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Notes on an Execution

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Danya Kukafka

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“At one seminar where I was speaking on the concept of proactivity, a man came up and said, "Stephen, I like what you're saying. But every situation is so different. Look at my marriage. I'm really worried. My wife and I just don't have the same feelings for each other we used to have. I guess I just don't love her anymore and she doesn't love me. What can I do?" "The feeling isn't there anymore?" I asked. "That's right," he reaffirmed. "And we have three children we're really concerned about. What do you suggest?" "Love her," I replied. "I told you, the feeling just isn't there anymore." "Love her." "You don't understand. The feeling of love just isn't there." "Then love her. If the feeling isn't there, that's a good reason to love her." "But how do you love when you don't love?" "My friend, love is a verb. Love -- the feeling -- is a fruit of love the verb. So love her. Sacrifice. Listen to her. Empathize. Appreciate. Affirm her. Are you willing to do that?" In the great literature of all progressive societies, love is a verb. Reactive people make it a feeling. They're driven by feelings. Hoolywood has generally scripted us to believe that we are not responsible, that we are a product of our feelings. But the Hollywood script does not describe the reality. If our feelings control our actions, it is because we have abdicated our responsibility and empowered them to do so. Proactive people make love a verb. Love is something you do: the sacrifices you make, the giving of self, like a mother bringing a newborn into the world. If you want to study love, study those who sacrifice for others, even people who offend or do not love in return. If you are a parent, look at the love you have for the children you sacrificed for. Love is a value that is actualized through loving actions. Proactive people subordinate feelings to values. Love, the feeling, can be recaptured.”

ProactiveReactiveOn LoveStephen Covey
Author:Stephen Covey
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“In the great literature of all progressive societies, love is a verb. Reactive people make it a feeling. They're driven by feelings. Hoolywood has generally scripted us to believe that we are not responsible, that we are a product of our feelings. But the Hollywood script does not describe the reality. If our feelings control our actions, it is because we have abdicated our responsibility and empowered them to do so. Proactive people make love a verb. Love is something you do: the sacrifices you make, the giving of self, like a mother bringing a newborn into the world. If you want to study love, study those who sacrifice for others.”

On LoveStephen CoveyOn Sacrifice
Author:Stephen Covey
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“Kada mislim na Firencu, kao prvu sliku ne vidim katedralu ili palatu Sinjorije, već jezerce sa zlatnim karašima u Gardino Boboliju, gde sam prvog mog popodneva u Firenci razgovarao sa nekim ženama i njihovom decom, prvi put čuo florentinski jezik i grad koji mi je bio poznat iz mnogih knjiga po prvi put osetio kao nešto stvarno i živo sa čim mogu da pričam i što sam mogao da uhvatim rukama. Katedrala i stara palata i sve što je u Firenci poznato, nije mi zbog toga izmaklo; mislim da sam je bolje doživeo i srdačnije učinio svojom nego mnogi vredni turisti sa rurističkim vodičem u rukama. Sve mi se sigurno i jedinstveno pojavljuje iz veoma malih, sporednih događaja, i ako sam zaboravio nekoliko lepih slika iz Uficija, imam zato sećanja na večeri koje sam proveo ćaskajući sa domaćicom u kuhinji, sa momcima i ljudima u malim vinskim krčmama, sećanja na pričljivog krojača iz predgrađa koji je na svojim kućnim vratima na meni krpio pocepane pantalone, i uz to me počastio vatrenim političkim govorom, operskim melodijama i veselim narodnim pesmicama.”

Hermann HesseFirencaItalijaHerman HesePutovanja
Author:Hermann Hesse
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“U nekoj beskrajnoj nežnosti, koje muževe obuzima, posle dugog braka, prema ženi, ja čitam sa mojim beleškama, njeno pismo, kao odgovor na obećanje, da ću je čekati u Fiorenci. Da još jednom vidimo Fiorencu. Ona mi je pisala da još jednom svratimo u hotel “Aurora”. U Fijezoli. Bili smo tako sretni kad je prvi put došla, kod mene, u Italiju. Pita me da li se sećam pucnjave, u neredima, kad su napali Poštu? Kad su revolveri praštali. Kad je ona stala preda mnom i raširila preda me svoj laki, crni kaput, kao neki crni labud, na pozornici, u baletu. Kjaramonti nikad nije hteo da poveruje u to. Da li to taj poručnik veruje, ili ne, pisala mi je, nije važno. Svaka bi žena, tvrdila je ona, kada bi volela, učinila to. Za muškarca, pisala je, i kad voli, tako nešto, nije sasvim sigurno. Pisala mi je da je odvedem da još jednom vidi Fiorencu. Zaklonila me je tamo svojim telom, dok je pucnjava trajala, a ne mogu poreći, da je tako i bilo. Moram priznati da je tako bilo. Ne traži od mene ništa za to. Nije mi tražila ništa za to. Sad mi, međutim, traži da još jednom svratimo u Fiorencu. Da se naselimo tamo gore, u Fijezoli, u našem hotelu. Ja sam joj odgovorio da sam, poslom, nedavno, bio tamo. Nije priroda sad tamo ono, što je bila proletos. Nisu ni masline kao što su bile. Nebo nije plavo. Samo su čaršavi plavi u “Aurori”, i baru. U vrtu su čempresi sad u snegu. Ona je odgovarala: svejedno. Iako se čempresi crne – dole, u dolini, u daljini, krovovi Fiorence biće ipak crveni, ponegde. Kube, koje toliko volim, ona voli još više. Više čak nego Mikelanđelovo. Brda će se i sad videti talasasto, kao što su i bila, kada smo poslednji put bili tamo. Uostalom, nije to što ona traži od mene, da još jednom sagledamo. Traži samo da još jednom sačekamo na balkonu hotela veče, tamo. Mrak će pasti rano. Nestaće, polako, Fiorence, u mraku. Neće se videti ni kampanil koji je nazidao Đoto. Nije ni potrebno. Ono što bi ona želela da vidi, još jednom, to je trenutak kad u zamračenoj Fiorenci upale svetiljke. One, iznenada – ona se toga seća – blesnu. Sinu. Kao da neko zasipa zvezdama Fiorencu. Toliko svetiljki, a sinu u istom trenutku, i trepere. Kako je to bilo lepo. Iako je sad zima, iako ima snega, to bi htela još jednom da vidi, pre nego što iz Italije odemo. Da joj učinim to. To bar nije teško.”

FlorenceCrnjanskiFirenca
Book:Kod Hiperborejaca II
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“Harriet, to hide her excitement, had turned to the bookshelves in the corner between the windows and the fireplace. The books, untidily arranged, some standing, some piled on their sides, with newspapers and magazines wedged among them, confused her. There were no sets and a great many were paper-backed. She saw friends - Mr. Dickens was present — and nodding acquaintances - Laurence Sterne, for instance, and Theodore Dreiser — but they were among strangers: Henry Miller, Norman Douglas, Saki, Ronald Firbank, strangers all.”

LibraryCharles DickensHenry MillerBookshelfLaurence SterneSakiNorman DouglasRonald FirbankTheodore Dreiser
Book:Table For Four
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