S2S: 2025

Monday, 8 December 2025

Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu !

Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu ! Indian man (7): Swamiji, Siva is not another name of God? Prabhupada: Yes. Siva is next to God. Just like yogurt, dahi. What is this dahi? Indian man (7): Curd milk. Prabhupada: Milk, but it is not milk. Dahi is not anything but milk, but it is not milk. Similarly, Lord Siva is nothing but Visnu, but it is not Visnu. Is it clear now? Indian man (7): Yes. Prabhupada: You can say, "Well, dahi is nothing but milk." Yes. But it is not milk. If instead of milk you take dahi, the result will be different. And if you take milk instead of dahi, the result will be different, although the milk and dahi is the same thing, same ingredients. So you have to understand in that way. Lord Siva is nondifferent from the Supreme Lord. Everyone is nondifferent from Supreme Lord, but he's still different. This is the perfect philosophy, acintya-bhedabheda, simultaneously one and different. ----------------- Morning Walk -- October 5, 1975, Mauritius Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare

Whatis the mystery of Kailash?

Whatis the mystery of Kailash? The south face of Kailash Parvat has a scar as if something rolled down from it. When Ravana tried to take Shiva to Lanka, he first tried to lift it and tried to take the whole mountain. But Shiva effortlessly crushed him down with his toe. Then, Ravana climbed Kailash to take Mahadev. When he reached the peak, Mahadev kicked him down from his drum and Ravana fell down the mountain leaving this scar which we see today. There is also a lake near Kailash named Rakshastaal. It is said that Ravana sacrificed his 9 heads here and the lake was made from his blood.

IS IT A LIE?

Sat 6 Dec, 22:24 (3 days ago) to Good Morning!!! IS IT A LIE? Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 7 Thoughtless people sometimes say that our affirmations and meditations are foolish because we state what is not so. “To claim that my body is well or being healed when it is not, is only to tell a lie,” said one distinguished man some years ago. This is to misunderstand the whole principle. We affirm the harmony that we seek in order to provide the subconscious with a blueprint of the work to be done. When you decide to build a house your architect prepares drawings of a complete house. Actually, of course, there is no house on the lot today, but you would not think of saying that the architect was drawing a lie. He is drawing what is to be, in order that it may be. So, we build in thought the conditions that will later come into manifestation on the physical plane. What is your intelligence for if not to be used in building the kind of life that you want? Very primitive men in prehistoric times rejoiced when they found food growing anywhere, and then they waited, perhaps for years, until they happened to find another crop. Today we use our intelligence, and plant in good time the actual crops that we want; and the amount that we consider necessary. We do not sit about hoping that wheat or barley may fortunately come up somewhere. If we did that, civilization would collapse. The time has come when intelligent men and women must understand the laws of Mind, and plant consciously the crops that they desire; and just as carefully pull up the weeds that they do not want. “Then I told them of the hand of my God which was good to me; . . . and they said, Let us rise up and build. So, they strengthened their hands for the good work” Nehemiah 2:18

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m senile. But because I cashed out my life savings. Every last cent. My daughter, Jessica, a Vice President in Silicon Valley, thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s flying in tomorrow from California to conduct what she called, on the phone, an "intervention." She doesn’t realize I just performed a "resuscitation." On myself. For forty-five years, I was Ruth, the Head Nurse of the ER at St. Jude’s. My world was the smell of betadine, burnt coffee, and desperation. I held hands, broke ribs during CPR, and delivered more heartbreaking news than I can bear to remember. My world was chaos, and I ran it. Then I retired. Six months later, my husband, Frank, passed. And the silence swallowed me. Jessica is a good person. She’s just… efficient. She manages teams of coders who build apps that "optimize human connection." She can’t handle a problem she can’t solve with a spreadsheet. So, she "fixed" me. She sold my home and moved me into a "Gilded Willow" active senior community. It was all glass and brushed steel. It also felt like a high-tech cage. She gave me a wearable bracelet that tracked my heart rate, steps, and "fall risk." It felt like an ankle monitor. My golden years became a timetable: 10 a.m. Water Aerobics, 2 p.m. "Cognitive Engagement" (Bingo), 5 p.m. Low-Sodium Dinner. I wasn’t living. I was being managed. "Mom, the data shows you’re thriving!" she’d say during video calls, her eyes flicking to another screen. "Jessica, I’ve ‘rested’ for two years," I told her last week. "It’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done." The spark lit the next day. I was riding the bus—just to feel movement—when I noticed it. "The Sunrise Grill." Frank took me there on our first date in 1973. We shared a slice of apple pie. Now it had a "For Sale by Owner" sign next to a failing health grade. I went inside. The place was empty except for a young man in his early twenties, hunched over a laptop, pale in its glow. I tapped the counter. "This surface is a health code violation." He startled and snapped his laptop shut. "Uh—ma’am, we’re not… we’re closing. For good." "I can see that," I said, eyeing the stale coffee. "Who’s in charge?" "I am," he said, rubbing his eyes. He looked like many of my old septic patients—clammy, exhausted, running on fumes. "My name’s Alex. It was my grandpa’s diner. He… he passed." "COVID?" I asked. He let out a bitter laugh. "No. He survived COVID. It was the hospital bills that crushed us. I’ve been trying to run the place and pay it all off, but…" He gestured hopelessly. He was trying to erase massive debt with scrambled eggs. My nursing instincts took over. This wasn’t just a failing business. It was a trauma scene. "How much?" I asked. "Ma’am?" "How much to clear the debt and buy this diner?" He told me. It was almost exactly the amount of my life savings. "I’ll be here tomorrow at 6 a.m.," I said, taking out my checkbook. "I’m not your partner. I’m your boss. We’re saving this place. Now go home and sleep eight hours. You’re in adrenal fatigue." Jessica’s phone call afterward was… dramatic. "You WHAT? You liquidated your retirement for a diner? Mom, that’s an unsecured, high-risk asset! It’s unsanitary! I’m calling your doctor for a cognitive evaluation—" "Jessica, you can’t optimize kindness. I have to go. The grill needs scrubbing." I hung up. The first month was brutal. But it was the kind of chaos I knew how to fix. The Sunrise Grill didn’t just need a cook. It needed a Head Nurse. I know how to repair what’s broken. The old regulars trickled back in. Walt, a Vietnam vet, always sat in his corner booth, grumped, and never finished his toast. One morning, I brought him oatmeal instead. "Didn’t order this," he muttered. "I know, Walt," I said, refilling his coffee. "Forty-five years as a nurse taught me when dentures are bothering a man. Eat." He stared at me over the spoon. Then he ate. Then there was Chloe—a young woman, exhausted, trying to breastfeed under a blanket while typing on her laptop. The whole diner was tense. I walked over and gently closed her laptop. "I… I have a deadline," she whispered, voice cracking. "No," I said, switching into Head Nurse mode. "You have a child. And you’re running a fever. You’re dehydrated." I lifted the baby. The crying stopped immediately, soothed by an old nurse’s rhythm. "Alex!" I shouted. "Large orange juice and chicken soup for Chloe. On the house." Chloe collapsed into soft, silent sobs—the kind only an overwhelmed woman cries when she thinks she’s failing everything. The Sunrise Grill wasn’t a diner anymore. It was my station. Jessica arrived on a rainy Friday, iPad in hand, ready to "intervene." "Mom, this ends now. I’ve already talked to a lawyer about conservatorship—" She stopped. The diner was packed. Warm. Alive. "Where," she whispered, "is my mother?" She found me in the back booth. Chloe sat across from me, baby sleeping in a carrier. She was crying quietly. "...and I just feel like I’m failing, Ruth," she whispered. "I’m so tired. I feel like I’m failing my baby, my job…" I didn’t offer fixes. I didn’t give her steps. I just took her hand. My 72-year-old, wrinkled hand holding her trembling 25-year-old one. "No, honey," I said softly. "You’re not failing. You’re drowning. That means you’re still fighting. Now breathe." Jessica froze, watching something her algorithms couldn’t quantify. Something inefficient. Human. Real. She slowly backed away and went to the counter. Alex looked up. "Can I help you, ma’am?" Jessica’s eyes were wet. "I’ll have… the chicken soup. And a slice of the apple pie." In that sterile, “smart” apartment, I was a data point. A "fall risk." A liability. Here, in the chaos of The Sunrise Grill, I am necessary. They tell you to rest when you get old. They tell you to stay safe. But a ship in a harbor is safe, and that’s not what ships are for. My hands are wrinkled, my back aches—yet I am far from obsolete. We are not disposable because we’re gray. We are not "managed care." We *are* the care. We remember how to hold a hand, how to listen, how to make the soup. Don’t let them file you away. Don’t let them "optimize" you into invisibility. Go find your station.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)? Bhagvān Viṣṇu incarnated as Rāma and his consort Bhagvatī Lakṣmī incarnated as Sītā. The mother of all the worlds, Lakṣmī appeared as Sītā from the earth hence earth is considered the mother of the Sītā incarnation of Lakṣmī. This doesn't make Bhudevī the mother of Sītā in the way you are interpreting things. Rāma didn't have any other wife except Sītā so there's no question of children. On the other hand Bhūdevī is Viṣṇu's consort too, because she's an aspect of Lakṣmī. In his incarnation as Varāha, Bhagvān Viṣṇu becomes the father of his and Bhūdevī's offspring. Bhagvatī Lakṣmī divides herself into 3 aspects- Śrīdevī, Bhūdevī and Nīlādevī. This is mentioned in the scriptures. “The Goddess Śrī/Lakṣmī assumes a threefold form in conformity with the Lord’s will for the protection of the world. That she (Lakṣmī) is styled as Śrī and is known as such. The Goddess Bhū is the Earth comprising the seven islands and the seas; the container and the contents of the fourteen worlds such as bhū, etc.; and her essence is Praṇava. Nīlā is festooned with lightnings. To nourish all herbs and living beings, She assumes all forms." ~ Sītā Upaniṣad. “That Lakṣmī is the Earth only, well-known as goddess Nīlā. Being the support of the world, she has resorted to the form of the earth. She herself would be of the form of Nīlā due to her liquid form of the nature of water etc. She has obtained the form of Lakṣmī (Śrī). She is of the nature of wealth and speech.” ~ Padma Purāṇa. “As the consort of Viṣṇu, Śrī — the presiding deity of sattva-guṇa. As the presiding deity of tamo-guṇa, She is Durgā (Nīlā) or Kanyākā. As the goddess of earth, the presiding deity of rajo-guṇa, She is the consort of the Boar (Varāha). ~ Garuḍa Purāṇa. Thus Lakṣmī in the forms of Śrī, Bhū and Nīlā is the consort of Viṣṇu. As Sītā she's the consort of his incarnation Rāma and specifically in the form of Bhūdevī, she's the consort of his incarnation Varāha. Sītā's birth from the earth doesn't make Bhudevī her biological mother when the true self of Sītā, Lakṣmī herself is Bhūdevī. Thus Lakṣmī's incarnation appeared from one of her own aspects.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Hell on Earth? It is here, it is here

