the thing observed but about the observer. It does not invite you to feel moved by the doll you are dressing so tenderly, but by yourself dressing the doll. All sentimentality is like this: it redirects emotion from the object to the subject, so as to create a fantasy of emotion without the real cost of feeling it. The kitsch object encourages you to think ‘look at me feeling this; how nice I am and how lovable’. That is why Oscar Wilde, referring to one of Dickens’s most sickly death-scenes, said that ‘a man must have a heart of stone not to laugh at the death of Little Nell’.

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As I noted in the previous chapter, we interpret active eyes as a sign of an active mind. But mantis shrimps actually have small, weak brains. The hypermobile nature of their eyes is not a sign of a probing intelligence. But it is the key to understanding how and what they see. Our retinas have cone-rich foveae, where our vision is sharpest and most colorful. We train this zone onto different parts of the world by flicking our eyes from place to place. And when we spot something interesting in our peripheral vision, we redirect our gaze at it to analyze it in detailed color. Mantis shrimps do something similar. The midband sees color, but its view is confined to a thin strip of space. The hemispheres probably only see in black-and-white, but their view is panoramic. As the mantis shrimp moves its eyes around, it looks for movements and objects of interest with the hemispheres. When it spots something, it flicks its eyes across and scans the midbands over the area, as if waving two supermarket scanners along a shelf. Does the mantis shrimp start with a monochrome view, which it gradually paints with colors? “I don’t think so,” Marshall tells me. He suspects that “they never construct a solid two-dimensional representation of color” in their brains. Instead, as they scan with their midbands, they simply wait for anything that excites the right combination of photoreceptors.

My faith isn’t in time, it’s in God.” “Then why are you hesitant to help your people? Why do you insist on pawning off the hard jobs to others? Tell me”—he leans forward again—“what is your purpose here?” I fumble for an answer. “To ask you questions. And to help Wilbur Sherrod with his work.” He shakes his head with a patient blink. “As much as I relish discussing Wilbur Sherrod’s skill with design, I must redirect you. Why are you here? In the world. The big picture.” I stare at him. He stares back, waiting, calm. I’m ruffled. “A-Actually, that’s one of my questions for you. How do I find out God’s plan for my life?” “He doesn’t have one.” My head jerks. “What do you mean? He’s God. Doesn’t He have a specific purpose for everything? Everyone? For me?” At this, the Preacher laughs. “Purpose?” he asks when he takes a breath. “Life is meaningless.” Anger just short of panic threatens to block my throat. “No, it’s not. He has a plan, I know it.” “What is it?” I throw my arms up. “I was hoping you’d help me find out. Is it to save Radicals? Write my biography? Start life over in Ivanhoe? Keep Mrs. Newton company? What is it?” “Tell me, are you a pregnant virgin?” My breath seizes and I’m in front of Trevor Rain again, answering whether or not I’ve been kissed. It’s so embarrassing I struggle against the urge to laugh. “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, no, I’m not pregnant, but yes . . .” I swallow. “I’m a . . .” He spares me. “Have you spoken to a burning bush?” My eyes narrow. “Are you mocking me?” “I’m just pointing out that if God has a specific plan for your life, He’ll tell you like he told Mary and Moses. But the disturbing truth is, you have to decide what you want, just decide it with prayer.” I stand limp. Defeated. “I don’t know what I want.” “If you were in a ditch with your life seeping out of you, what’s the one thing you’d want? What do you want today?

Invite My Spirit to alert you when you are overly focused on your problems and to redirect your attention to Me.

In the absence of effort the OCD pathology drives the brain’s circuitry, and compulsive behaviors result. But mental effort, I believe, generates a directed mental force that produces real physical effects: the brain changes that follow cognitive-behavioral therapy for OCD. The heroic mental effort required underlines the power of active mental processes like attention and will to redirect thoughts and actions in a way that is detectable on brain scans. Let me be clear about where mental effort enters the picture. The OCD patient is faced with two competing systems of brain circuitry. One underlies the passively experienced, pathological intrusions into consciousness. The other encodes information like the fact that the intrusions originate in faulty basal ganglia circuits. At first the pathological circuitry dominates, so the OCD patient succumbs to the insistent obsessions and carries out the compulsions. With practice, however, the conscious choice to exert effort to resist the pathological messages, and attend instead to the healthy ones, activates functional circuitry. Over the course of several weeks, that regular activation produces systematic changes in the very neural systems that generate those pathological messages—namely, a quieting of the OCD circuit. Again quoting James, “Volitional effort is effort of attention…. Effort of attention is thus the essential phenomenon of will.

