Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean.  Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes. -- Theodore Dreiser

Two Words That Can Change a Life

--by Cheryl Rice, Oct 21, 2016

Is it possible that two words can change someone’s day, someone’s life? What if those same two words could change the world? Well, I’m on a quest to find out – and, with your help, this quest will be a success.

This quest inadvertently began last November in a grocery store.

I was standing in the checkout line behind a woman who looked to be in her 60s. When it was her turn to pay, the cashier greeted her by name and asked her how she was doing.

The woman looked down, shook her head and said, “Not so good. My husband just lost his job and my son is up to his old tricks again. The truth is, I don’t know how I’m going to get through the holidays.”

Then she gave the cashier food stamps.

My heart ached. I wanted to help but didn’t know how. Should I offer to pay for her groceries, ask for her husband’s resume? I did nothing – yet. And the woman left the store.

As I walked into the parking lot, I spotted the woman returning her shopping cart, and I remembered something in my purse that could help her in a different but hopefully profound way. It wasn’t a handful of cash or a lead on a job for her husband, but maybe – just maybe – it would make her life better.

My heart pounded as I approached the woman. 

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice trembling a bit. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to the cashier. It sounds like you’re going through a really hard time right now. I’m so sorry. I’d like to give you something.”

And I handed her a business-sized card.

When the woman read the card’s only two words, she began to cry. And through her tears, she said, “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

I was a little startled by her reply. Having never done anything like this before, I hadn’t anticipated the reaction I might receive. All I could think to respond was, “Oh my. Would it be OK to give you a hug?”

After we embraced, I walked back to my car -- and began to cry too.

The words on the card?

“You Matter.”

A few weeks earlier, a colleague gave me a similar card as encouragement for a project I was working on. When I read the card, I felt a warm glow spread inside of me. Deeply touched, I came home and ordered my own box of You Matter cards and started sharing them.

First, I gave them to family and close friends. Even if they weren’t in as dire straits as the woman at the grocery store, their faces lit up and often their eyes moistened when they read those two words.  

As I became bolder, I started giving the You Matter cards to people in my community who make my life richer – such as my dry cleaner and the man who sells me fruit at the farmer’s market. While the gesture didn’t always end in an actual hug, the words were a hug in themselves. The recipients were visibly moved. And I was too.

Then I became a bit mischievous. I began leaving cards in places where I couldn’t witness who received them. I tucked one inside the pages of a library book I was returning. I placed another one in the credit card slot at a gas pump.

At the time I met the woman in the grocery store, I was completing a certificate program in Applied Positive Psychology sponsored by the Flourishing Center. I learned the science behind happiness and well-being.

One of the forefathers in the field of positive psychology, Chris Peterson, said that the entire practice boils down to three words: “Other people matter.” 

Well, my experience in the grocery store confirmed that telling other people they matter also matters. 

People crave connection but feel more isolated than ever. Every one of us is here for a reason. We are all essential. We need, and are needed by, each other.

Always.

Especially now.

That simple encounter in the parking lot has become the You Matter Marathon. 

No running required!

The goal is to create and enrich positive connections between individuals and within communities by collectively sharing 10,000 You Matter cards during November, when the holiday season starts and too many people find too many reasons to feel they don’t matter.

Together, let’s make some magic.

If inspired, you can join the You Matter Marathon here and sign up to receive 30 You Matter cards at no charge! Each week in November, participants will receive an email with card sharing missions, inspiring quotes, and an opportunity to share experiences and connect with each other online.

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Cheryl Rice is a professional speaker and coach and the author of Where Have I Been All My Life?. Her company, Your Voice Your Vision partners with women striving to be leaders in their own lives.   

Be The Change: Today, take time to share a few kind words with someone. You never know just how much they might need it.

Sourced From www.dailygood.org

Little Tea Cup

I'm a Little Tea Cup. Love this story or not, you will not be able to have tea in a tea cup again without thinking of this.

There was a couple who took a trip to England to shop in a beautiful antique store to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. They both liked antiques and pottery, and especially teacups.

Spotting an exceptional cup, they asked "May we see that? We've never seen a cup quite so beautiful”. As the lady handed it to them, suddenly the teacup spoke, "You don't understand. I have not always been a teacup. There was a time when I was just a lump of red clay. My master took me and rolled me, pounded and patted me over and over and I yelled out, "Don't do that. I don't like it! Let me alone," but he only smiled, and gently said, "Not yet."

