Trust Is Fragile Quotes

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found. Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn. Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story. (from 'Instructions')

This is what love does. In the stories, love healed your wounds, fixed what was broken, allowed you to go on. But love wasn’t a spell, some kind of benediction to be whispered, a balm or a cure-all. It was a single, fragile thread, which grew stronger through connection, through shared hardship and trust.

There were many beautiful young men in the world, but Tella believed that none of them could be trusted with something as fragile, or valuable, as a heart.

To be a good human being is to have a kind of openness to the world, an ability to trust uncertain things beyond your own control, that can lead you to be shattered in very extreme circumstances for which you were not to blame. That says something very important about the condition of the ethical life: that it is based on a trust in the uncertain and on a willingness to be exposed; it’s based on being more like a plant than like a jewel, something rather fragile, but whose very particular beauty is inseparable from that fragility.

Trust is a fragile thing - difficult to build, easy to break. It cannot be bargained for. Only if it is freely given it can be expected in return

When someone you love dies, you are given the gift of "second chances". Their eulogy is a reminder that the living can turn their lives around at any point. You’re not bound by the past; that is who you used to be. You’re reminded that your feelings are not who you are, but how you felt at that moment. Your bad choices defined you yesterday, but they are not who you are today. Your future doesn’t have to travel the same path with the same people. You can start over. You don’t have to apologize to people that won’t listen. You don’t have to justify your feelings or actions, during a difficult time in your life. You don’t have to put up with people that are insecure and want you to fail. All you have to do is walk forward with a positive outlook, and trust that God has a plan that is greater than the sorrow you left behind. The people of quality that were meant to be in your life won’t need you to explain the beauty of your heart. They already understand what being human is----a roller coaster ride of emotions during rainstorms and sunshine, sprinkled with moments when you can almost reach the stars.

Trust is a fragile thing—hard to earn, easy to lose.

Love doesn't give you very many choices. When you love someone, you just want to be with them. If they break your heart, you will still love them. Because hearts are easy to break, and though love is tender and sometimes fragile, love isn't. Love sort of envelops you. It covers you like a giant shadow, then pulls you in like a blanket. You are so warm. The feeling surrounds you, and no matter how you feel, it is always there. You can't escape it. But you wouldn't want to. You are so, so safe. You can't remember the last time you were this happy. Were you ever? This happy? Every second you are apart feels like hours. Sometimes, right before you fall asleep, you miss them so much it hurts. You ache for them. Their warmth. Their touch. Their smell. You need them. When you can't sleep you wish and wish and wish that they would wake up and talk to you. When you dream of them, you wake up smiling. When pain stabs into you, you reach out for them. You cry to them, begging them to hold you and make it all go away, make everything go away. Love addicts you to its feeling. You never, ever want to lose that feeling. Sometimes the fear of losing love drives people to do crazy things. Like buy a plane ticket. Make a phone call. Run out of a class. Cry. Write. Laugh. Because when you love someone, you really love them. You give them your whole heart. You trust them. You never want to be away from them. Sometimes, you don't even need their words. You just need them there. Love is such an amazing thing, and too many people take it for granted. If you're in love, don't let it go. Don't you dare let it go.

I wish I were a poet. I've never confessed that to anyone, and I'm confessing it to you, because you've given me reason to feel that I can trust you. I've spent my life observing the universe, mostly in my mind's eye. It's been a tremendously rewarding life, a wonderful life. I've been able to explore the origins of time and space with some of the great living thinkers. But I wish I were a poet. Albert Einstein, a hero of mine, once wrote, 'Our situation is the following. We are standing in front of a closed box which we cannot open.' I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the vast majority of the universe is composed of dark matter. The fragile balance depends on things we'll never be able to see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. Life itself depends on them. What's real? What isn't real? Maybe those aren't the right questions to be asking. What does life depend on? I wish I had made things for life to depend on.

Remember your name. Do not lose hope —- what you seek will be found. Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn. Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story.

Trust it turned out, was a very beautiful and fragile thing with a taste like wild raspberries and experienced only by the very brave.

There was a feeling, not sudden, but complete, as though I had been given a small object to hold unseen in my hands. Precious as opal, smooth as jade, weighty as a river stone, more fragile than a bird's egg. Infinitely still, live as the root of Creation. Not a gift, but a trust. Fiercely to cherish, softly to guard. The words spoke themselves and disappeared into the groined shadows of the roof.

The Untruth of Fragility: What doesn’t kill you makes you weaker. The Untruth of Emotional Reasoning: Always trust your feelings. The Untruth of Us Versus Them: Life is a battle between good people and evil people.

It was a test of a fragile trust. It was a test of our curiosity and fascination, which walked side by side with our fear. A test of whether we preferred to be ignorant or unsafe.

Trust was such a fragile thing, and once it was lost, it could never be fully restored. Could you ever truly trust anyone?

When a daughter loses a mother, she learns early that human relationships are temporary, that terminations are beyond her control, and her feelings of basic trust and security are shattered. The result? A sense of inner fragility and overriding vulnerability. She discovers she’s not immune to unfortunate events, and the fear of subsequent similar losses may become a defining characteristic of her personality.

When my trust was suspended from the fragile thread of justice and in the whole city they were chopping up my heart's lanterns when they would blindfold me with the dark handkerchief of Law and from my anxious temples of desire fountains of blood would squirt out when my life had become nothing nothing but the tic-tac of a clock, I discovered I must must must love, insanely.

They sit here in the darkness, trusting. That the coffee will be hot and unpoisoned. That no raging madman will come in with a gun or bomb. It leaves him breathless at times, how much faith people put in one another. So fragile, the social contract: we will all stand by the rules, move with care and gentleness, invest in the infrastructure, agree with the penalties of failure. That this man driving his truck down the street won't, on a whim, angle into the plate glass and end things. That the president won't let his hand hover over the red button and, in moment of rage or weakness, explode the world. The invisible tissue of civilization: so thin, so easily rendable. It's a miracle that it exists at all.

Then light your candles to the living. Say your prayers for the living. Leave the stones where they are, but take your heart with you. Your heart is not a stone. True love demands that, like a bride with her bouquet, you toss your fragile glass heart into the waiting crowd of living hands and trust that they will catch it.

At twenty-five, Frankie moved with the kind of caution that came with age; she was constantly on guard, aware that something bad could happen at any moment. She trusted neither the ground beneath her feet nor the sky above her head. Since coming home from war, she had learned how fragile she was, how easily upended her emotions could be.

Trust is as fragile as fairies’ wings and almost as hard to find.

It’s hard to trust the world like that, to show it your belly. There’s something deep within me, something intensely fragile, that is terrified of turning itself to the world. I think I’m just scared that if I show the world my belly, it will devour me. And so I wear the armor of cynicism, and hide behind the great walls of irony, and only glimpse beauty with my back turned to it, through the Claude glass. But I want to be earnest, even if it’s embarrassing. The photographer Alec Soth has said, “To me, the most beautiful thing is vulnerability.” I would go a step further and argue that you cannot see the beauty which is enough unless you make yourself vulnerable to it. And so I try to turn toward that scattered light, belly out, and I tell myself: This doesn’t look like a picture. And it doesn’t look like a god. It is a sunset, and it is beautiful, and this whole thing you’ve been doing where nothing gets five stars because nothing is perfect? That’s bullshit. So much is perfect. Starting with this. I give sunsets five stars.

The moonlight streaming through the sheer draperies revealed Taylor smiling, boneless and peaceful in Will's embrace. The most dangerous man Will knew rested sweetly in his arms, trusting him with his love as he trusted Will to guard his life. It was beyond precious. Life, love, was made up of fragile moments like these. Fragile as Paris moonlight.

To be a good human is to have a kind of openness to the world, an ability to trust uncertain things beyond your own control, that can lead you to be shattered in very extreme circumstances for which you were not to blame. That says something very important about the ethical life: that it is based on a trust in the uncertainty, and on a willingness to be exposed. It's based on being more like a plant than a jewel: something rather fragile, but whose very particular beauty is inseparable from that fragility.

Who are we to say getting incested or abused or violated or any of those things can’t have their positive aspects in the long run? … You have to be careful of taking a knee-jerk attitude. Having a knee-jerk attitude to anything is a mistake, especially in the case of women, where it adds up to this very limited and condescending thing of saying they’re fragile, breakable things that can be destroyed easily. Everybody gets hurt and violated and broken sometimes. Why are women so special? Not that anybody ought to be raped or abused, nobody’s saying that, but that’s what is going on. What about afterwards? All I’m saying is there are certain cases where it can enlarge you or make you more of a complete human being, like Viktor Frankl. Think about the Holocaust. Was the Holocaust a good thing? No way. Does anybody think it was good that it happened? No, of course not. But did you read Viktor Frankl? Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning? It’s a great, great book, but it comes out of his experience. It’s about his experience in the human dark side. Now think about it, if there was no Holocaust, there’d be no Man’s Search for Meaning… . Think about it. Think about being degraded and brought within an inch of your life, for example. No one’s gonna say the sick bastards who did it shouldn’t be put in jail, but let’s put two things into perspective here. One is, afterwards she knows something about herself that she never knew before. What she knows is that the most totally terrible terrifying thing that she could ever have imagined happening to her has now happened, and she survived. She’s still here, and now she knows something. I mean she really, really knows. Look, totally terrible things happen… . Existence in life breaks people in all kinds of awful fucking ways all the time, trust me I know. I’ve been there. And this is the big difference, you and me here, cause this isn’t about politics or feminism or whatever, for you this is just ideas, you’ve never been there. I’m not saying nothing bad has ever happened to you, you’re not bad looking, I’m sure there’s been some sort of degradation or whatever come your way in life, but I’m talking Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning type violation and terror and suffering here. The real dark side. I can tell from just looking at you, you never. You wouldn’t even wear what you’re wearing, trust me. What if I told you it was my own sister that was raped? What if I told you a little story about a sixteen-year-old girl who went to the wrong party with the wrong guy and four of his buddies that ended up doing to her just about everything four guys could do to you in terms of violation? But if you could ask her if she could go into her head and forget it or like erase the tape of it happening in her memory, what do you think she’d say? Are you so sure what she’d say? What if she said that even after that totally negative as what happened was, at least now she understood it was possible. People can. Can see you as a thing. That people can see you as a thing, do you know what that means? Because if you really can see someone as a thing you can do anything to him. What would it be like to be able to be like that? You see, you think you can imagine it but you can’t. But she can. And now she knows something. I mean she really, really knows. This is what you wanted to hear, you wanted to hear about four drunk guys who knee-jerk you in the balls and make you bend over that you didn’t even know, that you never saw before, that you never did anything to, that don’t even know your name, they don’t even know your name to find out you have to choose to have a fucking name, you have no fucking idea, and what if I said that happened to ME? Would that make a difference?

Trust is a fragile glass bird. Drop it once, and it will shatter into shards innumerable.

Trust, it turned out, was a very beautiful and fragile thing with a taste like wild raspberries and experienced only by the very brave.

I, of all people, know that trust is fragile, and even the people who love you aren’t above betrayal.

There is, and always has been one way and one way only that I will choose to go through this life. I will love and respect every single living thing on this perfect earth. I will be gentle with those creatures that trust me with their fragility. I will notice, I will appreciate, I will honor every single detail. There is only one way.

But Tella wanted love about as much as she wished to contract a disease. There were no kisses worth dying for. No souls worth merging with. There were many beautiful young men in the world, but Tella believed that none of them could be trusted with something as fragile, or valuable, as a heart.

Why she hadn’t embraced the comfort he could give her in this place. It seemed that now, Kya being more vulnerable than ever, was reason to trust others even less. Standing in the most fragile place of her life, she turned to the only net she knew—herself.

Haven’t you read the history books? Using fear to demand respect is a fragile construct. It doesn’t last because no one can trust you, and the first opportunity they have to betray you, they take.

He leaned in and kissed her softly. "If you're finally going to let yourself love me, we're going to date." "We sort of have been." "No." He caught her hands and pulled her into his embrace. "We've been trying very hard not to date. Let me show you our world. Let me take you to dinner and whisper temptations. Let me take you to ridiculous carnival rides and symphonies and dances in the rain. I want you to laugh and smile and trust me first. i want it to be real love if you are in my bed.

