Shoes Journey Quotes

Kindness Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

Yours are the only shoes made to walk your journey.

The only cure to all this madness; is too dream, far and wide, if possibility doesn't knock, create a damn door. If the shoe doesn't fit, don't make it. If the journey your travelling seems to far fetched and wild beyond your imagination; continue on it, great things come to the risk takers. And last but not least, live today; here, right now, you'll thank your future self for it later.

I was beginning to realize that all the food in the world, and all the running shoes, could not make me happy. The material things were worthless. I had lost my family. I wasn’t loved, I wasn’t free, and I wasn’t safe. I was alive, but everything that made life worth living was gone.

I elbowed my way into the grubby café, bought a pie that tasted of shoe polish and a pot of tea with cork crumbs floating in it, and eavesdropped on a pair of Shetland pony breeders. Despondency makes one hanker after lives one never led. Why have you given your life to books, TC? Dull, dull, dull! The memoirs are bad enough, but all that ruddy fiction! Hero goes on a journey, stranger comes to town, somebody wants something, they get it or they don't, will is pitted against will. "Admire me, for I am a metaphor.

Were all on a golden journey-every one of us. A journey inspired by golden dreams, and at the end awaits a golden crown of righteousness....please remember that every step is to be cherished. Every single one...

the poet Emerson said that when we have worn out our shoes, the strength of the journey has passed into our body.

When it came to talking with God, I wanted to believe he was like those stars. If I looked, he’d be there. I’d lost a lot of things in the years that led up to this point - shoes and keys and books and boyfriends - but I never lost that hope

Not every woman is obsessed with shoes. But every woman is more obsessed with shoes than her husband is (although that's not too difficult to accomplish, since your husband has exactly two pairs--black shoes that are ten years old and barely broken in and sneakers that are so dirty they classify as a biohazard).

I tramp the perpetual journey My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no philosophy, I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange, But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My left hand hooking you round the waist, My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road. Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. It is not far, it is within reach, Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know, Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth, Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip, And in due time you shall repay the same service to me, For after we start we never lie by again. This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven, And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then? And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond. You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life. Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

Through life, I want to walk gently. I want to treat all of life – the earth and its people – with reverence. I want to remove my shoes in the presence of holy ground. As much as possible, I want to walk in peace. I want to walk lightly, even joyfully, through whatever days I am given. I want to laugh easily. I want to step carefully in and out of people's lives and relationships. I don't want to tread any heavier than necessary. And throughout life, I think I would like to walk with more humility and less anger, more love and less fear. I want to walk confidently, but without arrogance. I want to walk in deep appreciation. I want to be genuinely thankful for life's extravagant, yet simple, gifts – a star-splattered night sky or a hot drink on an ice-cold day. If life is a journey, then how I make that journey is important. How I walk through life.

Through her voice I saw a free woman, down on her land, a woman who knew how to kill her own chickens, hunt her own possum, cut her own cotton, fix her own roof, make her own whiskey, walk in her own shoes, and speak her mind, tell her own story. A black woman. Ready for the journey. The Journey.

For some the journey of highschool was probably pleasent or easy like swimming down a stream or walking down the street, but for me it was like climbing up a muddy hill ... while its raining ... with no shoes.

It won't be an easy journey - do not expect it to be. But the easy journeys are not worth the leather on the soles of our shoes, boy. It's the journeys that test us to our very core - the journeys that strip the clothes from our back, mess with our minds and shake our spirits - these are the journeys worth taking in life. They show us who we are.

Refuse to give up on your path because of the opinions of others. Refuse to be swayed by those who do not walk in your shoes and do not understand your journey.

When a dancer performs, melody transforms into a carriage, expressions turn into fuel and spirit experiences a journey to a world where passion attains fulfillment.

On the path to greatness, life teaches you to walk with stones in your shoes.

A real journey will demand that I put my shoes on, but then I’ve got to stand up and walk. And if I forget the second part, the first part doesn’t matter.

Don’t belittle the person who tied their shoes the moment you kept walking because not everyone’s journey is the same.

Goodbye, goodbye, to one place or another, to every mouth, to every sorrow, to the insolent moon, to weeks which wound in the days and disappeared, goodbye to this voice and that one stained with amaranth, and goodbye to the usual bed and plate, to the twilit setting of all goddbyes, to the chair that is part of the same twilight, to the way made by my shoes. I spread myself, no question; I turned over whole lives, changed skin, lamps, and hates, it was something I had to do, not by law or whim, more of a chain reaction; each new journey enchained me; I took pleasure in places, in all places. And, newly arrived, I promptly said goodbye with still newborn tenderness as if the bread were to open and suddenly flee from the world of the table. So I left behind all languages, repeated goodbyes like an old door, changed cinemas, reasons, and tombs, left everywhere for somewhere else; I went on being, and being always half undone with joy, a bridegroom among sadnesses, never knowing how or when, ready to return, never returning. It’s well known that he who returns never left, so I traced and retraced my life, changing clothes and planets, growing used to the company, to the great whirl of exile, to the great solitude of bells tolling." -"Goodbyes

She knew it was time, What for was the mystery but focused; she remained. She turned her back on anything that no longer served her strengths nor taught her vital lessons with her weaknesses. She said no without explanation & assigned validation back just to parking spots. She was fierce but gentle and authentic in her approach to live even if it meant standing alone. She knew the hard days weren't over but stood proud that she had already survived some of the worst. She laughed in the midst of a mindfuck & gathered her worth with all the pieces of herself that have held her together throughout the years. She knew it was time What for was the mystery, but focused; she remained. She learnt that motherhood provided unconditional love doesn't have boundaries, it's pure in all its forms. Family are rare connections. Friendships are like shoes, not all will fit but when some do it's like you have won the lotto. She learnt that every love was different and how important it was to keep her heart open for the possibility of being able to experience it just one more time.

a full-throated, full-hearted thanks to my Penelope, who waited. And waited. She waited while I journeyed, and she waited while I got lost. She waited night after night while I made my maddeningly slow way home—usually late, the dinner cold—and she waited the last few years while I relived it all, aloud, and in my head, and on the page, even though there were parts she didn’t care to relive. From the start, going on half a century, she’s waited, and now at last I can hand her these hard-fought pages and say, about them, about Nike, about everything: “Penny, I couldn’t have done it without you.

We begin our journey to freedom when we go back to the places where we were spiritually, emotionally, and mentally wounded. But this time we go with God’s presence, help, and strength. No matter how frightening and messy it feels, God invites us to trust him. The Lord does some of his most beautiful work in the midst of the messiness and brokenness of our lives.

I am a lonely figure when I run the roads. People wonder how far I have come, how far I have to go. They see me alone and friendless on a journey that has no visible beginning or end. I appear isolated and vulnerable, a homeless creature. It is all they can do to keep from stopping the car and asking if they can take me wherever I'm going. I know this because I feel it myself. When I see the runner I have much the same thoughts. No matter how often I run the roads myself, I am struck by how solitary my fellow runner appears. The sight of a runner at dusk or in inclement weather makes me glad to be safe and warm in my car and headed for home. And at those times, I wonder how I can go out there myself, how I can leave the comfort and warmth and that feeling of intimacy and belonging, to do this distracted thing. But when finally I am there, I realise it is not comfort and warmth I am leaving, not intimacy and belonging I am giving up, but the loneliness that pursues me this day and every day. I know that the real loneliness, the real isolation, the real vulnerability, begins long before I put on my running shoes.

Now journeys were not simple matters for Grace; nothing is simple if your mind is a fetch-and-carry wanderer from sliced perilous outer world to secret safe inner world; if when night comes your thought creeps out like a furred animal concealed in the dark, to fine, seize, and kill its food and drag it back to the secret house in the secret world, only to discover that the secret world has disappeared or has so enlarged that it's a public nightmare; if then strange beasts walk upside down like flies on the ceiling; crimson wings flap, the curtains fly; a sad man wearing a blue waistcoat with green buttons sits in the centre of the room, crying because he has swallowed the mirror and it hurts and he burps in flashes of glass and light; if crakes move and cry; the world is flipped, unrolled down in the vast marble stair; a stained threadbare carpet; the hollow silver dancing shoes, hunting-horns...

It seems right now that all I’ve ever done in my life is making my way here to you.’ I could see that Rosie could not place the line from The Bridges of Madison County that had produced such a powerful emotional reaction on the plane. She looked confused. ‘Don, what are you…what have you done to yourself?’ ‘I’ve made some changes.’ ‘Big changes.’ ‘Whatever behavioural modifications you require from me are a trivial price to pay for having you as my partner.’ Rosie made a downwards movement with her hand, which I could not interpret. Then she looked around the room and I followed her eyes. Everyone was watching. Nick had stopped partway to our table. I realised that in my intensity I had raised my voice. I didn’t care. ‘You are the world’s most perfect woman. All other women are irrelevant. Permanently. No Botox or implants will be required. ‘I need a minute to think,’ she said. I automatically started the timer on my watch. Suddenly Rosie started laughing. I looked at her, understandably puzzled at this outburst in the middle of a critical life decision. ‘The watch,’ she said. ‘I say “I need a minute” and you start timing. Don is not dead. 'Don, you don’t feel love, do you?’ said Rosie. ‘You can’t really love me.’ ‘Gene diagnosed love.’ I knew now that he had been wrong. I had watched thirteen romantic movies and felt nothing. That was not strictly true. I had felt suspense, curiosity and amusement. But I had not for one moment felt engaged in the love between the protagonists. I had cried no tears for Meg Ryan or Meryl Streep or Deborah Kerr or Vivien Leigh or Julia Roberts. I could not lie about so important a matter. ‘According to your definition, no.’ Rosie looked extremely unhappy. The evening had turned into a disaster. 'I thought my behaviour would make you happy, and instead it’s made you sad.’ ‘I’m upset because you can’t love me. Okay?’ This was worse! She wanted me to love her. And I was incapable. Gene and Claudia offered me a lift home, but I did not want to continue the conversation. I started walking, then accelerated to a jog. It made sense to get home before it rained. It also made sense to exercise hard and put the restaurant behind me as quickly as possible. The new shoes were workable, but the coat and tie were uncomfortable even on a cold night. I pulled off the jacket, the item that had made me temporarily acceptable in a world to which I did not belong, and threw it in a rubbish bin. The tie followed. On an impulse I retrieved the Daphne from the jacket and carried it in my hand for the remainder of the journey. There was rain in the air and my face was wet as I reached the safety of my apartment.

We need only drop the effort to secure and solidify ourselves and the awakened state is present. But we soon realize that just “letting go” is only possible for short periods. We need some discipline to bring us to “letting be.” We must walk a spiritual path. Ego must wear itself out like an old shoe, journeying from suffering to liberation.

My wife, Sue, and I once set off on a 3000-mile journey from California to New York. We drove a black Chevy Suburban, the type they call SUVs nowadays. When we could afford to we stayed in shitty little motels just off the road, with biker bars next door and ladies of the night on the corner. I remember one motel where we didn’t dare walk on the carpet barefoot, putting on our shoes to walk from the bed to the bathroom, but mostly we pulled off at rest stops and slept in the car between the big trailers where no one could see us.

I fell into the water with a large splash and sunk like a stone. My feet guided the way as I drifted further into the murky depths. Down. Down. Down.

Of all the things I own, I’m most sentimental about my shoes, because they’ve traveled with me every step of my journey.

Trekking means a travelling experience with a thrilling excitement.

Step into my shoes follow my journey my mountains my valleys my surprise potholes and if you can keep going the way I keep going perhaps you'll understand my choices & strength.

My parents had sent me on this journey to have adventures - small adventures, such as dining alone and trying out new foods, and bigger adventures with elves, a boy with no shoes, water sprites, Spellbinders, and dragons. They had sent me on this journey to hear my aunts tell stories about my parents themselves - reading Faery books, stealing cinnamon, eating spicy foods, turning cartwheels in forests - a basketful of memories to comfort me. Now I soared through the air, my heart glowing golden, and a thought flung itself at me. I have never been so happy.