Then WHAM! I was placed on a spinning wheel and suddenly I was made to suit himself and then he put me in the oven. I never felt such heat. I yelled and knocked and pounded at the door. "Help! Get me out of here!" I could see him through the opening and I could read his lips as he shook his head from side to side, "Not yet."

When I thought I couldn't bear it another minute, the door opened. He carefully took me out and put me on the shelf, and I began to cool. Oh, that felt so good! "Ah, this is much better," I thought. But, after I cooled he picked me up and he brushed and painted me all over. The fumes were horrible. I thought I would gag. "Oh, please, stop it, stop, I cried." He only shook his head and said, "Not yet."

Then suddenly he puts me back in to the oven. Only it was not like the first one. This was twice as hot and I just knew I would suffocate. I begged. I pleaded. I screamed. I cried. I was convinced I would never make it. I was ready to give up. Just then the door opened and he took me out and again placed me on the shelf, where I cooled and waited and waited, wondering, "What's he going to do to me next?"

An hour later he handed me a mirror and said, "Look at yourself." And I did. I said, "That's not me. That couldn't be me. It's beautiful. I'm beautiful!"

Quietly he spoke: "I want you to remember. I know it hurt to be rolled and pounded and patted, but had I just left you alone, you'd have dried up. I know it made you dizzy to spin around on the wheel, but if I had stopped, you would have crumbled. I know it hurt and it was hot and disagreeable in the oven, but if I hadn't put you there, you would have cracked. I know the fumes were bad when I brushed and painted you all over, but if I hadn't done that, you never would have hardened. You would not have had any colour in your life. If I hadn't put you back in that second oven, you wouldn't have survived for long because the hardness would not have held. Now you are a finished product. Now you are what I had in mind when I first began with you."

The moral of this story is this: God knows what He's doing for each of us. He is the potter, and we are His clay. He will mould us and make us and expose us to just enough pressures of just the right kinds that we may be made into a flawless piece of work to fulfill His good, pleasing and perfect.

So when life seems hard, and you are being pounded and patted and pushed almost beyond endurance; when your world seems to be spinning out of control; when you feel like you are in a fiery furnace of trials; when life seems to "stink", try this.

Brew a cup of your favourite tea in your prettiest tea cup, sit down and think on this story and then, have a little talk with the Potter....God Bless You!

A Special Kind of Grace: The Remarkable Story of the Devadosses

Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point. --C.S. Lewis

A Special Kind of Grace: The Remarkable Story of the Devadosses

--by DailyGood.org, Sep 10, 2016

She starts to speak, softly and in beautiful Tamil. Now and again he joins in, with a sly sentence here, a funny line there. They are sharing the story of their lives with a roomful of strangers. Before they started no one in the audience knew who they were. By the close of the evening- no one would be able to forget.

Manohar is a scientist-writer-artist, an innovator with a restless intelligence and vivid imagination. He grew up in the Madurai of the 1940s, a schoolboy at large, roaming the city under the great gopurams (temple towers) of Goddess Meenakshi.

Mahema, his wife, is an engaging person, lively and articulate. She was born and raised in Madras, a convent-educated gold-medallist who studied Art and Literature.

Soon after they were married the couple moved to America. They had a beautiful baby girl named Suja. They traveled. They made friends. Eventually they moved back to India. Wherever they were, they lived and laughed a lot.

And very often they talked about the Art of Giving, something dear to Mahema's heart. It was important to her- to them- that they share their many blessings with others. She was a wonderful teacher, he was a gifted scientist, and they were both talented artists. Together they found many ways to give.

And Life was Good.

Then there was the car accident that changed everything. Mahema was badly hurt. The accident left her paralyzed below the shoulders- for life.

'She had no control over many bodily functions ... she would have to be loaded with drugs that would dull her sharp mind. She would have to live with the constant threat of infections, bedsores and spasms. She would be a 'dependent' all her life, needing 24-hour attention ...' 
- Manohar Devadoss, from his book "Dreams, Seasons & Promises"

Mahema looked at her new life and it was hard. From now on it was going to be easier for her to receive than give. Easier- yes. But who says Mahema chose the easy way?

Because she didn't.

When dreams are destroyed it takes a rare kind of courage to pick up the pieces, to push past the pain, self-pity, the but-why-me-Lord?

bewilderment. " All I wanted," says Mahema, " was the strength to be a good mother, a good wife and a good friend�.those were my dreams." So she reached inside herself to find that strength. And she did.

More than thirty years later- here she is. Blooming, beaming in her wheelchair. She's sixty-three and she's beautiful. She is here to tell this audience that they must focus on the good things in their lives, and on all that they CAN do. " Believe in your Dreams," she says, not once but many times.

