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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
✍🏻 * Teacher gave a beautiful toffee to all the children of the class and then said a strange thing * 👇🏻 * Listen, children! All of you not to eat your toffee for ten minutes and saying that he walked out of the class room *. * There was silence in the classroom for a few moments, every child was looking at the toffee in front of them and it was difficult to stop themselves with each passing moment. Ten minutes are over and the teacher enters the class room. Reviewed. There were seven children in the whole class, whose toffees were as it is, while all the other children were eating toffee and commenting on its color and taste. The teacher secretly recorded the names of these seven children in his diary and began to read after noting *. * The name of this teacher was Professor Walter Torch *. * After a few years, Professor Walter opened his own diary and removed the names of seven children and started researching them. After a long struggle, he come to know that the seven children have achieved many successes in their lives and are the most successful among their own field people. Professor Walter also reviewed the rest of his class of students and it was found that most of them were leading a normal life, while there were some who were faced with strict economic and social conditions *. * All this effort and research resulted in one sentence by Professor Walter and that was it *. * "A man who cannot be patient for ten minutes can never move forward in life *" * This research gained worldwide prominence and was named "Marsh Mello Theory" because the toffee that Professor Walter gave the children was named "Marsh Mello". It was soft like foam *. According to this theory, one of the most successful people in the world is found with many qualities 'patience', because this quality increases the strength of the human being, due to which the man is not disappointed in difficult situations and he becomes an extraordinary personality. * Patience is the essence of life * 🙏🏻🌷 |
| She was leading an army into battle when the messenger arrived: her husband needed help in the north. She looked at her troops, looked at the enemy castle, and said: "We attack now." Three hours later, they beheaded her on the battlefield. Princess Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd died fighting. And her death started a revolution. Kidwelly, South Wales, 1136. Gwenllian was preparing to attack Kidwelly Castle—a Norman fortress that symbolized everything wrong with Wales. For decades, Norman lords had been carving up Welsh territory, building castles, imposing foreign rule, and treating the Welsh as conquered people in their own land. Gwenllian had decided: enough. She was 34 years old, a princess of Gwynedd and wife to Prince Gruffydd ap Rhys of Deheubarth. More importantly, she was a military commander leading an army of Welsh warriors who believed they could drive the invaders out. She'd grown up understanding war. Her father was Gruffydd ap Cynan, King of Gwynedd—one of the most powerful Welsh rulers of his generation. He'd spent decades fighting to reclaim his kingdom from Norman control. Gwenllian had watched him strategize, negotiate, fight, and rebuild. She'd learned that Welsh independence wasn't given—it was taken, by force, repeatedly, until the enemy gave up trying to conquer you. In 1116, when she was about 14, Gwenllian had met Gruffydd ap Rhys. He was a prince without a principality—his father's kingdom of Deheubarth in southern Wales had been seized by Normans. He was essentially a guerrilla fighter, leading resistance forces from the mountains and forests. They fell in love. Or perhaps they recognized in each other the same fierce determination to fight for Welsh freedom. They married. And Gwenllian joined the resistance. For twenty years, she and Gruffydd lived as rebels. They raised four sons in forest camps and remote hideouts. They led raids against Norman positions. They rallied Welsh support. They fought to reclaim Deheubarth piece by piece. By 1136, they'd made real progress. Parts of southern Wales were back under Welsh control. The Normans were weakening. Welsh princes across the country were beginning to coordinate their resistance. Then, in late 1136, an opportunity emerged: King Henry I of England had died. The English succession was in chaos. Norman attention was focused on England's internal crisis, not on controlling Wales. This was the moment to strike. Gruffydd traveled north to meet with Gwenllian's brother, Owain Gwynedd, King of Gwynedd, to coordinate a major uprising. Welsh princes across the country would attack simultaneously, overwhelming Norman defenses. Gruffydd left Gwenllian in command of their forces in the south. She didn't wait for him to return. Gwenllian looked at the situation strategically: Kidwelly Castle was a key Norman stronghold. It controlled access to important trade routes. Its garrison could threaten any Welsh uprising in southern Wales. If the coordinated rebellion was going to work, Kidwelly needed to fall. Gwenllian gathered her army—accounts vary, but likely several hundred men. Some were professional warriors. Many were farmers and common people who'd taken up arms for Welsh independence. They marched on Kidwelly Castle. Here's what made this decision remarkable: Gwenllian knew the odds were against her. Kidwelly was well-fortified. The Norman garrison was experienced. She was attacking without siege equipment, without her husband's forces, without certainty that other Welsh attacks were happening simultaneously. But she also knew that hesitation meant losing the momentum. The Normans were distracted by English succession crisis. This window might not open again. So she attacked. On a winter day in 1136, Gwenllian's forces engaged Norman troops near Kidwelly Castle. The exact details of the battle are lost to history, but we know the outcome: The Welsh were defeated. Gwenllian fought alongside her men—she wasn't commanding from behind the