I married against my parents’ will.

I married against my parents’ will. They are not accepting my husband. Now my aunt has invited me to my cousin's marriage, but didn’t invite my husband, what should I do? Call her and ask is your husband invited or not . Make sure it's not a misunderstanding on your part . If she says of course he is invited , I thought you would understand , even if the invitation didn't explicitly said so …then you go .. if she's clear that only you are invited or shows reluctance to include your husband in the invitation , then you think about it . Are you okay with showing up there alone ? Do you wish to go ? If you are okay with going alone , ask your husband if he would be upset if you go alone , if you hope this might help to mend relationships between you and your maternal family . He might not get upset at all . But if he's old values and family drama type person , if he shows signs of anger , being upset , then it's wise to not go and focus on your marriage and strengthening your relationship . Would you be upset if someone from his family invites only him and not you ? Would you be angry if he goes alone ? If you wouldn't have any problem with it , maybe tell that to your husband . If you think this invitation was purposefully sent to disrespect your husband , maybe because of cast difference etc and they will continue to the same for future family gatherings , you should not go.

Good morning… you will love this forward… take time to read.

Good morning… you will love this forward… take time to read. My son called the police because he thought I had been kidnapped. He was tracking my phone location, and when he saw the blue dot blinking in the middle of the University District at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, he panicked. He screamed into the phone, "Dad! Who has you? Are you okay?" I laughed, taking a sip of cheap domestic beer. "Nobody has me, Robert. I’m just waiting for my turn at the microphone. They’re playing John Denver next." My name is Frank. I am 74 years old. And three months ago, I committed the most beautiful act of insanity of my entire life. I sold my four-bedroom suburban house—the one with the manicured lawn and the homeowner’s association fees—and I moved into a run-down, three-bedroom apartment with three college students. My family thought I had lost my mind. We sat down for a "crisis meeting" at a diner. My daughter-in-law, looking at me with that pitying gaze people reserve for toddlers and the senile, said, "Frank, be reasonable. This is a mid-life crisis, just thirty years too late." I looked her in the eye and said, "No, Karen. This isn’t a crisis of age. It’s a crisis of silence." You see, in America, we don’t talk enough about the silence. After my wife, Sarah, passed away two years ago, that big house in the suburbs didn’t feel like an achievement anymore. It felt like a tomb. It was as large as a stadium and as quiet as a library on a Sunday morning. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. It sat on my chest. I would watch the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun and realize the only voice I’d heard in three days was the news anchor on the television. I was dying. Not from heart disease or diabetes, but from the quiet. So, I put up the "For Sale" sign. I sold the riding mower, the formal dining set nobody sat at, and the china cabinet full of plates we never used. I packed two suitcases and answered an ad on a community board: “Roommate wanted. Must pay rent on time. No drama.” When I showed up at the door, the three kids—Jackson, Mia, and Leo—stared at me like I was a health inspector. Jackson, a tall kid with messy hair and a hoodie, blinked. "Uh, sir? Are you... the landlord?" "No," I said, handing him a six-pack of craft soda. "I’m Frank. I’m the new roommate. And I promise my check clears faster than yours." The first week was a culture shock. It was chaos. There was music thumping through the thin walls at midnight. There were shoes everywhere except the shoe rack. The kitchen sink looked like an archaeological dig site of dirty dishes from the Jurassic period. They were suspicious of me. On the first night, sitting in the living room on a couch that smelled vaguely of corn chips, Leo asked, "So, Frank... you got any... you know, issues? You gonna tell on us if we have people over?" I leaned back. "Kids, I survived the seventies. I’ve seen things that would make your hair curl. Unless you’re building a bomb or hurting someone, I didn't see a thing. But if you leave a milk carton empty in the fridge, we’re going to have words." Slowly, the dynamic shifted. I realized I wasn’t just the "old guy." I was the Keeper of the Order and the Master of the Skillet. These kids... they are so stressed. That’s something older folks don’t get. We think they’re lazy. They aren’t lazy; they are terrified. They are drowning in student loans, working gig jobs, and trying to pass classes. They eat instant noodles not because they love them, but because they cost fifty cents. I decided to intervene. One Tuesday, Jackson came home from a double shift, looking like a ghost. I had a pot roast slow-cooking for six hours. The smell hit him the moment he walked in. Real food. Meat, potatoes, carrots, rosemary. "Sit," I commanded. He ate three plates in silence. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes. "My mom used to make this," he whispered. That was the breaking point. I became the "House Pop." I wake them up when they sleep through their alarms for 8:00 AM exams. I taught Mia how to negotiate her car repair bill so the mechanic didn't rip her off. I showed Leo that you can actually iron a shirt instead of buying a new one. In exchange, they dragged me into the 21st century. They taught me how to use the "tap to pay" on my phone so I don't hold up the line counting change. They installed a music app for me and made me a playlist called Frank’s Jams. They taught me that "bet" means "yes" and "cap" means "lie." I used to think the younger generation was glued to their screens because they were antisocial. I was wrong. They are glued to them because they are searching for connection in a world that feels incredibly lonely. One Friday night, they told me to put on my best shirt. "We’re going out, Frank. No excuses." They took me to a dive bar near campus. Sticky floors, neon lights, and a crowd of twenty-somethings. When we walked in, Mia shouted to the bouncer, "He’s with us! He’s the OG!" "Don't worry," Jackson said, handing me a drink. "It’s karaoke night." I haven't sung in public since Sarah’s sister’s wedding in 1998. But the energy... it was infectious. The noise wasn't annoying; it was electricity. It was life. When they called my name, I walked up to the stage. I didn't choose a modern song. I chose John Denver, "Take Me Home, Country Roads." I started shaky. But then I looked at the crowd. I saw Jackson, Mia, and Leo holding up their phones, grinning like idiots. I belted it out. “Country roads, take me home...” The whole bar—two hundred college kids—stopped drinking and started singing with me. They wrapped their arms around each other, swaying. For three minutes, there was no generation gap. There was no "Boomer" or "Zoomer." There was just us, singing about belonging. Someone filmed it. Apparently, I am now "viral" on the video app. It has 400,000 likes. The top comment says: “I miss my grandpa so much. This guy is the vibe.” I pay my share of the rent. I do the dishes because I wake up earlier than everyone else. And once a week, I leave a hundred-dollar bill in the jar on the counter. I told them it’s for "Emergency Pizza Funds." They don't know that I know they use it to pay for textbooks. My son still asks me when I’m going to move into a "sensible" senior living community. He talks about safety, about stairs, about blood pressure monitors. I tell him no. "But Dad," he asks, "Don't you miss the house? Don't you miss the memories?" I look around the apartment. There’s a textbook on the floor. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on the table. Someone is laughing in the other room about a bad date. "No," I tell him. "The house held my memories, Robert. But memories are looking backward. Here, I have the noise. I have the mess. I have the future." I am 74 years old. My joints hurt when it rains, and I take three different pills in the morning. But tonight, we are making tacos, and Mia needs advice on her art project, and Jackson needs to learn how to tie a tie for an interview. I am not busy dying anymore. I am too busy living. If you are sitting in a big, silent house, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for permission to live... sell it. Find the noise. We aren't meant to fade away in the quiet. We are meant to sing "Country Roads" until our voices crack, surrounded by people who call us by our name, not our age.

