the miracles of "chinese bamboo" in your life

all of us must have dreams
dreams of your own
dreams for your loved one
dreams for your family

have you ever feel so tired?
tired to work days after days
yet not so promising results afterall


have you ever feel so hopeless?
seeing there is no so much improvements
'though you've put all best efforts in

have you ever blame yourself?
thinking if you've done everything right
assuming you performing things differently

have you ever feel so much despair?
feeling your dreams are so far away?


what are you willing to do,
to make your dreams come true?
how long are you willing to work?
how long are you willing to take action?
how long are you willing,
to push past your fear and doubt?
how much faith and belief,
are you willing to have?

i hope your answer is one -
that will help you achieve
all you dream of in life!

as you continue to dream,
do so knowing that
SOMEONE BELIEVES IN YOU
to make sure you understand
the Miracle of Chinese Bamboo
because they believe you can create
miracles in YOUR own life!


have the passion and perseverance.
it's the key to achieve your dreams!

thank you to the Jenkins - for this valuable sharing

The Wallet ~ Story of Hannah

As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled
on a wallet someone had lost in the street.
I picked it up and looked inside to find some
identification so I could call the owner. But
the wallet contained only three dollars and a
crumpled letter that looked as if it had
been in there for years.


The envelope was worn and the only thing that
was legible on it was the return address. I
started to open the letter, hoping to find
some clue. Then I saw the dateline--1924.
The letter had been written almost
sixty years ago.


It was written in a beautiful feminine
handwriting on powder blue stationery with
a little flower in the left-hand corner.
It was a "Dear John" letter that told the
recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael,
that the writer could not see him any more
because her mother forbade it. Even so, she
wrote that she would always love him.
It was signed, Hannah.

It was a beautiful letter, but there was
no way except for the name Michael, that
the owner could be identified. Maybe if
I called information, the operator could find
a phone listing for the address on
the envelope.


"Operator," I began,
"this is an unusual request. I'm trying
to find the owner of a wallet that I found.
Is there anyway you can tell me if there is
a phone number for an address that was on
an envelope in the wallet?"


She suggested I speak with her supervisor,
who hesitated for a moment then said,
"Well, there is a phone listing at that
address, but I can't give you the number."
She said, as a courtesy, she would call
that number, explain my story and would
ask them if they wanted her to connect me.
I waited a few minutes and then she
was back on the line.


"I have a party who will speak with you."
I asked the woman on the other end of
the line if she knew anyone by the
name of Hannah. She gasped,
"Oh! We bought this house from a family
who had a daughter named Hannah.
But that was 30 years ago!"


"Would you know where that family could
be located now?" I asked.
"I remember that Hannah had to place
her mother in a nursing home some years
ago," the woman said.
"Maybe if you got in touch with them they
might be able to track down the daughter."


She gave me the name of the nursing home
and I called the number. They told me the
old lady had passed away some years ago
but they did have a phone number for
where they thought the daughter might be
living.


I thanked them and phoned. The woman who
answered explained that Hannah herself
was now living in a nursing home.

This whole thing was stupid, I thought to
myself. Why was I making such a big deal
over finding the owner of a wallet that
had only three dollars and a letter that
was almost 60 years old?


Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in
which Hannah was supposed to be living and
the man who answered the phone told me,
"Yes, Hannah is staying with us."


Eventhough it was already 10 p.m., I asked
if I could come by to see her.
"Well," he said hesitatingly,
"if you want to take a chance, she might be
in the day room watching television."


I thanked him and drove over to the nursing
home. The night nurse and a guard greeted me
at the door. We went up to the third floor
of the large building. In the day room,
the nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired old timer
with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.


I told her about finding the wallet and showed
her the letter. The second she saw the powder
blue envelope with that little flower on the left,
she took a deep breath and said,
"Young man, this letter was the last contact
I ever had with Michael."


She looked away for a moment deep in thought
and then said softly, "I loved him very much.
But I was only 16 at the time and my mother
felt I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome.
He looked like Sean Connery, the actor."