They say you can usually tell how long the journey was by looking at the shoes of the traveler-- So when you look into my eyes, do you see the miles I have traveled to become the man I am?

A list of things you might not hear: eylash opening on the pillow, the appearance of a star, a leaf leaving a tree, a hand in your hair, a lie being withheld, a tear's journey from eye to shoe, air becoming blue, longing.

On this literary journey. I never thought that this would ever come true. I'm finally living out my dreams. Not trying to be a carbon copy I'm the blueprint, I am who I am and not going to make excuses for who I am. I'll never trying to pretend to be someone else its too hard being me as it is, nor would I try to walk in another's shoes, don't need the foot fungus. I'm too much of a Diva for that, I love my own Stillettos! Now that is my swag ™

On sentry duty with Hazel, he would try to take his mind off it. He loved spending time with her. He asked her about growing up in New Orleans, but she got edgy at his questions, so they made small talk instead. Just for fun, they tried to speak French to each other. Hazel had some Creole blood on her mother’s side. Frank had taken French in school. Neither of them was very fluent, and Louisiana French was so different from Canadian French it was almost impossible to converse. When Frank asked Hazel how her beef was feeling today, and she replied that his shoe was green, they decided to give up. Then Percy Jackson had arrived. Sure, Frank had seen kids fight monsters before. He’d fought plenty of them himself on his journey from Vancouver. But he’d never seen gorgons. He’d never seen a goddess in person. And the way Percy had controlled the Little Tiber—wow. Frank wished he had powers like that.

I so wanted her to feel the happiness that I felt whenever we touched each other, but people are more complicated creatures than dogs. We always love them joyfully, but sometimes they’re mad at us, like when I chewed the sad shoes.

Self-examination isn’t about being perfect. It’s about listening and responding to the Spirit. It’s about allowing God to reveal where we are hiding and resisting his love so that we can come out from hiding to receive grace and mercy and wholeness. This isn’t about beating ourselves up, and it’s not an invitation to obsessive introspection. We can’t make ourselves whole or holy. That’s the Spirit’s work. Our work is simply to cooperate with the Spirit by saying yes to God’s movement in our lives.

You not only have the freedom to make the changes you need to make; you must. With the urgency of a rock in your shoe you haven’t stopped to take out, act on the ache you feel when you see someone else living out the story you always wanted—the story you were made to live.

Perhaps I should go back a few years earlier. My parents, who travelled from Odessa, the Russian city on the Black Sea, shortly before the 1914 war, were part of a vast migration of Jews fleeing Tsarist oppression to the dream of America that obsessed poor men all over Europe. The tailors thought of it as a place where people had, maybe, three, four different suits to wear. Glaziers grew dizzy with excitement reckoning up the number of windows in even one little skyscraper. Cobblers counted twelve million feet, a shoe on each. There was gold in the streets for all trades; a meat dinner every single day. And Freedom. That was not something to be sneezed at, either. But my parents never got to America.

A Day Away We often think that our affairs, great or small, must be tended continuously and in detail, or our world will disintegrate, and we will lose our places in the universe. That is not true, or if it is true, then our situations were so temporary that they would have collapsed anyway. Once a year or so I give myself a day away. On the eve of my day of absence, I begin to unwrap the bonds which hold me in harness. I inform housemates, my family and close friends that I will not be reachable for twenty-four hours; then I disengage the telephone. I turn the radio dial to an all-music station, preferably one which plays the soothing golden oldies. I sit for at least an hour in a very hot tub; then I lay out my clothes in preparation for my morning escape, and knowing that nothing will disturb me, I sleep the sleep of the just. On the morning I wake naturally, for I will have set no clock, nor informed my body timepiece when it should alarm. I dress in comfortable shoes and casual clothes and leave my house going no place. If I am living in a city, I wander streets, window-shop, or gaze at buildings. I enter and leave public parks, libraries, the lobbies of skyscrapers, and movie houses. I stay in no place for very long. On the getaway day I try for amnesia. I do not want to know my name, where I live, or how many dire responsibilities rest on my shoulders. I detest encountering even the closest friend, for then I am reminded of who I am, and the circumstances of my life, which I want to forget for a while. Every person needs to take one day away. A day in which one consciously separates the past from the future. Jobs, lovers, family, employers, and friends can exist one day without any one of us, and if our egos permit us to confess, they could exist eternally in our absence. Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us. We need hours of aimless wandering or spates of time sitting on park benches, observing the mysterious world of ants and the canopy of treetops. If we step away for a time, we are not, as many may think and some will accuse, being irresponsible, but rather we are preparing ourselves to more ably perform our duties and discharge our obligations. When I return home, I am always surprised to find some questions I sought to evade had been answered and some entanglements I had hoped to flee had become unraveled in my absence. A day away acts as a spring tonic. It can dispel rancor, transform indecision, and renew the spirit.

That’s why I smoke weed. It’s additive to my journey. It makes getting from here to there manageable and comfortable. There’s this odd concept of functionality that people apply to some things but not others. Our feet need cushioning. Our skin needs protecting. Our muscles need exercise. Our asses need wiping. But our brains? Don’t touch those! They’re perfect, and if you’re having a hard time with yours and are smoking weed, it’s bad! Unfortunately, as well designed as people are, we just aren’t completely cut out for this world we live in. We need shoes, sunblock, exercise, toilet paper—and weed. People criticize weed for changing your view of reality. But sunglasses literally change your view of reality, and nobody gives them a hard time for it.

I Pray For This Girl Oh yes! For the young girl Who just landed on Mother Earth! The one about to turn five with a smile Or the other one who just turned nine She is not only mine My Mother’s, Grandmother’s Neighbour’s or friend’s daughter She is like a flower Very fragile, yet so gorgeous An Angel whose wings are invisible I speak life to this young or older girl She might not have a say But expects the world to be a better place Whether affluent or impoverished No matter her state of mind Her background must not determine How she is treated She needs to live, she has to thrive! Lord God Almighty Sanctify her unique journey Save her from the claws of the enemy Shield her against any brutality Restore her if pain becomes a reality Embrace her should joy pass swiftly When emptiness fills her heart severely May you be her sanctuary! Dear Father, please give her The honour to grow without being frightened Hope whenever she feels forsaken Contentment even after her heart was broken Comfort when she is shaken Courage when malice creeps in Calm when she needs peace Strength when she is weak Freedom to climb on a mountain peak And wisdom to tackle any season Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble Grant her power to wisely triumph On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl I may have never met her I may not know her name I may not be in her shoes I may not see her cries Yet, I grasp her plight Wherever she is King of Kings Be with her Each and every day I pray for this girl

After the chicken is fried and wrapped in wax paper, tucked gently into cardboard shoe boxes and tied with string... After the corn bread is cut into wedges, the peaches washed and dried... After the sweet tea is poured into mason jars twisted tight and the deviled eggs are scooped back inside their egg-white beds slipped into porcelain bowls that are my mother's now, a gift her mother sends with her on the journey...

When I work with Godfrey, I don’t spend a lot of time looking at the image. I look at it once. Maybe twice, but not more than twice. Then I depend on the inaccuracy of my memory to create the appropriate distance between the music and the image. I knew right away that the image and the music could not be on top of each other, because then there would be no room for the spectators to invent a place for themselves. Of course, in commercials and propaganda films, the producers don’t want to leave a space: the strategy of propaganda is not to leave a space, not to leave any question. Commercials are propaganda tools in which image and music are locked together in order to make an explicit point, like “Buy these shoes” or “Go to this casino.” The strategy of art is precisely the opposite. I would describe it this way: When you listen to a piece of music and you look at an image at the same time, you are metaphorically making a journey to that image. It’s a metaphorical distance, but it’s a real one all the same, and it’s in that journey that the spectator forms a relationship to the music and the image. Without that, it’s all made for us and we don’t have to invent anything. In works like Godfrey’s, and in works, for that matter, like Bob Wilson’s, the spectators are supposed to invent something. They are supposed to tell the story of Einstein. In Godfrey’s movies Koyaanisqatsi and Powaqqatsi, the words in the title are the only words there are. The journey that we make from the armchair to the image is the process by which we make the image and the music our own. Without that, we have no personal connection. The idea of a personal interpretation comes about through traversing that distance.

You know, I’m just a regular guy. I mow my lawn, shovel snow from the driveway, and change the oil in our vehicles. I do the grocery shopping and cook most of our dinners. I’m like any other man in America. Only I got lucky—I have a beautiful son and an activity we can do together, despite his disability. It’s been an incredible journey. I’m not a hero. I’m just a father. And all I did was tie on a pair of running shoes and push my son in his wheelchair.

The journeys that people took had always interested him; his own life was a constant journeying, though not quite so constant as it had been before he had his wives and children. Usually he only agreed to scout for the Texans if they were going in a direction he wanted to go himself, in order to see a particular hill or stream, to visit a relative or friend, or just to search for a bird or animal he wanted to observe. Also, he often went back to places he had been at earlier times in his life, just to see if the places would seem the same. In most cases, because he himself had changed, the places did not seem exactly as he remembered them, but there were exceptions. The simplest places, where there was only rock and sky, or water and rock, changed the least. When he felt disturbances in his life, as all men would, Famous Shoes tried to go back to one of the simple places, the places of rock and sky, to steady himself and grow calm again.

I just remember thinking the stars were so reliable. I felt it as I drew my legs in close to my body and wrapped my arms around them; the stars are reliable, unlike any other thing in this crazy world. Leaves fall off the trees. Snow melts. Rain washes away all the things we wrote on the pavement. But the stars are relentless in shining. When it came to talking with God, I wanted to believe He was like those stars. If I looked, He’d be there. I’d lost a lot of things in the years that led up to this point—shoes and keys and books and boyfriends—but I never lost that hope.

float before I could swim. Ellis never believed it was called Dead-Man’s Float, thought I’d made it up. I told him it was a survival position after a long exhausting journey. How apt. All I see below is blue light. Peaceful and eternal. I’m holding my breath until my body throbs as one pulse. I roll over and suck in a deep lungful of warm air. I look up at the starry starry night. The sound of water in and out of my ears, and beyond this human shell, the sound of cicadas fills the night. I dreamt of my mother. It was an image, that’s all, and a fleeting one, at that. She was faded with age, like a discarded offcut on the studio floor. In this dream, she didn’t speak, just stepped out of the shadows, a reminder that we are the same, her and me, cut from the same bruised cloth. I understand how she got up one day and left, how instinctively she trusted the compulsion to flee. The rightness of that action. We are the same, her and me. She walked out when I was eight. Never came back. I remember being collected from school by our neighbour Mrs Deakin, who bought me sweets on the way home and let me play with a dog for as long as I wanted. Inside the house, my father was sitting at the table, drinking. He was holding a sheet of blue writing paper covered in black words, and he said, Your mother’s gone. She said she’s sorry. A sheet of writing paper covered in words and just two for me. How was that possible? Her remnant life was put in bags and stored in the spare room at the earliest opportunity. Stuffed in, not folded – clothes brushes, cosmetics all thrown in together, awaiting collection from the Church. My mother had taken only what she could carry. One rainy afternoon, when my father had gone next door to fix a pipe, I emptied the bags on to the floor and saw my mother in every jumper and blouse and skirt I held up. I used to watch her dress and she let me. Sometimes, she asked my opinion about colours or what suited her more, this blouse or that blouse? And she’d follow my advice and tell me how right I was. I took off my clothes and put on a skirt first, then a blouse, a cardigan, and slowly I became her in miniature. She’d taken her good shoes, so I slipped on a pair of mid-height heels many sizes too big, of course, and placed a handbag on my arm. I stood in front of the mirror, and saw the infinite possibilities of play. I strutted, I

Mohammad’s face is serious. He takes another puff of his cigarette and coughs out dead air which, after leaving his lungs and hitting the outside world, takes its first breath on a journey to a fresher life. He drops his cigarette into the snow, places his foot over the burning end, twists his shoe to make sure it’s out, and tells me he’s trusting me. I have no idea what he’s trusting me with, but whatever it is, it’s so dangerous or evil he can’t bring himself to speak of it out loud. Hitler has just shared with me his plans for the final solution, and I've been subtly informed I have no choice but to come along for the ride.

