The Sunrise Coffee

domingo, 23 de dezembro de 2012

Christmas' story



For The Man Who Hated Christmas

It’s just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas--oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it--overspending... the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn’t think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler’s ears.
It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn’t acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, “I wish just one of them could have won,” he said. “They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That’s when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.
For each Christmas, I followed the tradition--one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn’t end there.
You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down the envelope.
Mike’s spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.
Nancy W. Gavin
This true story was originally published in the December 14, 1982 issue of Woman's Day magazine. It was the first place winner out of thousands of entries in the magazine's "My Most Moving Holiday Tradition" contest in which readers were asked to share their favorite holiday tradition and the story behind it. The story inspired a family from Atlanta, Georgia to start The White Envelope Project and Giving 101, a non profit organization dedicated to educating youth about the importance of giving.

Bob proctor's website: http://bobproctor.com/
                                         http://www.insightoftheday.com/default.asp

domingo, 11 de novembro de 2012

Trip to Salvador, Bahia - Part 1

     

       In my vacation this year, I did not have the chance of heading to any different place to rest. I have only been to São Lourenço, in Minas, for a couple of days. For this reason, I was kind of desperate, really was and my boyfriend and I decided all of a sudden to go somewhere.
       To tell the truth, it did not matter the place itself, then we entered the travel agency and asked for vacancies in the Northeast part of Brazil, although we also considered the South. Since I have never been in the hottest regions in Brazil, it would be a nice chance to know a called beautiful place. Natal, Maceió and Salvador were the names we mentioned to the travel agent to make the research for us. Salvador was the only one with the dates of flight we could deal with, so I said: let's go, let's not think of it.
      It was impulsive and rational decision. I needed to free my mind from my problems and daily routine which from time to time play hard balls on us. My boyfriend had been working a lot as well, therefore he also considered an appropriate choice. The whole pack included city tour with hotel, transfer and tickets.
       I was very happy with everything when one thing caught me completely off guard. I got a pretty harsh flu with all the worst symptoms ever. I have never felt so weak and my body could not react with simple lemonades or natural medicines. I thought I would not be able to make it. I had to miss work for two days which is something rare for me because I hate to be absent.
       I did consider not going as long as my recovery was quite slow, but considering the price for him to pay the fine in case of calling off, we agreed to go any way. I was at risk and I had an inflammation in my ears that is still with me at the moment I am writing this.
        The trip started early on November, 2nd with some emotion. My boyfriend and I almost lost the plane that decided to call ‘the last time’ twenty minutes before the plane would take off. I was weak and running was definitely not something good. Yes, we could reach the gate at almost the last moment. That was the important thing. On the other hand, I kept being worried about my ears, besides I was aware of chewing gum could help me a little with the pressure of plane’s movements. The flight has run smoothly, I was happy despite the sore throat, ears’ pain and the tiredness. The song that I most listened when we were flying was: Titanium, by David Ghetta.  To the flu, I sang: ‘you shoot me down, but I won't fall, I am titanium. you shoot me down, but I won't fall I am titanium…’




To be continued...

sexta-feira, 28 de setembro de 2012

Juggle Balls

Juggle Balls
Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them - work, family, health, friends and spirit and you're keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls - family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life.
How?

* Don't undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special.
* Don't set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you.
* Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would your life, for without them, life is meaningless.
* Don't let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.
* Don't give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.
* Don't be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us each together.
* Don't be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.
* Don't shut love out of your life by saying it's impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.
* Don't run through life so fast that you forget not only where you've been, but also where you are going.
* Don't forget that a person's greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated.
*Don't be afraid to learn. Knowledge is weightless, a treasure you can always carry easily.
* Don't use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved. Life is not a race, but a journey to be savored each step of the way.
Brian Dyson
Former CEO of Coca-Cola Company. This was from a speech he gave at the Georgia Tech 172nd Commencement Address on September 6, 1996.


Bob proctor's website: http://bobproctor.com/
                                         http://www.insightoftheday.com/default.asp

segunda-feira, 17 de setembro de 2012

Only time


Who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows, only time
And who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose, only time

Who can say why your heart sighs
As your love flies, only time
And who can say why your heart cries
When your love lies, only time

Who can say when the roads meet
That love might be in your heart
And who can say when the day sleeps
If the night keeps all your heart
Night keeps all your heart

Who can say if your love grows
As your heart chose
Only time
And who can say where the road goes
Where the day flows, only time

Who knows? Only time

By Enya

domingo, 16 de setembro de 2012

Would you prefer to take care of the house and have your spouse support you?