Seriously, should I lose it?” I shrug. “It’s practical. I get it.” He yanks it off and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts. A shake of his head lands everything where it belongs. “Here,” I say, angling my candle toward him. “I already took care of the headband. Fire really isn’t necessary, is it?” I motion toward the unlit candle at his side. He smiles and raises it to mine. As he watches his wick ignite, I stare at the hundreds of tiny whisker-shadows dancing on his face and the contrast of the smooth, illuminated apples of his cheeks. He looks from his candle to me, his eyes glossy in the orange candlelight. “I was just kidding, you know. About your hair,” I say, reaching to adjust a stray curl. “But this is better.” Darren clutches my wrist and lowers my arm slowly, my eyes forced to meet his. The drums from the parade combine with the thump, thump, thump of my heart in my ears. Our smiles fade and my mouth is suddenly a desert. His fingers slide down my wrist until my hand rests loosely in his. A boom from a drum as it passes causes us both to jump. I exhale and take the opportunity to pull away and redirect my attention. Nearly the whole town joins the parade behind the band, some carrying candles, some walking arm in arm. Some holding hands. Did Darren really just try to hold my hand?

It does, however, seem to me that fashionable Western self-loathing is fundamentally misplaced. Almost always it is directed at the fact of our wealth and power, relative to the other peoples of the earth, with the constant, quasi-Marxist (and false) assumption that the wealth must somehow inevitably be stolen from the poor, as if the economic pie were of a fixed size and economics a zero-sum game. Really, a decade and a half after the fall of communism, do we still need to go on disproving this? Our vast wealth does, indeed, impose upon us equally vast responsibilities toward those who remain in poverty. It is the real strengths of the West that created that wealth and that, tentatively and in humility, need to be proffered to those who could profit from them. The self-loathing, however, should be redirected from the mere fact of our prosperity to the disconnection, boredom, feeble-mindedness and infantilism that we have allowed our wealth to let us slip into. The unprecedented comfort of our lives allows us, if we are not careful—and we have not been careful—to lose hold of the fundamental realities that underpin all human existence.

I latch my gaze on her, willing her to redirect her attention toward me. And she does. The two of us are masters in the art of silent communication. I wink, smile, nod my encouragement, raise my glass to her health and to what the night might have in store. I shut my eyes, throw my head back, and sip my drink, hot and burning like an insult. I am here, my friend, behind you all the way. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Expose your hidden self, the woman who puts the red--district whores to shame.

We had all kinds of great. But you were right to finish it. You did the right thing, in the cosmic order of things. There is no rejection, there is only redirection. You know, I’ve been thinking a lot. About the cosmos. I’ve been tuning in. And the cosmos has been telling me I need to get my shit together. It’s balance, man. What we had was too intense and our lives are too intense and it’s like Darwin’s third law of motion. About an action leading to a reaction. Something had to give. And you were the one who saw that and now we are just particles floating in the universe that may reconnect one day.

Healthy riskiness involves the realness of our humanity in design, nature and decision making liberties; may we extend grace to others and ourselves who use mistakes as lessons to re-direct the journey. As for me, to lead, impact and influence others after my own self love chouces keeps me clear, considerable, and balanced. I depend and trust in a Creator who is without fault who keeps my foot from stumbling; perfection is in that love connection. I identify deeply with that, so when a mistake occurs, the next opportunity to prevent it, rounds up a little higher for the journey of life. Its about conquering the world with a victory confident mindset, no matter what mistakes occur, but staying the course for the life lesson work...anyday, everyday, and so on....

Pastor, when those White police officers were terrorizing me, I saw them as less than human. I saw them as maggots. If I’d had a nuclear grenade, I would have detonated it and killed them and me. They filled me with hate.” But he told me, “Then I realized I was a bigot too. But I knew as a Christian, I cannot hate these men. I must love. I want to preach a gospel strong enough to heal this madness and hatred.”[2] JP writes, For too long, many in the Church have argued that unity in the body of Christ across ethnic and class lines is a separate issue from the gospel. There has been the suggestion that we can be reconciled to God without being reconciled to our brothers and sisters in Christ. Scripture doesn’t bear that out. . . . It’s going to take intentionally multiethnic and multicultural churches to bust through the chaos and confusion of the present moment and redirect our gaze to the revolutionary gospel of reconciliation.[3]

Roughly half the benefits of the thirteen largest individual tax breaks accrue to the richest families, those with incomes that put them in the top 20 percent. The top 1 percent of income earners take home more than all middle-class families and double that of families in the bottom 20 percent. I can’t tell you how many times someone has informed me that we should reduce military spending and redirect the savings to the poor. When this suggestion is made in a public venue, it always garners applause. I’ve met far fewer people who have suggested we boost aid to the poor by reducing tax breaks that mostly benefit the upper class, even though we spend over twice as much on them as on the military and national defense.

What does winning the inner debate mean? Sometimes it means listening to the angel on your shoulder instead of the devil. Other times it means letting the negative voice float on by as if it’s your “friend” giving a Facebook rant. Remember that thoughts allow us to engage with the internal chaos. Sometimes we want to take up that fight. Other times we want to redirect it. When it comes to winning the inner debate, there are three tactics that we can utilize and develop: Change your voice: inside versus outside Know what voice to listen to: positive or negative Decrease the bond: from me to she

I appreciate your interest in my life. I’m going to live this the way that feels right to me, and I’m not interested in discussing it.” This can be especially effective when you follow your statement with step number three, redirecting the conversation, aka changing the subject: “I’m happy to talk about something else, but this is not open for discussion.” It sounds wooden and strange, I know. But the message here—including the formal wording—is that you have a clear boundary, and you will not allow it to be breached in any way.

