I found out from my own experience that the best way to involve my daughter, Joanna, in sports is to participate with her. Recently, a mother asked me how I got my children to swim laps. The truth is, I've never asked my children to do laps. They see me do laps and want to do it with me. Parental participation is one way.
Donna de Varona
And now it [grass] seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves, Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps, And here you are the mothers' laps." - Song of Myself: 6
Today, whenever I'm under pressure to make a decision on a transaction but I don't know what the right one is, I try desperately to postpone it. I'll insist on more information - on doing extra laps around the intellectual parking lot - before committing. I take the same approach with people, too.
Stephen A. Schwarzman
Let graciousness fall today into the laps of the weak, into the hearts of the sorrowful, into the eyes of the tearful, into the pockets of the destitute, into the souls of the forgotten and then unto the ones lost within greed, corruption and scandal, that their righteousness be absolved.
I love to get on the road, but I also think arriving is such a thrill. Turning up at the train station in Mumbai, for example, to see people hanging off all the wonderful old carriages. It's extraordinary - everyone sitting with their chickens on their laps, moving forward but not going anywhere fast.
Nothing is born of nothing, least of all knowledge, modernity, or enlightened thought; progress is made in tiny surges, in successive laps, like an endless relay race. But there are links without which nothing would be passed on, and for that reason, they deserve the gratitude of all who benefited from them.
The conclusion I have reached is that, above all, dogs are witnesses. They are allowed access to our most private moments. They are there when we think we are alone. Think of what they could tell us. They sit on the laps of presidents. They see acts of love and violence, quarrels and feuds, and the secret play of children. If they could tell us everything they have seen, all of the gaps of our lives would stitch themselves together.
True, luck may rule over parts of a person's life and luck may cast patches of shadow across the ground of our being, but where there's a WILL- much less a strong will to swim thirty laps or run twenty kilometers - there's a way to overcome most any trouble with whatever stepladders you have around.
The best way to measure how much you've grown isn't by inches or the number of laps you can now run around the track, or even your grade point average- though those things are important, to be sure. It's what you've done with your time, how you've chosen to spend your days, and whom you've touched this year. That, to me, is the greatest measure of success.
The best way to measure how much you've grown isn't by inches or the number of laps you can now run around the track, or even your grade point average-- though those things are important, to be sure. It's what you've done with your time, how you've chosen to spend your days, and whom you've touched this year. That, to me, is the greatest measure of success.
R. J. Palacio
But the best way to measure how much you've grown isn't by inches or the number of laps you can now run around the track, or even your grade point average - though those things are important, to be sure. It's what you've done with your time, how you've chosen to spend your days, and whom you have touched this year. That, to me, is the greatest measure of success.
Because while we all Facebook stalk, protocol is to not admit it. I might know, from status update, that a potential best friend swims laps every mornings, but it'd be creep to say "Don't worry about eating that doughnut, you deserve it after all those calories you burn!" Instead, I check out her profile and she reviews mine, but then we meet and pretend to know nothing.
His head is busy moving between my parted thighs. He makes low purr-like sounds between my legs and is so surprisingly ravenous I can feel his teeth. His nails bit into my thighs as he devours me like he's the one deriving pleasure from the act, and I'm so turned on by the way he laps me up, that I come.
Mr. Schlubb, the pear-shaped PE teacher, sent us all out to run half a dozen laps around a preposterously enormous cinder track. For the Greenwood kids-all of us white, marshmallowy, innately unphysical, squinting unfamiliarly in the bright sunshine-it was a shock to the system of an unprecedented order.
The hour went by very quickly for me. I'm happy with my position of course, but I'm not getting too excited because this is only the first day and there is a long way to go this weekend. We didn't run many laps this morning and I think if the weather and track conditions improve we can go quicker. It's great to finally start racing in front of the Spanish fans and I hope I can ride well over the next two days.
