Following Your Footsteps Quotes

I followed your footsteps," he said, in answer to the unspoken question. "Snow makes it easy." I had been tracked, like a bear. "Sorry to make you go to all that trouble," I said. "I didn't have to go that far, really. You're about three streets over. You just kept going in loops." A really inept bear.

If you're bored, one thing is for sure: You're not following in the footsteps of Christ.

The majority of people have successfully alienated themselves from change; they tediously arrange their lives into a familiar pattern, they give themselves to normalcy, they are proud if they are able to follow in auspicious footsteps set before them, they take pride in always coloring inside the lines and they feel secure if they belong to a batch of others who are like them. Now, if familiar patterns bore you, if normalcy passes before you unnoticed, if you want to create your own footsteps in the earth and leave your own handprints on the skies, if you are the one who doesn't mind the lines in the coloring book as much as others do, and perchance you do not cling to a flock for you to identify with, then you must be ready for adversity. If you are something extraordinary, you are going to always shock others and while they go about existing in their mundaneness which they call success, you're going to be flying around crazy in their skies and that scares them. People are afraid of change, afraid of being different, afraid of doing things and thinking things that aren't a part of their checkerboard game of a life. They only know the pieces and the moves in their games, and that's it. You're always going to find them in the place that you think you're going to find them in, and every time they think about you, you're going to give them a heart attack.

Truth is not a path you follow, but one created by your footsteps.

Never be afraid to tread the path alone. Know which is your path and follow it wherever it may lead you; do not feel you have to follow in someone else's footsteps.

How can the mind be so imperfect?" she says with a smile. I look at my hands. Bathed in the moonlight, they seem like statues, proportioned to no purpose. "It may well be imperfect," I say, "but it leaves traces. And we can follow those traces, like footsteps in the snow." "Where do the lead?" "To oneself," I answer. "That's where the mind is. Without the mind, nothing leads anywhere." I look up. The winter moon is brilliant, over the Town, above the Wall. "Not one thing is your fault," I comfort her.

Dearest father in heaven, bless this child and bless this day of new beginnings. Smile upon this child and surround this child, Lord, with the soft mantle of your love. Teach this child to follow in your footsteps, and to live life in the ways of love, faith, hope, and charity.

If you're going to follow in my footsteps, be sure to cover your tracks.

If someone is copying what you do, Congratulate yourself for inspiring that someone to follow your footsteps.

I would follow in your footsteps if I wasn't so busy making my own.

Your son is a drunkard,” she informed him. Then she caught a whiff of Roger’s breath. “Following in his father’s footsteps, I see,” she added coldly.

Many have said, “Follow my steps” I say to you, create your own paths, and follow no one, live, risk it all, die and be free.

There's actually no point in following in another's footsteps TOO exactly, you'll end up leaving no tracks of your own.

You're going to realize it one day-- that happiness was never about your job or your degree or being in a relationship. Happiness was never about following in the footsteps of all of those who came before you; it was never about being like the others. One day, you're going to see it-- that happiness was always about the discovery, the hope, the listening to your heart and following it wherever it chose to go. Happiness was always about being kinder to yourself; it was always about embracing the person you were becoming. One day, you will understand that happiness was always about learning how to live with yourself, that your happiness was never in the hands of others. It was always about you. It was always about you.

Right away, I invited on guests like Steve Wozniak, John Draper, and even porn star Danni Ashe, who took her top off in the studio to show us all how hot she was. (Listen up, Howard Stern, I’m following in your footsteps!)

Follow your heart then love will follow your footsteps.

Pico Iyer: “And at some point, I thought, well, I’ve been really lucky to see many, many places. Now, the great adventure is the inner world, now that I’ve spent a lot of time gathering emotions, impressions, and experiences. Now, I just want to sit still for years on end, really, charting that inner landscape because I think anybody who travels knows that you’re not really doing so in order to move around—you’re traveling in order to be moved. And really what you’re seeing is not just the Grand Canyon or the Great Wall but some moods or intimations or places inside yourself that you never ordinarily see when you’re sleepwalking through your daily life. I thought, there’s this great undiscovered terrain that Henry David Thoreau and Thomas Merton and Emily Dickinson fearlessly investigated, and I want to follow in their footsteps.