I can enumerate quite a few things that I would like to achieve in my life. Among them, it is raising my children, traveling around the world, being successful in my carrier. Who doesn’t aim those accomplishments?

 

 

Well, another great deal of planning would be marrying a billionaire. What would be part of my life? In this case, I’d live in a mansion and have more than a maid to take care of the house. Perhaps, I’d get a baby sitter to watch out my children. My husband would be the kind of man that we see in films: lovely, partner in a big company, very wealthy. I can get everything I want: from the best beauty saloon to the most expensive clothes. But are all these things worth? It depends on what I put more importance in. Would be perfect staying in a mansion and having everything for me? No, I don’t think so. Why not? I reckon I wouldn’t be fulfilled. Actually, I want to have my family and to find myself successful in my profession. If I accepted someone supporting me, I would feel incapable, not useful. Then, even if my husband were rich and he gave me the option to stay in home, I’d not take. On the other hand, if I married someone not rich, but who let me not work out, I wouldn’t stay at home taking care of the house. I am not much for household chores, although I would like to spend time with my children.


February, 2001

domingo, 2 de setembro de 2012

Interesting to check

I have just enrolled at some courses available on the link below:

http://www.coursera.org/

They will mostly start in January, 2013. I am very excited about it!

quarta-feira, 8 de agosto de 2012


This is the presentation of Alice's Adventures in the Wonderland by Lewis Carroll that I prepared for a final essay at college. It is quite a summary for the whole story.

ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND’ S SUMMARY

Alice is sitting with her sister on the bank and is very bored with her sister’s book having no pictures when, all of a sudden, she sees a White Rabbit with a waistcoatpocket and takes a watch out of it. Then, Alice who is very curious about this, decides to follow the Rabbit down the hole. She finds a hall with doors all around. She tries them, however they are all locked. Then, she comes upon a little three-legged table on which there was a little golden key.  She hadn’t noticed before there was a little door behind a curtain, but the key fits in and when she opens it, she sees that it leads into a small passage.