Always Sami. I was tethered to her somehow. To that scared little girl I'd found on the staircase nearly a year earlier; to the past, when teaching was simpler and I could care about everyday problems, when being relentless meant running two extra laps, not waiting for an MP to search the undercarriage of a bus for bombs before letting students approach it.
We stand there, quiet. My questions all seem wrong: How did you get so old? Was it all at once, in a day, or did you peter out bit by bit? When did you stop having parties? Did everyone else get old too, or was it just you? Are other people still here, hiding in the palm trees or holding their breath underwater? When did you last swim your laps? Do your bones hurt? Did you know this was coming and hide that you knew, or did it ambush you from behind?
Men expect that religion should cost them no pains, that happiness should drop into their laps without any design and endeavor on their part, and that, after they have done what they please while they live, God should snatch them up to heaven when they die. But though the commandments of God be not grievous, yet it is fit to let men know that they are not thus easy.
I cannot overstate how much a generous spirit contributes to good luck. Look at the luckiest people around you, the ones you envy, the ones who seem to have destiny falling habitually into their laps. If they're anything like the fortunate people I know, they're prepared, they're always working at their craft, they're alert, they involve their friends in their work, and they tend to make others feel lucky to be around them.
We're happy with it, ... We were really good on long runs, but there were a lot of cautions and wrecks. I was not very good on restarts. I was up to second at one point and fell back to sixth. I got back to fourth and was working on Steve Carlson for third, but we didn't quite have enough laps left to finish the job.
She hops expectantly into the sink. I turn on the tap for her; she laps without a glance in my direction, like a duchess so used to being ministered to that she no longer notices the servants and sees only a world where objects dumbly bend to her wishes, doors opening, faucets discharging cool water, delicious things appearing in her dish.
In the meantime the strike is over, with a remarkably low loss of life. All is quiet, they report, all is quiet. In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools.
It was a battle all day with our M&M's Camry. I don't know why, we just didn't have what we needed. We never seemed to have the ticket we needed today. We got better all day, which was a positive and salvaged something out of nothing -- so all things considering it was okay. It's so late in the year, you're just running laps now and getting what you can get and seeing if you can win next weekend at Homestead to finish the year.
We are reaping the fruits of ten thousand, fifty thousand years of sowing of the fields of mind. And it is being dropped into our laps for us to create human-machine interfacing, control of genetic material, redefinition of social reality, re engineering of languages, revisioning of the planetary ecology, all these things fall upon us.
I'm really proud of my team. They have given me great cars all year long. Today, we finally got to show what kind of cars they have been giving me. We were up front, leading laps and showing how good this No. 22 Ford is. Once again today, my team showed they have my back and that will only make us better going forward.
While sports are indisputably a positive source of strength and self-development for girls, they can accomplish this only if the environment in which female athletes throw their javelins, kick their soccer balls, and swim their fast and furious laps is an environment that respects girls and takes them seriously as athletes.
I am pleased with the race and happy with fourth position. It was a real shame for the team that Felipe had an issue at the start. It was a lonely race but the final 20 laps were very tough. Sebastian was quicker than me, and closed up behind very fast, but the fight was really good fun. I know a few tricks that can really help to defend and they all worked today, and I am delighted to come out on top today.
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing... What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
I kind of just lost track of laps. I couldn't hear a split. It was just so loud in here everyone was going nuts. I sort of felt like I was a little tired and I said, the people in front of me seem like they are falling off the lead pack a little bit. I should probably make a move. I hear ding, ding, ding, ding and I thought "oh crap! I've really got to go, I've got a lot left.
There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their dumb-ass kids can't compete academically, so they throw money into the happy laps of shrinks . . . to get back diagnoses that help explain away the deficiencies of their junior morons. I don't give a [bleep] what these crackerjack whack jobs tell you - yer kid is NOT autistic. He's just stupid. Or lazy. Or both.
Wow, I don't even know what to say. Those final ten laps were the hardest in my life. The race reminded me a lot of 2002 when I won my second Indianapolis 500 -- to be able to win the first time in a touring car is just an amazing feeling. I'm so fortunate to have had this opportunity and to have been able to compete with three wonderful drivers. We had a great team and a fantastic car. I just consider myself lucky to have been in the right place at the right time.