lines. Medieval sources specifically note she was in the battle itself. When the fighting turned against the Welsh, Gwenllian was captured. The Norman commander was Maurice de Londres, a brutal lord who'd spent years crushing Welsh resistance. He'd seen countless Welsh rebels. He'd executed them routinely. But he'd never captured a Welsh princess leading an army. He made a decision that would echo through Welsh history: he had Gwenllian executed immediately, on the battlefield. Not held for ransom. Not imprisoned to use as leverage. Not taken back to England for trial. Beheaded. Right there. Surrounded by the dead and wounded from the battle. The Normans thought they were making an example. They thought executing a rebel princess would terrify other Welsh leaders into submission. They were catastrophically wrong. News of Gwenllian's death spread through Wales like wildfire. A princess—a daughter of the King of Gwynedd, a mother of four, a woman who'd fought for twenty years to free her people—beheaded like a common criminal by foreign invaders. The rage was immediate and explosive. Welsh forces that had been planning attacks accelerated them. Warriors who'd been hesitating joined the fight. Gwenllian's death became the spark that ignited the Great Revolt of 1136. Her sons—Morgan, Maredudd, Maelgwn, and Rhys—all grew up to be fierce warriors and leaders. One of them, Rhys ap Gruffydd (known as "The Lord Rhys"), would eventually become one of the most powerful Welsh princes of the 12th century, ruling Deheubarth successfully for decades. They fought in their mother's name. Within months of Gwenllian's death, Welsh forces won a series of major victories. At the Battle of Crug Mawr, Welsh troops crushed a Norman army, chanting Gwenllian's name as their battle cry. For the next several years, Welsh forces pushed the Normans back across southern Wales, reclaiming territory that had been lost for decades. Gwenllian became more than a historical figure—she became a legend. A symbol of Welsh resistance. A reminder that the fight for independence was worth dying for. Medieval Welsh poetry celebrated her courage. Chronicles recorded her as a warrior-princess who'd died defending her people. Folk tales transformed her into an almost mythical figure. For centuries afterward, Welsh rebels would invoke her name before battle. "Revenge for Gwenllian!" became a rallying cry during Welsh uprisings against English rule. But here's what often gets overlooked in the legend: Gwenllian was a real person making real decisions in an impossible situation. She was a mother leaving her children to lead an army. She knew the risks. She knew she might die. She chose to fight anyway because she believed Welsh independence was worth the sacrifice. Think about what that decision meant: She was 34 years old. She had four young sons. Her husband was away. She could have waited for him to return. She could have stayed in the mountains, kept her forces safe, avoided direct confrontation. Instead, she saw an opportunity and seized it—knowing it might cost her life. That's not reckless bravery. That's calculated courage. She assessed the strategic situation and made the choice that gave Wales the best chance, even though it put her at maximum risk. And when the battle went wrong, when capture was imminent, medieval sources suggest she didn't try to escape or surrender for clemency. She fought until she was captured. And when Maurice de Londres brought her forward for execution, she reportedly faced death with the same courage she'd shown in life. The Normans executed her to make a point: this is what happens to Welsh rebels. But they created a martyr instead. Gwenllian's execution proved to the Welsh people that the Normans would show no mercy—not even to royal women, not even to mothers, not even to princesses who should have been valuable hostages. If the Normans would execute Gwenllian, they'd execute anyone. Which meant there was nothing to lose by fighting. That realization transformed the Welsh resistance from scattered rebellions into a coordinated national uprising. For the next several years, Wales was in open revolt. Norman control weakened significantly. Welsh princes reclaimed substantial territory. Gwenllian didn't live to see it. But her death made it possible. Today, Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd is remembered as one of the great Welsh heroines. There are monuments to her. Historical societies dedicated to preserving her memory. Her name appears in lists of notable women warriors throughout history. But for centuries, she was nearly forgotten outside of Wales. English histories didn't celebrate Welsh rebels. Welsh stories were suppressed under English rule. Gwenllian became a name in genealogies, a footnote about a minor battle in 1136. Only in recent decades has her story been properly recovered and celebrated. Here's why Gwenllian's story matters beyond Welsh history: She represents countless women who led, fought, and died in wars throughout history—but whose stories were erased because recording history was done by cultures that couldn't imagine women as military leaders. Medieval chronicles mention her almost in passing: "And the Princess Gwenllian was killed at Kidwelly." As if that's not one of the most remarkable facts in 12th-century Welsh history—a princess leading an army into battle. If she'd been a prince leading that same army, his last stand would be celebrated as heroic. There would be epic poems, detailed chronicles, monuments. Because she was a woman, she became a footnote. Until Welsh people who remembered refused to let her be forgotten. That's the power of remembering: when history tries to erase women's contributions, communities that refuse to forget keep those stories alive until they can be properly told. Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd led an army. She made strategic decisions. She fought for her people's freedom. She died in battle and became a symbol that inspired a successful uprising. That's not a supporting character in someone else's story. That's a protagonist. The messenger arrived while she was preparing to attack. Her husband needed help in the north. A different leader might have retreated, regrouped, waited for reinforcements. Gwenllian looked at the castle, looked at her army, and made a decision that would cost her life but change Welsh history: "We attack now." Three hours later, she was dead. Within a year, Wales was in successful revolt, chanting her name as they drove the Normans back. She didn't live to see victory. But her death guaranteed others would keep fighting until they achieved it. That's not just courage. That's leadership—the willingness to make the sacrifice that others can build upon. Princess Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd (c. 1097-1136): Daughter of a king, wife to a prince, mother of four, commander of armies, and the woman whose death started a revolution that would echo through Welsh history for centuries. Sometimes the most powerful act isn't surviving—it's fighting for something bigger than yourself and trusting others to finish what you started. Gwenllian started the fight. Wales finished it. And her name became the battle cry that made victory possible. |
| At 38, he made $40,000 a year teaching high school. At 58, he was worth a billion. At 61, he had nothing. At 64, he’s back. A struggling science teacher built a $7 billion empire. Then lost it all. Now he’s doing it again. Jack Owoc was 38 years old. He’d spent nine years teaching high school science. Six different subjects. Plus English. Plus running in-school suspension. The pay was terrible. But he had a side hustle coaching clients on nutrition and training. One month, something strange happened. Half his clients stopped losing fat. Same workouts. Same dedication. One change. They’d switched to a different egg protein supplement. Owoc sent it to a lab. The results made him furious. 90% maltodextrin. Zero protein. Complete garbage. The supplement industry was lying to everyone. “Just accept it. Everyone does it.” “You’re a science teacher. Stay in your lane.” “You can’t fight these companies.” He didn’t listen. Here’s what Owoc knew that everyone else missed. If he was this angry, millions of other people should be too. He just had to give them something real. In 1993, he founded Vital Pharmaceuticals from nothing. No investors. No connections. Just a mission. Make supplements that actually worked. Back everything with real science. Run it like a pharmaceutical company, not a supplement scam. For 19 years, he ground it out. Built the foundation. Funded 28 university studies. Created Redline energy drinks. Made progress. But nothing explosive. Then in 2012, at age 51, he launched Bang Energy. Zero sugar. Zero calories. Real ingredients. Bright cans. Bold marketing. Fitness influencers everywhere. People said he couldn’t compete with Red Bull and Monster. He ignored them. By 2020, Bang was the #3 energy drink in America. The company hit $1 billion in sales faster than Coca-Cola, Apple, Disney, and IBM. Combined revenue reached $7.25 billion. The struggling science teacher had become a billionaire. But then came the fall. Lawsuits. $293 million judgment to Monster. $115 million settlement with PepsiCo. In October 2022, his company filed for bankruptcy. In March 2023, at age 61, Jack Owoc was fired from the empire he built. Kicked off the board. Stripped of every title. Monster bought Bang for $362 million. Everyone said it was over. “He’s too old to start again.” “His reputation is destroyed.” “The industry moved on.” He didn’t listen. Eighteen months later, at 63, Owoc launched AI Energy. A new company. A new formula. A new mission. At 64, he rebranded it as Ai UltraDopa. Targeting dopamine. Focus. Motivation. Not copying what he built before. Building something better. He’s producing a documentary about his journey. He’s back in the gym channel. Back building distribution. Back doing what everyone said was impossible. Most people who lose everything at 61 stay down. They accept defeat. They tell themselves the story is over. Owoc understood something different. The same skills that built a $7 billion empire don’t disappear when the empire does. They’re still inside you. Waiting to build the next one. What failure are you treating like the end of your story instead of the setup for your comeback? What industry is lying to people that you could fix? Jack Owoc went from struggling teacher to billionaire to bankrupt to building again. Twice now, he’s started from zero. Because he understood that losing the company isn’t losing yourself. Your knowledge doesn’t file for bankruptcy. Your skills don’t get fired. Your drive doesn’t get sold to the competition. The only thing that can end your story is deciding it’s over. Owoc decided it wasn’t. At 64, he’s proving that your second act can be bigger than your first. Stop listening to people who think one failure means you’re finished. Start thinking like Jack Owoc. Find your next formula. Build your next empire. And never let anyone tell you the game is over until you say it is. Sometimes the greatest comebacks come from the greatest collapses. Because when you’ve already lost everything once, you know exactly how to build it back. Think Big. |