Thereafter, she finds a bottle with the label ‘Drink me’. She tasted because it was not marked ‘poison’. She got ten inches high after drinking the bottle. She also starts crying feeling sad about the situation. Then, she sees a cake, a very small one with the words ‘Eat me’ on it. She ate because she thought she could reach her normal size, but surprisingly, she remains the same way.
Suddenly, Alice finds herself growing and she continues growing until she reaches the ceiling. Now she is able to get the key from the table, but she is too big to pass through the door. All these makes her cry and she cries until there is a large pool all around her. Alice asks the Rabbit for help, but he is so frightened that he drops the gloves and fan and runs away. Alice takes them and thinks about her life sadly. When she realizes, she shrinks again due to the Rabbit’s fan and then, she throws it away. After, she slips into the pool of tears and finds a mouse.  As Alice talks to him about cats and dogs, she also gets scared, hating her conversation. Lots of animals fall into the pool. They are all in the way to the shore. 
All animals and Alice wander how to get dry again. The Dodo suggests a caucus-race. In this game, they could start and leave the race whenever they liked and Dodo finishes it. Alice was given the task to give them prizes, and then she gives things from her pocket.  She asks again about why the Mouse did not like Cats and Dogs, but the mouse always gets offended. He tries to tell a tale, a sad one, joining all animals around, but when she mentions Dinah, her cat, all animals run away... Alice feels lonely.
 The White Rabbit returns, looking for his fan and gloves and he takes Alice for his housemaid, demanding his gloves and fan. She enters into his house to search for them. As she was very tiny, she decides to drink a bottle without any label on, hoping it makes her larger. It does, but it makes her so large that she fills the whole room. Alice grows larger again and the Rabbit can not get in his house. The Rabbit sends the lizard Bill and Alice warns them about Dinah so as to frighten them. She decides to eat a cake that appeared there and she can get out of the house.  She gets very tiny again and finds a puppy which might want to eat her, but nothing happens, she only plays with a stick to get him tired so that she can escape from it. 
Then, she comes across a Caterpillar that asks Alice who she is. She answers that she does not know because she has changed so many times that day. Alice gets a little irritated because the Caterpillar keeps making very short remarks at what she says. Alice starts complaining that she is too small and the Caterpillar advises her to eat from the mushroom: one side will make her grow taller and the other side will make her grow shorter. So, she tries to nibble on both sides and gets a very long neck. Because of this, a pigeon mistakes her as a serpent in search of her eggs. Alice convinces it that she is only a little girl and eats again from the mushroom until she is reduced to her normal size.
Alice decides to visit the March Hare since she is nearby. She stands in front of a house, thinking about what to do when a fish-like footman knocks on the door and a frog-like footman opens it. The fish-footman delivers an invitation from the Queen for the Duchess to play croquet and leaves. The frog-footman sits on the ground outside the house. Alice walks to the door and knocks, but the footman tells her that it is no sort of use in knocking as he is on the same side of the door and they are making too much noise in the house to hear her anyway. However, Alice opens the door herself.
When she gets in the house, she meets the Duchess, a cat, a baby and some other creatures. The soup she tastes and also the air have a lot of pepper. The creatures all make much noise. The Duchess leaves the baby with her because she needed to play croquet with the Queen. The baby makes some strange noises, turns into a pig and runs into the wood. Alice finds a cat ‘who’ can appear and vanish many times. This cat tells her he is going to play croquet with the Queen.
Thereafter, Alice sees a large table set out under a tree in front of the house. The March Hare and the Mad Hatter are having tea at it and a Dormouse is sitting between them, fast asleep. Alice sits down in a chair, although the Hare and Hatter tell her there was no room. The Hatter’s watch does not tell the time but the day of the month. The Hatter tells her that he quarreled with Time last March and “he” punished him with a forever six o’clock which is always the teatime.
Alice leaves after interrupting the Dormouse’s story, because she gets really offended after his remarks over her. She finds herself in a long hall, close to the little glass table. Alice notices a tree with a door in it, she takes the key and unlocks the door, eats from the mushroom to make herself smaller and is finally able to enter the beautiful garden.
Alice comes upon a rose-tree with white roses. Three gardeners are painting them red because they are afraid of the Queen who asked to plant them red, not white. They can have their heads cut and Alice tries to protect them, but there is no way she would change her mind. She orders to execute them. After that, the Queen invites her to play croquet. Everyone plays without waiting for their turns and they constantly quarrel. The Queen orders the beheading of people. The cat can not be beheaded because he disappears all the time.
As the Queen has ordered so many beheadings that only she, Alice and the King are spared. They meet a Gryphon and the Queen tells him to take Alice to the Mock Turtle to hear his history. The King pardons all the prisoners in the way. The Mock Turtle starts telling his history which is interrupted by sobbings and long pauses. He tells he had a master turtle called Tortoise and he took courses like Reeling and Writhing.
The Gryphon and the Mock Turtle explain to Alice what sort of dance a Lobster Quadrille is. They start dancing around her while the Mock Turtle sings the words and they ask the Mock Turtle to sing ‘Turtle Soup’ for them. He is interrupted with a cry was heard in the distance: 'The trial's beginning!’. Alice and the Gryphon run away. 
While waiting for the trial, Alice notices that the King is the judge and that the jurors are not very smart. The White Rabbit reads the accusation, claiming that the Knave of Hearts stole the tarts. The first witness is the Mad Hatter, providing no evidence. The next witness is the Duchess’ cook and she is cross-examined. To Alice’s great surprise, she called as to be the third witness. 
She tells the King that she knows nothing about the stolen tarts. The King reads that all people more than a mile high must leave the court. Therefore, Alice refuses to leave because she suspects that he made up the rule. Alice is not afraid to contradict the Queen anymore, as she has grown to her full size. Alice yells at them: - You’re nothing but a pack of cards!, trying to beat them off.
 At last, Alice finds herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, realizing that everything was a dream and tells her adventures to her. As Alice runs off for the tea, her sister thinks about the dream and falls asleep too. She dreams the same dream as Alice. She continues to dream about how her little sister will possibly become a grown woman and how she will always keep the simple joys, remembering her when she was little in her loving heart and the summer days, with this tale’s memories as part of her childhood.

sexta-feira, 27 de julho de 2012

The Daffodil Principle

This comes from Bob Proctor's newsletter I have subscribed to. It is a nice way of improving vocabulary. I only have to double click any word and its meaning appears!!! :)