"Yes," she continued. "Michael Goldstein was
a wonderful person. If you should find him,
tell him I think of him often. And, she
hesitated for a moment, almost biting her lip,
"Tell him I still love him, you know,"
she said smiling as tears began to well up
in her eyes, "I never did marry. I guess no
one ever matched up to Michael..."


I thanked Hannah and said goodbye. I took the
elevator to the first floor and as I stood
by the door, the guard there asked,
"Was the old lady able to help you?"


I told him she had given me a lead.
"At least I have a last name. But I think
I'll let it go for a while. I spent almost
the whole day trying to find the owner
of this wallet."


I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple
brown leather case with red lacing on the side.
When the guard saw it, he said, "Hey, wait a
minute! That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet. I'd know
it anywhere with that bright red lacing. He's
always losing that wallet. I must have found
it in the halls at least three times."


"Who's Mr. Goldstein?"
I asked as my hand began to shake.


"He's one of the old timers on the 8th floor.
That's Mike Goldstein's wallet for sure.
He must have lost it on one of his walks."


I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to
the nurse's office. I told her what the guard
had said. We went back to the elevator and
got on. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.


On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said,
"I think he's still in the day room. He likes
to read at night. He's a darling old man."


We went to the only room that had any lights
on and there was a man reading a book. The nurse
went over to him and asked if he had lost
his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise,
put his hand in his back pocket and said,
"Oh, it is missing!"


"This kind gentleman found a wallet and we
wondered if it could be yours?"


I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the
second he saw it, he smiled with relief and said,
"Yes, that's it! It must have dropped out of my
pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward."


"No, thank you," I said.
"But I have to tell you something. I read the letter
in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet."


The smile on his face suddenly disappeared.
"You read that letter?"


"Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."


He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she is?
How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was?
Please, please tell me," he begged.


"She's fine...just as pretty as when you knew her."
I said softly. The old man smiled with anticipation
and asked, "Could you tell me where she is?
I want to call her tomorrow." He grabbed my hand and
said, "You know something, mister, I was so in love
with that girl and that when that letter came,
my life literally ended. I never married.
I guess I've always loved her. "


"Michael," I said, "Come with me."
We took the elevator down to the third floor.
The hallways were darkened and only one or two
little night-lights lit our way to the day room
where Hannah was sitting alone watching the
television. The nurse walked over to her.


"Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael,
who was waiting with me in the doorway.
"Do you know this man?"


She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment,
but didn't say a word. Michael said softly,
almost in a whisper, "Hannah, it's Michael. Do
you remember me?"


She gasped, "Michael! I don't believe it!
Michael! It's you! My Michael!" He walked slowly
towards her and they embraced. The nurse
and I left with tears streaming down our faces.


"See," I said. "See how the Good Lord works!
If it's meant to be, it will be."


About three weeks later I got a call at my office
from the nursing home. "Can you break away on
Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael
and Hannah are going to tie the knot!"


It was a beautiful wedding with all the people
at the nursing home dressed up to join in the
celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and
looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit
and stood tall. They made me their best man.


The hospital gave them their own room and if you
ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a
79-year-old groom acting like two teenagers,
you had to see this couple.

A perfect ending for a love affair
that had lasted nearly 60 years.


(Arnold Fine)

RIP - Steve Jobs: Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish!

Here is the complete transcript of the speech from this video. It's an amazing speech from a remarkable visionary man behind all those stuff we are using every day!


This is the text of the Commencement address by Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer and of Pixar Animation Studios, delivered on June 12, 2005.

I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That’s it. No big deal. Just three stories.


The first story is about connecting the dots.


I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?


It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: “We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?” They said: “Of course.” My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.


And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents’ savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn’t see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn’t interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.


It wasn’t all romantic. I didn’t have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends’ rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:


Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn’t have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can’t capture, and I found it fascinating.


None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, its likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.


Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.


My second story is about love and loss.


I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.


