August 23, 2016
Love in Bloom
I was nine when my father first sent me flowers. I had been taking tapdancing lessons for six months, and the school was giving its yearly recital. As an excited member of the beginners' chorus line, I was aware of my lowly status .
So it was a surprise to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead dancers and to find my arms full of long-stemmed red roses. I can still feel myself standing on that stage, blushing furiously and gazing over the footlights to see my father's grin as he applauded loudly.
Those roses were the first in a series of large bouquets that accompanied all the milestones in my life. They brought a sense of embarrassment. I enjoyed them, but was flustered by the extravagance.
Not my father. He did everything in a big way. If you sent him to the bakery for a cake, he came back with three. Once, when Mother told him I needed a new party dress, he brought home a dozen.
His behavior often left us without funds for other more important things. After the dress incident, there was no money for the winter coat I really needed--or the new ice skates I wanted .
Sometimes I would be angry with him, but not for long. Inevitably he would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was so apparently an offering of love he could not verbalize that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him--an act that undoubtedly perpetuated his behavior.
Then came my 16th birthday. It was not a happy occasion. I was fat and had no boyfriend. And my well-meaning parents furthered my misery by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet of flowers, bigger than any before.
I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father had sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet 16, and I felt like crying. I probably would have, but my best friend, Phyllis, whispered, "Boy, you're lucky to have a father like that Online Reputation Management.
As the years passed, other occasions--birthdays, recitals, awards, graduations--were marked with Dad's flowers. My emotions continued to seesaw between pleasure and embarrassment.
When I graduated from college, though, my days of ambivalence were over. I was embarking on a new career and was engaged to be married. Dad's flowers symbolized his pride, and my triumph. They evoked only great pleasure.
Now there were bright-orange mums for Thanksgiving and a huge pink poinsettia at Christmas. White lilies at Easter, and velvety red roses for birthdays. Seasonal flowers in mixed bouquets celebrated the births of my children and the move to our first house.
As my fortunes grew, my father's waned, but his gifts of flowers continued until he died of a heart attack a few months before his 70th birthday. Without embarrassment, I covered his coffin with the largest, reddest roses I could find.
Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. I knew it would not be the same.
Then one birthday, the doorbell rang. I was feeling blue because I was alone. My husband was playing golf, and my two daughters were away. My 13-year-old son, Matt, had run out earlier with a "see you later," never mentioning my birthday. So I was surprised to see his large frame at the door. "Forgot my key," he said, shrugging. "Forgot your birthday too. Well, I hope you like flowers, Mum." He pulled a bunch of daisies from behind his back.
"Oh, Matt," I cried, hugging him hard. "I love flowers!"
So it was a surprise to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead dancers and to find my arms full of long-stemmed red roses. I can still feel myself standing on that stage, blushing furiously and gazing over the footlights to see my father's grin as he applauded loudly.
Those roses were the first in a series of large bouquets that accompanied all the milestones in my life. They brought a sense of embarrassment. I enjoyed them, but was flustered by the extravagance.
Not my father. He did everything in a big way. If you sent him to the bakery for a cake, he came back with three. Once, when Mother told him I needed a new party dress, he brought home a dozen.
His behavior often left us without funds for other more important things. After the dress incident, there was no money for the winter coat I really needed--or the new ice skates I wanted .
Sometimes I would be angry with him, but not for long. Inevitably he would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was so apparently an offering of love he could not verbalize that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him--an act that undoubtedly perpetuated his behavior.
Then came my 16th birthday. It was not a happy occasion. I was fat and had no boyfriend. And my well-meaning parents furthered my misery by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet of flowers, bigger than any before.
I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father had sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet 16, and I felt like crying. I probably would have, but my best friend, Phyllis, whispered, "Boy, you're lucky to have a father like that Online Reputation Management.
As the years passed, other occasions--birthdays, recitals, awards, graduations--were marked with Dad's flowers. My emotions continued to seesaw between pleasure and embarrassment.
When I graduated from college, though, my days of ambivalence were over. I was embarking on a new career and was engaged to be married. Dad's flowers symbolized his pride, and my triumph. They evoked only great pleasure.
Now there were bright-orange mums for Thanksgiving and a huge pink poinsettia at Christmas. White lilies at Easter, and velvety red roses for birthdays. Seasonal flowers in mixed bouquets celebrated the births of my children and the move to our first house.
As my fortunes grew, my father's waned, but his gifts of flowers continued until he died of a heart attack a few months before his 70th birthday. Without embarrassment, I covered his coffin with the largest, reddest roses I could find.
Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. I knew it would not be the same.
Then one birthday, the doorbell rang. I was feeling blue because I was alone. My husband was playing golf, and my two daughters were away. My 13-year-old son, Matt, had run out earlier with a "see you later," never mentioning my birthday. So I was surprised to see his large frame at the door. "Forgot my key," he said, shrugging. "Forgot your birthday too. Well, I hope you like flowers, Mum." He pulled a bunch of daisies from behind his back.
