Shouting Is Not A Solution Quotes

We've got a problem!" I shouted. "No, I heard that. I mean, what's the problem now?" "I have the solution!" Jack interrupted. "What?" I sat up, all ears. "Bells!" "What?" Lend and I asked at the same time. "Get her a kitty collar with bells on it. That way you can hear her coming and get someplace where you won't be hurt by collapsing immediately into sleep.

Suppose a human being has thus put his ear, as it were, to the heart chamber of the world will and felt the roaring desire for existence pouring from there into all the veins of the world, as a thundering current or as the gentlest brook, dissolving into a mist—how could he fail to break suddenly? How could he endure to perceive the echo of innumerable shouts of pleasure and woe in the "wide space of the world night," enclosed in the wretched glass capsule of the human individual, without inexorably fleeing toward his primordial home, as he hears this shepherd's dance of metaphysics? But if such a work could nevertheless be perceived as a whole, without denial of individual existence; if such a creation could be created without smashing its creator—whence do we take the solution of such a contradiction?

Locking everyone up is not the solution,' she sighs, staring into a cup of coffee gone cold as The Box at Juvenile Hall. 'It's just the symptom of the problem. It's the proof that we're doing something wrong.

Is it always in the interest of the public safety to seek the prosecutor's traditional solution -- the harshest penalty possible? Or is the public best served by finding ways to change a kid's lot in life for the better, even if that means opening the prison door?

When evil men plot, good men must plan. When evil men burn and bomb, good men must build and bind. When evil men shout ugly words of hatred, good men must commit themselves to the glories of love. —Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Everyone jumps on a seemingly random solution that is shouted forth.

I live in a time of fear and the fear is not of war or weather or death or poverty or terror. The fear is of life itself. The fear is of tomorrow, a time when things do not get better but become worse. This is the belief of my time. I do not share it. The numbers of people will rise, the pain of migration will grow, the seas will bark forth storms, the bombs will explode in the markets, and mouths fighting for a place at the table will grow, as will the shouting and shoving. That is a given. Once the given is accepted, fear is pointless. The fear comes from not accepting it, from turning aside one's head, from dreaming in the fort of one's home that such things cannot be. The fear comes from turning inward and seeking personal salvation. The bones must be properly buried, amends must be made. Also, the beasts must be acknowledged. And the weather faced, the winds and rains lashing the face, still, they must be faced. So too, the dry ground screaming for relief. There is an industry peddling solutions, and these solutions insist no one must really change, except perhaps a little, and without pain. This is the source of the fear, this refusal to accept the future that is already here. In the Old Testament, the laws insist we must not drink blood, that the flesh must be properly drained or we will be outcasts from the Lord. They say these rules were necessary for clean living in some earlier time. I swallow the blood, all the bloods. I am that outlaw, the one crossing borders. The earlier time is over.

He was never able to explain to Willem what the cutting did for him in a way he’d understand: how it was a form of punishment and also of cleansing, how it allowed him to drain everything toxic and spoiled from himself, how it kept him from being irrationally angry at others, at everyone, how it kept him from shouting, from violence, how it made him feel like his body, his life, was truly his and no one else’s. Certainly he could never have sex without it. Sometimes he wondered: If Brother Luke hadn’t given it to him as a solution, who would he have become? Someone who hurt other people, he thought; someone who tried to make everyone feel as terrible as he did; someone even worse than the person he was.