Home. When it rains, you can smell the leaves in the forest and the sand. It's all so small and mild, the landscape surrounding the lake, so manageable. The leaves and the sand are so close, it's as if you might, if you wanted, pull them on over your head. And the lake always laps at the shore so gently, licking the hand you dip into it like a young dog, and the water is soft and shallow.
In life, people tend to wait for good things to come to them. And by waiting, they miss out. Usually, what you wish for doesn't fall in your lap; it falls somewhere nearby, and you have to recognize it, stand up, and put in the time and work it takes to get to it. This isn't because the universe is cruel. It's because the universe is smart. It has its own cat-string theory and knows we don't appreciate things that fall into our laps.
The truth is that we are a part of God. God could not have created anything except out of his own consciousness. We're all his dream, and our duty in life that God has assigned to us, that the universe has placed squarely in our laps, is to find out who we really are. "Gnothi seauton," as the Greeks used to say. "Know thyself." But to know thyself, if you trace it back, to the deeper and deeper levels, you discover that that self is not your body or your ego or your personality or your country or anything, that's just a sack of self-definitions that you carry around with you
Words are substance strange. Speak one and the air ripples into another's ears. Write one and the eye laps it up. But the sense transmutes, and the spoken word winds through the ear's labyrinth into a sense that is no longer the nerve's realm. The written word unfolds behind the eye into the world, world's image, and the imagination sees as the eye cannot see-thoughtfully.
Smoking is, if not my life, then at least my hobby. I love to smoke. Smoking is fun. Smoking is cool. Smoking is, as far as I am concerned, the entire point of being an adult. It makes growing up genuinely worthwhile. I am quite well aware of the hazards of smoking. Smoking is not a healthful pastime, it is true. Smoking is indeed no bracing dip in the ocean, no strenuous series of calisthenics, no two laps around the reservoir. On the other hand, smoking has to its advantage the fact that is a quiet pursuit. Smoking is, in effect a dignified sport.
I come from a long line of tellers: mesemondok, old Hungarian women who tell while sitting on wooden chairs with their plastic pocketbooks on their laps, their knees apart, their skirts touching the ground... and cuentistas, old Latina women who stand, robust of breast, hips wide, and cry out the story ranchera style. Both clans storytell in the plain voice of women who have lived blood and babies, bread and bones. For them, story is a medicine which strengthens and arights the individual and the community.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes
People are creators. But I doubt that many realize this. We are not meant to go out into the world and find flawless things, we are not meant to sit down and have flawless things fall into our laps. But we are creators. We can create a beautiful thing out of what we have. The problem with idealistic people is that they see themselves as receivers instead of creators, they end up hunting for the flaw in everything in order to measure it up to their ideals. Now, when you see yourself as a creator, you can look at a chunk of marble and see the angel within it. Then you carve until you have set that angel free.
C. JoyBell C.
Our problem is that the climate crisis hatched in our laps at a moment in history when political and social conditions were uniquely hostile to a problem of this nature and magnitude-that moment being the tail end of the go-go '80s, the blastoff point for the crusade to spread deregulated capitalism around the world. Climate change is a collective problem demanding collective action the likes of which humanity has never actually accomplished. Yet it entered mainstream consciousness in the midst of an ideological war being waged on the very idea of the collective sphere.
I'm looking forward to Phoenix. I ran well there last year in the Nationwide Series, and it was one of the tracks I made four Sprint Cup starts at last season. In the Cup race last year, I had a good run going for it being my first time there in a Cup car, and unfortunately got damage from an accident. It's not a restrictor plate race, so this will be the first time this season that I will run a lot of laps in practice. It's also the first race for the new qualifying format, so it will be interesting to see how that works out. Overall, I just want to have a solid run in the BRANDT Chevy.