Mahema started teaching Spoken English classes at her home, she began work on a series of childrens books, she joined several women's groups and began to head fund-raising activities for a number of charities, she went through physiotherapy and slowly, painstakingly learned to use her shoulder muscles to write. People were inevitably drawn to her, by her charm, warmth and especially her cheerfulness. The pain was still there, and the grief of loss- but Mahema refused to dwell in it. She put it aside and opened the doors of her changed life to the world. " I know I still can be of service to people," says Mahema, smiling.

Listening to her speak you realize that service is an attitude- a mindset. It means putting the best of yourself forward no matter where you are or what you're doing. It's irrelevant that Mahema is in a wheelchair, and that she cannot hold the microphone or even sip from a glass of water by herself. Her generosity of spirit transcends her disability. Some people wonder what they have to give the world. Mahema reminds us that without exception we all have something to give -- arguably one of the best gifts of all -- ourselves.

Through all of this she had one constant, unfailing companion, one person whose strength would stand in when hers faltered. Manohar Devadoss felt the loss as keenly as his wife, and would fight as hard to overcome it. From the minutest detail of her crucial and complicated medical routine to the exact angle at which the wheelchair must be placed when she is being lifted out of their car, he knows it all. For more than three decades he has been her most faithful nurse and attendant always looking for ways to lessen the burden of pain she carries. He is particularly proud of a self-devised technique he uses to carry Mahema up long flights of stairs in her wheelchair. An incredible feat- especially when you realize that Manohar cannot see the steps, or even the wheelchair.

Around the time of the accident Manohar's vision began to fail. He was diagnosed with Retinitis pigmentosa- a degenerative eye condition for which there is no known cure.

Today he is almost totally blind.

The silence in the hall is very loud. Mere curiosity was replaced a long time ago with a growing sense of wonder, because the twin-tragedies in this story have inspired more than ready sympathy. This couple is here to share- not their sadness, but their strength.

Five years ago Manohar published his first book, "The Green Well Years", an affectionate tribute to his early years in Madurai. It retells the magic of a South Indian boyhood set against the beguiling charm of an old temple-city. The exquisite pen-and-ink drawings in the book are his. Because of his condition, Manohar has no color perception, he has acute tunnel vision, and the little he does see

is as if seen through a pinhole. Yet his drawings are flawless, sharp-edged, heartbreaking reproductions of snapshots from his life.

How does he do it? With special eyedrops to dilate his pupils, with super strong lights and special magnifiers, with gloves (because the lights make his hands sweat and that could blotch the drawing), with a photographic memory and uncompromising attention to detail, with a dedication and perseverance that go far beyond the ordinary.

Together each year they work on a special set of greeting cards. Manohar does the drawing and Mahema prepares a short write-up explaining the particular significance of the place, building, statue or scene that he has drawn. The cards are sold and the proceeds donated to one of the many charities they are involved with. The Art of Giving is as much a part of their lives today as it ever was.

The impossible is worth reaching for. You learn that, listening to these two. When you start testing the boundaries of what you can do- you break through self-imposed limitations. " Believe in Yourself," says Mahema. " Believe in your dreams and in yourself."

They live life in loving detail. Sunsets, a special dish, an old tune, an unexpected guest, a sudden breeze -- when these things come by, they are There. When you embrace life you come alive to the beauty of the present. That's what these two have done.

Today Manohar Devadoss has three books to his credit, and is working on a fourth. Mahema continues to be involved with a number of fund-raising projects and women's committees. Both of them have a wide circle of friends and admirers and continue to be an inspiration to everyone who knows them.

Accept Life.

Sounds simple, lives pretty tough. Our rebel hearts stage a hundred mutinies each day. Resisting, refusing, denying, defying. Sometimes we fight life off with flying fists. Forgetting to remember that it takes more courage to be still. Because Acceptance isn't about weak-willed submission to the blows of chance and fate, it isn't about glum indifference or spiritless passivity (even if the confusion is convenient). Acceptance is strength with wings. It's the power of compassion married to the humility of understanding. It lifts you above regret and rage to a place where hate is not an option, to a place where the difficult beauty of each moment is lived, learnt from- and loved.

Acceptance is a special kind of grace.

Manohar and Mahema Devadoss are a couple who live that grace day by day.

****

Editor's note: Mahema Devadoss passed away in 2008, but her legacy of compassion and grace lives on in the hearts of the many people she touched. Though his vision continues to deteriorate, Manohar Devadoss still draws and continues to inspire many with his art, his writing, and his warm zest for life. He turns 80-years-old today. You can send him a birthday note of appreciation here. 