Insight of the day

Dear Clarissa,
The following is a true story that we have sent in the past. It has a lesson well worth reading.
Here is your Friday story,
The Daffodil Principle
Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come and see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. Going and coming took most of a day - and I honestly did not have a free day until the following week.
"I will come next Tuesday," I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call. Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and so I drove the length of Route 91, continued on I-215, and finally turned onto Route 18 and began to drive up the mountain highway. The tops of the mountains were sheathed in clouds, and I had gone only a few miles when the road was completely covered with a wet, gray blanket of fog. I slowed to a crawl, my heart pounding. The road becomes narrow and winding toward the top of the mountain.
As I executed the hazardous turns at a snail's pace, I was praying to reach the turnoff at Blue Jay that would signify I had arrived. When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren I said, "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these darling children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!"
My daughter smiled calmly, "We drive in this all the time, Mother."
"Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears - and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her.
"I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car. The mechanic just called, and they've finished repairing the engine," she answered.
"How far will we have to drive?" I asked cautiously.
"Just a few blocks,"Carolyn said cheerfully.
So we buckled up the children and went out to my car. "I'll drive," Carolyn offered. "I'm used to this." We got into the car, and she began driving.
In a few minutes I was aware that we were back on the Rim-of-the-World Road heading over the top of the mountain. "Where are we going?" I exclaimed, distressed to be back on the mountain road in the fog. "This isn't the way to the garage!"
"We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils."
"Carolyn, I said sternly, trying to sound as if I was still the mother and in charge of the situation, "please turn around. There is nothing in the world that I want to see enough to drive on this road in this weather."
"It's all right, Mother," She replied with a knowing grin. "I know what I'm doing. I promise, you will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."
And so my sweet, darling daughter who had never given me a minute of difficulty in her whole life was suddenly in charge - and she was kidnapping me! I couldn't believe it. Like it or not, I was on the way to see some ridiculous daffodils - driving through the thick, gray silence of the mist-wrapped mountaintop at what I thought was risk to life and limb.
I muttered all the way. After about twenty minutes we turned onto a small gravel road that branched down into an oak-filled hollow on the side of the mountain. The fog had lifted a little, but the sky was lowering, gray and heavy with clouds.
We parked in a small parking lot adjoining a little stone church. From our vantage point at the top of the mountain we could see beyond us, in the mist, the crests of the San Bernardino range like the dark, humped backs of a herd of elephants. Far below us the fog-shrouded valleys, hills, and flatlands stretched away to the desert.
On the far side of the church I saw a pine-needle-covered path, with towering evergreens and manzanita bushes and an inconspicuous, lettered sign "Daffodil Garden."
We each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path as it wound through the trees. The mountain sloped away from the side of the path in irregular dips, folds, and valleys, like a deeply creased skirt.
Live oaks, mountain laurel, shrubs, and bushes clustered in the folds, and in the gray, drizzling air, the green foliage looked dark and monochromatic. I shivered. Then we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most glorious sight, unexpectedly and completely splendid. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes where it had run into every crevice and over every rise. Even in the mist-filled air, the mountainside was radiant, clothed in massive drifts and waterfalls of daffodils. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.
Each different-colored variety (I learned later that there were more than thirty-five varieties of daffodils in the vast display) was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.
In the center of this incredible and dazzling display of gold, a great cascade of purple grape hyacinth flowed down like a waterfall of blossoms framed in its own rock-lined basin, weaving through the brilliant daffodils. A charming path wound throughout the garden. There were several resting stations, paved with stone and furnished with Victorian wooden benches and great tubs of coral and carmine tulips. As though this were not magnificent enough, Mother Nature had to add her own grace note - above the daffodils, a bevy of western bluebirds flitted and darted, flashing their brilliance. These charming little birds are the color of sapphires with breasts of magenta red. As they dance in the air, their colors are truly like jewels above the blowing, glowing daffodils. The effect was spectacular.