Gradually I felt flooded by a powerful sense of communion with the people passing by. Each man was my brother and each woman my sister. We were so very much alike. So fragile, impermanent, and easily destroyed. We trustingly went to and fro beneath the sky, which had nothing good in store for us.

I trust you," he said out loud after a while, whirling her so they didn't collide with another couple on the dance floor. "Even if we don't work out, I trust you to be careful with me. I'm a little more fragile than I look, I'm afraid.

But memories were fragile and not to be trusted. They were a weight that Faolin did not need to carry with him when he set out that morning. Things of the past, like the fragile boy he had been, had no place on a man’s journey towards his future.

In what became known as the decade of lies, truth and trust were falling victim to fear, racism, and hatred. Virginia found herself in a ringside seat as the increasingly fragile ideal of democracy failed to find champions with alternative answers

Trust is delicate and fragile to gain, with sincerity it leads to the golden foundation for success".

Trust was such a delicate thing, so fragile, not easily earned and harder to repair.

Her fragile, wounded heart beat too fast, and she knew when she opened her mouth that she was offering it to him. If she was lucky, he'd be too distracted to realize it was busted until she'd jammed enough of the pieces back together to make it worth a damn. "I trust you.

Then, recalling what he had said, she turned to him eagerly. “What’s my surprise?” Most Ancient turned and reached for something that was behind him. He picked it up and placed it in her arms, and it looked up at her with wide, curious eyes. It was what she had once been: tiny, a wisp of a thing, with a mischievous smile and a trusting, visible heart. “Oh!” she cried. She hugged it to her, against her badge. “What’s its name?” “Ask it,” Most Ancient suggested. “Who are you?” she asked the diminutive, transparent creature in her arms, keeping her voice calm so that it wouldn’t be scared. “New Littlest,” it told her. She was puzzled and almost frightened at first. The she thought, Of course! Most Ancient could not have always have been Most Ancient, and Thin Elderly must once have been something else. Even Fastidious – well, maybe not. Perhaps she had always been Fastidious. She cradled New Littlest, moving her hands as gently as possible around the fragile little thing, and turned back to ask Most Ancient what she needed to know. “Who am I now?” “Gossamer,” he told her.

In quietness and trust is your strength.—Isaiah 30:15 In solitude, sacred embrace wraps fragile souls in vital grace, weaves trust with threads of perfect will, envelopes those quiet in strength surreal.

But love wasn't a spell, some kind of benediction to be whispered, a balm or a cure-all. It was a single, fragile thread, which grew stronger through connection, through shared hardship and honored trust.

My dog, Willy, died a few years ago, but one of my great memories of him is watching him play in the front yard of our house at dusk. He was a puppy then, and in the early evenings he would contract a case of the zoomies. He ran in delighted circles around us, yipping and jumping at nothing in particular, and then after a while, he'd get tired, and he'd run over to me and lie down. And then he would do something absolutely extraordinary: He would roll over onto his back, and present his soft belly. I always marveled at the courage of that, his ability to be so absolutely vulnerable to us. He offered us the place ribs don't protect, trusting that we weren't going to bite or stab him. It's hard to trust the world like that, to show it your belly. There's something deep within me, something intensely fragile, that is terrified of turning itself to the world. I’m scared to even write this down, because I worry that having confessed this fragility, you know now where to punch. I know that if I’m hit where I am earnest, I will never recover.

As our technological capacities continue to increase and our environment becomes ever more fragile and endangered, we find that changes to the Earth that used to take ten thousand years now take a fraction of that.

Belittling those who support you isn’t smart. Haven’t you read the history books? Using fear to demand respect is a fragile construct. It doesn’t last because no one can trust you, and the first opportunity they have to betray you, they take.

Lips covering Elle’s and fingers bunching in Elle’s hot pink sweater, Darcy threw herself off the cliff’s edge and let herself fall. Not to Earth, but toward Elle. Elle, who was magnetic and made it sound like nothing was impossible. That even gravity could be defied if Darcy simply believed. That even if she didn’t defy gravity, she could fall anyway and it would be okay because Elle would give Darcy a soft place to land. That Darcy could trust Elle with every fragile inch of herself.

George Pocock learned much about the hearts and souls of young men. He learned to see hope where a boy thought there was no hope, to see skill where skill was obscured by ego or by anxiety. He observed the fragility of confidence and the redemptive power of trust.

Trust, Arthur knew, was a treasure effortlessly stolen, often without rhyme or reason. And this particular treasure was a fragile thing, a piece of thin glass easily broken. But here was David, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar place, attempting to pick up his pieces and put them back into a recognizable shape. Whatever else he was, David’s bravery in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds proved yet again what Arthur had always believed: magic existed in many forms, some extraordinary, some simple acts of goodwill and trust, small though they might be.

Hadrian had always felt that cats were picky, untrusting things. Being fragile, they had to be. Whenever a cat sat on him, Hadrian felt special, as if the animal approved, and their acceptance was some sort of gift. Makes a body feel worthy of something to have a cat trust you that much.

Let’s turn the kindness we show toward the stars to members of the human race on Earth and build up the trust and understanding between the different peoples and civilizations that make up humanity. But for the universe outside the solar system, we should be ever vigilant, and be ready to attribute the worst of intentions to any Others that might exist in space. For a fragile civilization like ours, this is without a doubt the most responsible path. *

I think I just said it, but I think it’s worth repeating. They gave me hope that there is good in the world out there. There really is. It really does exist. Regardless of how bad things can be, and how down on your luck you can be, or how bad your trust is broken when it comes to warming up to people and all that stuff, I know that there’s people out there that genuinely wanna help. Putting yourself in that position is a huge step, and it’s a very risky and fragile step, but it’s also a step that needs to be taken because there is help. And you can get through something like this. You really can. - Jim, from "To the Survivors

Jessilyn, ain't no man can't get someplace he never thought he'd get to. You let enough bad thoughts into your head, you can end up doin' all sorts of things you never thought possible. Otis let evil into his mind and it took over his heart. We best be on our guard and keep our minds on what's right and true so we don't become things we'll regret. His words scared me. I wanted to always be able to trust people, to know that good people stayed good people, but I was realizing all too quickly that the human heart is fragile and needs constant attention. I'd seen enough bleakness in my own heart to know my daddy was speaking the truth. That's why we all need to know Jesus in our hearts, Daddy said. Ain't no one else who can keep watch over our hearts like He can. Ain't no one else who can take the bad and replace it with good.

Long black hair and deep clean blue eyes and skin pale white and lips blood red she's small and thin and worn and damaged. She is standing there. What are you doing here? I was taking a walk and I saw you and I followed you. What do you want. I want you to stop. I breathe hard, stare hard, tense and coiled. There is still more tree for me to destroy I want that fucking tree. She smiles and she steps towards me, toward toward toward me, and she opens he r arms and I'm breathing hard staring hard tense and coiled she puts her arms around me with one hand not he back of my head and she pulls me into her arms and she holds me and she speaks. It's okay. I breathe hard, close my eyes, let myself be held. It's okay. Her voice calms me and her arms warm me and her smell lightens me and I can feel her heart beat and my heart slows and I stop shaking an the Fury melts into her safety an she holds me and she says. Okay. Okay. Okay. Something else comes and it makes me feel weak and scared and fragile and I don't want to be hurt and this feeling is the feeling I have when I know I can be hurt and hurt deeper and more terribly than anything physical and I always fight it and control it and stop it but her voice calms me and her arms warm me and her smell lightens me and I can feel her heart beat and if she let me go right now I would fall and the need and confusion and fear and regret and horror and shame and weakness and fragility are exposed to the soft strength of her open arms and her simple word okay and I start to cry. I start to cry. I want to cry. It comes in waves. THe waves roll deep and from deep the deep within me and I hold her and she holds me tighter and i let her and I let it and I let this and I have not felt this way this vulnerability or allowed myself to feel this way this vulnerability since I was ten years old and I don't know why I haven't and I don't know why I am now and I only know that I am and that it is scary terrifying frightening worse and better than anything I've ever felt crying in her arms just crying in her ams just crying. She guides me to the ground, but she doesn't let me go. THe Gates are open and thirteen years of addiction, violence, hell and their accompaniments are manifesting themselves in dense tears and heavy sobs and a shortness of breath and a profound sense of loss. THe loss inhabits, fills and overwhelms me. It is the loss of a childhood of being a Teeenager of normalcy of happiness of love of trust anon reason of God of Family of friends of future of potential of dignity of humanity of sanity f myself of everything everything everything. I lost everything and I am lost reduced to a mass of mourning, sadness, grief, anguish and heartache. I am lost. I have lost. Everything. Everything. It's wet and Lilly cradles me like a broken Child. My face and her shoulder and her shirt and her hair are wet with my tears. I slow down and I start to breathe slowly and deeply and her hair smells clean and I open my eyes because I want to see it an it is all that I can see. It is jet black almost blue and radiant with moisture. I want to touch it and I reach with one of my hands and I run my hand from the crown along her neck and her back to the base of her rib and it is a thin perfect sheer and I let it slowly drop from the tips of my fingers and when it is gone I miss it. I do it again and again and she lets me do it and she doesn't speak she just cradles me because I am broken. I am broken. Broken. THere is noise and voices and Lilly pulls me in tighter and tighter and I know I pull her in tighter and tighter and I can feel her heart beating and I know she can feel my heart beating and they are speaking our hearts are speaking a language wordless old unknowable and true and we're pulling and holding and the noise is closer and the voices louder and Lilly whispers. You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.

They were many beautiful young men in the world, but Tella believed that none of them could be trusted with something as fragile, or valuable, as a heart

It all seemed so fragile to me, the trust we put in others without thinking about it.

Trust is a fragile commodity. Know your code of conduct and the values you stand for. Remember: if you wouldn’t want to explain it on ‘60 Minutes,’ don’t do it.

The fragility of human emotions are not to be trusted but to validate the necessity of Grace.

Trust is a fragile thing. All it takes is a single moment in time, or a single word, to destroy what took a lifetime to build.

She did not know what sort of person he was. But she thought---she hoped---that he would hold her trust as the fragile, precious thing it was.

The more I came to know about the fragility of computer security, the more I worried over the consequences of trusting the wrong machine.

She doesn’t say the title the way others do; there are no strings attached. I hold her full trust in my hands and it is a terribly fragile thing. I will not break it.

There’s something heart-stopping about a woman who is so low on trust looking up at me the way she is right now. Fragile and fierce all at once.

there is a side to friendship that resembles faith. Both are built on the fragility of trust.

It’s a fragile system, this trusting of lives to twelve average, ordinary people who do not understand the law and are intimidated by the process.

Trust is extremely fragile, and although building it can take extensive amounts of time over the course of many personal interactions, it can be destroyed (withdrawn) within seconds.

It seemed that now, Kya being more vulnerable than ever, was reason to trust others even less. Standing in the most fragile place of her life, she turned to the only net she knew—herself.

Humans are most imaginative when they need a means of self-destruction. If the world existed in an overflowing amount of happiness; a utopian state, then the suicide rate would dwarf any extinction level threat. Humans cannot be trusted with their own survival. Their minds have been trained to be blindly and unconsciously subjugated. In a time related to Heaven-on-Earth, the smallest amount of worry, will drive a human into the arms of death. This is how weak and fragile the human mind and will is. It's funny, because the best friend of humanity, is none other than Chaos itself.

Trusting that someone can change is wishful thinking in ninety-nine percent of cases. It’s a waste of time and energy. However, there’s always that pesky one percent. The anomaly. The…deviation of human behavior. The fact that it’s almost impossible to predict or catch such a moment is what makes it special. Desirable, even. It’s a sin waiting to be committed. An untouched rose about to be plucked so it will wither in a place that’s far away from her natural habitat. And even that one percent can’t be trusted. It’s not that people change of their own volition. They’re forced to by external exertions, by circumstances and tragedies. In a way, second chances don’t really exist. They’re a myth told once in a while to appease emotionally fragile people so they can look forward to new days instead of spiraling into depression. Sooner or later, however, they realize such things don’t exist and are hit by a deeper form of depression, a form that will eventually lead to their ruin.

It takes time to establish trust in something or someone because it requires consistent and continuous behavior demonstrated over time. That is why our relationships are so fragile. It may take months or years to establish a high level of trust, but one act of unfaithfulness can destroy it. We can choose to forgive those who betray us, but it would take a long time to regain the trust that was lost.

