experience with CAT09!

hello and a warm greetings to all the readers.

normally, this blog acts as collection of various thoughtsand ideas, some of which are my own, and some of them caried or derived from internet.

this post, however talks about 1 of the most important event in my life, “entrance exam for IIM ” known as “CAT.”

IIM, is 1 of the leading management institution in india, and, to get admission, 1 has to go through somewhat tuff exam, which is basically common aptitude test.

the exam, mainly focuses on testing your presence of mind, logical reasoning and overall knowledge in subjects of mathematics, data interpretation, and english.

being in the category of differently able persons because of being visually challenged, according to IIM, i was allowed to bring scribe/writer with me.

he should be of lower qualification then me, and should not be appearing for CAT for this year, and next year.

i’ve been really working hard since last year for this examination, and fortunately, this year, the exam was changing its overall structure and pattern, and from a paper based objective test, it upgraded it self, and, news reads, “cat09 goes online!”

at first, i thought that they will let me use speech output softwares such as screen readers, and i will be able to give the exam on my own, but it turns out that still, there’s a time for extreme upgrades, and despite of the exam going on computers, i have to follow the traditional way, and arrange for scribe.

from going to bank, filling the application forum, getting scheduled for the exam, getting the admit card on email, the process was pretty easy, and everything just worked out to be perfect.

although arranging the perfect scribe, and establishing the coordination for exam is not that easy, and i’d really appreciate if in future such institutes like IIM provides screen readers or other software support enabling us to give the examination individually on our own.
luckily, i was able to find helpful and friendly scribe, and filled the scribe forum just a few days after submitting my own examination forum, and got the approval from IIM to bring him as my scribe.

and, finally, after so many days and nights of tiring studies, came the day when the exam was scheduled, 3rd December, 2009.

i chose the center to be gandhi nagar, amedabad, as it was nearest to udaipur, the place where i’m presently living for final year of my BCA.

reached the place well before time, and located the place where my exam center, Vishwakarma Government Engineering College was situated.

next was to find out nearest hotel, and book rooms for me, my scribe, and parents.

thanks to dad’s strong marketing network, rooms were booked well in advance in the nearest hotel.

the journey from udaipur to gandhinagar was overall good, but i was quiet for most of the time, as it was 1 of very important event of my life, and i wanted to perform at my best in it.

heck, couldn’t even sleep the night before the exam, scaring dreams and thoughts accompanied me the whole night.

at last, it was 6AM!
talked to nikita, 1 of my very good friend, got ready, and left for exam.

the exam time slot was fixed from 10 am, so had to check in the center at around 8 AM, and no late then 8:30 AM.

having near hotel helped for sure, and reached the center well on time.

the staff was really cooperative, got my and scribe’s documents checked and verified, and was allotted the workstation at around 8:30 AM.
my finger prints and picture was taken after a while, and the test begins.

as it was previously mentioned on IIM’s website, the timer started from 3 hours 30 mins instead of 2 hours 30 mins, as extra time is given to candidates who are appearing with their scribe.

now, the main thing, is the exam, which was not that hard overall.

attempted sufficient amount of questions from all 3 section, and the extra time was very well required.

i’m not disclosing any further specific detail of the exam as it is prohibited, but i can confidently say, that i can expect a good result.

tried my best, and gave the exam on satisfactory level.

the results will be declared on 22nd January, and i’ll definitely let you all know when it comes out.

i’d like to specially thank rajpal for being my scribe and for such a grate understanding and friendly support he gave me right from the preparation till the exam.

also, a big thank goes to my parents for supporting me in every possible way,
IMS udaipur for taking the responsibility of teaching me and trying various methods to make me grasp the concepts, and nikita for motivating me whenever i gave up or felt low, and many more peoples who were directly or indirectly involved in making me appear for CAT.

now, i’m off to take a well deserved brake, and relax for a while.
till i blog again, take care everybody!

Death of an Innocent.

