Podcasts about 'whose

At our evening meeting Andy Diggins continues our series in the book of James looking at James 4:13-17 with the title 'Whose will prevails?' The service is also available on the Oakhall Church YouTube channel.

Welcome to This Glorious Mess Big Kids. A twice-weekly look at parenting as it really is. Confusing, exhausting, inspiring, funny, and full of surprises. So many surprises. We're having a birthday this week... It's the 300th Episode of This Glorious Mess Big  Kids! And we thought let's get the whole gang together for a bit of a party, Leigh, Tegan, Holly and Andrew all in one room for the first time ever. Holly and Andrew impart some of the wisdom they've acquired over 300 episodes, give Leigh and Tegan some advice about schooling. Everything from what age to send them to the age-old private vs public debate. Plus, our hosts face off in a special game of 'Whose show is it anyway'...  SPECIAL THANKS Thanks to Leigh and Tegan for coming in on their day off to help us celebrate! You can listen to them on This Glorious Mess Little Kids every Monday!  LINKS You can listen back to the episode Holly mentions, Big Kids: Raising Girls Who Like Themselves now!  CREDITS Hosts:Holly Wainwright & Andrew Daddo Producer: Mikayla Floriano CONTACT US Send your parenting dilemmas to tgm@mamamia.com.au Looking for a community of like-minded parents? Join our Mamamia Parents Facebook Page... https://www.facebook.com/groups/1047713658714395/   Want a weekly parenting newsletter from Holly Wainwright?  Sign up here... https://www.mamamia.com.au/newsletter/ Looking for other podcasts to listen to?  You'll find all our Mamamia shows at https://mamamia.com.au/podcasts/ Mamamia acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Land we have recorded this podcast on, the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. We pay our respects to their Elders past and present and extend that respect to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

In this episode, Joseph and Jessica look at how we can lose our identity when we focus on the labels the world gives us or when we add labels to ourselves.  (02:06) Identity Crisis(03:30) Fitting into the Tribe(06:18) Family can Influence Our Identity(10:30) Work can Steal Our Identity(14:07) The Labels we Carry from Home Bleed into our Work(19:37) The World Creates an Identity for Us(24:08) Losing Your Identity in the Church(34:24) Spirited ReflectionsWhen faced with a struggle to understand our identity we need to ask ourselves, 'Who we Are?' and 'Whose we Are?'Thank you for listening.  Book RecommendationsMere Christianity - C. S. LewisIntro and Outro Music: Godfrey GomezCover Art: Maurice GomezFollow us on Instagram and Facebook @spiritedtalkspodcastWe have created a FREE guide of the tools we use to study the Bible. Download it now from our website spiritedtalks.com. 

'Whose great idea is to admit ignorance' Nina Simone, Roman Krznaric, Devo, Hannah Gadsby, Lloyd Cole, Double Dee & Steinski, Bobbie Gentry, Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs, René Aubry, Hilary Lawson, High Llamas, Mark Mothersbaugh, Yuval Noah Harai, The Waterboys, Kate Raworth, Angelo Francesco Lavagnino, Kraftwerk, Brian Eno, Peter Gunn, Malcolm Gladwell, Don Drummond

This week on the Hear Cincinnati podcast, I am joined by real-time editor Sarah Walsh and senior manager of broadcast Kennan Oliphant to discuss this week's guidelines and updates from Gov. DeWine, a chance to play football for those with cochlear implants, and vandalization of the Black Lives Matter mural in downtown Cincinnati. Later, near the the 23 minute mark, WCPO senior manager of broadcast Kennan Oliphant and news producer Sarah Sikora join to discuss WCPO's town hall special that featured educational leaders from several schools and discussed back-to-school procedures and plans for the fall semester amid the COVID-19 pandemic. Watch the town hall special at https://www.wcpo.com/news/local-news/wcpo-will-air-a-virtual-town-hall-on-back-to-school-procedures-in-the-tri-state. Notable Links: Gov. DeWine issues no new COVID-19 orders, implores all Ohioans wear masks to avoid shutdown DeWine takes Hamilton, Butler counties off 'watchlist,' upgrades threat level for others The sound of a dream: New technology helps deaf teen play football Black Lives Matter mural in front of Cincinnati City Hall vandalized with red paint City working on ideas to repair, protect Plum Street mural after vandalism 'Whose streets? Our streets': How disrupting Cincinnati traffic has steered George Floyd protests See omnystudio.com/policies/listener for privacy information.

"The Last Broadcast" with Red's special guests Pat O'Day and Bruce Allen, aired on CISL650/Vancouver on August 27, 2017. Here's another excerpt from Red Robinson: The Last Broadcast, out now at friesenpress.com, chaptersindigo.ca, amazon.com, amazon.ca, barnesandnoble.com, play.google.com and books.apple.com "Meanwhile, in the lounge, there is joking about the guest format of Robinson's final broadcast. Someone says to program director Stu Ferguson, 'Whose broadcast is this, anyway?' Ferguson takes the comment in stride. 'Red's in his element when he lets others with his experience do the talking.' Although the spotlight has shone on Robinson since his teenage years, he's part of a tightly knit community of fellow travellers and loves when the attention directed at him is disseminated to include them. At this point in the broadcast, younger people at CISL may well have wondered why so much attention was being paid to singers who are merely recognizable names in the 21st century, nostalgia value notwithstanding. But in a sense, what Robinson, O'Day, and Allen are conducting is a history class. The subject may be pop culture, but as with any subject it's impossible to fully appreciate today's trends without understanding what led to them. In the case of Elvis Presley, he fused the country-western music of the South with the rhythm and blues of African Americans to form rockabilly, which became one of the key sounds in rock and roll. Without him, musical entertainment today would be entirely different." In this episode, Pat and Red share their memories of Paul Revere and The Raiders; Bruce tells the story behind Elvis' "If I Can Dream".

What's in this episode? Welcome to the next episode of our #voctechpodcast series! This week’s episode throws back to our LIVE recording at Dare to Learn 2019 in Helsinki, Finland, recorded during the same week as HEL we can!, an event on Boosting Skills & Continuous Learning in Europe. With a panel of adult education and corporate training providers, teachers, and eco-system supporters we asked questions such as 'Whose responsibility is upskilling workers?', and 'Are learning economics fit for purpose in corporate learning?'. Listen in for more! Big thank you to Ufi Voctech Trust for supporting this series and vocational skills development in the UK, through their investments and grants in vocational technology. You can check out their work here. You can follow the series conversation using #voctechpodcast and #voctech Happy listening! People Sophie Bailey is the Founder and Presenter of The Edtech Podcast | Twitter: @podcastedtech Janne Hietala, Chief Visionary Officer, Valamis | Twitter: @janne_hietala Antti Korhonen, CEO, xEdu | Twitter: @anttikorhonen Reidar Wasenius, Executive Director, Soprano Plc | Twitter: @ReidarWasenius Jenni Huopainen, Pedagogic Teacher, Omnia | Twitter: @Omniasome Show Notes and References   Check out https://theedtechpodcast.com/edtechpodcast for the full show notes. Tell us your story We'd love to hear your thoughts. Record a quick free voicemail via speakpipe for inclusion in the next episode. Or you can post your thoughts or follow-on links via twitter @podcastedtech or via The Edtech Podcast Facebook page or Instagram.

Jesus has been sharing with the people the standards of His Kingdom. The standards of His Kingdom are different than those of this world. They are higher standards and as we began to consider last week, they are definitive standards. There is no middle ground, you are either serving God or this world. Whose side you are on can generally be determined by honestly asking yourself two questions: 'Whose applause are you seeking?' and 'Who treasure are you seeking?' Today's message considers the second question. This message was presented on Sunday, September 30, 2018 by Bob Corbin.

Jesus' message was the same as the message of His forerunner, John the Baptist. That message was: 'Repent (metanoia-change the way you think) because the Kingdom of the Heavens has drawn near.' In the passage, classically referred to as 'The Sermon on the Mount,' Jesus teaches the people what Kingdom Thinking looks like. Not only are the standards of the Kingdom different and higher than those of the world, they are also definitive. The standards you follow define who you follow. Whose side you are on can generally be determined by honestly asking yourself two questions: 'Whose applause are you seeking?' and 'Who treasure are you seeking?' Today's message considers the first of those question. This message was presented on Sunday, September 23, 2018 by Bob Corbin.