But what if you redefined your definition of failure? To me, failure is just a sign that I need to redirect my energy. Something didn’t work out one way, so I need to try a new way. This is how I’ve eliminated fear from my life. And it’s made everything feel possible. Our

Think about it – fear would not exist if failure didn’t. We’re scared to take chances because we don’t want to fail. But what if you redefined your definition of failure? To me, failure is just a sign that I need to redirect my energy. Something didn’t work out one way, so I need to try a new way. This is how I’ve eliminated fear from my life. And it’s made everything feel possible.

My love for and solidarity with other women and femmes can never be taken away from me. They constantly give me the courage to brave this terrifying, daunting, beautiful, amazing world. When you let go of male validation, you not only take away all of their power, but also have the opportunity to redirect that power to yourself and others. Give yourself the permission to love yourself unconditionally, because there’s nothing more radical in the eyes of the patriarchy than that … and we all know how much I love pissing off terrible men.

I tugged at his arm when my house came into view, shushing him loudly. “My mother’s in there,” I hissed. “Isn’t she asleep?” I hit him on the arm with a breathy giggle. “She is!” “Then let’s go!” “Go where?” “To your home. I want to see it.” I took his hand and dug my heels into the ground to keep him from moving forward. “No. Saadi, no!” “Just show me quick and then I’ll leave. I promise.” His blue eyes glistened with curiosity, robbing me of both the desire and strength to resist, and I relented. He followed me onto the property and we crept along the side of the house until we came to the sturdy oak that had twice enabled me to escape. “That’s my bedroom window,” I whispered, pointing straight up, and he redirected my finger. “I sleep there.” Saadi wasn’t surprised by this revelation. I went over to the tree, needing a boost from him to get into it. Given his height, he had no difficulty pulling up behind me, which proved to be a good idea. I would surely have lost my balance swinging my leg through the window had he not steadied me. “We made it.” He chortled, pulling himself inside. “I believe that’s cause for celebration.” He handed me his flask, and I poured wine into my mouth, feeling some of it dribble down my chin. I fell upon the bed, holding the drink out to him, and he drained it, landing beside me when he tipped his head too far back. “Do you want to know something, Shaselle?” “If you want me to know something.” I giggled. He was very funny. He took a breath, then proclaimed, “Lady Shaselle of Hytanica, I am in love with you.” I burst into laughter, pulling my legs up to ease my aching stomach muscles. He rolled onto his side to look at me, propping his head up with his hand. “I’m serious,” he insisted, grinning foolishly at me. “You’re drunk.” “True, but even drunks can be in love.” “But that’s just stupid!” “Being in love with you is stupid?” “Well, yes!

In working through nonreligious language to explain that journey, the idea of place became very important. Jesus says, “Here’s the deal! I’ll leave My place. I’ll come to your place. I’ll take your place. And then we’ll go to My place.” This simplicity captured me. Everyone understands places. We all have them. It’s where we live our lives day to day. Then Jesus walks into our place and redirects us.

WANT YOU TO EXPERIENCE the riches of your salvation: the Joy of being loved constantly and perfectly. You make a practice of judging yourself, based on how you look or behave or feel. If you like what you see in the mirror, you feel a bit more worthy of My Love. When things are going smoothly and your performance seems adequate, you find it easier to believe you are My beloved child. When you feel discouraged, you tend to look inward so you can correct whatever is wrong. Instead of trying to “fix” yourself, fix your gaze on Me, the Lover of your soul. Rather than using your energy to judge yourself, redirect it to praising Me. Remember that I see you clothed in My righteousness, radiant in My perfect Love. In order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God. —EPHESIANS 2:7–8 Therefore, holy brothers, who share in the heavenly calling, fix your thoughts on Jesus, the apostle and high priest whom we confess. —HEBREWS 3:1 Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame. —PSALM 34:5

You'd be amazed how much a well-placed thank-you redirects people's actions.

The Service Mindset. When I began my real estate career at the age of twenty-two, I had a fresh Bachelor’s Degree in Marketing in one hand and ‘a tiger by the tail’ in the other. I was on a mission to be successful in life and in business and make a lot of money in the process. Every goal I set was about Me. Me. Me! I was driven by: How much money could I make? Which property listings paid the biggest commissions? How many calls did I need to make to schedule new appointments? How many listings did I need to have to hit my target? You can see where I am going with this! Working full-time, nights and weekends, seven days a week, I only made eleven thousand dollars in the first year! I was tired, disillusioned, and knew that I had to either change careers or massively shift my mindset. I chose the latter. I took ALL focus off me and re-directed my time, energy, and resources to serving my clients. Their hopes, needs, and desires became my primary focus. How could I help solve their problems?