If you want your loved ones to be happy, you must learn to understand their sufferings and their aspirations. When you understand, you will know how to relieve their sufferings and how to help them fulfill their aspirations. That is true love. If you only want your loved ones to follow your own ideas and you remain ignorant of their needs, it is not truly love. It is only a desire to possess another and attempt to fulfill your own needs, which cannot be fulfilled in that way.

I didn’t go to the moon, I went much further — for time is the longest distance between two places. Not long after that I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoe-box. I left Saint Louis. I descended the steps of this fire escape for a last time and followed, from then on, in my father’s footsteps, attempting to find in motion what was lost in space. I traveled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of colored glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colors, like bits of a shattered rainbow. Then all at once my sister touches my shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes. Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be! I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger — anything that can blow your candles out! For nowadays the world is lit by lightning! Blow out your candles, Laura — and so goodbye. . .

The desirable thing is to possess sufficient Individuality and Initiative to be your own bellwether – to be a law unto yourself, so far as other men are concerned. The great men – the strong men – care nothing for the flock, which so obediently trots along after them. They derive no satisfaction from this thing, which pleases only inferior minds, and gratifies only petty natures and ambitions. The big men – the great spirits of all ages – have derived more satisfaction from that inward conviction of strength and ability which they felt unfolding into activity within themselves, than in the plaudits of the mob, or in the servility of those imitative creatures who sought to follow in their footsteps.

What you believe and practice throuhout your life becomes you. If you practice Love, Peace, Kindness and Goodness throughout your years...so shall your life follow in your footsteps.

I followed, realizing with a start that my footsteps made no sound on the tile floor, or the marble stairs. It was instantly disorienting, like trying to talk when your ears are stuffed.

The two of us were different. Right from the start, and in every way. Passion that could tear the whole world down around us. Love that would not be ignored or denied. Devotion that would last beyond a lifetime. These would be our legacy – our gifts to the ones who would follow in our footsteps. It would be scored on their bones and branded on their souls. We just didn’t know it then. Every dynasty has a beginning. Every legend starts with a story. This is ours.

But the waves kept moving, with the white wake of the ship traced in them for an instant, and then smoothed over by the water. And it was as if my own footsteps were being erased behind me, the footsteps I’d made as a child on the beaches and pathways of the land I’d left, and the footsteps I’d made on this side of the ocean, since coming here; all the traces of me, smoothed over and rubbed away as if they had never been, like polishing the black tarnish from the silver, or drawing your hand across dry sand. On the edge of sleep I thought: It’s as if I never existed, because no trace of me remains, I have left no marks. And that way I cannot be followed. It is almost the same as being innocent. And then I slept.

Cordelia!" She staggered to a stop and slowly turned as her father's voice reverberated around the room. "You just accused your brothers of trying to commit murder." "No, Father. From this day forward, Cameron is the only brother I have. If you allow these two to remain in your home after what I have just told you, then I also have no father." "You're as high-spirited and stubborn as your mother. I warned Leigh that he needed to keep a tight rein on you, but he wouldn't listen." "Dallas isn't one to follow in other men's footsteps. Giving him permission to marry me was the finest gift you could have ever given me.

Me?” Lucien put a hand on his chest. “By the Cauldron, Tam—there isn’t much time, and you’re just sulking and glowering. You’re not even trying to fake it anymore.” My brows rose. Tamlin turned away but whirled back a moment later, his teeth bared. “It was a mistake from the start. I can’t stomach it, not after what my father did to their kind, to their lands. I won’t follow in his footsteps—won’t be that sort of person. So back off.

When you first became a father, you assumed your child was an extension of yourself. He gave you pride, and a sense of achievement and rootedness, until you came to realize, little by little, that a child was a being of his own making. He would keep to his own destiny, no matter how much you wished, prompted or forced him to follow in your footsteps.

You are always someone’s example. Someone is always trying to follow in your footsteps. What will you leave them that is behind you?