I wish I could break this window. Step through it. But I can't break this window. I can't even find some less dramatic way to die inside of this school, like hanging myself or slitting my wrists, because what would they do with my body? It might put everyone at risk. I won't let myself do that. I'm not selfish like Lily. I hate her. I hate her so much my heart tries to crawl out of my throat but it gets stuck there and beats crazily in the too narrow space. I bring my hands to my neck and try to massage it back down. I pres so heard against the skin, my eyes sting, and then I'm hurrying back down the stairs, back to the first floor. I think of Trace running laps, something he can control.
Darkness I find myself set upon a ship of fools and cast adrift. Adrift in sea of madness, steaming towards a storm of uncertainty. Overboard, swirling, twirling tumbling. Engulfed in madness. Shipwrecked, marooned. Washed upon a rock of hope. Darkness surrounds. Within the darkness madness laps upon a distant shore. Morning breaks and sun rises once more. Darkness retreats into the shadows. Golden rays of light cleanse the mind and soul. A new day dawns heralding sanity, and hope for the human race once more.
I TAKE A BEATING MAKE YOUR MIND I GIVE IT MY SOUL I GOT YEARS IN THE GAME I'M 26 YEARS OLD MAN I'VE BEEN LOCKED UP BUT NEVER HAD TO DO TIME THAT'S DOESN'T MEAN I NEVER EVER HAD TO DO A CRIME EVERYBODY THINKS THEY KNOW ME BUT I SWEAR THAT THEY DON'T WANNA ACT LIKE THEYLL SHOOT HIM BUT I KNOW THAT THEY WON'T I'M A MOTHERFUCKING G I DON'T CARE WHATCHA THINK I DID LAPS AROUND THE BLOCK NOW I'M BACK ON THE BRINK I GOT NIGGAS THAT WHO CRAK BITCHES WHO SUCK DUCK BROTHERS WHO DEAD AND GONE THIS IS FUCKED SHIT SPEAK FROM MY MIND MAN IF THIS IS MY TIME I ONLY SPEAK THE TRUTH HOMIE I AIN'T WASTING A LINE AND I AIN'T WASTING A LINE SEE THAT'S A WASTE OF MY TIME I AIN'T WASTING MY TIME BITCH THAT'S LIKE WASTING OF MY GRIND GOT A LOT ON MY MIND IN JUST SHORT TIME I'M A SPIT WHAT I SPIT AND DROP IT ONLINE
Often things happen to race cars in the heat of the race. A square-toothed gear in a transmission may break, suddenly leaving the driver without all of his gears. Or perhaps a clutch fails. Brakes go soft from overheating. Suspensions break. When faced with one of these problems, the poor driver crashes. The average driver gives up. The great drivers drive through the problem. They figure out a way to continue racing. Like in the Luxembourg Grand Prix in 1989, when the Irish racer Kevin Finnerty York finished the race victoriously and later revealed that he had driven the final twenty laps of the race with only two gears! To be able to possess a machine in such a way is the ultimate show of determination and awareness. It makes one realize that the physicality of our world is a boundary to us only if our will is weak; a true champion can accomplish things that a normal person would think impossible.
History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn't predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn't tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head. History is like that. Of course, unlike your Aunt's cat, history is going on all around you, all the time, and is often quite lively. Sometimes it rests in a sunbeam for a peaceful century or two, but on the whole, history is always plotting, and it bites very hard. It stalks around the world, fickle and dissatisfied and often angry. It demands to be fed just a little earlier each day, until you find yourself carving meat from the bone as fast as you can, faster than you thought possible, just to satisfy it. Some people have a kind of marvelous talent for calming it and enticing it onto their laps. To some it will never even spare a glance.