There’s stuff that makes our lives better that hasn’t been stigmatized, and nobody gives those things a second thought. Nobody thinks about why they have a strong desire to wear shoes. Nobody says that people who wear shoes are denying reality. Instead, the consensus on shoes is that we use them to adapt to reality. If we don’t wear them, our feet will hurt. They make our journey more comfortable, and we don’t judge ourselves for wearing them. They don’t make walking any less “real.” Nobody’s ever like, “You’re not really experiencing walking. You’re under the fog of footwear.” They’re like, “Yeah. Our feet aren’t made for walking in the environments we’ve settled in as a species. Wear shoes.

In an instant, five harlequin-like clowns emerged and began to perform all kinds of acrobatic tricks, encircling us––correction...corralling us. They were graceful but a little creepy too. They were wearing black and white costumes that were form fitting and appeared to move like some psychedelic drug trip when they flipped around. That of course was odd, but not nearly as odd as the chant they were singing as they continued to perform their tricks. See us dance. Watch us flip. Care to take a chance? We’ll only need a sip. Come to see our mistress? Or come to see our master? She can be quite viscous. But he is a disaster. We love them both, and we’ll let you choose. Either way, we wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.

The homely young woman had kept to herself all through their journey, spending most of her time with the horses, brushing out their coats and pulling stones from their shoes. She had helped Shadd cook and clean game as well, and soon proved that she could hunt as well as any. Any task Catelyn asked her to turn her hand to, Brienne had performed deftly and without complaint, and when she was spoken to she answered politely, but she never chattered, nor wept, nor laughed. She had ridden with them every day and slept among them every night without ever truly becoming one of them. It was the same when she was with Renly, Catelyn thought. At the feast, in the melee, even in Renly’s pavilion with her brothers of the Rainbow Guard. There are walls around this one higher than Winterfell’s.

And anything that the boys could carry, they made off with. Combs, lamps, silly little things, even bridal wreaths, everything went. As if we'd had years of life ahead of us. They looted to take their minds off their troubles, to make it look as if they had years before them. Everybody likes that feeling. As far as they were concerned, gunfire was nothing but noise. That's why wars can keep going. Even the people who make them, who fight in them, don't really get the picture. Even with a bullet in their gut, they'd go on picking up old shoes that 'might come in handy.' The way a sheep, lying on its side in a meadow, will keep on grazing with its dying breath. Most people don't die until the last moment; others start twenty years in advance, sometimes more. Those are the unfortunates.

The problem is, we don’t exercise that control. Under normal circumstances, our state of openness is left to psychological factors. Basically, we are programmed to open or close based upon our past experiences. Impressions from the past are still inside of us, and they get stimulated by different events. If they were negative impressions, we tend to close. If they were positive impressions, we tend to open. Let’s say you smell a certain scent that reminds you of what it was like when you were young and somebody was cooking dinner. How you react to this scent depends upon the impressions left by your past experiences. Did you enjoy having dinner with the family? Was the food good? If so, then the smell of that scent warms you and opens you. If it wasn’t so much fun eating together, or if you had to eat food you didn’t like, then you tighten up and close. It really is that sensitive. A smell can make you open or close, and so can seeing a car of a certain color, or even the type of shoes a person is wearing. We are programmed based upon our past impressions such that all kinds of things can cause us to open and close. If you pay attention, you will see it happen regularly throughout each day.

The Netherlands capital of Amsterdam amsterdam cruise is a thriving metropolis and one from the world's popular cities. If you are planning a trip to the metropolis, but are unclear about what you should do presently there, why not possess a little fun and spend time learning about how it's stereotypically known for? How come they put on clogs? When was the wind mill first utilised there? In addition, be sure to include all your feels on your journey and taste the phenomenal cheeses along with smell the stunning tulips. It's really recommended that you stay in a city motel, Amsterdam is quite spread out and residing in hotels close to the city-centre allows for the easiest access to public transportation. Beyond the clichés So that you can know precisely why a stereotype exists it usually is important to discover its source. Clogs: The Dutch have already been wearing solid wood shoes, as well as "Klompen" as they are referred to, for approximately 700 years. They were originally made out of a timber sole along with a leather top or band tacked for the wood. Nevertheless, the shoes had been eventually created completely from wood to safeguard the whole base. Wooden shoe wearers state the shoes are usually warm during the cold months and cool during the warm months. The first guild associated with clog designers dates back to a number exceeding 1570 in Holland. When making blockages, both shoes of a set must be created from the same kind of timber, even the same side of a tree, in order that the wood will certainly shrink in the same charge. While most blocks today are produced by equipment, a few shoemakers are left and they normally set up store in vacationer areas near any city hotel. Amsterdam also offers a clog-making museum, Klompenmakerij De Zaanse Schans, that highlights your shoe's history and significance. Windmills: The first windmills have been demonstrated to have existed in Netherlands from about the year 1200. Today, there are eight leftover windmills in the capital. The most effective to visit is De Gooyer, which has been built in 1725 over the Nieuwevaart Canal. Their location in the east involving city's downtown area signifies it is readily available from any metropolis hotel. Amsterdam enjoys its beer and it actually has a brewery right on the doorstep to the wind generator. So if you are enjoying a historic site it's also possible to enjoy a scrumptious ice-cold beer - what more would you ask for? Mozerella: It's impossible to vacation to Amsterdam without sampling several of its wonderful cheeses. In accordance with the locals, probably the most flavourful cheeses are available at the Wegewijs Emporium. With over 50 international cheese and A hundred domestic parmesan cheesse, you will surely have a wide-variety to pick from.

thundering, fulminating sound that penetrated my body as though it were coming from within me. I remember the sound. I remember the blinding flash. Suddenly it was pitch-dark, there was dust everywhere, something was sucking the air out of me, I was suffocating. Abdullah was still on my shoulders, Raffah came running screaming from the kitchen, Mohammed stood frozen at the front door. As the dust began to settle, I realized the explosion had come from my daughters’ bedroom. I put Abdullah down, and Bessan ran ahead of me from the kitchen—we wound up at the bedroom door at the same time. The sight in front of me was something I hope no other person ever has to witness. Bedroom furniture, school books, dolls, running shoes and pieces of wood were splintered in a heap, along with the body parts of my daughters and my niece. Shatha was the only one standing. Her eye was on her cheek, her body covered in bloody puncture wounds, her finger hanging by a thread of skin. I found Mayar’s body on the ground; she’d been decapitated. There was brain material on the ceiling, little girls’ hands and feet on the floor as if dropped there by someone who left too quickly. Blood spattered the entire room, and arms in familiar sweaters and legs in pants that belonged to my children leaned at crazed angles where they had blown off the torsos of my beloved daughters and niece. I ran to the front door for help but realized I couldn’t go

I Pray For This Girl Oh yes! For the young girl Who just landed on Mother Earth! The one about to turn five with a smile Or the other one who just turned nine She is not only mine My Mother’s, Grandmother’s Neighbour’s or friend’s daughter She is like a flower Very fragile, yet so gorgeous An Angel whose wings are invisible I speak life to this young or older girl She might not have a say But expects the world to be a better place Whether affluent or impoverished No matter her state of mind Her background must not determine How she is treated She needs to live, she has to thrive! Lord God Almighty Sanctify her unique journey Save her from the claws of the enemy Shield her against any brutality Restore her if pain becomes a reality Embrace her should joy pass swiftly When emptiness fills her heart severely May you be her sanctuary! Dear Father, please give her The honour to grow without being frightened Hope whenever she feels forsaken Contentment even after her heart was broken Comfort when she is shaken Courage when malice creeps in Calm when she needs peace Strength when she is weak Freedom to climb on a mountain peak And wisdom to tackle any season Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble Grant her power to tactfully triumph On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl I may have never met her I may not know her name I may not be in her shoes I may not see her cries Yet, I grasp her plight Wherever she is King of Kings Be with her Each and every day I pray for this girl

I Pray For This Girl Oh yes! For the young girl Who just landed on Mother Earth! The one about to turn five with a smile Or the other one who just turned nine She is not only mine My Mother’s, Grandmother’s Neighbour’s or friend’s daughter She is like a flower Very fragile, yet so gorgeous An Angel whose wings are invisible I speak life to this young or older girl She might not have a say But expects the world to be a better place Whether affluent or impoverished No matter her state of mind Her background must not determine How she is treated Like others, she needs to live Indeed, she has to thrive! Lord God Almighty Sanctify her unique journey Save her from the claws of the enemy Shield her against any brutality Restore her if pain becomes a reality Embrace her should joy pass swiftly When emptiness fills her heart severely May you be her sanctuary! Dear Father, please give her The honour to grow without being frightened Hope whenever she feels forsaken Contentment even after her heart was broken Comfort when she is shaken Courage when malice creeps in Calm when she needs peace Strength when she is weak Freedom to climb on a mountain peak And wisdom to tackle any season Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble Grant her power to wisely triumph On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl I may have never met her I may not know her name I may not be in her shoes I may not see her cries Yet, I grasp her plight Wherever she is King of Kings Be with her Each and every day I pray for this girl

I take her to the rocks that Zeke, Shauna, and I go to sometimes, late at night. Tris and I sit on a flat stone suspended over the water, and the spray soaks my shoes, but it’s not so cold that I mind. Like all initiates, she’s too focused on the aptitude test, and I’m struggling with talking to her about it. I thought that when I spilled one secret, the rest would come tumbling after, but openness is a habit you form over time, and not a switch you flip whenever you want to, I’m finding. “These are things I don’t tell people, you know. Not even my friends.” I watch the dark, murky water and the things it carries--pieces of trash, discarded clothing, floating bottles like small boats setting out on a journey. “My result was as expected. Abnegation.” “Oh.” She frowns. “But you chose Dauntless anyway?” “Out of necessity.” “Why did you have to leave?” I look away, not sure I can give voice to my reasons, because admitting them makes me a faction traitor, makes me feel like a coward. “You had to get away from your dad,” she says. “Is that why you don’t want to be a Dauntless leader? Because if you were, you might have to see him again?” I shrug. “That, and I’ve always felt that I don’t quite belong among the Dauntless. Not the way they are now, anyway.” It’s not quite the truth. I’m not sure this is the moment to tell her what I know about Max and Jeanine and the attack--selfishly, I want to keep this moment to myself, just for a little while. “But…you’re incredible,” she says. I raise my eyebrows at her. She seems embarrassed. “I mean, by Dauntless standards. Four fears is unheard of. How could you not belong here?