I am a Miracle

Good Morning!!! Here’s Wishing You and Your Loved Ones A Very Happy & Prosperous New Year!!! Wish You All the Best for 2026!!! 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^*~*~*~*~* January 1, 2026 I am a Miracle The central fact of our lives today is the absolute certainty that our Creator has entered into our hearts and lives in a way which is indeed miraculous. He has commenced to accomplish those things for us which we could never do by ourselves. ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS, p. 25 This truly is a fact in my life today, and a real miracle. I always believed in God, but could never put that belief meaningfully into my life. Today, because of Alcoholics Anonymous, I now trust and rely on God, as I understand Him; I am sober today because of that! Learning to trust and rely on God was something I could never have done alone. I now believe in miracles because I am one! ************************************************* The Value of Human Will "Many newcomers, having experienced little but constant deflation, feel a growing conviction that human will is of no value whatever. They have become persuaded, sometimes rightly so, that many problems besides alcohol will not yield to a headlong assault powered only by the individual's will. "However, there are certain things which the individual alone can do. All by himself, and in the light of his own circumstances, he needs to develop the quality of willingness. When he acquires willingness, he is the only one who can then make the decision to exert himself along spiritual lines. Trying to do this is actually an act of his own will. It is a right use of this faculty. "Indeed, all of AA's Twelve Steps require our sustained and personal exertion to conform to their principles and so, we trust, to God's will." TWELVE AND TWELVE, P. 40