You’re good at this,” said Ronan. “What?” He leaned to touch the baby’s head. “Being a mother.” “What is that supposed to mean?” Ronan looked awkward. Then he said glibly, “Nothing, if you don’t like it.” He glanced at Benix, Faris, and the others, but they were discussing thumbscrews and nooses. “It didn’t mean anything. I take it back.” Kestrel set the baby on the grass next to Faris. “You cannot take it back.” “Just this once,” he said, echoing her earlier words during the game. She stood and walked away. He followed. “Come, Kestrel. I spoke only the truth.” They had entered the shade of thickly grown laran trees, whose leaves were a bloody color. They would soon fall. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have a child someday,” Kestrel told Ronan. Visibly relieved, he said, “Good. The empire needs new life.” It did. She knew this. As the Valorian empire stretched across the continent, it faced the problem of keeping what it had won. The solutions were military prowess and boosting the Valorian population, so the emperor prohibited any activities that unnecessarily endangered Valorian lives--like dueling and the bull-jumping games that used to mark coming-of-age ceremonies. Marriage became mandatory by the age of twenty for anyone who was not a soldier. “It’s just--” Kestrel tried again: “Ronan, I feel trapped. Between what my father wants and--” He held up his hands in flat-palmed defense. “I am not trying to trap you. I am your friend.” “I know. But when you are faced with only two choices--the military or marriage--don’t you wonder if there is a third, or a fourth, or more, even, than that?” “You have many choices. The law says that in three years you must marry, but not whom. Anyway, there is time.” His should grazed hers in the teasing push of children starting a mock fight. “Time enough for me to convince you of the right choice.” “Benix, of course.” She laughed. “Benix.” Ronan made a fist and shook it at the sky. “Benix!” he shouted. “I challenge you to a duel! Where are you, you great oaf?” Ronan stormed from the laran trees with all the flair of a comic actor. Kestrel smiled, watching him go. Maybe his silly flirtations disguised something real. People’s feelings were hard to know for certain. A conversation with Ronan resembled a Bite and Sting game where Kestrel couldn’t tell if the truth looked like a lie, or a lie like the truth. If it was true, what then?

solid player is a mental game fish if they: Change a proven winning strategy because they are running bad/hot. Never recognize when someone has played well against them and/or believe everyone they play against is bad and just gets lucky. Try to win every hand. Think the outcome of a hand can be changed by shouting, praying, or playing a favorite hand. Get frustrated when a bad player plays badly and they even educate them as to why they are bad. Feel like a failure when they lose a hand that was played profitably. Think the solution to running bad is to stop playing or change stakes. Read a poker book cover to cover and think they know everything in it. Watch some of Phil Galfond’s training videos and think they should now be able to crush the game like him. Believe that they are cursed or that other people are luckier than they are. Believe it’s possible to own another player’s soul. Play more hands when they are winning/losing. Play fewer hands when they are winning/losing. Play badly when the stakes are too small for them to care. Allow things to get personal with another regular. Tell bad beat stories to anyone that will listen, while doing nothing to improve how they react to bad beats. Say “one time.

We walk around inside that house like everything is okay, but it’s not, Quinn. We’ve been broken for years and I have no idea how to fix us. I find solutions. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. But I have no idea how to solve me and you. Every day I come home, hoping things will be better. But you can’t even stand to be in the same room with me. You hate it when I touch you. You hate it when I talk to you. I pretend not to notice the things you don’t want me to notice because I don’t want you to hurt more than you already do.” He releases a rush of air. “I am not blaming you for what I did. It’s my fault. I did that. I fucked up. But I didn’t fuck up because I was attracted to her. I fucked up because I miss you. Every day, I miss you. When I’m at work, I miss you. When I’m home, I miss you. When you’re next to me in bed, I miss you. When I’m inside you, I miss you.” Graham presses his mouth to mine. I can taste his tears. Or maybe they’re my tears. He pulls back and presses his forehead to mine. “I miss you, Quinn. So much. You’re right here, but you aren’t. I don’t know where you went or when you left, but I have no idea how to bring you back. I am so alone. We live together. We eat together. We sleep together. But I have never felt more alone in my entire life.” Graham releases me and falls back against his seat. He rests his elbow against the window, covering his face as he tries to compose himself. He’s more broken than I’ve ever seen him in all the years I’ve known him. And I’m the one slowly tearing him down. I’m making him unrecognizable. I’ve strung him along by allowing him to believe there’s hope that I’ll eventually change. That I’ll miraculously turn back into the woman he fell in love with. But I can’t change. We are who our circumstances turn us into. “Graham.” I wipe at my face with my shirt. He’s quiet, but he eventually looks at me with his sad, heartbroken eyes. “I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve been here this whole time. But you can’t see me because you’re still searching for someone I used to be. I’m sorry I’m no longer who I was back then. Maybe I’ll get better. Maybe I won’t. But a good husband loves his wife through the good and the bad times. A good husband stands at his wife’s side through sickness and health, Graham. A good husband- a husband who truly loves his wife - wouldn’t cheat on her and then blame his infidelity on the fact that he’s lonely.” Graham’s expression doesn’t change. He’s as still as a statue. The only thing that moves is his jaw as he works it back and forth. And then his eyes narrow and he tilts his head. “You don’t think I love you, Quinn?” “I know you used to. But I don’t think you love the person I’ve become.” Graham sits up straight. He leans forward, looking me hard in the eye. His words are clipped as he speaks. “I have loved you every single second of every day since the moment I laid eyes on you. I love you more now than I did the day I married you. I love you, Quinn. I fucking love you!” He opens his car door, gets out and then slams it shut with all his strength. The whole car shakes. He walks toward the house, but before he makes it to the front door, he spins around and points at me angrily. “I love you, Quinn!” He’s shouting the words. He’s angry. So angry. He walks toward his car and kicks at the front bumper with his bare foot. He kicks and he kicks and he kicks and then pauses to scream it at me again. “I love you!” He slams his fist against the top of his car, over and over, until he finally collapses against the hood, his head buried in his arms. He remains in this position for an entire minute, the only thing moving is the subtle shaking of his shoulders. I don’t move. I don’t even think I breathe. Graham finally pushes off the hood and uses his shirt to wipe at his eyes. He looks at me, completely defeated. “I love you,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “I always have. No matter how much you wish I didn’t.

