Cool Herbs For Knee Pain images

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Image by safoocat
A Sister’s Eulogy for Steve Jobs
By MONA SIMPSON
Published: October 30, 2011
SHAREI grew up as an only child, with a single mother. Because we were poor
and because I knew my father had emigrated from Syria, I imagined he looked
like Omar Sharif. I hoped he would be rich and kind and would come into our
lives (and our not yet furnished apartment) and help us. Later, after I’d
met my father, I tried to believe he’d changed his number and left no
forwarding address because he was an idealistic revolutionary, plotting a
new world for the Arab people.
Related
Opinion: The Genius of Jobs(October 30, 2011)Even as a feminist, my whole
life I’d been waiting for a man to love, who could love me. For decades, I’d
thought that man would be my father. When I was 25, I met that man and he
was my brother.
By then, I lived in New York, where I was trying to write my first novel. I
had a job at a small magazine in an office the size of a closet, with three
other aspiring writers. When one day a lawyer called me — me, the
middle-class girl from California who hassled the boss to buy us health
insurance — and said his client was rich and famous and was my long-lost
brother, the young editors went wild. This was 1985 and we worked at a
cutting-edge literary magazine, but I’d fallen into the plot of a Dickens
novel and really, we all loved those best. The lawyer refused to tell me my
brother’s name and my colleagues started a betting pool. The leading
candidate: John Travolta. I secretly hoped for a literary descendant of
Henry James — someone more talented than I, someone brilliant without even
trying.
When I met Steve, he was a guy my age in jeans, Arab- or Jewish-looking and
handsomer than Omar Sharif.
We took a long walk — something, it happened, that we both liked to do. I
don’t remember much of what we said that first day, only that he felt like
someone I’d pick to be a friend. He explained that he worked in computers.
I didn’t know much about computers. I still worked on a manual Olivetti
typewriter.
I told Steve I’d recently considered my first purchase of a computer:
something called the Cromemco.
Steve told me it was a good thing I’d waited. He said he was making
something that was going to be insanely beautiful.
I want to tell you a few things I learned from Steve, during three distinct
periods, over the 27 years I knew him. They’re not periods of years, but of
states of being. His full life. His illness. His dying.
Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day.
That’s incredibly simple, but true.
He was the opposite of absent-minded.
He was never embarrassed about working hard, even if the results were
failures. If someone as smart as Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit trying, maybe
I didn’t have to be.
When he got kicked out of Apple, things were painful. He told me about a
dinner at which 500 Silicon Valley leaders met the then-sitting president.
Steve hadn’t been invited.
He was hurt but he still went to work at Next. Every single day.
Novelty was not Steve’s highest value. Beauty was.
For an innovator, Steve was remarkably loyal. If he loved a shirt, he’d
order 10 or 100 of them. In the Palo Alto house, there are probably enough
black cotton turtlenecks for everyone in this church.
He didn’t favor trends or gimmicks. He liked people his own age.
His philosophy of aesthetics reminds me of a quote that went something like
this: “Fashion is what seems beautiful now but looks ugly later; art can be
ugly at first but it becomes beautiful later.”
Steve always aspired to make beautiful later.
He was willing to be misunderstood.
Uninvited to the ball, he drove the third or fourth iteration of his same
black sports car to Next, where he and his team were quietly inventing the
platform on which Tim Berners-Lee would write the program for the World Wide
Web.
Steve was like a girl in the amount of time he spent talking about love.
Love was his supreme virtue, his god of gods. He tracked and worried about
the romantic lives of the people working with him.
Whenever he saw a man he thought a woman might find dashing, he called out,
“Hey are you single? Do you wanna come to dinner with my sister?”
I remember when he phoned the day he met Laurene. “There’s this beautiful
woman and she’s really smart and she has this dog and I’m going to marry her
”
When Reed was born, he began gushing and never stopped. He was a physical
dad, with each of his children. He fretted over Lisa’s boyfriends and Erin’s
travel and skirt lengths and Eve’s safety around the horses she adored.
None of us who attended Reed’s graduation party will ever forget the scene
of Reed and Steve slow dancing.
His abiding love for Laurene sustained him. He believed that love happened
all the time, everywhere. In that most important way, Steve was never ironic
never cynical, never pessimistic. I try to learn from that, still.
Steve had been successful at a young age, and he felt that had isolated him.
Most of the choices he made from the time I knew him were designed to
dissolve the walls around him. A middle-class boy from Los Altos, he fell in
love with a middle-class girl from New Jersey. It was important to both of
them to raise Lisa, Reed, Erin and Eve as grounded, normal children. Their
house didn’t intimidate with art or polish; in fact, for many of the first
years I knew Steve and Lo together, dinner was served on the grass, and
sometimes consisted of just one vegetable. Lots of that one vegetable. But
one. Broccoli. In season. Simply prepared. With just the right, recently
snipped, herb.
Even as a young millionaire, Steve always picked me up at the airport. He’d
be standing there in his jeans.
When a family member called him at work, his secretary Linetta answered,
“Your dad’s in a meeting. Would you like me to interrupt him?”
When Reed insisted on dressing up as a witch every Halloween, Steve, Laurene
Erin and Eve all went wiccan.
They once embarked on a kitchen remodel; it took years. They cooked on a
hotplate in the garage. The Pixar building, under construction during the
same period, finished in half the time. And that was it for the Palo Alto
house. The bathrooms stayed old. But — and this was a crucial distinction —
it had been a great house to start with; Steve saw to that.
This is not to say that he didn’t enjoy his success: he enjoyed his success