The Service Mindset. When I began my real estate career at the age of twenty-two, I had a fresh Bachelor’s Degree in Marketing in one hand and ‘a tiger by the tail’ in the other. I was on a mission to be successful in life and in business and make a lot of money in the process. Every goal I set was about Me. Me. Me! I was driven by: How much money could I make? Which property listings paid the biggest commissions? How many calls did I need to make to schedule new appointments? How many listings did I need to have to hit my target? You can see where I am going with this! Working full-time, nights and weekends, seven days a week, I only made eleven thousand dollars in the first year! I was tired, disillusioned, and knew that I had to either change careers or massively shift my mindset. I chose the latter. I took ALL focus off me and re-directed my time, energy, and resources to serving my clients. Their hopes, needs, and desires became my primary focus. How could I help solve their problems? And then EVERYTHING began to turn around . . .

I AM ALL AROUND YOU, like a cocoon of Light. My Presence with you is a promise, independent of your awareness of Me. Many things can block this awareness, but the major culprit is worry. My children tend to accept worry as an inescapable fact of life. However, worry is a form of unbelief; it is anathema to Me. Who is in charge of your life? If it is you, then you have good reason to worry. But if it is I, then worry is both unnecessary and counterproductive. When you start to feel anxious about something, relinquish the situation to Me. Back off a bit, redirecting your focus to Me. I will either take care of the problem Myself or show you how to handle it. In this world you will have problems, but you need not lose sight of Me.

I’m not spending the whole weekend with you two sniping at each other,” Tommy said. “Erin, we’re going to solve this the way we settle things at the stable when your grandmother isn’t looking.” He nodded at Hunter. “Hit him.” “Don’t make her do that,” Hunter told Tommy. “She’ll break her hand.” “Ha! You think awfully well of your chiseled chin,” I said, but Tommy drowned me out, yelling, “Let her hit you or I will hit you myself.” “This is excellent parenting.” Hunter emphasized his words with an okay sign of his thick fingers. His Rolex flashed in the sunlight before he put his hand down. “Here, Erin.” He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. I edged toward him, balling my fist, feeling better already. “Open your eyes,” I said. “I want you to see it coming.” “If I open my eyes, I’ll dodge you,” he said matter-of-factly, as if he was used to settling his differences this way with the other stable hands. He closed his eyes again. I struck while I had the opportunity. Didn’t pause to think about technique or the proper position for my fist, thumb in or thumb out, just hauled back and hit him. But in the split second before my hand connected with his face, I saw a flash of one of my family’s apartments in Los Angeles, an early one, because I glimpsed the ocean through the window across the room, and as the years went on we’d had less and less money and we’d move farther and farther from the sea. I saw my dad hitting my mom. I redirected my fist, only grazing Hunter’s chin, and stumbled into the side of the truck. A strong arm hooked in mine and kept me from falling. Hunter drew me to him, chuckling. “Are you okay?” I shoved him away from me, slid back into the truck, and slammed the door. He wasn’t even sorry and I couldn’t even get revenge. There was no good in this. With a final sniffle I opened my history book, wishing I hadn’t come.

Let’s play more Truth or Dare,” George suggested, loudly redirecting us from an incoming argument. “It was your turn,” Bennett said to Hanna. “Fine,” Hanna said, glaring at me, “but we aren’t done discussing this.” “Can you wait until we’re gone, though?” Bennett asked. “Christ, I’m sorry I asked.” “Says the man who fight-fucks his wife in public every bleeding day,” Max said.

I don’t mean to nitpick, but there are a few questions that come to mind about this scientific explanation of the law of attraction. How, exactly, does sending out thought frequencies make something materialize in our lives? Let’s say I have my heart set on a new wide-screen TV that is sitting in the showroom of my local electronics dealer. I ask the universe for the TV, believe that I will get it, and receive positive thoughts and feelings about it. My positive thought frequencies zoom out of my head and into the showroom, and because they are magnetic, the TV moves closer to me. But wait a minute—does it actually inch closer each day? Won’t the store personnel be a little suspicious when they arrive in the morning and find that the TV has moved to the loading dock? And how exactly does the TV get into my living room? Does it swoop in through the chimney like Santa delivering presents on Christmas Eve? Aren’t there a few unresolved questions here?

It is worth noting, though, that kids who have been spanked or slapped are bad at what psychologists call “moral internalization.” Rather than learning that “I shouldn’t hit my little sister because that’s the wrong thing to do,” kids learn that “I shouldn’t hit my little sister because Mom will slap me if I do.” This means that the child won’t hit his little sister when his mom is around, but what happens when she is out of the room or at work? Watch out—the kid who behaves only to avoid Mom’s wrath is now free to unload on his sister. Further, his mother has taught him that violence is a reasonable way to try to control someone else’s behavior, so why shouldn’t he use it himself? Studies have shown that kids are excellent imitators of the techniques other people use to get what they want, including aggression. In short, many parents who use corporal punishment focus too much on controlling their children’s behavior and too little on what they are doing to their kids’ narratives. Ultimately, we want our kids to internalize appropriate values and attitudes, rather than obeying in order to avoid being punished.10

Ask My Spirit to help you fix your gaze on Me. Invite Him to alert you whenever you get overly focused on problems so you can redirect your attention to Me.