Hello and belated very happy diwali to all.

diwali is, perhaps 1 of the biggest festival celebrated in india, and despite of being a festival of light, every year, because of careless and ignorant fokes, it brings a never ending darkness in to the life of many peoples.

celebrating the happy time together is grate, but please, do take care that your celebrations shouldn’t hurt others.

following is a poem, elaborating this fact in detail.

–
Death of an Innocent

Author:Elizabeth Beeson

I went to a party, Mom,
I remembered what you said.
You told me not to drink,
So I drank soda instead.

I really felt proud inside,
The way you said I would.
I didn’t drink and drive,
Even though the others said I should.

I know I did the right thing, Mom,
I know you are always right.
Now the party is finally ending,
As everyone is driving out of sight.

As I got into my car,
I knew I’d get home in one piece.
Because of the way you raised me,
So responsible and sweet.

I started to drive away, Mom,
But as I pulled out into the road,
The other car didn’t see me,
And hit me like a load.

As I lay there on the pavement,
I hear the policeman say,
“The other guy is drunk,”
And now I’m the one who will pay.

I’m lying here dying, Mom,
I wish you’d get here soon.
How could this happen to me?
My life just burst like a balloon.

There is blood all around me,
And most of it is mine.
I hear the medic say,
I’ll die in a short time.

I just wanted to tell you, Mom,
I swear I didn’t drink.
It was the others, Mom,
The others didn’t think.

The other guy was probably,
at the same party as I.
The only difference is, he drank
And I will die.

Why do people drink, Mom?
It can ruin your whole life.
I’m feeling sharp pains now,
Pains just like a knife.

The guy who hit me is walking,
And I don’t think it’s fair.
I’m lying here dying,
And all he can do is stare!

Tell my brother not to cry, Mom.
Tell Daddy to be brave.
And when I go to heaven,
Put “Daddy’s Girl” on my grave.

Someone should have told him,
Not to drink and drive.
If only they had told him,
I would still be alive.

My breath is getting shorter, Mom.
I’m becoming very scared.
Please don’t cry for me,
When I needed you, you were always there.

I have one last question,
Before I say good bye.
I didn’t drink and drive,
So why am I the one to die?

And, And, And.

–
And, And, And.

by: Robin L. Silverman, ,

Peeking out from the corner of my desk blotter is a note, slowly yellowing and bent from time.

It is a card from my mother, containing only four sentences, but with enough impact to change my life forever.

In it, she praises my abilities as a writer without qualification. Each sentence is full with love, offering specific examples of what my pursuit has meant
to her and my father.

The word “but” never appears on the card, however the word “and” is there almost a half dozen times.

Every time I read it–which is almost every day–I am reminded to ask myself if I am doing the same thing for my daughters. I’ve asked myself how many times
I’ve “but-ted” them, and me, out of happiness. I hate to say that it’s more often than I’d like to admit.

Although our eldest daughter usually got all A’s on her report card, there was never a semester when at least one teacher would not suggest that she talked
too much in class. I always forgot to ask them if she was making improvement in controlling her behavior, if her comments contributed to the discussion
in progress or encouraged a quieter child to talk. Instead, I would come home and greet her with, “Congratulations! Your Dad and I are very proud of your
accomplishment, but could you try to tone it down in class?”

The same was true of our younger daughter. Like her sister, she is a lovely, bright, articulate and friendly child. She also treats the floor of her room
and the bathroom as a closet, which has provoked me to say on more than one occasion, “Yes, that project is great, but clean up your room!”

I’ve noticed that other parents do the same thing. “Our whole family was together for Christmas, but Kyle skipped out early to play his new computer game.”
“The hockey team won, but Mike should have made that last goal.” “Amy’s the homecoming queen, but now she wants $200 to buy a new dress and shoes.” But,
but, but.

Instead, what I learned from my mother is that if you really want love to flow to your children, start thinking “and, and, and…” instead.

For example: “Our whole family was together for Christmas dinner, and Kyle mastered his new computer game before the night was through.” “The hockey team
won, and Mike did his best the whole game.” “Amy’s the homecoming queen, and she’s going to look gorgeous!”