Hell on Earth? It is here, it is here Today, our cities seem united not only by the bland superficiality of globalised commerce, but by broken civic systems and an unending string of environmental catastrophes. Santwana Bhattacharya I write this with a head heavy from pollutants and a lung capacity that feels like a modest deal arrived at after tough negotiations. Delhi NCR has always tested its residents, but this winter has felled even the hardiest among us. The air has gone beyond foul. It is an outright assault. You experience a peculiar kind of helplessness when the very act of breathing becomes a privilege. Maybe something magical is waiting on the other side of this, because we are holding our breath! What’s worse than this physical grey zone is the growing mental realisation that there is nowhere else to go. No alternative urban life to aspire to within this country. For generations, we spoke lovingly of cities with distinct moods and personalities—Kolkata’s warm intellectual hum, Mumbai’s chaotic efficiency, Bengaluru’s easy vibes, Chennai’s stately poise, Hyderabad’s old-world grace. One could lose oneself differently in each. Today, they seem united not only by the bland superficiality of globalised commerce, but by broken civic systems and an unending string of environmental catastrophes. Flooding is the new seasonal—and out-of-season—anthem. Summers feel like a product of some evil genius in a genetic engineering laboratory. Water in many cities is a cocktail whose ingredients health authorities daren’t list. Every second road is a jam, every fourth building is built on a lake bed, and every skyline appears dipped in a uniform murky grey. Even our great escapes are collapsing. Quite literally. Once the refuge of out-of-breath Delhiites, the lower Himalayas are sinking under the weight of reckless ‘development’ and real estate rapacity. The tall guardians of the Gangetic plains are crumbling like cookies. Now it’s not just buses that fall off slopes. In the new nursery rhyme, Jack falls down, and the hill comes tumbling after! The mountains where we once went for a whiff of the eternal now themselves look mortal. Four-laned highways to hell—at least we are going down in style. Goa, the other beloved escapade, has turned into a Punjabi shaadi banquet hall. Fish curry and bebinca are retreating in the face of butter chicken and tandoori platters, while reels helpfully explain how to get a Portuguese passport in six easy steps. As for Europe—well, half the Swiss villages seem to be staffed, fed, or caffeinated by our own. We run the pizzerias and the Pilatus Bahnen. Sardars have perfected French cheese, Bangladeshi chefs rustle up an arabbiata sauce as well as an Italian grandma. Meanwhile, Suvendu Adhikari continues to believe Bangladeshis are migrating upriver like swarms of hilsa, just to add political nutrition to Didi’s plate. If only he’d look up from his script and see where the actual migration is happening. The exodus is outward—anywhere with breathable air, potable water, functional civic sense. If you drive to any of Delhi’s clogged arteries, you can smell the burnt air. I could take bagfuls of it at ITO and print a newspaper with it. This is what a passing truck used to feel like, with your windows down. Now it comes through the cracks like a truth no government vanity ad can erase. It sits in your throat long after you’ve returned home. Your lungs do not have the power even to voice your angst. Priyanka Gandhi says there is nothing enjoyable about Delhi’s winter any more. This winter feels tailor-made to prove her right. With Parliament in session, the air inside and outside is equally thick—with local intrigue, the global mystery about what Putin’s Christmas gift may contain, and plenty of PM2.5. The LG and CM have met for a ritual exchange of concern. That gave us a few sprinklers, strung up helplessly on dusty dividers like sultanate-era convicts. Condemned to spew foamy water into Pandemonium. Of course, someone might gently remind the Wayanad MP that she could nudge Siddaramaiah and D K Shivakumar keep an eye on Bengaluru’s air too while they tuck into their idli-vada. Our once-envied city of mild sunshine and green sighs now competes with Delhi on the pollution charts, as though toxic air were the new startup boom. Chennai, dear Chennai, once celebrated for its rasa-bhava as much as for its rasam, is drowning on a quarterly basis. Entire neighbourhoods turn into urban archipelagos with the punctuality of 4 pm filter coffee. Hyderabad, with its Jubilee Hills sheen, is fast joining the smog club. Some mornings, I see cityscape photographs from different metros and genuinely struggle to tell them apart. I nearly reprimanded a colleague for reusing images—until I realised it was not the content creator who had turned lazy. It was the cities that had become indistinguishable. So where does one migrate? Nowhere, it seems. As the pub artiste sings to the smog outside, for the nth time, you can check out but you can never leave.

Who told Duryodhana not to go in front of his mother without clothes?

Who told Duryodhana not to go in front of his mother without clothes? Nobody. Additionally, he was not even told to go naked before his mother to turn his body into a vajra. Such an event never happened in Vyasa Mahabharat. This story is widely popularized by TV serials, where, Gandhari instructs Duryodhana to appear naked before her. She is said to have acquired power in her eyes, considering her having kept it closed for years. When she opens her blind fold, Duryodhana's body turns into vajra, by which he turns invincible to be defeated by Bhima during the mace fight. However, his lower body around the waist remains weak, as it is kept covered. When he was heading to the tent to meet Gandhari, Shri Krishna meets sees him walking naked and shames him stating it inappropriate to go before one's mother in this form. However, the above story popularized by TV series is complete fallacy. Here are facts: Gandhari never asked Duryodhana to appear naked before her, so she can turn his body like a vajra. Gandhari was in Hastinapur and nowhere near the Kurukshetra battlefield or in any camp. Duryodhana had practiced 13 years and turned his body into a vajra. It was never pre-decided that Bhima and Duryodhana will indulged in mace fight. Duryodhana had run away from the battlefield and hid under the river. To bring him out, Yudhishthira asks him to come out and fight with any one of his choice. The mace fight was decided spontaneously and not predetermined. Thus, the entire story of Gandhari turning Duryodhana's body into a vajra is false and does not exist in any version of Vyasa Mahabharat

V. Shantaram: The Master Who Built Indian Cinema — And the Hidden World That Built Him

V. Shantaram: The Master Who Built Indian Cinema — And the Hidden World That Built Him To speak of V. Shantaram is to speak of one of Indian cinema’s tallest mountains. His films were not merely stories—they were visions carved with engineering precision and artistic daring. He gave India: the poetic splendour of Navrang, the dance and colour revolution of Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje, the socially transformative power of Do Aankhen Barah Haath, and the international humanist appeal of Dr. Kotnis Ki Amar Kahani. These were not ordinary films. They were crafted by a man obsessed with detail, innovation, and emotion— a man whose camera moved with purpose long before such techniques were taught in India. He was called a “technician’s director”, a perfectionist, an innovator far ahead of his time. But few ever asked: Where did this man learn such breathtaking control over craft? Who taught him precision? Who trained his eyes, his hands, his discipline? The answer does not lie in a film school, nor in any artistic lineage. It lies in a world no one would expect. Let us peel back the layers. The Enigma Behind the Excellence Every time Shantaram built a magnificent set or planned a technically complex shot, it came from a mind trained to respect machinery and mechanics. Every time he created a seamless scene that demanded timing and accuracy, he leaned on a discipline acquired long before the world knew his name. But how? Where? As admiration for his success grew, the origin remained a mystery—until one looks at the early years he rarely spoke about. The Door That Opened a Universe Before he stood behind the camera, Shantaram stood behind a different door— the entrance of a small Hubli movie theatre: New Deccan Cinema. He was not a projectionist. Not an assistant. Not even a paid employee. He was a doorkeeper. A teenage boy letting people in while sneaking glances at flickering images on the screen. No salary. No perks. Only one privilege: He could stand by the door and watch every film. It was here that he first encountered the magic of storytellers like Dadasaheb Phalke. Night after night, he absorbed cinema not as entertainment, but as an education—frame by frame. Still, that was only half the secret. --- The Workshop That Forged a Filmmaker The full answer lies elsewhere. When the morning sun rose over Hubli in 1917, the same boy who watched films by night walked into a world of fire, steel, and sweat. At just sixteen, Shantaram worked as a fitter apprentice at the Hubli Railway Workshop of the Madras & Southern Mahratta Railway. In this industrial universe: one mistake could crush a hand, one miscalculation could break an engine, every bolt, wheel, gauge, and joint demanded precision. Here he learned: discipline, measurement, problem-solving, mechanical empathy, respect for time and coordination. The very skills that later made him a pioneering director were forged not in a studio, but in the smoke-filled belly of a railway workshop. This was the real training ground of a future genius. --- The Final Reveal: Craftsmanship Before Creativity When we finally connect the threads, the mystery dissolves: His sense of timing? Learnt from machines that punished mistakes. His technical innovation? Born from engineering instincts honed on the railway floor. His perfectionism? Forged in a world where precision meant survival. His understanding of emotion and drama? Awakened through countless unpaid nights at a cinema door. V. Shantaram became a cinematic legend because life trained him before cinema did. His brilliance was not an accident. It was built—by the railway, by a movie hall, and by a young man who saw art in everything around him.