We followed the tale laid out for us, the prose pinned down in every square foot of space we’d acquired. We were content with the plot twists that only mildly redirected our lives. We signed on the dotted line for the things we didn’t know we cared about. We ate the things we shouldn’t, spent money when we couldn’t, lost sight of the Earth we had to inhabit and wasted wasted wasted everything. Food. Water. Resources. Soon the skies were gray with chemical pollution, and the plants and animals were sick from genetic modification, and diseases rooted themselves in our air, our meals, our blood and bones. The food disappeared. The people were dying.

You need a good process for qualifying prospects before they get to you so you’re not stuck doing demos with people who will pay you $30 a month or are the wrong fit for your product. Dialing in your positioning, website, and marketing is one way to make sure you’re attracting the right prospects and weeding out those who aren’t a good match. Using a qualifying form to schedule a demo is also good. Have them put in the company’s name, the company’s size, their best work email, and other information you need to know. Weeding through those prospects can be time-consuming—especially if you have a dual funnel with low-priced and enterprise-level tiers. Here’s a hack: At Drip, anytime someone clicked “Book a Demo,” they got a pop-up that asked for their name and value metric (i.e., how many subscribers they had). If they put in a low number, they were redirected to a page with a video demo, a 10-minute screencast of me walking through the product. If they put in a high number, they were directed to our scheduling link to book a time for a more extensive conversation. As Drip grew, the cutoff number for in-person demos grew, too. At first, we were doing demos for people in our lowest tiers because it was early and we wanted to learn about our market by talking to anyone we could. Bit by bit, we ratcheted up the number on the form based on how many salespeople had the bandwidth to run demos.

He wasn’t looking at the object or anything else in the room anymore. Every ounce of his attention had redirected toward me, and I could feel the weight of it on my skin like a lover’s rough caress.

We followed the tale laid out for us, the prose pinned down in every square foot of space we’d acquired. We were content with the plot twists that only mildly redirected our lives. We signed on the dotted line for the things we didn’t know we cared about. We ate the things we shouldn’t, spent money when we couldn’t, lost sight of the Earth we had to inhabit and wasted wasted wasted everything. Food. Water. Resources. Soon the skies were gray with chemical pollution, and the plants and animals were sick from genetic modification, and diseases rooted themselves in our air, our meals, our blood and bones. The food disappeared. The people were dying. Our empire fell to pieces.

A good guideline for a safe distance (wherever possible) is two-arm’s length reach from a stranger. That distance allows you to hear what a person is saying, as well as provides you a reactionary gap should you need to effectively respond. Distance equals time and time equals safety, and that could be the difference between being safe or being the target of an attack. Verbal Boundaries Say what you mean in order to enforce your boundaries, such as “Leave now!” not “Can you please just go away?” or “Just leave me alone.” Make your point clearly and concisely. The more words you use, the more likely that your message will get lost. Avoid “please” and “thank you” in situations where you’re establishing and enforcing your boundaries. It’s okay to be polite as a tactical choice of words, but don’t qualify or give reason for your statement. Remember, it’s not what you say but how you say it, and being rude or angry when you’re dealing with a threatening situation can quickly make it worse. Know what you want, state it clearly and directly, and stick to it. Know Your Triggers Triggers are products of some past event. A trigger could be a smell, a sound, or a physical object. Triggers can affect you physically and mentally. The key is to remember that the situation that contains the trigger is not happening now; it already occurred in the past, and you need to remain focused on the present. Your safety depends on it. You don’t want a trigger to overtake your ability to stay focused in a potentially dangerous encounter with a stranger. Take three deep breaths. Breathing deeply and fully signals your parasympathetic system to respond by generating a sense of relaxation. If you have to say something more than twice, they’re not listening. Repeat yourself and stand your ground, but understand you may need to change the way you’re saying it. Be firmer and/or louder. Always remember that if you can leave a situation safely, leave. Don’t defer the “no”! By putting off something to another time, instead of definitively saying “no,” you’ll just have to deal with it another day. You need to be okay with saying “no” today. Repeat if necessary. Don’t apologize too much. (Women are especially bad about this.) Interrupt the person. You don’t need to be polite if they aren’t listening to you. Plus, interrupting them will serve to distract and redirect their energy. Imagine that you’re leaving the store late at night with an armful of groceries. A man approaches you and asks to assist you with putting your groceries in the vehicle. The way you use your voice can determine whether or not he accepts your reply.

Maybe I’m overstating the consequences of that night. Maybe things were bound to play out as they did, and what nags at me is the simple fact that I screwed up and don’t like being misunderstood. And maybe I’m bothered by the care and delicacy with which one must state the obvious: that it’s possible to understand and sympathize with the frustrations of white voters without denying the ease with which, throughout American history, politicians have redirected white frustration about their economic or social circumstances toward Black and brown people.

I know that I should feel overwhelmed with stress, but I’m suddenly overcome with gratitude. Hitting rock bottom might be the best thing to have happened to me in a while, I realize. There’s nothing to do from here but change, start over, redirect myself. And what a gift, in a way, I think, to get to start over.