And for the four remaining days - the ninety-six remaining hours - we mapped out a future away from everything we knew. When the walls of the map were breached, we gave one another courage to build them again. And we imagined our home an old stone barn filled with junk and wine and paintings, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and bees. I remember our final day in the villa. We were supposed to be going that evening, taking the sleeper back to England. I was on edge, a mix of nerves and excitement, looking out to see if he made the slightest move toward leaving, but he didn’t. Toiletries remained on the bathroom shelves, clothes stayed scattered across the floor. We went to the beach as usual, lay side by side in our usual spot. The heat was intense and we said little, certainly nothing of our plans to move up to Provence, to the lavender and light. To the fields of sunflowers. I looked at my watch. We were almost there. It was happening. I kept saying to myself, he’s going to do it. I left him on the bed dozing, and went out to the shop to get water and peaches. I walked the streets as if they were my new home. Bonjour to everyone, me walking barefoot, oh so confident, free. And I imagined how we’d go out later to eat, and we’d celebrate at our bar. And I’d phone Mabel and Mabel would say, I understand. I raced back to the villa, ran up the stairs and died. Our rucksacks were open on the bed, our shoes already packed away inside. I watched him from the door. He was silent, his eyes red. He folded his clothes meticulously, dirty washing in separate bags. I wanted to howl. I wanted to put my arms around him, hold him there until the train had left the station. I’ve got peaches and water for the journey, I said. Thank you, he said. You think of everything. Because I love you, I said. He didn’t look at me. The change was happening too quickly. Is there a taxi coming? My voice was weak, breaking. Madame Cournier’s taking us. I went to open the window, the scent of tuberose strong. I lit a cigarette and looked at the sky. An airplane cast out a vivid orange wake that ripped across the violet wash. And I remember thinking, how cruel it was that our plans were out there somewhere. Another version of our future, out there somewhere, in perpetual orbit. The bottle of pastis? he said. I smiled at him. You take it, I said. We lay in our bunks as the sleeper rattled north and retraced the journey of ten days before. The cabin was dark, an occasional light from the corridor bled under the door. The room was hot and airless, smelled of sweat. In the darkness, he dropped his hand down to me and waited. I couldn’t help myself, I reached up and held it. Noticed my fingertips were numb. We’ll be OK, I remember thinking. Whatever we are, we’ll be OK. We didn’t see each other for a while back in Oxford. We both suffered, I know we did, but differently. And sometimes, when the day loomed gray, I’d sit at my desk and remember the heat of that summer. I’d remember the smells of tuberose that were carried by the wind, and the smell of octopus cooking on the stinking griddles. I’d remember the sound of our laughter and the sound of a doughnut seller, and I’d remember the red canvas shoes I lost in the sea, and the taste of pastis and the taste of his skin, and a sky so blue it would defy anything else to be blue again. And I’d remember my love for a man that almost made everything possible./

The gospel call invites us to apprentice ourselves to Jesus, become pilgrims along the compassionate way, and journey deeper together into the heart and life of God. In our contemporary setting, however, Christians often look more like bustling tourists than faithful pilgrims patiently engaged upon an eternal pilgrimage into Divine Love. Countless people today make periodic excursions into the spiritual supermarket in pursuit of a novel offer, but few seem willing to sign up as pilgrims in the lifelong adventure of discipleship.

I am The Black Book. Between my top and my bottom, my right and my left, I hold what I have seen, what I have done, and what I have thought. I am everything I have hated: labor without harvest; death without honor; life without land or law. I am a black woman holding a white child in her arms singing to her own baby lying unattended in the grass. I am all the ways I have failed: I am the black slave owner, the buyer of Golden Peacock Bleach Crème and Dr. Palmer’s Skin Whitener, the self- hating player of the dozens; I am my own nigger joke. I am all the ways I survived: I am tun-mush, hoecake cooked on a hoe; I am Fourteen black jockeys winning the Kentucky Derby. I am the creator of hundreds of patented inventions; I am Lafitte the pirate and Marie Laveau. I am Bessie Smith winning a roller-skating contest; I am quilts and ironwork, fine carpentry and lace. I am the wars I fought, the gold I mined, The horses I broke, the trails I blazed. I am all the things I have seen: The New York Caucasian newspaper, the scarred back of Gordon the slave, the Draft Riots, darky tunes, and mer- chants distorting my face to sell thread, soap, shoe polish coconut. And I am all the things I have ever loved: scuppernong wine, cool baptisms in silent water, dream books and number playing. I am the sound of my own voice singing “Sangaree.” I am ring-shouts, and blues, ragtime and gospels. I am mojo, voodoo, and gold earrings. I am not complete here; there is much more, but there is no more time and no more space . . . and I have journeys to take, ships to name, and crews.

doesn’t take much to derail a marriage. Sometimes the small pebble in your shoe at the start of a journey is the one that ends up making the most painful blister.

We take off our shoes, or we turn on our ears. We press our hands together in a gesture of prayer, or we remember the full extent of our lungs. Perhaps we even arrange ourselves cross-legged on the ground, or perhaps we dance or walk or swim instead. When we want to escape the surface, we activate our bodies, and they show us a different intelligence, pointing to a mind that resides not just in the head. Our knowing is diffused throughout all of us, distributed through muscle and bone, pulsing through organs and conveyed in the blood. We put our feet to the ground to listen with all of it. Not all that we know is verbal. Much of it--sometimes I think the vast majority--is somatic, the concern of the body. I learned this most keenly when Bert was a baby, and I used to reach towards him in the back seat on long car journeys and feel his foot press into my palm in reply. There was communication there far beyond words, and far more soothing to both of us. When I used to sit him on my lap and kiss his soft head, I was aware that information was being exchanged between us, transmitted through my lips and received through my nose. I could not even tell you what it said. Our bodies have answers to questions that we don't know how to ask.

Shoe dogs were people who devoted themselves wholly to the making, selling, buying, or designing of shoes. Lifers used the phrase cheerfully to describe other lifers, men and women who had toiled so long and hard in the shoe trade, they thought and talked about nothing else. It was an all-consuming mania, a recognizable psychological disorder, to care so much about insoles and outsoles, linings and welts, rivets and vamps. But I understood. The average person takes seventy-five hundred steps a day, 274 million steps over the course of a long life, the equivalent of six times around the glob. Shoe dogs, it seemed to me, simply wanted to be part of that journey. Shoes were their way of connecting with humanity. What better way of connecting, shoe dogs thought, than by refining the hinge that joins each person to the world's surface?

And, of course, a full-throated, full-hearted thanks to my Penelope, who waited. And waited. She waited while I journeyed, and she waited while I got lost. She waited night after night while I made my maddeningly slow way home--usually late, the dinner cold. And she waited the last few years while I relived it all, aloud, and in my head, and on the page, even though there were parts she didn't care to relive. From the start, going on half a century she's waited, and now at last I can hand her these hard-fought pages and say, about them, about Nike, about everything: "Penny, I couldn't have done it without you.

Avoid people who cannot put themselves in your shoes to see things from your perspective; such people see things one way, and that is their way.

there’s also a disabling sort of poverty that sneers you’re never good enough, no matter what you do or how hard you try. The right kind of spiritual poverty is a pathway to seeing God; the other kind prevents you from seeing who God has created you to be.” She paused. “Perhaps your journey will take you from one to the other.

And sometimes... Try walking in someone else's shoes. It is not just about understanding their path; it's an immersive journey that reveals the intricate terrain of their experiences. It's an empathy-driven exploration where you not only see the world through their eyes but also feel the echoes of their struggles and triumphs resonating with your own heartbeat. In this shared odyssey, compassion becomes the compass guiding you through the diverse landscapes of human existence. Try it.

Isn't that the beauty of the written word? Stories grow and change with an author. They’re the essence and the heart and soul of the creators but they come to life in the reader's minds. The reader will never know the impact a story had on an author because they don’t know their life. They haven’t walked in their shoes. It’s an individual journey for each person who picks up that book.

Here is what I learn about walking. Walking, like running, is about finding a pace. Stride out too quickly and you soon tire and become disheartened. Stroll too slowly and the journey can sit heavy in the bowl of your stomach. It is not passing across a landscape. Instead, it is feeling the landscape pass under you, as if the pushing of your feet into the ground turns the Earth further away from you, like balancing on a giant ball. You do not walk with your feet. You walk with your boots. Bad boots make the walking harder. When you walk, you notice the details. You notice the colours and shapes and precise movements of everything around you, from blades of grass to birds to creatures scurrying through the undergrowth. It is a way of becoming intimate with the landscape. Walking on flat roads is too easy. It lets you think too much. Walking over uneven rocky ground is a way to escape from the mind. Wet shoes weigh you down. Walking on a full stomach is like a sickness. Walking on an empty stomach is worse. Footsteps do not make a noise at the point where your boots hit the tarmac. They also sound in your head. They echo like an organ note in a cathedral. Even when your body sweats, the ends of your fingers are still cold. Feet can be hot and cold at the same time.

Do not compare your life to others, Or wish you could walk in their shoes. You have no idea what their journey is all about.

Shep-en-Mut The painted wooden face was known to me. She stood in the dusty museum sun, Painted eyes lengthened with kohl. Azure, terra-cotta, white, Emblazoned cartonnage. The Isis wings, spread in care and love. Curving protective Neckbet and Nepthys. Beneath, the corticated skin, Black bitumen. Eyeless, cracked and black, Dessicated viscera, wrapped apart. Leaving child and husband, moving through satin bands of shadow, Singing in the ecstatic sun. Feet hissing through the silken sand She carried the Milk Jar and a Palm frond, Worshipping and serving each day. This lady was the songstress of Amun-Re, Her songs curved upward in the great Temple of Thebes. The stone beauty of the face of the God above her frailty Gave her voice a scope of praise denied to our dessicated senses When death stooped on her, claws and beak ripped. Then feathers lay outstretched in love. Horus wings, Night Heron beak, Having slain, now standing guard in fearful phalanx. Leaving the echo between the roof trees. Her flesh must be pickled, cured with cinnamon and myrrh. The skull, frail as a blown egg, Emptied of its convolute majesty, Stuffed with delicate resinous rags. When the sucking natron has had its meal Her shell will taste the shriving sun and wind once more. Blow gently, shine kindly down, Amun-Re, on thy slave. She shall be wrapped in fine linen Layer on layer, and laced like a shoe. The last we shall see in linen and plaster and paint. May her journey be safe through the dark tunnels May her soul sing in light before her God, In soft peace. The holding wings enfold my friend. Priestess of Thebes. Singer of Amun-Re Bearer of the little Milk Jar.

Geographic mobility is at its lowest level since records began being kept in 1947. The varied causes of the slowdown, including rising housing costs, are not easy to change, but little effort is being made in part because politicians generally don’t like to tell voters that it may be in their best interest to move. Lincoln, whose family moved from Kentucky to Indiana to Illinois in pursuit of economic opportunity, had no such qualms. Addressing striking shoe workers in New Haven, Connecticut, he said, “If you find it hard to better your condition on this soil, you may have

Give to me your broken shoes For down the road you’ll find ones new. If you place your trust in me, Lucky will your journey be.

And he said... ...know that you may fill my footsteps, but you will never fill my shoes.

Cup of Coffee (The Sonnet) A cup is just crockery till there is coffee in it. A head is just a skull till there's a mind in it. Clothes are just fabric till there's a character in 'em. Shoes are just footwear till there's a journey in 'em. Chest is just a bunch of bones till there's a heart in it. A body is just a bag of flesh till there's a being in it.

They buried me without any shoes on. If only I had taken those few seconds to put on my sneakers before I confronted Addie in the kitchen, this journey back to the road would be much easier. Instead, I am carefully picking my way along the uneven dirt, branches stabbing the soles of my feet.

No other personal item was more painful to see than a lost person’s shoes. Shoes were life. They represented the journey, the travels, the destinations of their owners. They stretched to fit their master. They conformed to that person’s shape. They carried the dust from where one had gone and pointed in the direction of the future. Shoes were life. And there was nothing sadder than a pair of shoes that would never be used by their owner again. Barely able to move, she stepped aside

Ego must wear itself out like an old shoe, journeying from suffering to liberation.

Yesterday evening Mickey and I and other deluded WAAFs went through the blackout and into the wilds of Hammersmith enduring the journey with the thought of the rollicking, witty West End show, Broadway Follies, studded with stars, to which we WAAFs had been invited free. I might say frightful, I might say terrible, awful, boring, tedious, but they only reveal the inadequacy of words. After the third hour, or so it seemed, I was convinced that I had died and was in hell, watching turn after turn in unending procession, each longer, each less funny, each more unbelievably bad than the last. During the interval, Hendon WAAFs rushed to the bar, scruffy WAAFs, obviously from West Drayton, sat still rollicking with mirth in the Stalls. We tossed back whisky and ginger beer and watched in a stupor the longer, duller, apparently unending second half. After came the journey back in the blackout made blue by our opinions of the evening.

It’s like I’ve said before, you can’t possibly walk a mile in my shoes, or anyone else’s. They don’t fit, and you would be bitching to get them off in about a minute and a half, so don’t even try. Just be there to understand, and maybe once in a while check in and see how that person is doing. None of us is asking you to fix it. We just want to be understood.

shoes. Shoes were life. They represented the journey, the travels, the destinations of their owners. They stretched to fit their master. They conformed to that person’s shape. They carried the dust from where one had gone and pointed in the direction of the future. Shoes were life. And there was nothing sadder than a pair of shoes that would never be used by their owner again.