You are on the footsteps of whom you follow. As you have to be cautious when you choose your friends, you have to be cautious when you choose who to follow on social media

Hinges squeaked from the back of the house, followed by thumping footsteps and Winter's dreamy voice flowing through the house's narrow halls. "But I will have a chance to milk her before we go? I've never milked a cow before. I think I'd be good at it." "Of course you would," Jacin said with a chuckle. "She'll stare at you dumbfounded the whole time like all the other animals that fall under your spell." "What spell?" said Winter, knocking her shoulder into Jacin as they rounded the base of the stairway. "I'm not a hypnotist." "Are you sure?

If you really want to be happy, to show everyone Christ’s life, you have to live it yourself. You need to pave your own path, follow in the footsteps God has laid out for you already.

Colored like a sunset tide is a gaze sharply slicing through the reflective glass. A furrowed brow is set much too seriously, as if trying to unfold the pieces of the face that stared back at it. One eyebrow is raised skeptically, always calculating and analyzing its surroundings. I tilt my head trying to see the deeper meaning in my features, trying to imagine the connection between my looks and my character as I stare in the mirror for the required five minutes. From the dark brown hair fastened tightly in a bun, a curl as bright as woven gold comes loose. A flash of unruly hair prominent through the typical browns is like my temper; always there, but not always visible. I begin to grow frustrated with the girl in the mirror, and she cocks her hip as if mocking me. In a moment, her lips curve in a half smile, not quite detectable in sight but rather in feeling, like the sensation of something good just around the corner. A chin was set high in a stubborn fashion, symbolizing either persistence or complete adamancy. Shoulders are held stiff like ancient mountains, proud but slightly arrogant. The image watches with the misty eyes of a daydreamer, glazed over with a sort of trance as if in the middle of a reverie, or a vision. Every once and a while, her true fears surface in those eyes, terror that her life would amount to nothing, that her work would have no impact. Words written are meant to be read, and sometimes I worry that my thoughts and ideas will be lost with time. My dream is to be an author, to be immortalized in print and live forever in the minds of avid readers. I want to access the power in being able to shape the minds of the young and open, and alter the minds of the old and resolute. Imagine the power in living forever, and passing on your ideas through generations. With each new reader, a new layer of meaning is uncovered in writing, meaning that even the author may not have seen. In the mirror, I see a girl that wants to change the world, and change the way people think and reason. Reflection and image mean nothing, for the girl in the mirror is more than a one dimensional picture. She is someone who has followed my footsteps with every lesson learned, and every mistake made. She has been there to help me find a foothold in the world, and to catch me when I fall. As the lights blink out, obscuring her face, I realize that although that image is one that will puzzle me in years to come, she and I aren’t so different after all.

You are not your father," I say, holding his gaze with my own. "You're Anded. You don't have to follow in his footsteps; you have your own. You're the Elector now. You don't have to be like him.

I know you're learning how to follow in your father's footsteps, and that's good, but when was the last time you went outside the castle walls? With someone other than this staff? A good queen knows herself inside and out, and you are too inside your head. The only way you can understand the people you serve is to get to know them. Enjoy their company. Hear their stories. In the process you might figure out what you enjoy, as well, when you're not focused on your studies and your future.

Even when I was a boy I could never walk in a wood without feeling that at any moment I might find before me somebody or something I had long looked for without knowing what I looked for. And now I will at times explore every little nook of some poor coppice with almost anxious footsteps, so deep a hold has this imagination upon me. You too meet with a like imagination, doubtless, somewhere, wherever your ruling stars will have it, Saturn driving you to the woods, or the Moon, it may be, to the edges of the sea. I will not of a certainty believe that there is nothing in the sunset, where our forefathers imagined the dead following their shepherd the sun, or nothing but some vague presence as little moving as nothing. If beauty is not a gateway out of the net we were taken in at our birth, it will not long be beauty, and we will find it better to sit at home by the fire and fatten a lazy body or to run hither and thither in some foolish sport than to look at the finest show that light and shadow ever made among green leaves. I say to myself, when I am well out of that thicket of argument, that they are surely there, the divine people, for only we who have neither simplicity nor wisdom have denied them, and the simple of all times and the wise men of ancient times have seen them and even spoken to them.

