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Humans are creatures of habit. We like familiarity. It’s in our traditions to like to stay the way we are. We like what we’re used to. So often, when we’re faced with a choice between two elements, one familiar and the other mysterious, we’d choose the familiar. It can’t be helped. It’s only part of nature.

Look at art, architecture, dance, education. All these realms resist change and only accept it in trickles and drips.  Take architecture for instance, it took years before the modernist movement started getting recognition. It started in the early 1905 but only after 25 odd years of pushing and struggling did the modernist approach gain acceptance by the public. Change is hard.

The only reason why change is hard, is you. That inherent fear hibernates in familiarity but manifests itself like a shroud veiling your eyes when an opportunity to change comes. You’d hear yourself saying: Its impossible! Preposterous! What a crazy idea!

But Change is what makes reality possible. Change is what drives the human mind forward. Change is the propellant for technological advances. Change is that piggy bank waiting to be smashed open. Change is when you feel that rush of freshness shooting up your spine. Change is that ethereal lightness in your body.  Change is the moment you spread your wings and leap. Change is the only constant.  To change is to be human.

Its easy to shun change, but when an opportunity for change that can benefit you trods along, pull onto its reins and ride it like an adventure! You never know where you’ll end up at.

Bump!

When the parents who read the article were asked about their family, they proudly proclaim: My child will never do this! It’s impossible for my child to do this! And yes it is rather hard for a child to actually run away.

The obstacles are just too many, food, shelter, water and most important of all money. Mind you running away is not an easy thing to do. You will need a large enough stimulus to actually make s child take that drastic an action. I found this on Yahoo:

i’m 11 years old and i’m in middle school. My life is horrible for many reasons like my grandpa died, my whole school makes fun of me all the time (they call me emo), and my family doesnt treat me right. i’ve had many suicde thoughts and have tried to kill myself only once. Should i run away? i dont know what to do and i dont want to tell my parents because they just dont understand… What should i do?

So when the child runs away, is the child at fault or is the parent? It’s very easy to lay the blame to a child who cannot comment for herself.  It’s always easier to push the blame to someone else than to look long and hard at the mirror. It has always seemed the case: if the child is misbehaving, it’s because he’s naughty.  When will parents themselves see that they are part of this problem or rather the root of it?

Think long and hard mum and dads.. This is something for you to read.

I just read something very interesting in this book “How We Decide” by Jonah Lehrer.

Some where in the 3rd chapter he wrote that apparently our brains are never meant to learn anything new unless we try it out. His argument for that chapter is that we learn only through trial and error and to fail is to give your brain a super fast learning lesson.

Well obviously if you keep failing the same way you’re quite a fool but if you learn to fail in different other ways, you’re bound to succeed. Much like how Edison made the lightbulb…apparently 1000 trials.

And if you’re still afraid to do anything because you’re afraid of failure, you’re much like that baby that never took his first step because he’s afraid that in that first step he will fall.

According to Niels Bohr the Danish Physicist: An expert is “a person who has made all the mistakes that can be made in a very narrow field.”

Yup! I’m definitely aiming to make all the mistakes I can!

Bump!

I think it’s because we humans all have a love for drama. Things that have caused us hurt; getting ditched by a gf, unruly bosses, unlucky accidents etc, all these pain both to the body and the heart tends to linger. We would occasionally look back, remember these times and dive into melodrama for a while. It’s like holding on to a durian isn’t it? Each time you look back at this dramatized memory, you give that durian that you’re holding a tight squeeze. Each time you talk about them, the thorns cut deeper. Stop being a masochist.

Ashes of yesterday are long blown away. We can’t do much about it isn’t it? We can’t make a change to the past but we definitely can learn from it. Thank those who have caused you grievous hurt for a life lesson that no amount of money can teach, then take those lessons and live your life today even stronger. Let go of those durians, they hurt and after time they smell close to the depths of hell. Let them drop. I’m not asking you to stop thinking about them, that’s as good as asking a person to not think of a pink elephant. I mean let it go, don’t let your thoughts linger on it. In your every day life stop talking about it, when the thought pops up, acknowledge it and let it slide, don’t entertain it. Take a slow deep breath and let it go.

I admid it would be hard to forgive the people who hurt us, well you don’t have to. Just don’t brood over them. It’s not healthy. Let it slide.

Live life braver, a tad wiser and a whole lot happier. Don’t let tomorrow go to ashes.

This was two years ago but still worth reading (:

J.K. Rowling, author of the best-selling Harry Potter book series, delivers her Commencement Address, “The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of Imagination,” at the Annual Meeting of the Harvard Alumni Association. Text as follows and copyright to J.K. Rowling

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates.

The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I have endured at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and convince myself that I am at the world’s largest Gryffindor reunion.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, the law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the ‘gay wizard’ joke, I’ve come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step to self improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that have expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called ‘real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These may seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that would never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension. I know that the irony strikes with the force of a cartoon anvil, now.

So they hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.
I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all the subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears that my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea then how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above the price of rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more than any qualification I ever earned.

So given a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

Now you might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I personally will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working at the African research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to speak against their governments. Visitors to our offices included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had left behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him back to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just had to give him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard, and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces leads to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped change. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, people who have been kind enough not to sue me when I took their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.
I wish you all very good lives.
Thank you very much.

I like what he says. Its strange how this messages only strike us so much more when the speakers are nearing the end of their lives. Kinda like Tuesday’s with Morrie.

Bump!

I try to point out some of these to you, but the irony is, you say you do all these for the love of me. Can you blame me for feeling the way I do? (I think you probably will).”

Please visit our new website! (:

It’s a very interesting case and it was reallly fun playing sleuth hehe. Anyways here’s a video to help you guys find your lost items

I met an interesting client today. He came in looking for a lost object, in particular a little black bag. Well we spent two long sessions and what we found was pretty interesting.
The subconscious mind is such a magnificent thing. We both dove into it all the way to a month before today and he could recall aost every detail with picturisque quality, even what he ate and who he called on the phone.
And so the two of us time travellers went forward and backward in time in his mind and after double checking we found the place where he last misplaced his bag.
Now here’s the interesting part, when I asked him to recall those incidents before the therapy he could not. But when therapy started, I asked him to remember the fabric material and used the feel of his fingers as a guide. This was because our muscle memory is much stronger than our visual or audio memory and true enough on the day that he misplaced it, his fingers twitched quite a bit.
It’s a very interesting case and it was reallly fun playing sleuth hehe. Anyways here’s a link to help you guys find your lost items

http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-find-lost-objects

Tk