So, we’ve got a problem,” I said. “What?” Lend yelled. “We’ve got a problem!” I shouted. “No, I heard that. I mean, what’s the problem now?” “I have the solution!” Jack interrupted. “What?” I sat up, all ears. “Bells!” “What?” Lend and I asked at the same time. “Get her a kitty collar with bells on it. That way you can hear her coming and get someplace where you won’t be hurt by collapsing immediately into sleep.” There was a thumping noise, followed by an indignant “Ow!” from Jack. “The problem,” I said, “is that Raquel is going on trial with IPCA and I am not about to let them lock her up forever.” She was my Raquel. How dare they. My fear was quickly shifting to anger. Tasing me was one thing. But if they thought they could get away with persecuting the very best person they’d ever had working for them, they had another think coming. “Where?” Jack asked. “At the Center,” David answered, coming down the stairs, but he was cut off by Lend snapping, “You aren’t involved in this, Jack.” “Oh, I think you want me involved. I believe I’m the only one here who has ever been to a disciplinary hearing. Five, actually. I was shooting for my lucky number seven, but alas, IPCA and I parted ways too soon.” That settled it. A cheery band we’d make, no doubt. I’d been looking forward to starting some new Christmas traditions this year. Simple things. Reading the Grinch. Decorating a tree. Making cookies. Storming the Center to rescue the closest person I’d ever had to a mom. The usual holiday fare. Merry freaking Christmas.