The fact is that “but” feels bad — “and” feels good. And when it comes to our children, feeling good is definitely the way to go. When they feel good about
themselves and what they are doing, they do more of it, building their self-confidence, their judgment and their harmonious connections to others. When
everything they say, think or do is qualified or put down in some way, their joy sours and their anger soars.

This is not to say that children don’t need or won’t respond to their parents’ expectations. They do and they will, regardless of whether those expectations
are good or bad. When those expectations are consistently bright and positive and then are taught, modeled and expressed, amazing things happen. “I see
you made a mistake. And I know you are intelligent enough to figure out what you did wrong and make a better decision next time.” Or, “You’ve been spending
hours on that project, and I’d love to have you explain it to me.” Or, “We work hard for our money, and I know you can help figure out a way to pay for
what you want.”

It’s not enough just to say we love our children. In a time when frustration has grown fierce, we can no longer afford to limit love’s expression. If we
want to tone down the sound of violence in our society, we’re going to have to turn up the volume on noticing, praising, guiding and participating in what
is right with our children.

“No more buts!” is a clarion call for joy. It’s also a challenge, the opportunity fresh before us every day to put our attention on what is good and promising
about our children, and to believe with all our hearts that they will eventually be able to see the same in us and the people with whom they will ultimately
live, work and serve.

Assumed Identities

–
Assumed Identities

Author: Timothy David

I came home from school yesterday afternoon feeling sad and sorry for myself. My boyfriend of nearly two years had dumped me for an airheaded cheerleader.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. Our senior year is supposed to be special. Actually, he didn’t have the guts. Three of his jockey friends were more than
happy to relate the news to me. I hate all of them.

My heart was broken to say the least. There was nothing I hated more than being lonely. I walked home slowly from school on an old dirt road that paralleled
a shallow canal. It reaked of dying fish and dried up algae. The sun had been unrelenting for weeks. I stopped in front of the doorstep of my family’s
house, wiping my feet carefully on the welcome mat and brushing the dust off of my clothes.

“Why are you home from school so late young lady?” came the first thing out of my father’s mouth when I opened the door. It wasn’t a question. It was more
like an accusation.

I walked by him without saying a word. I wasn’t ready to deal with this

“Don’t you walk away from me! You are nothing but trouble, you know that? Go to your room right now.”

I gave him a ‘wish you were dead’ look and stampeded straight to my room. Good, that’s where I wanted to be anyway. My father had been so mean and discriminating
for many months now. I really couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore. I hated him at that moment too. I hated all men.

My bedroom door slammed shut and was locked right away. No way I was letting anyone in. I turned my computer on and took off my shoes as it connected to
the internet. I needed to talk to someone, anyone who would listen.

Making myself comfortable in a small swivel chair, I searched for a chat room for people locally. I found one easily and clicked on the romance section.
I needed to feel loved at that moment, even if it was all phony. When asked to enter a log-on name I typed in Lonely_Heart, for that’s what I was. There’s
no way I would ever give out my real name on the internet. Too many crazy people out there.

“Hello Lonely, what brings you here this afternoon?” came a message on my screen.

I looked closer for the name of this guy. Loneliness. “Well I see we have something in common. I just came to find someone to talk to,” I typed back in
my slow hunt-and-peck method.

“Same here,” came his quick reply. “What do you want to talk about?”

Then on the spur of the moment I just told him everything bad about my day and my life. The words came out freely and I really didn’t expect him to understand
my feelings. Men never understand.

“Just a minute,” he answered. “I need to do something really quick but I’ll be right back.” He wasn’t coming back. I didn’t blame him. Should have known
better than to think a man would listen to me.

There was a pounding on my bedroom door at that moment. I jumped up in my chair half-startled. “Tatiana?” came my father’s all too well known accusing voice.
“There’s leftovers in the refrigerator for supper when you get hungry. I’ll be in my study room if you need me.” And then he was gone. Good riddance.

“I know how you feel,” magically appeared on my screen a few seconds later. I couldn’t believe it. He really did come back. “I feel much the same way as
you do. My family hates me. I have no friends. They will never understand how much I really love them,” he typed quickly.