What is today’s date? Who is the President? How great a danger do you pose, on a scale of one to ten? What does “people who live in glass houses” mean? Every symphony is a suicide postponed, true or false? Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche? Name five rivers. What do you see yourself doing in ten minutes? How about some lovely soft Thorazine music? If you could have half an hour with your father, what would you say to him? What should you do if I fall asleep? Are you still following in his mastodon footsteps? What is the moral of “Mary Had a Little Lamb”? What about his Everest shadow? Would you compare your education to a disease so rare no one else has ever had it, or the deliberate extermination of indigenous populations? Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absence? Should an odd number be sacrificed to the gods of the sky, and an even to those of the underworld, or vice versa? Would you visit a country where nobody talks? What would you have done differently? Why are you here?

You must make your own map of the world. Search out your own piece of sky and patch of earth, your own awning to sleep under when it is raining and it feels the sun may never shine again, for there will certainly be such days. No one can walk this path for you. You cannot simply follow in another's footsteps, as though life were a complicated dance, every turn and twist memorized and prepared for ahead of time. There are many things in the world you can inherit: money, land, power, a crown. But an adventure is not one of them; you must make your own journey.

Do not fear the ghosts in this house; they are the least of your worries. Personally I find the noises they make reassuring. The creaks and footsteps in the night, their little tricks of hiding things, or moving them, I find endearing, not upsettling. It makes the place feel so much more like a home. Inhabited. Apart from ghosts nothing lives here for long. No cats no mice, no flies, no dreams, no bats. Two days ago I saw a butterfly, a monarch I believe, which danced from room to room and perched on walls and waited near to me. There are no flowers in this empty place, and, scared the butterfly would starve, I forced a window wide, cupped my two hands around her fluttering self, feeling her wings kiss my palms so gentle, and put her out, and watched her fly away. I've little patience with the seasons here, but your arrival eased this winter's chill. Please, wander round. Explore it all you wish. I've broken with tradition on some points. If there is one locked room here, you'll never know. You'll not find in the cellar's fireplace old bones or hair. You'll find no blood. Regard: just tools, a washing-machine, a drier, a water-heater, and a chain of keys. Nothing that can alarm you. Nothing dark. I may be grim, perhaps, but only just as grim as any man who suffered such affairs. Misfortune, carelessness or pain, what matters is the loss. You'll see the heartbreak linger in my eyes, and dream of making me forget what came before you walked into the hallway of this house. Bringing a little summer in your glance, and with your smile. While you are here, of course, you will hear the ghosts, always a room away, and you may wake beside me in the night, knowing that there's a space without a door, knowing that there's a place that's locked but isn't there. Hearing them scuffle, echo, thump and pound. If you are wise you'll run into the night, fluttering away into the cold, wearing perhaps the laciest of shifts. The lane's hard flints will cut your feet all bloody as you run, so, if I wished, I could just follow you, tasting the blood and oceans of your tears. I'll wait instead, here in my private place, and soon I'll put a candle in the window, love, to light your way back home. The world flutters like insects. I think this is how I shall remember you, my head between the white swell of your breasts, listening to the chambers of your heart.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came into it. I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, they threw no shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes, that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain, but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all three laughed, such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of waterglasses when played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her on. One said, “Go on! You are first, and we shall follow. Yours is the right to begin.” The other added, “He is young and strong. There are kisses for us all.” I lay quiet, looking out from under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood. I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in languorous ecstasy and waited, waited with beating heart.

You see, there is one thing I learned from following in Papa Sevier’s footsteps as I grew up. Life is not unlike cinema. Each scene has its own music, and the music is created for the scene, woven to it in ways we do not understand. No matter how much we may love the melody of a bygone day or imagine the song of a future one, we must dance within the music of today,

