Ponjo

Ah, de betoverende charme van een winterochtend in Nederland. De wekker gaat af, en met een diepe zucht denk je bij jezelf: “Daar gaan we verdomme weer, oeps ik bedoelde eigenlijk goedemorgen.” Want laten we eerlijk zijn, wie wordt er nu echt blij van vroeg opstaan en de kou trotseren?

Je sleept jezelf uit bed, waarbij je de dekens vastklampt alsof je probeert te ontsnappen aan een zombie-Apocalyps. En dan, nadat je jezelf hebt aangekleed met meer lagen dan een ui, sta je daar klaar om de kou te trotseren.

Buiten wacht de sneeuw op je, als een onschuldig ogende, maar verraderlijke valstrik. Je zet de eerste stap en voelt meteen de kou door je schoenen heen kruipen. “Ah, winter, de tijd van het jaar waarin je voeten ijspegels worden,” mompel je terwijl je wankelend je weg vindt over het trottoir.

Op weg naar het werk kom je buren tegen die je begroeten met een glimlach die schreeuwt: “Waarom in hemelsnaam zijn we hier zo vroeg?” Je glimlacht beleefd terug, wetende dat jullie allemaal deel uitmaken van een geheime samenleving van ochtendmensen die eigenlijk gewoon graag klagen over vroeg opstaan.

En dan, natuurlijk, de auto. Die staat daar te wachten, bedekt met een dikke laag sneeuw alsof hij een witte deken heeft aangetrokken. Je pakt de bezem en begint driftig te vegen, terwijl je je afvraagt waarom auto’s niet gewoon zelf kunnen ontdooien. “Technologie, waar ben je als we je echt nodig hebben?” fluister je terwijl je nog een laag sneeuw van de voorruit veegt.

Uiteindelijk zit je dan achter het stuur, omringd door de warmte van de auto en de hoop dat de verwarming snel genoeg werkt om je tenen te redden van de dreigende amputatie. En zo begint weer een dag vol uitdagingen in de winterse wonderwereld van Nederland.

Verdrietige Schaduwen: Een Strijd Tegen Pesten!

In een klein dorpje woonde een jongen, die Anton werd genoemd. Hij stond bekend om zijn levendige verbeelding en zijn gave om verhalen tot leven te brengen met zijn woorden. Op een dag gebeurde er iets wat zijn wereld op zijn kop zette.

Het begon allemaal toen Anton een mysterieuze brief ontving. Het was een anonieme boodschap die beweerde dat zijn leven in gevaar was. Hij was geschrokken en voelde een angst die hij nog nooit eerder had gevoeld. Hij begon overal schaduwen te zien en voelde zich voortdurend bekeken.

Terwijl de dagen voorbijgingen, nam de angst bij Anton toe. Hij begon in zichzelf te praten en voelde zich gevangen in een wereld vol dreiging. Hij kon zijn vrienden niet vertrouwen en durfde niet eens naar school te gaan. Zijn leven leek te zijn veranderd in een eindeloze nachtmerrie.

Op een avond, terwijl hij alleen in zijn kamer was, barstte Anton in tranen uit. Hij huilde zo intens dat zijn lichaam schokte, maar er kwamen geen tranen. Zijn verdriet was zo diep geworteld dat het zijn fysieke vermogen om te huilen oversteeg. Hij voelde zich eenzaam en kwetsbaar, omringd door een onzichtbaar kwaad.

Op dat moment kwam zijn beste vriendin, Lisa, de kamer binnen. Lisa zag de pijn en angst in de ogen van Anton en wist dat ze iets moest doen. Ze ging naast Anton zitten en sloeg haar armen om hem heen. “Het spijt me zo dat je je zo voelt,” fluisterde Lisa zachtjes. “Maar ik ben hier voor je, en ik geloof in je.”

Anton keek op en zag de oprechtheid in de ogen van Lisa. Hij voelde zich veilig en begrepen. Langzaam maar zeker begonnen zijn tranen te stromen, bevrijdend en helend. Het was alsof het verdriet dat hem zo lang had overweldigd, eindelijk een weg naar buiten vond.