Weeeeellllcommmme to Meeeeeereeee Rhetoooooric! It’s our annual Halloween episode, which means a little bit of the people, ideas and movements who have shaped rhetorical history, but mostly a ghost story. This year, we’re going with our first not-MR-James story. Don’t worry--there are still intials--but first--to business.   If you’re going to talk about ghost stories and influential thinkers, you won’t dig long until you come across Freud’s contribution, a little piece called “The Uncanny.” You might not peg Sigmund Freud as a connoisseur of boogeymen, but he was capital-f freaked capital-o out by ETA Hoffmann’s story “The Sandman.” If Hoffmann’s name sounds familiar, it’s probably because you know him from writing the story of the Nutcracker ballet. Look at that--our annual tradition here at Mere Rhetoric just founds 3-degrees of separation to every ballet company’s annual tradition! Anyway, the Sandman is a freaky sci-fi horror tale that eventually inspired another ballet called Coppelia. The original is even more terrifying. Don’t worry--it’s coming up after we talk about Freud. Right now all you need to know is that the line between reality and madness is thin, thin and shaky.   Freud was, as you might expect, very into that. He draws heavily on a German pun--evidentally heimlich means both homey or familiar and secret or hidden. In terms of the uncanny, things are most terrifying when we think we’re playing in the realm of our daylight reality and then suddenly the rules change. No one, for example, is horrified when Snow White RISES FROM THE DEAD, because we already are accepting that we’re in a fairy tale with, like, singing animals who do housework. As Freud says, ““as soon as it is given an arbitrary and unrealistic setting in fiction it is apt to lose its quality of the uncanny” (19). And what are these eerie occurances? Because Freud is a master classifier, they can be split across “either when repressed infantile complexes have been revived by some impression, or when the primitive beliefs we have surmounted seem once more to be confirmed (17)--so he believes either the terrors of childhood or of primitive man resurface in our horror stories. The parts of us that we repress resurface as ghosts and witches and we confront them in physical manifestations separate from us. For example, the supernatural power of, like, a giant or a firestarter, relates to our own narcissistic impulses to dominate others. Freud goes through and gives a catalogue of things that are uncanny:   dismembering the double living dolls repetition (like seeing the same number all day) evil eye ghosts witchcraft madness As you listen to this year’s Halloween episode, The Sandman, you can point out where these pop up--see if you can get Uncanny Bingo!   NATHANEL TO LOTHAIRE Certainly you must all be uneasy that I have not written for so long - so very long. My mother, am sure, is angry, and Clara will believe that I am passing my time in dissipation, entirely forgetful of her fair, angelic image that is so deeply imprinted on my heart. Such, however, is not the case. Daily and hourly I think of you all; and the dear form of my lovely Clara passes before me in my dreams, smiling upon me with her bright eyes as she did when I was among you. But how can I write to you in the distracted mood which has been disturbing my every thought! A horrible thing has crossed my path. Dark forebodings of a cruel, threatening fate tower over me like dark clouds, which no friendly sunbeam can penetrate. I will now tell you what has occurred. I must do so - that I plainly see - the mere thought of it sets me laughing like a madman. Ah, my dear Lothaire, how shall I begin ? How shall I make you in any way realize that what happened to me a few days ago can really have had such a fatal effect on my life? If you were here you could see for yourself; but, as it is, you will certainly take me for a crazy fellow who sees ghosts. To be brief, this horrible occurrence, the painful impression of which I am in vain endeavoring to throw off, is nothing more than this - that some days ago, namely on the 30th of October at twelve o'clock noon, a barometer-dealer came into my room and offered me his wares. I bought nothing, and threatened to throw him downstairs, upon which he took himself off of his own accord. Only circumstances of the most peculiar kind, you will suspect, and exerting the greatest influence over my life, can have given any import to this occurrence. Moreover, the person of that unlucky dealer must have had an evil effect upon me. So it was, indeed. I must use every endeavor to collect myself, and patiently and quietly tell you so much of my early youth as will bring the picture plainly and clearly before your eyes. As I am about to begin, I fancy that I hear you laughing, and Clara exclaiming, 'Childish stories indeed!' Laugh at me, I beg of you, laugh with all your heart. But, oh God! my hair stands on end, and it is in mad despair that I seem to be inviting your laughter, as Franz Moor did Daniel's in Schiller's play. But to my story. Excepting at dinner-time I and my brothers and sisters used to see my father very little during the day. He was, perhaps, busily engaged at his ordinary profession. After supper, which was served according to the old custom at seven o'clock, we all went with my mother into my father's study, and seated ourselves at the round table, where he would smoke and drink his large glass of beer. Often he told us wonderful stories, and grew so warm over them that his pipe continually went out. Whereupon I had to light it again with a burning spill, which I thought great sport. Often, too, he would give us picture-books, and sit in his arm-chair, silent and thoughtful, puffing out such thick clouds of smoke that we all seemed to be swimming in the clouds. On such evenings as these my mother was very melancholy, and immediately the clock struck nine she would say: 'Now, children, to bed - to bed! The Sandman's coming, I can see.' And indeed on each occasion I used to hear something with a heavy, slow step come thudding up the stairs. That I thought must be the Sandman. Once when the dull noise of footsteps was particularly terrifying I asked my mother as she bore us away: 'Mamma, who is this naughty Sandman, who always drives us away from Papa? What does he look like?' 'There is no Sandman, dear child,' replied my mother. 'When I say the Sandman's coming, I only mean that you're sleepy and can't keep your eyes open - just as if sane had been sprinkled into them.' This answer of my mother's did not satisfy me - nay, the thought soon ripened in my childish mind the she only denied the Sandman's existence to prevent our being terrified of him. Certainly I always heard him coming up the stairs. Most curious to know more of this Sandman and his particular connection with children, I at last asked the old woman who looked after my youngest sister what sort of man he was. 'Eh, Natty,' said she, 'don't you know that yet? He is a wicked man, who comes to children when they won't go to bed, and throws a handful of sand into their eyes, so that they start out bleeding from their heads. He puts their eyes in a bag and carries them to the crescent moon to feed his own children, who sit in the nest up there. They have crooked beaks like owls so that they can pick up the eyes of naughty human children.' A most frightful picture of the cruel Sandman became impressed upon my mind; so that when in the evening I heard the noise on the stairs I trembled with agony and alarm, and my mother could get nothing out of me but the cry, 'The Sandman, the Sandman!' stuttered forth through my tears. I then ran into the bedroom, where the frightful apparition of the Sandman terrified me during the whole night. I had already grown old enough to realize that the nurse's tale about him and the nest of children in the crescent moon could not be quite true, but nevertheless this Sandman remained a fearful spectre, and I was seized with the utmost horror when I heard him once, not only come up the stairs, but violently force my father's door open and go in. Sometimes he stayed away for a long period, but after that his visits came in close succession. This lasted for years, but I could not accustom myself to the terrible goblin; the image of the dreadful Sandman did not become any fainter. His intercourse with my father began more and more to occupy my fancy. Yet an unconquerable fear prevented me from asking my father about it. But if I, I myself, could penetrate the mystery and behold the wondrous Sandman - that was the wish which grew upon me with the years. The Sandman had introduced me to thoughts of the marvels and wonders which so readily gain a hold on a child's mind. I enjoyed nothing better than reading or hearing horrible stories of goblins, witches, pigmies, etc.; but most horrible of all was the Sandman, whom I was always drawing with chalk or charcoal on the tables, cupboards and walls, in the oddest and most frightful shapes. When I was ten years old my mother removed me from the night nursery into a little chamber situated in a corridor near my father's room. Still, as before, we were obliged to make a speedy departure on the stroke of nine, as soon as the unknown step sounded on the stair. From my little chamber I could hear how he entered my father's room, and then it was that I seemed to detect a thin vapor with a singular odor spreading through the house. Stronger and stronger, with my curiosity, grew my resolution somehow to make the Sandman's acquaintance. Often I sneaked from my room to the corridor when my mother had passed, but never could I discover anything; for the Sandman had always gone in at the door when I reached the place where I might have seen him. At last, driven by an irresistible impulse, I resolved to hide myself in my father's room and await his appearance there. From my father's silence and my mother's melancholy face I perceived one evening that the Sandman was coming. I, therefore, feigned great weariness, left the room before nine o'clock, and hid myself in a corner close to the door. The house-door groaned and the heavy, slow, creaking step came up the passage and towards the stairs. My mother passed me with the rest of the children. Softly, very softly, I opened the door of my father's room. He was sitting, as usual, stiff end silent, with his back to the door. He did not perceive me, and I swiftly darted into the room and behind the curtain which covered an open cupboard close to the door, in which my father's clothes were hanging. The steps sounded nearer and nearer - there was a strange coughing and scraping and murmuring without. My heart trembled with anxious expectation. A sharp step close, very close, to the door - the quick snap of the latch, and the door opened with a rattling noise. Screwing up my courage to the uttermost, I cautiously peeped out. The Sandman was standing before my father in the middle of the room, the light of the candles shone full upon his face. The Sandman, the fearful Sandman, was the old advocate Coppelius, who had often dined with us. But the most hideous form could not have inspired me with deeper horror than this very Coppelius. Imagine a large broad-shouldered man, with a head disproportionately big, a face the color of yellow ochre, a pair of bushy grey eyebrows, from beneath which a pair of green cat's eyes sparkled with the most penetrating luster, and with a large nose curved over his upper lip. His wry mouth was often twisted into a malicious laugh, when a couple of dark red spots appeared upon his cheeks, and a strange hissing sound was heard through his gritted teeth. Coppelius always appeared in an ashen-gray coat, cut in old fashioned style, with waistcoat and breeches of the same color, while his stockings were black, and his shoes adorned with agate buckles. His little peruke scarcely reached farther than the crown of his head, his curls stood high above his large red ears, and a broad hair-bag projected stiffly from his neck, so that the silver clasp which fastened his folded cravat might be plainly seen. His whole figure was hideous and repulsive, but most disgusting to us children were his coarse brown hairy fists. Indeed we did not like to eat anything he had touched with them. This he had noticed, and it was his delight, under some pretext or other, to touch a piece of cake or some nice fruit, that our kind mother might quietly have put on our plates, just for the pleasure of seeing us turn away with tears in our eyes, in disgust and abhorrence, no longer able to enjoy the treat intended for us. He acted in the same manner on holidays, when my father gave us a little glass of sweet wine. Then would he swiftly put his hand over it, or perhaps even raise the glass to his blue lips, laughing most devilishly, and we could only express our indignation by silent sobs. He always called us the little beasts; we dared not utter a sound when he was present, end we heartily cursed the ugly, unkind man who deliberately marred our slightest pleasures. My mother seemed to hate the repulsive Coppelius as much as we did, since as soon as he showed himself her liveliness, her open and cheerful nature, were changed for a gloomy solemnity. My father behaved towards him as though he were a superior being, whose bad manners were to be tolerated and who was to be kept in good humor at any cost. He need only give the slightest hint, and favorite dishes were cooked, the choicest wines served. When I now saw this Coppelius, the frightful and terrific thought took possession of my soul, that indeed no one but he could be the Sandman. But the Sandman was no longer the bogy of a nurse's tale, who provided the owl's nest in the crescent moon with children's eyes. No, he was a hideous, spectral monster, who brought with him grief, misery and destruction - temporal and eternal - wherever he appeared. I was riveted to the spot, as if enchanted. At the risk of being discovered and, as I plainly foresaw, of being severely punished, I remained with my head peeping through the curtain. My father received Coppelius with solemnity. 