View allAll Photos Tagged Humanity
Edith Cavell statue, St Martin's Place, London
Edith Lousia Cavell was born in Swardeston near Norwich in 1865, the daughter of the local vicar. Edith's letters reveal that her low church father was a stern, unapproachable man, and so she would spend much of her early life wandering the parish, drawing and painting. At school, she showed a talent for languages, particularly French, and in 1890, at the age of 25, she set off for Brussels to work as a governess. Five years later, she was back in Swardeston, nursing her father through an illness, and this seems to be what set her mind to training as a nurse.
She worked in hospitals in Kent, London and Manchester, before setting off back to Brussels in 1906. She ran a training school for nurses there, but often returned to Norfolk, and it was while in the county that she heard of the German invasion of Belgium in 1914. She made her fateful decision to return there, and would never see England again.
From the stories, it is easy to imagine some dynamic, flighty young girl putting the world to rights, but of course Cavell was forty-eight years old when she headed back across the German Ocean. From then on, the story is well known. Her training school nursed soldiers of both sides, but she also saw it as her humanitarian duty to help hunted British soldiers escape back to England. Inevitably, she was caught, and shot by the Germans on the morning of October the 12th, 1915, a few weeks before her fiftieth birthday. Her last words would have been familiar to any English person in the first half of the 20th century: Standing as I do in view of God and eternity, I realise that Patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone.
She was buried in a military cemetery, and part of the cross which marked her grave is now in a glass case in Swardeston church, like a holy relic. After the War, Cavell's body was brought back to England, and, after a funeral in Westminster Abbey, she was buried in the Cathedral close in Norwich.
This fine, dramatic monument to her stands outside of the National Portrait Gallery near Trafalgar Square, and there is also a fairly awful one outside the Erpingham Gate of Norwich Cathedral. Other memorials include those in Peterborough Cathedral and at Steeple Bumpstead in Essex. Perhaps the best memorial, though, is the east window of Swardeston church, completed before the end of the War by Ernest Heasman. In light, muted colours, Edith Cavell kneels in her nurse's uniform at the foot of the cross, accompanied by smaller, appropriate figures, including St Agnes, St Margaret and Florence Nightingale.
We keep wondering how the world can continue to be so beautiful despite our human tragedies. What a sad and crazy week. Wednesday's sunrise I captured on the way to work.
Empowering Women, Empowering Humanity: Picture it!
In 2015, International Women’s Day, celebrated globally on 8 March, UN Women will highlight the Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action, a historic roadmap signed by 189 governments 20 years ago that sets the agenda for realizing women’s rights. To this end, the theme of this year’s International Women’s Day is “Empowering Women, Empowering Humanity: Picture it!”
Make It Happen is the 2015 theme for www.internationalwomensday.com global hub, encouraging effective action for advancing and recognising women......
An artisan making her work at 22nd West Bengal State Handicrafts Expo 2014-2015 (Paschim Banga Hastashilpa Mela) at Milan Mela, Kolkata, India
India’s largest handicraft’s fair, an annual event displays the workmanship of the artisans of West Bengal, the neglected frontrunners of traditional art of the state.
Around 3000 participants from almost every districts of West Bengal display their arts and crafts of jute, cane furnitures and baskets, handloom products, Totem poles made of bamboo shoots, 'Chhau' masks, wood carvings, wooden, dokra, jute and clay dolls, Madhubani and other traditional hand paintings, sawdust art, terracotta, wooden, sea shell and coconut shell artifacts and other home decors. Beside carpets, handbags and wall hangings, Kantha stitch and Batik from Bolpur, Baluchari from Bisnupur, Tant from Shantipur, Phoolia and Dhoniakhali, Silk from Murshidabad, Woolens of Darjeeling are also very popular.
The traditional origins based on culture and mythology, the workmanships, the richness of ideas, the brilliant combination of pure simplicity and glamour bring an amazing experience to truly understand their talent.
The Expo spreads over an area of 82,000 sq ft and has incurred an estimated total sales of Rs.1500.00 lakh (£1.5 million pound). It is the initiative of the Department of Micro and Small Scale Enterprises and Textiles, Government of West Bengal, organized every year with the aim to provide the artisans an exposure to the urban markets, know their taste and interact with the buyers or exporters directly, so that they can get orders for their products all throughout the year.
Beautiful Bengal, India
Mystery, Supreme Ruler of the World contemplates humanity's many Foibles over countless centuries and pities the human species. If only humanity were as Purrfect as The Cat! The Feline is vastly Superior in all ways and has to wait endless centuries for Humanity to even come up to a quarter of the speed of Feline Evolution. Sigh: A Long, Long, Long Wait!
Cats need to take their rightful place in Feline World Domination! Humanity needs to Serve Feline Needs and Wants!
Hand me my Shrimp Pate At Once And In Great Haste!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Best on black
A person is either your brother in faith or your equal in humanity
When death approaches, the close family and friends try to support and comfort the dying person through supplication as well as remembrance of Allah and His will. The attendance is to help the dying person to iterate his commitment to unity of God.