Walkers cannot trust our own hearts—our slippy, sloppy bleeding hearts. They are reckless, stupid things. Muscles that beat too fast, that cave inward when they break. Too fragile to be trusted. Yet, I let him stay.

There were no kisses worth dying for. No souls worth merging with. There were many beautiful young men in the world, but Tella believed none of them could be trusted with something as fragile, or vulnerable as a heart.

Even though they've got a stethoscope round their neck and a decent line in gallows humour, they're still just that teenager who arbitrarily put a tick next to 'medicine' on their UCAS form. Just a human as fragile as anyone.

Trust is a fragile glass, easily shattered by the weight of betrayal, leaving fragments of broken promises in its wake. The pain of betrayal cuts deeper than any sword, leaving behind scars that serve as a constant reminder of the wounds inflicted

Mercy might be mated to Adam, but to his wolf she would always belong to Bran. Would always be his little coyote, who was tough and defiant, raised by a good friend because Bran couldn’t trust his mate with someone he cared about who was more fragile than his grown sons.

What happens when a child feels unloved, unwanted? There is nothing to compare with the terrible loneliness of a child; fragile and helpless, a lonely child feels fear, anguish, a sense of guilt. And when children are wounded in their hearts, they learn to protect themselves by hiding behind barriers. Lonely children feel no commonality with adults. They have lost trust in them and in themselves, they are confused and feel misunderstood. Lonely children cannot name the pain. Only self—accusation remains. However, life wants to live. If some children fall into depression and want to die, others seem to survive despite adverse conditions such as sickness, squalor, abuse, violence, and abandonment; life can be tenacious and stubborn. Instinctively, all children learn to hide their terrible feelings behind inner walls, the shadowy areas of their being. All the disorder and darkness of their lives can be buried there. They then throw themselves into their lives, into the search for approbation, into self—fulfillment, into dreams and illusions. Hurts and pain can transform into the energy that pushes children forward. Such children can then become individuals protected by the barriers they had to build around their vulnerable, wounded hearts. Children who are less wounded will have fewer barriers. They will find it easier to live in the world and to work with others; they will not be as closed in on themselves. The lonely child is unable to connect with others. There is a lonely child in each of us, hidden behind the walls we created in order to survive. I am speaking, of course, of only one aspect of loneliness, the loneliness that can destroy some part of us, not the loneliness that creates.

When you love someone, you trust them to hold your entire life in their hands, like a fragile object, like a vase, like crystal ware. When they leave you for another, they throw your vase against the floor. Vases are never vases after that. They can be reglued, but they won’t hold water.

Since republics rely on the inherent virtue of the people, they are exceedingly fragile. All it takes is one well-placed person to destroy everything. Washington, his face betraying the sadness, anger, and shock of this most recent revelation, turned to Lafayette and asked, “Whom can we trust now?

This is what love does. In the stories, love healed your wounds, fixed what was broken, allowed you to go on. But love wasn’t a spell, some kind of benediction to be whispered, a balm or a cure-all. It was a single, fragile thread, which grew stronger through connection, through shared hardship and honored trust.

This is what love does. In the stories, love healed your wounds, fixed what was broken, allowed you to go on. But love wasn't a spell, some kind of benediction to be whispered, a balm, or a cure-all. It was a single, fragile thread, which grew stronger through connection, through shared hardship and honored trust.

The fragility of a baby is a reminder of our own responsibility,’ Sidney continued. ‘He, or she, is at our mercy, as we are at God’s. A child can either be crushed to death or fed, nurtured, cradled and allowed to grow. We see ourselves in each new birth and remember our own childhood. A society is judged by how it treats its children and its old people. Do we offer a favourable climate for a flower to grow, or do we provide impossible soil, harsh rains, and constant darkness? Christ tells us that it is we who must provide the light to see and warm the child in the cold black nights of the soul. The candles of Christmas represent the hope of our own flickering humanity against death and despair, and no matter how frail the flame, we must trust in its ability to illuminate our fragile state. For the light entered the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. ‘This is the message of Christmas,’ Sidney concluded. ‘Light against darkness, vulnerability against brutality, life against death.

Like two swiftly moving skiffs, we had stormed forward together, and Richard's skiff was the colorful, fragile, happy, and loved one, to which my eye clung and which I trusted to bear me along toward beautiful destinies. Now it had sunk with no more than a brief cry, leaving me rudderless and adrift on waters that had suddenly darkened.

When a man speaks assertively, people trust him: he’s confident. When a woman does it, men dislike her : she’s a bitch. It’s outrageous that women have to restrain themselves and act small for the benefit of protecting the fragile egos of chauvinists. As a matter of fact though, outspoken and bold women will only rise and win at Life no matter what.

Belittling those who support you isn’t smart. Haven’t you read the history books? Using fear to demand respect is a fragile construct. It doesn’t last because no one can trust you, and the first opportunity they have to betray you, they take. Z isn’t built on fear, Claire. It’s built on the mutual desire to kill people like you. And you know what? My organization trusts me to do that.

Do not assume that someone else’s ego can love you. It cannot. It does not even love the person it resides in. The limit of the ego’s 'love' is to decide that you are a temporary ally and thus it will protect you for the benefit of its own use. Only a soul can accept and return love. Everything else is manipulation. Fragile arrangements. They are, at best, suspicious and, at worst, vicious.

Let’s turn the kindness we show toward the stars to members of the human race on Earth and build up the trust and understanding between the different peoples and civilizations that make up humanity. But for the universe outside the solar system, we should be ever vigilant, and be ready to attribute the worst of intentions to any Others that might exist in space. For a fragile civilization like ours, this is without a doubt the most responsible path.

I think it should be precisely the opposite: Let’s turn the kindness we show toward the stars to members of the human race on Earth and build up the trust and understanding between the different peoples and civilizations that make up humanity. But for the universe outside the solar system, we should be ever vigilant, and be ready to attribute the worst of intentions to any Others that might exist in space. For a fragile civilization like ours, this is without a doubt the most responsible path. *

There also were the widespread failures of prediction that accompanied the recent global financial crisis. Our naïve trust in models, and our failure to realize how fragile they were to our choice of assumptions, yielded disastrous results. On a more routine basis, meanwhile, I discovered that we are unable to predict recessions more than a few months in advance, and not for lack of trying. While there has been considerable progress made in controlling inflation, our economic policy makers are otherwise flying blind.

Because you don’t seem to get it. Love is not only about caring for someone. Love is not only about being there for someone. Love is letting someone be there for you. Love is sharing your dreams, fears, desires, your problems. And that means your problem is my fucking problem too, you idiot.” He wound his arms around me and pulled me into his embrace. “I’m not fragile. I won’t go crazy if I decide to protect you at all costs. I need you to trust in me and believe that I could be strong enough for you at all times, no matter what.

How to rebuild trust Trust is a tricky thing. It is the foundation of every healthy relationship. It is the security that makes intimacy possible. It can be simultaneously strong and yet very fragile. It takes great effort and time to build, but it can be broken quickly. Almost every relationship has encountered difficulties over broken trust. I would even argue that most difficulties in relationships stem directly from a breach of trust. Strong relationships (especially marriages) require strong trust, so here are a few ways to to build it (or rebuild it).

Trust, Arthur knew, was a treasure effortlessly stolen, often without rhyme or reason. And this particular treasure was a fragile thing, a piece of thin glass easily broken. But here was David, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar place, attempting to pick up his pieces and put them back into a recognizable shape. Whatever else he was, David's bravery in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds proved yet again what Arthur had always believed: magic existed in many forms, some extraordinary, some simple acts of goodwill and trust, small though they might be.

Seven considered the cup B’Elanna held before her. When she still hesitated, B’Elanna added more gently, “I know it must pain you to admit that you are now as frail as the rest of us mortals, but trust me. I know how you feel right now. Infants come into this world knowing how to suck, cry, poop, and deny their caregivers sleep. Five days after Miral was born I hadn’t slept for more than an hour. Then my body simply shut down, and this”—she lifted Seven’s cup—“was the only thing that allowed me to survive it. Grieve the fragile human condition later, hold your nose, and drink.

There was a time when I thought that my life's significant work would be to write a history of the Six Duchies. I made a start on it any number of times, but always seemed to slide sideways from that grand tale into a recounting of the days and details of my own small life. The more I studied the accounts of others, both written and told, the more it seemed to me that we attempt such histories not to preserve knowledge, but to fix the past in a settled way. Like a flower pressed flat and dried, we try to hold it still and say, this is exactly how it was the day I first saw it. But like the flower, the past cannot be trapped that way. It loses its fragrance and its vitality, its fragility becomes brittleness and its colors fade. And when next you look on the flower, you know that it is not at all what you sought to capture, that that moment has fled forever. I wrote my history and my observations. I captured my thoughts and ideas and memories in words on vellum and paper. So much I stored, and thought it was mine. I believed that by fixing it down in words, I could force sense on all that had happened, that effect would follow cause, and the reason for each event come clear to me. Perhaps I sought to justify myself, not just all I had done, but who I had become. For years, I wrote faithfully nearly every evening, carefully explaining my world and my life to myself. I put my scrolls on a shelf, trusting that I had captured the meaning of my days. But then I returned one day, to find all my careful scribing gone to fragments of vellum lying in a trampled yard with wet set, snow blowing over them. I sat my horse, looking down on them, and knew that, as it always would, the past had broken free of my effort to define and understand it. History is no more fixed and dead than the future. The past is no further away than the last breath you took.

I've read every letter that you've sent me these past two years. In return, I've sent you many form letters, with the hope of one day being able to give you the proper response you deserve. But the more letters you wrote to me, and the more of yourself you gave, the more daunting my task became. I'm sitting beneath a pear tree as I dictate this to you, overlooking the orchards of a friend's estate. I've spent the past few days here, recovering from some medical treatment that has left me physically and emotionally depleted. As I moped about this morning, feeling sorry for myself, it occurred to me, like a simple solution to an impossible problem: today is the day I've been waiting for. You asked me in your first letter if you could be my protege. I don't know about that, but I would be happy to have you join me in Cambridge for a few days. I could introduce you to my colleagues, treat you to the best curry outside India, and show you just how boring the life of an astrophysicist can be. You can have a bright future in the sciences, Oskar. I would be happy to do anything possible to facilitate such a path. It's wonderful to think what would happen if you put your imagination toward scientific ends. But Oskar, intelligent people write to me all the time. In your fifth letter you asked, "What if I never stop inventing?" That question has stuck with me. I wish I were a poet. I've never confessed that to anyone, and I'm confessing it to you, because you've given me reason to feel that I can trust you. I've spent my life observing the universe, mostly in my mind's eye. It's been a tremendously rewarding life, a wonderful life. I've been able to explore the origins of time and space with some of the great living thinkers.But I wish I were a poet. Albert Einstein, a hero of mine, once wrote, "Our situation is the following. We are standing in front of a closed box which we cannot open." I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the vast majority of the universe is composed of dark matter. The fragile balance depends on things we'll never be able to see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. Life itself depends on them. What's real? What isn't real? Maybe those aren't the right questions to be asking. What does life depend on? I wish I had made things for life to depend on. What if you never stop inventing? Maybe you're not inventing at all. I'm being called in for breakfast, so I'll have to end this letter here. There's more I want to tell you, and more I want to hear from you. It's a shame we live on different continents. One shame of many. It's so beautiful at this hour. The sun is low, the shadows are long, the air is cold and clean. You won't be awake for another five hours, but I can't help feeling that we're sharing this clear and beautiful morning. Your friend, Stephen Hawking

They sit here in the darkness, trusting. That the coffee will be hot and unpoisoned. That no raging madman will come in with a gun or a bomb. It leaves him breathless at times, how much faith people put in one another. So fragile, the social contract: we will all stand by the rules, move with care and gentleness, invest in the infrastructure, agree with the penalties of failure. That this man driving his truck down the street won’t, on a whim, angle into the plate glass and end things. That the president won’t let his hand hover over the red button and, in moment of rage or weakness, explode the world. The invisible tissue of civilization: so thin, so easily rendable. It’s a miracle that it exists at all.