In de dagen die volgden, begonnen Anton en Lisa samen de waarheid te achterhalen achter de mysterieuze dreiging. Ze ontdekten dat de brief een pesterij was, bedacht door iemand die jaloers was op Anton ‘s vermogen om verhalen te vertellen. Het was een wreed spel dat was ontworpen om hem te breken.

Met de waarheid aan hun zijde, besloten Anton en Lisa om het hoofd te bieden aan de pester en hun vriendschap te versterken. Ze lieten de angst achter zich en begonnen een campagne van positiviteit en creativiteit. Anton schreef een verhaal dat haar eigen moed en veerkracht weerspiegelde, en Lisa hielp haar om het te delen met de wereld.

Langzaam maar zeker begon het dorp te begrijpen wat Anton had doorgemaakt en hoezeer hij was gegroeid door zijn ervaringen. Hij kreeg steun en aanmoediging van de mensen om hem heen, en zijn verhalen raakten de harten van velen. Anton besefte dat hij sterker was dan hij ooit had gedacht en dat hij altijd zijn eigen stem kon laten horen.

Want in het gezicht van grote angst en dreiging vond Anton de kracht om door te gaan. Hij leerde dat tranen geen teken van zwakte waren, maar een symbool van zijn innerlijke kracht. En met zijn  woorden en de steun van zijn vrienden, zou hij blijven schrijven en een licht verspreiden dat de duisternis zou verdrijven.

Een leraar schreef het volgende op het bord:

1×9 = 9, 2×9 = 18, 3×9 = 27, 4×9 = 36, 5×9 = 45, 6×9 = 54, 7×9 = 63, 8×9 = 72, 9×9 = 81, 10×9 = 91

Eerst giechelde er een paar en daarna lachten veel studenten omdat de leraar zich kennelijk had verrekend. 10×9 = 91?

De leraar wachtte tot iedereen weer stil was. Vervolgens zei hij: “Ik heb deze fout met opzet gemaakt om iets te demonstreren. Ik heb 9 problemen correct opgelost en slechts 1 fout gemaakt. In plaats van me te feliciteren met het correct oplossen van 9 van de 10 problemen, lacht u om mijn fout. En hier heeft u duidelijk laten zien hoe ons systeem werkt. En dat is heel triest, maar helaas waar.

We leven een cultuur van fouten die ertoe leidt dat mensen gewond raken en soms zelfs vernederd worden omdat ze fout zijn. We moeten leren mensen te prijzen voor hun successen en ook om ze te waarderen voor hun kleine fouten. Geloof me, de meeste mensen doen veel meer goed dan fout, en toch worden ze beoordeeld op de weinige fouten die ze maken. Ik wil voorstellen dat het goed is om meer te prijzen en minder te bekritiseren, omdat dat resulteert in zoveel meer, meer genegenheid, meer samenwerking en minder negatieve zintuigen.

In de hoop dat de les die je zojuist hebt geleerd veel belangrijker was dan het resultaat van 10×9. #leiderschap

Een man vindt een cocon van een vlinder en neemt deze mee naar zijn huis. Op een dag verschijnt er een kleine opening in de cocon. De man kijkt een paar uur toe hoe de vlinder worstelt om zich door de kleine opening naar buiten te werken.

Het lijkt erop dat het proces niet langer meer vooruit gaat. Het ziet er naar uit dat de vlinder zover gekomen is als hij kan en niet meer verder komt. Dus besluit de man de vlinder te helpen. Hij neemt een schaar en knipt de rest van de cocon open. De vlinder kan zich nu vrij eenvoudig losmaken.

Maar de vlinder heeft een gezwollen lichaam en verfrommelde vleugels. De man verwacht dat de vlinder elk moment zijn vleugels zal uitslaan en het lichaam daarmee ondersteunt. Maar dat gebeurt niet. De vlinder besteedt de rest van zijn leven aan rondkruipen met een gezwollen lichaam en verfrommelde vleugels. De vlinder is nooit in staat te vliegen.