It did not matter that the sun was not shining. The brilliance of the daffodils was like the glow of the brightest sunlit day. Words, wonderful as they are, simply cannot describe the incredible beauty of that flower-bedecked mountain top.
Five acres of flowers! (This too I discovered later when some of my questions were answered.) "But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn. I was overflowing with gratitude that she brought me - even against my will. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
"Who?" I asked again, almost speechless with wonder, "And how, and why, and when?"
"It's just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on the property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory.
We walked up to the house, my mind buzzing with questions. On the patio we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline. The first answer was a simple one. "50,000 bulbs," it read. The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman, two hands, two feet, and very little brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."
There it was. The Daffodil Principle.
For me that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than thirty-five years before, had begun - one bulb at a time - to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top. One bulb at a time.
There was no other way to do it. One bulb at a time. No shortcuts - simply loving the slow process of planting. Loving the work as it unfolded.
Loving an achievement that grew so slowly and that bloomed for only three weeks of each year. Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had changed the world.
This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. She had created something of ineffable magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.
The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principle of celebration: learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time - often just one baby-step at a time - learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time.
When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.
"Carolyn," I said that morning on the top of the mountain as we left the haven of daffodils, our minds and hearts still bathed and bemused by the splendors we had seen, "it's as though that remarkable woman has needle-pointed the earth! Decorated it. Just think of it, she planted every single bulb for more than thirty years. One bulb at a time! And that's the only way this garden could be created. Every individual bulb had to be planted. There was no way of short-circuiting that process. Five acres of blooms. That magnificent cascade of hyacinth! All, just one bulb at a time."
The thought of it filled my mind. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the implications of what I had seen. "It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn. "What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years. Just think what I might have been able to achieve!"
My wise daughter put the car into gear and summed up the message of the day in her direct way. "Start tomorrow," she said with the same knowing smile she had worn for most of the morning. Oh, profound wisdom!
It is pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson a celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, "How can I put this to use tomorrow?"
Jaroldeen Asplund Edwards


Bob proctor's website: http://bobproctor.com/
                                                       http://www.insightoftheday.com/default.asp

terça-feira, 24 de julho de 2012

Now, I am about to start studying the book...

A History of English Literature
1918
by Robert Huntington Fletcher




which is available on the wonderful site: http://www.about.com/  in the link: http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/rfletcher/bl-rfletcher-history-table.htm

I am very excited about going through this whole history.
It is going to be a very nice and appreciative journey!!!




domingo, 1 de julho de 2012

My birthday


         Today, I reckon I should leave a message due to my birthday. Sincerely, I did not get that excited as I did when I was young since I used to count how many days there would be for the occasion. Today is important to think over the past, reconsider when I failed and I succeeded, but mostly important embracing life as an important gift  to be shared with the ones I love.
       If I look at my past, I see many difficult situations, but thanks to those, I have brought to myself too much experience and developed a more mature point of view. I still need to make a lot of effort to accomplish all my projects and concerning these, I can afirm I am pretty obstinate: what I want, I am going to get. It does not matter how long it will take, I will go for it.
       I would like to thank God for making this career move happening to me in a very nice way and also for sending me the right members to make my life happier: my beloved dog Pierre, my boyfriend, my friends and family who stood by me and still do through my entire life. I can not take for granted the memories of my father whom I would like to give a hug on right now, however his life was given to God's hand. If I just could send a Sedex to Heaven, the message would be: "Thanks for being my father, I miss you deeply in my heart". I also thank my Guardian Angel for protecting me in a lot of situations.   

Clarissa

quinta-feira, 10 de maio de 2012

Happy Mother's Day!


Dear mom,

It is pretty hard to express my gratitude in words. You were, are and always will be my heroine. I know I used to express more my feelings when I was a little girl. In such an age, we can be more emotive.
You gave me the best adolescence I could have ever asked for in my beloved Teresópolis. You helped me out throughout all those years. Thanks for everything, especially for letting me come to this world, learn with you, share all the moments. Life is a delightful journey and it has been a great one with you by my side. 
Happy Mother’s Day!

Love you,

From: Clarissa
To: Myriam


sábado, 21 de abril de 2012

Answering about hunger in the world...


How can the distribution of food be more equitable? Is hunger caused by lack of food or lack of distribution? What can people in the developed nations do to help abolish world hunger?