Transference means several things. The first meaning is simply the strength of the relationship between therapist and patient. Or it can be, as Freud suggested, something more complicated, such as a redirection of feelings we’ve unconsciously retained from childhood. The patient may transfer his feelings for a parent or other authority figure onto the therapist. For instance, when I called Danny “handsome,” he transferred his childhood feelings of anger toward the abusive priest in his residential school, who’d also called him handsome, onto me.

one of the simplest ways to redirect things, when we are not sure of the way out, is a question: ‘What would I do if I was at my best?’ Now, if you are experiencing dark times and depression, you cannot expect yourself to be doing whatever you would be doing at your best. But you can create a mental picture of the direction you want to move in. So, if I am sitting ruminating on a painful experience in my life and have lost several hours to that churning, I can ask myself that question. The answer may be, ‘I would stand up, take a shower and put some music on that lifts my mood. Or perhaps I would pick an activity I enjoy

It was her way of loving me, of trying to redirect my steps and shift my affections away from the strivings of this world and back toward the kingdom of heaven. And yet even those who care deeply for us cannot always see our big picture, the Grand Story Line that is destined to unfold before us. They are on their own journeys. And though their paths may run parallel to ours, each is singular in its curves and mileposts, unique in its destination. As much as others want the best for us, they do not necessarily understand God’s best. He alone does.

Nukes and Peace It takes hundreds of years of hard work to build a civilization, and yet with the press of a button we can destroy it all in a day. Let us not press the button my friend. In fact, if we must destroy something let us destroy the very button of destruction, both from outside and inside. Let us incapacitate every single button of death and destruction, be it technological or psychological, and redirect that energy towards creation and conservation. You see, destroying the nukes mean nothing. Destroy one, another will be built in its place in a matter of months. We have to nuke the hate in us first, so that we no longer feel the need for nukes against our own kind. However, for the sake of investigation, let us forget the common sense of peace, and talk defense strategy for a moment, in a way that might make sense to world leaders. You see, the best defense against a nuke is not another nuke, but a code. It is the best defense because it is exponentially less expensive. In a technologically advanced world, the most powerful nation is not the one with nuclear power, but the one with coding power. So, to the so-called leaders of the world I say - if you're still foolishly worried about your neighbor's nuclear capabilities, don't go about wasting billions of dollars on a nuclear program, just spend a fragment of those funds on post-launch warhead hacking. But then again, it would open up a new realm of problems at a different level, because any nation with exceptional wireless channel manipulation expertise can remotely take over the command of another nation's nuclear warheads. So, at the end of the day, so long as there is animosity among the nations of the world, between mind and mind, sustained by stupid borders and foul ideologies, there is no safe way out. I'll say it to you plainly. Wasting nuclear power on warheads is a barbaric use of a scientific revolution. Let me elaborate with some numbers. A single nuclear warhead contains nearly 4 kilograms of Plutonium-239, which in a nuclear power plant can produce sufficient heat to generate about 32 million kilowatt-hours of electricity, that is, 32 Gigawatt-hours (GWh). 1 GWh of electricity powers about 700,000 households for one hour, hence 32 GWh would power about 22.4 million households for one hour. Now, if we divide that number by the number of hours in a year, that is, 8760, we are confronted with an astounding revelation. It is that, the radioactive material from one nuclear warhead can power over two thousand households for a year (2557 to be exact). And that's just the radioactive material we are talking about. Many more resources are required to set up a nuclear program. The point is, instead of wasting such potent and precious resources on fancy, frivolous and fictitious geopolitical insecurities, let us redirect those resources to alleviate actual, real human suffering from society. Let us use them to empower communities rather than to dominate them - let us use them to elevate the whole of humankind, rather than to downgrade the parts that we do not like. Because by degrading others, we only degrade ourselves, whereas by lifting others, we rise ourselves. Remember, there is no world peace, so long as fear is off the leash.

I am intimately involved in all your moments, and I am training you to be aware of Me at all times. Your assignment is to collaborate with Me in this training process. I have taken up residence within you; I am central in your innermost being. Your mind goes off in tangents from its holy Center, time after time. Do not be alarmed by your inability to remain focused on Me. Simply bring your thoughts gently back to Me each time they wander. The quickest way to redirect your mind to me is to whisper My Name.

We are taught assault is likely to occur, but if you dressed modestly, you’d lower the chances of it being you. But this would never eradicate the issue, only redirecting the assailant to another unsuspecting victim, off-loading the violence. I never wanted to see him again, but I’d rather have him watch me wipe mucus onto my sleeve than roam free. One small victory.

Mindfulness is not ultimate, unbroken concentration. It is the process of noticing when your mind shifts its focus and intentionally choosing to redirect that focus back to the present moment.