BEHIND THE WALL The Berlin Wall fell on November 9, 1989, twenty-five years ago this month, but the first attempts to breach it came immediately after it went up, just past midnight on August 13, 1961. The East German regime had been secretly stockpiling barbed wire and wooden sawhorses, which the police, who learned of their mission only that night, hastily assembled into a barrier. For many Berliners, the first sign that a historic turn had been taken was when the U-Bahn, the city’s subway, stopped running on certain routes, leaving late-night passengers to walk home through streets that were suddenly filled with soldiers. As realization set in, so did a sense of panic. By noon the next day, as Ann Tusa recounts in “The Last Division,” people were trying to pull down the barbed wire with their hands. Some succeeded, in scattered places, and a car drove through a section of the Wall to the other side. In the following weeks, the authorities began reinforcing it. Within a year, the Wall was nearly eight feet high, with patrols and the beginnings of a no man’s land. But it still wasn’t too tall for a person to scale, and on August 17, 1962, Peter Fechter, who was eighteen years old, and his friend Helmut Kulbeik decided to try. They picked a spot on Zimmerstrasse, near the American Checkpoint Charlie, and just after two o’clock in the afternoon they made a run for it. Kulbeik got over, but Fechter was shot by a guard, and fell to the ground. He was easily visible from the West; there are photographs of him, taken as he lay calling for help. Hundreds of people gathered on the Western side, shouting for someone to save him. The East German police didn’t want to, and the Americans had been told that if they crossed the border they might start a war. Someone tossed a first-aid kit over the Wall, but Fechter was too weak to pick it up. After an hour, he bled to death. Riots broke out in West Berlin, and many asked angrily why the Americans had let Fechter die. He was hardly more than a child, and he wanted to be a free man. It’s a fair question, though one can imagine actions taken that day which could have led to a broader confrontation. It was not a moment to risk grand gestures; Fechter died two months before the Cuban missile crisis. (When the Wall went up, John F. Kennedy told his aides that it was “not a very nice solution, but a wall is a hell of a lot better than a war.”) And there was something off key about Germans, so soon after the end of the Second World War, railing about others being craven bystanders. Some observers came to see the Wall as the necessary scaffolding on which to secure a postwar peace. That’s easy to say, though, when one is on the side with the department stores, and without the secret police. Technically, West Berlin was the city being walled in, a quasi-metropolis detached from the rest of West Germany. The Allied victors—America, Britain, France, and the Soviet Union—had divided Germany into four parts, and, since Berlin was in the Soviet sector, they divided the city into four parts, too. In 1948, the Soviets cut off most road and rail access to the city’s three western sectors, in an effort to assert their authority. The Americans responded with the Berlin Airlift, sending in planes carrying food and coal, and so much salt that their engines began to corrode. By the time the Wall went up, it wasn’t the West Berliners who were hungry. West Germany’s Wirtschaftswunder , or economic miracle, was under way, while life in the East involved interminable shortages. West Berliners were surrounded by Soviet military encampments, but they were free and they could leave—and so could anyone who could get to their part of the city. The East Berliners were the prisoners. In the weeks before the Wall went up, more than a thousand managed to cross the border each day; the Wall was built to keep them from leaving. But people never stopped trying to tear it down.

So, we’ve got a problem,” I said. “What?” Lend yelled. “We’ve got a problem!” I shouted. “No, I heard that. I mean, what’s the problem now?” “I have the solution!” Jack interrupted. “What?” I sat up, all ears. “Bells!” “What?” Lend and I asked at the same time. “Get her a kitty collar with bells on it. That way you can hear her coming and get someplace where you won’t be hurt by collapsing immediately into sleep.” There was a thumping noise, followed by an indignant “Ow!” from Jack.

It is easy to know your purpose in life because you choose your purpose in life. A purpose does not just happen; it is cultivated. A purpose does not come as a grand, all-encompassing and final solution or supreme-understanding. A purpose is more like a positive daily-grind, with gratitude and a smile. A purpose is nothing fancy and is not reserved for spiritual teachers, so-called geniuses or impassioned artistes. There is nothing more practical, down to earth and easily accessible as a purpose. You will find your purpose revealed in every single action, once you realize that — you — are your purpose. Your life is your purpose. We don’t “get” a purpose. We are witnesses to the unfolding of our purpose as our purpose is revealed to us daily by how we live life. The people who seem to know their purpose are sometimes just more present in their own choices and more focused with their gifts; gifts all of us have — yes, even you. But your purpose isn’t to merely craft and showcase your gifts. Your purpose is deeper than the busy-work of talent. Your purpose is with you at every moment. Your purpose is simply what you do each day. Your purpose is what you are experiencing in the living of your life. Your purpose is a great unfolding; a distinctive honor granted to all life — highest among those honors is the gift of freedom of thought and choice. The purpose of your life is the purpose you bring to it, choice by choice, and recognition by recognition. If you don’t know your gifts, your gifts and purpose know you — and if you are open, you will not have to find them, because they will find you. Let us shout, weep and sing, for every dark and bright thing. Let us joy in the breath, for the minutes we have left.

I first noticed this as a child: too much happiness bored me. If I went for a walk on a sunny morning and began to experience an increasing sense of sheer joy, there came a point at which I grew tired of it and deliberately brought my mind back down to earth. Thinking about this later I always found it difficult to understand why I wanted that happiness to come to an end. Now the solution is obvious. When we experience a sudden insight we want to grasp it, to turn it into words. But the left brain is like an amanuensis who has to take everything down in longhand. If the intuitions come too fast he wants to shout, ‘Slow down, slow down!’ And if the speaker refuses to slow down he throws down his pen in disgust. As