I really didn’t know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down – that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.


I didn’t see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.


During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple’s current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.


I’m pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith. I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.


My third story is about death.


When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.


Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.


About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn’t even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor’s code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you’d have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.


I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I’m fine now.


This was the closest I’ve been to facing death, and I hope its the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:


No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.


Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.


When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960′s, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.


Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.” It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.


Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.


Thank you all very much.

why do we SHOUT?

One day, a professor asked his students,
'why do we SHOUT instead of speak when we are ANGRY?'

All the students thought for a while. One answered,
'Because we lost our cool. That's why we SHOUT.'

The professor asked again,
'But the person is just right next to you, why
can't we just talk softly but have to SHOUT?'

This time everyone gave their opinions but none
was accepted by the professor.

At last the professor explained,
'When we get ANGRY, our hearts drift apart.
To mask the DISTANCE we felt, we instinctively SHOUT
instead of speak so the other party can hear us.'

But as we SHOUT, we get ANGRIER. And we drift apart
further. So we SHOUT even louder.'

'It is the opposite when we are in love. Not only we
do not shout, we whisper into each other ears. Why?'

'This is because our hearts are very close, almost
never apart. As our love deepen, we reach a state of
communication where there is no need for words.'

'We understand each other well enough just by
exchanging look,' concluded the professor.

'Therefore, when we are arguing, DO NOT speak words
that will make our hearts drift apart.
WAIT a few days. When you feel your hearts are no
longer far apart, pick up the conversation and
continue from there.'


[author unknown] 
~ thanks Myra, for the thoughts.

a distinguished-honourable man

I like to see a man proud of the place in which
he lives. I like to see a man live so that his
place will be proud of him. ~ Abraham Lincoln


I've learnt should one says he is a distinguished
honourable man, then he should at least, qualify
the following:


* ought to be able to portray himself having a
honoured-good manners.
* ought to be able to choose preferable honoured
speech, be well spoken.
* ought to be able of well-behaved, self awareness
of being mischievous and lure-tempting to the
opposites.
* ought to stand still against temptations which
distracts him out of the way.
* ought to be able to hold himself, no assault
and abttery.
* ought to be able to care his other half.


the mentioned distinguished-honourable man should
be able to persistently show he deserves that.
else, it's worthless. the distinguished would
refer to his family rather than his own. any
breach will fail him into such honourable family.


for him requires much learning... it ain't
talking about something easy to achieve.
he has to be at that certain level, that qualify
him in many relationships he has, according to
the roles he plays, up to the values he has.


we are not simply talking to the result. people
is honoured during the way to his best. it's
the hardest part during the process, when he
stumbles and falls climbing to the top.
he can be one of the best during the time of
hardship. the quality of being honoured will
not be questioned. one day all acknowledgement
will become his victory.


25 october 2010 - 01:00am
http://life-as-a-house.blogspot.com/2010/10/yang-terhormat.html

pearls before breakfast (2007)

Quote:

HE EMERGED FROM THE METRO AT THE L'ENFANT PLAZA

STATION AND POSITIONED HIMSELF AGAINST A WALL BESIDE

A TRASH BASKET.

By most measures, he was nondescript: a youngish white

man in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a Washington

Nationals baseball cap. From a small case,

he removed a violin. Placing the open case at his feet,

he shrewdly threw in a few dollars and pocket change

as seed money, swiveled it to face pedestrian traffic,

and began to play.

It was 7:51 a.m. on Friday, January 12, the middle of the

morning rush hour. In the next 43 minutes, as the violinist

performed six classical pieces, 1,097 people passed by.

Almost all of them were on the way to work, 

which meant, for almost all of them, a government job.

L'Enfant Plaza is at the nucleus of federal Washington,

and these were mostly mid-level bureaucrats

with those indeterminate, oddly fungible

titles: policy analyst, project manager,

budget officer, specialist, facilitator, consultant.

Each passerby had a quick choice to make, one familiar

to commuters in any urban area where the occasional

street performer is part of the cityscape:

Do you stop and listen?