GURUDEV’s New Year 2026 *Message from Bad Antogast, Germany on New Year Eve satsang* ✨☘️☀️🩷💖🙏🏻🎉🌍💝🥳🪁🎄💗

GURUDEV’s New Year 2026 *Message from Bad Antogast, Germany on New Year Eve satsang* ✨☘️☀️🩷💖🙏🏻🎉🌍💝🥳🪁🎄💗 *Resolution for us to take* : (1) I am lucky (2) I am here or do some good seva (3) We all have to do something this year as Art of Living turns 45 - think of what you can do! (4) Sit back and see before and after you do any work as a witness, but act 100% when you’re doing the task. (5) Nirscles keep happening - give that hope to everyone around you. *All that begins, ends well and all that ends well, begins well*. ✨✨☘️ 2025 brought many gifts and lessons. Everything is revolutionary. You had moments that you didn’t want but somewhere all those happenings brought you some strength, wisdom and depth in you. You must acknowledge that instead of resisting or pushing under the carpet. All outside happenings are not you, you are separate from that. Now you step back and see how you became stronger and wiser. Foolish people get embroiled in it and regret the past which brings more anxiousness for the future. The wise or seekers say “Oh! This is just a happening and move on”. Do not get anxious about the future or regret the past . Learn to see things with this vision and your smile won’t be taken away from you. That’s the purpose of the spiritual path you are walking - to be able to see the reality from a different plane altogether. And 2025 brought many scientific evidences to this effect. Even if there’s little doubt , science has helped you to shun that. It’s a great step forward. Quantum mechanics 🧰 opened the eyes of people and today it is known that empty space is full of energy and our eyes can see only 0.003% of what existence is. This helps to acknowledge universal consciousness that you are a part of. And all this singing, chanting helps to uplift the place and life. Science has proved that you are not thinking, thoughts have their own field. An algorithm in your mind catches all thoughts - that’s how you get negative thoughts and positive thoughts. *In 2026 - put only positive thoughts out there*. Digging happens, bulldozer comes before construction - that’s how the world operates. *Some quick takeaways* to remember through *2026* ☘️☀️ 1. *Everyday, know that you are lucky*! That’s good enough to keep your spirits high.. 2. *I’m here to do some good work . I’ve come to this world as a giver, not a taker*. A giver is independent, a taker is not. A giver’s needs will always be taken care of. The world will like to see you as a generous, happy person. Continue to radiate that and do more of it.. never mind if you have some ups and downs. Our mind is an expert in creating misery even in the best of situations, and keeps reeling over it.. and feels that everyone else is wrong, only I’m right. I know you’ve gone through these phases over the last years but the practices and wisdom help you to sail over that. Either you go the route of science or spirituality but the idea is to converge at the same point : this is all nothing! And then you become happy 😃 But take responsibility yet keep yourself above the rut. 3. ⁠*AOL is entering into its 45th year in 2026* ✨✨✨💖 45 years back, people had so much reservations and cynicism towards meditation but today everyone know it’s very important. So we need to bring this to every home and individual. We will make our efforts this year towards that. 4. ⁠*There is no dearth of miracles. Just pray and it’ll happen* ✨🎉 Just look back over the years how many miracles have happened. Give hope to people in despair and encourage them or come out of their small mind, pain & depression. Know that you’re like doctors helping everyone around. 5. ⁠ So many *kids are blossoming with intuitive abilities* so there’s hope for the world. 🌍 There is another dimension to look into where life is eternal and blissful.

Is Surya more powerful than Indra?

Is Surya more powerful than Indra? It depends on how you view Surya as a diety . Almost every king of Solar dynasty defeated Indra and conquered heavens . Here's a list of solar kings who vanquished Indra. Mandhata Muchikunda Anaranya Raghu Dasaratha Indra as warrior would probably be superior to Surya as he was able to one shot vritra but Surya as whole entity is superior because even his grandsons defeated Indra in a battle.