Daniel and the Pelican As I drove home from work one afternoon, the cars ahead of me were swerving to miss something not often seen in the middle of a six-lane highway: a great big pelican. After an eighteen-wheeler nearly ran him over, it was clear the pelican wasn’t planning to move any time soon. And if he didn’t, the remainder of his life could be clocked with an egg timer. I parked my car and slowly approached him. The bird wasn’t the least bit afraid of me, and the drivers who honked their horns and yelled at us as they sped by didn’t impress him either. Stomping my feet, I waved my arms and shouted to get him into the lake next to the road, all the while trying to direct traffic. “C’mon beat it, Big Guy, before you get hurt!” After a brief pause, he cooperatively waddled to the curb and slid down to the water’s edge. Problem solved. Or so I thought. The minute I walked away he was back on the road, resulting in another round of honking, squealing tires and smoking brakes. So I tried again. “Shoo, for crying out loud!” The bird blinked, first one eye then the other, and with a little sigh placated me by returning to the lake. Of course when I started for my car it was instant replay. After two more unsuccessful attempts, I was at my wits’ end. Cell phones were practically non-existent back then, and the nearest pay phone was about a mile away. I wasn’t about to abandon the hapless creature and run for help. He probably wouldn’t be alive when I returned. So there we stood, on the curb, like a couple of folks waiting at a bus stop. While he nonchalantly preened his feathers, I prayed for a miracle. Suddenly a shiny red pickup truck pulled up, and a man hopped out. “Would you like a hand?” I’m seldom at a loss for words, but one look at the very tall newcomer rendered me tongue-tied and unable to do anything but nod. He was the most striking man I’d ever seen--smoky black hair, muscular with tanned skin, and a tender smile flanked by dimples deep enough to drill for oil. His eyes were hypnotic, crystal clear and Caribbean blue. He was almost too beautiful to be real. The embroidered name on his denim work shirt said “Daniel.” “I’m on my way out to the Seabird Sanctuary, and I’d be glad to take him with me. I have a big cage in the back of my truck,” the man offered. Oh my goodness. “Do you volunteer at the Sanctuary?” I croaked, struggling to regain my powers of speech. “Yes, every now and then.” In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect solution to my dilemma. The bird was going to be saved by a knowledgeable expert with movie star looks, who happened to have a pelican-sized cage with him and was on his way to the Seabird Sanctuary.

- “Do you know the difference between us and them.... We are awake. We sense the truth: that something is deeply wrong with the world.... Deep down, they know it too. The feeling ebbs and flows. Some events cover it up for a time: you fall in love, you get a new job, you win the game. You think that’s all you needed, that the feeling will go away, but it doesn’t. It returns, again and again. Our species has become exceedingly adept at covering up the feeling. We work ourselves to death. We buy things. We go to parties and ball games. We laugh, shout, and cheer—and worse, we fight, and argue, and say things we don’t mean. Alcohol and drugs quiet the most acute episodes. But we are constantly keeping the beast at bay. Underneath it all, our subconscious is crying out for help. For a solution—a cure for the root problem. We’re all suffering from the same thing.” - “Which is?” - “We’ve been told that it’s simply the human condition. But that’s not true. Our problem is really very simple: the world is not as it seems.” - “Then what is it?” - “Science gives you one answer. Religious texts offer countless others. But the human population is slowly tiring of those answers. They are starting not to believe. They are awakening—and that awakening will soon tear the world apart. It will be a catastrophe with no equal.

booming tone is often seen as either boisterous or confident, while a quiet and softer tone is seen as shy and reserved. This is also important, especially when you are responding to other people. If you tend to shout out your words, you are perceived as a person who lacks control. But if you are too soft-spoken, then you are perceived as someone who generally lacks confidence. As such, your only solution here is to be aware of your tone and voice. If you are not sure what tone to use in a situation, use something calm and collected. This is vital in business meetings and important deals. The FBI has been using the calm and collected voice to diffuse high-tension situations like a hostage-taking. By lowering their voice to something calm and non-threatening, they tend to help in calming the hostage-taker, so they don’t do something drastic. Use this voice when approaching potential contacts

God shouts: “Burn your houses! I am coming! Whoever has a house cannot receive me! 29. “Burn your ideas, smash your thoughts! Whoever has found the solution cannot find me. 30. “I love the hungry, the restless, the vagabonds. They are the ones who brood eternally on hunger, on rebellion, on the endless road—on ME! 31. “I am coming! Leave your wives, your children, your ideas, and follow me. I am the great Vagabond.