We all have one. It is that run. Its physical location may change as we move house, region, country, continent. But it is the run that is always with us. It is the run that we can trust ourselves to. It is the run that is waiting to enfold us back again after injury, absence or discouragement. It is where we go in the cool of the early morning, in the heat of the day, in the fading light of a setting sun. It is a place we go to in all seasons, observing and feeling the changes, until the rhythm of the earth becomes our own, a comforting reminder of the impermanence of all things. It is where we go to seek solace, to seek challenge. It is where we go when we need to push, to hold back. It is where we go when we need to find a fragile peace.

NAMING THE EARTH (a poem of light for national poetry day) And the world will be born again in circles of steaming breath and beams of light as each one of us directs our inner eye upon its name. Hear the cry of wings, the sigh of leaves and grass, smell the new sweet mist rising as the pathway is cleared at last. Stones stand ready - they have known since ages and ages ago that they were not alone. Water carries the planet's energy into skies and down to earth and bones. The cold parts steadily as we come together, bodies and hearts warm, hands tingling. We are silent but our eyes are singing. We look, we feel, we know, we trust each other's souls, we have no need to speak. Not now, but later, when the time is right, the name will ring within the iron core of each other's listening - and the very earth's being. Every creature, every plant, will hear it calling, tolling like a bell - a sound we've always felt but never dared to hope to hear reverberating - true at last, at every level of existence. The poets come together to open the intimate centre. Believe in life and air - breathe the light itself, for these are the energies and rhythms that we need to see, to touch, to reach, to identify, to say, the NAME. Colours on your skin fuse and dissolve - leave the river clean for pure space and time to enter and flow in. We all become one fluid stream of stillness and motion, of flaring thought pulses discovering weird pools and twists within where darkness hides from the flames in our eyes but will not snare us. We probe deeper still, journeying towards a unity which will be more raw and yet also more formed than anything written or spoken before. Our fragile bodies fall away - and the trees, and the roots of trees, guide us - lead us away from the faces we remember seeing each day in the mirror - into an ocean of dreams seething with warmth, love, where the beginning is real, ripe, evolving. And the world is born again in circles of steaming breath and beams of light. An ache - a signal - a trembling moment - and the time is right to say the name. We sing as one whole voice of the universal - all the words, the names of every tiny thirsting thing, and they ring out together as one sound, one energy, one sense, one vibration, one breath. And the world listens, beats, shines, glows - IS - Exists!

Chaque fois que je vais dans un super-market, ce qui du reste m'arrive rarement, je me crois en Russie. C'est la même nourriture imposée d'en haut, pareille où qu'on aille, imposée par des trusts au lieu de l'être par des organismes d’État. Les États-Unis, en un sens, sont aussi totalitaires que l'URSS, et dans l'un comme dans l'autre pays, et comme partout d'ailleurs, le progrès (c'est-à-dire l'accroissement de l'immédiat bien-être humain) ou même le maintien du présent état de choses dépend de structures de plus en plus complexes et de plus en plus fragiles. Comme l'humanisme un peu béat du bourgeois de 1900, le progrès à jet continu est un rêve d'hier. Il faut réapprendre à aimer la condition humaine telle qu'elle est, accepter ses limitations et ses dangers, se remettre de plain-pied avec les choses, renoncer à nos dogmes de partis, de pays, de classes, de religions, tous intransigeants et donc tous mortels. Quand je pétris la pâte, je pense aux gens qui ont fait pousser le blé, je pense aux profiteurs qui en font monter artificiellement le prix, aux technocrates qui en ont ruiné la qualité - non que les techniques récentes soient nécessairement un mal, mais parce qu'elles se sont mises au service de l'avidité qui en est un, et parce que la plupart ne peuvent s'exercer qu'à l'aide de grandes concentrations de forces, toujours pleines de potentiels périls. Je pense aux gens qui n'ont pas de pain, et à ceux qui en ont trop, je pense à la terre et au soleil qui font pousser les plantes. Je me sens à la fois idéaliste et matérialiste. Le prétendu idéaliste ne voit pas le pain, ni le prix du pain, et le matérialiste, par un curieux paradoxe, ignore ce que signifie cette chose immense et divine que nous appelons "la matière". (p. 242)

It follows that a tender heart that reaches for love and understanding is often the easiest to break. Hearts that are open and trusting are usually the ones that are wounded the most. This world is filed with men and woman who have rejected the love offered to them from a heart that is gentle and tender. Those strong, hard-shelled hearts that trust no one, hearts that give so little, hearts that demand love be constantly proved, hearts that are always calculating hearts that are always manipulating and self-serving, hearts that are afraid to risk are the ones that seldom get broken. They don't get wounded, because there is nothing to wound. They are too proud and self-centered to allow anyone else to make them suffer in any way. They go about breaking other hearts and trampling on the fragile souls who touch their lives, simply because they are so thick and dull at heart themselves, and they think everyone should be just as they are.

It’s hard to trust the world like that, to show it your belly. There’s something deep within me, something intensely fragile, that is terrified of turning itself to the world. I think I’m just scared that if I show the world my belly, it will devour me. And so I wear the armor of cynicism, and hide behind the great walls of irony, and only glimpse beauty with my back turned to it, through the Claude glass. But I want to be earnest, even if it’s embarrassing. The photographer Alec Soth has said, “To me, the most beautiful thing is vulnerability.” I would go a step further and argue that you cannot see the beauty which is enough unless you make yourself vulnerable to it. And so I try to turn toward that scattered light, belly out, and I tell myself: This doesn’t look like a picture. And it doesn’t look like a god. It is a sunset, and it is beautiful, and this whole thing you’ve been doing where nothing gets five stars because nothing is perfect? That’s bullshit. So much is perfect. Starting with this. I give sunsets five stars.

You think this is the end?” He looked at his hands. “The end of what?” “The end of everything. The Riki. The Aska.” The words hung in the air over us, burning in the fire. “Is that what you think?” “No. I think you’ll convince them.” The stillness of the night turned to something fragile, threatening to break. Because I wasn’t sure. “How do you know?” He smiled at the corner of his mouth. “Because you have fire in your blood.” It was what Inge said about me the night I watched them from the loft and he told Halvard I was dangerous. “Do you trust me, Fiske?” “I’m here, aren’t I?” The memory of his lips on mine came flooding back. His hands finding me in the dark, pulling me across the stone. I fisted my hands, resisting the urge to touch him. “And if the Aska do join the Riki and together we defeat the Herja? What then?” He reached into the fire with his axe, knocking a log closer to the flames. “Then things change.” “What things?” He leaned back against the tree, his eyes running over my face, and his voice softened. “Everything.

Marriage is a very serious undertaking, after all. We are talking here about embarking upon a life together,” he says, attempting a smile. “Teaming up, you know? And so on. We are talking about nothing less than love, my dear! The universal lifeblood. Eternal, undying love!” His attention is back on the invisible thing in the middle distance. The creature tears up a little. “Ah, but love itself is not enough.” He sighs. “So fragile! So fleeting if left untended. I’m sure you’d agree, my dear, that we must never take this love of ours for granted?” The creature does agree. “It must be nurtured. Cultivated. Tell me, do you feel the same way?” It does. A single, rust colored tear carves out a path over the rugged and somewhat jaundiced terrain of its cheek. “And with what shall we nurture it, my dear? Hm? How to give it the strength it will need to thrive?” It doesn’t know. A belch from its lips releases a cloud of gas that makes Seiler’s vision blur. He takes a moment to steady himself. “With trust, my dear! We must have complete trust in one another!

I have a certain amazing genius; worthy of a Nobel Prize I’m sure, and that’s making mistakes. Yes, of course, all of us make mistakes, that’s part of being human, we’re all imperfect. We all make mistakes, and regret things in our past. But we are not only our mistakes, but we are also what we learn from them. Maybe we have to repeat that mistake a few times to really get it. Sometimes we do wrong things, things that have bad consequences. Sometimes we think we can hide those mistakes by being our own defense lawyers and somehow justifying them, instead of just admitting we fucked up. Sometimes we hurt those we love the most in the worst way. It does not mean we are bad people and cannot ever earn back the trust of those we hold dear. Every mistake we make brings us closer to our own fragility and if we open our eyes, they also illuminate us. Realizing those mistakes might give us a map that opens up a whole new world and shines a light on our journey. Learning something new every day is an ability we as humans have and should take advantage of every day in this lifetime.

Here is the ambivalence of causa sui on a conceptual level: how can one trust any meanings that are not man-made? These are the only meanings that we securely know; nature seems unconcerned, even viciously antagonistic to human meanings; and we fight by trying to bring our own dependable meanings into the world. But human meanings are fragile, ephemeral: they are constantly being discredited by historical events and natural calamities. One Hitler can efface centuries of scientific and religious meanings; one earthquake can negate a million times the meaning of a personal life. Mankind has reacted by trying to secure human meanings from beyond. Man’s best efforts seem utterly fallible without appeal to something higher for justification, some conceptual support for the meaning of one’s life from a transcendental dimension of some kind. As this belief has to absorb man’s basic terror, it cannot be merely abstract but must be rooted in the emotions, in an inner feeling that one is secure in something stronger, larger, more important than one’s own strength and life. It is as though one were to say: “My life pulse ebbs, I fade away into oblivion, but “God” (or “It”) remains, even grows more glorious with and through my living sacrifice.” At least, this feeling is belief at its most effective for the individual.

If you want to know the real reasons why certain politicians vote the way they do - follow the money. Arch Brexiteer Jacob Rees-Mogg (a.k.a. JackOff Grease-Smug) stands to make billions via his investment firm - Somerset Capital Management - if the UK crashes unceremoniously out of the European Union without a secure future trade deal. Why ? Because proposed EU regulations will give enforcement agencies greater powers to curb the activities adopted by the sort of off-shore tax havens his company employs. Consequently the British electorate get swindled not once, but twice. Firstly because any sort of Brexit - whether hard, soft, or half-baked - will make every man, woman and child in the UK that much poorer than under the status quo currently enjoyed as a fully paid up member of the EU. Secondly because Rees-Mogg's company, if not brought to heel by appropriate EU wide legislation, will deprive Her Majesty's Treasury of millions in taxes, thus leading to more onerous taxes for the rest of us. It begs the question, who else in the obscure but influential European Research Group (ERG) that he chairs and the Institute for Economic Affairs (IEA) that he subscribes to, have similar vested interests in a no-deal Brexit ? It is high time for infinitely greater parliamentary and public scrutiny into the UK Register of Members' Financial Interests in order to put an end to these nefarious dealings and appalling double standards in public life which only serve to further corrode public trust in an already fragile democracy.