Tomorrow is just as real a thing as yesterday. So is day after next, and the rest of them. Because you cannot see the future, it does not follow that it is not there. Your own path may vary widely, but the piece of country you are to travel is solid and real. We have been most erroneously taught not to think of the future; to live only in the present: and at the same time we have been taught to guide our lives by an ideal of the remotest possible future - a postmortem eternity. Between the contradictory ideals of this paradox, most of us drag along, forced by the exigencies of business to consider some future, but ignoring most of it. A single human life is short enough to be well within range of anybody's mind. Allow for it eighty years: if you don't have eight you are that much in - so much less to plan for. Sit down wherever you happen to be; under twenty, over fifty, anywhere on the road; lift your eyes from your footsteps, and "look before and after." Look back, see the remarkable wiggling sort of path you have made; see the places where you made no progress at all, but simply tramped up and down without taking a step. Ask yourself: "If I had thought about what I should be feeling toady, would I have behaved as I did then?" Quite probably not. But why not? Why not, in deciding on own's path and gait at a given moment, consider that inevitable advancing future? Come it will; but how it comes, what it is, depends on us. Then look ahead; not merely just before your nose, but way ahead. It is a good and wholesome thing to plan out one's whole life; as one thinks it is likely to be; as one desires it should be; and then act accordingly. Suppose you are about twenty-five. Consider a number of persons of fifty or sixty, and how they look. Do you want to look like that? What sort of a body do you want at fifty? It is in your hands to make. In health, in character, in business, in friendship, in love, in happiness; your future is very largely yours to make. Then why not make it? Suppose you are thirty, forty, fifty, sixty. So long as you have a year before you it is worth while to consider it in advance. Live as a whole, not in disconnected fractions.

The road is long in every direction. Whether you follow someone else's footsteps or blaze your own trail, the road is still long. Walk the one that is howling for you. Go now. It is never too late. Even if you must turn around and go back the way you came, you cannot go backwards. The path will not look the same walking north as it did walking south. You will not be the same person facing the sunset as you were turning your back to it. Go now. Find your magic. Live. Rise.

Footsteps from the stairwell startle him out of the past. He turns around as Emma's mother takes the last step into the dining area, Emma right behind her. Mrs. McIntosh glides over and puts her arm around him. The smile on her face is genuine, but Emma's smile is more like a straight line. And she's blushing. "Galen, it's very nice to meet you," she says, ushering him into the kitchen. "Emma tells me you're taking her to the beach behind your house today. To swim?" "Yes, ma'am." Her transformation makes him wary. She smiles. "Well, good luck with getting her in the water. Since I'm a little pressed for time, I can't follow you over there, so I just need to see your driver's license while Emma runs outside to get your plate number." Emma rolls her eyes as she shuffles through a drawer and pulls out a pen and paper. She slams the door behind her when she leaves, which shakes the dishes on the wall. Galen nods, pulls out his wallet, and hands over the fake license. Mrs. McIntosh studies it and rummages through her purse until she produces a pen-which she uses to write on her hand. “Just need your license number in case we ever have any problems. But we’re not going to have any problems, are we, Galen? Because you’ll always have my daughter-my only daughter-home on time, isn’t that right?” He nods, then swallows. She holds out his license. When he accepts it, she grabs his wrist, pulling him close. She glances at the garage door and back to him. “Tell me right now, Galen Forza. Are you or are you not dating my daughter?” Great. She still doesn’t believe Emma. If she won’t believe them anyway, why keep trying to convince her? If she thinks they’re dating, the time he intends to spend with Emma will seem normal. But if they spend time together and tell her they’re not dating, she’ll be nothing but suspicious. Possibly even spy on them-which is less than ideal. So, dating Emma is the only way to make sure she mates with Grom. Things just get better and better. “Yes,” he says. “We’re definitely dating.” She narrows her eyes. “Why would she tell me you’re not?” He shrugs. “Maybe she’s ashamed of me.” To his surprise, she chuckles. “I seriously doubt that, Galen Forza.” Her humor is short lived. She grabs a fistful of his T-shirt. “Are you sleeping with her?” Sleeping…Didn’t Rachel say sleeping and mating are the same thing? Dating and mating are similar. But sleeping and mating are the same exact same. He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.” She raises a no-nonsense brow. “Why not? What’s wrong with my daughter?” That is unexpected. He suspects this woman can sense a lie like Toraf can track Rayna. All she’s looking for is honesty, but the real truth would just get him arrested. I’m crazy about your daughter-I’m just saving her for my brother. So he seasons his answer with the frankness she seems to crave. “There’s nothing wrong with your daughter, Mrs. McIntosh. I said we’re not sleeping together. I didn’t say I didn’t want to.” She inhales sharply and releases him. Clearing her throat, she smoothes out his wrinkled shirt with her hand, then pats his chest. “Good answer, Galen. Good answer.” Emma flings open the garage door and stops short. “Mom, what are you doing?” Mrs. McIntosh steps away and stalks to the counter. “Galen and I were just chitchatting. What took you so long?” Galen guesses her ability to sense a lie probably has something to do with her ability to tell one. Emma shoots him a quizzical look, but he returns a casual shrug. Her mother grabs a set of keys from a hook by the refrigerator and nudges her daughter out of the way, but not before snatching the paper out of her hand.