'Now to our work!' cried the latter in a harsh, grating voice, as he flung off his coat. My father silently and gloomily drew off his dressing gown, and both attired themselves in long black frocks. Whence they took these I did not see. My father opened the door of what I had always thought to be a cupboard. But I now saw that it was no cupboard, but rather a black cavity in which there was a little fireplace. Coppelius went to it, and a blue flame began to crackle up on the hearth. All sorts of strange utensils lay around. Heavens! As my old father stooped down to the fire, he looked quite another man. Some convulsive pain seemed to have distorted his mild features into a repulsive, diabolical countenance. He looked like Coppelius, whom I saw brandishing red-hot tongs, which he used to take glowing masses out of the thick smoke; which objects he afterwards hammered. I seemed to catch a glimpse of human faces lying around without any eyes - but with deep holes instead. 'Eyes here' eyes!' roared Coppelius tonelessly. Overcome by the wildest terror, I shrieked out and fell from my hiding place upon the floor. Coppelius seized me and, baring his teeth, bleated out, 'Ah - little wretch - little wretch!' Then he dragged me up and flung me on the hearth, where the fire began to singe my hair. 'Now we have eyes enough - a pretty pair of child's eyes,' he whispered, and, taking some red-hot grains out of the flames with his bare hands, he was about to sprinkle them in my eyes. My father upon this raised his hands in supplication, crying: 'Master, master, leave my Nathaniel his eyes!' Whereupon Coppelius answered with a shrill laugh: 'Well, let the lad have his eyes and do his share of the world's crying, but we will examine the mechanism of his hands and feet.' And then he seized me so roughly that my joints cracked, and screwed off my hands and feet, afterwards putting them back again, one after the other. 'There's something wrong here,' he mumbled. 'But now it's as good as ever. The old man has caught the idea!' hissed and lisped Coppelius. But all around me became black, a sudden cramp darted through my bones and nerves - and I lost consciousness. A gentle warm breath passed over my face; I woke as from the sleep of death. My mother had been stooping over me. 'Is the Sandman still there?' I stammered. 'No, no, my dear child, he has gone away long ago - he won't hurt you!' said my mother, kissing her darling, as he regained his senses. Why should I weary you, my dear Lothaire, with diffuse details, when I have so much more to tell ? Suffice it to say that I had been discovered eavesdropping and ill-used by Coppelius. Agony and terror had brought on delirium and fever, from which I lay sick for several weeks. 'Is the Sandman still there?' That was my first sensible word and the sign of my amendment - my recovery. I have only to tell you now of this most frightful moment in all my youth, and you will be convinced that it is no fault of my eyes that everything seems colorless to me. You will, indeed, know that a dark fatality has hung over my life a gloomy veil of clouds, which I shall perhaps only tear away in death. Coppelius was no more to be seen; it was said he had left the town. About a year might have elapsed, and we were sitting, as of old, at the round table. My father was very cheerful, and was entertaining us with stories about his travels in his youth; when, as the clock struck nine, we heard the house-door groan on its hinges, and slow steps, heavy as lead, creaked through the passage and up the stairs. 'That is Coppelius,' said my mother, turning pale. 'Yes! - that is Coppelius'' repeated my father in a faint, broken voice. The tears started to my mother's eyes. 'But father - father!' she cried, 'must it be so?' 'He is coming for the last time, I promise you,' was the answer. 'Only go now, go with the children - go - go to bed. Good night!' I felt as if I were turned to cold, heavy stone - my breath stopped. My mother caught me by the arm as I stood immovable. 'Come, come, Nathaniel!' I allowed myself to be led, and entered my chamber! 'Be quiet - be quiet - go to bed - go to sleep!' cried my mother after me; but tormented by restlessness and an inward anguish perfectly indescribable, I could not close my eyes. The hateful, abominable Coppelius stood before me with fiery eyes, and laughed maliciously at me. It was in vain that I endeavored to get rid of his image. About midnight there was a frightful noise, like the firing of a gun. The whole house resounded. There was a rattling and rustling by my door, and the house door was closed with a violent bang. 'That is Coppelius !' I cried, springing out of bed in terror. Then there was a shriek, as of acute, inconsolable grief. I darted into my father's room; the door was open, a suffocating smoke rolled towards me, and the servant girl cried: 'Ah, my master, my master!' On the floor of the smoking hearth lay my father dead, with his face burned, blackened and hideously distorted - my sisters were shrieking and moaning around him - and my mother had fainted. 'Coppelius! - cursed devil! You have slain my father!' I cried, and lost my senses. When, two days afterwards, my father was laid in his coffin, his features were again as mild and gentle as they had been in his life. My soul was comforted by the thought that his compact with the satanic Coppelius could not have plunged him into eternal perdition. The explosion had awakened the neighbors, the occurrence had become common talk, and had reached the ears of the magistracy, who wished to make Coppelius answerable. He had, however, vanished from the spot, without leaving a trace. If I tell you, my dear friend, that the barometer-dealer was the accursed Coppelius himself, you will not blame me for regarding so unpropitious a phenomenon as the omen of some dire calamity. He was dressed differently, but the figure and features of Coppelius are too deeply imprinted in my mind for an error in this respect to be possible. Besides, Coppelius has not even altered his name. He describes himself, I am told, as a Piedmontese optician, and calls himself Giuseppe Coppola. I am determined to deal with him, and to avenge my father's death, be the issue what it may. Tell my mother nothing of the hideous monster's appearance. Remember me to my dear sweet Clara, to whom I will write in a calmer mood. Farewell. CLARA TO NATHANIEL It is true that you have not written to me for a long time; but, nevertheless, I believe that I am still in your mind and thoughts. For assuredly you were thinking of me most intently when, designing to send your last letter to my brother Lothaire, you directed it to me instead of to him. I joyfully opened the letter, and did not perceive my error till I came to the words: 'Ah, my dear Lothaire.' NO, by rights I should have read no farther, but should have handed over the letter to my brother. Although you have often, in your childish teasing mood, charged me with having such a quiet, womanish, steady disposition, that, even if the house were about to fall in, I should smooth down a wrong fold in the window curtain in a most ladylike manner before I ran away, I can hardly tell you how your letter shocked me. I could scarcely breathe-----the light danced before my eyes. Ah, my dear Nathaniel, how could such a horrible thing have crossed your path ? To be parted from you, never to see you again - the thought darted through my breast like a burning dagger. I read on and on. Your description of the repulsive Coppelius is terrifying. I learned for the first time the violent manner of your good old father's death. My brother Lothaire, to whom I surrendered the letter, sought to calm me, but in vain. The fatal barometer dealer, Giuseppe Coppola, followed me at every step; and I am almost ashamed to confess that he disturbed my healthy and usually peaceful sleep with all sorts of horrible visions. Yet soon even the next day - I was quite changed again. Do not be offended, dearest one, if Lothaire tells you that in spite of your strange fears that Coppelius will in some manner injure you, I am in the same cheerful and unworried mood as ever. I must honestly confess that, in my opinion, all the terrible things of which you speak occurred merely in your own mind, and had little to do with the actual external world. Old Coppelius may have been repulsive enough, but his hatred of children was what really caused the abhorrence you children felt towards him. In your childish mind the frightful Sandman in the nurse's tale was naturally associated with old Coppelius. Why, even if you had not believed in the Sandman, Coppelius would still have seemed to you a monster, especially dangerous to children. The awful business which he carried on at night with your father was no more than this: that they were making alchemical experiments in secret, which much distressed your mother since, besides a great deal of money being wasted, your father's mind was filled with a fallacious desire after higher wisdom, and so alienated from his family - as they say is always the case with such experimentalists. Your father, no doubt, occasioned his own death, by some act of carelessness of which Coppelius was completely guiltless. Let me tell you that I yesterday asked our neighbor, the apothecary, whether such a sudden and fatal explosion was possible in these chemical experiments? 'Certainly,' he replied and, after his fashion, told me at great length and very circumstantially how such an event might take place, uttering a number of strange-sounding names which I am unable to recollect. Now, I know you will be angry with your Clara; you will say that her cold nature is impervious to any ray of the mysterious, which often embraces man with invisible arms; that she only sees the variegated surface of the world, and is as delighted as a silly child at some glittering golden fruit, which contains within it a deadly poison. Ah ! my dear Nathaniel! Can you not then believe that even in open, cheerful, careless minds may dwell the suspicion of some dread power which endeavors to destroy us in our own selves ? Forgive me, if I, a silly girl, presume in any manner to present to you my thoughts on such an internal struggle. I shall not find the right words, of course, and you will laugh at me, not because my thoughts are foolish, but because I express them so clumsily. If there is a dark and hostile power, laying its treacherous toils within us, by which it holds us fast and draws us along the path of peril and destruction, which we should not otherwise have trod; if, I say there is such a power, it must form itself inside us and out of ourselves, indeed; it must become identical with ourselves. For it is only in this condition that we can believe in it, and grant it the room which it requires to accomplish its secret work. Now, if we have a mind which is sufficiently firm, sufficiently strengthened by the joy of life, always to recognize this strange enemy as such, and calmly to follow the path of our own inclination and calling, then the dark power will fail in its attempt to gain a form that shall be a reflection of ourselves. Lothaire adds that if we have willingly yielded ourselves up to the dark powers, they are known often to impress upon our minds any strange, unfamiliar shape which the external world has thrown in our way; so that we ourselves kindle the spirit, which we in our strange delusion believe to be speaking to us. It is the phantom of our own selves, the close relationship with which, and its deep operation on our mind, casts us into hell or transports us into heaven. You see, dear Nathaniel, how freely Lothaire and I are giving our opinion on the subject of the dark powers; which subject, to judge by my difficulties in writing down. its most important features, appears to be a complicated one. Lothaire's last words I do not quite comprehend. I can only suspect what he means, and yet I feel as if it were all very true. Get the gruesome advocate Coppelius, and the barometer-dealer, Giuseppe Coppola, quite out of your head, I beg of you. Be convinced that these strange fears have no power over you, and that it is only a belief in their hostile influence that can make them hostile in reality. If the great disturbance in your mind did not speak from every line of your letter, if your situation did not give me the deepest pain, I could joke about the Sandman-Advocate and the barometer dealer Coppelius. Cheer up, I have determined to play the part of your guardian-spirit. If the ugly Coppelius takes it into his head to annoy you in your dreams, I'll scare him away with loud peals of laughter. I am not a bit afraid of him nor of his disgusting hands; he shall neither spoil my sweetmeats as an Advocate, nor my eyes as a Sandman. Ever yours, my dear Nathaniel. NATHANIEL TO LOTHAIRE I am very sorry that in consequence of the error occasioned by my distracted state of mind, Clara broke open the letter intended for you, and read it. She has written me a very profound philosophical epistle, in which she proves, at great length, that Coppelius and Coppola only exist in my own mind, and are phantoms of myself, which will be dissipated directly I recognize them as such. Indeed, it is quite incredible that the mind which so often peers out of those bright, smiling, childish eyes with all the charm of a dream, could make such intelligent professorial definitions. She cites you - you, it seems have been talking about me. I suppose you read her logical lectures, so that she may learn to separate and sift all matters acutely. No more of that, please. Besides, it is quite certain that the barometer-dealer, Giuseppe Coppola, is not the advocate Coppelius. I attend the lectures of the professor of physics, who has lately arrived. His name is the same as that of the famous natural philosopher Spalanzani, and he is of Italian origin. He has known Coppola for years and, moreover, it is clear from his accent that he is really a Piedmontese. Coppelius was a German, but I think no honest one. Calmed I am not, and though you and Clara may consider me a gloomy visionary, I cannot get rid of the impression which the accursed face of Coppelius makes upon me. I am glad that Coppola has left the town - so Spalanzani says. This professor is a strange fellow - a little round man with high cheek-bones, a sharp nose, pouting lips and little, piercing eyes. Yet you will get a better notion of him than from this description, if you look at the portrait of Cagliostro, drawn by Chodowiecki in one of the Berlin annuals; Spalanzani looks like that exactly. I lately went up his stairs, and perceived that the curtain, which was generally drawn completely over a glass door, left a little opening on one side. I know not what curiosity impelled me to look through. A very tall and slender lady, extremely well-proportioned and most splendidly attired, sat in the room by a little table on which she had laid her arms, her hands being folded together. She sat opposite the door, so that I could see the whole of her angelic countenance. She did not appear to see me, and indeed there was something fixed about her eyes as if, I might almost say, she had no power of sight. It seemed to me that she was sleeping with her eyes open. I felt very uncomfortable, and therefore I slunk away into the lecture-room close at hand. Afterwards I learned that the form I had seen was that of Spalanzani's daughter Olympia, whom he keeps confined in a very strange and barbarous manner, so that no one can approach her. After all, there may be something the matter with her; she is half-witted perhaps, or something of the kind. But why should I write you all this? I could have conveyed it better and more circumstantially by word of mouth. For I shall see you in a fortnight. I must again behold my dear, sweet angelic Clara. My evil mood will then be dispersed, though I must confess that it has been struggling for mastery over me ever since her sensible but vexing letter. Therefore I do not write to her today. A thousand greetings, etc.   