Lottie pressed her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She had to stop him now, before her will was completely demolished. “No. Please stop. I’m sorry.” His hand slid from her blouse, and he touched her damp lips with his fingers. “Have I frightened you?” he whispered. Lottie shook her head, somehow resisting the urge to curl into his embrace like a sun-warmed cat. “No… I’ve frightened myself.” For some reason her admission made him smile. His fingers moved to her throat, tracing the fragile line with a sensitivity that made her breath catch. Tugging the peasant blouse back up to her shoulder, he retied the frayed ribbon that secured the neckline. “Then I’ll stop,” he said. “Come— I’ll take you to the house.” He stayed close to her as they continued through the forest, occasionally moving to push a branch out of the way, or taking her hand to guide her over a rough place on the path. As familiar as she was with the woods of Stony Cross Park, Lottie had no need of his assistance. But she accepted the help with demur. And she did not protest when he paused again, his lips finding hers easily in the darkness. His mouth was hot and sweet as he kissed her compulsively… swift kisses, languid ones, kisses that ranged from intense need to wicked flirtation. Drugged with pleasure, Lottie let her hands wander to the thick dishevelment of his hair, the iron-hard nape of his neck. When the blistering heat rose to an untenable degree, Lord Sydney groaned softly. “Charlotte…” “Lottie,” she told him breathlessly. He pressed his lips to her temple and cuddled her against his powerful body as if she were infinitely fragile. “I never thought I would find someone like you,” he whispered. “I’ve looked for you so long… needed you…” Lottie shivered and dropped her head to his shoulder. “This isn’t real,” she said faintly. His lips touched her neck, finding a place that made her arch involuntarily. “What’s real, then?” She gestured to the yew hedge that bordered the estate garden. “Everything back there.” His arms tightened, and he spoke in a muffled voice. “Let me come to your room. Just for a little while.” Lottie responded with a trembling laugh, knowing exactly what would happen if she allowed that. “Absolutely not.” Soft, hot kisses drifted over her skin. “You’re safe with me. I would never ask for more than you were willing to give.” Lottie closed her eyes, her head spinning. “The problem is,” she said ruefully, “I am willing to give you entirely too much.” She felt the curve of his smile against her cheek. “Is that a problem?” “Oh, yes.” Pulling away from him, Lottie held her hands to her hot face and sighed unsteadily. “We must stop this. I don’t trust myself with you.” “You shouldn’t,” he agreed hoarsely. -Lottie & Nick

Tell me, Princess Olivia... why do you have to stay in your tower?" The soft entreaty made Livia feel as if she were melting inside. She laughed unsteadily, wishing for a moment that she dared to trust him. But the habit of independence was too strong. Shaking her head, Livia approached him, expecting him to back away from the doorway. He retreated half a step, his hands still grasping the edges of the doorway, so that she couldn't help but walk into an open-armed embrace. The bonnet ribbons slipped from her fingers. "Mr. Shaw-" she began, making the mistake of looking up at him. "Gideon," he whispered. "I want to know your secrets, Olivia." A bitter half smile touched her lips. "You'll hear them sooner or later from other people." "I want to hear them from you." As Livia began to retreat into the glasshouse, Shaw deftly caught the little cloth belt of her walking dress. His long fingers hooked beneath the reinforced fabric. Unable to back away from him, Livia clamped her hand over his, while a hectic blush flooded her face. She knew that he was toying with her, and that she once might have been able to manage this situation with relative ease. But not now. When she spoke, her voice was husky. "I can't do this, Mr. Shaw." To her amazement, he seemed to understand exactly what she meant. "You don't have to do anything," he said softly. "Just let me come closer... and stay right there..." His head bent, and he found her mouth easily. The coaxing pressure of his lips made Livia sway dizzily, and he caught her firmly against him. She was being kissed by Gideon Shaw, the self-indulgent, debauched scoundrel her brother had warned her about. And oh, he was good at it. She had thought nothing would ever be as pleasurable as Amberley's kisses... but this man's mouth was warm and patient, and there was something wickedly erotic about his complete lack of urgency. He teased her gently, nudging her lips apart, the tip of his tongue barely brushing hers before it withdrew. Wanting more of those silken strokes, Livia began to strain against him, her breath quickening. He nurtured her excitement with such subtle skill that she was utterly helpless to defend against it. To her astonishment, she found herself winding her arms around his neck and pressing her breasts against the hard plane of his chest. His hand slid behind her neck, tilting her head back to expose her throat more fully. Still gentle and controlled, he kissed the fragile skin, working his way down to the hollow at the base of her throat. She felt his tongue swirl in the warm depression, and a moan of pleasure escaped her. Shaw lifted his head to nuzzle the side of her cheek, while his hand smoothed over her back. Their breaths mingled in swift puffs of heat, his hard chest moving against hers in an erratic rhythm.

Trust is fragile. You have to be careful with it. It’s easy to break someone’s trust, even if you love them. I’m not saying it’s not an important component of a relationship, but it can’t be everything. I was an ornery child, who occasionally got into fights and told many white lies. My parents didn’t always trust me, but they always loved me. They forgave my mistakes and my lies. You have to treat trust like modeling clay that can be broken and repaired a million times, not like a priceless vase that belonged to your dead grandmother.

people of color have indeed tried to tell us what racism is like for them and how often they have been dismissed. To ask people of color to tell us how they experience racism without first building a trusting relationship and being willing to meet them halfway by also being vulnerable shows that we are not racially aware and that this exchange will probably be invalidating for them.

Bias is implicit and unconscious; I don’t expect to be aware of mine without a lot of ongoing effort. • Giving us white people feedback on our racism is risky for people of color, so we can consider the feedback a sign of trust.

The unexamined assumption underlying these guidelines is that they can be universally applied. But because they do not account for unequal power relations, they do not function the same way across race. These guidelines are primarily driven by white fragility, and they are accommodations made to coddle white fragility. The very conditions that most white people insist on to remain comfortable are those that support the racial status quo (white centrality, dominance, and professed innocence). For people of color, the racial status quo is hostile and needs to be interrupted, not reinforced. The essential message of trust is be nice. And according to dominant white norms, the suggestion that someone is racist is not “nice.

Second, this request requires nothing of us and reinforces unequal power relations by asking people of color to do our work. There are copious resources available on the subject generated by people of color who are willing to share the information; why haven’t we sought it out before this conversation? Third, the request ignores the historical dimensions of race relations. It disregards how often people of color have indeed tried to tell us what racism is like for them and how often they have been dismissed. To ask people of color to tell us how they experience racism without first building a trusting relationship and being willing to meet them halfway by also being vulnerable shows that we are not racially aware and that this exchange will probably be invalidating for them.

The authors do not belittle these struggels, but emphazise that they are apainful consequence of the accceptance of three "Great Untruth". These are the belief that people are fragile ("Anything that doesn't kill you makes you weaker"), the belief in emotional reasoning ("Always trust your instinct") and the belief in Us versus Them ("Life is a battle between good people and evil people ").

It turns out, switching our parenting mindset from “consequences” to “connection” does not have to mean ceding family control to our children. While I resist time-outs, punishments, consequences, and ignoring, there’s nothing about my parenting style that’s permissive or fragile. My approach promotes firm boundaries, parental authority, and sturdy leadership, all while maintaining positive relationships, trust, and respect.

Kya stood in the middle of her cell. Here she was in jail. If those she’d loved, including Jodie and Tate, hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t be here. Leaning on someone leaves you on the ground. Before being arrested, she’d caught glimpses of a path back to Tate: an opening of her heart. Love lingering closer to the surface. But when he’d come to visit her in jail on several occasions, she had refused to see him. She wasn’t sure why jail had closed her heart even tighter. Why she hadn’t embraced the comfort he could give her in this place. It seemed that now, Kya being more vulnerable than ever, was reason to trust others even less. Standing in the most fragile place of her life, she turned to the only net she knew—herself.

Trust me, she's not some fragile little bird with a broken wing.

You want to know you can stand on your own two feet Putting s much trust into one person is terrifying. And I hope none of you discover how it feels to have your fragile trust trodden on by someone you thought you loved.

They broke a basic bond of trust that those handed a role of power in a functioning democracy would treat the gift as both priceless and fragile, what Abraham Lincoln called “the legacy bequeathed to us.

...belief does not depend upon logic, it is a delicate and fragile flower that draws nourishment from intuition and instinct and hunch.

Still, I believe that what it comes down to is this: I need to trust that you won’t think I am racist before I can work on my racism. Consider the following common guidelines that have “building trust” at their base: • Don’t judge: Refraining from judgment is not humanly possible, so this guideline cannot be achieved or enforced and is functionally meaningless. • Don’t make assumptions: The nature of an assumption is that you don’t know you are making it, so this guideline cannot be achieved or enforced and is functionally meaningless. • Assume good intentions: By emphasizing intentions over impact, this guideline privileges the intentions of the aggressor over the impact

These guidelines are primarily driven by white fragility, and they are accommodations made to coddle white fragility. The very conditions that most white people insist on to remain comfortable are those that support the racial status quo (white centrality, dominance, and professed innocence). For people of color, the racial status quo is hostile and needs to be interrupted, not reinforced. The essential message of trust is be nice. And according to dominant white norms, the suggestion that someone is racist is not “nice.

Whites are / I am unconsciously invested in racism. Bias is implicit and unconscious; I don’t expect to be aware of mine without a lot of ongoing effort. Giving us white people feedback on our racism is risky for people of color, so we can consider the feedback a sign of trust. Feedback on white racism is difficult to give; how I am given the feedback is not as relevant as the feedback itself. Authentic antiracism is rarely comfortable. Discomfort is key to my growth and thus desirable. White comfort maintains the racial status quo, so discomfort is necessary and important. I must not confuse comfort with safety; as a white person, I am safe in discussions of racism. The antidote to guilt is action.

But Pocock’s influence didn’t end with his command of the technical side of the sport. It really only began there. Over the years, as he saw successive classes of oarsmen come and go, as he watched immensely powerful and proud boys strive to master the vexing subtleties of their sport, as he studied them and worked with them and counseled them and heard them declare their dreams and confess their shortcomings, George Pocock learned much about the hearts and souls of young men. He learned to see hope where a boy thought there was no hope, to see skill where skill was obscured by ego or by anxiety. He observed the fragility of confidence and the redemptive power of trust. He detected the strength of the gossamer threads of affection that sometimes grew between a pair of young men or among a boatload of them striving honestly to do their best. And he came to understand how those almost mystical bonds of trust and affection, if nurtured correctly, might lift a crew above the ordinary sphere, transport it to a place where nine boys somehow became one thing—a thing that could not quite be defined, a thing that was so in tune with the water and the earth and the sky above that, as they rowed, effort was replaced by ecstasy. It was a rare thing, a sacred thing, a thing devoutly to be hoped for. And in the years since coming to Washington, George Pocock had quietly become its high priest.

Paranoid parenting is a powerful way to teach kids all three of the Great Untruths. We convince children that the world is full of danger; evil lurks in the shadows, on the streets, and in public parks and restrooms. Kids raised in this way are emotionally prepared to embrace the Untruth of Us Versus Them: Life is a battle between good people and evil people—a worldview that makes them fear and suspect strangers. We teach children to monitor themselves for the degree to which they “feel unsafe” and then talk about how unsafe they feel. They may come to believe that feeling “unsafe” (the feeling of being uncomfortable or anxious) is a reliable sign that they are unsafe (the Untruth of Emotional Reasoning: Always trust your feelings). Finally, feeling these emotions is unpleasant; therefore, children may conclude, the feelings are dangerous in and of themselves—stress will harm them if it doesn’t kill them (the Untruth of Fragility: What doesn’t kill you makes you weaker).

What I see now is that the coping mechanisms that I developed to outlive these circumstances served me as a child. As an adult, though, they've slammed into whatever structures I've tried to build with potential life mates, eliciting cracks and fractures in the fragile web of trust I long to construct. Even as I try to craft a healthy and safe container in which love and tenderness might bloom, that old wrecking ball of learned behaviors keeps crashing into whatever I try to build, raising dust that clings to my hair and hurts my eyes, splintering my efforts to smithereens.

Love is this fragile little thing, wrapped in trust and respect. If one of its shells cracks, the love can break. Or—sometimes it just means that love becomes more jagged.

Trust is one of those fragile things that may or may not break. And he’s got it for now—somehow. Impossibly. Now I just have to hope he doesn’t smash it—and me—to dust. Because that, I won’t come back from.

Of the two memory systems, episodic memory is the most fragile and most prone to error. Inherently we know this, especially when stating something as a fact that we are uncertain about. This may cause us to respond, depending on the circumstances, with uncertainty and expressions of anxiety (our heart may miss a beat, we may experience a sense uneasiness in our abdomen). All because we are not entirely certain of the correctness of our answer. What should we do in such circumstances? If we are uncertain about the information provided by our episodic memory, we are better off in most cases, going with our “gut” and trusting that our intuition is correct. Why?