Wat de man in al zijn goedheid niet begreep was dat de krappe cocon en de worsteling die nodig was om door de opening te kruipen, de manier was om de lichaamsvloeistof van de vlinder in de vleugels te pompen zodat de vlinder klaar zou zijn te vliegen als het de vrijheid had bereikt uit de cocon.

Soms zijn worstelingen exact wat we nodig hebben in het leven. Als we onszelf toe zouden staan zonder obstakels door het leven te gaan, zouden we invalide zijn. We zouden nooit zo sterk worden als wat we kunnen zijn.

We zouden nooit kunnen vliegen.

I was thinking (as i often do) that on this morning october 30th, i am married for 30 years with the love of my life.

When contemplating the last 30 years – holy crap that’s older than me at the age I got married……I’m really surprised she didn’t run!  Sticking out with me, raising kids, working, kicking kids butts out of their beds and them still wanting to hang on to the smallest piece of straw so they don’t have to learn like mom and dad did, on thier own…

I mean she stuck it out! I often wondered why she didn’t run……but she was there…always knew she would be.  All the good and bad stuff, that is what it’s suppose to be about, right?  She didn’t duct tape me to the wall even though there were some times (and still are) she might.

I truly believe we both enjoy having each other in our lives – that apparently has kept us going.
So my love, congratulations!  Guess we can move forward to another 30…

Hugz and love.

Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes, the ones who see things differently, the ones not fond of rules.

You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things.

They push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, i see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.

— Apple —  http://herestothecrazyones.com/

Respond to something elsewhere on the web:
the best way to start blogging: simply link to something elsewhere that you feel is interesting, or (better) that you disagree with. If you make a constructive response to what someone else has posted, for example, you can start a useful inter-blog dialogue. You might add links to evidence that challenges what the original post says, for example. In its most simple form, when you simply post useful links, this is called ‘link journalism’.

Suggest an idea:
for a story or for a way of doing things. Invite reaction and suggestions – and don’t expect people to come to you: approach people you might otherwise be shy of asking, and invite them to respond on the comments. Ideas can travel very far, so can be very effective in attracting readers.

Interview someone:
a straightforward and easy way to create a post. An email interview can work well, but if you can put an audio or video recording on the site that often adds value. If you are interviewing a busy person it helps if you limit your questions or, if you’re asking for their advice, specifically ask for their ‘3 tips on…‘ or ‘5 things I know about…’. You can even turn this into a series of interviews with the same theme.

Blog an event:
attend a relevant event – a conference, meeting, public talk, demonstration, or even just a conversation – and write about it. If you have access to the internet during the event you can even ‘liveblog’ it by starting a post as soon as you have something to report and adding updates or new posts as the event progresses. Ambitious bloggers can use liveblogging tool CoveritLive.

Ask a question:
this typically only works once you’ve established a readership and generated goodwill by contributing yourself on your blog and in comments on other blogs, or if it’s for a worthy cause. But it can be very effective in generating useful information. Taken further, you can use free online polling tools such as PollDaddy and SurveyMonkey to conduct a larger survey.

Pick a fight:
many blogg ers attempt to generate traffic by loudly criticising another (popular) blogger in the hope that they’ll respond and generate traffic from their readers. This sort of tactic is often referred to as ‘link-baiting’ – in other words, if the criticised blogger responds (takes the bait) it generally means links to your blog. If you are to criticise another blogger, then, it is worth considering if it will be seen as ‘link-bait’ or a constructive and valuable debate. Done well, a genuine argument between two bloggers can generate insight and bring factions to compromise. You can also pick a fight with a company or brand, and mount a campaign to instigate change.

Reflect on something:
it might be something that happened to you this week, a decision or choice that you made, a lead for a story, or anything else. Why did it happen? What are the implications? What did you learn? Keep it open so others can contribute their experiences or insights.