For those familiar with the early history of the Christian church—and for careful observers of young and vibrant Christian communities in the non-Western world—there is something odd about the present sense of crisis in the West. The early Christian communities were not major social players at all! They were not even among the cheering or booing spectators. Slandered, discriminated against, and even persecuted minorities, they were at most a bit of a thorn in society’s flesh. Yet, notwithstanding their marginality, early Christian communities celebrated hope in God and proclaimed joyfully the resurrected Lord as they endeavored to walk in the footsteps of the crucified Messiah. It was he who taught them, Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil things against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. (Matt. 5:10–11)

Following in Tim’s footsteps, one of my students in the Managing at Apple class said that he tried to make sure to spend at least ten minutes in every one-on-one meeting listening silently, without reacting in any way. He would keep his facial expression and body language totally neutral. “What did you learn in that ten minutes that you didn’t learn the other fifty?” I asked. “I heard the things I didn’t want to hear,” my student said, validating Tim’s technique. “If I gave any reaction at all, people would often tell me what they thought I wanted to hear. I found that they were much more likely to say what they really thought—even if it wasn’t what I was hoping to hear—when I was careful not to show what I thought.

AMONG TODAY’S CONSERVATIVE “Luntzspeak” practitioners, few have the lingo down better than the honorable James Inhofe, senator from Oklahoma. Recall from the previous chapter Luntz’s advice for tor from Oklahoma. Recall from the previous chapter Luntz’s advice for dealing with the issue of global warming, which includes the following precepts: (1) emphasize your commitment to “sound science”; (2) seize the remaining “window of opportunity” to challenge and dispute the scientific consensus; and (3) find experts “sympathetic to your view” and make them “part of your message.” It’s a cunning strategy, provided that you are not ashamed of following in the footsteps of the tobacco industry, and Inhofe doesn’t appear to have much shame.

The Tired Ramblings Okay so you’re out the gates and in the race and you get an education and a job and a wife and a kid and you drink and you eat and you make love when you can sometimes more than you can and you consume things like your lover and a cigarette and a drink and a bite to eat before you go to sleep and then wake up and do it again because you can and you will and that’s what’s expected of you just like they expected it of your father and his father before him and one day they’ll expect it from your kids too and then their kids will follow your over trodden footsteps into the office and get a cup of coffee and talk by the water cooler about what movies they saw last night. You need to slow down. There is more than this.

She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened; it was himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, and standing with his back towards Mrs. Musgrove, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a moment, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of his being in it - the work of an instant! The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction hardily legible, to 'Miss A.E. - ,' was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her! On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her! Any thing was possible, any thing might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words: 'I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own, than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. - Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.' 'I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.

You men that be known from these others by your Christian profession. Take heed, you bear in mind the piety you owe unto your country and unto your fellow countrymen, whose slaughter by the treachery of the Payneham shall be unto your disgrace everlasting. Unless you press hardily forward to defend them. Fight therefore for your country, and if it be that death overtake you, suffer it willingly for your country’s sake. For death itself is victory, and a healing unto the soul. In as much as he that shall have died for his brethren offers himself as a living sacrifice unto God, nor is it doubtful that herein he follows in the footsteps of Christ, who distained not to lay down his own soul for his breatharian. Who therefore amongst you shall be slain in this battle, unto him shall that death be as full penance and absolution of all his sins, if so be he receive it willingly on this way.