Framing your solution negatively, such as “Don’t shout at me,” tends to focus the other’s attention even more on the unwanted behavior and may unconsciously reinforce it, particularly if you are shouting back at them. It is more effective to say, quietly, “Please talk to me in a quiet tone.” Focus the other’s mind clearly on the positive action you want them to take.

had to pull back the string to get the right range. By noon, I felt ready to test my skills out on a live target. “You guys ready for this?” I asked my animal audience. “Witness the master at work!” As a vote of no confidence, they continued to graze with their backsides to me. “Just wait,” I said, walking out to the beach. “One calamari entrée comin’ right up!” I spotted the closest squid about a dozen or so blocks out to sea, drew back the bowstring, and took careful aim. WHP whistled the arrow, streaking in a shallow arc. “Ha!” I cried, as the missile struck its target. I watched the squid flash red, vanish in a puff of smoke, turn into a small black organ-looking thing, and then sink right out of sight. I won’t tell you the word I shouted. I’m not proud of it, but I should win some kind of prize for making one syllable last a good five seconds. “Frrph,” snorted Moo from behind my back as if to say, “What were you thinking? How did you not have a recovery plan?” “I don’t know,” I said, only now seeing solutions. “I should have tied something to the arrow, or found a way to make a net or…or even waited till a squid was closer to shore! But why didn’t I think of it till now?” I started pacing. “Idiot!” I grunted, wishing this world would let me hit myself. “Stupid, stupid idiot!” “Moo!” interrupted my stern friend, forcing me to stop and face her. “You’re right,” I said. “When looking for solutions, beating yourself up isn’t one.” “Moo,” replied the cow, as if to say, “That’s better.” “I know I’m not an idiot,” I said, calmly raising my hands, “but something is wrong with me, like my brain’s only working part-time.” I started pacing again, more out of contemplation than anger. “It’s not like panic or hunger. It’s something new. Well, not new, actually. I’ve felt it coming on for a while, but now that I’m well-fed and not scared out of my wits, I can see this mental mud for what it is.” I could feel anxiety rising, the last thing I needed right now. “Any ideas?” I asked the animals. “Any hints about what’s causing

God will hear your cry even when your voice cannot shout out loud. He will see your tears even when you can no longer shed any. He has access to that which seems hidden and the power to fix that which is broken. He can move you from the valley, to the top of the mountain. He is God, nothing is impossible for Him.

A businessman with great success fell into severe identity confusion. I sought the help of a psychiatrist, but everyone was in vain. 신용과 신뢰의 거래로 많은VIP고객님들 모시고 싶은것이저희쪽 경영 목표입니다 믿음과 신뢰의 거래로 신용성있는 비즈니스 진행하고있습니다 비즈니스는 첫째로 신용,신뢰 입니다 믿고 주문하시는것만큼 저희는 확실한제품으로 모시겠습니다 카톡【ABO331】텔레【XXK56】 믿고 주문해주세요~저희는 제품판매를 고객님들과 신용과신뢰의 거래로 하고있습니다. 24시간 문의상담과 서울 경기지방은 퀵으로도 가능합니다 믿고 주문하시면좋은인연으로 vip고객님으로 모시겠습니다. 원하시는제품있으시면 추천상으로 구입문의 도와드릴수있습니다 ☆100%정품보장 ☆총알배송 ☆투명한 가격 ☆편한 상담 ☆끝내주는 서비스 ☆고객님 정보 보호 ☆깔끔한 거래 Then one day I heard a sacred and wonderful man who was living in a very mysterious place inaccessible in the Himalayas. An entrepreneur had a hard time finding a man who was over 100 years old. Doin listened to the story of a businessman who had struggled to find himself, and specifically agreed to help him. “Well, what can I do for you?” The businessman said with a careful and distressed look. “I want to know the meaning of life,” Doin replied without hesitation. “Life is an endless river.” The businessman was disappointed and shouted. “Endless river? I came to you without any trouble. But does it mean that life is an endless river? ”After hearing this, Do-in said, shaking her body with shock and excitement. "No, do you mean life is not a river?" People tend to hear only what they want to hear and see only what they want to see. I ask others for advice, but I already have my own answer in my heart. After all, accepting advice is only possible if you go beyond your boundaries. The great Russian Tolstoy said, Everyone thinks that human beings should change, but he doesn't think that he must change." A person does not think about what he needs to fix, and he always knows what others need to fix. Some people struggle to heal all, just as their spouses, their children, and their neighbors are the reason and mission of being born on earth. That's why you waste your life repairing others. There are two ways to live life. Those who think that life has no answer, and those who think that life has a solution. “There is no answer,” says American author Gertrude Stein. There has been no solution so far, and there will be no solution. This is the only answer in life. ” He thinks that life is like a flowing river with no answer. In fact, many people think that there is an answer in their head, but they live as if there is no answer in life. But life is not a river that flows without meaning. There is no right answer in life, but there is a solution. If the answer is the only one given, then the answer includes a variety of solutions. Life is not the answer, but the process of finding the answer. And in the process, it is life that chooses the answers to the problems encountered and takes responsibility for them. Humans believe in the answers to life and struggle to overcome barriers by breaking down and preventing contradictions. That is the driving force for human development