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Manohar Devadoss is a self-taught artist and the author of several books, including "The Green Well Years" and "A Poem To Courage". 

Be The Change: Mahema Devadoss passed away in 2008, but her legacy of love lives on. Manohar Devadoss turns 80-years-old today and continues to hold the torch of their inspiration. Send him a birthday message of appreciation for the shining example of grace he and his wife offered the world.

http://wc4.net/t?ctl=7981:684ED19FF2D88FA63D3828B9C162F20A&

Sourced From www.dailygood.org 

When life as we know it comes crashing down ...

When life as we know it comes crashing down ... - Suzanne Zoglio, Ph.D

When life as we know it comes crashing down around us, our hearts ache, our minds go numb, a haze seems to surround us. We are shocked, angry, and sad beyond anything we've ever felt before. We are frightened and shaken. We ask, "Why? How could this happen?" And often, we ask, "Why me? Why us? Why them?" Our faith is tested…and also our resolve. We might wonder if we will find the strength to go on…or if we even want to go on. It's all so overwhelming. Here are 10 steps to help you move forward.

1. Schedule quiet time. Do what you have to do each day, but schedule at least 15 minutes of silence every day for a while. Take a walk alone before work, stop at noon for a bit of reflection, or meditate each evening before bed. Use the time to reflect, weep, pray, or just sit and be aware.

2. Accept your feelings. Don't try to push them away. Healing begins with identifying our emotions…whatever they are. Fear, guilt, regret, anger, or sadness…accept them as they surface.

3. Express your feelings. Write in a journal, pen a poem, sketch a drawing, or write a letter to a dear friend.

4. Connect with people. Be with family, friends, or religious groups. Share your pain, and comfort with each other. Talk to a counsellor, if you wish, or a spiritual leader, but be open to the love and comfort available to you. Know that you are not alone.

5. Create remembrances of what has been lost. Hold a memorial service and ask close friends to share memories in a book. Assemble a photo scrapbook of someone lost, or a video collage of treasured moments. Frame a special note or a shared favourite quote. Perhaps you can find a small object (a ring, photo, or small piece of glass?) that will help you to feel connected. Keep it close to you and hold that love forever in your heart.

6. Pass along the love. One way to honour a life lost is to give others what meant so much to you…a tender touch, an understanding smile, a shoulder to lean on, or the boost of positive energy.

7. Contribute what you can. Donate to an appropriate cause, offer prayers of healing, volunteer your time, give blood, or support your local rescue workers.

8. Be an emotional support. Hold someone who is grieving. Listen generously. Tell your own story of this and past recovery so others will not feel alone.

9. Commit acts of kindness. In your workplace leave anonymous notes of appreciation, offer to help someone who's on a tight deadline, or simply bring in a breakfast treat. In your community, you might adopt a homeless pet, volunteer to deliver meals on wheels, or rake leaves for an elderly neighbour. Show more patience with everyone you meet.

10. Live each day in meaningful ways. Revisit what's important to you, and then schedule it in. Make time for birthday parties and coffee with friends. Tell people what they mean to you. Stop to give thanks for all that you have. Use your gifts every day. Hug your children more…teenage or not!

And remember that we all heal in different ways and at differing speeds. Follow your heart. Take time to feel, take care of yourself, and take one step at a time.

Some Day ... One Day ...

A friend of mine opened his wife's wardrobe and picked up a silk paper wrapped package.

 

"This," he said, "isn't any ordinary package."

 

He unwrapped the box and stared at both the silk paper and the box and silk satin dresses inside.

 

"She got this the first time we went to New York, 8 or 9 years ago. She has never put it on , was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is it."

 

He got near the bed and placed the gift box next to the other clothing he was taking to the funeral house, his wife had just died.

 

He turned to me and said, "Never Save Something for a Special Occasion". Every day in your life is a "Special Occasion'"

 

I still think those words changed my life.

 

Now I read more and clean less.

 

I sit on the porch without worrying about anything.

 

I spend more time with my family, and less at work.

 

I understood that life should be a source of experience to be lived up to, not survived through.

 

I no longer keep anything.

 

I use crystal glasses every day.

 

I'll wear new clothes to go to the supermarket, if I feel like it.

 

I don't save my special perfume for special occasions, I use it whenever I want to.

 

The words 'Some Day' and 'One Day' are fading away from my dictionary.

 

If it's worth seeing, listening or doing, I want to see, listen or do it now.

 

I don't know what my friend or friend's wife would have done if she knew she wouldn't be there the next morning, this nobody can tell.