“Why don’t you just tell them?” I asked.

“I can’t.”

I decided not to push him any further about it. We made small talk about our feelings and what we wanted from life. This man did understand me. This conversation
was a blessing to me.

“Lonely, I’m dying.”

I didn’t quite understand. “What do you mean?” I asked eagerly.

“What I said. I’m dying and I’m scared.” There were no words exchanged for a minute or two. I knew what he was saying. I just didn’t want to believe it.

“How so?” I responded after an eternity.

“I went to doctor a few months ago. I have cancer. He said I might live for thirty days or thirty years. There’s just no way to tell.”

My heart suddenly dropped. Somehow I felt a special bond with this man. He was like an old friend. He couldn’t be dying. It just wasn’t fair.

“I don’t know what to say,” I answered back honestly.

“Don’t say anything. I haven’t told anyone yet. I am so scared and worried of what will become of my family. I love them so much.” Another silence. “And
they don’t even know it.”

There was an intolerable silence now. I glanced quickly at my watch. Somehow time had slipped by for morning had already arrived. Suddenly I knew what I
needed to do. I needed to meet this man in person to let him know that someone does care. His family was selfish to leave him feeling such despair.

“Loneliness?” I typed.

“Yes?”

“I have enjoyed this so much but I have to leave soon. I feel silly for asking this. Is there any way we can meet in person later today or this week?”

There was no hesitation this time. “I would like that very much. You do live in Sanderson right? Maybe we can meet at the coffee shop downtown?” he asked.

“Sure. Four o’clock this afternoon if you can make it.” I looked at my watch again. Nearly eight in the morning.

“Okay, it’s a date then,” came the seemingly cheerful reply.

“I can’t wait!” I typed in and said out loud at the same time. “Gotta run now though. Meet me at the little table by the front window. See ya then!” and
I shut the computer down quickly.

I stood up from the swivel chair and stretched for the first time in over twelve hours. I hadn’t gotten up for anything all night. By then I was starving
so I unlocked the bedroom door and headed for the kitchen in a daze. My little brother was there eating some kind of bran cereal. I just grabbed a couple
of bananas from the marble counter top and headed back to my room to get ready for the day.

I passed by Dad’s study room and saw the light creeping from under his door. I don’t think he ever went to sleep last night. Several times I could have
sworn I heard him laughing and mumbling to himself throughout the night. I doubt it though. I just wanted to get out of the house before he started yelling
and bickering again.

The day at school today seemed to go by pretty fast. I saw Jonathan, my ex-boyfriend, in the halls between some of my classes. He seemed happier than usual
but he didn’t have the nerve to look at me. I didn’t see his new girlfriend with him either. That didn’t matter to me though.

I was going to meet the nicest, kindest man I had ever known in just a few hours. I wrote him a letter during my study break. It was basically just to let
him know that someone did care and that he was loved. Even if it was only by me, a complete stranger.

The final bell at school finally rang. I saw Jonathan race down the halls like he was in a hurry to get somewhere. It was three forty-five now. I had fifteen
minutes to walk to the coffee shop downtown. It was less than a mile away. I was so scared all of the sudden. What if this man didn’t like me? What if
he was just some sick person who wanted to hurt me? What if he was twelve years old or eighty years old? It didn’t really matter I supposed. We were meeting
in a public place and I said I’d be there. Besides, I just knew deep down inside he was telling the truth. He was dying. He needed me.

I walked slowly down the gravel sidewalk to the coffee shop with my heart pounding furiously every step of the way. It was a mile long but it seemed much
shorter now. I was getting there too fast. I pulled my arm close to my face and looked at my watch. Three fifty-five.

The coffee shop was almost empty when I finally stepped inside its swinging doors. No one was in the seat by the front window. I told the man behind the
counter that I was just waiting for a friend. He smiled and nodded slightly.

I slid into one of the seats by the front window with my back to the door. Two minutes after four. My new friend wasn’t coming. I was disappointed but a
little relieved too.