ONCE, IN A HOUSE ON EGYPT STREET, there lived a rabbit who was made almost entirely of china. He had china arms and china legs, china paws and a china head, a china torso and a china nose. His arms and legs were jointed and joined by wire so that his china elbows and china knees could be bent, giving him much freedom of movement. His ears were made of real rabbit fur, and beneath the fur, there were strong, bendable wires, which allowed the ears to be arranged into poses that reflected the rabbit’s mood — jaunty, tired, full of ennui. His tail, too, was made of real rabbit fur and was fluffy and soft and well shaped. The rabbit’s name was Edward Tulane, and he was tall. He measured almost three feet from the tip of his ears to the tip of his feet; his eyes were painted a penetrating and intelligent blue. In all, Edward Tulane felt himself to be an exceptional specimen. Only his whiskers gave him pause. They were long and elegant (as they should be), but they were of uncertain origin. Edward felt quite strongly that they were not the whiskers of a rabbit. Whom the whiskers had belonged to initially — what unsavory animal — was a question that Edward could not bear to consider for too long. And so he did not. He preferred, as a rule, not to think unpleasant thoughts. Edward’s mistress was a ten-year-old, dark-haired girl named Abilene Tulane, who thought almost as highly of Edward as Edward thought of himself. Each morning after she dressed herself for school, Abilene dressed Edward. The china rabbit was in possession of an extraordinary wardrobe composed of handmade silk suits, custom shoes fashioned from the finest leather and designed specifically for his rabbit feet, and a wide array of hats equipped with holes so that they could easily fit over Edward’s large and expressive ears. Each pair of well-cut pants had a small pocket for Edward’s gold pocket watch. Abilene wound this watch for him each morning.

A real journey will demand that I put my shoes on, but then I’ve got to stand up and walk. And I forget the second part, the first part doesn’t matter.

You back already?” Seymour asked. “Where’d the time go?” Sabbatical, I realized, was an exercise in relativity. Our new experiences and the emotions attached to them created new memories and changed our characters. Time had passed slowly for me and my family. It was so thick and heavy we could nearly grip it. But for my professional colleagues who were engaged in the daily routines of work and home, their more linear stretch of time marched ahead briskly like soldiers on parade. Routine made their lives easier—they didn’t have to think about or choose what to do next. Habit took over, hiding the passage of time and draining it from awareness.

When life’s journey is wearisome, put on hope’s shoes.

There is something to be said for rain, the sharing of an intimate caress with the leaves, blades of grass and all the living and the dead creatures to remind us we are connected.~Lyn Crain

Poetry in the darkest realm of my mind, blossoms into creations late at night when it is only me of the human kind and my felines sleeping just out of my sight.

Trains half a mile long have started carrying millions of laptops, shoes, clothes and other non-perishable items in one direction and electronics, car parts and medical equipment in the other on a journey that takes sixteen days – considerably faster than the sea route from China’s Pacific ports. With

There was a time when I was a wee one in age, life was happening. Good or bad, it was my stage. Now that I am older, I realize only I can write the page before life ends and I will have lost the chance to engage.

We can’t be lone rangers. You need to be fed, Hannah—not just in the sacred journey group or in your private devotions. You need other believers around you, worshiping with you and encouraging you. The very thing you’ve been avoiding is exactly what you need. Even if it’s a struggle—even if it makes you feel lost and uncomfortable.

Shifting from a superior/inferior paradigm to a strength-in-difference paradigm was kind of a good news/bad news situation. On the downside, I had to admit Bruce had been right to resist my Pygmalion makeover attempts. On the upside, I finally had someone I could work on: me. I noticed my tendency to micromanage him and made a conscious effort to let go. I practiced being a better listener. I kept my mouth shut and tried to put myself in his shoes before speaking. This approach, ironically, gave me the very control I had sought in making our marriage a more livable situation. This I could do, and with a lot less wear and tear. After years of hearing the old adage “You can only change yourself,” I finally understood it. About a year into my waking up white journey, I realized I’d been unknowingly caught in a similar dynamic in the racial arena. During all the years I’d tried to help and fix people of color, part of my subconscious expectation had been that people outside my culture should assimilate to my ways, see and do things the way I’d been taught was right and normal. Unlike in my marriage, however, where Bruce and I felt free to tell each other how frustrated we were, in cross-racial relationships such freedom of expression often does not exist. Because throughout history speaking up has cost people of color jobs, homes, and even lives, too often the choice is to stay silent. There’s a long and painful American history of people of color, when in the presence of white people, conforming to survive. The cost is staggering. The silencing of feedback from people of color can create a deadlock dynamic in which white people remain ignorant about their impact, while people of color accumulate frustration.

Skippy, you little fool, you are off on another of your senseless and retrograde journeys. Come back here, to the points. Here is where the paths divided. See the man back there. He is wearing a white hood. His shoes are brown. He has a nice smile, but nobody sees it. Nobody sees it because his face is always in the dark. But he is a nice man. He is the pointsman. He is called that because he throws the lever that changes the points. And we go to Happyville, instead of to Pain City. Or "Der Lied-Stadt," that's what the Germans call it. There is a mean poem about the Lied-Stadt, by a German man named Mr. Rilke. But we will not read it, because WE are going to Happyville. The pointsman has made sure we'll go there. He hardly has to work at all. The lever is very smooth, and easy to push. Even you could push it, Skippy. If you knew where it was. But look what a lot of work he has done, with just one little push. He has sent us all the way to Happyville, instead of to Pain City. That is because he knows just where the points and the lever are. He is the only kind of man who puts in very little work and makes big things happen, all over the world. He could have sent you on the right trip back there, Skippy. You can have YOUR fantasy if you want, you probably don't deserve anything better, but Mister Information tonight is in a kind mood. He will show you Happyville. He will begin by reminding you of the 1937 Ford. Why is that dacoit-faced auto still on the roads? You said "the War," just as you rattled over the points onto the wrong track. The War WAS the set of points. Eh? Yesyes, Skippy, the truth is that the War is keeping things alive. THINGS. The Ford is only one of them. The Germans-and-Japs story was only one, rather surrealistic version of the real War. The real War is always there. The dying tapers off now and then, but the War is still killing lots and lots of people. Only right now it is killing them in more subtle ways. Often in ways that are too complicated, even for us, at this level, to trace. But the right people are dying, just as they do when armies fight. The ones who stand up, in Basic, in the middle of the machine-gun pattern. The ones who do not have faith in their Sergeants. The ones who slip and show a moment's weakness to the Enemy. These are the ones the War cannot use, and so they die. The right ones survive. The others, it's said, even KNOW they have a short life expectancy. But they persist in acting the way they do. Nobody knows why. Wouldn't it be nice if we could eliminate them completely? Then no one would have to be killed in the War. That would be fun, wouldn't it, Skippy?

Ordinarily, such extravagance would have made them feel awkward and small, peasants in the presence of gentry. Indeed, it would make them feel exactly as this woman had intended them to feel. But not today. In light of recent experience, these insulated, rarified people put Zuzana in mind of expensive shoes kept in their box the three hundred and sixty-two days of the year when they weren’t being worn. Wrapped in tissue, safe from harm, and all they knew of life was gala events and the inside of the box. How dull. How dumb. By contrast, the grime of her journey, the outré inappropriateness of the state of her, it felt like armor. I earned this dirt. Respect. The dirt. “That’s

Sharon Garlough Brown may be a novelist, but she’s also a portrait artist, painting with tender detail the souls of four women on a spiritual journey. This third installment is harrowing, lovely, joyous—like life, like faith. Beautifully rendered!

How grateful I am to be reunited with Hannah, Meg, Mara, and Charissa, my friends in Sharon Garlough Brown’s Sensible Shoes series. Having already journeyed with them through seasons of growth and change, I was eager to see what this third novel, Barefoot, would reveal. And what a tender story ensued as these women faced both serendipitous joy and heart-wrenching sorrow.

Suddenly there was a month to kill. I decided I wanted to spend it in warmth, so with a hundred bucks in my shoe (good place to hide it), I stuck out my thumb and arrived in Miami two days later.

Sometimes on the way to better, things get worse for a while.

You have no idea how well you are doing,” John complimented me just a few minutes after he mentioned the Christmas card. What did that mean: That I was doing well? That I’d come to a family gathering? That I’d remembered to bring food? That I was dressed, and my hair combed? That I was wearing shoes? I wasn’t sure, but maybe just making an appearance at a family event meant I was handling things well.

To be complete, a journey presupposes the deconstruction of prejudices and stereotypes. A traveler’s shift in focus and his revision of priorities and of his mistrust are the clearest manifestations of this process. In this regard, our relations with enemies are of special interest.

He jumped up, pulled out the suitcase he stored under his bed, and began to pack everything he would need for the journey ahead. Two sweaters, two pairs of pants, a couple of T-shirts, and some underwear. As many pairs of socks as he owned. A pair of dress shoes, a dress jacket, and two ties. Then he put on his usual shoes, tied up the laces, put on a black sweater and a winter coat, and sat on the bed, waiting for his father—or better yet, his uncle—to knock on the door and say it was time to leave. Ten minutes went by. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Unable to stand it any longer, Jacob got up, quietly went over to his door, unlocked it, and tried to open it without any creaking. He held his breath and listened for yelling, for voices, for any sign of life and movement. He heard nothing.

At my church, we worked through a Bible study by Beth Moore. A video series, entitled “A Heart Like His”, Beth invited us to join her on a journey to know King David, a man after God’s own heart.   Beth explained that when we ask God for something we shouldn’t be expecting Him to talk to us through the clouds. Instead, God speaks to us through His Word, the Bible. If we have a concern or problem or issue, we need to read the Bible to “listen” for God’s voice and His answer. Before opening the Bible, we need to pray that God would reveal Himself to us through the words on the page.   Beth gives the example of how God revealed Himself to Samuel through His Word, the Bible. Samuel 3:21 says, “The Lord continued to appear at Shiloh, and there he revealed himself to Samuel through his word.”   We often want to see God in a situation. Beth shares:   “I need to know You’re here with me. I need to know You’re working here. O, God, if I can just see You in the midst of this I can get through almost anything. Would You reveal Yourself to me? And He reminded me I’ll reveal Myself to you through My word.”   This also shows us the importance of memorizing scripture. When we are up against a problem, we can relate back to our memory of the Word and find the answers within.   God will reveal Himself to you through His word. He will make His presence known to you. Expect Him. That is His promise. He is looking for receptive hearts. So whether you are reading your Bible in the kitchen, the den or your bedroom, expect Him to reveal Himself to you.       Prayer is my half of an ongoing conversation between my God and me. ~ Donna Fawcett         Why Worry When We Can Pray?     “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:27)     The hill in the distance looked daunting. “You want to climb that?” I stopped walking to re-lace my shoes.

Forgiveness . . . means taking what happened seriously and not minimizing it; drawing out the sting in the memory that threatens to poison our entire existence. It involves trying to understand the perpetrators and so have empathy, to try to stand in their shoes and appreciate the sort of pressures and influences that might have conditioned them.—Desmond Tutu Although

Why, Reshi?"The words poured out of Bast in a sudden gush. "Why did you stay there when it was so awful?" Kvothe nodded to himself, as if he had been expecting the question. "Where else was there for me to go, Bast? Everyone I knew was dead." "Not everyone," Bast insisted. "There was Abenthy. You could have gone to him." "Hallowfell was hundreds of miles away, Bast," Kvothe said wearily as he wandered to the other side of the room and moved behind the bar. Hundreds of miles without my father's maps to guide me. Hundreds of miles without wagons to ride or sleep in. Without help of any sort, or money, or shoes. Not an impossible journey, I suppose. But for a young child, still numb with the shock of losing his parents. . . ." Kvothe shook his head. "No. In Tarbean at least I could beg or steal. I'd managed to survive in the forest for a summer, barely. But over the winter?" He shook his head. "I would have starved or frozen todeath." Standing at the bar, Kvothe filled his mug and began to add pinches of spice from several small containers, then walked toward the great stone fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You're right, of course. Anywhere would have been better than Tarbean." He shrugged, facing the fire. "But we are all creatures of habit. It is far too easy to stay in the familiar ruts we dig for ourselves. Perhaps I even viewed it as fair. My punishment for not being there to help when the Chandrian came. My punishment for not dying when I should have, with the rest of my family." Bast opened his mouth, then closed it and looked down at the tabletop, frowning. Kvothe looked over his shoulder and gave a gentle smile. "I'm not saying it's rational, Bast. Emotions by their very nature are not reasonable things. I don't feel that way now, but back then I did. I remember." He turned back to the fire. "Ben's training has given me a memory so clean and sharp I have to be careful not to cut myself sometimes." Kvothe took a mulling stone from the fire and dropped it into his wooden mug. It sank with a sharp hiss. The smell of searing clove and nutmeg filled the room. Kvothe stirred his cider with a long-handled spoon as he made his way back to the table. "You must also remember that I was not in my right mind. Much of me was still in shock, sleeping if you will. I needed something, or someone, to wake me up." He nodded to Chronicler, who casually shook his writing hand to loosen it, then unstoppered his inkwell. Kvothe leaned back in his seat. "I needed to be reminded of things I had forgotten. I needed a reason to leave. It was years before I met someone who could do those things." He smiled at Chronicler. "Before I met Skarpi.