| He was born without the connection between his brain's hemispheres. Doctors said he'd never walk or talk. He memorized 12,000 books—reading two pages at once, one with each eye. He couldn't button his shirt, but he remembered every word he'd ever read. When Kim Peek was born in 1951, doctors examined his oversized head and delivered devastating news to his parents: your son has severe brain abnormalities. He'll likely never walk, never talk, never function independently. You should institutionalize him. Kim's father, Fran Peek, refused. "He's my son. He's coming home." What doctors found was shocking: Kim had been born without a corpus callosum—the bundle of nerve fibers connecting the brain's two hemispheres. His brain hemispheres literally couldn't communicate with each other the way normal brains do. He also had macrocephaly (abnormally large head), cerebellar damage, and other developmental abnormalities. Every prediction suggested Kim would be severely disabled. The doctors were half right. Kim would never be able to dress himself, button his shirt, or manage basic daily tasks without assistance. He'd need his father's care his entire life. But the doctors missed something extraordinary: Kim's brain, unable to develop normally, had rewired itself in ways neuroscience had never seen. By age 18 months, Kim was memorizing books. Not understanding them fully—memorizing them. Every word. Every page number. Forever. By age 3, he'd look up words in the dictionary and remember their exact definitions, their position on the page, everything. By adulthood, Kim Peek possessed perhaps the most extraordinary memory in human history. He could read a book in 60 minutes or less. Not skim it—read every word. And he'd remember it perfectly, forever. But his reading method was bizarre: he'd read two pages simultaneously, processing the left page with his left eye and the right page with his right eye. Independently. At the same time. Think about that. Your brain reads linearly—left to right, one page, then the next. Kim's brain processed two completely different pages of text simultaneously and stored both permanently. Over his lifetime, Kim read and memorized over 12,000 books. History, literature, geography, music, sports statistics, Shakespeare, the Bible, phone directories—anything he read stayed in his memory with 98% accuracy. Ask him about any date in history, and he'd tell you what day of the week it was. Ask him about any zipcode in America, and he'd tell you the city, area code, TV stations, and highways. Play him a piece of classical music once, and he'd identify the composer, year written, and musical structure. He knew thousands of musical compositions. He'd memorized every road, highway, and route in the United States. Tell him you're driving from New York to Los Angeles, and he'd recite every turn, every exit, every city along the way. He could recite entire books verbatim—Moby Dick, Shakespeare's plays, historical texts—word for word, as if reading from the page. But he couldn't make himself breakfast. Couldn't tie his shoes. Struggled with abstract concepts and social cues. Kim's father, Fran, cared for him every single day. Helped him dress, drove him places, managed his daily routines. The devotion was absolute. In the early 1980s, Fran and Kim met screenwriter Barry Morrow at a conference. Morrow was fascinated by Kim's abilities and spent time getting to know him. That encounter inspired Morrow to write Rain Man, the 1988 film starring Dustin Hoffman as an autistic savant (though the character was a composite, not purely Kim). The movie won four Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Actor. It introduced millions to the concept of savant syndrome and changed how society viewed people with developmental disabilities. Barry Morrow did something extraordinary: he gave Kim Peek his actual Academy Award Oscar statuette, saying Kim had earned it more than he had. After Rain Man, Kim became famous. But instead of retreating, he and his father traveled the country giving presentations. Kim would demonstrate his abilities—answering questions, reciting facts, amazing audiences. But mores importantly, he showed people that disability and extraordinary ability could coexist. That someone who couldn't button his shirt could possess knowledge beyond what most PhDs accumulate. In 2004, NASA scientists studied Kim's brain using advanced imaging technology. They wanted to understand how a brain without a corpus callosum could function so extraordinarily. What they found: Kim's brain had developed entirely different neural pathways to compensate for missing structures. His brain was literally wired differently than any brain they'd studied. The research expanded neuroscience's understanding of brain plasticity—how brains can adapt and rewire when typical developments isn't possible. Kim himself was gentle, warm, curious. He loved meeting people, loved sharing what he knew. Despite his challenges, he radiated joy. His father once said: "Kim taught me more about unconditional love, about seeing ability instead of disability, than I ever taught him." On December 19, 2009, Kim Peek died of a heart attack at age 58. His brain was donated to science. Researchers continue studying it, trying to understand how such extraordinary memory was possible. Kim's story forces us to confront uncomfortable question about intelligence, ability, and value. Society measures worth by independence—can you dress yourself, hold a job, live alone? By those measures, Kim was severely disabled, dependent, limited. But Kim possessed knowledge and memory beyond what any "normal" person could achieve. He'd read more books than most professors. He knew more facts than any encyclopedia. So what is intelligence? What is ability? Kim couldn't button his shirt, but he could recite Shakespeare perfectly. He couldn't manage money, but he could tell you the exact route from any city to any other city in America. He needed constant care, but NASA scientists studied his brain to understand human potential. We create these categories—disabled, normal, gifted—as if they're separate. Kim Peek proved they can all coexist in one person. He was profoundly disabled. And he was profoundly gifted. Both were true. Neither canceled out the other. When doctors told Fran Peek to institutionalize his son, they saw only limitation. Fran saw his child and chose love. That choice gave the world Kim Peek. A man who couldn't dress himself but who expanded science's understanding of the human brain. Who needed his father's constant care but who inspired a movie that changed millions of perspectives. Who couldn't navigate daily life independently but who memorized 12,000 books and remembered every word. Kim Peek's brain was wired wrong by conventional standards. But maybe "wrong" is the wrong word. Maybe his brain was wired differently. And that difference, while creating challenges, also created something extraordinary—a memory so vast, so perfect, that science still can't fully explain it. He couldn't button his shirt. But he remembered everything he ever read, saw two pages at once, and proved that the human brain's potential goes far beyond what we think is possible. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything. |