Catherynne M. Valente
We Let the Boat Drift I set out for the pond, crossing the ravine where seedling pines start up like sparks between the disused rails of the Boston and Maine. The grass in the field would make a second crop if early autumn rains hadn't washed the goodness out. After the night's hard frost it makes a brittle rustling as I walk. The water is utterly still. Here and there a black twig sticks up. It's five years today, and even now I can't accept what cancer did to him - not death so much as the annihilation of the whole man, sense by sense, thought by thought, hope by hope. Once we talked about the life to come. I took the Bible from the nightstand and offered John 14: "I go to prepare a place for you.""Fine. Good, " he said. "But what about Matthew? 'You, therefore, must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.'" And he wept. My neighbor honks and waves driving by. She counsels troubled students; keeps bees; her goats follow her to the mailbox. Last Sunday afternoon we went canoeing on the pond. Something terrible at school had shaken her. We talked quietly far from shore. The paddles rested across our laps; glittering drops fell randomly from their tips. The light around us seemed alive. A loon-itinerant- let us get quite close before it dove, coming up after a long time, and well away from humankind
WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? I ALWAYS MINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? MY EYES THEY TINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE I DYE MY HAIR AND POLISH MY NAILS, TAN MY SKIN, STARVE TO STAY TIN I PUMP IRON AND RUN MY LAPS, WORK MY ASS IN AEROBIC CLASS MY FRIENDS SAY YOU'RE A KIND OF VAIN YOUR DESPERATE MANHUNT DRIVES YOU INSANE BUT WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? I DON'T HAVE THE FAINTEST CLUE WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? I ALWAYS MINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? MY EYES THEY TINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE. IN NIGHT CARE MASK AND CARMEN CURLERS, I FALL DEEP IN A BEAUTY SLEEP WHEN I WAKE UP I READ MY OWN BIBLE VOUGE, ELLE AND EAT DIETORELLE MY FRIENDS SAY YOU'RE A KIND OF VAIN YOUR DESPERATE MANHUNT DRIVES YOU INSANE BUT WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? I DON'T HAVE THE FAINTEST CLUE WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? I ALWAYS MINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? MY EYES THEY TINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE. I'M IN MY OWN WORK OF ART, THAT'S MY PRIDE AND JOY OF HEART IT TAKES A LOT OF ENERGY, TO KEEP MY DEAR VANITY WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? I ALWAYS MINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE WHERE'S MY BOY WITH THE JUMPING JOY? MY EYES THEY TINGLE BUT I'M STILL SINGLE.
Hundreds of men crowded the yard, and not a one among them was whole. They covered the ground thick as maggots on a week old carcass, the dirt itself hardly anywhere visible. No one could move without all feeling it and thus rising together in a hellish contortion of agony. Everywhere men moaned, shouting for water and praying for God to end their suffering. They screamed and groaned in an unending litany, calling for mothers and wives and fathers and sisters. The predominant color was blue, though nauseations of red intruded throughout. Men lay half naked, piled on top of one another in scenes to pitiful to imagine. Bloodied heads rested on shoulders and laps, broken feet upon arms. Tired hands held in torn guts and torsos twisted every which way. Dirty shirts dressed the bleeding bodies and not enough material existed in all the world to sop up the spilled blood. A boy clad in gray, perhaps the only rebel among them, lay quietly in one corner, raised arm rigid with a finger extended, as if pointing to the heavens. His face was a singular portrait of contentment among the misery. Broken bones, dirty white and soiled with the passing of hours since injury, were everywhere abundant. All manner of devices splinted the damaged and battered limbs: muskets, branches, bayonets, lengths of wood or iron from barns and carts. One individual had bone splinted with bone: the dried femur of a horse was lashed to his busted shin. A blind man, his eyes subtracted by the minie ball that had enfiladed him, moaned over and over 'I'm kilt, I'm kilt! Oh Gawd, I'm kilt!' Others lay limp, in shock. These last were mostly quiet, their color unnaturally pale. It was agonizingly humid in the still air of the yard. The stink of blood mixed with human waste produced a potent and offensive odor not unlike that of a hog farm in the high heat of a South Carolina summer. Swarms of fat, green blowflies everywhere harassed the soldiers to the point of insanity, biting at their wounds. Their steady buzz was a noise straight out of hell itself, a distress to the ears.