Thursday, 4 December 2025

The power of love

The power of love The little girl asked if I could be her daddy until she dies but I refused because of one thing. Those were her exact words. Seven years old, sitting in a hospital bed with tubes in her nose, and she looked up at me—a complete stranger, a scary-looking biker—and asked if I'd pretend to be her father for however long she had left. I'm a 58-year-old biker named Mike. I've got tattoos covering both arms, a beard down to my chest, and I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club. I volunteer at Children's Hospital every Thursday reading books to sick kids. It's something our club started doing fifteen years ago after one of our brother's granddaughters spent months in pediatric oncology. Most kids are scared of me at first. I get it. I'm big and loud and look like I should be in a motorcycle gang movie, not a children's hospital. But once I start reading, they forget about how I look. They just hear the story. That's what I thought would happen with Amara. I walked into room 432 on a Thursday afternoon in March. The nurse had warned me this was a new patient. Seven years old. Stage four neuroblastoma. No family visits in the three weeks she'd been admitted. "No family at all?" I'd asked. The nurse's face had gone tight. "Her mother abandoned her here. Dropped her off for treatment and never came back. We've been trying to reach her for weeks. CPS is involved now but Amara doesn't have any other family. She's going into foster care once she's stable enough to leave." "And if she's not stable enough?" The nurse looked away. "Then she'll die here. Alone." I stood outside room 432 for a full minute before I could make myself go in. I've read to dying kids before. It never gets easier. But a kid dying completely alone? That was a new kind of hell. I knocked softly and pushed open the door. "Hey there, I'm Mike. I'm here to read you a story if you'd like." The little girl in the bed turned to look at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. Her hair was gone from chemo. Her skin had that grayish tone that means the body is struggling. But she smiled when she saw me. "You're really big," she said. Her voice was small and raspy. "Yeah, I get that a lot." I held up the book I'd brought. "I've got a story about a giraffe who learns to dance. Want to hear it?" She nodded. So I sat down in the chair next to her bed and started reading. I was halfway through the book when she interrupted me. "Mr. Mike?" "Yeah, sweetheart?" "Do you have any kids?" The question hit me hard. "I had a daughter. She passed away when she was sixteen. Car accident. That was twenty years ago." Amara was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, "Do you miss being a daddy?" My throat tightened. "Every single day, honey." "My daddy left before I was born," she said matter-of-factly. "And my mama brought me here and never came back. The nurses say she's not coming back ever." I didn't know what to say to that. What do you say to a seven-year-old who's been abandoned while dying? Amara kept talking. "The social worker lady said I'm going to go live with a foster family when I get better. But I heard the doctors talking. They don't think I'm getting better." "Sweetheart—" "It's okay," she said. Her voice was so calm. Too calm for a seven-year-old. "I know I'm dying. Everyone thinks I don't understand but I do. I heard them say the cancer is everywhere now. They said maybe six months. Maybe less." I set the book down. "Amara, I'm so sorry." She looked at me with those huge eyes. "Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?" "Anything, honey." She looked at me with those huge eyes. "Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?" "Anything, honey." "Will you be my daddy… until I die?" The room went still. Even the monitors seemed to hush. I felt every one of my fifty-eight years settle on my shoulders like lead. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. All I could see was my own daughter’s face at sixteen, laughing in the rear-view mirror the last time I ever saw her alive. All I could feel was the hole that had lived in my chest ever since. Amara didn’t blink. She just waited, small and brave and impossibly calm. I wanted to say yes. God help me, I wanted to say yes so badly my bones ached. But I was just a rough old biker who showed up once a week with picture books. I rode loud, drank hard, and still woke up some nights yelling my dead daughter’s name into an empty house. What did I know about being anyone’s father again, even for a little while? I swallowed the rock in my throat. “Honey… I’d be honored. But I gotta be honest with you—I’m not very good at this daddy thing anymore. I might mess it up.” Her whole face lit up like sunrise. “That’s okay. You can practice on me.” And just like that, I had a daughter again. The nurses cried when I told them. The social worker cried harder when I said I wanted temporary custody, medical guardianship, whatever paperwork existed that would let me take her home if she ever got strong enough, or stay by her side every single day if she didn’t. The club showed up in force—twenty-five Harleys rumbling into the hospital parking lot, scaring the security guards half to death until they saw the stuffed animals strapped to every bike. We turned room 432 into something that didn’t look like a hospital room anymore. One of the guys brought a pink bedsheet set his old lady had bought by mistake. Another brought a tiny leather vest with “Daddy’s Girl” stitched on the back. Somebody hung fairy lights. Somebody else smuggled in a puppy that definitely wasn’t allowed (just for ten minutes, but Amara laughed so hard she had to go back on oxygen). Every Thursday became every day. I read her the giraffe book until we both had it memorized, then we moved on to Charlotte’s Web, then Harry Potter. When her hands got too weak to hold the book, I held it for both of us. When the pain got bad, I climbed into that little bed and let her fall asleep on my chest while I hummed old Johnny Cash songs my own daughter used to love. The doctors kept shaking their heads, saying they couldn’t explain it. Her scans weren’t getting better, exactly—but they weren’t getting worse as fast as they should have. Six months became nine. Nine became a year. On the morning of her eighth birthday, Amara woke up and said, clear as day, “Daddy, I dreamed I was running. My legs worked and everything.” I kissed the top of her fuzzy head. “Then we’re gonna make that happen, baby girl.” Two weeks later the oncologist called me into his office, eyes wide, holding films up to the light like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “The tumors in her spine… they’re shrinking. I’ve never—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “We’re seeing significant regression. I don’t know how to explain it.” I knew how. It was love. Plain, stubborn, loud, tattooed love. Eighteen months after the day she asked a scary biker to be her daddy “until she died,” Amara walked out of that hospital on her own two legs, holding my hand, wearing her tiny leather vest and a grin bigger than the sky. The club threw her a welcome-home party that shook the neighborhood. There were ponies. There was a bouncy castle. There was cake the size of a Harley wheel. And when the sun went down and the firepit was roaring, Amara climbed into my lap, looked up at the stars, and whispered, “Daddy?” “Yeah, baby?” “I don’t think I’m gonna die for a long time now.” I held her tight enough to feel both our hearts beating. “Good,” I said, voice cracking like an old man’s should. “Because I’m just getting started being your dad.” She’s fifteen now. Still cancer-free. Still calls me Daddy every single day. Still sleeps in those same pink bedsheets we took from room 432. And every Thursday, rain or shine, we ride back to Children’s Hospital together—me on my Harley, her on the back holding on like she’s been doing it her whole life—and we read stories to the new kids who are scared and hurting. Because some things are worth more than the years you get. Some things are forever.

A nice read By Lt Gen Syed Ata Hasnain in Indian Express.