I once spent a night at a truck stop in Shandong Province, on the east coast, asking drivers about what they carried. Two men had a truck full of bamboo whisk brooms; they had just dropped off a shipment of non-ferrous metal... Others had gone from chemical materials to radiators, from tennis shoes to dynamos. They were the alchemists of the new economy, at the center of every mysterious exchange that occurs along the Chinese road system.

Middle Head: I’m surrounded by idiots. No really, I’ve got one on either side. Between the gardener and the bleeding heart, it’s amazing that we’ve made it this far. Left is right about one thing, though; the pyramid will make a good base of operations while we plan out our next move. And he’s right that we should probably stop blowing up everything on the way there. We’re making a rather obvious trail of destruction. He’s so annoying when he’s right. Well, I guess “Right” isn’t exactly the right word. Right is a complete idiot. And now I’ve confused him again. Well, it’s easier to just wait until he gets distracted than try to explain it. Right Head: But really, though. Left can’t be Right, right? I’m Right! Is there more than one Right? That has to be it. I’m on our right, but Left would be Right to someone else. Right? @_@ Oh no, my head hurts. Oh, more cacti! I like them a lot! They get so tall! =) And sometimes they blow up! =D Middle says those ones are actually creepers, but I know better. I want to grow my own cactus bombs! >=) Day Fourteen Right Head: The pyramid is super fun! =D I blew it all up!! >=D All it took was one little explosion, and then boom, boom, BOOM!!! Middle isn’t very happy with me, but he’s never happy. =/ Left is pretty mad too. And he never gets mad. =( I didn’t mean to blow everything up, but it was so much fun! I had a good day. =) Middle Head: That complete, utter, absolute moron! We finally make it to the pyramid after a whole day’s journey across the hot desert, and he blows it up! First thing! No conversation! Left says that we should check for booby traps, and then the idiot just starts shooting skulls all over the place! It’s a miracle that the explosion wasn’t even bigger! He’s lucky that we don’t have skin. I would tear his off and make it into a coat. Or shoes, if we had feet. All the fires of the Nether wouldn’t be enough to burn the stink of stupidity from my skull. Humph. Well, Left convinced me that we need to keep looking for Steve. He isn’t in this desert, and east still feels like the best way to go. We’ve been asking any skeletons we see about the best places to look. The zombies are all obsessed with some village nearby, and nothing else seems willing to talk to us.

there is not one person in a thousand who does not hold to some kind of superstition, and those most given to ridiculing the belief in witchcraft of past ages, believe in omens, prognostics, dreams and revelations. They carry a rabbit’s foot or buckeye, keep a horse shoe over or under the door, see spectres stalking around a table of thirteen, or could not be induced to start a journey or begin any work on Friday, and since people of the present day cannot explain the phenomena in spiritual manifestations, mind reading, electric wonders, etc., their ancestors may be excused for believing in witchcraft, inasmuch as they accepted the Bible for the guidance of their faith and believed all it says on this subject, as they did that pertaining to the soul’s salvation, and sought to put away witchcraft, that Christianity might prevail.

I Pray For This Girl Oh yes! For the young girl Who just landed on Mother Earth! The one about to turn five with a smile Or the other one who just turned nine She is not only mine My Mother’s, Grandmother’s Neighbours’ or friends’ daughter She is like a flower Very fragile, yet so gorgeous An angel whose wings are invisible I speak life to this young or older girl She might not have a say But expects the world to be a better place Whether affluent or impoverished No matter her state of mind Her background must not determine How she is treated in life She needs to live; she has to thrive! Lord God Almighty Sanctify her unique journey Save her from the claws of the enemy Shield her against any brutality Restore her, if pain becomes reality Embrace her, should joy pass swiftly When emptiness fills her heart severely May you be her sanctuary! Dear Father, please give her Honour to grow without being frightened Hope whenever she feels forsaken Contentment even after her heart was broken Comfort when she is shaken Courage when malice creeps in Calm when she needs peace Strength when she is weak Freedom to climb to the mountain peak And wisdom to tackle any season Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble Grant her power to tactfully triumph On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl I may have never met her I may not know her name I may not be in her shoes I may not see her cries Yet, I grasp her plight Wherever she is King of Kings Be with her Each and every day I pray for this girl

We grow through what we go through" " Some people can be like pebbles in your shoes" "The Trail provides" "Sometimes, the greatest journey we take, is the one within

Sometimes life is not easy, or convenient, or efficient, but is this life less important, less valuable? In the West, we believe our way of life should be everyone’s way of life, from exporting a false sense of democracy and hiding our corruption behind a faulty system to living lives that are built on the purest ideas of capitalism. It is not normal to have hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt, but we call student loans “good debt.” It is not normal to have 47 pairs of shoes when you only have one pair of feet. In

For most of the year I wore no shoes. This Higher Power was my guide, but it seemed to be just as confused about the world as I was. Eventually, I realized that my Higher Power was an ethereal nothingness. It was a collection of lofty ideas that, although beautiful, were not capable of contradicting me, reshaping my paradigms, or defining reality for me. It was a god that appealed to my own sensibilities; it was as ever-changing and subjective as my own mind.

Fathom my views. The bright, and the blues. Face battles. I win and lose - In My Shoes

Please, stop saying that you had “trouble getting pregnant with your third child” or that you “miscarried in between kids three and four.” It’s not the same, and it’s a dagger in the heart when you try to sell it like it is. I had to suffer through child-bearing advice from a GOMO who had the luxury of planning when she was going to have her next baby. After vacation? After Brian’s wedding in Mexico? I always wanted a summer baby, so maybe I will wait until the fall. They just didn’t get it. It’s the emptiness that hurts. The thought that you may never be able to look down at a baby who is your own. That’s the hard part.

The interesting thing about this exercise is that many people think that the first-person narrator should be something from your own experience (the straightforward way to do it is that), but putting yourself in other people's shoes and narrating in the first person from there brings forth thoughts, feelings, and emotions that you took for granted, and that's where the richness of the narration lies.

The cost was the life of the eternal, immortal, invisible God, the One who created everything, made us, and gave us His word to guide us. This was the God we rejected in order to do our own thing, and each go our own way. He who is a trillion times bigger than us entered knowingly into our shoes, although we are a trillion times smaller than a speck of dust in comparison. He made Himself like us, weak, frail, and puny so He could die in our place. He did this to give us hope for our future, an eternal hope that extends even beyond the veil of this life.

Rays of sunshine beamed through the narrow slit at the top of the canyon walls and straight down into the deep shadows of the caverns. It pierced the darkness and, in some strange, fantastical way, the two seemed to make one another more beautiful. The dark and light complemented each other, not in the way that the right shoes complement an appropriately suited outfit, but in the way that life complements death. Without one, you simply can’t have the other. Maybe God was doing something like that in my life, too?

We went as far as we could until finally the canyon ended at a soft, smooth wall of sandstone that shot abruptly skyward. I immediately took my shoes off, gripped my hands and toes like a chameleon into the porous sandstone wall and began scaling the slippery surface. As I climbed, I turned my gaze upward and fixed it where I wanted to go. At that moment, and from that particular vantage point, I could see the hole in the ceiling through which the light entered the canyon. I smiled as I realized that the walls of the shaft curved up into the shape of a heart around me. As the sun glistened down the column, it beamed like a heart made of sunshine. It was God’s heart, and it was enveloping me.

It took another full day before we made it to an outdoors store that sold shoes. In the meantime, I developed a sickness that crept through my body like a puppy going to town on its owner’s slippers. I should’ve known that something was wrong when I found small fragments of my stuffing sprawled everywhere, but that was quite a bit before the fever, chills, and aches set in.

At the moments that I am privileged to “walk a mile in someone’s shoes,” my goal is to leave those shoes a bit softer and touch warmer so that when the other person puts them back on their next mile is a bit lighter.

Kindness - 1952- Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

As for their apparel, they wear breeches [leggings] and stockings in one, like some Irish; which is made of deer skins; and have shoes [mocassins] of the same leather. They wear also a deer skin loose about them, like a cloak; which they will turn to the weather [windward] side. In this habit [dress] they travel: but when they are at home, or come to their journey’s end, presently [immediately] they pull off their breeches, stockings and shoes; wring out the water if they be wet, arid dry them, and rub or chafe the same. Though these be off; yet have they another small garment that covereth them. The men wear also, when they go abroad in cold weather, an otter, or fox, skin on their right arm; but only their bracer [wrist-guard] on the left. Women, and all of that sex, wear strings [of beads] about their legs: which the men never do.

When it came to talking with God, I wanted to believe He was like those stars. If I looked, He’d be there. I’d lost a lot of things in the years that led up to this point—shoes and keys and books and boyfriends—but I never lost that hope.

People become quickly accustomed to peculiar aspects of any job. I try hard to remember that this is an unusual experience of the world – to have stood on the earth there, then there on it and there; then suddenly to find myself alone on an ordinary afternoon, quietly washing it from my shoes.

At the heart of compassion is the ability to put yourself in other people’s shoes and tempering your reactions to them through empathy. If you do not understand what someone is going through it is hard to feel compassion for them. You do not want to be that person who is always telling others ‘I wish you would just get over it already’.

What am I, crazy? I just flung four-hundred-dollar pumps down the street. “Shall we return to Harksbury? Your journey must have tired you more than you expected. You need proper rest, yes?” She’s looking at me like I’ve gone a little loco, her cute button nose wrinkled up and her wide hazel eyes narrowed to tiny little slits. How am I going to return to Harksbury after telling them all off? Maybe knocking my head wouldn’t be that bad. Stay calm. That’s what everyone says about emergencies. You have to stay calm and everything will resolve itself. “Yes. Let me, uh, let me go grab my shoes.” I hobble, barefoot, down the walk and retrieve my pumps, jam my feet back into them, and then follow her back to the carriage. The servants are silent, but I know they’re staring at me when my back is turned. I have to pull it together. I can’t just lose it like that, throwing my shoes like I’m in a shot-put competition. If I think clearly, maybe I’ll come up with a real plan. But until then, my name is Rebecca. I am a prim and proper Regency girl. I wear dresses and I curtsy. I belong here.

Will you be traveling there again? To Istanbul and Arabia and the places where they follow the Koran?" "I hope so," he said, laying aside the golden book very carefully. "The air is so hot there, warm and fragrant, the sky so blue, and the food tastes like nothing here. They have olives and dates and soft cheeses. I think you would like it, my Séraphine. You could dress in pink and gold and mahogany and lounge on silken pillows, listening to strange music. I'd buy you a little monkey with a vest and a hat to make you laugh and I'd sit and watch you and feed you juicy grapes." She smiled sadly and drew off her stays. "And how would we get there, Val?" "I'd hire a ship," he said taking a sip of his red wine. "No, I'd buy a ship- one of our very own. It'll have blue sails and a flag with a rooster on it. We'll take your mongrel and Mehmed and all his cats and set sail with fifty strong men. During the day we'll sit on deck and watch for mermaids and monsters in the waves, and at night we'll stare at the stars and then I'll make love to you until dawn." "And after far Arabia?" she whispered as she drew off her chemise and stood nude save for her stockings and shoes. "What then?" His smile faded and he looked very grave as she took off her shoes and stockings. "Why, Séraphine, then we would journey on to Egypt or India or China or indeed wherever else you please. Or even come round about here, back to foggy, bustling London, where, if nothing else, the pies and sausages are quite good, if that was what you wished. Just as long as I were with you and you with me, my sweet Séraphine.