Then I heard the little bell above the front door ring wildly. Someone had stepped in. I didn’t dare turn around to see who it was. Maybe this was the moment
of truth.

There was a strong hand on my shoulder then. It was him. I couldn’t breathe. He spoke the name he knew me by softly, almost like he was crying. “Lonely_Heart.”

I finally had the courage to look up at him directly in the eyes. He was crying. His right hand was covering his forehead like he was lost from the world.

Then I cried with him. We hugged and sat there for hours just enjoying each other’s company. There wasn’t a single moment when tears weren’t shed. This
man was perfect. This man was my father.

Just listen.

–
Just listen.

by: Rachel Naomi Remen.

I suspect that the most basic and powerful way to connect to another person is to listen. Just listen. Perhaps the most important thing we ever give each
other is our attention. And especially if it’s given from the heart. When people are talking, there’s no need to do anything but receive them. Just take
them in. Listen to what they’re saying. Care about it. Most times caring about it is even more important than understanding it. Most of us don’t value
ourselves or our love enough to know this. It has taken me along time to believe in the power of simple saying, “I’m so sorry,” when someone is in pain.
And meaning it.

One of my patients told me that when she tried to tell her story people often interrupted to tell her that they once had something just like that happen
to them. Subtly her pain became a story about themselves. Eventually she stopped talking to most people. It was just too lonely. We connect through listening.
When we interrupt what someone is saying to let them know that we understand, we move the focus of attention to ourselves. When we listen, they know we
care. Many people with cancer can talk about the relief of having someone just listen.

I have even learned to respond to someone crying by just listening. In the old days I used to reach for the tissues, until I realized that passing a person
a tissue may be just another way to shut them down, to take them out of their experience of sadness and grief. Now I just listen. When they have cried
all they need to cry, they find me there with them.

This simple thing has not been that easy to learn. It certainly went against everything I had been taught since I was very young. I thought people listened
only because they were too timid to speak or did not know the answer. A loving silence often has far more power to heal and to connect than the most well
intentioned words.

Help for the Helper

–
Help for the Helper

author: Marlena Thompson.

At age eighteen, I left my home in Brooklyn, New York, and went off to study history at Leeds University in Yorkshire, England. It was an exciting but stressful
time in my life, for while trying to adjust to the novelty of unfamiliar surroundings, I was still learning to cope with the all-too- familiar pain of
my father’s recent death — an event with which I had not yet come to terms.

While at the market one day, trying to decide which bunch of flowers would best brighten up my comfortable but colorless student digs, I spied an elderly
gentleman having difficulty holding onto his walking stick and his bag of apples. I rushed over and relieved him of the apples, giving him time to regain
his balance.

“Thanks, luv,” he said in that distinctive Yorkshire lilt I never tire of hearing. “I’m quite all right now, not to worry,” he said, smiling at me not only
with his mouth but with a pair of dancing bright blue eyes.

“May I walk with you?” I inquired. “Just to make sure those apples don’t become sauce prematurely.”

He laughed and said, “Now, you are a long way from home, lass. From the States, are you?”

“Only from one of them. New York. I’ll tell you all about it as we walk.”

So began my friendship with Mr. Burns, a man whose smile and warmth would very soon come to mean a great deal to me.

As we walked, Mr. Burns (whom I always addressed as such and never by his first name) leaned heavily on his stick, a stout, gnarled affair that resembled
my notion of a biblical staff. When we arrived at his house, I helped him set his parcels on the table and insisted on lending a hand with the preparations
for his “tea” — that is, his meal. I interpreted his weak protest as gratitude for the assistance.

After making his tea, I asked if it would be all right if I came back and visited with him again. I thought I’d look in on him from time to time, to see
if he needed anything. With a wink and a smile he replied, “I’ve never been one to turn down an offer from a good-hearted lass.”