Nothing more strange and chimerical can be imagined than the fate of my poor friend, the young student Nathaniel, which I, gracious reader, have undertaken to tell you. Have you ever known something that has completely filled your heart, thoughts and senses, to the exclusion of every other object? There was a burning fermentation within you; your blood seethed like a molten glow through your veins, sending a higher color to your cheeks. Your glance was strange, as if you were seeking in empty space forms invisible to all other eyes, and your speech flowed away into dark sighs. Then your friends asked you: 'What is it, my dear sir?' 'What is the matter?' And you wanted to draw the picture in your mind in all its glowing tints, in all its light and shade, and labored hard to find words only to begin. You thought that you should crowd together in the very first sentence all those wonderful, exalted, horrible, comical, frightful events, so as to strike every hearer at once as with an electric shock. But every word, every thing that takes the form of speech, appeared to you colorless, cold and dead. You hunt and hunt, and stutter and stammer, and your friends' sober questions blow like icy wind upon your internal fire until it is almost out. Whereas if, like a bold painter, you had first drawn an outline of the internal picture with a few daring strokes, you might with small trouble have laid on the colors brighter and brighter, and the living throng of varied shapes would have borne your friends away with it. Then they would have seen themselves, like you, in the picture that your mind had bodied forth. Now I must confess to you, kind reader, that no one has really asked me for the history of the young Nathaniel, but you know well enough that I belong to the queer race of authors who, if they have anything in their minds such as I have just described, feel as if everyone who comes near them, and the whole world besides, is insistently demanding: 'What is it then - tell it, my dear friend?' Thus was I forcibly compelled to tell you of the momentous life of Nathaniel. The marvelous singularity of the story filled my entire soul, but for that very reason and because, my dear reader, I had to make you equally inclined to accept the uncanny, which is no small matter, I was puzzled how to begin Nathaniel's story in a manner as inspiring, original and striking as possible. 'Once upon a time,' the beautiful beginning of every tale, was too tame. 'In the little provincial town of S____ lived' - was somewhat better, as it at least prepared for the climax. Or should I dart at once, medias in res, with "'Go to the devil," cried the student Nathaniel with rage and horror in his wild looks, when the barometer-dealer, Giuseppe Coppola . . .?' - I had indeed already written this down, when I fancied that I could detect something ludicrous in the wild looks of the student Nathaniel, whereas the story is not comical at all. No form of language suggested itself to my mind which seemed to reflect ever in the slightest degree the coloring of the internal picture. I resolved that I would not begin it at all. So take, gentle reader, the three letters. which friend Lothaire was good enough to give me, as the sketch of the picture which I shall endeavor to color more and more brightly as I proceed with my narrative. Perhaps, like a good portrait-painter, I may succeed in catching the outline in this way, so that you will realize it is a likeness even without knowing the original, and feel as if you had often seen the person with your own corporeal eyes. Perhaps, dear reader, you will then believe that nothing is stranger and madder than actual life; which the poet can only catch in the form of a dull reflection in a dimly polished mirror. To give you all the information that you will require for a start, we must supplement these letters with the news that shortly after the death of Nathaniel's father, Clara and Lothaire, the children of a distant relative, who had likewise died and left them orphans, were taken by Nathaniel's mother into her own home. Clara and Nathaniel formed a strong attachment for each other; and no one in the world having any objection to make, they were betrothed when Nathaniel left the place to pursue his studies in G___ . And there he is, according to his last letter, attending the lectures of the celebrated professor of physics, Spalanzani. Now, I could proceed in my story with confidence, but at this moment Clara's picture stands so plainly before me that I cannot turn away; as indeed was always the case when she gazed at me with one of her lovely smiles. Clara could not by any means be reckoned beautiful, that was the opinion of all who are by their calling competent judges of beauty. Architects, nevertheless, praised the exact symmetry of her frame, and painters considered her neck, shoulders and bosom almost too chastely formed; but then they all fell in love with her wondrous hair and coloring, comparing her to the Magdalen in Battoni's picture at Dresden. One of them, a most fantastical and singular fellow, compared Clara's eyes to a lake by Ruysdael, in which the pure azure of a cloudless sky, the wood and flowery field, the whole cheerful life of the rich landscape are reflected. Poets and composers went still further. 'What is a lake what is a mirror!' said they. 'Can we look upon the girl without wondrous, heavenly music flowing towards us from her glances, to penetrate our inmost soul so that all there is awakened and stirred? If we don't sing well then, there is not much in us, as we shall learn from the delicate smile which plays on Clara's lips, when we presume to pipe up before her with something intended to pass for a song, although it is only a confused jumble of notes.' So it was. Clara had the vivid fancy of a cheerful, unembarrassed child; a deep, tender, feminine disposition; an acute, clever understanding. Misty dreamers had not a chance with her; since, though she did not talk - talking would have been altogether repugnant to her silent nature - her bright glance and her firm ironical smile would say to them: 'Good friends, how can you imagine that I shall take your fleeting shadowy images for real shapes imbued with life and motion ?' On this account Clara was censured by many as cold, unfeeling and prosaic; while others, who understood life to its clear depths, greatly loved the feeling, acute, childlike girl; but none so much as Nathaniel, whose perception in art and science was clear and strong. Clara was attached to her lover with all her heart, and when he parted from her the first cloud passed over her life. With what delight, therefore, did she rush into his arms when, as he had promised in his last letter to Lothaire, he actually returned to his native town and entered his mother's room! Nathaniel's expectations were completely fulfilled; for directly he saw Clara he thought neither of the Advocate Coppelius nor of her 'sensible' letter. All gloomy forebodings had gone. However, Nathaniel was quite right, when he wrote to his friend Lothaire that the form of the repulsive barometer-dealer, Coppola, had had a most evil effect on his life. All felt, even in the first days, that Nathaniel had undergone a complete change in his whole being. He sank into a gloomy reverie, and behaved in a strange manner that had never been known in him before. Everything, his whole life, had become to him a dream and a foreboding, and he was always saying that man, although he might think himself free, only served for the cruel sport of dark powers These he said it was vain to resist; man must patiently resign himself to his fate. He even went so far as to say that it is foolish to think that we do anything in art and science according to our own independent will; for the inspiration which alone enables us to produce anything does not proceed from within ourselves, but is the effect of a higher principle without. To the clear-headed Clara this mysticism was in the highest degree repugnant, but contradiction appeared to be useless. Only when Nathaniel proved that Coppelius was the evil principle, which had seized him at the moment when he was listening behind the curtain, and that this repugnant principle would in some horrible manner disturb the happiness of their life, Clara grew very serious, and said: 'Yes, Nathaniel, you are right. Coppelius is an evil, hostile principle; he can produce terrible effects, like a diabolical power that has come visibly into life; but only if you will not banish him from your mind and thoughts. So long as you believe in him, he really exists and exerts his influence; his power lies only in your belief.' Quite indignant that Clara did not admit the demon's existence outside his own mind, Nathaniel would then come out with all the mystical doctrine of devils and powers of evil. But Clara would break off peevishly by introducing some indifferent matter, to the no small annoyance of Nathaniel. He thought that such deep secrets were closed to cold, unreceptive minds, without being clearly aware that he was counting Clara among these subordinate natures; and therefore he constantly endeavored to initiate her into the mysteries. In the morning, when Clara was getting breakfast ready, he stood by her, reading out of all sorts of mystical books till she cried: 'But dear Nathaniel, suppose I blame you as the evil principle that has a hostile effect upon my coffee? For if, to please you, I drop everything and look in your eyes while you read, my coffee will overflow into the fire, and none of you will get any breakfast.' Nathaniel closed the book at once and hurried indignantly to his chamber. Once he had a remarkable forte for graceful, lively tales, which he wrote down, and to which Clara listened with the greatest delight; now his creations were gloomy, incomprehensible and formless, so that although, out of compassion, Clara did not say so, he plainly felt how little she was interested. Nothing was more unbearable to Clara than tediousness; her looks and words expressed mental drowsiness which she could not overcome. Nathaniel's productions were, indeed, very tedious. His indignation at Clara's cold, prosaic disposition constantly increased; and Clara could not overcome her dislike of Nathaniel's dark, gloomy, boring mysticism, so that they became mentally more and more estranged without either of them perceiving it. The shape of the ugly Coppelius, as Nathaniel himself was forced to confess, was growing dimmer in his fancy, and it often cost him some pains to draw him with sufficient color in his stories, where he figured as the dread bogy of ill omen. It occurred to him, however, in the end to make his gloomy foreboding, that Coppelius would destroy his happiness, the subject of a poem. He represented himself and Clara as united by true love, but occasionally threatened by a black hand, which appeared to dart into their lives, to snatch away some new joy just as it was born. Finally, as they were standing at the altar, the hideous Coppelius appeared and touched Clara's lovely eyes. They flashed into Nathaniel's heart, like bleeding sparks, scorching and burning, as Coppelius caught him, and flung him into a flaming, fiery circle, which flew round with the swiftness of a storm, carrying him along with it, amid its roaring. The roar is like that of the hurricane, when it fiercely lashes the foaming waves, which rise up, like black giants with white heads, for the furious combat. But through the wild tumult he hears Clara's voice: 'Can't you see me then? Coppelius has deceived you. Those, indeed, were not my eyes which so burned in your breast - they were glowing drops of your own heart's blood. I have my eyes still - only look at them!' Nathaniel reflects: 'That is Clara, and I am hers for ever!' Then it seems to him as though this thought has forcibly entered the fiery circle, which stands still, while the noise dully ceases in the dark abyss. Nathaniel looks into Clara's eyes, but it is death that looks kindly upon him from her eyes While Nathaniel composed this poem, he was very calm and collected; he polished and improved every line, and having subjected himself to the fetters of metre, he did not rest till all was correct and melodious. When at last he had finished and read the poem aloud to himself, a wild horror seized him. 