a lot, just minus a few zeros. He told me how much he loved going to the
Palo Alto bike store and gleefully realizing he could afford to buy the best
bike there.
And he did.
Steve was humble. Steve liked to keep learning.
Once, he told me if he’d grown up differently, he might have become a
mathematician. He spoke reverently about colleges and loved walking around
the Stanford campus. In the last year of his life, he studied a book of
paintings by Mark Rothko, an artist he hadn’t known about before, thinking
of what could inspire people on the walls of a future Apple campus.
Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and
Chinese tea roses and has a favorite David Austin rose?
He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will
discover treats — songs he loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer —
even after 20 years of an exceptionally close marriage. I spoke to him every
other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and saw a feature on
the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch
for a perfect staircase.
With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of
fun.
He treasured happiness.
Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller
circle. Once, he’d loved walking through Paris. He’d discovered a small
handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skied gracefully. He cross-country
skied clumsily. No more.
Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed
to him.
Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was
still left after so much had been taken away.
I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his liver
transplant, once a day he would get up on legs that seemed too thin to bear
him, arms pitched to the chair back. He’d push that chair down the Memphis
hospital corridor towards the nursing station and then he’d sit down on the
chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He counted his steps and, each
day, pressed a little farther.
Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes.
“You can do this, Steve,” she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into
each other.
He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that
effort. He was an intensely emotional man.
I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the pain
for himself. He set destinations: his son Reed’s graduation from high school
his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, the launching of a boat he was building
on which he planned to take his family around the world and where he hoped
he and Laurene would someday retire.
Even ill, his taste, his discrimination and his judgment held. He went
through 67 nurses before finding kindred spirits and then he completely
trusted the three who stayed with him to the end. Tracy. Arturo. Elham.
One time when Steve had contracted a tenacious pneumonia his doctor forbid
everything — even ice. We were in a standard I.C.U. unit. Steve, who
generally disliked cutting in line or dropping his own name, confessed that
this once, he’d like to be treated a little specially.
I told him: Steve, this is special treatment.
He leaned over to me, and said: “I want it to be a little more special.”
Intubated, when he couldn’t talk, he asked for a notepad. He sketched
devices to hold an iPad in a hospital bed. He designed new fluid monitors
and x-ray equipment. He redrew that not-quite-special-enough hospital unit.
And every time his wife walked into the room, I watched his smile remake
itself on his face.
For the really big, big things, you have to trust me, he wrote on his
sketchpad. He looked up. You have to.
By that, he meant that we should disobey the doctors and give him a piece of
ice.
None of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here. On Steve’s better days,
even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited promises from
his friends at Apple to finish them. Some boat builders in the Netherlands
have a gorgeous stainless steel hull ready to be covered with the finishing
wood. His three daughters remain unmarried, his two youngest still girls,
and he’d wanted to walk them down the aisle as he’d walked me the day of my
wedding.
We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many
stories.
I suppose it’s not quite accurate to call the death of someone who lived
with cancer for years unexpected, but Steve’s death was unexpected for us.
What I learned from my brother’s death was that character is essential: What
he was, was how he died.
Tuesday morning, he called me to ask me to hurry up to Palo Alto. His tone
was affectionate, dear, loving, but like someone whose luggage was already
strapped onto the vehicle, who was already on the beginning of his journey,
even as he was sorry, truly deeply sorry, to be leaving us.
He started his farewell and I stopped him. I said, “Wait. I’m coming. I’m in
a taxi to the airport. I’ll be there.”
“I’m telling you now because I’m afraid you won’t make it on time, honey.”
When I arrived, he and his Laurene were joking together like partners who’d
lived and worked together every day of their lives. He looked into his
children’s eyes as if he couldn’t unlock his gaze.
Until about 2 in the afternoon, his wife could rouse him, to talk to his
friends from Apple.
Then, after awhile, it was clear that he would no longer wake to us.
His breathing changed. It became severe, deliberate, purposeful. I could
feel him counting his steps again, pushing farther than before.
This is what I learned: he was working at this, too. Death didn’t happen to
Steve, he achieved it.
He told me, when he was saying goodbye and telling me he was sorry, so sorry
we wouldn’t be able to be old together as we’d always planned, that he was
going to a better place.
Dr. Fischer gave him a 50/50 chance of making it through the night.
He made it through the night, Laurene next to him on the bed sometimes
jerked up when there was a longer pause between his breaths. She and I
looked at each other, then he would heave a deep breath and begin again.
This had to be done. Even now, he had a stern, still handsome profile, the
profile of an absolutist, a romantic. His breath indicated an arduous
journey, some steep path, altitude.
He seemed to be climbing.
But with that will, that work ethic, that strength, there was also sweet
Steve’s capacity for wonderment, the artist’s belief in the ideal, the still
more beautiful later.
Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times