FIRST, THE FOUNDATION

Thu 1 Jan, 23:24 (12 hours ago) to 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^*~*~*~*~* January 2, 2026 FIRST, THE FOUNDATION Is sobriety all that we can expect of a spiritual awakening? No, sobriety is only a bare beginning. As Bill Sees It, p. 8 Practicing the A.A. program is like building a house. First, I had to pour a big, thick concrete slab on which to erect the house; that, to me, was the equivalent of stopping drinking. But it’s pretty uncomfortable living on a concrete slab, unprotected and exposed to the heat, cold, wind and rain. So, I built a room on the slab by starting to practice the program. The first room was rickety because I wasn’t used to the work. But as time passed, as I practiced the program, I learned to build better rooms. The more I practiced, and the more I built, the more comfortable, and happy, was the home I now have to live in. ************************************************* WHEN INFANCY IS OVER "You must remember that every A.A. group starts, as it should, through the efforts of a single man and his friends -- a founder and his hierarchy. There is no other way. "But when infancy is over, the original leaders always have to make way for that democracy which springs up through the grass roots and will eventually sweep aside the self-chosen leadership of the past." Letter to Dr. Bob: "Everywhere the A.A. groups have taken their service affairs into their own hands. Local founders and their friends are now on the side lines. Why so many people forget that, when thinking of the future of our world services, I shall never understand. "The groups will eventually take over, and maybe they will squander their inheritance when they get it. It is probable, however, that they won't. Anyhow, they really have grown up; A.A. is theirs; let's give it to them." LETTERS - 1. 1950 - 2. 1949 ******* "I used to be a champ at unrealistic self-appraisal. I wanted to look only at the part of my life which seemed good. Then I would greatly exaggerate whatever virtues I supposed I had attained. Next, I would congratulate myself on the grand job I was doing. So, my unconscious self-deception never failed to turn my few good assets into serious liabilities. This astonishing process was always a pleasant one.... I was falling straight back into the pattern of my drinking days.... I shall forever regret the damage I did to people around me. Indeed, I still tremble when I realize what I might have done to AA and to its future." Bill W., June 1961 1988AAGrapevine, The Language of the Heart, pp. 256-7 Thought to consider...... When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.