Relationships between black women and men are so fragile. We don’t trust one another. And it’s up to the woman to change that dynamic. Make the black man believe in you again and stop thinking he can find what he needs in other women. That you can be submissive and let him be a man. We are built differently for a reason, and we’re supposed to complement each other. My ying to your yang,” I spoke at the screen from my home office. “If women can do it by their damn selves, then keep doing the damn thing by yourself.

began to oppose the governor’s expansionist policy, much to Harrison’s regret. Neither whites nor Indians fully trusted Wells, though he was very useful to both.8 Intermediaries such as William Wells could do little to smooth the sharp conflict between white and Indian culture. In the end, whites’ determination to own the land allowed no basis for compromise, no room for a middle ground. Indiana’s white population increased, and federal land sales began at offices in Vincennes in 1807 and Jeffersonville in 1808. The peace that had prevailed since 1795 became increasingly fragile. By 1806 many Indians were preparing for resistance, some for war. The liquor traffic, the relentless force of Harrison’s land cession treaties, and the raising of log cabins were

In some ways, this paradox bears resemblance to the one examined by the sociologist Arlie Russell Hochschild in her 2016 book Strangers in Their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right. Hochschild traveled to rural Louisiana—where waterways are among the most polluted in the nation—to ask how it is that poor southern whites whose land, water, and bodies have been devastated by industrial toxicity continue to vote for probusiness conservatives committed to deregulation and, hence, environmental destruction.74 In other words, why do poor southern whites undermine their own best interests? Hochschild finds the answer in a complex mix of rural whites’ gratitude for their industrial jobs, their Christian belief that God will ultimately restore any human damage done to the Earth and to their own bodies, and their belief that the government cannot be trusted to help them. Similarly, in attempting to understand the misogyny paradox, we might ask how it is that so many women are investing in straight relationships, when these relationships so often cause them damage? The queer theorist Lauren Berlant’s analysis of “cruel optimism”—the term she uses to describe “the condition of maintaining an attachment to a significantly problematic object”—may be useful here. Berlant asks, “Why do people stay attached to conventional good-life fantasies . . . when the evidence of their instability [and] fragility . . . abound?” People persist in these attachments, Berlant explains, because the fantasy object provides a “sense of what it means to keep on living and looking forward to being in the world.”75

What are you wearing?” he said, his mouth warping around the sound so she could only assume he hissed the words. “Bitsy, turn translation back on,” she said, certain that she was a little too loud. “I’m sorry, Dad, what did you say?” Again the nostril flare. Again, the pinched lips that surely meant he was about to explode. “I said, what are you wearing?” She liked to remind him whenever she could that she’d lost her hearing. It was, after all, his fault. And the man had been exposing her to situations that made her uncomfortable ever since. Oh, his poor baby girl was surely too fragile to do things on her own. That was the excuse he always said. But it wasn’t for that reason. No, he wanted to keep her under his thumb because he didn’t trust her. The old man was far too observant. “The clothes you sent me,” she replied. “You are wearing flat shoes!” Bitsy underlined and made the words shake in red.

trust is fragile and can shatter in an instant. Time has told me it only takes seconds to be made a fool.

Trust is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? Once it’s broken, there is no superglue in the world that can put it back together again. Perhaps with time I would come to trust my neo-ex-sister. Not yet.

Our trust is daily renewed, knowing our fragile hearts can be broken,

Consider a conversation I had with a white friend. She was telling me about a "white) couple she knew who had just moved to New Orleans and bought a house for a mere twenty-five thousand dollars. "Of course," she immediately added, "they also had to buy a gun, and Joan is afraid to leave the house." I immediately knew they had bought a home in a black neighborhood. This was a moment of white racial bonding between this couple who shared the story of racial danger and my friend, and then between my friend and me, as she repeated the story. Through this tale, the four of us fortified familiar images of the horror of black space and drew boundaries between "us" and "them" without ever having to directly name race or openly express our disdain for black space. Notice that the need for a gun is a key part of this story--it would not have the degree of social capital it holds if the emphasis were on the price of the house alone. Rather, the story’s emotional power rests on why a house would be that cheap--because it is in a black neighborhood where white people literally might not get out alive. Yet while very negative and stereotypical representations of blacks were reinforced in that exchange, not naming race provided plausible deniability. In fact, in preparing to share this incident, I texted my friend and asked her the name of the city her friends had moved to. I also wanted to confirm my assumption that she was talking about a black neighborhood. I share the text exchange here: "Hey, what city did you say your friends had bought a house in for $25,000?" "New Orleans. They said they live in a very bad neighborhood and they each have to have a gun to protect themselves. I wouldn’t pay 5 cents for that neighborhood." "I assume it’s a black neighborhood?" "Yes. You get what you pay for. I’d rather pay $500,00 and live somewhere where I wasn’t afraid." "I wasn’t asking because I want to live there. I’m writing about this in my book, the way that white people talk about race without ever coming out and talking about race." "I wouldn’t want you to live there it’s too far away from me!" Notice that when I simply ask what city the house is in, she repeats the story about the neighborhood being so bad that her friends need guns. When I ask if the neighborhood is black, she is comfortable confirming that it is. But when I tell her that I am interested in how whites talks about race without talking about race, she switches the narrative. Now her concern is about not wanting me to live so far away. This is a classic example of aversive racism: holding deep racial disdain that surfaces in daily discourse but not being able to admit it because the disdain conflicts with our self-image and professed beliefs. Readers may be asking themselves, "But if the neighborhood is really dangerous, why is acknowledging this danger a sign of racism?" Research in implicit bias has shown that perceptions of criminal activity are influenced by race. White people will perceive danger simply by the presence of black people; we cannot trust our perceptions when it comes to race and crimes. But regardless of whether the neighborhood is actually more or less dangerous than other neighborhoods, what is salient about this exchange is how it functions racially and what that means for the white people engaged in it. For my friend and me, this conversation did not increase our awareness of the danger of some specific neighborhood. Rather, the exchange reinforced our fundamental beliefs about black people. (p. 44-45)

For in the realm of the heart and mind, she holds sway over the fragile threads of human connection, capable of weaving an intricate tapestry of trust and secrecy, binding those around her with a silence that speaks louder than words ever could.

But that's what Christmas is about isn't it? The impossible becoming real. An infinite God becoming a fragile human babe. . . . Perhaps if I can help them to laugh and consider, just for a moment, that this world is more than it may seem at first glance, then they'll be willing to trust that the world beyond is more too.

It wouldn’t have to be God, I realize now. That’s only what my mother chooses to call it: this faith you can have in your own life, in the unseen shapes the world sometimes takes, in the stories you tell yourself to gain back trust in your own understanding, in your mind’s cliffs and valleys- the stories you tell yourself to prove that you aren’t so fragile that you can’t continue.

Trust is fragile. Yet, the forces that crush it are not. Therefore, the person who is willing to extend trust into an environment such as this must be fragile enough to understand the trust that they are giving, while strong enough to face the forces that seek to crush it. And it is this person who is not stymied by the shallowness of those who understand neither and therefore destroy both.

When a man speaks assertively, people trusts him: he’s confident. When a woman does it, men dislike her : she’s a bitch. It’s outrageous that women have to restrain themselves and act small for the benefit of protecting the fragile egos of male chauvinists. As a matter of fact though, outspoken and bold women will only rise and win at Life no matter what.

She barely trusted anyone. But she trusted me. She barely loved anyone. But she loved me. I held a beautiful, fragile flower in the palm of my hand. And I hoped like hell I didn’t damage her worst of all.

Even a thousand acts of kindness can be undone by a single unintentional harm, revealing the fragility of trust in human relationships, and the harsh truth stares into one's eyes that humans are often so self-centered and selfish that reliability and reciprocity seems an illusion in this world.

In what became known as the decade of lies, truth and trust were falling victim to fear, racism, and hatred. Virginia found herself in a ringside seat as the increasingly fragile ideal of democracy failed to find champions with alternative answers. A

Yes, I was scared, vulnerable, and fragile and lived in books more than real life. Yet there was nothing Mom could do to make things easier for me, just worse by grounding me for life at the slightest hint of truth. Why? Because in spite of what she said she did not trust me or, to put it in her words, I did not know what was good for me. Being a teenager sucks! I might as well have been in prison.

I think it should be precisely the opposite: Let’s turn the kindness we show toward the stars to members of the human race on Earth and build up the trust and understanding between the different peoples and civilizations that make up humanity. But for the universe outside the solar system, we should be ever vigilant, and be ready to attribute the worst of intentions to any Others that might exist in space. For a fragile civilization like ours, this is without a doubt the most responsible path.

The little boy touched his dust-streaked hand to Loretta’s hair and made a breathless “ooh” sound. He smelled like any little boy who had been hard at play, a bit sweaty yet somehow sweet, with the definite odor of dog and horse clinging to him. Blackbird concentrated on Loretta’s blue eyes, staring into them with unflinching intensity. The younger girl ran reverent fingertips over the flounces on Loretta’s bloomers, saying, “Tosi wannup,” over and over again. Loretta couldn’t help but smile. She was as strange to them as they were to her. She longed to gather them close and never let go. Friendly faces and human warmth. Their giggles made her long for home. With a throat that responded none too well to the messages from her brain, Loretta murmured, “Hello.” The sound of her own voice seemed unreal--an echo from the past. “Hi, hites.” Blackbird linked her chubby forefingers in an unmistakable sign of friendship. “Hah-ich-ka sooe ein conic?” Loretta had no idea what the child had asked until Blackbird steepled her fingers. “Oh--my house?” Loretta cupped a hand over her brow as if she were squinting into the distance. “Very far away.” Blackbird’s eyes sparkled with delight, and she burst into a long chain of gibberish, chortling and waving her hands. Loretta watched her, fascinated by the glow of happiness in her eyes, the innocence in her small face. She had always imagined Comanches, young and old, with blood dripping from their fingers. A deep voice came from behind her. “She asks how long you will eat and keep warm with us.” Startled, Loretta glanced over her shoulder to find Hunter reclining on a pallet of furs. Because he lay so low to the floor, she hadn’t seen him the first time she’d looked. Propping himself up on one elbow, he listened to his niece chatter for a moment. His eyes caught the light coming through the lodge door, glistening, fathomless. “You will tell her, ‘Pihet tabbe.’” Trust didn’t come easily to Loretta. “What does that mean?” A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “Pihet, three. Tabbe, the sun. Three suns. It was our bargain.” Relieved that she hadn’t dreamed his promise to take her home, Loretta repeated “pihet tabbe” to Blackbird. The little girl looked crestfallen and took Loretta’s hand. “Ka,” she cried. “Ein mea mon-ach.” “Ka, no. You are going a long way,” Hunter translated, pushing to his feet as he spoke. “I think she likes you.” He came to the bed and, with an indulgent smile, shooed the children away as Aunt Rachel shooed chickens. “Poke Wy-ar-pee-cha, Pony Girl,” he said as he scooped the unintimidated toddler off the furs and set her on the floor. His hand lingered a moment on her hair, a loving gesture that struck Loretta as totally out of character for a Comanche warrior. The fragile child, his rugged strength. The two formed a fascinating contrast. “She is from my sister who is dead.” Nodding toward the boy, he added, “Wakare-ee, Turtle, from Warrior.” Loretta didn’t want the children to leave her alone with their uncle. She gazed after them as they ran out the lodge door.

When a Dominant gains the trust and respect of their submissive they not only create an environment of desire but also safety; both physical and, perhaps most importantly, emotional. The Dominant, through their nurturing and protective (not smothering) way, makes it possible for a submissive to sense and express feelings long repressed. The Dominant enables a submissive to talk about anything, explore ideas and desires long thought to be taboo, and challenges them to be better and more in all facets of their lives. As a result, the submissive feels open, safe, energized, desirous and desired. It is this nurturing process that allows a Dominant deep inside the soul of the submissive in a way no one has ever been given access before. But once that access to the heart and mind of a submissive has been granted and that intense vulnerability exposed, she is a very fragile and delicate being that must be treated by the Dominant with considerable care, appreciation, and continued devotion. This is where many domestic partners and wannabe doms completely fall flat and do great harm. Having attained their physical desires after gaining a little access, perhaps even through outright narcissistic deceit, they turn on the submissive and use their vulnerability against them in the form of neglect, manipulation, or even abuse. Having dropped their defenses and allowed someone in, only to be trampled or ignored, the submissive is left feeling emotionally battered and cold. The walls go back up, perhaps never to come down again for the domestic partner, wannabe Dom, or any man.

After the resurrection Jesus stood among them and said 'Peace be unto you'. For them it was the final proof that everything he had said about the Father's love was true; yet he still bore the marks of the nails in his hands and the spear in his side. Jesus did not offer people perfect health and a painless death. Human minds and bodies are fragile and vulnerable. What he offers is eternal life: a new relationship with God of such a quality that nothing that may happen to us can destroy it. And it is that kind of confidence and trust in God, come what may, which is the true healing of the human spirit.