I’ve always passionately believed in the power of the state to improve lives. Before my career in AI, I worked in government and the nonprofit sector. I helped start a charity telephone counseling service when I was nineteen, worked for the mayor of London, and co-founded a conflict resolution firm focused on multi-stakeholder negotiation. Working with public servants—people stretched thin and bone-tired, but forever in demand and doing heroic work for those who need it—was enough to show me what a disaster it would be if the state failed. However, my experience with local government, UN negotiations, and nonprofits also gave me invaluable firsthand knowledge of their limitations. They are often chronically mismanaged, bloated, and slow to act. One project I facilitated in 2009 at the Copenhagen climate negotiations involved convening hundreds of NGOs and scientific experts to align their negotiating positions. The idea was to present a coherent position to 192 squabbling countries at the main summit. Except we couldn’t get consensus on anything. For starters, no one could agree on the science, or the reality of what was happening on the ground. Priorities were scattered. There was no consensus on what would be effective, affordable, or even practical. Could you raise $10 billion to turn the Amazon into a national park to absorb CO2? How are you going to deal with the militias and bribes? Or maybe the answer was to reforest Norway, not Brazil, or was the solution to grow giant kelp farms instead? As soon as proposals were voiced, someone spoke up to poke holes in them. Every suggestion was a problem. We ended up with maximum divergence on all possible things. It was, in other words, politics as usual. And this involved people notionally on the “same team.” We hadn’t even gotten to the main event and the real horse-trading. At the Copenhagen summit a morass of states all had their own competing positions. Now pile on the raw emotion. Negotiators were trying to make decisions with hundreds of people in the room arguing and shouting and breaking off into groups, all while the clock was ticking, on both the summit and the planet. I was there trying to help facilitate the process, perhaps the most complex, high-stakes multiparty negotiation in human history, but from the start it looked almost impossible. Observing this, I realized we weren’t going to make sufficient progress fast enough. The timeline was too tight. The issues were too complex. Our institutions for addressing massive global problems were not fit for purpose.

Another distressing aspect of disciplining young children is that somehow you are always left with the flat end of the dialogue – a straight man forever. It’s not just that you feel idiotic. The real menace in dealing with a five-year-old is that in no time at all you begin to sound like a five-year-old. Let’s say you hear a loud, horrifying crash from the bedroom, so you shout up: “In heaven’s name, what was that?” “What?” “That awful noise.” “What noise?” “You didn’t hear that noise?” “No. Did you?” “Of course I did – I just told you.” “What did it sound like?” “Never mind what it sounded like. Just stop it.” “Stop what?” “Whatever you’re doing.” “I’m not doing anything.” “Stop it anyway.” “I’m brushing my teeth. Shall I stop that?” Obviously this way madness lies. Personally, I knew I had to win this battle of dialectics or seek psychiatric care. I don’t promise that my solution will work equally well in all cases, but it does do nicely around here. Nowadays when I hear that crash I merely call up, clearly and firmly, “Hey you, pick up your pants.” I am, of course, operating on the absolute certainty that whoever it is will have at least one pair of pants on the floor. And the mere motion of picking them up will distract him, temporarily at least, from whatever mayhem he was involved in. As far as that crash is concerned, I never really wanted to know what it was. I just wanted it to stop.