*Live Life On Your Own Terms*

*Live Life On Your Own Terms* My son called the police because he thought I had been kidnapped. He was tracking my phone location, and when he saw the blue dot blinking in the middle of the University District at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, he panicked. He screamed into the phone, "Dad! Who has you? Are you okay?" I laughed, taking a sip of cheap domestic beer. "Nobody has me, Robert. I’m just waiting for my turn at the microphone. They’re playing John Denver next." My name is Frank. I am 74 years old. And three months ago, I committed the most beautiful act of insanity of my entire life. I sold my four-bedroom suburban house—the one with the manicured lawn and the homeowner’s association fees—and I moved into a run-down, three-bedroom apartment with three college students. My family thought I had lost my mind. We sat down for a "crisis meeting" at a diner. My daughter-in-law, looking at me with that pitying gaze people reserve for toddlers and the senile, said, "Frank, be reasonable. This is a mid-life crisis, just thirty years too late." I looked her in the eye and said, "No, Karen. This isn’t a crisis of age. It’s a crisis of silence." You see, in America, we don’t talk enough about the silence. After my wife, Sarah, passed away two years ago, that big house in the suburbs didn’t feel like an achievement anymore. It felt like a tomb. It was as large as a stadium and as quiet as a library on a Sunday morning. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. It sat on my chest. I would watch the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun and realize the only voice I’d heard in three days was the news anchor on the television. I was dying. Not from heart disease or diabetes, but from the quiet. So, I put up the "For Sale" sign. I sold the riding mower, the formal dining set nobody sat at, and the china cabinet full of plates we never used. I packed two suitcases and answered an ad on a community board: “Roommate wanted. Must pay rent on time. No drama.” When I showed up at the door, the three kids—Jackson, Mia, and Leo—stared at me like I was a health inspector. Jackson, a tall kid with messy hair and a hoodie, blinked. "Uh, sir? Are you... the landlord?" "No," I said, handing him a six-pack of craft soda. "I’m Frank. I’m the new roommate. And I promise my check clears faster than yours." The first week was a culture shock. It was chaos. There was music thumping through the thin walls at midnight. There were shoes everywhere except the shoe rack. The kitchen sink looked like an archaeological dig site of dirty dishes from the Jurassic period. They were suspicious of me. On the first night, sitting in the living room on a couch that smelled vaguely of corn chips, Leo asked, "So, Frank... you got any... you know, issues? You gonna tell on us if we have people over?" I leaned back. "Kids, I survived the seventies. I’ve seen things that would make your hair curl. Unless you’re building a bomb or hurting someone, I didn't see a thing. But if you leave a milk carton empty in the fridge, we’re going to have words." Slowly, the dynamic shifted. I realized I wasn’t just the "old guy." I was the Keeper of the Order and the Master of the Skillet. These kids... they are so stressed. That’s something older folks don’t get. We think they’re lazy. They aren’t lazy; they are terrified. They are drowning in student loans, working gig jobs, and trying to pass classes. They eat instant noodles not because they love them, but because they cost fifty cents. I decided to intervene. One Tuesday, Jackson came home from a double shift, looking like a ghost. I had a pot roast slow-cooking for six hours. The smell hit him the moment he walked in. Real food. Meat, potatoes, carrots, rosemary. "Sit," I commanded. He ate three plates in silence. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes. "My mom used to make this," he whispered. That was the breaking point. I became the "House Pop." I wake them up when they sleep through their alarms for 8:00 AM exams. I taught Mia how to negotiate her car repair bill so the mechanic didn't rip her off. I showed Leo that you can actually iron a shirt instead of buying a new one. In exchange, they dragged me into the 21st century. They taught me how to use the "tap to pay" on my phone so I don't hold up the line counting change. They installed a music app for me and made me a playlist called Frank’s Jams. They taught me that "bet" means "yes" and "cap" means "lie." I used to think the younger generation was glued to their screens because they were antisocial. I was wrong. They are glued to them because they are searching for connection in a world that feels incredibly lonely. One Friday night, they told me to put on my best shirt. "We’re going out, Frank. No excuses." They took me to a dive bar near campus. Sticky floors, neon lights, and a crowd of twenty-somethings. When we walked in, Mia shouted to the bouncer, "He’s with us! He’s the OG!" "Don't worry," Jackson said, handing me a drink. "It’s karaoke night." I haven't sung in public since Sarah’s sister’s wedding in 1998. But the energy... it was infectious. The noise wasn't annoying; it was electricity. It was life. When they called my name, I walked up to the stage. I didn't choose a modern song. I chose John Denver, "Take Me Home, Country Roads." I started shaky. But then I looked at the crowd. I saw Jackson, Mia, and Leo holding up their phones, grinning like idiots. I belted it out. “Country roads, take me home...” The whole bar—two hundred college kids—stopped drinking and started singing with me. They wrapped their arms around each other, swaying. For three minutes, there was no generation gap. There was no "Boomer" or "Zoomer." There was just us, singing about belonging. Someone filmed it. Apparently, I am now "viral" on the video app. It has 400,000 likes. The top comment says: “I miss my grandpa so much. This guy is the vibe.” I pay my share of the rent. I do the dishes because I wake up earlier than everyone else. And once a week, I leave a hundred-dollar bill in the jar on the counter. I told them it’s for "Emergency Pizza Funds." They don't know that I know they use it to pay for textbooks. My son still asks me when I’m going to move into a "sensible" senior living community. He talks about safety, about stairs, about blood pressure monitors. I tell him no. "But Dad," he asks, "Don't you miss the house? Don't you miss the memories?" I look around the apartment. There’s a textbook on the floor. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on the table. Someone is laughing in the other room about a bad date. "No," I tell him. "The house held my memories, Robert. But memories are looking backward. Here, I have the noise. I have the mess. I have the future." I am 74 years old. My joints hurt when it rains, and I take three different pills in the morning. But tonight, we are making tacos, and Mia needs advice on her art project, and Jackson needs to learn how to tie a tie for an interview. I am not busy dying anymore. I am too busy living. If you are sitting in a big, silent house, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for permission to live... sell it. Find the noise. We aren't meant to fade away in the quiet. We are meant to sing "Country Roads" until our voices crack, surrounded by people who call us by our name, not our age.