"Oh, Matt," I cried, hugging him hard. "I love flowers!"
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August 09, 2016
Failure Is a Good Thing
Last week, my granddaughter started kindergarten, and, as is conventional, I wished her success. I was lying. What I actually wish for her is failure. I believe in the power of failure.
Success is boring. Success is proving that you can do something that you already know you can do, or doing something correctly the first time, which can often be a problematical victory. First-time success is usually a fluke. First-time failure, by contrast, is expected; it is the natural order of things reenex è† åŽŸè‡ªç”Ÿ.
Failure is how we learn. I have been told of an African phrase describing a good cook as "she who has broken many pots." If you've spent enough time in the kitchen to have broken a lot of pots, probably you know a fair amount about cooking. I once had a late dinner with a group of chefs, and they spent time comparing knife wounds and burn scars. They knew how much credibility their failures gave them reenex cps.
I earn my living by writing a daily newspaper column. Each week I am aware that one column is going to be the worst column of the week. I don't set out to write it; I try my best every day. Still, every week, one column is inferior to the others, sometimes spectacularly so.
I have learned to cherish that column. A successful column usually means that I am treading on familiar ground, going with the tricks that work, preaching to the choir or dressing up popular sentiments in fancy words. Often in my inferior columns, I am trying to pull off something I've never done before, something I'm not even sure can be done.
My younger daughter is a trapeze artist. She spent three years putting together an act. She did it successfully for years with the Cirque du Soleil. There was no reason for her to change the act—but she did anyway. She said she was no longer learning anything new and she was bored; and if she was bored, there was no point in subjecting her body to all that stress. So she changed the act. She risked failure and profound public embarrassment in order to feed her soul. And if she can do that 15 feet in the air, we all should be able to do it reenex facial.
My granddaughter is a perfectionist, probably too much of one. She will feel her failures, and I will want to comfort her. But I will also, I hope, remind her of what she learned, and how she can do whatever it is better next time. I probably won't tell her that failure is a good thing, because that's not a lesson you can learn when you're five. I hope I can tell her, though, that it's not the end of the world. Indeed, with luck, it is the beginning.
Success is boring. Success is proving that you can do something that you already know you can do, or doing something correctly the first time, which can often be a problematical victory. First-time success is usually a fluke. First-time failure, by contrast, is expected; it is the natural order of things reenex è† åŽŸè‡ªç”Ÿ.
Failure is how we learn. I have been told of an African phrase describing a good cook as "she who has broken many pots." If you've spent enough time in the kitchen to have broken a lot of pots, probably you know a fair amount about cooking. I once had a late dinner with a group of chefs, and they spent time comparing knife wounds and burn scars. They knew how much credibility their failures gave them reenex cps.
I earn my living by writing a daily newspaper column. Each week I am aware that one column is going to be the worst column of the week. I don't set out to write it; I try my best every day. Still, every week, one column is inferior to the others, sometimes spectacularly so.
I have learned to cherish that column. A successful column usually means that I am treading on familiar ground, going with the tricks that work, preaching to the choir or dressing up popular sentiments in fancy words. Often in my inferior columns, I am trying to pull off something I've never done before, something I'm not even sure can be done.
My younger daughter is a trapeze artist. She spent three years putting together an act. She did it successfully for years with the Cirque du Soleil. There was no reason for her to change the act—but she did anyway. She said she was no longer learning anything new and she was bored; and if she was bored, there was no point in subjecting her body to all that stress. So she changed the act. She risked failure and profound public embarrassment in order to feed her soul. And if she can do that 15 feet in the air, we all should be able to do it reenex facial.
My granddaughter is a perfectionist, probably too much of one. She will feel her failures, and I will want to comfort her. But I will also, I hope, remind her of what she learned, and how she can do whatever it is better next time. I probably won't tell her that failure is a good thing, because that's not a lesson you can learn when you're five. I hope I can tell her, though, that it's not the end of the world. Indeed, with luck, it is the beginning.
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July 12, 2016
Add luster to your personality
In the eternal universe, every human being has a one-off chance to live --his existence is unique and irretrievable, for the mold with which he was made, as Rousseau said, was broken by God immediately afterwards nu skin.
Fame, wealth and knowledge are merely worldly possessions that are within the reach of anybody striving for them. But your experience of and feelings about life are your own and not to be shared. No one can live your life over again after your death. A full awareness of this will point out to you that the most important thing in your existence is your distinctive individuality or something special of yours. What really counts is not your worldly success but your peculiar insight into the meaning of life and your commitment to it, which add luster to your personality nu skin.
It is not easy to be what one really is. There is many a person in the world who can be identified as anything either his job, his status or his social role that shows no trace about his individuality. It does do him justice to say that he has no identity of his own, if he doesn't know his own mind and all his things are either arranged by others or done on others' sugg estions; if his life, always occupied by external things, is completely void of an inner world. You won't be able to find anything whatever, from head to heart, that truly belongs to him nu skin. He is, indeed, no more than a shadow cast by somebody else or a machine capable of doing business.