Do something visual:
take photographs and/or video footage as you travel along a particular route. Explain them, ask questions, include relevant links. Or draw sketches and photograph them.
Review something: try to make it useful – include links to further information, quote from (and link to) other reviewers.

Make a list:
Lists are enormously popular on the web, frequently topping websites’ ‘most shared’ lists. It may be anything from ‘5 ways to tie a knot’ to ‘The 100 best albums by women’. A good tip for your first post is to make a list of the top 10 blogs in your subject area – a useful task for yourself while also making them aware of your existence.

Write a how-to:
in his book Click, Bill Tancer notes how one of the most popular types of search query is ‘How do I..?’ or ‘Why do..?’ Tutorials also frequently top websites ‘most-shared’ lists and can be enormously useful in generating goodwill in your sphere – not to mention attracting comments that then add to and improve your knowledge of the subject.

Let someone else post:
if you find someone with particular expertise or experience, invite them to write a ‘guest post’ on a particular subject. Even if they already have their own blog, they will probably appreciate the opportunity to reach a new audience, or to write in a different context, and again it will improve your own knowledge.

Who does not know the saying: Riding a dead horse. Everyone has been there. You give all your energy to something that can be described as a lost cause. Today the view from the Dakota Tribal Wisdom in dealing with ’the dead horse ” in project management.

Dakota tribal wisdom says that when you discover you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount. However, in business we often try other strategies with dead horses, including the following:

1.      Buying a stronger whip.
2.      Changing riders.
3.      Saying things like “This is the way we always have ridden this horse.
4.      Appointing a committee to study the horse.
5.      Arranging to visit other sites to see how they ride dead horses.
6.      Increasing the standards to ride dead horses.
7.      Appointing a tiger team to revive the dead horse.
8.      Creating a training session to increase our riding ability.
9.      Comparing the state of dead horses in today’s environment.
10.    Change the requirements declaring that “This horse is not dead.”
11.     Hire contractors to ride the dead horse.
12.     Harnessing several dead horses together for increased speed
13.     Declaring that “No horse is too dead to beat.”
14.     Providing additional funding to increase the horse’s performance.
15.     Do a  Study to see if contractors can ride it cheaper.
16.     Purchase a product to make dead horses run faster.
17.     Declare the horse is “better, faster and cheaper” dead.
18.     Form a quality circle to find uses for dead horses.
19.     Revisit the performance requirements for horses.
20.     Say this horse was procured with cost as an independent variable.
21.     Promote the dead horse to a supervisory position.

Uit het partijprogramma van de PVV: “De Partij voor de Vrijheid kiest voor zero tolerance.”

Eric Lucassen blijft lid van de Tweede Kamerfractie van de PVV. Wel raakt hij per direct zijn woordvoerderschappen van Defensie en Wijken kwijt, laat fractievoorzitter Geert Wilders maandag weten.

Wilders: “weggaan hoeft niet van mij” en “wat er allemaal tussen ons is besproken daar ga ik niets over zeggen” ONGELOOFLIJK!

Lucassen raakte vorige week in opspraak toen bleek dat hij in 2002 is veroordeeld voor ontucht. Hij was destijds sergeant bij de landmacht en had seks met twee ondergeschikten, wat verboden is. Verder heeft hij volgens voormalige buren jarenlang wijkgenoten in Haarlem geterroriseerd.

Wilders was hiervan niet op de hoogte toen Lucassen solliciteerde voor een plek op de PVV-lijst. De PVV-leider voelt zich door zijn Kamerlid ‘oneerlijk bejegend’, omdat hij deze feiten heeft verzwegen. “Lucassen schaamt zich hiervoor en biedt de PVV zijn excuses aan, alsmede aan betrokkenen in de betreffende zaken”, luidt de verklaring.

We weten nu dus wat de PVV bedoelt met strenger straffen: “Je moet sorry zeggen!!”