Do you hurry past with a blend of guilt and irritation,

aware of your cupidity but annoyed by

the unbidden demand on 

your time and your wallet?

Do you throw in a buck, just to be polite?

Does your decision change if he's really bad?

What if he's really good?

Do you have time for beauty?

Shouldn't you?

What's the moral mathematics of the moment? ...

The piece he started with is Chaconne from

Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita No. 2 in D Minor.

It's considered one of 

the most difficult violin pieces to master.

Exhausting long, 14 minutes - and consists

entirely of a single, succinct musical progression

repeated in dozens of variations to create

a dauntingly complex architecture of sound.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed

there was musician playing. He slowed is pace and

stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up

to meet his schedule.

A half-minute later, the violinist received 

his first dollar tip:

a woman threw the money in the till and 

without stopping continued to walk. 

It was until six minutes then,

someone leaned against the wall to listen to him,

but the man looked at his watch and 

started to walk again.

Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy.

His mother tagged him along, hurried

but the child stopped to look at the violinist.

Finally the mother pushed hard and 

the child continued to walk turning his head all the time.

This action was repeated by several other children.

All the parents, without exception, 

forced them to move on.

43 minutes - six classical pieces, 

seven people stopped what they were doing to hang around

and take in the performance, at least for a minute.

Twenty-seven gave money, most of them on the run,

for a total of $32 and change.

That leaves the 1,070 people who hurried by, 

oblivious, many only three feet away, 

few even turning to look....

None noticed the violinist was Joshua Bell, 

one of the best musicians in the world, 

who performed the most intricate pieces ever written

with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.

Three days before his playing at L'Enfant Plaza Station,

Joshua Bell sold out at the theatre in Boston

and the seats average at $100.

IF A GREAT MUSICIAN PLAYS GREAT MUSIC 

BUT NO ONE HEARS . . .

WAS HE REALLY ANY GOOD?

What is beauty? Is it a measurable fact ((Gottfried Leibniz),

or merely an opinion (David Hume), or is it a little of each,

colored by the immediate state of mind of

the observer (Immanuel Kant)?

Joshua Bell, sitting there in a hotel restaurant,

picking at his breakfast, wryly trying to figure out

what the hell had just happened back there,

at the Metro...

"At the beginning," Bell says,

"I was just concentrating on playing the music.

I wasn't really watching 

what was happening around me . . ."

THERE ARE SIX MOMENTS IN THE VIDEO THAT

BELL FINDS PARTICULARLY PAINFUL TO RELIVE:

"The awkward times," he calls them.

It's what happens right after each piece ends: nothing.

The music stops.

The same people who hadn't noticed him playing 

don't notice that he has finished. 

No applause, no acknowledgment.

So Bell just saws out a small, nervous chord -- 

the embarrassed musician's equivalent of,

"Er, okay, moving right along . . ." -- 

and begins the next piece....

Watching the video weeks later, 

Bell finds himself mystified by one thing only. 

He understands why he's not drawing a crowd, 

in the rush of a morning workday.

But: "I'm surprised at the number of people

who don't pay attention at all, as if I'm invisible. 

Because, you know what? I'm makin' a lot of noise!"

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

-- from "Leisure," by W.H. Davies

Let's say Kant is right. Let's accept that we can't look at

what happened on January 12 and make any judgment

whatever about people's sophistication

or their ability to appreciate beauty.

But what about their ability to appreciate life?

In nutshell, let's thank this extraordinary performance

arranged by the Washington Post and Joshua Bell.

This can be taken as a social experiment

about perception, taste and priorities of people.

The outlines go like this:

In a commonplace environment 

at an inappropriate hour;

Do we perceive beauty? 

Do we stop appreciating it?

Do we recognise the talent in an unexpected context?

One of the possible summary from

this uncommon experience would be:

If we do not have a moment to stop and

listen to one of the greatest musicians in the world

playing the best music ever written,

how many other things are we missing then?

Watch the video here