A nice read By Lt Gen Syed Ata Hasnain in Indian Express. The Supreme Court judgment in the case of Lieutenant Samuel Kamalesan has stirred a sensitive and essential debate about the relationship between personal faith and professional duty in the Armed Forces. The officer, a Christian, was dismissed from service after allegedly repeatedly refusing to participate in religious parades or enter regimental places of worship — temples and gurdwaras — because doing so conflicted with his monotheistic beliefs. His refusal, the Court held, was not simply a religious stance, but a breakdown in leadership and regimental cohesion. The Court upheld his dismissal in strong terms, concluding that his actions constituted “the grossest form of indiscipline”. This judgment should not be construed as a critique of any individual faith or faiths, but rather as an affirmation of a foundational military truth: In uniform, personal belief cannot be allowed to overshadow institutional duty. The Indian Army, perhaps more than any other institution, is built on a unique model of secularism — one that is not of indifference, but of inclusion. Regimental mandirs, gurdwaras, sarv dharm sthals, and unit churches are not places for religious conversion or compulsion. They are symbols of regimental identity, tradition, morale, and shared purpose. They nurture a sense of belonging, not just worship. More than faith, they represent fraternity. I write this not as a legal analyst, but as someone shaped by similar crossroads of faith and profession. I was educated in Roman Catholic and then Protestant institutions, while my father — also an Army officer — and my mother moved in and out of regimental mandirs, gurdwaras, and unit churches with equal ease. I was raised in Islam, while also absorbing from an early age how every other faith in the Army becomes a unifying rather than dividing force. I practised this for 40 years of my career. However, most importantly, as a young company commander and a Commanding Officer (CO), I would ensure every operation began and ended with a short gathering at a small makeshift temple constructed by the troops. Not because it was my ritual — but because it was ours. This is the essence of military ethos: One does not abandon one’s faith, but one learns to wear it differently. It becomes internal, private, resilient, and dignified — never used to separate, always used to strengthen. The officer’s role is not to pass judgment on his troops’ rituals, but to stand alongside them in solidarity. His mere presence, not prayer, not participation in specific rituals, is often what sustains morale. At that moment, he is not Christian, Sikh, Muslim, Hindu, Parsi, or Jain — he is the leader that soldiers pine for and rally around. The Court rightly observed that while the Constitution protects religious freedom, that freedom does not extend to the refusal of a lawful command that is central to military culture and discipline. Article 25, the Court held, protects faith, but not individual preferences. In the Armed Forces, especially, discipline and cohesion are not merely desirable; they are existential necessities. An officer cannot afford to be selectively present — absent during what the troops consider sacred, or detached during times that shape collective identity. There is deep historical precedent for this ethos. Brigadier Desmond Hayde, a Christian CO of 3 Jat, led his Jat troops into the fierce Battle of Dograi in 1965, earning both the Maha Vir Chakra and his men’s eternal devotion. He could sing their bhajans better than any of them. Lt Col Ardeshir Tarapore, PVC, a Parsi officer of The Poona Horse, is remembered not for his religious identity but as a legend of the Armoured Corps. The Sikh Regiment has seen Christian and Muslim officers lead with distinction. The Garhwal Rifles, my regiment, has been commanded by officers from every faith under the Indian sun. Some of our finest military leaders did not merely accommodate the religious practices of their troops — they embraced them as part of their leadership creed. This is not about religion—it is about trust. A soldier does not follow an officer because of his rank alone. He follows because he believes the officer stands with him — in danger, in uncertainty, and yes, even in prayer. Presence is leadership, and leadership is presence. That is why the Supreme Court’s ruling matters. It is not a rejection of faith, but a reaffirmation of military integrity. It reminds us that the Indian Army’s way of secularism is not that of abstraction or avoidance — it is one of lived, shared symbolism. It is not about private belief — it is about public cohesion. Yet, the broader point goes beyond the courtroom. This judgment could serve as an opportunity to educate the public about why soldiers go to mandirs or stand in sarv dharm sthals, not as religious followers, but as members of one fraternity. It could help India understand why a soldier is ready to walk deliberately towards danger — and sometimes to death — not because of a singular faith, but because of a faith in each other. Military service is perhaps the only profession where the individual does not just work for the institution; he becomes the institution. Faith, identity, ego, and preference all become subordinate to one collective purpose. That is why, in uniform, one’s faith is never lost. It is transformed. It is not abandoned, it is honoured. In the end, the Court’s decision is legally correct and institutionally vital. It preserves not only discipline but the integrity of the officer-soldier relationship. It reminds us that in the Armed Forces, faith is respected, but duty commands, and duty always leads. Because when one wears the uniform of India’s Armed Forces, the question is no longer “what is my faith?” The question becomes: What is my duty and whom do I lead?

The Last Day on Earth - A scientist who lived before he died

https://telanganatrends.com/the-last-day-on-earth-a-scientist-who-lived-before-he-died/

ABIDING IN HIS PRESENCE

Good Morning!!! ABIDING IN HIS PRESENCE Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 4 Read Psalm 27 “When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.” “The wicked” and “mine enemies” stand for our own thoughts, for our fears and doubts of every kind; and truly indeed do they sometimes come upon us as though “to eat up our flesh.” “Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.” The Psalmist reiterates his confidence and makes us, his readers, reiterate that our hearts, too, shall not fear. When you can say quietly and truthfully at any hour of the day or night “my heart shall not fear,” the world has no more power over you. You are free. War of various kinds may rise up against you, but you will be confident, and therefore, you will be victorious. “One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple.” “For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion: in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock.” These two verses constitute a remarkable expression of what is often called the second birth. When you have reached that stage you do not allow any external happening really to grieve you, or frighten you, or hurt you, because you know that external things are but passing shadows of no permanent importance. This steadfast determination to dwell in the house of the Lord, to behold His beauty and to learn His secrets, means that you are set upon a rock and there your house of life is secure.

Who is "Akka Mahadevi"? Why is she famous?

Who is "Akka Mahadevi"? Why is she famous? Around nine hundred years ago in southern India, there lived a female mystic called Akka Mahadevi. Akka was a devotee of Shiva. Ever since her childhood, she has regarded Shiva as her beloved , her husband .It was not not just a belief;for her it was a living reality. A King saw this beautiful young woman one day, and decided he wanted her as his wife. She refused . But the king was adamant and threatened her parents, so she yielded. She married the man, but she kept him at a physical distance. He tries to woo her,but her constant refrain was, “Shiva is my husband”. Time passes and the King’s patience wore thin. Infuriated,he tried to lay his hands upon her. She refused. “I have another husband. His name is Shiva. He visits me, and I am with him. I cannot be with you.” Because she claimed to have another husband, she was brought to court for prosecution. Akka is said to have announced to all present, “Being a Queen doesn’t mean a thing to me. I will leave.” When the king saw the ease with which she was walking away from everything, he made a last futile effort to salvage his dignity. He said, “Everything on your person— your jewels, your garments— belongs to me. Leave it all here and go.” So, in the full assembly, Akka just dropped her jewelery, all her clothes, and walked away naked. From that day on, she refused to wear clothes even though many tried to convince her. It was unbelievable for a woman to be walking naked on the streets of India at that time — and this was a beautiful young woman. She lived out her life as a wandering mendicant and composed some exquisite poetry that lives on to this very day. In a poem(translated by A.k Ramanujan), she says: People, male and female, blush when a cloth covering their shame comes loose. When the lord of lives live drowned without a face in the world, how can you be modest? When all the world is the eye of the lord, onlooking everywhere, what can you cover and conceal? Devotees of this kind may be in this world but not of it. The power and passion with which they lived their lives make them inspirations for generations of humanity. Akka continues to be a living presence in the Indian collective consciousness, and her lyrical poems remain among the most prized works of South Indian literature to this very day.

Why do Shiva has moon on his head?

Why do Shiva has moon on his head? As per mythology, Bholenath started getting a fever because of the poison, and to cool him down, gods like Chandra asked him to wear the moon on his head so that his body temperature remained normal.

Monday, 1 December 2025

SERENITY

Good Morning!!! God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; and Wisdom to know the difference. Thy will, not mine, be done *~*~*~*~*^Daily Reflections^*~*~*~*~* December 2, 2025 SERENITY Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, … TWELVE STEPS AND TWELVE TRADITIONS, p. 106 As I continued to go to meetings and work the Steps, something began to happen to me. I felt confused because I wasn’t sure what it was that I was feeling, and then I realized I was experiencing serenity. It was a good feeling, but where had it come from? Then I realized it had come “. . .as the result of these steps.” The program may not always be easy to practice, but I had to acknowledge that my serenity had come to me after working the Steps. As I work the Steps in everything I do, practicing these principles in all my affairs, now I find that I am awake to God, to others, and to myself. The spiritual awakening, I have enjoyed as the result of working the Steps is the awareness that I am no longer alone.

Who is greater, Vishnu, Shiv, or Bramha?

Who is greater, Vishnu, Shiv, or Bramha? Well, if we go by Mahabharata all these three deities are said to be the same and there is no difference between them. But according to Vedas, it is only Sri Rudra who is superior to Sri Vishnu and Brahma Ji. The Shiva Sankalpa Suktam clearly state it. Vedas always will have more authority than Itihasa and Puranas. Hence Vedas clearly state that Sri Rudra is superior to Sri Vishnu and Hiranyagarbha. Sri Rudra is also said to have none equal to him (TS 1.8.6.2). परा᳚त् परत॑रो ब्र॒ह्मा॒ त॒त्परा᳚त् पर॒तो ह॑रिः । त॒त्परा᳚त् पर॑तो ऽधी॒श॒स्तन्मे॒ मनः॑ शि॒वस॑ङ्क॒ल्पम॑स्तु ॥ 18 Greater than the great is Brahma, greater than the great Brahma is Vishnu. Greater than the greater Vishnu is Isha (Shiva). May my thoughts be filled with Shiva. - Rig Veda Khila, Shiva Sankalpa Suktam, 18th Mantra. Regarding the authenticity of Sri Shiva Sankalpa Suktam:

Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar

You know what repenting is? This is what it is: "Oh! You made a mistake! Repent!" Repenting is not the right attitude. Instead, Prayaschitta - "I have to make little corrections. A little correction needs to be done." Now, how do you correct? You say, "Okay, let me sit and do more meditation," or “Let me watch my food, go on a liquid diet, and fast for a day or two." Hmm? All this changes the chemistry in the system. Your action is only a projection of the system. Just correcting an action, cannot correct you! You have to correct the system - the nature in the system. How does one do this? Sing! Sit and sing! Sing some bhajans! Do some meditation! Do the pranayamas! All these are called "tapas" "Tap" means heating; "tapas" really means toasting! Turning the fire on! Fire purifies! There is no greater tapas than the pranayamas! The pranayamas burn out all the unwanted things in the system. They bring a balance amongst the gunas and they raise the level of sattva.