Let me offer you this from Dallas Willard… The first and most basic thing we can and must do is to keep God before our minds….This is the fundamental secret of caring for our souls. Our part in thus practicing the presence of God is to direct and redirect our minds constantly to Him. In the early time of our practicing, we may well be challenged by our burdensome habits of dwelling on things less than God [that is, will be constantly distracted by a million other things]. But these are habits—not the law of gravity—and can be broken. A new, grace-filled habit will replace the former ones as we take intentional steps toward keeping God before us. Soon our minds will return to God as the needle of a compass constantly returns to the north….If God is the great longing of our souls, He will become the polestar of our inward beings.[23]

Stella walked to our pantry, raising her head up to sniff the lowest shelf filled with cereal boxes, bread, and crackers. I crawled over, attempting to redirect Stella away from the food. “Stella, look!” I crawled back to the door and pointed at the button. She looked back at Jake, over to me, back to the pantry, straight ahead to the door. She might have glanced at the buzzer, but she definitely did not look at it intentionally. I slowed down my rate of speech, articulated each and every syllable, and paused in between every word I said. “Outside,” I said both verbally and with her button at the same time. “Outside. Let’s go outside!” Stella stared ahead at the closed door, still unaware of the new addition on the floor. I pushed the button to hear “outside,” once more and promptly opened the back door. “Come on, girl!” Stella followed me, trotting down the three steps that led to our yard. “Yay! Stella outside. Outside!” Jake joined us. “Is that normal?” he said. “It seemed like she wasn’t paying attention.” “It’s okay. It takes time for kids to pay attention to a device or watch what I’m doing. So I’m sure it’ll take time for Stella, too. At the very least, she’s still hearing the words I’m saying and making associations between what she hears and what happens next.

Ever see yourself doing something in the past and no matter how many times you remember it you still want to scream stop, somehow redirect the action, reorder the present? I feel that way now, watching myself tugged stupidly along by inertia, my own inquisitiveness or whatever else, and it must have been something else, though what exactly I have no clue, maybe nothing, maybe nothing's all—a pretty meaningless combination of words, "nothing's all", but one I like just the same. It doesn't matter anyway. Whatever orders the path of all my yesterdays was strong enough that night to draw me past all those sleepers kept safely at bay from the living, locked behind their sturdy doors, until I stood at the end of the hall facing the last door on the left, an unremarkable door too, but still a door to the dead.

Obstacles are everywhere. They often feel insurmountable. Impossible. Sometimes they are nothing but stepping-stones. Other times, they are a diversion. A distraction. More often than not, they are there with the simple purpose of showing you that you can. But every now and again, they are a redirection. A deviation. A repurposing. And this detour? It will guide you to a destination you never imagined you’d go but where you belonged the whole time.

LET ME PREPARE YOU for the day that stretches out before you. I know exactly what this day will contain, whereas you have only vague ideas about it. You would like to see a map, showing all the twists and turns of your journey. You’d feel more prepared if you could somehow visualize what is on the road ahead. However, there is a better way to be prepared for whatever you will encounter today: Spend quality time with Me. I will not show you what is on the road ahead, but I will thoroughly equip you for the journey. My living Presence is your Companion each step of the way. Stay in continual communication with Me, whispering My Name whenever you need to redirect your thoughts. Thus, you can walk through this day with your focus on Me. My abiding Presence is the best road map available.

When I felt I was being rejected, I was being blessed and redirected instead! It is funny, how something meant to hurt me, was really for my protection and my best! - Sparkles Summers

When I felt I was being rejected, I was being blessed and redirected instead! It is funny, how something meant to hurt me, was really for my protection and my best!

There are infinite austerities or challenges you can try: giving up TV or your phone, sweets or alcohol; taking on a physical challenge; abstaining from gossip, complaining, and comparing. The austerity that was most powerful for me was meditating in cold or heat. The only way to escape the cold was to go inward. I had to learn to redirect my attention from the physical discomfort by talking to my mind.

Much of the negation poisoning the democratic process has stemmed from a confusion of the personal and the statistical. I may hold down an excellent job, but the failure of the stimulus to meet its targets infuriates me. I may live in peaceful Vienna, Virginia, safe from harm—but a report that several Americans have died violently in Kabul appears like a fatal failure of authority. By dwelling on the plane of gross statistics, I become vulnerable to grandiose personal illusions: that if I compel the government to move in this direction or that, I can save the Constitution, say, or the earth, or stop the war, or end poverty now. Though my personal sphere overflows with potentiality, I join the mutinous public and demand the abolition of the established order. This type of moral and political displacement is nothing new. The best character in the best novel by Dickens, to my taste, is Mrs. Jellyby of Bleak House, who spent long days working to improve “the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger,” while, in her London home, her small children ran wild and neglected. Dickens termed this “telescopic philanthropy”—the trampling of the personal sphere for the sake of a heroic illusion. Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee all the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She also held a discussion with Mr. Quale, the subject of which seemed to be—if I understood it—the brotherhood of humanity, and gave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not so attentive an auditor as I might have wished to be, however, for Peepy and the other children came flocking about Ada and me in a corner of the drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat down among them and told them in whispers “Puss in Boots” and I don’t know what else until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed.3 The revolt of the public has had a telescopic and Jellybyan aspect to it. Though they never descended to details, insurgents assumed that, by symbolic gestures and sheer force of desire, they could refashion the complex systems of democracy and capitalism into a personalized utopia. Instead, unknowingly, they crossed into N. N. Taleb’s wild “Extremistan,” where “we are subjected to the tyranny of the singular, the accidental, the unseen, and the unpredicted.” In that unstable country, “you should always be suspicious of the knowledge you derive from data.”4 I can’t command a complex social system like the United States, but I can control my political expectations of it: I can choose to align them with reality. To seize this alternative, I must redirect the demands I make on the world from the telescopic to the personal, because actionable reality resides in the personal sphere. I can do something about losing my job, for example, but I have no clue what could or should be done about the unemployment rate. I know directly whether a law affects my business for better or worse, but I have no idea of its effect on the gross domestic product. I can assist a friend in need, but I have little influence over the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger. Control, however tenuous, and satisfaction, however fleeting, can only be found in the personal sphere, not in telescopic numbers reported by government. A