 

Each day, each hour, each minute, is special.

Live for today, for tomorrow is promised to no-one.

Writing humbles us in a way that is vital for our character growth, by reminding us about the limits of the self and our appropriate place in the vast flow of life. --Homaira Kabir

Finding Meaning in a Digital Age

--by Homaira Kabir, syndicated from huffingtonpost.com, May 23, 2016

“Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind, there would have been no reason to write”. ~ Joan Didion

I was at my parent’s dinner table. Before me was a worn journal of thin and discolored pages and a neat script that was gently fading away.

It was my grand fathers journal and now belonged to my father. I never knew my grandfather. He had died in the months leading up to my birth, and had named me in his final days even though there was no proof that the baby to come would be a girl. In the expat life I grew up in, I never got to visit the home he had lived in, the places he had frequented and the people who had been a part of his life’s journey.

I was now about to enter his world, through the words that he had left behind. I smelled the mold of decades of wear and tear and touched the softness of the paper that had grown smooth with time. And within minutes, I was captivated by the power of the written word. It plays on the human’s mind’s capacity to time travel and carries us back and forth in a remarkable interplay of past, present and future. In the magical script before me, I was transported to another era, where guests arrived for no reason but to connect, and were forced to stay for dinner. An age where food was an everyday art, planned, prepared and enjoyed in the company of others. A time where people had the heart to pause their own lives in order to embrace each other’s struggles. All this was conveyed to me in the beauty of the words that flowed together to connect with the writer’s mind and understand the world they lived in. Reading the very words that my grand father had penned eons ago, I felt a strange kinship with him that stories about him had failed to impress.

That kind of writing seems to be lost on us today. The love for words, the agonizing over sentences and the ethical component of good writing that obliged us to pay certain kinds of attention to our experiences, seems to have succumbed to the speed of our times. We have gotten used to writing in bite-sized pieces for a public looking for ease and entertainment, and hungry for information. No wonder, there are nearly 200 million bloggers on the internet and a new blog is created somewhere in the world every half a second. Instead of adding to our collective wisdom, these writings are largely saturated with the vulgarities of human nature and the superficiality and impatience of our day and age. There are “3 easy steps” to whatever your imagination can conjure up, and endless trivial newsfeeds that shift miles in minutes and delude us into confusing meaning with information.

This deprives us not only of the skill of writing eloquent prose, it also inhibits us from delving deeper into what is truly important. Writing humbles us in a way that is vital for our character growth, by reminding us about the limits of the self and our appropriate place in the vast flow of life. Writing frees us from the tyranny of the ego, by helping us wade deeper into the unknown and making us comfortable with the unease of being stupid. For it is then that we let go of perceptions and beliefs that rein us in and truly open up to the magic of the world around us.

Writing also provides us with the courage to face what is happening while keeping our heart in the room. It allows us to choose suffering over safety like C.S Lewis in Shadowlands. Because suffering is not suffering when it is helps us find meaning in our experiences and make sense of our world. It is in staying with the pain of unexplainable circumstances and asking the questions that seem to have no answers, that we often arrive at the best possible response. After all life happens in living it, and meaning emerges not in our heads but in our journeys.

I saw all of this in the writings of my grandfather. His inner journey as he survived the partition of the Indian subcontinent, suffered the consequences of broken trust more than once, and yet never lost hope in the goodness of the human spirit. And I’ve seen it again and again in the writings of the greatest thinkers of humanity, whose wisdom is largely off the very internet that we see as our sole source of information. Their writing reflects deep thought on issues of human importance, such that T.S Eliot wrote no more than 150 pages of poetry in his entire career and James Joyce wrote Ulysses at the rate of a hundred words a day.

By undertaking an inner journey and understanding our own inner worlds, we are reminded that beneath all the layers of psychosocial patina lies a common humanity that shares the same pains, delights in the same joys, and lives for the same purpose. As Sherwin Nuland remarked in How We Die, “the more personal you are willing to be around the details of your own life, the more universal you are”.

And we are reminded too of the wonders of the inner world. For when we spend time contemplating on it, we find that we are all here to do good. It is what ensures our biological survival and brings us spiritual pleasure, if only we were to stop and consider it amongst all our worldly distractions.

It is not a privilege, reserved for a certain population amongst us. After all, the search for meaning is a universal human quest. Luckily life is difficult, mysterious and hard to understand. Andre Gide won the Nobel Prize in Literature for his “fearless love of truth and keen psychological insight”. We may never win the Nobel Prize. But by reflecting upon our experiences with intensity and writing about them with integrity, we can answer the call of the soul with the best possible response.