Sunday, 30 November 2025

Kindness Pays

INDNESS PAYS........ One stormy night an elderly man and his wife entered the lobby of a small hotel in Philadelphia, USA trying to get out of the rain. They approached the front desk in order to get some shelter for the night. “Could you possibly give us a room here?” – the husband asked. The clerk gave a broad smile , looked at the couple and explained that it was unfortunate that there were three simultaneous conventions in town. “All of our rooms are taken,” the clerk said. “ But I can’t send a nice couple like you out into the rain at one o’clock in the morning. Would you perhaps be willing to sleep in my room? It’s not exactly a suite, but it will be good enough to make you folks comfortable for the night.” When the couple declined, the young man insisted . “Don’t worry about me, I shall be fine.” the clerk told them. So the couple agreed. As he paid his bill the next morning, the elderly man appreciated the kindness of the clerk and said to the clerk, “You deserve to be the kind of manager who should be the boss of the best hotel in town. Maybe someday I’ll build one for you.” The clerk looked at them and smiled. The three of them had a good laugh. As they drove away, the elderly couple agreed that the helpful clerk was indeed an exceptional manager. Two years passed. The clerk had almost forgotten the incident when he received a letter from the old man. It recalled that stormy night and enclosed a round-trip ticket to New York, asking the young man to pay them a visit. The old man met him in New York, and led him to the corner of Fifth Avenue and 34th Street. He then pointed to a great new building there, a pale reddish stone, with imposing elevation and watchtowers thrusting up to the sky. “That,” said the older man, “is the hotel I have just built for you to manage.” “You must be joking.” – the young man said. “I can assure you I am not.” – said the older man, a sly smile playing around his mouth. The older man’s name was William Waldorf-Aster, and that magnificent structure was the original Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The young clerk who became its first manager was George C. Boldt. This young clerk never foresaw that a single act of kindness would catapult him to become manager of one of the world’s most glamorous hotels. Be kind to everybody. It will enrich you multi fold in the long run. One stormy night an elderly man and his wife entered the lobby of a small hotel in Philadelphia, USA trying to get out of the rain. They approached the front desk in order to get some shelter for the night. “Could you possibly give us a room here?” – the husband asked. The clerk gave a broad smile , looked at the couple and explained that it was unfortunate that there were three simultaneous conventions in town. “All of our rooms are taken,” the clerk said. “ But I can’t send a nice couple like you out into the rain at one o’clock in the morning. Would you perhaps be willing to sleep in my room? It’s not exactly a suite, but it will be good enough to make you folks comfortable for the night.” When the couple declined, the young man insisted . “Don’t worry about me, I shall be fine.” the clerk told them. So the couple agreed. As he paid his bill the next morning, the elderly man appreciated the kindness of the clerk and said to the clerk, “You deserve to be the kind of manager who should be the boss of the best hotel in town. Maybe someday I’ll build one for you.” The clerk looked at them and smiled. The three of them had a good laugh. As they drove away, the elderly couple agreed that the helpful clerk was indeed an exceptional manager. Two years passed. The clerk had almost forgotten the incident when he received a letter from the old man. It recalled that stormy night and enclosed a round-trip ticket to New York, asking the young man to pay them a visit. The old man met him in New York, and led him to the corner of Fifth Avenue and 34th Street. He then pointed to a great new building there, a pale reddish stone, with imposing elevation and watchtowers thrusting up to the sky. “That,” said the older man, “is the hotel I have just built for you to manage.” “You must be joking.” – the young man said. “I can assure you I am not.” – said the older man, a sly smile playing around his mouth. The older man’s name was William Waldorf-Aster, and that magnificent structure was the original Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The young clerk who became its first manager was George C. Boldt. This young clerk never foresaw that a single act of kindness would catapult him to become manager of one of the world’s most glamorous hotels. Be kind to everybody. It will enrich you multi fold in the long run.

Why didn't Kansha (Krisna's uncle) simply keep Vasudeva and Devaki separate

Why didn't Kansha (Krisna's uncle) simply keep Vasudeva and Devaki separate so that they could not stay together and thus no child would be born? There are 5 reasons. Reason 1: Kansa wanted to prove Aakashvani, that said Devaki's 8th son will kill him, was wrong. So he kept Devaki and Vasudeva in the same prison cell. Reason 2: Kansa thought it is easy to kill the 8th son on the day he is born. He totally underestimated Lord Vishnu. Reason 3: Kansa thought once the 8th son is dead, he can live rest of his life with a peace of mind. No wonder why he killed the first 6 kids of Devaki. Reason 4: Separating Vasudeva and Devaki would send a message among common people that Kansa is scared of a kid that is not even born. Ego issues, you know. Reason 5: If Kansa separated Devaki and Vasudeva, then Devaki would not become pregnant in the first place. And there would be no 8th son. This would prove Aakashvani wrong. And Aakashvani is never wrong. In short, destiny found its way.

FOOL’S GOLD

Good Morning!!! FOOL’S GOLD Around the Year with Emmet Fox November 28 In mining country, one comes across a valueless substance that is so like gold ore that inexperienced people cannot always tell the difference. This is called Fool’s Gold, and many a young prospector has wasted much time and hard work before discovering that he has been deceived by the spurious article. Old timers used to say to the tenderfoot: “When you think you have found gold you probably have not; but when you do find it, you will know it for certain.” So, it is with the prospectors on the mountain range that we call life. There are many kinds of fools’ gold to be found, but when you meet the genuine article you will have no doubt in your mind. The true gold will give you a sense of peace and poise, a sense of freedom and power because you will no longer be in bondage to passing material things. It will set you free from much of the tyranny of time and space beliefs. The true gold is that sense of the Presence of God with us, to obtain which is the object of this life. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights” James 1:17

Dangers of flying into Volcanic Ash

*Dangers of flying into Volcanic Ash* On the night of June 24, 1982, British Airways Flight 9 floated high above the Indian Ocean. A Boeing 747 carrying 263 passengers, gliding peacefully through clear skies. The world below was silent and dark, and inside the cabin, most people were asleep. In the cockpit, Captain Eric Moody and his crew enjoyed a calm, uneventful flight. Then something strange began to happen. A soft blue glow appeared on the edges of the cockpit windows. At first it looked like harmless static, almost beautiful. St Elmos fire, they thought. But then the glow grew brighter, crawling across the glass like electric fingers. Out on the wings, shimmering sparks trailed behind the aircraft as if the giant jet had dipped its wings in fire. The crew exchanged uneasy glances. They had thousands of hours of flying experience. They had seen storms, turbulence, and unusual weather. But nothing like this. Then the first engine failed. Engine four wound down with a low, sickening sound. Before they could react, engine two followed. Then engine one. Then engine three. In less than ninety seconds, every engine on the 747 shut down. The aircraft became a silent glider, falling through the night from thirty seven thousand feet. In the cabin, passengers watched sparks dance outside the windows. Oxygen masks dropped. Smoke filled the aisles. The calm night had turned into a nightmare. Some people cried. Some prayed. Some wrote final messages to their loved ones. Then the intercom crackled. Captain Moody spoke with the calmness of someone announcing turbulence. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped. We are doing our best to get them going again. I trust you are not in too much distress.” A small problem. All four engines gone. Seven miles above the ocean. It was more than calmness. It was quiet, steady leadership when panic could have taken over. Meanwhile, in the cockpit, chaos and determination mixed together. The co pilot’s oxygen mask broke, leaving him gasping for air. Moody descended quickly, trading altitude for breathable air to save his colleague. The flight engineer scrambled through engine restart procedures, while the first officer tried to coordinate with Jakarta control. They attempted to restart the engines again and again. Nothing happened. The aircraft continued to fall. Fifteen thousand feet. Fourteen. Thirteen. Somewhere below lay the mountains of Java, invisible in the darkness. Just when hope felt thin, engine four coughed. Then roared back to life. Moments later engine three restarted. Then engine one. Then engine two. After thirteen minutes of silence, every engine was alive again. Relief filled the cockpit, but the danger was far from over. When the crew looked through the windscreen, they saw nothing. The glass had been sandblasted to a cloudy white. They were almost flying blind. They used side windows for glimpses, trusted their instruments, and relied on the calm voices from Jakarta approach control to guide them. And somehow, unbelievably, Captain Moody brought the wounded aircraft down safely at Halim Perdanakusuma Airport. Not a single life was lost. All 263 passengers and crew walked away. Only after landing did they learn the truth. They had flown straight into a massive volcanic ash cloud from Mount Galunggung. The ash was not visible on radar. At night it blended into the sky. When the engines inhaled it, the tiny particles melted, stuck to the hot engine parts like molten glass, and choked the engines. When the aircraft descended into cooler air, the melted ash hardened and broke off, allowing the engines to breathe again. It was luck. But it was also skill. The skill kept them alive long enough for the luck to matter. Flight 9 changed aviation forever. From that night onward, the aviation world created real time volcanic ash warnings, new air routes, global monitoring systems, and new training for ash encounters. What happened to Moody and his crew became a lesson for every pilot who would ever fly through the night sky. Captain Eric Moody continued flying for British Airways for many years. He is remembered for his steady hands, his calm voice, and that famous line that has been quoted around the world. “We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped.” It was the understatement of a lifetime. And it saved hundreds of lives. The story of Flight 9 teaches something deeper. The impossible can happen. Calmness saves lives. Persistence matters. If the crew had given up after their fourteenth restart attempt, the aircraft would never have made it. But they tried again. And on that fifteenth try, the engines came back. British Airways Flight 9 became the night the sky went dark but human courage shone brighter than anything outside the aircraft windows. It is a reminder for all of us that even when every engine in life seems to fail, you keep trying. You stay calm. You do not quit. Because sometimes, the final attempt is the one that brings you safely home. Credit: WW&F