| The Secret to Happiness? Spend Money on Experiences, Not Things, For happiness. Buy Experiences, Not Stuff.. We like buying things. Happiness is a matter of buying the perfect house, driving the best car, wearing the trendiest clothes and posting status updates. The first drive in a new car may be satisfying or thrilling for a short while, the thrill always fades and we find ourselves back in the same place seeking the next purchase to keep the feeling going. If this sounds anything like your life then rest assured there is a better way to spend your money and keep that feeling alive: Stop buying stuff and start buying experiences! The thrill of purchasing things fades quickly but the joy and memories of experiences, from epic adventures to minute encounters, can last a lifetime. With all things in life, there is no guarantee that you will always have a good experience. But nine times out of 10 you’re better spending your money on experiences and other people than on yourself. You’re much more likely to have genuine, fulfilling happiness as a result. So remember: You want to be happy? Stop buying things and start buying experiences! |
| She gave birth to 23 children while foreign empires were torturing her family to death for refusing to convert to Islam. Georgia, 1624. Queen Darejan received the news every royal wife dreaded: her mother-in-law, Queen Ketevan, had been tortured to death in Persia. They'd tried to force her to convert to Islam. When she refused, they strangled her with a bowstring, then dismembered her body. Darejan was pregnant. Again. It was perhaps her eighth or ninth pregnancy—she'd already lost count. She had small children clinging to her skirts. Her husband, King Teimuraz I, was in hiding, trying to hold together what remained of their fractured kingdom. And she had to keep going. Keep bearing children. Keep preserving the royal line. Keep surviving. Because that's what Georgian queens did in the 17th century: they endured. Georgia in the 1600s was trapped between two empires that wanted to destroy it. The Persian Safavid Empire to the east. The Ottoman Empire to the west. Both Muslim powers. Both determined to either convert or eliminate the Christian Georgian kingdoms that stood between them. Georgian royalty became pawns, hostages, victims. Shah Abbas I of Persia was particularly brutal. He didn't just want Georgian territory—he wanted Georgian souls. Convert to Islam, or watch your family die. Teimuraz I refused. So the Shah took his mother, Queen Ketevan, hostage. For nine years, she was imprisoned in Shiraz. For nine years, they tried to force her conversion. Promises of release, threats of death, everything in between. She refused. So in 1624, they tortured her to death. Publicly. As an example. Her daughter-in-law Darejan, back in Georgia, learned that her children's grandmother had been murdered for her faith. That this was the price of remaining Christian in a region where Christian kingdoms were being systematically crushed. And she was expected to keep having children. To keep producing heirs. To keep ensuring the royal line survived—even though survival meant watching those children face the same threats. Over her lifetime, Darejan gave birth approximately 23 times. Think about what that means. Twenty-three pregnancies in an era when childbirth was the leading cause of death for women. Twenty-three times risking her life. Twenty-three children born into a kingdom under constant siege, where royal children were targets for kidnapping, forced conversion, or murder. This wasn't the romantic image of medieval queenship. This was industrial-scale motherhood in the service of dynastic survival. The Shah didn't stop with Queen Ketevan. He took several of Teimuraz and Darejan's sons hostage. He demanded they convert to Islam or he'd execute them. The boys refused. The Shah killed them. Darejan lost multiple children—not to disease or accident, but to deliberate murder by a foreign power determined to break her family's faith and resistance. Imagine that grief. Imagine giving birth 23 times, knowing that some of those children would be taken from you. That foreign empires would use them as bargaining chips. That their lives depended on political calculations you couldn't control. And you couldn't stop having children, because the dynasty needed heirs. The kingdom needed continuity. If the royal line died out, Georgia's independence died with it. So Darejan kept bearing children while burying children. Kept managing the royal household while her husband fought wars. Kept holding together what remained of their family while empires tried to tear it apart. She wasn't just a mother. She was a strategic necessity. Every pregnancy was an act of defiance against the empires trying to eliminate Georgian Christianity. Every surviving child was proof that Georgia would continue. Every daughter she raised, every son she protected, was a victory against forced conversion and cultural extinction. Teimuraz was often absent—fighting, in exile, negotiating with one empire against another. Darejan managed the household, raised the children, maintained whatever stability was possible. When Teimuraz was forced into exile, Darejan went with him. Taking as many surviving children as she could. Leaving behind the ones who were hostages, or already dead, or scattered across a region where Georgian royalty had become refugees in their own land. She lived through decades of this. Decades of pregnancy, childbirth, infant deaths, childhood diseases, and political murders. Decades of uncertainty about which children would survive to adulthood. Which would be taken hostage. Which would die for refusing to convert. By the time she died in 1668, Darejan