Stand firmly rooted in your convictions, and eventually the whole world will come around to you. In 1838, Emerson delivered a lecture to the senior class of Harvard Divinity School. He had been a student there, himself, ten years earlier. Following in his father’s footsteps, Emerson was ordained as junior pastor at Boston’s Second Church in 1829. But just three years later, he resigned his position because he could no longer repeat the prayers and rituals of the past. “To be a good minister,” he wrote in his journal, “I must leave the ministry. The profession is antiquated. We worship the dead forms of our forefathers.”  Emerson sought new insights, new revelations, and new words to express them. The “Divinity School Address” is an invitation for others to join him. It challenged religious orthodoxy, scandalized some in his audience, and was condemned by church leaders—including the college dean. Emerson wasn’t invited back to Harvard for the next thirty years.

SYNCHRONICITY 'The earth is alive, and it feels with you. It follows your footsteps, your search, with equal anxiety, because it will be transfigured in your triumph. The end of Kaliyuga and the entry into a new Golden Age depend on the results of your war. The earth by itself cannot finish the work that Nature leaves incomplete. Today the earth has joined forces with man in his destructive passion. The great catastrophe will occur in the first years of the Age of Aquarius. But if you can find the entrance to the Invisible Double of this earth, fulfilling the mystery of 'loveless A-Mor', the volcanoes will become calm, the earthquake will cease and the catastrophe will be avoided. 'There is an essential 'synchronicity' between the soul and the landscape. What you achieve in yourself will have repercussions in even the remotest corner of the universe, like the ringing of a bell which announces a triumph or a defeat, producing irreversible effects in a secret centre where Destiny acts. The Archetype is indivisible and, if you once confront it in an essential manner, the effects are universal and valid for all eternity. The old Chinese saying expresses it well: 'If a man, sitting in his room, thinks the right thoughts, he will be heard thousands of leagues away.' And the alchemical saying, too: 'It doesn't matter how alone you are. If you do true work, unknown friends will come to your aid.' 'What I have called "synchronicity', Nietzsche called 'lucky occurrences filled with meaning'. It becomes a poetic dialogue, a concerto for two violins, between the man-magician and Nature. The world presents you with a 'lucky occurrence filled with meaning', it hands you a subtle, almost secret message, something which happens without apparent reason, a-causal, but which you feel is full of meaning. This being exactly what the world is looking for, that you should extract that meaning from it, which you alone are capable of seeing, because it 'synchronises', it fully coincides with your immediate state of mind, with an event in your life, so that it is able to transform itself, with your assistance, into legend and destiny. A lucky occurrence which transformed itself into Destiny. And once you have achieved this, everything will appear to become the same as before, as if nothing had happened. Nevertheless, everything has changed fundamentally and for all time, although the only ones to know it will be you and the earth — which is now your earth, your world, since it has given itself up to you so that you can make it fruitful. 'The earth has made itself invisible inside you', as Rilke would say, it has become an individualised universe inside you. And although perhaps nothing may have changed, 'it might seem as if it were so, it might seem as if it were so', to use your own words. And you will be a creative God of the world; because you have conceived a Non-Existent Flower. You have given a meaning to your flower.