Dangers of flying into Volcanic Ash

_An amazing real life story_

*_An amazing real life story_* On the morning of April 29, 1975, Major Buang-Ly knew his country had hours left to live. The South Vietnamese Air Force officer was stationed on Con Son Island, a small outpost fifty miles off the southern coast. The island served primarily as a prison camp, but it also had a small airfield—and on that airfield sat a two-seat Cessna O-1 Bird Dog, a light observation plane built for reconnaissance, not escape. Buang-Ly looked at his wife. He looked at their five children, the youngest fourteen months old, the oldest just six. North Vietnamese forces were closing in. The prison guards were abandoning their posts. If they stayed, there would be no mercy for a military officer and his family. He made his decision. The Bird Dog was designed to carry a pilot and one observer. Buang-Ly helped his wife and all five children squeeze into the backseat and the small storage area behind it. He hot-wired the engine. As the tiny plane lifted off and banked toward the open sea, enemy ground fire zipped past them. He had no radio. He had no destination. He had only the hope that somewhere out there, the American fleet was still operating. For thirty minutes, Buang-Ly flew east over the South China Sea. Then he spotted them—helicopters, dozens of them, all flying in the same direction. He followed. The helicopters led him to the USS Midway. The aircraft carrier was in the middle of Operation Frequent Wind, the largest helicopter evacuation in American military history. More than seven thousand Americans and at-risk South Vietnamese were being airlifted from Saigon to the ships of Task Force 76. The Midway's flight deck was chaos—helicopters landing, refugees pouring out, aircraft being pushed aside to make room for more. At one point, the ship's air boss counted twenty-six Huey helicopters circling the carrier, not one of them with working radio contact. And then the spotters noticed something different. A fixed-wing aircraft. A tiny Cessna with South Vietnamese markings, circling overhead with its landing lights on. Captain Lawrence Chambers had been in command of the Midway for barely five weeks. He was the first African American to command a U.S. Navy aircraft carrier, a graduate of the Naval Academy who had risen through the ranks at a time when such advancement was far from guaranteed. Now he faced a decision that could end his career. The admiral aboard the Midway told Chambers to order the pilot to ditch in the ocean. Rescue boats could pick up the survivors. Chambers understood immediately why that wouldn't work. The Bird Dog had fixed landing gear. The moment it hit the water, it would flip. With a plane packed full of small children, ditching meant drowning. The ship was a hundred nautical miles from the coast—too far for the Cessna to return even if there had been anywhere safe to land. As the small plane continued circling, Buang-Ly tried to communicate the only way he could. He wrote a message on a scrap of paper and dropped it during a low pass over the deck. The wind blew it into the sea. He tried again. And again. Three notes disappeared into the water. On the fourth attempt, desperate to make himself understood, Buang-Ly dropped a leather pistol holster with a message tucked inside. This time, a crewman grabbed it. The note was scrawled on a navigational chart. The spelling was imperfect, the handwriting hurried, but the meaning was unmistakable: "Can you move these helicopter to the other side, I can land on your runway, I can fly 1 hour more, we have enough time to move. Please rescue me. Major Buang, wife and 5 child." The message was rushed to the bridge. Chambers read it. He picked up the phone to call his air boss, Commander Vern Jumper. "Vern," he said, "give me a ready deck." Jumper's response, Chambers later recalled, contained words he wouldn't want to print. It didn't matter. Chambers called for volunteers—every available sailor, regardless of rank or duty, to the flight deck immediately. What followed was controlled pandemonium. Arresting wires were stripped from the deck—at the Bird Dog's slow landing speed, they would trip the plane and send it cartwheeling. Helicopters that could be moved were shoved aside. And the helicopters that couldn't be moved quickly enough? Chambers ordered them pushed over the side. The sailors of the Midway shoved four UH-1 Huey helicopters and one CH-47 Chinook into the South China Sea. Ten million dollars worth of military hardware, tumbling into the waves. Chambers didn't watch. He already knew the admiral was threatening to put him in jail. "I was scared to death," he admitted years later. But he also knew what would happen if he followed the order to let the plane ditch. "When a man has the courage to put his family in a plane and make a daring escape like that, you have to have the heart to let him in." Meanwhile, the ship's chief engineer reported a problem. Half the Midway's boilers had been taken offline for maintenance. They didn't have enough steam to make the twenty-five knots Chambers needed to generate proper headwind for the landing. Chambers told him to shift the hotel electrical load to the emergency diesel generators and make it happen. The old carrier groaned as she picked up speed, turning into the wind. The ceiling was five hundred feet. Visibility dropped to five miles. A light rain began to fall. Warnings about the dangerous downdrafts behind a steaming carrier were broadcast blind in both Vietnamese and English—hoping the pilot could somehow hear them even though he had no radio. Buang-Ly lined up his approach. He had never landed on an aircraft carrier before. The runway was 1,001 feet long—enormous for a carrier, impossibly small for what he was attempting. The downdraft behind the ship could slam his overloaded plane into the deck or flip it over the side. He had one chance. He looked at his family. "When I looked at my family," he said later, "my gut told me I could do it." He pushed the throttle forward and began his descent. The Bird Dog crossed the ramp, bounced once on the deck, touched down in the exact spot where the arresting wires would normally have been, and rolled forward. The flight deck crew sprinted toward the plane, ready to grab it before it went over the angle deck. They didn't need to. Buang-Ly brought the Cessna to a stop with room to spare. The crew erupted in cheers. And then something unexpected happened. Major Buang-Ly and his wife jumped out of the cockpit, pulled the backseat forward—and out tumbled child after child after child. The deck crew had expected two passengers. They watched in amazement as five small children emerged from a plane built for one. Captain Chambers came down from the bridge. He walked up to the exhausted pilot, this man who had risked everything on an impossible gamble, and did something that no regulation authorized but every sailor understood. He pulled the gold wings from his own uniform and pinned them on Buang-Ly's chest. "I promoted him to Naval Aviator right on the spot," Chambers said. The crew of the Midway adopted the family. They collected thousands of dollars to help them start their new life in America. The Buang family became seven of the estimated 130,000 Vietnamese refugees who eventually resettled in the United States. All seven are now naturalized American citizens. Captain Lawrence Chambers was never court-martialed. He was promoted to Rear Admiral and retired in 1984 as the first African American Naval Academy graduate to reach flag rank. Today, at ninety-six years old, he still speaks about that day with the same conviction. "You have to have the courage to do what you think is right regardless of the outcome," he said at a recent commemoration. "That's the only thing you can live with." Major Buang-Ly, now ninety-five, lives in Florida. The Bird Dog he flew that day hangs from the ceiling of the National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola, still bearing its South Vietnamese markings. Beside it, in a display case, is the crumpled note he dropped onto the deck of the Midway. Fifty years later, both men—the pilot who refused to let his family die and the captain who refused to let them drown—are still here to tell the story. Some moments become symbols larger than themselves. This was one of them. Not just an escape, but a testament to what becomes possible when desperate courage meets uncommon decency. A father who would not give up. A captain who would not look away. And a flight deck cleared for landing

Is Indra greater than Vishnu?

Is Indra greater than Vishnu? I am sure this post will cause a lot of controversy but facts are more important than feelings - so here we go. Actually according to the Rig Veda, Indra is indeed greater than Vishnu although both of them were best friends, but Indra was the greater. Indra has 243 sūktas glorifying him and Vishnu only has 4. They both have 2 joint sūktas and Indra-vaikuṇṭa has 4. So just judging by popularity alone Indra is greater than Vishnu. The deed for which Vishnu is most praised in the Rig Veda is his taking of three steps (tripāda) He who for the benefit of humankind in his affliction thrice measured out the earthly regions, Visnu- When one so great as you gives shelter, may we with wealth and with ourselves be happy. (6, 49;13); The commentaries interpret these three steps at being the stages of the Sun’s apparent motion, dawn, noon and dusk, and Vishnu’s primary identification is with the Sun. The most prominent secondary characteristic of Visnu is his friendship for Indra, with whom he is frequently allied in the fight against Vrtra. This is indicated by the fact that one whole Hymn (6, 69) is dedicated to the two deities conjointly, and that Indra's name is coupled with that of Visnu in the dual as often as with that of Soma, though the name of the latter occurs much more frequently in the RV. The closeness of their alliance is also indicated by the fact that in hymns extolling Vishnu alone, Indra is the only other deity, incidentally associated with him either explicitly You two have destroyed, you Indra, and you Visnu, Sambara's nine-and-ninety fenced castles. (7:99:5) Your Soma-drinker keeps afar your furious rush, Indra and Vishnu, when you come with all your might. (1:155 2) In one hymn Vishnu plays Indra’s cook and serves him a feast of one hundred buffaloes:– vardhā̱nyaṁ viśve̍ ma̱ruta̍ḥ sa̱joṣā̱ḥ paca̍ccha̱taṁ ma̍hi̱ṣāṇ i̍ndra̱ tubhya̍m | pū̱ṣā viṣṇu̱s trīṇi̱ sarā̍ṁsi dhāvan vṛtra̱haṇa̍ṁ madi̱ram a̱ṁśum a̍smai || 6:017:11 He cooked a hundred buffaloes, O Indra, for you whom all accordant Maruts strengthen. He, Pushan-Visnu, poured out three great vessels to him, the juice that cheers, that slaughters Vrtra. (6,17:11) (or 100 buffaloes and a brew of milk according to 8:66:10 cp. 1, 617). In the Purānas Indra was unceremoniously demoted to a mere regent of the Eastern direction from which Sūrya Nārāyaṇa - or Viṣṇu - his best friend arises every morning. So they are still eternally associated but Viṣṇu is now supreme.