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Syndicated from the Huffington Post. Homaira Kabir is a Positive psychology practitioner, coach and writer. You can follow her on Twitter @HomairaKabir

Be The Change: Take a moment to ponder an important interaction in your day and write down your deeper thoughts about it in a journal

Sourced From www.dailygood.org

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you,  And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. --Kahlil Gibran

5 Life Lessons from My Specially-Abled Son

--by V.R. Ferose, syndicated from swarajyamag.com, May 02, 2016

My journey as a parent of a specially-abled son has been one of extreme emotions – from disappointment to hope; from pain to joy; from love to anguish – it’s been a journey like never before.

When Vivaan was born, one of my close friends sent me Kahlil Gibran’s famous poem On Children. The first verse in the poem is often quoted, but I would still like to share it here.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

My journey as a parent of a differently abled son has been one of extreme emotions – from disappointment to hope, from pain to joy, from love to anguish – it’s been a journey like never before (and will continue till the very end). As with the arrival of a child anywhere, ours was a source of immense joy. He was the first grandchild and first boy on my wife’s side of the family. The first year was spent worrying about every small thing and at times taking a perfectly healthy baby to a surprised doctor! In those times of unfounded worry that plague every new parent, the presence of my in-laws and parents was the biggest source of comfort. Experience, I realized was priceless!

I enjoyed the attention of onlookers who stopped to admire my son’s chubby cheeks, much to the discomfort of my wife! Things changed around the time he completed 15 months, when there seemed to be early signs of different behavior. Any of the early symptoms could be easily ignored as growing up pains – lack of social interaction, not responding to name, interest in spinning objects etc. However, a chance meeting with a friend (who had a son on the Autism spectrum) forced us to go to a specialist – just to rule out any abnormalities.

After multiple visits to various doctors and scores of questionnaires, Vivaan was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum disorder – at that moment we were not aware of what hit us.

The magnitude of the pain was dissolved by the false hope that the diagnosis could be wrong. Vivaan looked fine, like any other child of his age. But somewhere deep inside, we also knew that the diagnosis could be right and just hoped that he would turn out to be highly functional. Since that day onwards, our lives have revolved around Vivaan’s condition. From visiting numerous doctors, therapists and experts, to reading every possible book on Autism, watching every possible TED talk on the subject, I have probably researched more about Autism than any other topic related to my profession.

Vivaan continues to surprise us every day by the little things he does, by how much he understands without ever being able to express himself, by how much love he has, without ever giving a hug, by how much patience he has without every complaining about the long and boring therapies he undergoes. It’s been a journey like never before. Its taught me more than any business school can ever teach. Listed below are some of my greatest life lessons!

1. If you search for a cure, you will find disappointment; if you look for uniqueness, you will find happiness.

Like every parent with a child with Autism, I had spent a significant time trying to find a cure for Vivaan’s condition. I read books which spoke about a complete cure and triumph over autism, and I hoped it would magically cure Vivaan too. I believed Autism was a problem and I had to solve it. The more I was unable to, the more frustrated I got.

Soon I realized that I was chasing the wrong goal. If I started looking at Vivaan as unique and enjoy him for what he is, life was fun. Not comparing Vivaan with others was key. At times, we had to overcome the social compulsions of throwing a birthday party like every other family did. We realized Vivaan enjoyed the solitude of the family and cutting birthday cakes socially made him more anxious. So we started celebrating birthday by pampering Vivaan and giving him a free day – no therapies and unlimited access to his favorite object, an iPAD!

2. Time and chance happeneth to them all.

The true source of disappointment was a feeling that life has been unfair. Why did it happen to us? I felt like life had dealt us with a wrong card. Sometimes, we even compared the level of disability and wondered if it was better to have a child with physical disability than a mental one.

However, over a period of time, we realized that every child comes with his own set of challenges (even the perfectly healthy ones). We tend to overestimate our pain and underestimate others’ pain. As soon as we are able to detach ourselves from the expectations of the society, and stop comparing, life become easier.

One of my realizations was, since Vivaan needed so much time and attention, worrying about others meant that much less time we spent on Vivaan. Hence we benchmarked Vivaan as normal (btw, who decides who is normal and who is not?) and started doing everything every other parent would do – go for dinners, watch movies and take vacations!

3. However difficult the journey may look like, Celebrate dancing in the rain and feel the raindrops on your skin

Initially, we worried about all the milestones that Vivaan missed. The fact that he was unable to talk, he was not able to learn the alphabets, he was unable to count, he was unable to clean himself, unable to feed himself, the list seemed endless.