I came back the next day, at about the same time, so I could help out once more with his evening meal. The great walking stick was a silent reminder of
his infirmity, and, though he never asked for help, he didn’t protest when it was given. That very evening we had our first “heart to heart.” Mr. Burns
asked about my studies, my plans, and, mostly, about my family. I told him that my father had recently died, but I didn’t offer much else about the relationship
I’d had with him. In response, he gestured toward the two framed photographs on the end table next to his chair. They were pictures of two different women,
one notably older than the other. But the resemblance between the two was striking.

“That’s Mary,” he said, indicating the photograph of the older woman. “She’s been gone for six years. And that’s our Alice. She was a very fine nurse. Losing
her was too much for my Mary.”

I responded with the tears I hadn’t been able to shed for my own pain. I cried for Mary. I cried for Alice. I cried for Mr. Burns. And I cried for my father
to whom I never had the chance to say good-bye.

I visited with Mr. Burns twice a week, always on the same days and at the same time. Whenever I came, he was seated in his chair, his walking stick propped
up against the wall. Mr. Burns owned a small black-and-white television set, but he evidently preferred his books and phonograph records for entertainment.
He always seemed especially glad to see me. Although I told myself I was delighted to be useful, I was happier still to have met someone to whom I could
reveal those thoughts and feelings that, until then, I’d hardly acknowledged to myself.

While fixing the tea, our chats would begin. I told Mr. Burns how terribly guilty I felt about not having been on speaking terms with my father the two
weeks prior to his death. I’d never had the chance to ask my father’s forgiveness. And he had never had the chance to ask for mine.

Although Mr. Burns talked, he allowed me the lion’s share. Mostly I recall him listening. But how he listened! It wasn’t just that he was attentive to what
I said. It was as if he were reading me, absorbing all the information I provided, and adding details from his own experience and imagination to create
a truer understanding of my words.

After about a month, I decided to pay my friend a visit on an “off day.” I didn’t bother to telephone as that type of formality did not seem requisite in
our relationship. Coming up to the house, I saw him working in his garden, bending with ease and getting up with equal facility. I was dumbfounded. Could
this be the same man who used that massive walking stick?

He suddenly looked in my direction. Evidently sensing my puzzlement over his mobility, he waved me over, looking more than a bit sheepish. I said nothing,
but accepted his invitation to come inside.

“Well, luv. Allow me to make you a ‘cuppa’ this time. You look all done in.”

“How?” I began. “I thought…”

“I know what you thought, luv. When you first saw me at the market…well, I’d twisted my ankle a bit earlier in the day. Tripped on a stone while doing
a bit of gardening. Always been a clumsy fool.”

“But…when were you able to…walk normally again?”

Somehow, his eyes managed to look merry and contrite at the same time. “Ah, well, I guess that’ll be the very next day after our first meeting.”

“But why?” I asked, truly perplexed. Surely he couldn’t have been feigning helplessness to get me to make him his tea every now and then.

“That second time you came ’round, luv, it was then I saw how unhappy you were. Feeling lonely and sad about your dad and all. I thought, well, the lass
could use a bit of an old shoulder to lean on. But I knew you were telling yourself you were visiting me for my sake and not your own. Didn’t think you’d
come back if you knew I was fit. And I knew you were in sore need of someone to talk to. Someone older, older than your dad, even. And someone who knew
how to listen.”

“And the stick?”

“Ah. A fine stick, that. I use it when I walk the moors. We must do that together soon.”

So we did. And Mr. Burns, the man I’d set out to help, helped me. He’d made a gift of his time, bestowing attention and kindness to a young girl who needed
both.

Saying it with silence.

–
Saying it with silence

Author unknown.

There was this very beautiful line that I read in Orhan Pamuk’s novel, ‘My Name Is Red’. He wrote about a blind man watching the snowfall and smiling to himself. That line stayed with me for a long, long time.
How could a blind man watch the snow?

I pondered. I know that when the sight is taken away, the other senses become sharper. The blind man must have felt the cold air around him with the tiny
snowflakes brushing his cheek; he must have caught a puffy, wet ball in his hand and had felt it melt in his palms. But did he hear the snow falling?