'Whose horrible voice is that?' he cried out. Soon, however, the whole appeared to him a very successful work, and he felt that it must rouse Clara's cold temperament, although he did not clearly consider why Clara was to be excited, nor what purpose it would serve to torment her with frightful pictures threatening a horrible fate, destructive to their love. Both of them - that is to say, Nathaniel and Clara - were sitting in his mother's little garden, Clara very cheerful, because Nathaniel had not teased her with his dreams and his forebodings during the three days in which he had been writing his poem. He was even talking cheerfully, as in the old days, about pleasant matters, which caused Clara to remark: 'Now for the first time I have you again! Don't you see that we have driven the ugly Coppelius away?' Not till then did it strike Nathaniel that he had in his pocket the poem, which he had intended to read. He at once drew the sheets out and began, while Clara, expecting something tedious as usual, resigned herself and began quietly to knit. But as the dark cloud rose ever blacker and blacker, she let the stocking fall and looked him full in the face. He was carried irresistibly along by his poem, an internal fire deeply reddened his cheeks, tears flowed from his eyes. At last, when he had concluded, he groaned in a state of utter exhaustion and, catching Clara's hand, sighed forth, as if melted into the most inconsolable grief: 'Oh Clara! - Clara!' Clara pressed him gently to her bosom, and said softly, but very solemnly and sincerely: 'Nathaniel, dearest Nathaniel, do throw that mad, senseless, insane stuff into the fire!' Upon this Nathaniel sprang up enraged and, thrusting Clara from him, cried: 'Oh, inanimate, accursed automaton!' With which he ran off; Clara, deeply offended, shed bitter tears, and sobbed aloud: 'Ah, he has never loved me, for he does not understand me.' Lothaire entered the arbor; Clara was obliged to tell him all that had occurred. He loved his sister with all his soul, and every word of her complaint fell like a spark of fire into his heart, so that the indignation which he had long harbored against the visionary Nathaniel now broke out into the wildest rage. He ran to Nathaniel and reproached him for his senseless conduce towards his beloved sister in hard words, to which the infuriated Nathaniel retorted in the same style. The appellation of 'fantastical, mad fool,' was answered by that of 'miserable commonplace fellow.' A duel was inevitable. They agreed on the following morning, according to the local student custom, to fight with sharp rapiers on the far side of the garden. Silently and gloomily they slunk about. Clara had overheard the violent dispute and, seeing the fencing-master bring the rapiers at dawn, guessed what was to occur. Having reached the place of combat, Lothaire and Nathaniel had in gloomy silence flung off their coats, and with the lust of battle in their flaming eyes were about to fall upon one another, when Clara rushed through the garden door, crying aloud between her sobs: 'You wild cruel men! Strike me down before you attack each other. For how can I live on if my lover murders my brother, or my brother murders my lover.' Lothaire lowered his weapon, and looked in silence on the ground; but in Nathaniel's heart, amid the most poignant sorrow, there revived all his love for the beautiful Clara, which he had felt in the prime of his happy youth. The weapon fell from his hand, he threw himself at Clara's feet. 'Can you ever forgive me, my only - my beloved Clara? Can you forgive me, my dear brother, Lothaire?' Lothaire was touched by the deep contrition of his friend; all three embraced in reconciliation amid a thousand tears, and vowed eternal love and fidelity. Nathaniel felt as though a heavy and oppressive burden had been rolled away, as though by resisting the dark power that held him fast he had saved his whole being, which had been threatened with annihilation. Three happy days he passed with his dear friends, and then went to G___ , where he intended to stay a year, and then to return to his native town for ever. All that referred to Coppelius was kept a secret from his mother. For it was well known that she could not think of him without terror since she, as well as Nathaniel, held him guilty of causing her husband's death.   How surprised was Nathaniel when, proceeding to his lodging, he saw that the whole house was burned down, and that only the bare walls stood up amid the ashes. However, although fire had broken out in the laboratory of the apothecary who lived on the ground-floor, and had therefore consumed the house from top to bottom, some bold active friends had succeeded in entering Nathaniel's room in the upper story in time to save his books, manuscripts and instruments. They carried all safe and sound into another house, where they took a room, to which Nathaniel moved at once. He did not think it at all remarkable that he now lodged opposite to Professor Spalanzani; neither did it appear singular when he perceived that his window looked straight into the room where Olympia often sat alone, so that he could plainly recognize her figure, although the features of her face were indistinct and confused. At last it struck him that Olympia often remained for hours in that attitude in which he had once seen her through the glass door, sitting at a little table without any occupation, and that she was plainly enough looking over at him with an unvarying gaze. He was forced to confess that he had never seen a more lovely form but, with Clara in his heart, the stiff Olympia was perfectly indifferent to him. Occasionally, to be sure, he gave a transient look over his textbook at the beautiful statue, but that was all. He was just writing to Clara, when he heard a light tap at the door; it stopped as he answered, and the repulsive face of Coppola peeped in. Nathaniel's heart trembled within him, but remembering what Spalanzani had told him about his compatriot Coppola, and also the firm promise he had made to Clara with respect to the Sandman Coppelius, he felt ashamed of his childish fear and, collecting himself with all his might, said as softly and civilly as possible: 'I do not want a barometer, my good friend; pray go.' Upon this, Coppola advanced a good way into the room, his wide mouth distorted into a hideous laugh, and his little eyes darting fire from beneath their long grey lashes: 'Eh, eh - no barometer - no barometer?' he said in a hoarse voice, 'I have pretty eyes too - pretty eyes!' 'Madman!' cried Nathaniel in horror. 'How can you have eyes? Eyes?' But Coppola had already put his barometer aside and plunged his hand into his wide coat-pocket, whence he drew lorgnettes and spectacles, which he placed upon the table. 'There - there - spectacles on the nose, those are my eyes - pretty eyes!' he gabbled, drawing out more and more spectacles, until the whole table began to glisten and sparkle in the most extraordinary manner. A thousand eyes stared and quivered, their gaze fixed upon Nathaniel; yet he could not look away from the table, where Coppola kept laying down still more and more spectacles, and all those flaming eyes leapt in wilder and wilder confusion, shooting their blood red light into Nathaniel's heart. At last, overwhelmed with horror, he shrieked out: 'Stop, stop, you terrify me!' and seized Coppola by the arm, as he searched his pockets to bring out still more spectacles, although the whole table was already covered. Coppola gently extricated himself with a hoarse repulsive laugh; and with the words: 'Ah, nothing for you - but here are pretty glasses!' collected all the spectacles, packed them away, and from the breast-pocket of his coat drew forth a number of telescopes large and small. As soon as the spectacles were removed Nathaniel felt quite easy and, thinking of Clara, perceived that the hideous phantom was but the creature of his own mind, that this Coppola was an honest optician and could not possibly be the accursed double of Coppelius. Moreover, in all the glasses which Coppola now placed on the table, there was nothing remarkable, or at least nothing so uncanny as in the spectacles; and to set matters right Nathaniel resolved to make a purchase. He took up a little, very neatly constructed pocket telescope, and looked through the window to try it. Never in his life had he met a glass which brought objects so clearly and sharply before his eyes. Involuntarily he looked into Spalanzani's room; Olympia was sitting as usual before the little table, with her arms laid upon it, and her hands folded. For the first time he could see the wondrous beauty in the shape of her face; only her eyes seemed to him singularly still and dead. Nevertheless, as he looked more keenly through the glass, it seemed to him as if moist moonbeams were rising in Olympia's eyes. It was as if the power of seeing were being kindled for the first time; her glances flashed with constantly increasing life. As if spellbound, Nathaniel reclined against the window, meditating on the charming Olympia. A humming and scraping aroused him as if from a dream. Coppola was standing behind him: 'Tre zecchini - three ducats!' He had quite forgotten the optician, and quickly paid him what he asked. 'Is it not so ? A pretty glass - a pretty glass ?' asked Coppola, in his hoarse, repulsive voice, and with his malicious smile. 'Yes - yes,' replied Nathaniel peevishly; 'Good-bye, friend.' Coppola left the room, but not without casting many strange glances at Nathaniel. He heard him laugh loudly on the stairs. 'Ah,' thought Nathaniel, 'he is laughing at me because, no doubt, I have paid him too much for this little glass.' While he softly uttered these words, it seemed as if a deep and lugubrious sigh were sounding fearfully through the room; and his breath was stopped by inward anguish. He perceived, however, that it was himself that had sighed. 'Clara is right,' he said to himself, 'in taking me for a senseless dreamer, but it is pure madness - nay, more than madness, that the stupid thought of having paid Coppola too much for the glass still pains me so strangely. I cannot see the cause.' He now sat down to finish his letter to Clara; but a glance through the window assured him that Olympia was still sitting there, and he instantly sprang up, as if impelled by an irresistible power, seized Coppola's glass, and could not tear himself away from the seductive sight of Olympia till his friend and brother Sigismund called him to go to Professor Spalanzani's lecture. The curtain was drawn close before the fatal room, and he could see Olympia no longer, nor could he upon the next day or the next, although he scarcely ever left his window and constantly looked through Coppola's glass. On the third day the windows were completely covered. In utter despair, filled with a longing and a burning desire, he ran out of the town-gate. Olympia's form floated before him in the air, stepped forth from the bushes, and peeped at him with large beaming eyes from the clear brook. Clara's image had completely vanished from his mind; he thought of nothing but Olympia, and complained aloud in a murmuring voice: 'Ah, noble, sublime star of my love, have you only risen upon me to vanish immediately, and leave me in dark hopeless night?' As he returned to his lodging, however, he perceived a great bustle in Spalanzani's house. The doors were wide open, all sorts of utensils were being carried in, the windows of the first floor were being taken out, maid-servants were going about sweeping and dusting with great hairbrooms, and carpenters and upholsterers were knocking and hammering within. Nathaniel remained standing in the street in a state of perfect wonder, when Sigismund came up to him laughing, and said: 'Now, what do you say to our old Spalanzani?' Nathaniel assured him that he could say nothing because he knew nothing about the professor, but on the contrary perceived with astonishment the mad proceedings in a house otherwise so quiet and gloomy. He then learnt from Sigismund that Spalanzani intended to give a grand party on the following day - a concert and ball - and that half the university was invited. It was generally reported that Spalanzani, who had so long kept his daughter most scrupulously from every human eye, would now let her appear for the first time. Nathaniel found a card of invitation, and with heart beating high went at the appointed hour to the professor's, where the coaches were already arriving and the lights shining in the decorated rooms. The company was numerous and brilliant. Olympia appeared dressed with great richness and taste. Her beautifully shaped face and her figure roused general admiration. The somewhat strange arch of her back and the wasp-like thinness of her waist seemed to be produced by too tight lacing. In her step and deportment there was something measured and stiff, which struck many as unpleasant, but it was ascribed to the constraint produced by the company. The concert began. Olympia played the harpsichord with great dexterity, and sang a virtuoso piece, with a voice like the sound of a glass bell, clear and almost piercing. Nathaniel was quite enraptured; he stood in the back row, and could not perfectly recognize Olympia's features in the dazzling light. Therefore, quite unnoticed, he took out Coppola's glass and looked towards the fair creature. Ah! then he saw with what a longing glance she gazed towards him, and how every note of her song plainly sprang from that loving glance, whose fire penetrated his inmost soul. Her accomplished roulades seemed to Nathaniel the exultation of a mind transfigured by love, and when at last, after the cadence, the long trill sounded shrilly through the room, he felt as if clutched by burning arms. He could restrain himself no longer, but with mingled pain and rapture shouted out, 'Olympia!' Everyone looked at him, and many laughed. The organist of the cathedral made a gloomier face than usual, and simply said: 'Well, well.' The concert had finished, the ball began. 