Haylie Anné

The qualities of kindness, compassion, joy, and balance—known as the brahmavihāras or sublime abodes—serve as powerful, timeless refuges for the heart. Together, they offer a resilient way to navigate uncertainty, transforming stress and emotional turbulence into a space of inner sanctuary and clear-eyed presence.

These four heart practices act as an interconnected system, keeping one another in a natural, healthy equilibrium:

Kindness (mettā): The love that connects us. It is the practice of unconditional friendliness and goodwill towards yourself and others, counteracting ill-will and fear.

Compassion (karuṇā): The love that responds to suffering. It allows you to acknowledge pain without becoming overwhelmed by it or absorbing it.

Joy (muditā): The love that celebrates. Often called empathetic or sympathetic joy, it is the capacity to feel genuine happiness for the success and well-being of others, preventing burnout and despair.

Balance / Equanimity (upekkhā): The love that allows and steadies the heart. It provides the calm, non-reactive foundation needed to remain steady through life's storms while staying intimately engaged with the world.

There’s a quote I hold onto: ‘Failure is not the opposite of success, it’s part of success.’ – Arianna Huffington. That line reminds me: mistakes aren’t proof that I’m broken, they’re just proof that I’m learning.

Source: @middleeasteye

Weeks ago—who knows why—I picked up Henryk Sienkiewicz’s The Deluge. I had been planning to read it for years, even postponing it for no clear reason. But the time was ripe; perhaps, without realizing it, the current geopolitical climate, especially the war in Ukraine, pushed me toward it.

The first volume of the trilogy, With Fire and Sword, deals with the Cossack uprising on Ukrainian soil, led by the Zaporozhian hetman Bohdan Khmelnytsky—a figure who also appears in modern Ukrainian historical narratives. And here we are, in 2025, with the modern Russo-Ukrainian War still raging—though it could just as well be called the American-Russian-Ukrainian war. At first, reading was a bit painful: Sienkiewicz so vividly portrays the unraveling of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth—the distrust of the nobility toward their king (at the time, Jan II Casimir), the perpetual wars with Ukrainian Cossacks, the Russian attacks on Lithuania, and an exhausted nation unable to recover. Then, in 1655, the Swedes invaded under Arvid Wittenberg. Many nobles did not even think of resisting; betrayal was common; organizing the defense was slow and chaotic. The Commonwealth was cracking at its very foundations.

It’s a tale of heroic struggle, but also of the decline of a once-great power.

So what are the signs of a declining state—or a declining empire? History offers many models. The fall of the Roman Empire took centuries and led to a dark Middle Ages. But empires that rose quickly often disappeared just as fast, usually bound together by the charisma of a single leader—like the Mongol Empire, which fractured soon after Genghis Khan’s death. Decline is also visible at the societal level: in Rome, a shortage of resources was key. Expansionist empires inevitably hit the ceiling of their growth; then begins the slow slide downward. Changing circumstances—climate shifts, geopolitical changes—can trigger shortages, from raw materials to manpower. Both the Roman and Ottoman empires suffered from a shortage of slaves; later, chronic food shortages further weakened Rome until its final collapse.

A declining empire also tends to misjudge its own strength, losing more and more battles—openings its enemies are quick to exploit.

In the current U.S.–Russia confrontation (with Ukraine as the proxy), who shows these symptoms? I would say both. Russia’s system is built around Putin; after him, it’s unclear who could hold the country together. Prigozhin’s mutiny was one example of the system’s fragility. Yet the successes of summer 2025 also showed that, for all its problems, Russia is stronger than many of its opponents assumed—or hoped. It was never the richest superpower, but perhaps its weaknesses were overestimated.

The U.S. is the more interesting case. By now it’s clear that in Ukraine, Washington is ultimately after raw materials—resources that Russian forces are slowly taking over, such as the lithium mines near Velyka Novosilka and the Pokrovske mines, where Metinvest has holdings. These interests explain why the U.S. is pouring so much money into a war it is not winning. The world’s most powerful military finding itself unable to secure these assets is a bitter pill to swallow. Viewed alongside the chaotic, humiliating withdrawal from Afghanistan, it suggests that the U.S. has reached the limits of its military power. Its hunger for resources, and the assumption that they could be secured—even militarily—was a miscalculation. And I haven’t even touched on the country’s internal social fractures.

In The Deluge, the weakening of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth brought immense suffering to ordinary peasants. Even many of the lesser nobles resorted to looting to survive. Rogue bands pillaged on their own initiative. For peasants fleeing burning villages, it mattered little whether their lord was Polish, Swedish, or Prussian—they wanted peace and security. People in Ukraine want the same today.

But the geopolitical reshuffling now underway will bring suffering not only there, but elsewhere, too.

In the muddy trenches of World War I, danger was everywhere—but so was creativity. Among the horrors of no man’s land, a strange kind of spy took root: a tree. But not an ordinary one.

Crafted by artists, engineers, and camoufleurs, these fake trees were hollow metal structures made to look like broken, gnarled trunks. Inside? A hidden compartment just big enough for one brave observer. From that cramped space, soldiers watched enemy lines through a tiny slit, relaying information back to their commanders. Targets, troop movements, artillery—nothing escaped their view.

The real brilliance came in the switch. First, the real tree was sketched and measured in detail. Then, under the cover of night, soldiers quietly uprooted it and replaced it with its lifelike twin. By morning, the enemy saw what they thought was the same dead tree—but now it had eyes.

These “observation trees” weren’t just wartime gadgets. They were testaments to human ingenuity—how even in war, the line between survival and imagination was as thin as bark.

#WWIHistory #MilitaryInnovation

~Old Photo Club

Lingering in the dead of night when im trying to sleep.

I feel it, your touch, every night i feel it.

Im frozen in time until you come back

& claim whats rightfully yours.

If you touch me i burn, if you dont, i do.

Im damned if i do & if I don't.

I'll be damned.

i'll pay for my sins

& pay my dues.