Before embarking, he’d looked at his sister Patty, then for a long time at
his children, then at his life’s partner, Laurene, and then over their
shoulders past them.
Steve’s final words were:
OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW. "So as the clock ticked and the day passed, opportunity met preparation, and luck happened." – Maurice Clarett

Hebrew Union College – August 13, 2010


Image by k763
08/13/2010
10:30 AM – 11:00 AM
Los Angeles, CA
Hebrew Union College
3077 University Avenue
WBC continues our Faithful Fig Find at the Hebrew Union College.

We will remind them to remember their Savior Jesus Christ whom they crucified, to repent for that soul damning sin and to return to their God who is their only hope. He will pour out his spirit upon those good figs we seek and that now scattered nation will form in one day! Those good figs (Elect Jews) will come together and destruction will pour out on this doomed nation and world! Rev. 13:9 If any man have an ear, let him hear. Isa. 66:5 Hear the word of the LORD, ye that tremble at his word; Your brethren that hated you, that cast you out for my name’s sake, said, Let the LORD be glorified: but he shall appear to your joy, and they shall be ashamed. 6 A voice of noise from the city, a voice from the temple, a voice of the LORD that rendereth recompence to his enemies. 7 Before she travailed, she brought forth; before her pain came, she was delivered of a man child. 8 Who hath heard such a thing? who hath seen such things? Shall the earth be made to bring forth in one day? or shall a nation be born at once? for as soon as Zion travailed, she brought forth her children. 9 Shall I bring to the birth, and not cause to bring forth? saith the LORD: shall I cause to bring forth, and shut the womb? saith thy God. 10 Rejoice ye with Jerusalem, and be glad with her, all ye that love her: rejoice for joy with her, all ye that mourn for her: 11 That ye may suck, and be satisfied with the breasts of her consolations; that ye may milk out, and be delighted with the abundance of her glory. 12 For thus saith the LORD, Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river, and the glory of the Gentiles like a flowing stream: then shall ye suck, ye shall be borne upon her sides, and be dandled upon her knees. 13 As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem. 14 And when ye see this, your heart shall rejoice, and your bones shall flourish like an herb: and the hand of the LORD shall be known toward his servants, and his indignation toward his enemies.