Somehow I believe that he actually listened to the snowfall, more than he felt it. He must have listened to the silence of the falling snow.
He listened, because he was silent inside, in his own wonderful and special way.

Often silence makes people uncomfortable, accustomed as they are to the noise and commotion of the world, but silence is all about coming home to ourselves.

When we sit in silence we relax and slip into an exquisite nothingness. We look within and drop our opinionated mind and learn to feel everything around
us more deeply.

When the incessant chatter of the mind stops and we let the quietness around submerge us, something sacred is born within. Nietzsche said that our greatest
experiences are our quietest moments.

Needless to say, it is only in silence that we are capable of listening. Like that blind man watching the snowfall and smiling to himself, we learn to
listen more when we are silent.

Silence is the basic ingredient for entering into our intuitive mind and to resist the cacophony of meaningless noises outside.

It is interesting to note how Silent and Listen have same letters but are arranged differently.

We humans have a tendency to talk more and listen less; much of it is because we have forgotten the art of waiting and allowing ourselves to grow silent
within.

Nature has no trouble in remembering this art. Nature thrives on silence. We never hear the footsteps of moon when it appears on the sky. We don’t hear
a loud bang when the sun comes out and the stars burst open in the sky. Their arrival is always wrapped in a glorious silence. Look how the tree knows
it! It remains bare, beautiful and still; waiting for the new leaves, knowing that the old has gone and the new will soon be coming. The tree waits in
silence.

Just like tree, when we are silent and waiting, something beautiful inside us keeps on growing and it is this stillness and silence that gives birth to
creativity.

Often it happens that when we wait in silence, life rushes back to fill those crevices in our souls. There are times when silence becomes the most potent
way of communication and is more effective than words.
We all have at least one memory when we have faced that eloquent silence of our elders such as parents or teachers when we have felt a cold fear at the
bristling silence of their fury. When their silence had scared us more than angry words. When just one quiet look had had us behaving better than a harsh
reprimand or scolding.

Lovers all over the world are said to communicate with silence.
Understand each other’s silence. The famous telepathy between two people who have strong feelings for each other happens in a compelling silence.

In a business world the salesmen are taught the art of persuasive silence. After he has urged the potential client to buy some product and the customer
is contemplating quietly over what the salesman has described, the well trained salesman remains absolutely silent during this important hiatus. Often
he gains his sale by using this important tool.

Undeniably, silence needs a special kind of power and authority of mind and saying it with silence needs a certain ‘command of language’.
To say nothing is often more difficult than expressing the anger, love and betrayal with words.

However, being silent with a natural and calm stillness within is like a spiritual reflex. Analyze it too much or think too much about it and it degenerates
itself into something superficial and edgy. If we become self-conscious about silence then we begin to work against it.
We rush to fill it with inane talks and nervous gestures, and the silence loses its value.

But we can certainly develop this powerful way of communicating by practicing a calm mind. By realizing that between stimulus and response, there is a
space and in that space is our power to choose our response because in our response lies our growth and our freedom.
That “space” is …. silence.

Two days.

–
Two days.

There are two days in every week about which we should not worry,
  two days which should be kept free from fear and apprehension.

One of these days is Yesterday with all its mistakes and cares,
  its faults and blunders, its aches and pains.

Yesterday has passed forever beyond our control.
  All the money in the world cannot bring back Yesterday.

We cannot undo a single act we performed;
  we cannot erase a single word we said.
Yesterday is gone forever.

The other day we should not worry about is Tomorrow
  with all its possible adversities, its burdens,
its large promise and its poor performance;
  Tomorrow is also beyond our immediate control.

Tomorrow’s sun will rise,
  either in splendor or behind a mask of clouds, but it will rise.
Until it does, we have no stake in Tomorrow,
  for it is yet to be born.

This leaves only one day, Today.
  Any person can fight the battle of just one day.
It is when you and I add the burdens of those two awful eternities
  Yesterday and Tomorrow that we break down.

It is not the experience of Today that drives a person mad,
  it is the remorse or bitterness of something which happened Yesterday and the dread of what Tomorrow may bring.