I’m collapsed in a pile of shoes on my closet floor. Around and around me hangs my clothing, which is all I can see as I lean against the back wall of the closet. It can see straight up one of my skirts on a hanger over my head. It looks like a long, dark tunnel with the exit sealed off. It looks like my life right now.

At the entrance to the park stands a painted sign depicting two women. The one on the left wears a long black manteau and wimple, dark trousers and shoes; the figure on the right wears all of this plus a chaador overtop. Both figures are faceless. The rest of the sign is in writing. I ask Hamid what it means. "Our sign tell that this one-" Hamid points to the woman on the left "-is good, it is cloth Islamic. But our sign tells that this-" he taps his finger against the chaadored figure on the right "-is very much good dressing, most beautiful, way of God." "At the bottom of the sign there is, inexplicably, and English translation: Veil is ornament of women modesty. The smelling flower of chastity bush.

Removing his shoes, knotting the laces together, and stringing them around his neck, Horst rose from the cold, black water like a primeval amphibian with aspirations towards dapperness assaying a first journey onto land to spread the word about good tailoring.

When I reframed the situation in positive terms and emotions, the vector and tone of the conversation changed. What could have been ugly became amicable. Instead of fighting the force that was coming at me, I witnessed its momentum and flowed with it. I observed events as they transpired and responded instead of reacted.

Much of what I’d pursued in my career and personal life was about trying to shape my world into how I thought things should be instead of accepting things as they were.

As in any relationship, once I learned to trust, my bike delivered, and I became stronger. I felt I’d broken through some barrier and left something behind. It was a soaring emotion.

The interpretations of that model were wildly different from one artist to the next. They reaffirmed the idea that expression is unique to each individual and that raw information, in art and elsewhere, is much less interesting than the interpretation and insights derived from it.

In yoga, balance derives from the proper placement of limbs, head, and torso in relation to each other. In art, balance suggests itself when color, shape, and line are composed in a way that defines a work. In business, balance requires all elements of an enterprise to dovetail to create a competitive edge.

Lent is a time to remember this inevitable finishing line and gives us an annual opportunity to walk the course. Each Lent is a lifetime in miniature. We begin by recognising our frailty and our sinful nature, which we proceed to regret and repent of. Then, as we journey through the 40 days and nights, we resolve to repair our lives with the help of God, so that we may be renewed and at the end reach the goal of resurrection life. The journey through the seven Rs of Lent is a mini-lifetime, a condensed rehearsal or spiritual walk-through of the greater life we have, which itself carries us forward in hope to the eternal resurrection life we are promised in Jesus Christ. Next time you select a pair of shoes to wear, think how far they will travel, and why.

They saw some of the ugliness that war brings to civilians, and they saw extreme need. They could not help but be affected by it. When I asked Oliver what made the strongest impression on him, he said, “The poverty.” Our children had the opportunity to see their own country from the outside looking in.

The experience reminded me of the first time I picked up a pencil to draw. To change perspective was to change perception.

I was getting tired of the endless striving, the ambition, and the desire for more.

But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” To respond to this prophetic command our church put on crusades in the streets. We visited hospitals, boldly preaching about the God of the Bible. With all the prayer and worship at church we had been infused with the Holy Spirit to go to our city and villages and tell people about Jesus. We were sent out two by two for local outreach and would go on mission trips, as described in Luke 10:1, 4: The Lord appointed seventy others, and sent them in pairs ahead of Him to every city and place where He Himself was going to come. . . . “Carry no money belt, no bag, no shoes; and greet no one on the way.

And for all the downtown serenity—the lollygagging, the churchgoing, the taco stands, the mariachi bands, the shoe shiners in the plaza—one is urged by locals to avoid venturing out of town,

was commanded, in a dream naturally, to begin the epitaphs of thirty-three friends without using grand words like love pity pride sacrifice doom honor heaven hell earth: 1. O you deliquescent flower 2. O you always loved long naps 3. O you road-kill Georgia possum 4. O you broken red lightbulb 5. O you mosquito smudge fire 6. O you pitiless girl missing a toe 7. O you big fellow in pale-blue shoes 8. O you poet without a book 9. O you lichen without tree or stone 10. O you lion without a throat 11. O you homeless scholar with dirty feet 12. O you jungle bird without a jungle 13. O you city with a single street 14. O you tiny sun without an earth 15. Forgive me for saying good-night quietly 16. Forgive me for never answering the phone 17. Forgive me for sending too much money 18. Pardon me for fishing during your funeral 19. Forgive me for thinking of your lovely ass 20. Pardon me for burning your last book 21. Forgive me for making love to your widow 22. Pardon me for never mentioning you 23. Forgive me for not knowing where you’re buried 24. O you forgotten famous person 25. O you great singer of banal songs 26. O you shrike in the darkest thicket 27. O you river with too many dams 28. O you orphaned vulture with no meat 29. O you who sucked a shotgun to orgasm 30. Forgive me for raising your ghost so often 31. Forgive me for naming a bird after you 32. Forgive me for keeping a nude photo of you 33. We’ll all see God but not with our eyes

I Pray For This Girl Oh yes! For the young girl Who just landed on Mother Earth! The one about to turn five with a smile Or the other one Who just turned nine She is not only mine My Mother’s, Grandmother’s Neighbour’s or friend’s daughter She is like a flower Very fragile, yet so gorgeous An Angel whose wings are invisible I speak life to this young or older girl She might not have a say But expects the world to be a better place Whether affluent or impoverished No matter her state of mind Her background must not determine How she is treated Like others, she needs to live Indeed, she has to thrive! Lord God Almighty Sanctify her unique journey Save her from the claws of the enemy Shield her against any brutality Restore her if pain becomes a reality Embrace her should joy pass swiftly When emptiness fills her heart severely May you be her sanctuary! Dear Father, please give her The honour to grow without being frightened Hope whenever she feels forsaken Contentment even after her heart was broken Comfort when she is shaken Courage when malice creeps in Calm when she needs peace Strength when she is weak Freedom to climb on a mountain peak And wisdom to tackle any season Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble Grant her power to wisely triumph On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl I may have never met her I may not know her name I may not be in her shoes I may not see her cries Yet, I grasp her plight Wherever she is King of Kings Be with her Each and every day I pray for this girl

I decided to hike up to Cerro Potosí, the hill above the town, beyond Tangamanga Park. The guidebook recommended good shoes, water, and long pants against the agave lechuguilla—thorny agave. I started on a cool morning, setting out on the trail

As a spectacle, it was an opportunity for townspeople to gape, to tease, to eat, to become part of the throng, as a pack of imploring beggars lined up for alms, some with bowls of coins, others slumped, one nursing a child at her breast, another wildly gesturing to her comatose baby and pleading for help—and a few feet away, the taffeta gowns, the silken shawls, the gleaming suits, the misshapen wedding guests, grinding out their cigarettes under their expensive shoes in anticipation of the ceremony.

Business is bad, but at least it’s quiet here,” Ignacio, a shoeshine man, said to me in the plaza at Reynosa, brushing goop on my shoes.

In the midst of disappointment, it's easy for us to punctuate our pain with exclamation points. God, however, is very fond of commas, and our lives are continually unfolding in him, with all the unexpected twists and turns. Courage, dear one. The Lord is with you. May he strengthen you with hope for the next leg of the journey.

As for losing your edge,” Eric said, “I think that warrants a little inquiry practice.” “What’s that?” “Most people actually believe their own thoughts. But thoughts are not facts. They’re just thoughts. They don’t necessarily reflect reality. Whenever you hear your inner voice saying, ‘I haven’t achieved enough,’ or ‘I don’t have what it takes,’ or whatever—and we all have that inner voice—ask yourself this: ‘Is it true?’ We’re all attached to our stories, but it’s worth asking coldly, ‘What evidence do you have to prove beyond doubt that it’s true?’” He suggested I ruthlessly apply the Socratic method to the judgmental opinions of my own mind. “If you can’t find that evidence—because guess what? Most of the time it doesn’t exist—then imagine how you’d feel if you told yourself a different story or simply envisioned yourself without that self-critical thought.

Inquiry was a meditation of sorts; thoughts, not circumstances, had the power to inflict suffering. The sense of dissatisfaction was an illusion of the mind. Like meditation, the first step to overcoming negative thoughts was being conscious of them, to see them the way a meditator sees them and witness them from afar.

The night before, Leo and I had attended a screening of the movie Happy at an expat community event. His example reminded me that the lessons from that film—that happiness is derived from pursuing intrinsic values, like love, gratitude, and courage, which connect us to one another—were first articulated thousands of years ago by Aristotle, who did not consider power, status, and money to be intrinsically valuable.

I thought of metta meditation, which cultivates compassion by imagining sending kindness to others with each exhale and receiving their suffering with each inhale. Compassion was a core Buddhist ethic that began with compassion for the self and ended with compassion for all sentient beings. I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath as I thought about those workers, and exhaled slowly. It was a strange response for me, someone who would ordinarily think about concrete ways to help or otherwise take action. There was little I really could do. Yet I recognized the benefit of cultivating compassion in my own mind in the face of their suffering and the harm to me if I were to be as indifferent as a mountain to their suffering. I also tried to instill compassion in my children, some of whose friends—and ours—seemed to take for granted their windfall into privilege. I took in another deep breath. Then another. And another.

I stood at the top of my mat and listened to Nikki’s instructions to set an intention. When yoga teachers instructed me to set an intention, I had once struggled with the concept. I had no idea what they had meant. But now I understood. Intention was doing something deliberately so that it has meaning. Intention was what was missing in Malcolm Gladwell’s well-known ten-thousand-hour rule that many hours of practice were required to achieve excellence. It was the intention to improve while putting in those hours that was crucially important. Just showing up didn’t do it.

Metta, or loving-kindness meditation, was a foundational practice of Buddhism used to cultivate benevolence by imagining altruism and locking it with silent phrase repetition. I started a bit like other meditation, by sitting and bringing awareness to the breath: the inhale, the exhale, and the negative spaces between them. I was now able to shift quickly into awareness. The

I felt the urge to scratch an itch on my right cheek. I didn’t react. My neural system didn’t necessarily work the way I’d been taught in school—that, in an infinitesimal instant, a neural message traveled from my cheek to my brain (itch), then from my brain to my hand (scratch). I knew now that between those two steps, the brain processed the information. There was room for the brain to fill in or to make things up entirely. By slowing down the process through meditation, by creating space, I could catch the impulse, slow it down, and quiet it. Instead of reaching for my cheek, I responded to the sensation by noting it and then focusing the laser beam of my attention on it. Magically, that simple act of bringing the itch from the periphery of my awareness to center stage melted the urge away. I returned my attention to my breath. I sat, surrendered in perfect stillness, feeling strength in the silence.

May you experience peace and well-being. May you be protected and free from harm. May you have peace of mind.

Through meditation and other practices, he consciously set about to develop neural connections that promoted positive emotions, personal relationships, and a sense of abundance in his life. His mantra was notice, shift, rewire. First, notice negative thoughts as they occur, then shift them into something more positive to rewire synaptic connections. He meant that through meditation and by deliberately shifting thoughts from negative to positive, a sense of joy could be permanently etched into the brain. “Happiness is a teachable mental skill. It’s a matter of training your brain,” he said. “It’s an inside job.