Fame, wealth and knowledge are merely worldly possessions that are within the reach of anybody striving for them. But your experience of and feelings about life are your own and not to be shared. No one can live your life over again after your death. A full awareness of this will point out to you that the most important thing in your existence is your distinctive individuality or something special of yours. What really counts is not your worldly success but your peculiar insight into the meaning of life and your commitment to it, which add luster to your personality nu skin.
It is not easy to be what one really is. There is many a person in the world who can be identified as anything either his job, his status or his social role that shows no trace about his individuality. It does do him justice to say that he has no identity of his own, if he doesn't know his own mind and all his things are either arranged by others or done on others' sugg estions; if his life, always occupied by external things, is completely void of an inner world. You won't be able to find anything whatever, from head to heart, that truly belongs to him nu skin. He is, indeed, no more than a shadow cast by somebody else or a machine capable of doing business.
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May 05, 2016
About Youth and Age
　This year, there are many movies about in honor of people’s fading youth, the movies are very popular by the audience. Suddenly the topic about youth becomes a hot topic, many people collect the symbol things which stand for their youth, they are remembering their youth. For the young, they you enjoying the beautiful lifetime, while for the old, they are just recalling it. On my opinion, youth is nothing to do with the age, we can enjoy the youth all the time. The movies recall people’s memory, if people are active, they can be young forever, there is no need to look back on the memory. When people get older, they can live as the young, they don’t have to be act as the old, people get old when they think they are old. There is a famous song Forever Young, it reminds people to keep young at heart.
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April 18, 2016
Mood to you with my interpretation of ambiguous
Me and you, men and women, no one can not escape the love
In urban life, the men and women, inadvertently ambiguous up on HKUE DSE.
We are all secular men and women, we suspect that love, fear of love, no love, but we can not stop, without exception, love, longing and expectation.
In this restless age, just below the calm of life, surging undercurrent.
As we dressed the exterior, all harbored a restless evil. Notices over ceremony, gentle and well-behaved exterior hides the heart Each and turbulent, always looking forward to unusual things happen, ready to break the status quo, always waiting for rebellion or derailment HKUE DSE.
But we must also admit that ambitious yet timid as a mouse, although we have a thousand 10 thousand kinds of wonderful assumptions, but still honestly squatted in situ to rest.
We could not bear being careful to build those, we fear that the shackles of responsibility, emotional entanglement.
At a certain moment, you may appear in a moment in my life stop or stay, we flirt, we are emotional, but we never love each other.
We may one day, in a strange street rub shoulders, you do not know me, I do not know you, but we are attracted each other, and we deeply on the TV, or keep back, we use eye contact, but in the end disappearing in the sea. Nothing more.
We may encounter a particular section of the journey, we meet by chance, but the Brief Encounter, so we talked freely, and we license to happiness, we were almost in front of each other perfectly, from each other, we even found a young recovery, however, we only companion. Nothing more.
We may meet in an unknown bar, the bar touching the music, ambiguous light, we have never met before, and we were still closer inspection, then, you came to me and said that we can chat about it? So, we say something ambiguous, paradoxical, we tease each other, then their left. Nothing more HKUE ENG.
We may be known for years friends have married, but has a hint of lingering feeling in their hearts, and we call each other brothers, or as a beautiful woman, blue Yan know already, we can talk about anything, we care for each other, we were feeling, However, we still do not reveal a relationship that, during his lifetime, so the mixing. Nothing more.
We may meet in the virtual network across the screen, we were each other's language or attracted to something unique, we do not meet, do not speak, do not know each other's face, there is a feeling in each other silently flowing stretch, we find each other and they are connected as a consonance, we even find each other is our most rhyme tune the right person, but we do not down the network because, in real life, you're not Prince, I am not a princess. Nothing more.
We need to feel love and be loved, like the kind of mix of love and enjoy the warmth of the feeling that no third parties can understand each other in addition to the kind of bitter and a touch of melancholy, happiness and joy hidden.
We love love love love indulging in the kind, was removed in love, in love, enjoy, in love, longing, and even cry in the process of love, but love does not love clean up chicken feathers left over from one place.
Only this, enough is enough.
Love is how complex and trivial things, we understand that all the love, no matter how much is a fresh start, and sweet, to the last injury and will become heavy.
We are all much experience of men and women, therefore, have learned to love and stay aloof, learn from life to avoid the harm that could have, we have lost the love and selfless courage.
Because we all know, love is to hurt our only weapon against unemployment.
Only this, enough is enough.
Ambiguous in ordinary life is the passion of the swap, in which the body, grasp the level of attainment enjoyed.
But the end can not eat spices.
Love is like cigarettes and alcohol, feeling less able Plaza, as many as pernicious to health.
Therefore, we flirt, we have an ambiguous, but never love.
Flirt, ambiguous, not love.
Love is not love, never worse.
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