Psychology for Influencing Others

Psychology for Influencing Others 1. If someone does not love you, behave as if you do not seek their attention. 2. If someone mocks you, remain calm and smile. The person who mocks will look foolish. 3. Encourage pursuit by appearing slightly distant and unavailable. 4. Do not show that you are upset when you do not get something. 5. Control the conversation by offering concise explanations. Do not over explain.

Why was Parvati angry with Ganga?

Why was Parvati angry with Ganga? Then it passed through his hair and became the Ganga. During the time when the water was entangled in Shiva's matted hair, Shiva became very fond of the water. He gave it so much of his attention that his consort, Parvati, became terribly jealous.

SLOW TO JUDGE

Good Morning!!! SLOW TO JUDGE Around the Year with Emmet Fox November 30 Many years ago, a professor wrote a book in which he said that he could always tell if a person were a potential criminal by the shape of his ear! This naturally created something of a furor, and a London newspaper sent a reporter to interview old General Booth, of the Salvation Army, on the subject. The reporter said, “General, you probably have an unmatched experience of human nature in the raw. Do you believe there is such a thing as a criminal ear?” William Booth laughed loudly through his Mosaic beard, and replied, “Why, of course there is a ‘criminal ear’— and we’ve all got one. If it were not for the grace of God, every one of us would be doing time or deserving to.” William Booth understood human nature. You never can afford to condemn another, because in his shoes you would probably have done just as badly. Have you not noticed that sometimes, after condemning someone else rather pharisaically, you have shortly afterward caught yourself in a moral failure? Wisely did the Master say, “Judge not.” “But why dost thou judge thy brother? or why dost thou set at naught thy brother? for we shall all stand before the judgment seat of Christ” Romans 14:10

Did Mahabharata really happen or is it all fiction?

Did Mahabharata really happen or is it all fiction? I am not going to retort with a YES or NO. Let me present few proven facts and leave the rest to the readers. The occurrence of Solar eclipse on the 14th day of war: Investigations conducted purely on phenomena like comet sightings, meteor showers revealed that a pair of eclipses occurred during the course of war. Ancient people preferred full moon day for any important event. Latest research by scholars with computer software shows that a lunar eclipse took place on the first day of war. We all know that a lunar eclipse takes place on a full moon day. So there are high chances that war started on full moon day and that day, a lunar eclipse occurred. Dr B N Narhari Achar, Department of Physics, Memphis University, USA also supported the theory of war starting on a full moon day. A solar eclipse is said to have taken place 13 days later. As per Mahabharatha,on the 14 day of war, when the sun appeared to be set, Jayadratha poked out to show that he was victorious against Arjuna . Suddenly the sun reappeared and Arjuna shot down Jayadratha’s head with Pasupathastra weapon. It goes that Lord Krishna hid the sun with his Sudarshana Chakra. Actually Krishna tricked Jayadratha with the knowledge of solar eclipse happening on that day. Researchers are using this eclipse pair with 13 days time gap to find out the exact date of Mahabharatha war. After serious analysis of all the eclipses that happened in Kurukshetra, it is found that six eclipse pairs have the time gap of 13 days. Such events happened in 3129 BC, 2599 BC, 2056 BC, 1853 BC, 1708 BC and 1397 BC . There are others that have low obscurity for solar eclipse, or have dominant penumbral lunar eclipse content and hence ignored. Mahabharatha war could have happened in any of those years and it can be taken as a proof for Mahabharatha war. 2. The Sunken city of Dwaraka: Until recently, the very existence of the city of Dwaraka was a matter of legends. Marine archaeological explorations off Dwaraka coast have brought to light a large number of stone structures beneath the sea. They also found that these structures are randomly scattered over a vast area. The ruins have been proclaimed to be the remains of the legendary lost city of Dwaraka. 3. Connection with present day cities: Most of the places mentioned in Mahabharatha are proved to be real ones. For instance, Hastinapura, the land of Kuru dynasty is now the state Uttar Pradesh; Indraprastha, the kingdom of Pandavas is now New Delhi; The Kingdom of Gandhar is now Afghansitan; Angadesh which was ruled by Karna is now Bihar. Based on the above facts, its upto you to decide whether the war happened or not

KINDNESS

KINDNESS 1.When I was a fresh mom with two under three my card got declined in the checkout line. The baby was in the car seat, the two-year-old was asking for bubble gum and chocolate bars. I felt like I could just melt into the floor. Without missing a beat, the man behind me in line handed the cashier his card. ‘I’ve got it.’ He said. That was ten years ago, and I will never forget it. When I worked at a coffee shop, we had someone buy their own coffee and then anonymously buy the next person in lines coffee just saying, ‘pay it forward’. The next person was shocked to hear their coffee was covered and said, ‘well I want to buy the one for the next costumer’. The pay-it-forward lasted most of the afternoon with people buying other people’s drinks. My friend at the cash register was near tears by the end of her shift. 2.I won’t ever forget that day and I doubt she has either. One time in the Target line a mom with a brand-new infant and two littles who were crying and clinging to her legs asked if I might hold her baby for a minute. I took that baby and rocked her in my arms until she stopped fussing. I bet that mom remembers that day, I know I do. When my toddler was somewhere between threenager and fournado she threw I giant tantrum in a shopping center. I held her on a park bench while she screamed like I was her kidnapper. A couple older ladies stopped and said, ‘You’re doing an AMAZING job mama, hang in there!!’ 3.I will never ever forget them or their words that day. In a train depot in France we were lost and confused trying to figure out where to go. An older man sitting near us accidentally dropped some cash on the ground. My daughter who was six found it and returned it to him. He and his friend loaded us up with snacks from their bags and then in broken English asked if we needed help. They ended up walking us all the way to our next train and riding it with us for a while just to make sure we didn’t get lost. We won’t ever forget those two men. One time on a family road trip we stopped at a roadside cafe to get lunch. When we went to pay, we found out that another couple had already bought it saying that we had a ‘sweet family’. 4.You better believe we will remember that forever. Kindness is so powerful. It can be such a little thing like buying someone’s coffee or giving an encouraging word to someone who could use it. You just never know the impact it might have. My guess is that most of us remember the times that someone stepped out of their own life just to bless ours.”

Dorris Day

She was America's sweetheart. Then she discovered her husband had secretly stolen every dollar she'd ever earned. April 1968. Doris Day's husband Martin Melcher died suddenly of an enlarged heart. She was devastated. They'd been married 17 years. He'd been her manager, her partner, her protector. Or so she thought. When the lawyers came with paperwork to settle the estate, Doris expected to sign documents about her fortune. After all, she was one of Hollywood's biggest stars. "Que Sera, Sera" had topped charts worldwide. "Pillow Talk" made her the highest-paid actress in America. She'd made 39 films. Sold millions of records. Built an empire. She opened the envelope expecting security. Instead, she found ruin. Doris Day wasn't rich. She was $450,000 in debt. Every dollar she'd earned—every film, every song, every appearance—was gone. Her husband had lost it all. Melcher had secretly invested her entire fortune into bad business deals without her knowledge or consent. Oil wells that never produced. Hotels that failed. Schemes that collapsed. He'd signed contracts in her name. Made commitments she knew nothing about. Gambled her future while she smiled for cameras and sang about whatever will be, will be. But the worst revelation? He'd committed her to a television show she didn't even know existed. CBS was expecting her to star in "The Doris Day Show." Five-year contract. Already signed. She'd never read the script. Never agreed to do television. Never wanted to do a sitcom. But the contract was real. And if she didn't honor it, she'd be sued for breach. Most people would have broken down. Doris Day showed up for work. Not because she wanted fame or loved the spotlight. Because she needed to survive. At 46 years old—after decades of success—she was starting over. Broke. Betrayed. With no choice but to put on that smile and pretend everything was fine. America tuned in every week to watch a lighthearted sitcom about a widowed mother navigating life. They had no idea they were watching a woman fighting for her financial survival in real time. Behind every laugh track was someone who'd been betrayed by the person she trusted most. Behind every cheerful scene was someone who'd lost everything. But she never let it show. "The Doris Day Show" ran for five seasons. It was a hit. And slowly, episode by episode, Doris rebuilt what had been stolen from her. But she wasn't done fighting. In 1974, Doris Day sued Martin Melcher's business partner and attorney, Jerome Rosenthal, for fraud and legal malpractice. She accused him of participating in the financial schemes that destroyed her fortune. Of knowing about the unauthorized deals and saying nothing. Of betraying his duty to protect her interests. The trial revealed shocking details about how completely she'd been deceived. Contracts signed without her knowledge. Investments made without her consent. A systematic plundering of everything she'd earned. The jury ruled in her favor. The judgment: $22.8 million. But winning the lawsuit wasn't the end of the fight. It was just the beginning. Collecting that money took years. Over a decade of legal battles. Appeals. Delays. Complications. She never got the full amount. But she fought every step of the way—not for revenge, but for justice. By the time "The Doris Day Show" ended in 1973, Doris was financially stable again. She'd survived the betrayal. Rebuilt her life. Won her case. And then she did something Hollywood couldn't understand. She walked away. No farewell tour. No final album. No victory lap. She moved to Carmel, California—a quiet coastal town far from the spotlight—and never looked back. While other stars chased fame until their final breath, Doris chose something different. She rescued animals. Dogs, cats, horses—any creature that needed help. She founded the Doris Day Animal Foundation, which continues her work today. She bought a hotel in Carmel and turned it pet-friendly decades before that was common. She spent her final years surrounded by the animals she loved, living quietly, finding peace in kindness instead of cameras. Reporters would occasionally ask why she left Hollywood at the height of her fame. Her answer was simple: "I like being the girl next door. I just wish I'd known what the neighborhood was really like." Behind that characteristic wit was a truth many people learn the hard way: Sometimes the people closest to you are the ones who hurt you most. But Doris Day's story isn't really about betrayal. It's about what you do after the betrayal. She could have become bitter. Withdrawn. Broken. Instead, she showed up. She worked. She fought. She rebuilt. She didn't just survive—she chose a life that mattered more than money or fame. When Doris Day died in 2019 at age 97, obituaries focused on her films and songs. But her real legacy is quieter than that. It's in the resilience she showed when everything fell apart. It's in the years of fighting for justice even when it would've been easier to give up. It's in choosing peace over fame when she finally had a choice. It's in every animal she saved and every person inspired by her refusal to stay defeated. "Que Sera, Sera" became her signature song: Whatever will be, will be. But Doris Day proved something more important: *Whatever has been doesn't have to define what will be.* You can lose everything and still rebuild. You can be betrayed and still trust again. *You can survive the worst and STILL CHOOSE KINDNESS.* She didn't just play America's sweetheart. She showed America what real strength looks like. Not the kind that screams or breaks things. The kind that shows up the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until one day, you realize you've built a whole new life—one that's yours, on your terms, without the people who tried to destroy you. Doris Day: 1922-2019. The woman who lost everything, rebuilt it all, and then walked away to live on her own terms. That's not just a Hollywood story. That's a lesson in how to survive anything. #fblifestyle