Eric asked, “How are you feeling about going back to work?” “I don’t know. I don’t think about it much, but when I do, the thing I’m curious about is how to keep this sense of peace while competing in the world. I wonder if I’ll have lost my edge or somehow gotten weak.” Eric’s response was quick. “You’ve taken a giant step. You’ve assumed responsibility for the course of your life. You’re not clinging to habits to secure your sense of self. That’s strength, not weakness. That’s big, big strength.” He was complimenting me, but as if from a higher plane of wisdom.

From my book! "Continue to push forward, work hard, stay true to yourself and know that everything will work out for you on this journey we call life.

I needed to do the hard work of changing the wiring of my mind, of noticing when I felt like a failure and shifting my thoughts, if only slightly, to construct a different narrative, one that included a sense of growth, discovery, and new experience.

With each success, your brain gets a dopamine hit. You begin to crave it and find yourself just wanting more. But it’s never enough. And anyway, it’s a sugar high. It doesn’t last.

What’s it like to be in the cockpit of an F1 car? It’s like running a marathon in shoes two sizes too small.

Sabbatical, I realized, was an exercise in relativity. Our new experiences and the emotions attached to them created new memories and changed our characters. Time had passed slowly for me and my family. It was so thick and heavy we could nearly grip it. But for my professional colleagues who were engaged in the daily routines of work and home, their more linear stretch of time marched ahead briskly like soldiers on parade. Routine made their lives easier—they didn’t have to think about or choose what to do next. Habit took over, hiding the passage of time and draining it from awareness.

Remember your twenty-four-hour rule,” she said in a level-headed way that I knew hid her own nervousness. Whenever I got some phone call or email that felt like someone had just dropped a steaming problem in my lap and made me feel exposed, before I reacted or tried to find a solution, I gave the situation twenty-four hours to percolate. Better yet, I tried to find a distraction. Somehow, solutions always presented themselves as my unconscious mind worked the problem. We turned off

the best way to resolve complex situations is to find a distraction, something else to focus on.

I’ve advised some terrific executives,” she said, “guys who go from one great job to an even better one. They’re constantly achieving and rising. Do you know what happens to those people?” “Tell me.” “They drop dead of a heart attack at fifty-five.

Yoga transitions were a metaphor for other areas of my life. Sabbatical was a personal and professional change for me, but I could recognize that it was only a temporary condition, perhaps only a transition. It was easy to mistake it for something more permanent, but the lesson from yoga was clear: stay too long in transitions and the sense of grounding vanishes; hurry through transitions and the opportunity to set up a strong next position is lost.

Being progressive and creative may be necessary, but I didn’t think it was sufficient. And the value of being an educated individual lay far beyond acquiring any technical or creative skill.

I connected to critical relationships in my life. I recognized that the basic needs, drives, and desires of people were all the same: they wanted to suffer less and enjoy more. I was grateful for what I had and didn’t want more.

I have struggled to let go of my ego, my sense of self being at the center of things. Why do we continuously attempt to fill our lives only with those things that we like and banish those that we don’t? It’s as if we stamp experience with ‘like’ and ‘don’t like’ icons. Thumbs up, thumbs down.” It all seemed like an endless path with no possible destination. I tried to let go, at least for a while, of my burning desire to succeed and realized that I didn’t need more than I already had and that I could accept or deal with whatever came my way.

Each of us may be sure that if God sends us over rocky paths, He will provide us with sturdy shoes. He will never send us on any journey without equipping us well. Alexander Maclaren

Preparation for a journey is little more than being in ‘love’ with the idea of adventure. But being ‘committed’ to the idea of adventure means actually getting up and walking. And that might explain why our shoes seldom wear out.

In a time of grief, it's the symbols that cut the deepest--the single red shoe in a pile of dusty gray war rubble, the grease-stained recipe card in Grandma's handwriting, the flag-draped casket saluted at the airport, the first wildflower that pushes its way through the ashes of last year's forest fire, the guitar whose voice would never be heard.

Ha!” One of the bar’s patrons barked. “Those two make the perfect Heroic Couple! They even act like a pair of goodie two-shoes when they drink!” “I’ll shove these shoes up your ass!” Jacob shouted, which caused everyone to have a laugh at their expense.

I cried again on the journey home. I tried the breathing exercises, I tried putting myself in Aunt Christine’s shoes, in Angela’s shoes, but my rational self asked why they couldn’t put themselves in my shoes. Was anger never justified?

They went like some on a winter’s journey, towards a door they were not sure would open. But they were bound to their course, and to each other now, and across the boards in a mesmeric rocking went Ronnie’s sensible shoes, past the clock showing four and the place where the baby was asleep once more.

Experience the Valley of Flowers Trek 2025 with Trek The Himalayas Embark on a breathtaking journey through the Valley of Flowers, a UNESCO World Heritage Site located in the Garhwal Himalayas of Uttarakhand, India. Known for its lush meadows, vibrant wildflowers, and spiritual energy, the Valley of Flowers Trek in 2025 is perfect for nature lovers, adventure seekers, and photography enthusiasts. What is the Valley of Flowers? The Valley of Flowers National Park lies within the Nanda Devi Biosphere Reserve, covering 87.5 sq km. This alpine valley is home to: Over 500 species of blooming wildflowers Endangered plants and animals Majestic Himalayan landscapes and peaceful trekking trails During the monsoon, the Valley of Flowers transforms into a colorful paradise that attracts trekkers from across the globe. Valley of Flowers Trek 2025 – Quick Overview Trek Duration: 6 Days Trek Difficulty: Easy to Moderate Max Altitude: 14,100 ft (4,300 m) Best Time: June to September 2025 Starting Point: Govindghat, Uttarakhand Ending Point: Rishikesh, Uttarakhand Stay Options: Campsites & guesthouses Guides: Certified and experienced leaders Best Time to Visit Valley of Flowers in 2025 The best time to visit the Valley of Flowers is from June to September, when the blooms are at their peak. The official opening date is 1st June 2025, and the valley remains accessible until 4th October 2025 (subject to Forest Department updates). Things to Carry for Valley of Flowers Trek Be well-prepared for your Valley of Flowers trekking experience with: Clothing: Lightweight, breathable clothes; warm layers for evenings Shoes: Trekking boots with strong grip Gear: Rain poncho, trekking poles, sun hat, sunglasses Health Items: Medications, first aid kit, water purifying tablets ID & Permits: Valid photo ID and necessary trekking permits Day-wise Valley of Flowers Trek Itinerary Day 1: Drive from Rishikesh to Pipalkoti Day 2: Drive to Govindghat – Pulna, trek to Ghangaria Day 3: Trek to Valley of Flowers, return to Ghangaria Day 4: Visit Hemkund Sahib, return to Ghangaria Day 5: Trek to Govindghat, drive to Pipalkoti (Badrinath optional) Day 6: Drive back to Rishikesh Accommodation During the Valley of Flowers Trek Stay in clean and comfortable guesthouses and campsites along the trail. Ghangaria offers basic amenities like hot meals and bedding. Advance booking is highly recommended in the peak Valley of Flowers trekking season. Valley of Flowers Trek Cost – 2025 The cost of Valley of Flowers trek with Trek The Himalayas ranges between ₹12,000 to ₹14,000 per person. Prices vary based on batch size, inclusions (transport, meals, permits, and stay), and time of booking. For updated pricing, visit the official site: Trek The Himalayas Why Choose Trek The Himalayas? Expert high-altitude trek leaders Focus on safety with updated health protocols Eco-conscious and responsible trekking Hassle-free, all-inclusive packages Nearby Attractions Around Valley of Flowers Hemkund Sahib: Sacred Sikh pilgrimage at 14,100 ft Nanda Devi National Park: Known for rare Himalayan biodiversity Ghangaria Village: Base camp for both Hemkund Sahib and Valley of Flowers trek Valley of Flowers Trek 2025 FAQs Q: When does the Valley of Flowers open in 2025? A: It opens on 1st June 2025 and closes on 4th October 2025, subject to government approval. Q: Is the Valley of Flowers trek difficult? A: It’s a beginner-friendly trek rated as easy to moderate, with a gradual incline and well-marked trail. Book Your Valley of Flowers Trek 2025 Today! Experience the magic of one of India’s most scenic trekking destinations. Walk through meadows of wildflowers, witness towering peaks, and soak in Himalayan peace. Visit official webiste of Trek The Himalayas for more information.

LIFE Opinions are always challenged The great ocean of society with literature from all over the world, still brings us the challenge of where did we come from, how long has the human race been here?, is there life in space?, is there life after death?, was there life before birth?, we are born as children who cannot walk speak, we have no teeth, and yet we are the most beautiful thing in the world to family and friends and stranger alike, then the immortal question here dear friends is, why do people perceive old people as ugly in the form of a child they have returned to , is this not natural events of life and we should show greater compassion for the elderly for they live in fear not only being old but some of them loose the ability to even communicate, if an old men pees in the street automatically people looking on him as rude and uncultured and a tyke, yet if a mother brought a little child to the side of the road to pee all the onlookers say ohh look how cute he is, this is the paradox of life, just because there is middle section that gathers great knowledge and confidence of life, this fades as the years progress and finally we become like children again, and yet when we were children our parents looked after us fed us cloths us bathed us took us to the doctors, and made sure we were safe and secure at all times and as a bonus they you used to inspire us to thing positive and be something great in life so in return we can serve society, then when our parents become old we must not abandon them, even if they are able and active a simple phone call can make their day, a simple I love you can lift their spirits,a sudden surprise calling unexpectedly on them will make them feel loved and wanted, it is showing them they are loved when they least expect it, it is showing them that you care and without them you could not even be here, we must always honour our parents for all the sacrifices they have made for us, this sacrifice does not ask the status of the family you come from there is a law of nature that says mother is a mother and they sacrifice give a kind word a hug to older people who cannot walk or they are struggling in life they are already broken do not break them even more with your looks that says many negative things, look upon them as love, look upon them as they have paid the price for all the sacrifices they have made to family and country and the world, it is true they were never perfect, and they have made many mistakes in their journey of life, and no doubt they have many regrets as well as tender memories, imagine for a second you are in their shoes and you are looking back on life through a broken body that is preparing itself for the great city in the sky, for surely this is what it is to be old especially very old be gentle with old people they deserve our, love, compassion and respect

Barefoot running can help you develop great form, but it’s merely a means to an end. If you like running without shoes, great. If you prefer something on your feet, that’s great too. I agree that modernity has brought with it a host of bad habits and disastrous unintended consequences, not only in running (an overdependence on heavily cushioned shoes being chief among them, and the sense that running is reserved for only a select few), but in eating, too. Fast foods, mass production, grotesquely large servings—those by themselves have made us sick. Modernity has also brought us electricity, penicillin, and open heart surgery, of course. Altogether, our modern inclination toward sloth, the easy availability of processed food, and the prevalence of life-saving medical treatments

The beautiful thing about running barefoot or in minimal footwear is that you are working with your body’s natural proprioception, the ability to sense your own position in space. With nothing between you and the ground, you get immediate sensory feedback with every step, which encourages you to stay light on your feet and run with proper form. Some people who are recovering from injuries or who have structural anomalies or who just like their shoes will keep lacing up. But whether you wear shoes or go barefoot, what’s important is that you pay attention to your form. If running barefoot helps with that, it’s beneficial. You want to try barefoot running? Before you toss the shoes and enter a 10K, remember: slow and easy. When runners do too much too soon, injuries often result. First, find an area of grass or sand and take easy 5- to 10-minute runs once or twice a week. Remember, easy. Don’t worry about speed at all. You’re working on your running form. As long as it feels good, increase the length of one of the runs until you’re up to a 20- to 45-minute barefoot run once a week. I like to do 2 to 3 miles on the infield of a track or in a park after an easy run day or for a cooldown run after a track workout. Two important things to remember—other than starting slow and easy—are that you don’t need to run barefoot all the time to get the benefits. And you don’t need to run completely barefoot. Lighter weight, minimal running shoes and racing flats will give you a similar type of feel as running barefoot. It will all help you with form. I have been running most of my long training runs and ultra races in Brooks racing flats for almost a decade, even Badwater and Spartathlon. Racing flats and minimal shoes provide the best of both worlds: comfort and performance.

sneer about it with my designer shoes and Ivy League pedigree.

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