'To dance with her - with her!' That was the aim of all Nathaniel's desire, of all his efforts; but how to gain courage to ask her, the queen of the ball? Nevertheless - he himself did not know how it happened - no sooner had the dancing begun than he was standing close to Olympia, who had not yet been asked to dance. Scarcely able to stammer out a few words, he had seized her hand. Olympia's hand was as cold as ice; he felt a horrible deathly chill thrilling through him. He looked into her eyes, which beamed back full of love and desire, and at the same time it seemed as though her pulse began to beat and her life's blood to flow into her cold hand. And in the soul of Nathaniel the joy of love rose still higher; he clasped the beautiful Olympia, and with her flew through the dance. He thought that his dancing was usually correct as to time, but the peculiarly steady rhythm with which Olympia moved, and which often put him completely out, soon showed him that his time was most defective. However, he would dance with no other lady, and would have murdered anyone who approached Olympia for the purpose of asking her. But this only happened twice, and to his astonishment Olympia remained seated until the next dance, when he lost no time in making her rise again. Had he been able to see any other object besides the fair Olympia, all sorts of unfortunate quarrels would have been inevitable. For the quiet, scarcely suppressed laughter which arose among the young people in every corner was manifestly directed towards Olympia, whom they followed with very curious glances - one could not tell why. Heated by the dance and by the wine, of which he had freely partaken, Nathaniel had laid aside all his ordinary reserve. He sat by Olympia with her hand in his and, in a high state of inspiration, told her his passion, in words which neither he nor Olympia understood. Yet perhaps she did; for she looked steadfastly into his face and sighed several times, 'Ah, ah!' Upon this, Nathaniel said, 'Oh splendid, heavenly lady! Ray from the promised land of love - deep soul in whom all my being is reflected !' with much more stuff of the like kind. But Olympia merely went on sighing, 'Ah - ah!' Professor Spalanzani occasionally passed the happy pair, and smiled on them with a look of singular satisfaction. To Nathaniel, although he felt in quite another world, it seemed suddenly as though Professor Spalanzani's face was growing considerably darker, and when he looked around he perceived, to his no small horror, that the last two candles in the empty room had burned down to their sockets, and were just going out. The music and dancing had ceased long ago. 'Parting - parting!' he cried in wild despair; he kissed Olympia's hand, he bent towards her mouth, when his glowing lips were met by lips cold as ice! Just as when he had touched her cold hand, he felt himself overcome by horror; the legend of the dead bride darted suddenly through his mind, but Olympia pressed him fast, and her lips seemed to spring to life at his kiss. Professor Spalanzani strode through the empty hall, his steps caused a hollow echo, and his figure, round which a flickering shadow played, had a fearful, spectral appearance. 'Do you love me, do you love me, Olympia? Only one word! Do you love me?' whispered Nathaniel; but as she rose Olympia only sighed, 'Ah - ah!' 'Yes, my gracious, my beautiful star of love,' said Nathaniel, 'you have risen upon me, and you will shine, for ever lighting my inmost soul.' 'Ah - ah!' replied Olympia, as she departed. Nathaniel followed her; they both stood before the professor. 'You have had a very animated conversation with my daughter,' said he, smiling; 'So, dear Herr Nathaniel, if you have any pleasure in talking with a silly girl, your visits shall be welcome.' Nathaniel departed with a whole heaven beaming in his heart. The next day Spalanzani's party was the general subject of conversation. Notwithstanding that the professor had made every effort to appear splendid, the wags had all sorts of incongruities and oddities to talk about. They were particularly hard upon the dumb, stiff Olympia whom, in spite of her beautiful exterior, they considered to be completely stupid, and they were delighted to find in her stupidity the reason why Spalanzani had kept her so long concealed. Nathaniel did not hear this without secret anger. Nevertheless he held his peace. 'For,' thought he, 'is it worth while convincing these fellows that it is their own stupidity that prevents their recognizing Olympia's deep, noble mind?' One day Sigismund said to him: 'Be kind enough, brother, to tell me how a sensible fellow like you could possibly lose your head over that wax face, over that wooden doll up there?' Nathaniel was about to fly out in a passion, but he quickly recollected himself and retorted: 'Tell me, Sigismund, how it is that Olympia's heavenly charms could escape your active and intelligent eyes, which generally perceive things so clearly? But, for that very reason, Heaven be thanked, I have not you for my rival; otherwise, one of us must have fallen a bleeding corpse!' Sigismund plainly perceived his friend's condition. So he skillfully gave the conversation a turn and, after observing that in love-affairs there was no disputing about the object, added: 'Nevertheless, it is strange that many of us think much the same about Olympia. To us - pray do not take it ill, brother she appears singularly stiff and soulless. Her shape is well proportioned - so is her face - that is true! She might pass for beautiful if her glance were not so utterly without a ray of life - without the power of vision. Her pace is strangely regular, every movement seems to depend on some wound-up clockwork. Her playing and her singing keep the same unpleasantly correct and spiritless time as a musical box, and the same may be said of her dancing. We find your Olympia quite uncanny, and prefer to have nothing to do with her. She seems to act like a living being, and yet has some strange peculiarity of her own.' Nathaniel did not completely yield to the bitter feeling which these words of Sigismund's roused in him, but mastered his indignation, and merely said with great earnestness, 'Olympia may appear uncanny to you, cold, prosaic man. Only the poetical mind is sensitive to its like in others. To me alone was the love in her glances revealed, and it has pierced my mind and all my thought; only in the love of Olympia do I discover my real self. It may not suit you that she does not indulge in idle chit-chat like other shallow minds. She utters few words, it is true, but these few words appear as genuine hieroglyphics of the inner world, full of love and deep knowledge of the spiritual life, and contemplation of the eternal beyond. But you have no sense for all this, and my words are wasted on you.' 'God preserve you, brother,' said Sigismund very mildly almost sorrowfully. 'But you seem to me to be in an evil way. You may depend upon me, if all - no, no, I will not say anything further.' All of a sudden it struck Nathaniel that the cold, prosaic Sigismund meant very well towards him; he therefore shook his proffered hand very heartily. Nathaniel had totally forgotten the very existence of Clara, whom he had once loved; his mother, Lothaire - all had vanished from his memory; he lived only for Olympia, with whom he sat for hours every day, uttering strange fantastical stuff about his love, about the sympathy that glowed to life, about the affinity of souls, to all of which Olympia listened with great devotion. From the very bottom of his desk he drew out all that he had ever written. Poems, fantasies, visions, romances, tales - this stock was daily increased by all sorts of extravagant sonnets, stanzas and canzoni, and he read them all tirelessly to Olympia for hours on end. Never had he known such an admirable listener. She neither embroidered nor knitted, she never looked out of the window, she fed no favorite bird, she played neither with lapdog nor pet cat, she did not twist a slip of paper or anything else in her hand, she was not obliged to suppress a yawn by a gentle forced cough. In short, she sat for hours, looking straight into her lover's eyes, without stirring, and her glance became more and more lively and animated Only when Nathaniel rose at last, and kissed her hand and her lips did she say, 'Ah, ah!' to which she added: 'Good night, dearest.' 'Oh deep, noble mind!' cried Nathaniel in his own room, 'you, you alone, dear one, fully under

  From the arms of a martial arts instructor to a Russian yoga teacher, all while mourning the loss of her mom and renewing herself, Francesca shares her journey which has led her to teaching and coaching others worldwide. And at the end of this episode I'll share with you a tiny food that is a big powerhouse for helping fight depression as well as balancing hormones. Our guest, Francesca Gentillé I am very excited to be joined here today by Francesca Gentillé, who is an initiated shaman in 4 traditions, a clinical sexologist, she's an empowered aging specialist, and a relationship counselor. She has published, appeared on television and also teaches all over the world. Francesca has an incredible story to share with us today as well as a really generous gift just for listeners of Clean Food, Dirty Stories, which we'll share with you later. First though, let's get to the story. So Francesca welcome to the Clean Food, Dirty Stories podcast! I'm really excited to have you here today! Francesca: I am so delighted to be here Barbara. Barbara is also one of my favorite people in the world; creative, talented, big hearted. Me: Well we've had a lot of adventures together. We have enough stories to fill up an entire season of a podcasts all by ourselves. But for today's story I know that like me you grew up with depression. Also, you had some quite heavy food intolerances where you may have felt like you were almost in the wrong kind of family. So can you tell us a bit about that? Francesca's story Francesca: Yes absolutely. I was raised in a very loud, periodically, emotionally volatile, creative, dynamic, great cook Italian family, an Italian American family. And my mother was bipolar: it was the worst of times and the best of times, and of course they were cooking Italian. So there were lots of pastas and wonderful homemade pizzas and canola. Me: Sounds like heaven. Francesca: It was on the one hand beautiful and so tasty but I would always feel tired and I would feel depressed and they would say in the family that I was always sleeping. They'd say "Why is she so sensitive?" Enter the food intolerances I think some of our sensitivities are signs of being a shaman and but on the other hand I think some of the sensitivity was exacerbated by the food intolerances. And I didn't know this until many years later when a friend of mine was reading The Body Ecology Diet for candida yeast infection that wouldn't go away. She said that when she started doing the diet her yeast infection not only went away, but within two weeks her body pain went away and within a year she lost thirty pounds. And it was the body pain that I that I kind of tuned into and I decided to try it and as I tried it I realized that my body wasn't hurting. Suddenly I felt like I had more energy and I also felt like my mood was stabilized. Yes, a huge difference. Me: So what food did you cut out for that? What were you intolerant to? Francesca: I was intolerant to gluten. Me: Wow! So Italian food was a big no, no. Francesca: All the breads have lots of gluten. So all the pastas all of that is gluten. We eat that and I was also intolerant to cow dairy; so lactose basically. Me: Well so cheese. Francesca: Cheese, and I could have a little goat or a little sheep but in general they were cooking with cow cheese. And so those were two things that were death to my body and my immune system and really I think creating that leaky gut syndrome for me too. Cutting out the bad stuff Me: I know that you said that later on you solved all of that. So besides cutting out gluten actually what other foods did you cut out? Francesca: Well eventually, I have to say I'm somebody who does my life in like small steps. I'm not someone who has created success by changing my whole life overnight, whether that's in relationships or whether that's in business or whether that's and in food. Normally I'll try one little thing and then try another little thing. Me: Sounds like me. Francesca: At first it was gluten and dairy but I was still eating processed, you know like quinoa pasta and millet bread. And then eventually I went on a two week kind of cleanse where it was no processed flours at all; some grains but no processed flours. No sugar, no caffeine, no dairy of any kind and lots of vegetables - cooked and raw. A little bit of grains that might be cooked and then a small amount of either fish or chicken, but lots of vegetables everyday. Many more than I had normally done in any given day and some fruits. And I found in two weeks that I started to feel better and I found in a few months that even though I actually hadn't lost any weight which was something that I wanted but even though I hadn't lost any weight people would start to say "What have you done to your face? You look younger, you look radiant!" It was all these fruits and vegetables and wonderful fruit and juice smoothies. Then within a year I was down to my ideal weight and I just felt amazing! Me: Wow, that's fantastic! Francesca: I did it the healthy way. Enter the martial arts instructor Me: So then I guess you looked so radiant and so amazing that the martial arts instructor found you right? You mentioned that - how did you meet him and what happened? Francesca: Well in this process it wasn't at the complete end of the steps towards health. But in this process of getting more and more healthy, I am also a teacher of relationships and sexuality, and I teach recovery from trauma, and