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10 Essential Tips to Find That Perfect Corporate Gift

Your regarded customers, steadfast clients and stunning representatives are your most significant resource. The correct blessing picked with care and consideration will fortify connections, regardless of whether to remunerate accomplishment or commend achievement. Why settle for a conventional blessing when you can dazzle with the phenomenal?

I have assembled the fundamental tips to locate that corporate blessing.

Simply read on

1) Must Always Select A Quality Gift

As a matter of first importance, you should choose a blessing that you would be glad to put your organization name on. Your client and customers are destined to accept your blessing as an impression of how you view and worth relationship with them.

On the off chance that your initial introduction taking a gander at the blessing, is floating towards it being modest or normally accessible stuff, odds are that they will see precisely the same way.

2) Always and Always Check Corporate Policies

In all honesty, numerous associat…

The Courage To Continue

Every Thought...

Week 44: Thunder To Humanity

To be a human person, a part of humanity, is not always to be humane and personal, yet when called upon to give, it is in our nature to respond and in our hearts to care.  This giving and caring is all we can leave behind.


10/28:

TWL, Lines 401-410: Thunder To Humanity


401 Da
402 Datta: what have we given?
403 My friend, blood shaking my heart
404 The awful daring of a moment's surrender
405 Which an age of prudence can never retract
406 By this, and this only, we have existed
407 Which is not to be found in our obituaries
408 Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
409 Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
410 In our empty rooms

402. THUNDER’S FIRST DISCIPLINE: Eliot: “'Datta, dayadhvam, damyata' (Give, sympathize, control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaranyaka– Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen's Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p. 489.”  See Paul Deussen’s German translation (1897), and see note 400 for an English translation.

The first discipline of datta, or “Give,” is what humans can hear in the syllable “Da.” Compare Eliot, Portrait of a Lady (1920):

“But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?”

403. PERSONAL POETRY: This line once read, “My friend. My friend, beating in my heart” (see Eliot, F&T). Eliot struggled to keep his poetry impersonal (see note 172.5), and even called the more personal Walt Whitman “pathetic” (see Eliot, American Literature, Athenaeum, 4/25/1919), yet he could not resist occasional turns to friendship and, in this poem and elsewhere, allusions to Whitman.  See Eliot, Portrait of a Lady:

“Now that lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
‘Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you should hold it in your hands’;
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
‘You let it flow from you, you let it flow...’”

and compare this to the opening lines of Whitman, Memories:

“When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.”

408. THE BENEFICENT SPIDER: Eliot: “Cf. Webster, The White Devil, V, vi: ‘...they'll remarry / Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider / Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.’” This is Flamineo from John Webster’s White Devil (note 44) 5.6.182-190, leading up to his own dying words:

“O men,
That lie upon your death-beds, and are haunted
With howling wives! ne'er trust them; they'll re-marry
Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider
Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.

...Trust a woman? never, never; Brachiano
be my precedent. We lay our souls to pawn to the devil
for a little pleasure, and a woman makes the bill of sale.
That ever man should marry! ...”

410. A MOMENT’S SURRENDER: Lines 403-410 answer line 402: That which we have given, that which the thunder would have us give, is  ever more than what will be stated in what we leave behind: not in our public obituaries or preserved epitaphs or private wills, beyond the bills of sale, but it is only by this “awful daring” (line 404) of ephemoral surrender that we have existed (line 406).


10/29:

Upon A Time 


To my own Vivienne, wherever you are:
  ... not to be found in my obituary
 Or in memories draped
 by the beneficent spider
 Or under seals broken
 by the lean solicitor
 In my empty room


Upon a time, once there was
Who took the time —and what is time
But a thin line with hash marks
Conveying us then to now
And from now on, or
dashing predictions
a one time rotation,
Unrepeating, unending.

If history is a cycle of mistakes
time is one long forever,
now and then familiar
but the future never known;
if yesterday was headlines
and today is talking heads
tomorrow is today’s cheap talk,
Just when you thought it wasn’t
Just what you least expected.


10/30:

Far And Away
 

I look into your eyes
and in them find your heart
full of the sorrow
of far and away.

Far, the color of your eyes
and the story of a journey
stretching out to the horizon
with a word approaching fear
but incomplete:

far, the distance of uncertain,
like measuring a mountain
with the space and separation
between near and disappeared;
far, the feeling
between effort and defeat.

And then away,
another story of
a day after the journey
is over with an order
of divorce:

away, the echo of forever
in the opposite direction,
with the posture and position
of a disconnecting turn;
away, the feeling
of rejection and remorse.

And I can see
the distance and direction,
the echo and order
of fear and always
in your eyes,
telling me their stories,
filling my own heart
with the sorrow
of far and away.
 

10/31:

Burrowing Owl at Montrose Harbor


You weren’t supposed to be here but the wind
blew hard a thousand miles east of all
your expectations.  And the prairie turned
to corn, turned into stubble and the fall
turned to the ways of winter and the ground
came to a giant water edged in steel.

By chance you found a respite set within
an urban field of designated wild,
protected by a roll of a snowdrift fence
with a sign to read and reconcile
   (for those who can or those who will)
a tranquil sanctuary for the mind,
a magic fifteen acres for the soul
and for the bird.  Until the word went out
in typed staccato, texted with a shout.


It wasn’t supposed to go this way, but you
were not the ordinary beachfront owl
and we were crazy for a better view;
we’d never seen an eastern juvenile
cunicularia migrating through
Chicago; and we meant to wish you well.