We then decided to celebrate the small milestones instead – the first word he mentioned (No, it was not MA-MA…but iPAD!), the 1st time he rode on a school bus on his own, the 1st time he got a prize (as the most tech-savvy child in his class), the days where there were no tantrums – life was all about celebrating the small things, not the big ones! I framed the first picture he drew. It was just some scribbles.

4. Every disability is a perspective. What looks like a weed can also be a herb

My friend Thorkil Sonne (Founder, Specialisterne), explained to me about the dandelion (a flower, native to Eurasia, and North and South America). Most of us don’t want dandelions in our lawns – they don’t fit there. But if we place a dandelion plant in our kitchen garden, and cultivate it, it can turn out to be one of our most valuable plants.

Dandelions are used to make beer, wine, salads, and natural medicines. Simply put, if we choose to cultivate dandelions, we will reap rewards. The same can be said for individuals with autism. The value of what you see depends on what your level of understanding and accommodation is. So, is a dandelion a weed or a herb? Is Autism a disability or a special ability? It’s all in the perspective.

5. People spend their entire lifetime searching for their purpose; you are lucky – the purpose found you

That was what Dr Kiran Bedi, my mentor, told me when I explained to her about Vivaan’s condition. Vivaan has been the biggest source of inspiration for me. I have realized that “Hope is not a course of action”. Life is too short to leave the problem to someone else.

So I hit the ground running with the help of some of my dear friends and family, many of whom found their purpose through Vivaan. The last five years have been the most significant and fruitful period of my life. I never imagined, that my working in the field of Autism will get me: an invite to the United Nations, a speaking opportunity at the World Economic Forum in Davos, multiple Board positions and meeting with various world leaders. My efforts to create jobs for autistic individuals became the subject of a Harvard Case Study. I am part of the mission to create a million jobs for people on the Autism spectrum.

In the words of our former President Dr A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, “I have a worthwhile mission for a lifetime!”

On Vivaan’s sixth birthday, my wife shared this on her Facebook page:

“There is more to a boy than what a mother sees. There is more to a boy than what his father dreams. Inside every boy lies a heart that beats. And sometimes it screams, refusing to take defeat. And sometimes his father’s dreams aren’t big enough, and sometimes his mother’s vision isn’t long enough. And sometimes the boy has to dream his own dreams and break through the clouds with his sun beans” – from the book Remembering Isaac: The Wise and Joyful Potter of Niederbipp. 

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Syndicated with permission from Swarajyamag.com. For more on VR Ferose's inspiring story check out: Everybody is Good at Something    

Sourced From www.dailygood.org

Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect. --J.K. Rowling

The Strange Beautiful Side Of Death

--by Leah Pearlman, syndicated from dharmacomics.com, May 05, 2016

It’s no surprise to anyone who knows my family well (or perhaps anyone who has a teenage daughter themselves) that growing up, my mom and I had a strained relationship.

Simply put, she insisted that I sit at the table for dinner, go to bed at nine, periodically clean my room and go to church. She ran the whole house, had a full time job, and was frequently stressed. My dad, on the other hand, seemed totally relaxed to my child eyes. He would secretly take me for donuts before school, or McDonald’s after. He would let me stay up late when mom was gone. He cracked hilarious jokes with waiters, librarians, flight attendants, and everyone else, which both delighted and embarrassed me.

I was a total daddy’s girl.

I still don’t know why this meant I had to push against my mom so hard, but I did. So much of my “becoming” involved push, push, and more push. I was boundaried, defensive, critical, closed. And I was usually harsh about all of it. The fastest way for me to resist doing something was if my mom asked me to do it. I was so desperate for my independence that I built walls about a mile high and a mile in every direction. Plus thorns. Plus moats. Plus crocodiles (with fangs).

Sometime in college, when distance gave me the space the walls had meant to create, I began to take them down; brick by tedious brick. I wish I could say it was for my mom’s sake, or even for my dad who asked me frequently to be nicer. But it was for my own sake. I knew that my mom loved me, and I knew that I loved her too. It felt absolutely terrible to be jerk to her. But jerk is exactly what I was, because the things that came out of my mouth jerked out faster than I had any control over. I’d had a decade of practice at that point, which, In Malcolm Gladwell terms, made me a master jerk.

Throughout my twenties, she and I steadily but incredibly slowly began healing our relationship. Imagine two ancient turtles moving toward each other from opposite sides of the country…in slow motion. Actually, the reality was probably that I was the slow motion turtle and my mom was patiently waiting, as she always had, for something to change.