She'd never imagined such sensations existed; she could barely believe they were real. Yet the caresses continued, thrilling her, heating her- she had to wonder what else she didn't know. What else she had yet to experience. With every ounce of expertise at his command, Vane deliberately drew her deeper. Her total lack of resistance would have made him wonder, if he hadn't earlier seen this curiosity, the calm calculated intention in her eyes. She was willing, even eager- the knowledge stirred his passions powerfully. He held them in check, aware that she was no wanton, that she'd never been down this road before- and that, despite her guileless confidence, her openness- her implicit trust was a fragile thing which could all too easily be shattered by overly aggressive loving. She was naive, innocent- she needed to be loved tenderly, coaxed to passion gently, savored slowly. As he was savoring her now, the softness of her mouth his to enjoy, her breast firm under his fondling hand. Her innocence was refreshing- heady, addictive, entrancing.

The Heart's Pleasure We are born with this need to cry our naked cry inside each other. We are so shy about our sexuality that we often miss the quiet teachings that overcome us in moments of true intimacy. The deep intensity of sensitivity during orgasm, for instance, is a sweet paradox in how we all cherish that moment and want to return there, over and over, and yet none of us can endure that ecstasy for very long. This heightened moment reveals a great deal to us about both our very human limitations and our deepest moments of being alive. It is not by chance that we feel compelled to be naked and vulnerable in the presence of another, that despite all our fears and defensive styles, we want to be held and touched completely just at the moment when we are unbearably sensitive. This is the heart's definition of pleasure, and though we need this moment of exposure and release to feel complete, we also must accept that we cannot bear it for very long. This is why the cries of ecstasy and agony often sound the same. That we need to feel such complete sensitivity and vulnerability in union with another is proof that no one can live this life alone. In this way, true intimacy cannot happen without trust. When we let our bodies become this sensitive while holding back the heart, we forego ecstasy and experience its smaller echo, climax. In actuality, this moment of ecstasy, of holding nothing back, can be experienced not just during sex, but in the being and doing and truth telling of all our relationships—in the ecstatic moment when we allow ourselves to be completely revealed and held at the same time. In this daring and fragile moment, the heart rehearses all its gifts: being who we really are, holding nothing back, trusting another, being complete, and witnessing the completeness of another. This is a meditation on intimacy to be shared with a loved one. Sit facing each other and breathe slowly until you find a natural common rhythm. Maintain eye contact and gently hold each other's face. Trace each other's features slowly and lightly with your fingertips, letting the walls between you thin.

We at Barrie Movers are known in transporting items securely whether the items are small, big or fragile. But we are not only limited in moving items but people as well. Barrie Movers is one of the most diverse companies in Canada for we can do anything with excellence and proficiency. Being in the moving business for 9 years made us a reputable and trusted moving company among our customers. We have great reviews and testimonies from our clients who have tried our service to back it up. We at Barrie Movers only hire the best movers in the country to make sure your move will be a success. Our main goal is to satisfy our customers with our high quality moving service.

Why didn’t you tell me, Ruaidri?” He straightened up and looked off down the drive, toward the river. “Because I was scared, Nerissa. That’s why.” “Scared of what?” “Scared that ye’d leave me if ye knew the truth.” She looked down, tears filling her eyes, and fingered a knothole in the steps. “It hurts me that you didn’t trust in my love enough to confess something so important.” “I’m sorry, Nerissa. I made a complete hash of it.” “Yes, you did. My brother hurt me terribly with his actions. And now you, by your failure to confide in me… you have hurt me as well. At the moment, I don’t think I can trust anyone anymore.” “I’m still the same man I was before ye learned any of this.” “You may be the same man, but I’m not the same woman. An hour ago, I believed in you. You were my hero, my knight in shining armor. Now I’ve been wounded by two of the people I love most in this world. Both of you treated me as though I was something fragile, breakable, unable to handle the truth or even make my own decisions. Both of you have let me down.” She got to her feet. “I need to go rest.” “I’ll come with you. We’ll talk.” “No, Ruaidri. I wish to be alone. Go back to Tigershark. Get Jeffcote to stitch you up before you bleed to death all over again.” “Nerissa, please—” “Better yet, go take Andrew down to Adams and get it over with so that he can move on with his own life and get back to the woman he loves. I need time to think, to make sense of all that I’ve learned today, and the last two people I want to see right now are you and Lucien.” She got up, opened the door, and without a backward glance, went inside. The door shut with a hard, final thump and for Ruaidri, it was the most awful sound in the world.

As we now know, of course, there was absolutely no connection between Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein. In spite of that fact, President Bush actually said to the nation at a time of greatly enhanced vulnerability to the fear of attack, “You can’t distinguish between al-Qaeda and Saddam.” History will surely judge America’s decision to invade and occupy a fragile and unstable nation that did not attack us and posed no threat to us as a decision that was not only tragic but absurd. Saddam Hussein was a brutal dictator, to be sure, but not one who posed an imminent danger to us. It is a decision that could have been made only at a moment in time when reason was playing a sharply diminished role in our national deliberations. Thomas Jefferson would have recognized the linkage between absurd tragedy and the absence of reason. As he wrote to James Smith in 1822, “Man, once surrendering his reason, has no remaining guard against absurdities the most monstrous, and like a ship without rudder, is the sport of every wind.” I spoke at the Iowa Democratic Convention in the fall of 2001. Earlier in August, I had prepared a very different kind of speech. But in the aftermath of this tragedy, I proudly, with complete and total sincerity, stood before the Democrats of Iowa and said, “George W. Bush is my president, and I will follow him, as will we all, in this time of crisis.” I was one of millions who felt that same sentiment and gave the president my total trust, asking him to lead us wisely and well. But he redirected the focus of America’s revenge onto Iraq, a nation that had nothing whatsoever to do with September 11.

There's the kind of camaraderie that comes from leaning on someone in battle, and it's powerful. It's not too hard to trust someone to want to keep you alive. But trusting someone to actually live with you, to walk beside you — that is a fragile, precious thing.

Being emotional is normal, all part of the job.” Her words twirled around my mind. “These are precious new lives at their most fragile. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t feel the weight on your heart.” Oh I felt the brick crushing my chest, the question was whether I was strong enough to lift it off and breathe myself. “It’s a balancing act between empathy, confidence, and trusting your skills.

It’s true that we’re all children disguised as adults…When age and illness embrace our body…when disease and pain overcome, our eternal youth within begins raging, stamping, praying. Please dear God who lays me down to sleep…an awful mistake has been made…I was just now learning to feel safe beneath this fragile skin, trust within this prison cell. Just now my eyes are open to the world…Just now I feel the earth beneath my feet.

Trust is a tricky thing. It is the foundation of every healthy relationship. It is the security that makes intimacy possible. It can be simultaneously strong and yet very fragile. It takes great effort and time to build, but it can be broken quickly. Almost every relationship has encountered difficulties over broken trust. I would even argue that most difficulties in relationships stem directly from a breach of trust. Strong relationships (especially marriages) require strong trust, so here are a few ways to to build it (or rebuild it).

trust is a fragile thing, like a fine piece of rare china on display in an antiques shop. Once it’s broken, the pieces never quite fit—no matter how carefully you try to glue them together.

The only thing more fragile than life is the living we take for granted.

How I admired Natalie for the simple, but hard-won irreplaceable things she’d created and fostered by having a little trust and an ounce of faith in the world. The willingness to take leaps in spite of knowing how fragile it all is, how easily everything can break—how it can fall and shatter like broken glass in an instant.

Besides, faith is a fickle, fragile thing: it stumbles, recovers, grows stronger, cracks. And is lost. Belief can never be trusted.

MORE FROM GOD’S WORD A tranquil heart is life to the body, but jealousy is rottenness to the bones. Proverbs 14:30 HCSB How priceless is your unfailing love! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of your wings. They feast on the abundance of your house; you give them drink from your river of delights. For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light. Psalm 36:7-9 NIV Let your conduct be without covetousness; be content with such things as you have. For He Himself has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” Hebrews 13:5 NKJV For the happy heart, life is a continual feast. Proverbs 15:15 NLT How happy are those whose way is blameless, who live according to the law of the Lord! Happy are those who keep His decrees and seek Him with all their heart. Psalm 119:1-2 HCSB I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am. Philippians 4:11 HCSB SHADES OF GRACE How beautiful it is to learn that grace isn’t fragile, and that in the family of God we can fail and not be a failure. Gloria Gaither A PRAYER FOR TODAY Dear Lord, You offer me contentment, and I praise You for that gift. Today, I will accept Your peace. I will trust Your Word, I will follow Your commandments, and I will welcome the peace of Jesus into my heart, today and forever. Amen

There was a feeling, not sudden, but complete, as though I had been given a small object to hold unseen in my hands. Precious as opal, smooth as jade, weighty as a river stone, more fragile than a bird’s egg. Infinitely still, live as the root of Creation. Not a gift, but a trust. Fiercely to cherish, softly to guard. The words spoke themselves and disappeared into the groined shadows of the roof. I

Precious as opal, smooth as jade, weighty as a river stone, more fragile than a bird’s egg. Infinitely still, live as the root of Creation. Not a gift, but a trust. Fiercely to cherish, softly to guard.

This is a book about three Great Untruths that seem to have spread widely in recent years: The Untruth of Fragility: What doesn’t kill you makes you weaker. The Untruth of Emotional Reasoning: Always trust your feelings. The Untruth of Us Versus Them: Life is a battle between good people and evil people.

The essential message of trust is be nice.

White people will perceive danger simply by the presence of black people; we cannot trust our perceptions when it comes to race and crime.7

Many whites believe that if they are not talking about racism with their friends of color or if their friends are not giving them feedback about racism, then racism is a non-issue. But just because you and your friend don’t talk about racism does not mean it isn’t at play. Indeed, this silence is one of the ways that racism is manifest, for it is an imposed silence. Many people of color have told me that they initially tried to talk about racism with their white friends, but their friends got defensive or invalidated their experiences, so they stopped sharing their experiences. If racism is not a topic of discussion between a white person and a person of color who are friends, this absence of conversation may indicate a lack of cross-racial trust.

Research in implicit bias has shown that perceptions of criminal activity are influenced by race. White people will perceive danger simply by the presence of black people; we cannot trust our perceptions when it comes to race and crime.

Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby! The first thing I do when I wake up is run my hands over my body. I like to make sure all my wires are in place. I lotion my silicone shell and snap my hair helmet over my head. I once had a dream I was a real girl, but when I woke up I was still myself in my paleness under the halogen light. The saliva of androids emits a spectral resonance, barely sticky between freshly-gapped teeth. After they made me, the first thing they did was peel the cellophane from my eyes. I blinked once, twice, and cried because that's how you say you are alive before you are given language. They named each of my heartbeats on the oceanic monitor: Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I listened to them blur into one. The fetus carves for itself a hollowed vector, a fragile wetness. In utero, extension cords are umbilical. Before puberty, I did not know there was such a thing as dishonor. Diss-on- her. This is what they said when I began to drip petrol between my legs. A tension exists between ritual and proof, a fantasy and its execution. Since then, I have been to the emergency room twice. The first time for a suicide attempt, and the second time because my earring was swallowed up by my newly pierced earlobe overnight, and when I woke up, it was tangled in a helix of wires. The idea of dying doesn't scare me but the ocean does. I was once told that fish will swim up my orifices if I am no longer a virgin. Is anyone thinking about erotic magazines when they are not aroused, pubes parted harshly down the center like red seas? My body carries the weight of four hundred eggs. I rise from a weird slumber, let them drip into the bath. This is what I'll leave behind - tiny shards purer than me. I have always been afraid of pregnant women because of their power, and because I don't yet understand what it means to carry something stubborn and blossoming inside of me, screeching towards an exit. The ectoplasm is the telos for the wound. A trance state is induced when salt is poured on it, pixel by pixel. I wish they had made me into an octopus instead, because octopuses die after their eggs hatch and crawl out into the sea, and I want to know what it's like to set something free into the dark unknown and trust it to choose mercy. If you can generate aura in a non-place, then there is no such thing as an authentic origin. In Chinese, the word for mercy translates to my heart hurts for you. They say my heart continues beating even after it is dislocated from my body. The sound of its beating comes from the valves opening and closing like a portal - Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I first learned about love by watching a sex tape where a girl looks up from performing fellatio and says, show them the sunset. Her boyfriend pans the camera to the sky, which is tinged violet like a bruise. In this moment, the sky displaces her, all digital and hyped, and saturates the scene until it collapses on me too, its transient witness. I move in the space between belly ring and catharsis. That night I have a dream where I am a camgirl, but all I do on screen is wash my laundry. Everybody loves me because I am a real girl doing real girl things. What lives on the border between meditation and oblivion, static and flux, a pomegranate seed and an embryo? I set up my webcam in the corner of the room and play ambient music while I scrub my underwear, letting soap bubbles rise up from the sink, laughing when they overflow on the linoleum floor - my frizzy hair, my pockmarked skin, my face slick with sweat. A body with exit wounds. I ride the bright rails of an animal forgetting. And when I wake up, the sky is a mess of blue.