Cool Tender Foot Pain images

Check out these tender foot pain images:

Bullfight


Image by Mait Jüriado
It’s quite hard to post those photos. Bullfighting is very long traditional event in Spain but people like me from outside of Spain might think it’s brutal. For me it’s more like documenting what I saw not I liked it so much. I think it should be forbidden.

From a technical point of view it has three parts called “tercios” or “suertes”: sticks, barbed darts and finally the matador’s stick with a red flag attached to it. The president of the fight, which includes six fights lasting 20 minutes each.

When the bull enters and during the first part, the matador in his traditional costume raises the red and gold flag. He makes sweeping motions with the cape and helpers both on foot and on horseback drive their lances into the bull, gauging the liveliness and characteristics of their opponent.
During the second part of the fight three pairs of darts are driven into the bull’s neck. In the final and the most distressing part of the fight the bullfighter becomes a killer.

This is the most dangerous part where he attracts the injured animal towards him. At the last moment he must kill the beast with a single thrust of his sword.

"For one week a year, thousands of locals and tourists gather, and pay to witness the a ritual which is advertised as glorious and entertaining (for the benefit of pompously dressed up males with questionable skills in avoiding collision with a big animal) but is in fact nothing short of gorry, gruesome and truly sad. Old and sick bulls are chosen to be killed in those rituals, and they are being weakened for weeks before the "fight".

They put laxatives in their food and heavy sandbags on their backs. They are often beaten. They file their horns down to the tender quick and they drug them. Prior to the Running, electric prods and sharp sticks are used to rile the bulls in a frenzy. Petroleum jelly is put in their eyes to blind them. Wet newspaper is stuffed in their ears and their vocal cords are cut to prevent the audience to hear their cries. Lances are driven into the bulls’ neck muscles so they can’t lift their heads. By the time the matador appears the bulls are weak from blood loss and disoriented from being chased in circles.

When the "fight" finally begins, the bull is already on the verge of collapsing, held only by his last instinct of survival. All dignity is stripped down from him and he is confused, desperate and suffering. Then, in the ring, the toreador slaughters the bull by stabbing the bull repeatedly in the spine. The bull’s death is slow and not just ugly, it’s petrifying and maddening. Often he wears long blankets to hide their entrails, which spill out when they are gorged and disemboweled."

Is there a known connection between breast cancer and sacroiliac joint pain in some patients?

by Vietnam Plants & America plants

Question by Cinnamon: Is there a known connection between breast cancer and sacroiliac joint pain in some patients?

Best answer:

Answer by Jared
No. SI joint pain is typically the result of disc herniation, rupture, nerve impingement, arthritis, or a spondylarprothy of some sort. It has nothing to do with Breast cancer.

What do you think? Answer below!

Q&A: What could this be? severe lower back/spine pain that is swollen?

Question by Ninja_princess: What could this be? severe lower back/spine pain that is swollen?
My friend is in severe pain her lower back spinal cord / tail bone area is a bit swollen and shes in a lot of pain what could this be? What can she do to reduce her pain and swelling she does not want to go to the ER if she does not have to

Best answer:

Answer by Douglas B
She has pinched muscles there causing the pain and swelling. She can get rid of the pain by freeing up the muscles in her back to release the muscles and here’s how to do that:
Back:
(do from a sitting position)
Place your left hand on your left leg next to your body. Place your right hand over your left shoulder, fingers over the back and the palm in the front and firmly pull down on them and hold. After 30 seconds slowly lower your body forward and to the outside of your left leg, keeping your left arm fairly straight as you do. When you reach your lap remain there for another 10 seconds, release the pressure but rest there for another 30 seconds. Then reverse your hand positions and do your right side.
For best results relax your body first by taking a deep breath and exhaling then remain this relaxed.

What do you think? Answer below!