I teach about tantra in a healing way for couples. So while I was doing this, this gentleman came to one of my classes. I felt some energy between us, but at the same time I had learned that sometimes the man I'm most attracted to is the one that I need to walk away from. My animal instincts that get very attracted to people do not tell me that that person is honest. They do not tell me that that person is good. They only say that we have compatible histo immune systems. I thought I should walk away and I did. But he kept writing to me and one day the email wouldn't work. I tried so many different ways but it would not go through. He had given me his phone number so I called him and I said "Do you know if there's a problem with your email?" and he said "Maybe you're just supposed to talk to me." A beautiful relationship So we started to talk and it developed and it really became a very beautiful and magical relationship. He had been studying Dzogchen Buddhism which is a very spiritual form of tantra for twenty five years. We had a lot in common in terms of core values, and it became a relationship which I think of as a soul mate relationship of the best kind, where we were passionate and compassionate. In the six years we were together we never yelled at each other, we never raised our voices. That's not to say we never had a problem or a disagreement, but we were able to work through those disagreements while staying in a centered, mature, adult state. It was such a grace. When I would walk into the room we'd each take a breath like "ah, now I'm safe, now I'm home". And even though he swore he would never get married because he'd been married twice before and they were these terrible relationships, in four years he asked me to marry him. Are you sure you want to marry me? I always knew he would. Although I thought it was going to take a decade, but I always felt like "yes, he's going to ask me to marry him. He just needs to heal a little bit from these past relationships". So when he asked me to marry him after four years I was shocked. He said "You're not saying yes!" and I said "Well I-I didn't expect you to ask me to marry you yet!" I said "Are you sure you want to marry me? Do you know my flaws? Sometimes I'm messy and I don't clean up right away". He said "Yes, I know that". I said "Oh and I love pretty things and sometimes I can kind of over shop and I'm not good at saving money". He said "Yes I know that". So I was like going through the list of all my flaws and he said, "Why do you think it took four years?" He said "I actually wanted to marry you sooner, but I wanted to make sure that I could hold space for your imperfections". And so I said yes, but we decided to wait until my son graduated from high school. That was a few more years down the road. Good news So you know, things were going well, but his business was failing. He was a full time martial artist, he taught martial arts to school children and adults. And it really wasn't financially successful and that was very hard on his heart. It was very challenging for his self-esteem. One day he came to me and he said "Francesca I have some good news and some bad news". And I said "Tell me the good news!" He said the good news is that a friend of his was selling a fitness center, a gym in town in his town with all the workout equipment etcetera. John said "If I combine fitness and martial arts, maybe that will be the ticket for success". I said "Honey, that's great!" Because of course we want our partners to be happy and fulfil their life's mission. I said "You should do that, what's the bad news?" And bad news His martial arts studio would be open from about 8 or 9 in the morning till 9 at night with some breaks in the day. It would get very quiet until the kids came after school. So it had a certain pace that had some spaciousness in it. And you know 8 or 9 in the morning till 9 at night, although still a long day, is not terrible. He said that this fitness studio was open from 4 in the morning till 11 o'clock at night. Because he was investing his money into it, he felt that for at least the first maybe 4 to 6 months he needed to be there. He needed to see how it was being run so that he could try to change it and make improvements. And he said "For approximately 4 to 6 months sweetheart I'll be getting 3 or 4 hours of sleep a night and I really won't have any bandwidth". Well, be careful of what you say to the universe! I said "Oh don't worry, our relationship is so strong, we can handle this". And 5 days later... Within 5 days of that my mother died. 5 days after he signed the papers and put the money into the investment. You never know how you're going to respond to the death of a parent or someone that's very, very close to you. You don't know until it actually happens. And I adored my mother but I was also afraid of my mother. I was conflicted and although I had a lot of anger towards her while she was alive, I made a choice never to bring that anger to her. As she got older her bipolar got worse and she eventually had Alzheimer's, and it just isn't appropriate to bring these kinds of unresolved issues to people who are mentally ill. Me: But then you have to solve them for yourself, right? How do you do that? The grieving process Francesca: And all of those unresolved emotions were there. All the anger and rage that I never expressed to her was there. And then the grieving, because since about twenty five till when she died when I was fifty I had chosen to mostly be separate from her even though we'd been very close when I was young. So I was not only grieving that she was now dead, I actually was grieving the twenty five years that I had chosen to be separate from her. Me: And did you regret those twenty five years? Francesca: Yes and no, because if I had to go back I would probably still make the same decision because she didn't feel safe to me. On the other hand, for the little girl like when I was very young and she was a bit healthier, probably from you know birth till about thirteen we were very, very close. And so the little girl in me just missed her mommy. I would be at home alone curled up into a little fetal ball rocking and this little voice would come out of me saying, "I don't understand!" It was this little girl who just didn't understand that her mother was gone and didn't understand that she would never have an opportunity to be close to her. I think the magical child always hoped in some way that they would reconcile. So yeah I was very shattered. My son would later say that it was like I was missing for two years. Me: How old was your son? Francesca: My son was... I think he was either, maybe about fourteen, something like that. Me: Oh wow! Okay, so old enough to know that yeah there was some heavy stuff going on. Walking in the underworld Francesca: And yeah, those two years in many ways are a blur. I would eventually end up going to two therapists a week for over a year, a year and a half. And I really ended up feeling like I was later like I was walking with my mother in the underworld for that time. Me: Oh wow! Francesca: Yes, it was very deep, it felt very profound. Me: That must have been very helpful, very healing. Francesca: Where I am now, I'm at peace with her. I feel her love for me, I feel my love for her. It's like we've completed what we were meant to complete in this life, and I feel like I've known her many lifetimes and I'll probably know her again. Me: Yep, I'm sure you will. The birth of a crazy idea Francesca: But in this time period where so much of my energy is now in the underworld or so much of my little girl is grieving and crying while my adult self is missing...In that time period John is getting three or four hours sleep a night. He needed me more than he ever needed me and I couldn't be there emotionally. And then I needed him more than I ever needed him, and he couldn't be there for me emotionally. Neither one of us were thinking particularly straight. But we were noticing that we were getting more and more depleted, more and more raw. It's almost like when you haven't had enough sleep and your mind is just starting to think sort of crazy, and you almost feel like you're shaking because you're under-slept. Both of us were like that because I wasn't sleeping well with the grieving. Me: Well and you do literally start to lose your mind when you lose sleep, when you don't have enough sleep, right? I mean that's a proven thing. Francesca: Exactly, and we came up with this crazy idea which is "We need more support, we need more energy in the relationship. I know! We'll open up the relationship in a 'don't ask, don't tell' model". Me: Wow! So can you explain? Because some people might not know what that is. How not to navigate an open relationship Francesca: I'm not against open relationships or polyamorous relationships or swinging or anything else. And I think there are ways to have open relationships that are beautiful and ways to do them terribly. Just like there are ways to be monogamous that are beautiful and ways to be monogamous that are awful. I mean it's not the design of the relationship that is the grace or the problem. It's really "Are we centered? Transparent? Collaborative? Compassionate? Do we have good communication skills?" That's what's going to make any design better or worse, depending on who we are bringing to that relationship. Well one of the things as a relationship counsellor that I would say is that if you're going to have an open relationship it's actually healthy to be transparent, to reveal to your partner, to not lie, to not hold things back, to be able to collaborate so you still feel like you're a partnership. So even though you might be dating someone else, or going to a party and canoodling with someone else, you still feel like your home partnership is your best friend, is that place that you're the closest to, is the person that you're revealing everything to. And I think it's very dangerous to try to do this without revealing to each other. It's very easy when we start withholding information, whether about sex or anything else. Sex, money, you name it; when we start to withhold information, it's easy to build resentment. So it's easy to start feeling more and more separated. Now this is a crazy notion that I never would have agreed to in my right mind, but I wasn't in my right mind. Where's my primary care support? So we agreed and we weren't living together at this time. We were living in different houses but we'd see each other every weekend and talk every day. And he ended up having a couple of, you know, kind of flings. Things that were a little lighter, it was fun, it was sexy but it wasn't particularly emotionally depthful. But I felt - oh my God! Barbara, I felt like I was going crazy. I felt like I just wanted someone to hold me when I cried. And I wanted someone to hold me in the night when I felt so frightened and alone. For me, I didn't want just a little sexy fun fling. I felt like I needed what they call in the hospitals in America 'primary care support'. Like when someone is in the intensive care unit and they need twenty four hour care. I felt like that was me. Enter the Russian yoga therapist And there was a man that had been a student of mine who was very, very alluring, kind of reddish brown copper hair, big almond brown eyes, slender...He was a Russian yoga therapist and massage therapist. Me: You already got me intrigued! Francesca: With long hair...and he and I started to spend more time together and he was being emotionally supportive. And when this open relationship design came into being I went to him and I said, "What do you think?" Well he was all over it! Me: Literally! Francesca: Oh my God all over it and all over me! I remember a night, I think it might have been the night where I said you know, we've opened the relationship and we could get together where I think he said like he couldn't get out of this chain link fence, he was somehow locked in. He actually climbed the fence, and he ripped his clothes! You know, this person who's just like running to try to get to you... Me: Like in a movie, right? Francesca: And it was the beginning of...of course it was very passionate in the beginning and we were, you know, making love at night and in the middle of the night, and in the morning, and we were traveling together...within a month I had actually moved this guy in! Me: Wow! Did John know at that point? Francesca: No because we were doing the 'don't ask, don't tell' model! Me: Oh! Oh my God...okay! Francesca: Yes! Life with a sexy fitness coach And this guy was this primary care support where he would cook for me, and he was someone who cooked very vegan, very healthy. So he would cook for me. He was also a fitness coach so in the mornings he would have me do yoga stretches. And it was in a way it was exactly what I needed. I could tell that this was moving too fast and that John... I couldn't keep doing 'don't ask, don't tell'. When 'don't ask don't tell' becomes 'you'd better tell' So I visited John and I said I need to talk to you. I said "I have gone and not just dated someone, I've not just had sex, but I've gone very, very deep. I've formed another primary relationship and I've already moved this person in". And of course John was shocked and hurt but once again he was getting three or four hours of sleep a night. He just didn't have the bandwidth to even talk about it. It was just...we tried to talk, but he didn't have the bandwidth, and I didn't have my normal skill sets. I'm normally quite erudite, normally very adept in language and communication and in graceful language and communication, and I wasn't. Within I would say maybe a couple of months, John called me and he asked me if we were having unprotected sex. And we were. John said, "Were you planning to tell me?" I said "Yes". He said "When were you planning to tell me?" And I said "You know, I think the next time we were going to get together". John said "Well, it's over". Another death to grieve And then I was not only grieving the death of my mother, but I was grieving the