Forgive us, then, for rudely rushing to
your resting place, for overlooking rules
and crossing lines, for passions crashing through
the wilderness and wandering off the trail,
   (for those who will, and don’t we all?)
for being curious crowds, for flushing you
out of your final makeshift prairie hole,
and pardon most of all our great surprise
to find you at the dawn of your demise.

A Cooper’s hawk, as Cooper’s hawks will do,
descended from its perch above the din
and sank its brutal talons into you
before our eyes, turned yang to darkest yin
spectacularly as your feathers flew
into the autumn air and caught the wind
to fly no more.

          And what were we to do?
Your wings had shown the wear of having been
a vagrant far from home, and you were too
exhausted to keep going past the dawn,
   (and no one can keep going on)
too young to know exactly what to do
and too vulnerable with your prairie gone.
And here you found us with our feverish smiles,
so pleased to meet you at your final mile.


11/01:

November


We speak of beginnings and ends,
     of dawns and setting suns,
Yet we move from day to day,
     from rhyme to rhyme
Remembering hours and hours
     before our cognizance
And dreaming up new futures
     all the time.

We speak of taking time.
     November you’re the same
As an early dusk to close
     an autumn day:
I want more warmth from you,
     more flicker in your flame;
I miss the light of September
     and the youth of May.
 
We speak of tomorrow’s return
     to yesterdays; we dream
Of nothing less or more
     than what we know,
Imagining that spring
     is somewhere down the stream
Replenishing our current
     blessings’ flow.

We speak from where we are
           to where we want to be;
We want to be where we’ve
     already been.
November you’re the source
     of this endless reverie
And in your darkness
     We reset the scene.


11/02:

Preface: A Race To Run


“Success Is Never Final And Failure Never Fatal. It’s The Courage To Continue That Counts.”

That was printed, without attribution, on the back of a T-shirt in the middle of a pack of runners.  There were dozens of similar encouragements, on other T-shirts and hats, on signs along the side of the road, even in the cheers of bystanders along the way.  “Best Parade Ever!” one sign said.  And another: “Run, Walk, Crawl - Whatever it takes!”  People I didn’t know were calling out my name, having only read it off of the tag on my chest: “Go, Jonathan! You can do it!”  And in the end, even before I got there, I knew it wouldn’t matter what place I finished in or what time I posted.  There would be an even louder crowd at the finish line, and they would be giving out medals to everyone who finished the race.
 
It was my third half marathon.  I was gearing up for an even bigger race one day and  I had to smile at that shirt I saw.  Success is so relative, and never what we tend to sum it up to be.  How disappointing it would be if it were a one time thing, a goal reached - and then what? For those who still have some fight in them there are no final rounds, and to those who look beyond the finish line it’s always on to the next!
 
And failure... I smiled again.  Run, walk, crawl, I might even fall down, but it’s never fatal if I can pick myself up again.  Even if I can’t someday, I will not let my spirit be defeated: the parameters may change, but there is still a race to run.  And even when my spirit starts to lag, it is so good to know that I am not alone.
 
Indeed, it was not my own thought that had made me smile, but the shared spirit of another runner.  Courage! That’s what it takes for every one of us!  That’s what we can do!  And if we are to  continue, that, more than winning and losing, is the only thing that counts.

It does not really matter who said that saying first.  I’ve found so many attributions, each with its own question mark: Was it Winston Churchill? Coach Ditka? Coach Wooden? Coach Paterno? A Congressional Record reporter?  Whoever said it first, it was good to see, and good to hear.  And yes, I finished the race, and yes, by the spirit within and with the encouragement of many around me and before me,  I will keep running.


“Success isn’t permanent, and failure isn’t fatal.”

—attributed to Chicago Bears Football Coach 
      Mike Ditka, 1990


“Success is never final. Failure is never fatal. It’s courage that counts.”

—UCLA Basketball Coach John Wooden, 1972, 
      attributed (in error) to Winston Churchill


“Success is never final; failure is never fatal; the only thing that counts is courage.”

—Penn State Football Coach Joe Paterno, 1971, 
      attributed (in error) to Winston Churchill


“He held to the belief that success is never final ...and failure never fatal.”

—Congressional Record: A tribute to U.S. 
      Speaker of the House, Sam Rayburn, 1961

“Success is never final and Failure never fatal. It’s courage that counts.”

—George F. Tilton, as cited in Forbes Magazine, 1948


“Men with the spirit of youth pioneered our America…men with vision and sturdy confidence. They found contentment in the thrill of action, knowing that success was never final and failure never fatal. It was courage that counted....”

—Anheuser Busch copywriters, 1938-39 ad campaign 
      for newspapers/Life Magazine


11/03:

Moleskin 5.7: River Of Twelve


It was a fresh start, and at the end of my thirteenth year of life, the year stubbornly called “twelve,” it had all the makings of a clean slate. Our neighborhood was more than a suburb now: it was incorporated, a city unto itself; the Tribs and Sun Times I delivered were joined by local Heralds and Advocates, and my old job up and down apartment hallways was now a real route along several streets —I could use my bike now! And every weekday morning, after the papers were delivered, I went to Lincoln Junior High, a big kid school with tall ceilings and separate classrooms for each subject and teachers with personalities —Mr. Bolman, who posted daily trivia quizzes and doled out lemondrop prizes, and Mr. Sigg, who had a wall full of brain teaser puzzles to solve. There was an upstairs woodshop and a basement archery field...

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I have assembled the fundamental tips to locate that corporate blessing.

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