There has been a great movement of products, capitals and services among various countries for the past decades. This is supposed to increase since obtaining profitable results is the goal of all companies in the world. But, at the same time, all continents have to face a reality: How can a country make progress in some sectors such as e-commerce, chemical, electronics, toys if it is not capable of fighting against misery and hunger? All kinds of incentives are given to investors to invest in the national companies so that they can increase profits through mass production. However, the problem of hunger is due to a lack of money in people’s hands, not of distribution. If a country comprises a large number of miserables, of course they will not be able to feed themselves properly. So, hunger is the consequence of not giving people a reasonable access to society. Everybody needs good education to find a job which  can provide some basic things to live, although this does not allow them to have a complete access. What about the minimum salary? If people do not take part in it, they will always be excluded.  Governments do not usually worry  much about this situation, although some institutions like ONGs (not the corrupt ones) dedicate their time and money to provide people the access to food. Campaigns should involve more other classes of societies and get them to help these people. Distribution should be more equitable, but it depends on how governments will see to this problem. Maybe, it is possible to guarantee a part of food production and a spare part  from companies and supermarkets as donations to ONGs . Yet, creating  these programs can be a good option to minimize hunger and misery. Let's hope it gets better in the future.

sexta-feira, 6 de abril de 2012

Soul of the Age: A Biography of the Mind of William Shakespeare
by Jonathan Bate



© Random House
Random House, 2009

When I first began studying and reading Shakespeare, there was just a handful of indisputable facts about William Shakespeare. These facts and reasonable suppositions have grown exponentially in the last half century, fueled by a corresponding rise in literary research, sleuthing, and sometimes luck. Consider, for example, the recent revelation of what is very likely a portrait of Shakespeare that was simply hanging in a private home.

Subtitled "A Biography of the Mind of William Shakespeare," Soul of the Age "is intended as an intellectual biography of the man in the context of the mind-set into which he was born and out of which his works were created." While Bate has drawn from the plays and poems, along with contemporary Elizabethan history and treatises, he minded Barbara Everett's admonition that such a task is "never literally and never provably" true. Perhaps the preeminent Shakespeare scholar writing and teaching today, Bate is a professor of Shakespeare and Renaissance literature at the University of Warwick. Living near Stratford-upon-Avon with his wife and children provides ample opportunity to soak up the mystique of Shakespeare and to research his life.

Jacques' famous speech delineating the seven ages of man in As You Like It frames the chronology of the Bard's life, from the "infant mewling and puking" to that ultimate moment that comes to us all: "sans teeth, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything." Trying to resuscitate someone born 445 years ago requires dogged detective work coupled with literary analysis within the historical framework of Shakespeare's life. The facts around him are easy to come by; the facts about him are more problematic. Bate's masterful work presents a solid case for new facts and speculations.

This is not a biography to be read straight through; rather one should take time to ingest and savor the delectable banquet that Bates sets. Or, as Shakespeare's contemporary Bacon would have it, this is a book to be devoured. The writing is clear and unencumbered, the arguments presciently presented. In fact, Bate tells us in the introduction that this is "not an exact mapping," but that we can "follow the tracks" of Shakespeare from Stratford to London and back again. In writing this life of Shakespeare's mind, Bate sought to avoid the "deadening march of chronological sequence that is biography's besetting vice..." Each section draws from the span of Shakespeare's life to demonstrate how, for example, the lessons learned as a child informed his work throughout his life. Bate has succeeded in spades.

There is something to learn on every page, although there is much here that the "ever reader" (i.e., serious reader) will already know. So much of this information is put into a different context as to make it new and fresh again, giving new interpretation to the most mundane of previously known information. Bate writes about the so-called "lost period," a seven-year stretch beginning in February 1585. It begins with the christening of his twins Hamnet and Judith, and ends with Robert Greene's "Shake-scene" reference in 1592. Speculation has had Shakespeare fighting in the Dutch wars, studying to be a lawyer, teaching school, or traveling to Italy. Bate indicates that Shakespeare was mentioned twice in connection with a legal case filed in 1588 and heard a year later in 1589 before the Queen's Bench in London. He believes that Shakespeare was in London during this period, "reading the law" as it were, because he was actively involved in trying to recover money in this particular property case.

Shakespeare's birth was literally and figuratively in the "deep heart" of England, geographically and culturally. It was to this birthright that he returned repeatedly with actual visits home and literary returns in his references to the flora and fauna of Warwickshire, the people, their daily lives, and their folkways. Bate builds a cogent argument to explain how Shakespeare came to write as he did with the classical allusions and storytelling expertise. A teacher's handbook of that time, for example, indicated that students were to "keep in fresh memory the argument, matter and drift of the place which they are to construe." For Shakespeare, this meant paying attention to the "speaker, the context, the motivation for the speech." Paying attention to the fiction of the story meant that it would be consistent in the telling of its "facts."