According to Herzl’s account, he harangued the baron about the inadequacy of his programs that settled Jews in the New World by the thousands, when millions were in danger. At first, Herzl raised themes from The New Ghetto about restoring Jewish honor and self-esteem. “Whether the Jews stay put or whether they emigrate, the race must first be improved on the spot. It must be made strong for war, eager to work, and virtuous. Afterwards, let them emigrate, if necessary.”35 Herzl suggested that the baron fund handsome prizes in antisemitic countries for Jews who perform “deeds of great moral beauty, for courage, self-sacrifice, ethical conduct, great achievements in arts and science … in short, for anything great.” When Hirsch insisted that emigration was the only solution, Herzl “almost shouted”: “‘Well, who told you that I don’t want to emigrate?’” Herzl said he would lay his plan before the German emperor and raise from Europe’s wealthiest Jews a loan of ten million marks—a staggering sum, equivalent to twice the German imperial navy’s annual budget. Immediately after he got home from the meeting, Herzl saw to his dismay that he had only gotten through six of the twenty-two pages of notes. So he wrote Hirsch a long letter that, more clearly, yet with an even higher emotional charge than their

The Wizard, the Giant, and the Magic Fruit Trees: A Happy Ending When we last visited our hero the wizard, he was in sad shape. Vandals and thieves had wrecked his magic fruit trees, and so he conjured up a lava moat to surround the enchanted orchard and keep the intruders away. Unfortunately, the lava moat also kept out the good villagers who came to the orchard to pick fruit (and, not coincidentally, to buy potions from the wizard). To solve this problem, the wizard invited his friend the giant to live in the orchard. The giant was tall enough and strong enough to jump over the lava moat, so whenever one of the villagers wanted a piece of fruit, he could simply shout his request to the giant and the giant would fetch the fruit for him. This would have been a perfect solution and a happy ending to the story, except for the fact that while the giant was indeed very tall and very strong, he wasn’t particularly smart! The giant followed the wizard’s instructions to the letter—which were simply to serve the villagers’ requests—so when a sneaky young man came up to the giant and asked him to fetch the wizard’s collection of magic scrolls, the giant happily complied and unwittingly gave up all of the wizard’s precious secrets. The wizard—correctly realizing that the fault was his own, not the giant’s—sat the giant down and set down some better rules for him to follow. “Never trust the villagers,” the wizard said, and explained that the giant should only serve villagers’ requests for fruit. The wizard didn’t bother to list out all the things the giant shouldn’t serve, like scrolls or crystal balls or wands; he knew that if he tried to list out forbidden objects, he would inevitably forget one. No, the better approach was simply to state what was allowed and not what was forbidden. Furthermore, since the giant had no legitimate need to ever go up into the wizard’s tower, the wizard cast another spell that prevented the giant from entering there. That way, should an even sneakier villager try to break the rules again (“Fetch me the fruit that’s sitting on the wizard’s desk”), the giant would be unable to comply. With these new rules in place, the giant did a much better job of preventing troublemakers from stealing the wizard’s secrets; the villagers got their fruit faster since the giant wasn’t off running malicious errands to the tower; and the wizard slept better at night and sold more potions. And they all lived happily ever after.

Thought Stopping Thought stopping is a stress management technique designed to interrupt obsessive thought patterns. If you find yourself continually going over and over a stressful situation in your mind, without arriving at a solution, and without determining any course of action, your thoughts may become obsessive. Think of it as “analysis paralysis”: You are analyzing something to the point of being unable to do anything but analyze it. Here’s what you do to end this circuitous thinking: (a) Shout the word “STOP!” to yourself. (b) Visualize a red stop sign. (c) If the thought continues to recur, place a rubber band around your wrist. When the thought pops into your head, snap the rubber hand.

The solution is not more enlightened ones. We have arrived at a spiritual fork in the road taken by humanity. We no longer need one or two or even one thousand enlightened beings telling us what the Truth is. The time for isolated, individual enlightenment is over. The time for wise being shouting from mountaintops is over.What we need now to change humanity's fortunes is a mass enlightenment, a mass spiritual awakening in which millions upon millions of people around the globe truly realize we are One.