had outlived many of her 23 children. She'd seen her kingdom torn apart by foreign invasions. She'd watched empires use her family as pawns in their territorial games. And she'd kept the royal line alive. Today, we barely remember Queen Darejan. Georgian history focuses on the kings—on Teimuraz's military campaigns, his political maneuvering, his eventual consolidation of power. On the dramatic martyrdom of Queen Ketevan, who was canonized as a saint. But Darejan? She was "just" the wife. The mother. The woman who had 23 children and managed the household and endured exile and buried her babies and kept going. Her labor was private, invisible, relentless. No battles named after her. No dramatic last stands. Just decades of bearing children, raising them, losing them, bearing more. Here's what makes Darejan's story important: She represents the invisible infrastructure of royal survival. While historians write about kings and battles and treaties, women like Darejan were doing the biological and domestic labor that made dynasties possible. Every king needed heirs. Every dynasty needed continuity. And that meant some woman had to risk her life 20+ times in childbirth, had to raise those children through wars and invasions, had to bury the ones who didn't survive, had to protect the ones who did. Without Darejan's 23 pregnancies, there would have been no Georgian royal heirs. Without her household management during Teimuraz's absences, there would have been no stable base for his resistance. Without her endurance through decades of loss and exile, the dynasty would have collapsed. But because her labor was "women's work"—childbirth, child-rearing, household management—it doesn't get the same historical recognition as military victories. She gave birth 23 times while empires murdered her family. She raised children while knowing they might be taken hostage or killed. She managed a royal household while in exile, while under siege, while watching her kingdom torn apart. She endured grief that would have broken most people—the loss of multiple children, the torture-murder of her mother-in-law, the constant threat to everyone she loved. And she did it all without the glory of battle, the recognition of treaties, or the fame of martyrdom. She did it because someone had to. Because the dynasty needed heirs. Because Georgia needed to survive. Because that's what queens did: they bore the unbearable, privately, relentlessly, until they died. Modern Georgia barely remembers Queen Darejan. There are no grand monuments to her 23 pregnancies. No statues commemorating her endurance. No epic poems about the children she buried. But every Georgian king who came after her, every continuation of the royal line, every bit of Georgian independence that survived the 17th century— All of it rested on the foundation of her body, her labor, her losses. She was the invisible infrastructure of royal survival. And she did it while empires were literally torturing her family to death. Twenty-three children. Decades of war. Multiple children murdered or taken hostage. Forced into exile. Watching her kingdom torn apart. And she kept going. That's not just motherhood. That's strategic endurance. That's the private, invisible labor that holds together kingdoms while the men fight the public wars. Queen Darejan gave her body, her children, her entire life to keeping Georgia alive during its darkest century. History barely remembers her name. But without her, there might not have been a Georgia to remember. |
| Parents Need to Understand That Every Child is Unique. The exams of your child are to start soon," the principal wrote. "I know you are all really anxious for your child to do well." The principal continued: "But, please do remember, amongst the students who will be sitting for the exams there is an artist, who doesn't need to understand Math… There is an entrepreneur, who doesn't care about History or English literature…There is a musician, whose Chemistry marks won't matter…There's an athlete…whose physical fitness is more important than Physics… If your child does get top marks, that's great! But if he or she doesn't…please don't take away their self-confidence and dignity from them. Tell them it's OK, its just an exam! They are cut out for much bigger things in life. Tell them, no matter what they score…you love them and will not judge them. Please do this, and when you do… watch your children conquer the world. One exam or low mark won't take away…their dreams and talent. And please, do not think that doctors and engineers…are the only happy people in the world." |
| Spielberg thought he was too tall and too handsome for the role. Then he saw him on Broadway and changed his mind. Neeson gave the performance of his life. He didn't win the Oscar. For years, Steven Spielberg avoided making a film about the Holocaust. He was Jewish. The Holocaust was personal. It was his people's greatest tragedy. And Spielberg felt the subject was too important, too sacred, to risk getting wrong. In 1982, he acquired the rights to Thomas Keneally's novel "Schindler's Ark" (published in the U.S. as "Schindler's List"). It told the true story of Oskar Schindler, a German industrialist and Nazi Party member who saved over 1,100 Jews during the Holocaust by employing them in his factories. Spielberg sat on the project for over a decade. He offered it to other directors—including Roman Polanski, whose mother died at Auschwitz. He didn't feel ready. He didn't feel worthy. By 1993, Spielberg knew he had to do it himself. No one else could tell this story the way it needed to be told. But he needed to cast Oskar Schindler—a complicated man who started as a profiteering opportunist and became a savior. An ordinary man who did extraordinary things. Spielberg considered major stars: Warren Beatty, Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner. All were interested. But something didn't fit. Then Spielberg saw an Irish actor named Liam Neeson performing in "Anna Christie" on Broadway. Neeson was 40 years old. He'd been working in film for