Through each of the seven stages (Infant, Schoolboy, Lover, Soldier, Justice, Pantaloon, Oblivion) Bate builds his case for Shakespeare and the milieu that informed his writing. There can be no de Vere, Bacon, or Marlowe writing under the guise of Shakespeare. There is only one, and his life created a mind so encompassing that it is incomprehensible to imagine that anyone could have written in his stead. If you are going to read one book about William Shakespeare this year, this is the one. The scholarship is impeccable, the writing felicitous, the knowledge to be gained immeasurable.


Note: All other related articles in the site are advisable to be read.

sábado, 3 de março de 2012

A Novel About the Creation by Alan Lightman

Mr. g A Novel About the Creation
by Alan Lightman

 “As I remember, I had just woken up from a nap when I decided to create the universe.”

So begins Alan Lightman’s Mr. g: A Novel of the Creation, in which the narrator, Mr. g, recounts the story of his creation of the universe. Mr. g, or if you will - God, lives in a place he describes simply as the Void. His only companions in this vast nothingness are his Aunt Penelope and his Uncle Deva, a pair of bickering yet well-meaning elders who throughout the novel attempt to guide Mr. g in this new hobby of his, the creation of a universe.

Or universes (plural), really, because after fine-tuning the basic elements of both time and space, Mr. g experiments with the act of universe creation - a spin here, a pinch there - until, “After a time, a gigantic number of universes were flhying about - spinning on their axes, throbbing and pulsing, expanding and contracting at fantastic speed.” Before long however, Mr. g, taking Aunt Penelope’s advice, decides to focus on a single universe that he names Aalam-104729 (the Muslim name for “universe” prepended to the 10,000th prime number), in which he not only invests some organizational principles, but also decides that each living thing in the universe will have a sort of soul, an awareness of his or her maker.


Mr. g is a short and relatively breezy read, particularly for a novel that ruminatively bridges the matters of creation and evolution and turns its attention on sticky notions like predestination and free will. That said, Lightman, who in addition to being a novelist is also a theoretical physicist, has the keen ability at times to turn physics into poetry:

"Following my laws for the electrogmagnetic force, each such quivering of charged particles unleashed a flood of polarized photons with kaleidoscopic colors, creating a display far more spectacular than the evanescent veils of the Void. There were cascades and blooms of light, spiraling helices of energy, resonant oscillations of quark clouds. And the most eerie sounds: ultra-high-frequency moans and rips and dissonant crescendos as the gaseous plasma filling up space shuddered with each passing shock wave and compression of energy.”

Lightman also employs the perspective of his narrator uniquely to shed light on philosophical matters of existence, as in this Creator’s-eye-veiw of the passage of time and impermanence:
"Nothing was lasting, nothing was permanent. Living creatures, beings with minds, were the most fleeting of all. They came and went, came and went, came adn went, billions upon billions of lives, each quick as one breath. Atoms converged in their special arrangements to make each precious life, held together for moments, then scattered to dull lifeless matter again."

A huge and potentially contentious topic turns beguiling in Lightman’s deft hands. While drawing from Muslim, Hebrew, and Christian apocrypha for some of his nomenclature, he manages to steer clear of delving into any specifics of religion, instead marrying a more generalized notion concerning creation with current theories in the realms of physics, astronomy and biology. Lightman’s ability to abstract principles both scientific and philosophical and then filter them through the eyes of an all-powerful yet humble narrator makes Mr. g a fascinating thought experiment.

Source: http://contemporarylit.about.com/od/fiction/fr/Mr-G-A-Novel-About-The-Creation.htm

domingo, 12 de fevereiro de 2012

The future of mankind

       
        A doctor and a beggar. Knowledge and wisdom: a nobel interchange of new perceptions. A fascinating story explaining how having the knowledge of theories is not enough to solve a human being’s life, if it were not for the devotion of one Medical student declares regarding the interests in solving the secret enigmas of mind.
      
       The characters of the plot are so intense in their emotions that they start taking part in our daily lives. Certainly, it is a masterpiece which lead us to an encouraging reflection concerning the future of each one of us. Marco Polo, Falcão e Ana: these are the characters who go through the rebuilding of their own beings, one teaching the other.  The conviction of those who learn along their way invite them to a journey of great teachings to all of us.