And then, something did change. My dad died.

Until that happened, I couldn’t imagine anything worse. Besides all the other ways I would miss him, what would it be like at home? What would my mom and I do? What would we have to talk about? It had always been the three of us, I’d made sure of it. His presence always made things so much more comfortable for me.

I mean, he and I had everything in common, and she and I were so different…right?

Well it was awkward at first. But at least she and I liked the same kinds of restaurants and the same kind of food. My dad had often complained about those things.

We also both enjoyed traveling, so we took a few trips together. My dad had always found traveling a chore so bringing him along could be like dragging extra luggage. It was sort of nice, to be just the two of us.

Around that time, I started learning to cook, so I would call my mom every now and then for a recipe, or advice about how to make something. She always had the answer.

Together, we brainstormed what to do with a lot of my dad’s stuff. He was a collector. He kept everything. She and I, on the other hand, love to live light, getting rid of things we no longer need.

And suddenly, really, suddenly, it occurred to me: I AM SO MUCH LIKE MY MOM.

When had this happened? Had it always been true, and I hadn’t noticed? Had I been changing? Had something shifted when he died? Yes. Yes. And Yes.

For my whole life, I had believed a story that I was way more like my dad than my mom. Because I believed it, I would see the evidence to support it, and even create new evidence to reinforce it. But when he was gone, and I no longer had him to impress or constantly try to align with, I started opening up whole other parts of myself I had been ignoring, repressing, or denying, because they did not match my story of who I thought I was.

Growing up, I loved my dad as much or more than any child could, I’m very sure of that. I wouldn’t trade a single moment of that for anything in the whole world. And yet, now that he’s gone, it’s like I get a whole new favorite parent to take his place.

Now, three years later, my mom and I have just about everything in common. How we travel, how we love, what we wear, how we exercise, our relationship with food, art, play, and spirituality, gratitude, friendships, and family, how social we are, and how introverted, how much we love to learn, and get things done, how we treat ourselves, and relax well. It’s like every seed she ever planted in me just took 30 years to sprout, and now I honestly don’t know how I could be any MORE like her.

And wouldn’t you know, this all is happening at the same time I am truly falling in love with who I am. Coincidence? Doubt it.

Recently, a new friend asked me how my mom and I get along. I hesitated for a moment, and then said with finality, “GREAT.” It was the first time I’d ever answered that way; the old stories, of “strained” or “we’re working on it” or “getting better”, officially retired. I told him that too, how it was the first time I’d ever answered that way. I suppose I felt guilty that something so positive came out of my dad’s death.

“Way to go, dad!” My new friend said, “Getting things right, even in death.”

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Syndicated from Dharma Comics. Leah Pearlman is the creator and founder of Dharma Comics, and the upcoming book, "Drawn Together" (published by Tarcher Perigree, October 2016)

Be The Change: Look for the hidden gift in a difficult situation today. To learn more about Leah and her journey watch this beguiling short film.

 

http://wc4.net/t?ctl=6477:CD32ED679CD3ED59510230A3CF347872&

 

Sourced From www.dailygood.org

How A Password Changed My Life

How A Password Changed My Life... A true story from the Reader’s Digest...

 

I was having a great morning until I sat down in front of my office computer. “your password has expired”, a server message flashed on my screen, with instructions for changing it...

In my company we have to change password monthly..

I was deeply depressed after my recent divorce. Disbelief over what she had done to me was what I thought all day.

I remembered a tip I’d heard from my former boss.

He’d said, “I’m going to use a password that is going to change my life”. I couldn’t focus on getting things done in my current mood.. My password reminded me that I shouldn’t let myself be a victim of my recent breakup and that I was strong enough to do something about it.

 

I made my password – Forgive@her. I had to type this password several times every day, each time my computer would lock. Each time I came back from lunch I wrote forgive her. 

The simple action changed the way I looked at my ex-wife.. That constant reminder of reconciliation led me to accept the way things happened and helped me deal with my depression.. 

By the time the server prompted me to change my password following month, I felt free.

 

The next time I had to change my password I thought about the next thing that I had to get done. My password became Quit@smoking4ever .

It motivated me to follow my goal and I was able to quit smoking.

 

One month later, my password became Save4trip@europe, and in three months I was able to visit Europe.

 

Reminders helped me materialize my goals kept me motivated and excited.

It's sometimes difficult to come up with your next goal, keeping at it brings great results.

 

After a few months my password was lifeis@beautiful !!!

Life is going to change again.