years—"Excalibur" (1981), "The Mission" (1986), "Darkman" (1990), "Husbands and Wives" (1992). He was respected but not a major star. On stage in "Anna Christie," Neeson commanded attention. He had presence, depth, gravitas. He could convey complexity without saying a word. Spielberg saw Schindler. But there was a problem: Neeson was 6'4". Tall, handsome, movie-star attractive. Spielberg wanted Schindler to be ordinary-looking, average, someone who could disappear into a crowd. Neeson was anything but ordinary-looking. Spielberg hesitated. But he kept thinking about that Broadway performance. The depth Neeson brought. The ability to show a man's inner transformation. Spielberg offered Neeson the role. Neeson accepted. Preparation for "Schindler's List" was intense. Spielberg decided to shoot in Poland, including at actual Holocaust sites. He'd film primarily in black and white, using handheld cameras for a documentary feel. Neeson immersed himself in Schindler's story. He read historical documents, survivor testimonies, everything available about the real Oskar Schindler. He met with Schindlerjuden—Jews Schindler had saved. He learned about a man who was flawed, complicated, contradictory. Schindler was a Nazi Party member, a womanizer, a drinker, initially motivated by profit. But something changed in him. He witnessed atrocity and couldn't look away. He used his factories to protect Jewish workers, spent his fortune bribing Nazi officials, ultimately saved over 1,100 lives. Neeson had to show that transformation. From selfish businessman to selfless savior. Filming began in March 1993. The shoot was emotionally brutal. They filmed at Auschwitz-Birkenau, at the actual Kraków ghetto, at locations where the real events occurred. One scene became the film's emotional turning point: the liquidation of the Kraków ghetto. In March 1943, Nazis forcibly evacuated the ghetto, murdering Jews in the streets, loading survivors onto trains to death camps. It was chaos, violence, mass murder. Spielberg recreated this horror in black and white—documentary-style, unflinching, brutal. In the scene, Schindler watches from a hillside as the liquidation unfolds below. He's there on business, watching dispassionately. Then his eye catches something: a little girl in a red coat. In the black-and-white film, the red coat is one of only a few color elements. It's striking, impossible to miss. The girl wanders through the chaos—alone, terrified, trying to hide. Schindler watches her. Just her. One individual life amid mass murder. The red coat represented something profound: this wasn't abstract. These weren't numbers. These were individual people—this specific child in this specific red coat—being murdered. Neeson played the scene with minimal dialogue. Just his face. Watching. Something shifting inside him. A man realizing he can't look away, can't pretend this isn't happening, can't remain uninvolved. Later in the film, the red coat appears again—in a pile of corpses being burned. The girl is dead. Schindler sees it. The transformation is complete. The scene is based on real survivor testimony. The red coat symbolized all the individual lives lost—each one a person, not a statistic. Neeson's performance throughout was extraordinary. He showed Schindler's complexity—the charm, the selfishness, the gradual awakening, the desperation as he realized he couldn't save everyone, the breakdown at the end when he wishes he'd saved more. In the final scene, Schindler breaks down, looking at his gold Nazi pin: "I could have saved one more person. And I didn't." Neeson sobbed. It wasn't acting—it was genuine grief for the six million who died. Spielberg refused salary for the film. He considered any money from "Schindler's List" to be "blood money." He donated all his proceeds—millions of dollars—to Holocaust education. He also founded the USC Shoah Foundation to record video testimonies from Holocaust survivors. Over 55,000 testimonies have been recorded and preserved. "Schindler's List" premiered in December 1993. The response was overwhelming. Critics called it a masterpiece. Audiences were devastated, moved, educated. At the 1994 Academy Awards, "Schindler's List" was nominated for 12 Oscars. It won 7: Best Picture, Best Director (Spielberg), Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Original Score, Best Cinematography, Best Film Editing, and Best Art Direction. Liam Neeson was nominated for Best Actor. He lost to Tom Hanks for "Philadelphia." Neeson gave one of the greatest performances in cinema history. But 1994 was a competitive year, and Hanks was playing another culturally significant role (a gay man dying of AIDS). Neeson didn't win. But his performance as Oskar Schindler remains his finest work and one of cinema's most acclaimed performances. The film's impact extended far beyond awards. "Schindler's List" became mandatory viewing in schools worldwide. It brought Holocaust education to mainstream audiences. It preserved survivor testimonies. It made the Holocaust personal—not six million faceless victims, but individuals with names, faces, stories. The real Oskar Schindler died in 1974, largely forgotten, financially struggling. The Jews he'd saved—the Schindlerjuden—had supported him financially after the war. He was buried in Jerusalem and honored as Righteous Among the Nations. After "Schindler's List," Liam Neeson became a major dramatic actor. He went on to star in "Michael Collins" (1996), "Kinsey" (2004), and eventually the "Taken" franchise (action films that made him a different kind of star). But "Schindler's List" remains his definitive performance. The role he was supposedly too tall and too handsome for. The role Spielberg hesitated to give him. One personal note: Liam Neeson met actress Natasha Richardson while performing in "Anna Christie"—the play that led to Spielberg casting him. They married in 1994, shortly after "Schindler's List" was released. They had two sons. In 2009, Natasha died from a skiing accident. She was 45. "Schindler's List" brought Neeson his greatest professional triumph