death of the relationship with my soul mate. It really was the best relationship I'd ever had and it's now been ten years and it will be best relationship I've had so far; hope springs eternal, but so far - and it was another shattering for me. So now I'm with this seductively charming Russian yoga master, and it seemed like 'well maybe you're supposed to be with him'. Is this my stuff or his stuff? But something starts to happen where I start to feel more and more insecure. And at first you know maybe I'm thinking 'well it's because I'm grieving' or 'it's because I'm not centered' But I've come to find out over the years - I now have a data collection taken from many relationships - that in the relationships where I feel the most calm, I am with someone who is honest, with good integrity and who is in fact trustworthy. And when I'm in a relationship with people who are lying to me or withholding or cheating in some way, I start to feel more and more insecure. Me: Well that makes sense, right? Francesca: There is an exception to this and usually whenever I start to feel a little insecure, possessive and obsessive in a relationship, I make sure to get counselling. I make sure to get the support so that I'm coming back to the center and I've separated out what are my issues from my childhood versus what is my energetic intuition saying about this relationship. Me: Yep I get it. When a healthy influence turns to dysfunction Francesca: And so sometimes we do have some of our own issues from the past. But with all the therapy and everything...One week the therapists both said - even though they weren't talking to each other - in the same week they both said "I think you need to look at your relationship. I think you're not just grieving and I think that there are some things that might be unhealthy in your relationship" and they both said it interestingly enough the same week. So with this guy, something would just snap in him and he would begin to yell at me. He'd yell at me and shame me and denigrate me - not just for like three minutes, but I would time it. For fifteen minutes, for twenty minutes, for twenty five minutes, for thirty five minutes. Me: Right, so super unhealthy. Francesca: Super unhealthy! and I would tell him, you know, "I'm grieving, this is not okay, I can't handle this". It would be fine for a little while and then he'd go back to it again. Very emotionally abusive. I didn't actually find out until after we broke up that he had been... we also ended up teaching together and he had gone to some of the students in our classes after he found out that they had been molested as children, after he found out that they had terrible family backgrounds and it was hard for them to understand their boundaries. After he found that out, he would seduce them. Me: Whoa! He should be in jail! Seriously! Francesca: Yeah! I didn't find this out until after we broke up and then ... Me: So what did you do? What's the lesson here? Francesca: I tried to let my community know that this person was very, very unhealthy. And you know I did my best to get that information. But it felt terrible, really, really terrible. I had allowed him to stand beside me and teach, I'd actually helped promote him in my community. That's still something periodically that's heavy on my heart. And for me I want to say that I've learned to forgive myself and that's an important part of healing. Me: Oh yeah. Francesca: We can't just beat ourselves up, we have to get the lesson. Like what's the lesson? Part of that lesson - this is very interesting - when my mother died, no one came to visit. What do you do when someone dies? Where I come from back in the center of the United States, it's more farmland, it's more...people are in the same area generation after generation, and when someone dies, your friends show up or your family shows up and they bring you food. They understand that you're not going to want to cook, that you're going to feel sort of out of your body. So people show up and take care of you at least for the first couple of weeks if not longer. When my mother died, no one came to visit. I tried to email and say, you know, my mother has died, I feel very shattered, this is so hard, I'm having so many emotions...and no one came. Tough questions and enlightening answers A couple of months later when I was out in the world I would see my friends and I would say "Do you know that my mother died?" "Yes". "Okay uh...I'm curious, why didn't you stop by? Or why didn't you call?" And what I heard really highlighted the wounding that we have in our culture around grieving. So what they said was, "Well you're such an independent woman, I thought you would want to do it yourself". Well this is weird because you know, in most cultures in the world you grieve in community. You don't grieve by yourself! That's such a weird modernization. We're meant to do this together. And so I thought 'hmmm, that's a wound of culture that they thought I needed to grieve by myself'. Some people said that they were afraid of death. I understood that and I could have compassion for it, but I thought that's another wound of culture. Because death is so removed. It's in the hospital, it's far away, it's in a hospice. We don't see death like we would have seen it a hundred years ago, a couple hundred years ago where death was a part of life. You learn to work with it. Once again you learn. People would say "I wouldn't know what to say, I didn't want to make it worse". I would say "Well, let me give you an option. One possible thing to say is 'I'm so sorry for your loss'". Me: Yes exactly! Francesca: Fairly safe, but they literally didn't know that! Enter the life-changing answer So the answer that started to change my life was when people said, "Francesca of course I love you, of course you're important to me, but I thought that you're so well loved that you would have people that were closer to you than me. People who would be with you". And I said "Well what I think I hear you saying is that you don't realise that you're important to me. That you don't realise that you're actually really close to me". And they said "Yes!" and I thought 'Whose job is it to let you know that you're important to me?' Me: Yours! Francesca: It's my job! But I'm not doing a good job of letting people know that they actually matter to me! When walls no longer serve When I saw that I thought 'Oh my God! I have a wall around me'. It's the wall that I built to protect myself. I built it brick by brick as a child, as an adolescent, as a young woman. And I built this wall to try to protect me from being hurt by my family or being hurt by mean kids or etcetera. But now I realize this wall that has been designed to protect me also keeps people from me and I have spent my life proving my independence and that I can take care of myself. So if I need to move forward in life, the next development in life is to let people in to care for me and to let out, to be vulnerable, to reveal how important you are to me. Me: Wow! That is almost freaky because I had the same realization about the wall about a year ago. And in fact that was one of the reasons why I started this podcast! Because I thought, 'What way can I start to share some vulnerability with the world?' How can I start to yeah, just you know, tear down the wall, basically! So that is really freaky because I didn't know that that was going to come up today. Wow! Francesca's gift We have to wrap things up pretty soon but before we do that, I mean what an incredible story! I want to put links obviously to what you do in the show notes. But before we get to the food tips for this episode I know that you have very generously offered a special gift for our podcast listeners. So can you say something about that? Francesca: I have! You know, all of the suffering becomes a grace when we learn from it and in that we can help others. So if anybody's listening and they've suffered a lot, on the other side of that suffering is who you are as a healer. I want to offer my support to all of the listeners and to say that I'm happy to offer you a gift session by phone or Skype. This will be approximately forty five minutes to an hour. You would email relationshipdiva@gmail.com and put in the subject, 'gift session'. I'm happy to collaborate with you and really offer my support for our time together. Me: Wow! That is awesome Francesca, thank you so much. I know that people will take advantage of that because I mean you've got so much to offer in so many areas. Around sexuality and relationships and even, you know, life's journey and the whole thing. So thank you so much for that. I really appreciate it. It's been super, super having you on the podcast! So thank you again so, so much! A food that helps you fight depression and helps with balancing hormones So, I mentioned at the beginning of this episode that I'd share with you a tiny but amazing food that can help fight depression as well as help with balancing hormones. And that food is... Flax seeds! Benefits of flax seeds, including balancing hormones Flax seeds are amazing and if you aren't eating them yet, you've got to get yourself some. The reason they can help fight depression is because they're high in omega-3 fatty acids. But they also can help with balancing hormones. I'll link to a study in the show notes that seems to say that eating flax seeds may help prevent some forms of cancer. Flax seeds are also high in fiber and low in carbs, and they help reduce sugar cravings, they improve your skin and hair...I mean there are just too many benefits to mention here, so I'll link to an article or two in the show notes if you'd like to read more about flax seeds. How you eat flax seeds Now, how do you eat flax seeds? Well, some people buy flaxseed oil and pour that over salads and veggies. What I like to do though is buy the whole seeds and then grind them quickly in a coffee grinder or high-speed blender. You can then sprinkle them over salads or cereals, or use them to make crackers, bread, pancakes and all kinds of things. They're great to thicken recipes. And of course if you want some specific recipes that use flax seeds, I've got a gorgeous recipe for Nut Burgers (and ketchup) in my 5-Minute Mains recipe ebook that I'll link to below. Have YOU got a story to share? If you've got a true story to share, and you'd like to know what food could have saved the day in your situation), I'd love to hear from you! Got a question, or a comment? Got a question, or a comment? Pop a note below in the comments, that would be awesome. You can also subscribe to the podcast to listen 'on the go' in iTunes. I hope you have an amazing day. Thank you so much for being here with me to share in my Clean Food, Dirty Stories. Bye for now! RESOURCES Francesca's website: www.FrancescaGentille.com For a 30 minute Gift Session, email Francesca and mention Gift Session from Clean Food, Dirty Stories. Article on benefits of flax seeds: https://draxe.com/10-flax-seed-benefits-nutrition-facts/ Article on brain benefits of flaxseed oil: http://www.livestrong.com/article/472237-flax-oil-for-mood-brain-functions/ Scientific study on flax seeds and cancer: http://clincancerres.aacrjournals.org/content/11/10/3828.short Recipe ebooks including 5-Minute Mains (for Nut Burgers and Ketchup recipes): https://rockingrawchef.com/5-minute-recipes/   About Francesca Gentillé Francesca Gentillé is a Certified Clinical Sexologist & Relationship Counselor. She is the popular internet radio host of Sex: Tantra & Kama Sutra and co-author of the award-winning sex & relationship book "The Marriage of Sex & Spirit." Francesca is the co-director of the The Somatic Sensual Healing Institute, and the founder of The Sacred Courtesan School of Feminine Mystique and Power. She says: "There is no one true, right and only way to design a relationship, fulfill you purpose, or heal from past trauma. Together we will create a path that is uniquely suited to you. In a gentle, graceful yet powerful manner you will deepen your authentic life."

Nat Pryce is an early adaptor of eXtreme Programming and a contributor to several open source libraries and tools supporting Test-Driven Development, like jMock. In this episode we discuss several topics from the book 'Growing Object-Oriented Software, Guided by Tests' that he wrote together with Steve Freeman. We talk about the 'Londen-style' of Test-Driven Development, using mock objects to drive your design, listening to your tests and dependency injection. Nat's personal blog 'Mistaeks I Hav Made' is on http://www.natpryce.com/ and you can follow him on twitter via @natpryce. This interview is recorded on June 14th at the Software Practice Advancement conference (spa2011) in London. Interview by @freekl and @arnetim. Audio post-production by @Mendelt. Links for this podcast: The roots of the 'Londen-style' of Test-Driven Development can be traced back to the eXtreme Tuesday Club (XTC). A weekly London (pub) meeting that started more than 10 years ago. On his blog Nat visualizes different kinds of tests that drive the design of a software system. In the podcast we discuss the blogpost 'Whose domain is it anyway?' of Dan North. Nat completed his PhD thesis in 2000: 'Component Interaction in Distributed Systems'. A lot of his thoughts on object-orientation and messaging between objects and peers that is described in the book, can be traced back to his early research. In order to improve the testability of your software, Steve and Nat propose to apply the Ports and adapter architecture from Alistair Cockburn. You can read more on this subject on the wiki of Alistair. Use Hamcrest Matchers to improve the readability of your tests: learn more from this tutorial. While the use of Dependency Injection is widely spread in the software engineering community, Nat considers applying this style harmful. On his blog you can read more of his thoughts on this subject. In 2004 Steven and Nat published the article 'Mock Roles, not Objects' in which they introduces jMock. MultithreadedTC: a framework that can be used to test concurrent Java applications.