This time, a godly voice answered, 'Rejection might hurt you. But aren’t you seeking a girl meant for you? To get anything worthy in life, you need to be willing to sacrifice something for it. If you need to go through a few heartbreaks to get to the person meant for you, let it be. I have made human beings weather any storm. Be it a storm on the outside or inside of you. At times, heartbreaks may seem to break you completely, but you are not fragile who would shatter after a rejection. Trust me; I will never give you a battle that you can’t handle. If you ever find it impossible to fight your own battle, then have faith in me that ‘Nothing is impossible for me.’ You won’t see me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t exist. I am as real as the air you breathe in this moment. I will be with you through all of your battles.

I love you is just a phrase...words. It's supposed to uphold the strongest of storms and fight the hardest of battles, but it's delicate, fragile, and unless it's built on a firm foundation, it can be shattered. It needs to be fed with trust and openness from both sides.

He thought of Mr. Ivy, Dr. Cooper, his aunt and uncle—all the people who believed in him, who put themselves out because when they looked at him, they saw something that wasn’t there. His father always thought that he knew better, that he was smarter than everyone else. If they were any good, Son? Trust me. They wouldn’t want anything to do with you. As it turned out, his dad was right. It felt like laughter, ripping through him in great uncontrollable peals. But when the screen went dark, he saw himself. The boy in the reflection was weeping.

It all came down to trust. A five-letter word that was so incredibly fragile. With others, but even more so with yourself.

try our best not to expose ourselves to people who will pick us apart and criticize the goals we’ve decided to chase. We need to harness every ounce of positive energy we can in order to pull off big ideas. Be careful who you consult with, who you let into your circles, and who you trust with the things you value most. I warn people who are incubating brand-new companies or ideas that these new ventures are very fragile in the beginning. Cradle your dreams with the utmost care. You need to create the right environment to stick with your nascent plans and keep your instincts from getting drowned out. Many of us have a predisposition for self-loathing, a secret feeling so shameful that we often conceal it even from our closest loved ones. So the last thing we need are even more negative voices to lend credence to the skeptics in our own heads—especially in the early, more tenuous days of a new venture.

Trust is fragile. You have to be careful with it. It’s easy to break someone’s trust, even if you love them. I’m not saying it’s not an important component of a relationship, but it can’t be everything.

Who said marriage and intimacy—the way God wants them to be, a depiction of His intimate love for us—would be easy? Marriage is not a conditional act. It’s loving no matter what. It’s how we’re supposed to be with God—trusting Him with all our fragile parts.

Dean broke my heart. A heart he knew was barely beating. And it wasn’t just about our so-called feelings for each other. It was about me—about my inability to trust, to care, to love. He knew all the parts of me I’d never breathed a word to anyone else before. And he urged me to confide in him, to reveal all my secrets, my shame, my torment… and then he took all those things from me, along with my fragile heart, and he severed them into tiny, irreparable pieces.

Shatter it and you won't be able to put it back together. Trust is fragile.

Checking up on each other. When trust and respect start to wane in one area, it can become open game in all others. This is usually when a spouse will begin to spy on their spouse. It may start with checking his or her email that was left open on the computer. Then progress to their cell phone calls and text messages, social media, suit jackets, pant pockets, pocketbooks, and on and on. All this does is deepen the fragility of the relationship. If you want to know something, just ask. You may not get an honest answer, but at least you are not stooping to snooping. Blanket trust is essential in relationships and if you do not trust your spouse that doesn’t give you a right to snoop, it is usually a signal that help is needed in the relationship.

Dictators seizing power across Europe seemed to offer hope. Hitler, until quite recently the butt of complacent laughter by commentators who said he would come to nothing, was now chancellor of Germany and worshipped by millions; Virginia’s host country, Italy, was effectively a one-party fascist state under Mussolini, upheld by gangs of Blackshirt thugs known as squadristi; Stalin ruled by murderous diktat in Russia. Such extremism (on the left and right) seemed to be on the march everywhere, on the back of propaganda, sloganeering, and ruthless media manipulation. In what became known as the decade of lies, truth and trust were falling victim to fear, racism, and hatred. Virginia found herself in a ringside seat as the increasingly fragile ideal of democracy failed to find champions with alternative answers.

Before Ryan's murder, she'd trusted the criminal justice system wholeheartedly. But that was before she'd almost lost everything she cherished. She couldn't face another attack on her integrity and professionalism without imperiling the fragile sanity she clung to like a life preserver

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Just that soft utterance of his name was enough. As if Malcolm hat spoken the single word needed to bind Seong-Jae to him: to strip away the last of the walls he clung to and leave him so completely open to a touch that could hurt so deeply no matter what gentleness it might intend. That was what loving someone meant, he realized. Letting them into all the places that hurt the most. And trusting them to handle those fragile things with utmost care, nonetheless.

Trust is a fragile thing – hard to earn, easy to lose. I’m not sure of anything any more.

I stopped in the sloping market square, and gradually I felt flooded by a powerful sense of communion with the people passing by. Each man was my brother and each woman my sister. We were so very much alike. So fragile, impermanent, and easily destroyed. We trustingly went to and fro beneath the sky, which had nothing good in store for us.

For those who feel alienated from their sex, who feel like they can’t get warm in their bodies, no matter how many layers they put on, Jesus offers hope. Not the hope of a differently sexed body, but the hope of a new reality that no longer feels like labor pains. The transgender person I met after my talk in England thanked me for treating these questions with tenderness. But Jesus’s tenderness utterly surpasses ours. It’s the tenderness of the God who likens his love to that of a nursing mother (Isa. 49:15). We can trust our fragile bodies to this God, however out of joint with them we feel, because he loves us with an everlasting love. One day he will wipe away every tear from our eyes and make our groaning bodies new.

I trust no one, and although my heart may appear hardened, it’s made of glass. It is fragile, and I will let no one close enough to shatter it.

SECURITY IS IN GOD. [Job 8:11–19] Can papyrus grow tall where there is no marsh? Can reeds thrive without water? While still growing and uncut, they wither more quickly than grass. Such is the destiny of all who forget God; so perishes the hope of the godless. What they trust in is fragile1;

In life’s precarious dance across divided cliffs, where fragile ties bind us to both friend and foe, trust not every outstretched hand—for only through the rare, humble struggle of authentic hearts can we bridge our divides and find the freedom to reflect a shared, enduring truth

You will need to forgive your partner often, but there are different levels of forgiveness. It’s human nature to make a rude comment or use an unfriendly tone from time to time. If your partner is willing to promptly acknowledge when this has happened and apologize, I suspect you’d have a high willingness to forgive and get back into a state of positive connection. But with something like your partner having had an affair, it’s not a matter of whether you’ll forgive them. For your own good, you need to forgive. The real question is whether you’re able and willing to get back into a positive connection with your partner. With the affair example, maybe your partner decides they’re willing to go to therapy and other recovery groups. They make an effort to alter your relationship for the better. In this case, you might be willing to get back into connection with them in addition to forgiving them. Alternatively, you might decide that while you understand they’re just a fragile ​human like you and everybody else, you aren’t willing to get back into a state of connection after the affair, though they’re willing to work on themselves. Or you might wish you could get back into a state of connection with your partner, and you might try and try, but your body and emotions say no. A client comes to mind who wanted to get back into a state of connection with her partner

Trust is fragile, yet the hardest thing to regain once broken.

Warmth filled Philippa. Nobody had ever worried about her before. Nobody had ever stepped in to save her. The fragile seedling of optimism that had unfurled when she’d decided to trust Blair sprouted a few more leaves. If she was lucky, if she was right, that seedling might grow into a great tree that would shelter her for the rest of her life. She still felt like she launched herself into the void, but with every moment, her hope of a safe landing strengthened.

Try. It’s more efficient. You can’t go through life doing this the wrong way. The wasted minutes could add up to days. Weeks.” An unexpected giggle escaped her, as if she were a young girl being teased. “I don’t use a pencil that often.” Devon reached around her, his hands engulfing hers. And she let him. She stood still, her body wary but compliant. A fragile trust had been established during their earlier encounter--no matter what else she might fear from him, she seemed to understand that he wouldn’t hurt her. The pleasure of holding her washed through him in repeated waves. She was petite and fine-boned, the delicious fragrance of roses rising to his nostrils. He’d noticed it when he’d held her earlier…not a cloying perfume, but a light floral essence swept with the sharp freshness of winter air. “All it takes is six cuts,” he said near her ear. She nodded, relaxing against him as he guided her hands with precision. One deep stroke of the lade neatly removed an angled section of wood. They rotated the pencil and made another cut, and then a third, creating a precise triangular prism. “Now trim the sharp edges.” They concentrated on the task with his hands still bracketed over hers, using the blade to chamfer each corner of wood until they had created a clean, satisfying point. Done. After one last luxurious inhalation of her scent, Devon released her slowly, knowing that for the rest of his life, a single breath of a rose would bring him back to this moment.

Why do you fear me, Raven? You have seen me at my worst, as a killer, a dispenser of justice for our people.” His thumbs stroked her nipples, a slow, erotic brush that sent liquid heat curling through her. “Do you believe I am evil? Touch my mind, little one. It is impossible for me to hide anything from you. I never concealed my true nature from you. You looked upon me once with the eyes of compassion and love. Of acceptance. Has that all been forgotten?” Raven closed her eyes, long lashes sweeping down on high cheekbones. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” “Kiss me, Raven. Merge your mind with mine. Share your body so that we are completely one being. You trusted me before. Do so now. Look at me with the eyes of love, in forgiveness for the things I have been forced to do, for the beast in my nature. Do not look at me through the eyes of one who would wish to destroy our people and us. Give yourself to me.” His voice was seductive, a black magic spell, his hands caressing every beloved inch of her satin skin. He had committed every hollow, every curve, to memory. His body burned with need, and his hunger was rising. Her hunger, his. Very gently, so as not to alarm her, Mikhail pressed her slender body to the quilt, his muscular frame covering her smaller one like a blanket. She was so petite, so fragile, beneath his exploring hands. “Why have you become my life, Mikhail? I’ve always been alone and strong and sure of myself. You seem to have taken over my life.” His palms slid up the curve of her body to frame her face. “You are my only life, Raven. I will admit I took you from all you knew, but you were never meant to live in isolation. I know what that does, how desolate life can be. The people you worked for were using you up. Eventually they would have destroyed you. Can you not feel that you are my other half--that I am yours?” His mouth drifted over her eyes, her cheekbones, each corner of her mouth. “Kiss me, Raven. Remember me.” She lifted long lashes and searched his black, hungry gaze with blue eyes that had darkened to deep purple. There was a burning intensity in the heat of his gaze, of his body. “If I kiss you, Mikhail, I won’t be able to stop.

The Untruth of Fragility: What doesn’t kill you makes you weaker. The Untruth of Emotional Reasoning: Always trust your feelings. The Untruth of Us Versus Them: Life is a battle between good people and evil people.

Maybe there’s a boy,” she says. “Maybe I met him at a camp for kids like me, the kind where you don’t go for long hikes or do trust falls, because we were all fragile things. Maybe we write each other letters instead of texting, so that we’ve each got something that the other actually touched, in case it’s the last one that’ll come. Maybe he got his heart, and it’s a fine, strong one. Maybe he’s waiting on me so that we can meet again someday, the same people we were before, but now with more time ahead of us than what’s behind. Maybe that’s why I haven’t decided to die just yet. Maybe that’s my love story.

I have been in many white racial justice groups wherein the participants expended much energy making sure people were kind and compassionate to each other and didn’t “break trust.” So much energy, in fact, that we could no longer help each other see our problematic patterns without breaking the norms of the group. So unless that kindness is combined with clarity and the courage to name and challenge racism, this approach protects white fragility and needs to be challenged.

Trust is a fragile thing, it is easy to break but hard to earn.