       I invite everybody to read this book that does belong to a special catalogue within Brazilian Literature. Take a break from the conventional and start your transformation through the author’s proposal, Augusto Cury, embracing concepts of philosophy, psychology, psychiatry into the approach of man in the 20th century.

        I took two quotes which state this proposal: “The wisdow of a human being is not defined by how much he knows, however it is related to how much of his consciousness is aware of his not knowing.” & “Most of those who have right address go through their existence without never striding their own avenues. They are outsiders of themselves. Thus, they can neither take the right routes nor get over their crazynesses”. Nice reading!

quarta-feira, 18 de janeiro de 2012

The Angel Esmeralda by Don DeLillo

The Angel Esmeralda
by Don DeLillo



The level of controlled finesse at work in The Angel Esmeralda is the product of a masterful author who has fully accepted the constraints of short fiction and one capable of utilizing every inch within its conceived boundaries. These stories are achingly good and brilliantly fleeting; Don DeLillo (Point Omega) works with a strict allowance of characters and settings, and with his impeccable meter is able to imbue these meager elements with a novel's strength in the span of just forty or so pages.

Written between 1979 and 2011, the nine pieces in The Angel Esmeralda are short stories at their finest. Each maintains DeLillo's exceptional standards of quality, yet manage to thematically adapt and reflect America's ever-evolving society. And, by compiling these stories chronologically, The Angel Esmeralda gains a new, troubling arc; throughout the collection's nine-step sequence, DeLillo shows not just how far the world's come in thirty years, but how bad things may be getting.

It's oddly fitting that an author with such a well-tempered command would write about those things outside our own realms of influence and control. In "Creation," a couple is endlessly on standby as they try to fly out of a West Indies vacation spot. In 1983's "Human Moments in World War III," a pair of men in a space station quietly orbit the Earth monitoring the military movements on terra firma. Physically and emotionally, these astronauts are miles away from the humanity they once knew. They search quietly for any "human moments" that may still linger within them and reflect on the deadly pace of mankind's recent developments:

 

"We are no longer delicate biological specimens adrift in an alien environment. The enemy can kill us with its photons, its mesons, its charged particles faster than any dusting of micrometeoroids. The emotions have changed."

This change of emotions is the result of a dying world. People have changed and societies have changed, all at the hand of globalization and our endless sprint towards the future. But not all this crumbling is inter-personal: "The Ivory Acrobat" tells of a literal tectonic shift as a woman tries to cope with an influx of earthquakes while living alone in Greece. Already somewhat alienated by the city, she finds she can no longer connect with the once-reliable ground beneath her. As her paranoia grows, she imagines the worst, "that these were not aftershocks at all but warnings of some deep disquiet in the continental trench, the massing of a force that would roll across the marble-hearted city and bring it to dust."

"The Angel Esmeralda" is the story of two nuns trying to help the needy in their impoverished South Bronx community. With little means to make a meaningful difference, their story recedes into the realms of faith and hope as the sisters and their flock try to get by on spirituality alone. When Esmeralda, a young local girl is killed, the community begins to see her face nightly in a mural, under the headlights of each passing elevated train. The sisters struggle with this miracle, uncertain what to believe in. In a breathtaking paragraph, DeLillo describes the conflicting views of Sister Edgar, who seems to want harmony as bad as she wants something real to pray for:
"Edgar was a cold-war nun who'd once lined the walls of her room with aluminum foil as a shield against nuclear fallout from Communist bombs. Not that she didn't think a war might be thrilling. She daydreamed many a domed flash in the film of her skin, tried to conjure the burst even now, with the USSR crumbled alphabetically, the massive letters toppled like Cyrillic statuary."

Growing in step with the imminent doom of today's society, how does one begin to fathom what could genuinely be an act of God, a true angel sighting? The brief, uplifting turn of faith in "The Angel Esmeralda" shines a new kind of light on the other eight stories in DeLillo's collection. What if these stories weren't just about our disintegrating society, but about the human things we cling to in the face of inevitable decomposition? What of the art exhibitions ("Baader-Meinhof") and movie screenings ("The Starveling") we frequent in solitude: could these stave off the decay of progress? It's possible. There's a complex glimmer of hope in each of DeLillo's desolate stories, and it's in these human moments that The Angel Esmeralda achieves its greatest, most resonant success.