  Let us, therefore, Live but one day at a time.

–
Today I smiled,
and all at once things didn’t look so bad,

Today I shared with someone else,
a bit of hope I had.

Today I sang a little song,
and felt my heart grow light,

And walked a happy little mile,
with not a cloud in sight.

Today I worked with what I had,
and longed for nothing more,

And what had seemed like only weeds,
were flowers at my door.

Today I loved a little more,
and complained a little less,

And in the giving of myself,
I forgot my weariness!!

Embrace Imperfection.

–
Embrace Imperfection

Author unknown.

When I was a little girl, my mom liked to make breakfast 
food for dinner every now and then. And I remember one night in 
particular when she had made breakfast after a long, hard day at work. 
 
On that evening so long ago, my mom placed a plate of eggs, sausage,
and extremely burned toast in front of my dad. I remember waiting to see
if anyone noticed! Yet, all my dad did was reached for his toast, smiled
at my mom, and asked me how my day was at school. 
 
I don’t remember what I told him that night, but I do remember
watching him smear butter and jelly on that toast and eat every bite! When I got up from the table that evening, I remember hearing my mom apologize to my
dad for burning the toast. And I’ll never forget what he said:
“Baby, I love burned toast.” 
 
Later that night, I went to kiss Daddy good night and I asked him if
he really liked his toast burned. He wrapped me in his arms and said, 
“Debbie, your mommy put in a hard day at work today and she’s real 
tired. And besides, a little burnt toast never hurt anyone!” 
 
In bed that night, I thought about that scene at dinner…and the 
kindness my daddy showed my mom. To this day, it’s a cherished memory  from my childhood that I’ll never forget. And it’s one that came to mind just recently
when Jack and I sat down to eat dinner. 
 
I had arrived home late…as usual…and decided we would have
breakfast food for dinner. Some things never change, I suppose! 
 
To my amazement, I found the ingredients I needed, and quickly began
to cook eggs, turkey sausage, and buttered toast. Thinking I had things 
under control, I glanced through the mail for the day. It was only a
few minutes later that I remembered that I had forgotten to take the toast out of the oven! 
 
Now, had it been any other day — and had we had more than two pieces
of bread in the entire house — I would have started all over. But it had 
been one of those days and I had just used up the last two pieces of 
bread. So burnt toast it was! 
 
As I set the plate down in front of Jack, I waited for a comment about 
the toast. But all I got was a “Thank you!” I watched as he ate bite
by bite, all the time waiting for some comment about the toast. But 
instead, all Jack said was, “Babe, this is great. Thanks for cooking 
tonight. I know you had a hard day.” 
 
As I took a bite of my charred toast that night, I thought about my
mom and dad…how burnt toast hadn’t been a deal-breaker for them. And I 
quietly thanked God for giving me a marriage where burnt toast wasn’t
a deal-breaker either! 
 
You know, life is full of imperfect things…and imperfect people. I’m 
not the best housekeeper or cook. And you might be surprised to find
out that Jack isn’t the perfect husband! He likes to play his music too 
loud, he will always find a way to avoid yard work, and he watches far 
too many sports. Believe it or not, watching ” Golf Academy ” is not my 
idea of a great night at home! 
 
But somehow in the past 37 years Jack and I have learned to accept the 
imperfections in each other. Over time, we have stopped trying to make  each other in our own mold and have learned to celebrate our 
differences. You might say that we’ve learned to love each other for
who we really are!

If you think.

–
If you think.

If you think you are beaten, you are,
If you think you dare not, you don’t,
If you’d like to win, but you think you can’t,
It’s almost certain you won’t!

If you think you’ll lose, you’re lost,
For out in the world we find,
Success begins with a fellow’s will,
It’s all in the state of mind!

If you think you’re outclassed, you are,
You’ve got to think high to rise,
You’ve got to be sure of yourself,
Before you’ll ever win the prize!

Life’s battles don’t always go,
To the stronger or faster man,
But sooner or later the man who wins,
Is the one who thinks he can!