We often equate business to life in our day-to-day interactions. If business can be equated to life, marketing must surely be equated to education, more particularly the education of our environments and its possibilities.
We often confuse the concepts and purposes of marketing and sales. So, let’s be clear at the out start. Sales deals with selling something to somebody who is already knowledgeable and likely interested in what you have to offer, be it a product or a service. When a person approaches a business with the pre-existing knowledge of what she wants, therefore, she is directed to the sales team. …
Robyn leafed through several books on her shelf unsure of which one to pick up and dive into that would give her some relief from the monotony of being confined to her room. Is it possible to find something to explore that would take her out her immediate claustrophobic surroundings, at least mentally, if not in the flesh?
A teetering pile of books nestled in the crook of her arm, Robyn made it back to her bedside work-desk, managing not to drop any. She could make it as a waitress, she commended herself.
Pulling her chair back by its bean-shaped backrest, she bent down to pick up the square piece of slick blue cloth she used to wipe her glasses clean, when she noticed a slip of paper sticking out from under the drawers on which her tabletop rested. …
If you can move beyond the instinctive recoil and revulsion at my proposal of contemplating death daily, we could spend a few moments discussing its practical advantages.
In yoga, particularly at the end of a class, most yoga teachers invite their students to lie flat on their backs, their arms beside their prone bodies turned outwards, palms facing upwards, the legs also turned outwards, with the feet laying gently on their outer edges, the skin on the face tension-free, the jaw unclenched, the lips closed, the tongue receding, the eyelids shut and the breath effortless. The posture is a progressive simulation of a corpse. …
The wisdom of attempting inaccessible asanas (yoga postures) was not part of my functional psyche. I focused on practicing standing asanas and forward bends daily, relegating backbends to the back burner.
My early yoga lessons were guided by my mother. She used to be the most flexible person I knew. And even as a child I realized that kind of flexibility and grace needed divine intervention and would remain inaccessible to me.
I did not begrudge that. If anything, knowing my limitations has always acted in my favor, kept my choices manageable, my goals attainable and me out of trouble.
Transitioning from the Sivananda School of yoga to the Iyengar school in my early thirties heightened the intensity of my practice and hastened the accomplishment of modest milestones, such as being able to place my palms on the floor beside my feet while standing with straight knees, and balancing on my head and forearms without extraneous buttresses. …
Yesterday, after sitting for over twelve hours at my desk, it struck me that I have been sitting too much. I have procured an adjustable desk that will allow me to stand and work if I wanted to, but I forget all about this facility when I am on a project.
Or perhaps a part of my brain has succumbed to the inertia of sitting and does not want to stand up even when offered the opportunity.
Standing is less stable than sitting. The center of gravity is raised, and you can be easily knocked off your feet when standing. Standing can, if extended unnaturally, give you varicose veins and make your head feel woozy. …
Yes, today I had my breakfast, did my morning reading, and then started my freewriting session. This, so that I can time my activity and write uninterruptedly. My breath flows slow and soft as I write. I am not trying to speed up or consciously slow down. Nevertheless, I notice that my letters on the page are smaller — from the size of an immature beetle to a plump ant. Does writing in a small sized lettering really denote an increase of control and concentration? I would not know about that until I’ve conducted some more experiments.
I may wonder but I don’t stop my writing even though my shoulder is still a bit sore. I must keep going so that I can time my three-page session accurately. …
Yesterday I attended an advanced yoga class. It felt good during and right afterwards but this morning my right shoulder feels a bit sore. That is to be expected says my teacher. As long as the soreness goes away by the time I’m in the next class, I am doing good.
Yoga and writing on the page make me feel grounded. There’s a certain peace in writing longhand. I am back to practicing freewriting where the only rule is that I cannot stop to think. I must keep writing until I’m at the end of three pages. …
Distressed. Disturbed. Dejected. Discordant. Discombobulated. Dystopic. Disjointed. Disagreeable. Distasteful.
That is a lot of dis- words to describe my state when I expect to be feeling enthralled. I have been trying to go paperless but the act of staying away from paper ungrounds my core.
The house is already overflowing with books and papers. I’ve double-rowed the shelves and corseted bulging sheaves to folders and metal cabinets. But I still produce more paper.
This weekend I bought two books in hardcover. One is Breath by James Nestor. I could’ve bought the Kindle version. …
Have you heard of the saying, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’? I don’t believe in that saying any longer. I am not that naive and impressionable child any longer. I am wiser. And I’m here to share some hard-won wisdom on this score, with anyone out there who is my friend and willing to listen. I know that what doesn’t kill you instantly, sharply, mercifully, with an economy of pain and pressure, kills you slowly, malevolently, with protracted, sadistic pleasure.
The head throbs in the skull. The heart stomps in the ribcage. And you must bear it all, silently, politely, routinely. The base emotions engulf you and the labored breathing strangles you softly, with careful indifference. You feel like crying out aloud, but you can’t for you have neither the energy nor the practice. …
No one hears underwater crashes
or misses drowned worlds once
lost from view. In such a world I once
was queen. So, unlike you, I do. My
palace of masoned marble and painted
frescoes was more art than empire and
suitors came from far off worlds to
seek my hand and ogle at my home.
My land. Money — money — money, and
Power. That was all I was to them. They
had no eyes to see starlit ceilings,
colors that seep into eyes and drain
into enchanted hearts. No. They’d crack
through these frescos like blindfolded
rams and hang their hammocks on…