and led him to the love of his life. Both are linked to that Broadway performance in "Anna Christie." The film endures 31 years later. It's studied in schools. It's preserved in the National Film Registry. It's shown to new generations learning about the Holocaust. And at its center is Liam Neeson's performance—showing how an ordinary, flawed man can choose courage over complicity, can risk everything to save lives, can become better than he was. Spielberg initially thought Neeson was too tall, too handsome, too much for Schindler. Instead, Neeson became Schindler. He inhabited the role so completely that we forget we're watching an actor. He showed us a Nazi Party member becoming a hero. A profiteer becoming a savior. An ordinary man doing extraordinary things. He gave the performance of his life. He was nominated for Best Actor. He didn't win the Oscar. Tom Hanks did, for another culturally significant role. But Neeson won something more important: he helped preserve the memory of 1,100 people Oskar Schindler saved. And the six million who died. He made the Holocaust personal. Individual. Real. That little girl in the red coat—one person among millions—symbolizes what "Schindler's List" achieved: making us see individuals, not statistics. Liam Neeson, at 6'4", supposedly too tall and too handsome, delivered that vision perfectly. Spielberg was wrong about the height. He was right about the depth. Neeson had both. And he gave us one of cinema's greatest performances. The Oscar went to someone else. The legacy is eternal. "Schindler's List": 1993, 7 Academy Awards, over 30 years of educating audiences about the Holocaust. At its center: Liam Neeson, showing us that ordinary people can choose to be extraordinary. That's more than an Oscar. That's immortality. |
| I know *"All Gurus are Teachers;* But all *teachers are not Gurus".* A teacher takes responsibility of your growth A *Guru makes you responsible* for your growth" A teacher sends you on the road to success A *Guru sends you on the road to freedom* A teacher explains the world and its nature to you A *Guru explains yourself and your nature to you* A teacher makes you understand how to move about in the world A *Guru shows you where you stand in relation to the world* A teacher instructs you A *Guru constructs you* A teacher reaches your mind A *Guru touches your soul" A teacher gives you maturity A *Guru returns you to innocence* A teacher is a systematic thinker A *Guru is a lateral thinker* A teacher is to pupil what a father is to son A *Guru is to pupil what mother is to her child* *One can always find a teacher* But Guru has to *find and accept you* |
I was waiting in line for a ride at the airport in Dubai. When a cab pulled up, the first thing I noticed was that the taxi was polished to a bright shine. Smartly dressed in a white shirt, black tie, and freshly pressed black slacks, the cab driver jumped out and rounded the car to open the back passenger door for me. He handed me a laminated card and said: 'I'm Abdul, your driver. While I'm loading your bags in the trunk I'd like you to read my mission statement.' Taken aback, I read the card. It said: Abdul's Mission Statement: To get my customers to their destination in the quickest, safest and cheapest way possible in a friendly environment. This blew me away. Especially when I noticed that the inside of the cab matched the outside. Spotlessly clean! As he slid behind the wheel, Abdul said, 'Would you like a cup of coffee? I have a thermos of regular and one of decaf.' I said jokingly, 'No, I'd prefer a soft drink.' Abdul smiled and said, 'No problem. I have a cooler up front with regular and Diet Coke, lassi, water and orange juice.' Almost stuttering, I said, 'I'll take a Lassi.' Handing me my drink, Abdul said, 'If you'd like something to read, I have The NST , Star and Sun Today.' As they were pulling away, Abdul handed me another laminated card, 'These are the stations I get and the music they play, if you'd like to listen to the radio.' And as if that weren't enough, Abdul told me that he had the air conditioning on and asked if the temperature was comfortable for me. Then he advised me of the best route to my destination for that time of day. He also let me know that he'd be happy to chat and tell me about some of the sights or, if I preferred, to leave me with my own thoughts. 'Tell me, Abdul ,' I was amazed and asked him, 'have you always served customers like this?' Abdul smiled into the rear view mirror. "No, not always. In fact, it's only been in the last two years. My first five years driving, I spent most of my time complaining like all the rest of the cabbies do. Then I heard about POWER OF CHOICE one day." _Power of choice is that you can be a duck or an eagle._ 'If you get up in the morning expecting to have a bad day, you'll rarely disappoint yourself. Stop complaining!' *'Don't be a duck. Be an eagle. Ducks quack and complain. Eagles soar above the crowd.'* 'That hit me. really hard' said Abdul. 'It is about me. I was always quacking and complaining, so I decided to change my attitude and become an eagle. I looked around at the other cabs and their drivers. The cabs were dirty, the drivers were unfriendly, and the customers were unhappy. So I decided to make some changes, slowly ... a few at a time. When my customers responded well, I did more.' 'I take it that it has paid off for you,' I said. 'It sure has,' Abdul replied. 'My first year as an eagle, I doubled my income from the previous year. This year I'll probably quadruple it. My customers call me for appointments on my cell phone or leave a message on it.' Abdul made a different choice. He decided to stop quacking like a duck and start soaring like an eagle. _Start becoming an eagle today ... one small step every week..next week... And next...And...._ A great Thought.. *"You don't die if you fall in water, you die only if you don't swim.* Thats the Real Meaning of Life. Improve yourself and your skills in a different way. 🦅 *Be an eagle, not a Duck.* 🦆 |
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