A verse in 2 Corinthians 5 explains this concept of being an awe breaker. It says that Jesus lived and died so that “those who live might no longer live for themselves” (v. 15). Here’s what this powerful little phrase means: people whose every thought, desire, word, and action was meant to be motivated and shaped by awe of God, exchange awe of God for awe of self. It’s not just that sin makes us rebels and fools. It’s not just that sin makes us want to write our own laws. No, sin does something more fundamental to each of us. Sin captures and redirects the motivational system of our hearts. In a practically life-shaping way, sin changes how our hearts operate. Paul is talking here about two opposite perspectives on life. In one, the heart is filled with a vision of what I want for me and my little world; in the other, the heart is filled with wonder at who Christ is and what he has done. Each is driven by awe, either awe of personal glory or awe of the glory of Christ. Though we were created to be moved by the awe of God, sin causes our hearts to be moved by the small, individualistic agenda of awe of self. Because we break God’s awe design, we then proceed to break God’s law design. Let me say it as clearly and practically as I can. Because of sin, awe of God is very quickly replaced by awe of self.

Those are Father’s words, Inan. His decisions. Not yours. We are our own people. We make our own choices.” “But he’s right.” Inan’s voice cracks. “If we don’t stop magic, Orïsha will fall.” His eyes return to me, and I tighten my grip on my staff. Try it, I want to bark. I’m done running away. Amari redirects Inan’s line of vision, her delicate hands cupping the back of his head. “Father is not the future of Orïsha, brother. We are. We stand on the right side of this. You can stand there, too.

In yet another manipulation-of-matter dream, I saw several, perhaps ten, vortices (like spinning arms) protruding from my body. Rotating in a unison, counter-clockwise fashion, they would all, in simultaneous rhythm with my Prāṇa pulse, change direction. Immediately, I understood that these projections from my combined thought and energy processes would reverse themselves accordingly, thereby redirecting the effulgence/vibration field surrounding and radiating out from me. Another dream showed the Creative Energy of the universe surging into and through my crown area and then following down through my entire body until emerging as some form of matter. It too, seemed to involve the Prāṇa: that harnessing one’s divine heart energy is the ultimate manipulator of matter.

One way I deal with the pain is to embrace it, to realize that it also presents a gift: profound appreciation for whatever small thing comforts me, brings me pleasure, makes me laugh, satisfies my hunger, lightens my mood. Yes, at least I didn’t die. In other words, if something hurts, I focus on what doesn’t. The mind will naturally fixate on any irritation, but you can redirect it, make yourself look away or at least occupy yourself with something else for a while.

Specifically, I want to bring these songs and texts to bear on the ecological crisis. It seems to me that the environmental crisis is, at heart, a failure and a perversion of the human imagination. Our imaginations have been taken captive by an ecocidal ideology of economic growth that invariably will render us homeless in a world unfit for habitation. If imagination is the issue, then a redirection of our lives toward creation care will not emerge out of statistics of ecological despoliation, as important as those statistics might be. What we need is liberated imagination, imagination set free to envision an alternative life, an ecological imagination that engenders a life of restorative homemaking in our creational home. Cockburn’s art, especially when interpreted in dialogue with biblical visions, is a rich resource for funding such an imagination.[206]

We had all kinds of great. But you were right to finish it. You did the right thing, in the cosmic order of things. There is no rejection, there is only redirection. You know, I've been thinking a lot. About the cosmos. I've been tuning in. And the cosmos has been telling me I need to get my shit together. It's balance, man. What we had was too intense and our lives are too intense and it's like Darwin's third law of motion. About an action leading to a reaction. Something had to give. And you were the one who saw that and now we are just particles floating in the universe that may reconnect one day at the Chateau Marmont...

Prepare to dive.” Tairn swivels his head, his jaw opening as the wyvern closes the distance to less than a body length, and I brace for the maneuver. “Never mind.” The wyvern’s wings and head sag, and its body follows suit—as though someone plucked out its life force—and then it falls, propelled only by its previous momentum, passing forty feet beneath us and crashing into the field below, leaving a deep furrow before stopping. “We should check—” “Its heartbeat ceased,” Tairn tells me, his attention already redirected to the other two wyvern along the border and the horde behind them. “The wards work.” The wards work. Relief restarts my heart.

Just like the river dissolves into the ocean, losing its identity and becoming one with infinity, so too does the mind merge with me, the true Self. Although dams may redirect the flow of water, it inevitably finds its way to the ocean. Similarly, the mind may be led astray by different religions, philosophies, and societal influences, but ultimately, it recognizes me.