Gaat Wilders de fluwelen handschoentjes waarmee hij Lucassen aanpakt, ook dragen als hij het over het “Marokkaanse tuig” heeft?

The Wave 
By Tom Ruttan 
CYCLE CANADA – APRIL 2002 

The bike’s passenger seat swept up just enough that I could see over my father’s shoulders. That seat was my throne. My dad and I travelled many backroads, searching for the ones we had never found before. Travelling these roads just to see where they went. Never in a rush. Just be home for supper. 

I remember wandering down a backroad with my father, sitting on my throne watching the trees whiz by, feeling the rumble of our bike  beneath us like a contented giant cat. A motorcycle came over a hill toward us and as it went by, my father threw up his gloved clutch hand and gave a little wave. The other biker waved back with the same friendly swing of his left wrist. 

I tapped my father on his shoulder, which was our signal that I wanted to say something. He cocked his helmeted ear back slightly while keeping his eyes ahead. 

I yelled, “Do we know him?” 

‘What?” he shouted. 

“You waved to him. Who was it?” 

“I don’t know. Just another guy on a bike. So I waved.” 

“How come?” 

“You just do. It’s important.” 

Later, when we had stopped for chocolate ice cream, I asked why it was important to wave to other bikers. My father tried to explain how the wave demonstrated comradeship and a mutual understanding of what it was to enjoy riding a motorcycle. He looked for the words to describe how almost all bikers struggled with the same things like cold, rain, heat, car drivers who did not see them, but how riding remained an almost pure pleasure. 

I was young then and I am not sure that I really understood what he was trying to get across, but it was a beginning. Afterward, I always waved along with my father when we passed other bikers. 

I remember one cold October morning when the clouds were heavy and dark, giving us another clue that winter was riding in from just over the horizon. My father and I were warm inside our car as we headed to a friend’s home. Rounding a comer, we saw a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of the road. Past the bike, we saw the rider walking through the ditch, scouring the long grasses crowned with a touch of frost. We pulled over and backed up to where the bike stood. 

I asked Dad, “Who’s that?” 

“Don’t know,” he replied. “But he seems to have lost something. Maybe we can give him a hand.” 

We left the car and wandered through the tall grass of the ditch to the biker. He said that he had been pulling on his gloves as he rode and he had lost one. The three of us spent some time combing the ditch, but all we found were two empty cans and a plastic water bottle. 

My father turned and headed back to our car and I followed him. He opened the trunk and threw the cans and the water bottle into a small cardboard box that we kept for garbage. He rummaged through various tools, oil containers and windshield washer fluid until he found an old crumpled pair of brown leather gloves. Dad straightened them out and handed them to me to hold. He continued looking until he located an old catalogue. I understood why my dad had grabbed the gloves. I had no idea what he was going to do with the catalogue. We headed back to the biker who was still walking the ditch. 

My dad said, “Here’s some gloves for you. And I brought you a catalogue as well.” 

“Thanks,” he replied. I really appreciate it.” He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a worn black wallet. 

“Let me give you some money for the gloves,” he said as he slid some bills out. 

“No thanks,” my dad replied as I handed the rider the gloves. “They’re old and not worth anything anyway.” 

The biker smiled. “Thanks a lot.” He pulled on the old gloves and then he unzipped his jacket. I watched as my father handed him the catalogue and the biker slipped it inside his coat. He jostled his jacket around to get the catalogue sitting high and centered under his coat and zipped it up. I remember nodding my head at the time, finally making sense of why my dad had given him the catalogue. It would keep him a bit warmer. After wishing the biker well, my father and I left him warming up his bike. 

Two weeks later, the biker came to our home and returned my father’s gloves. He had found our address on the catalogue. Neither my father nor the biker seemed to think that my father stopping at the side of the road for a stranger and giving him a pair of gloves, and that stranger making sure that the gloves were returned, were events at all out of the ordinary for people who rode motorcycles. For me, it was another subtle lesson. 