Tuesday, 25 November 2025

THE HAZARDS OF PUBLICITY

Good Morning!!! God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; and Wisdom to know the difference. Thy will, not mine, be done. *~*~*~*~*^Daily Reflections^*~*~*~*~* November 26, 2025 THE HAZARDS OF PUBLICITY People who symbolize causes and ideas fill a deep human need. We of A.A. do not question that. But we do have to soberly face the fact that being in the public eye is hazardous, especially for us. TWELVE STEPS AND TWELVE TRADITIONS, p. 181 As a recovered alcoholic I must make an effort to put into practice the principles of the A.A. program, which are founded on honesty, truth and humility. While I was drinking, I was constantly trying to be in the limelight. Now that I am conscious of my mistakes and of my former lack of integrity, it would not be honest to seek prestige, even for the justifiable purpose of promoting the A.A. message of recovery. Is the publicity that centers around the A.A. Fellowship and the miracles it produces not worth much more? Why not let the people around us appreciate by themselves the changes that A.A. has brought in us, for that will be a far better recommendation for the Fellowship than any I could make. ********************************************** Citizens Again "Each of us in turn -- that is, the member who gets the most out of the program – spends a very large amount of time on Twelfth Step work in the early years. That was my case, and perhaps I should not have stayed sober with less work. "However, sooner or later most of us are presented with other obligations -- to family, friends, and country. As you will remember, the Twelfth Step also refers to `practicing these principles in all our affairs.' Therefore, I think your choice of whether to take a particular Twelfth Step job is to be found in your own conscience. No one else can tell you for certain what you ought to do at a particular time. "I just know that you are expected, at some point, to do more than carry the message of A.A. to other alcoholics. In A.A. we aim not only for sobriety – we try again to become citizens of the world that we rejected, and of the world that once rejected us. This is the ultimate demonstration toward which Twelfth Step work is the first but not the final step." LETTER, 1959 As Bill Sees It, P. 21 ************************************************* Meaning of the Circle-Triangle Symbol In response to a query about the meaning of the Circle-Triangle Symbol I wrote this ..... The Sobriety Circle & Triangle Symbol, is the symbol used by Alcoholics Anonymous. The equilateral triangle represents the three-part answer – unity, recovery and service - to a three-part disease – physical, mental and spiritual, while the circle represents wholeness or oneness. The body should be triangular, stable, the mind circular, open. The triangle represents the means for generation of good energy, and is the most stable physical posture. The circle symbolizes serenity and perfection, and the source of unlimited potential. Together they represent the perfect union of mind and body. It has been used in many native cultures. The priests, medicine men and seers of antiquity regarded the circle enclosing the triangle as a means of warding off spirits of evil, and A.A.'s circle and triangle of Recovery, Unity, and Service has certainly meant all of that to those of us in recovery and much more. Love and Peace, Barefoot Windwalker Index of A.A. History Pages on Barefoot's World http://www.barefootsworld.net/aa-ctsymbol.html ************************************************** The Magic of Gratitude and Acceptance Gratitude and acceptance are two magic tricks available to us in recovery. No matter who we are, where we are, or what we have, gratitude and acceptance work. We may eventually become so happy that we realize our present circumstances are good. Or we master our present circumstances and then move forward into the next set of circumstances. If we become stuck, miserable, feeling trapped and hopeless, try gratitude and acceptance. If we have tried unsuccessfully to alter our present circumstances and have begun to feel like we're beating our head against a brick wall, try gratitude and acceptance. If we feel like all is dark and the night will never end, try gratitude and acceptance. If we feel scared and uncertain, try gratitude and acceptance. If we've tried everything else and nothing seems to work, try gratitude and acceptance. If we've been fighting something, try gratitude and acceptance. When all else fails, go back to the basics. Gratitude and acceptance work. Today, God, help me let go of my resistance. Help me know the pain of a circumstance will stop hurting so much if I accept it. I will practice the basics of gratitude and acceptance in my life, and for all my present circumstances. ********************************************** The greater part of our happiness or misery depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances. —Martha Washington We all have friends who seem happy even though they run into lots of bad luck. And we all know other people who seem grumpy all the time. Nothing makes them very happy. It's puzzling, but some people have decided, maybe without even knowing it, that life is fun and should be enjoyed. No bit of bad luck has to make us miserable unless we let it. A broken bike, a lost math assignment, a rained-out picnic are things that might make us miserable. But we can decide they won't. Feeling happy can be a habit – just like brushing teeth before bedtime. Will I stop and think today before I let things, make me unhappy? ******* Grapevine quote of the day "Until today, at least, I am getting further away from that first drink, which is the one that inevitably leads me to complete disaster." Caracas, Venezuela, May 1971 "My Name Is Adolfo," AA Around the World ********************************************** Awareness When we first become aware of a problem, a situation, or a feeling, we may react with anxiety or fear. There is no need to fear awareness. No need. Awareness is the first step toward positive change and growth. It's the first step toward solving the problem, or getting the need met, the first step toward the future. It's how we focus on the next lesson. Awareness is how life, the Universe, and our Higher Power get our attention and prepare us for change. The process of becoming changed begins with awareness. Awareness, acceptance, and change - that's the cycle. We can accept the temporary discomfort from awareness because that's how we're moved to a better place. We can accept the temporary discomfort because we can trust God, and ourselves. Today, I will be grateful for any awareness I encounter. I will display gratitude, peace, and dignity when life gets my attention. I will remember that it's okay to accept the temporary discomfort from awareness because I can trust that it's my Higher Power moving me forward. ********************************************** ~*~A.A. Thoughts for the Day~*~ ^*^*^*^*^ (\ ~~ /) ( \ (AA)/ ) (_ /AA\ _) /AA\ ^*^*^*^*^ Expectations ^*^*^*^*^ "My serenity is inversely proportional to my expectations. The higher my expectations of other people are, the lower is my serenity. I can watch my serenity level rise when I discard my expectations. But then my 'rights' try to move in, and they, too, can force my serenity level down. I have to discard my 'rights,' as well as my expectations, by asking myself, 'How important is it, really? How important is it compared to my serenity, my emotional sobriety?' And when I place more value on my serenity and sobriety than on anything else, I can maintain them at a higher level-- at least for the time being." Alcoholics Anonymous, 3rd Edition p. 452 ********************************************* Thought to consider . . . Lower your standards and improve your program. ~*~*~*~*~*AACRONYMS*~*~*~*~*~ GRACE Gently Releasing All Conscious Expectations *************************************************** ~*~*~*~*~*^ Just for Today! ^*~*~*~*~*~ Popular From When A.A. Came of Age At this point the Cleveland Plain Dealer ran a series of pieces that ushered in a new period for Alcoholics Anonymous, the era of mass production of sobriety. Elrick B. Davis, a feature writer of deep understanding, was the author of a series of articles that were printed in the middle of the Plain Dealer's editorial page, and these were accompanied every two or three days by red-hot blasts from the editors themselves. In effect, the Plain Dealer was saying, Alcoholics Anonymous is good, and it works. Come and get it. The newspaper's switchboard was deluged. Day and night, the calls were relayed to [early members] Clarence and Dorothy and from them to members of their little group. 2001 AAWS, Inc.; Alcoholics Anonymous Comes of Age, pg. 20 ********************************************** ~*~*~*~*^As Bill Sees It^*~*~*~*~ Each Man's Vision "Beyond a Higher Power, as each of us may vision Him, A.A. must never, as a society, enter the field of dogma or theology. We can never become a religion in that sense, lest we kill usefulness by getting bogged down in theological contention." <<<>>> "The really amazing fact about A.A.