Self Worth – The Key to your Ultimate Happiness

Worthiness means that regardless of who you are , what you own or what you do, you belong. You are deserving of what you own or what you do or you belong. You are deserving of love, care recognition and respect. Its all too easy to loose faith in our worthiness – so often we think we are not good enough or do not measure up…when we face challenges in our life like a failed exams, a lost job, a serious illness or getting a no, we feel like we are less deserving amongst the people around us.

We feel we lost our worthiness – yet worthiness is inherent in each person, and it can never be taken away from us but we forget this “truth”..when we do, it makes heart breaks, disappointments in life even more painful than they should be!

So can we remind ourselves of our own worthiness -when we are fallen into doubt or shame – one way to rediscover your sense of worth – is use your imagination or a picture of yourself as a child or a baby – a baby doesn’t have to earn the right to be loved – when we look into his or her soulful blinking eyes – we view them as precious – we are compel to care for them, we are inspired to love them unconditionally- we instantly see their worthiness- “innate, profound and unchanging”.

However when it comes to ourselves that’s so difficult to do…so next time if you loose sight of your own worth, trying imagining yourselves as a baby or small child…maybe even pull your own childhood photograph..imagine being held carefully with love and care …remember that when you were tiny there was nothing you needed to accomplish – no standard you needed to measure up to…your worthiness shines like a bright light even while you are vulnerable and dependent on others – complete and perfect, just the way you are…

Worthiness is your birthright and with it anything is possible.

Lets’s be Thankful!

It’s easy to be ungrateful in a society dominated by the haves versus the have-nots, where the money is all-powerful and helps to epitomize the alluring aspects of life like independence, security, and strength. When you’re working hard for no gain, unable to get ahead in life, particularly after you’ve suffered the heartache of disappointment or financial chaos, it’s easy to get disillusioned and it’s easy not to be thankful. You start a gratitude practice by following any of the below ways:

  1. Dedication

Gratitude does not come easily. It is a spiritual practice that comes over time. You will feel every resistance come in your mind. When you dedicate yourself to summon up the energy to shift into gratitude that magnetic power helps you in every way.

  1. Write & Record

Make a list of your gratitude. Take a pen and paper or on your laptop/PC, start writing for what you’re grateful for. There are a lot of people/situations for whom you have gratitude. Record it.  It may happen that you won’t get anything in your mind. Surrender to that moment and just wait.

  1. Feel it from your heart

You may have noticed that there are a few days when you feel joy and dance your heart out.  It is the moment when you feel that joy to the fullness of heart. The same implies when you call up the sentiment of gratitude in your heart and from every cell of your body. You feel the utmost joy.

  1. Share your Gratitude.

When you start practicing anything with your partner, you get a push to achieve your goal. Partner with somebody.  You will keep each other going. Sharing and reading each other’s gratitude list will bring positive energy to keep this practice.

  1. Try not to stop once you begin to get results!

At the point when you initially started to get results, you thought of taking a break and positive energy that surrounded you started lagging behind. Dragging yourself back to training won’t be an easy task.

  1. Let yourself be human.

Protest in the event that you should.  Its human tendency to underestimate your efforts. If by any chance you miss writing your gratitude list or failing to express what you really want to write, it is perfectly ok. Do not blame yourself. The moment you started listening to a little voice “You have missed a day. You’ve bombed hopelessly at being thankful!” So be kind to yourself. Tie your laces and keep running!

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smartData Enterprises has dedicated the next two months to show gratitude to people who are tirelessly helping the community, workplace, and country in this pandemic. We also thank all the frontline smarTians and non-smarTians who have worked tirelessly in these tough times. This gratitude drive will evoke a sense of thankfulness and satisfaction with life. In the next two months kindly express how thankful you are to all these individuals (smarTians – developers, operations team, colleagues, seniors etc. and even non-smarTians like your family, parents, milkman, grocery store, newspaper vendor, security guard, policemen, health workers, house help and anyone who has made even a slightest contribution in your life) through a thank you gesture in person through messages or social media handles. Remember what goes out comes back…

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No Left Turn

Life travels it’s own path and the story below depicts this wonderfully with lot of graceful lessons to be learnt – it’s up to us to learn from this wonderful story and follow – enjoy the story.

This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading, and a few good chuckles are guaranteed. Here goes…

My father never drove a car. Well, that’s not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

“In those days,” he told me when he was in his 90s, “to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.”

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
“Oh, bull shit!” she said. “He hit a horse.”

“Well,” my father said, “there was that, too.”

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars – the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford — but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we’d ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. “No one in the family drives,” my mother would explain, and that was that. But, sometimes, my father would say, “But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we’ll get one.” It was as if he wasn’t sure which one of us would turn 16 first.

But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.

It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn’t drive, it more or less became my brother’s car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn’t bother my father, but it didn’t make sense to my mother. So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father’s idea. “Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?” I remember him saying more than once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps — though they seldom left the city limits — and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn’t seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.

(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin’s Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish’s two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.

If it was the assistant pastor, he’d take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests “Father Fast” and “Father Slow.”

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he’d sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I’d stop by, he’d explain: “The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.”

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out — and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, “Do you want to know the secret of a long life?”

“I guess so,” I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

“No left turns,” he said.

“What?” I asked

“No left turns,” he repeated. “Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic..

As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn.”

“What?” I said again.

“No left turns,” he said. “Think about it.. Three rights are the same as a left, and that’s a lot safer. So we always make three rights.”

“You’re kidding!” I said, and I turned to my mother for support.

“No,” she said, “your father is right. We make three rights. It works.” But then she added: “Except when your father loses count.”

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.

“Loses count?” I asked.

“Yes,” my father admitted, “that sometimes happens. But it’s not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you’re okay again.”

I couldn’t resist. “Do you ever go for 11?” I asked.

“No,” he said ” If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can’t be put off another day or another week.”

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90. She lived four more years, until 2003.. My father died the next year, at 102.

They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom — the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily — he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he’d fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising — and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, “You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.”

At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, “You know, I’m probably not going to live much longer.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“Why would you say that?” He countered, somewhat irritated.

“Because you’re 102 years old,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “you’re right.” He stayed in bed all the next day.

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night. He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: “I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet.”

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: “I want you to know,” he said, clearly and lucidly, “that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have.”

A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I’ve wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long. I can’t figure out if it was because he walked through life, or because he quit taking left turns.

“Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you right. Forget about the ones who don’t. Believe everything happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it & if it changes your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.”


A story to reflect upon – I loved the closing
“Nobody said life is easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it”.