The end of life..
When the earth is shaken to her (utmost) convulsion, And the earth throws up her burdens (from within), And man cries (distressed): 'What is the matter with her ?'- On that Day will she declare her tidings: For that thy Lord will have given her inspiration. On that Day will men proceed in companies sorted out, to be shown the deeds that they (had done). Then shall anyone who has done an atom's weight of good, see it ! And anyone who has done an atom's weight of evil, shall see it.
"The Earthquake, Holy Quran".
My first HDR shot using 50D canon.. Hope you like it
For some reason whenever I think of the Sci-FI Dine In Theatre I hear a cheesy voice over guy screaming at me. Maybe it's me vaguely recalling the trailers, maybe it's my stomach not forgiving me after scarfing down classic Americana dishes. Who knows?
P.s. Highly recommend eating here, based on atmosphere alone.
Walt Disney World
Disney Hollywood Studios
Sci-Fi Dine In Theater
I asked you a question, tried to keep a straight face.
I didn't succeed but you said you would still be there for me,
my biggest fan. Fine I'll let you go, just hold my hand.
For just this one minute. I love you, goodbye.
There's only one more week to go now, then I'll be done for good.
So you wake up with breaks in your nose at 4 am. It's a nose bleed.
Run to the bathroom. It takes twenty minutes before it dies down.
Takes forever to fall back to sleep. Next day, happens again.
Time's going so slow now, because I want it to go so fast.
Sitting at the kitchen table, you said you loved me for the first time today.
Almost started to cry. You said it so clear. So, I tell you I love you back.
Today, we've grown to be more than just a crack.
In this world so filled with disaster, I'm more than willing to stay right here with you.
As long as we're together, just two humans in this crack of humanity.
As long as we're together, the sun will grant as sanity.
Kymani Marley One love
www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgZnQa5_jyE&feature=related
Matisyahu - One Day (Live)
www.youtube.com/watch?v=p7DK1PpnMos&feature=pyv&a...
Frank Ti-Aya vs. Yardi Don - One Love, World Love
ODC Theme: Humanity
Taken: 20/4/11
Big thank you to (L to R) Mikayla, Dale, Ronan and Dylan for lending me their hand(s). They did their part and headed off to bed, leaving the photographer to enter the post-production stage and earn the big bucks :-/
Grrrrrrrrrr.....it was only AFTER the shot as I sat at my p.c. that I decided I didn't like the "D" bracket holding the earth at the 23.4° tilt it's more or less on!! I had a tough time getting rid of it without making it look like the earth was experiencing some sort of fuzzy earthquake around the Alaska/Arctic Ocean region but probably no one would even notice if it all fell in a huge gurgling hole (figuratively of course!). As it was, I opted for geographical accuracy over speed of completion.... and so saved Alaska!!!!
So I'll assume you care and accept all pats on the back with humility a huge smile!
Best enjoyed large on black ... only takes a second or two!
"Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive" - Dalai Lama.
The sculpture was given to me a number of years ago due to longstanding and ethical relationships I had with a number of overseas business colleagues.
Our Daily Challenge - HUMANITY
Compromising Humanity.
Circularis motus est primum immobile, infinitum continuum,
vernünftige Argumente ändern Sphären teilbar Gegensätzlichkeit Klassifikationen,
αναλύσεις κατανοώντας προφανή προσόντα φύσεις γνωρίσει έργο επιστημονικής,
segmenti di confutare le proposizioni induzione principi controversi indagatori forme contrarie,
cyfrifon mynnu cwestiynau amhenodol ffinio meintiau diffiniedig,
tvetydige fartøy generelle motiver essensielle ødeleggelse gjennomgå erstatte fakta,
képzetlen feltételek tudományos tanulmányi értelmezni egyenes feltevésen bemutató megoldások,
ταυτότητας διαλεκτική εξαφάνιση προηγούμενη αδιάφορη αρνήσεις βεβαιότητα αλήθειες,
déterminité extérieur déroulement pensée schématique absolue,
etichettatura diritti striping risultati teorie teoriche intuizioni formalismo rappresenta,
חקירות תודעת תוקף פנומנלי ידע קריטריון השוואה,
rapiditate constituit ființe afirmat relații singulare Inlocuit dispuse,
知覚的矛盾極端な条件ユニバーサルレルム地獄.
Steve.D.Hammond.
“There's so much humanity in a love of trees, so much nostalgia for our first sense of wonder, so much power in just feeling our own insignificance when we are surrounded by nature...yes, that's it: just thinking about trees and their indifferent majesty and our love for them teaches us how ridiculous we are - vile parasites squirming on the surface of the earth - and at the same time how deserving of life we can be, when we can honor this beauty that owes us nothing.”
― Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog
...when Humanity realizes a countless blessings on Earth...that everyone may partake equally as a people...