It was spring the next year when I was sitting high on my throne, watching the farm fields slip by when I saw two bikes coming towards us. As they rumbled past, both my father and I waved, but the other bikers kept their sunglasses locked straight ahead and did not acknowledge us. I remember thinking that they must have seen us because our waves were too obvious to miss. Why hadn’t they waved back? I thought all bikers waved to one another. 

I patted my father on his shoulder and yelled, “How come they didn’t wave to us?” 

“Don’t know. Sometimes they don’t.” 

I remember feeling very puzzled. Why wouldn’t someone wave back? 

Later that summer, I turned 12 and learned how to ride a bike with a clutch. 
I spent many afternoons on a country laneway beside our home, kicking and kicking to start my father’s ’55 BSA. When it would finally sputter to a start, my concentration would grow to a sharp focus as I tried to let out the clutch slowly while marrying it with just enough throttle to bring me to a smooth takeoff. More often, I lurched and stumbled forward while trying to keep the front wheel straight and remember to pick my feet up. A few feet farther down the lane, I would sigh and begin kicking again. 

A couple of years later, my older brother began road racing, and I became a racetrack rat. We spent many weekends wandering to several tracks in Ontario-Harewood, Mosport and eventually Shannonville. These were the early years of two-stroke domination, of Kawasaki green and 750 two-stroke triples, of Yvon Duhamel’s cat-and-mouse games and the artistry of Steve Baker. 

Eventually, I started to pursue interests other than the race track. I got my motorcycle licence and began wandering the backroads on my own. I found myself stopping along sideroads if I saw a rider sitting alone, just checking to see if I could be of help. And I continued to wave to each biker I saw. 

But I remained confused as to why some riders never waved back. It left me with almost a feeling of rejection, as if I were reaching to shake someone’s hand but they kept their arm hanging by their side. 

I began to canvass my friends about waving. I talked with people I met at bike events, asking what they thought. Most of the riders told me they waved to other motorcyclists and often initiated the friendly air handshake as they passed one another. 

I did meet some riders, though, who told me that they did not wave to other riders because they felt that they were different from other bikers. They felt that they were “a breed apart.” One guy told me in colourful language that he did not “wave to no wusses.” He went on to say that his kind of bikers were tough, independent, and they did not require or want the help of anyone, whether they rode a bike or not. 

I suspected that there were some people who bought a bike because they wanted to purchase an image of being tougher, more independent, a not-putting-up-with-anyone’s-crap kind of person, but I did not think that this was typical of most riders. 

People buy bikes for different reasons. Some will be quick to tell you what make it is, how much they paid for it, or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty is going to be strong for some people whether they have a Harley, Ford, Sony, Nike or whatever. Some people want to buy an image and try to purchase another person’s perception of them. But it can’t be done. They hope that it can, but it can’t. 

Still, there is a group of people who ride bikes who truly are a “breed apart.” They appreciate both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride. Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define themselves to themselves alone. 
They don’t care what other people think. They don’t care if anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it will go. The bike means something to them that nothing else does. They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don’t care whether anyone knows they have a bike. They may not be able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they still know. They might not be able to explain what it means to feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them. But they understand. 

These are the riders who park their bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and look back. They see something when they look at their bikes that you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They see a part of themselves. 

These are the riders who understand why they wave to other motorcyclists. They savour the wave. It symbolizes the connection between riders, and if they saw you and your bike on the side of the road, they would stop to help and might not ask your name. They understand what you are up against every time you take your bike on the road-the drivers that do not see you, the ones that cut you off or tailgate you, the potholes that hide in wait. The rain. The cold. 

I have been shivering and sweating on a bike for more than 40 years. Most of the riders that pass give me a supportive wave. I love it when I see a younger rider on a “crotch rocket” scream past me and wave. New riders carrying on traditions. 

And I will continue in my attempts to get every biker just a little closer to one another with a simple wave of my gloved clutch hand. And if they do not wave back when I extend my hand into the breeze as I pass them, I will smile a little more. They may be a little mistaken about just who is a “breed apart.”