A rattle of dishes warned of a servant’s entry into the hall, but Christopher was incensed, and half turning with a growl, he gestured Paine back. “Get out of here, man!” “Christopher!” Erienne gasped and took two halting steps to follow the befuddled servant, but Christopher came around to face her with a glare. “Stay where you are, madam! I am not finished with you.” “You have no right to give orders here,” she protested, her own ire growing. “This is my husband’s house!” “I’ll give orders when and where I damn well please, and for once, you will stand and listen until I’m through!” More than a trifle outraged herself, Erienne hurled back her answer. “You may command the men on your ship to your will, Mister Seton, but you have no such authority here! Good day to you!” Catching up her skirts, she whirled and stalked toward the tower until she heard the sound of rapid footsteps coming behind her, then a sudden panic seized her that he would make such a scene that she would not be able to face the servants… or her husband. She raced into the entry, stepping over the puddle, and took to the stairs, forcing every bit of strength she could into her limbs. She had barely gained the fourth step when she heard sliding feet, a loud thump, and then a painful grunt followed by an angry curse. When she whirled, Christopher was just coming to rest in a heap against the wall after sliding across the floor, partway on his back. For a moment she stared aghast at the dignified man sprawled in a most undignified manner, but when he raised his head to look at her with barely contained rage, she was struck by the humor of it all. Bubbling laughter broke forth, winning from him a dark scowl of exasperation. “Are you hurt, Christopher?” she asked sweetly. “Aye! My pride has been mightily bruised!” “Oh, that will mend, sir,” she chuckled, spreading her skirts to perch primly on the step above him. Her eyes danced with a lively light that was simply dazzling to behold. “But you should take care. If such a modest spot of water can bring you down so abruptly, I would not advise sailing beyond these shores.” “ ’Tis not a spot of water that’s brought me down, but a waspish wench who sets her barbs against me at every turn.” “You dare accuse me when you come in here huffing and snorting like a raging bull?” She gave a throaty, skeptical laugh. “Really, Christopher, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You frightened Paine and nearly made me swallow my heart.” “That’s an impossibility, madam, for that thing is surely made of cold, hard steel.” “You’re pouting,” she chided flippantly, “because I have not fallen swooning at your feet.” “I’m angry because you continually deny the fact that you should be my wife!” he stated emphatically. Footsteps on the stairs behind Erienne made them glance up. Aggie came nonchalantly down the steps, seeming unaware of Christopher’s storm-dark frown. Excusing herself, she stepped past her mistress. Finally, on reaching level footing, she contemplated the man, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “Aren’t ye a wee bit old ter be takin’ yer leisure on the floor, sir?” He raised a brow at Erienne as that one smothered a giggle, and with a snort, got to his feet and brushed off his breeches and coatsleeve. -Christopher, Erienne, and Aggie

Hannah tells me you’re an archeologist,” she said. “Drew’s father has followed in your footsteps. He spent the whole summer in France, excavating a Roman ruin.” A spark of mischief flared in Andrew’s eyes. “Why, it could be the other way around,” he said. “Perhaps I got the idea from him.” Hannah gave Andrew a sharp poke with her cane. Luckily, Aunt Blythe didn’t notice that either. “You have the oddest sense of humor,” she said to Andrew. “It’s a pity you spent most of your life overseas. I’m sure I would have enjoyed knowing you.” To escape his sister’s reach, Andrew shifted his position. “It’s strange,” he said to my aunt, “but I feel like I do know you.” “Isn’t that funny?” Aunt Blythe stared at him. “Even though I’ve never set eyes on you before, I feel the same way.” With a little guidance from Hannah, the conversation changed to Andrew’s years in South America. For at least an hour he entertained us with his adventures, which Hannah claimed were highly exaggerated. “He never tells a story the same way twice,” she told me. “You wouldn’t believe how much more exciting they’ve gotten since the first time I heard them.

Hang on,” Keefe interrupted, sliding off his bed and tiptoeing across his room. He paused near the door, pressing his finger to his lips in the universal shhhhh sign before he grabbed the handle and shoved his shoulder against the wood as hard as he could. A startled yelp echoed from the hallway, followed by a thud that could only be the sound of a body hitting the floor. “You have ten seconds before I let Ro unleash some of her new little bacteria buddies on you,” Keefe warned as he slammed the door hard enough to rattle the wall. “I hear they leave a gnarly rash!” He waited until the sound of footsteps had retreated down the hall before he turned back to Sophie and lowered his voice. “That won’t keep him away for long, so better spill it quick, Foster. Tell me why you have that cute little crease between your eyebrows. And why I’m feeling”—he waved his hands through the air—“hmm. Feels like the usual mix of worry, anger, and panic—though there’s something underneath that’s a little… I can’t figure out how to describe it. Fluttery?” “Oooh, let’s focus on that one!” Ro jumped in. “It’ll be much more interesting than all the blah-blah-blah-the-Neverseen-are-trying-to-kill-everybody-blah-blah.

On the insides of my eyelids I could see the water moving, the blue heaps of the waves as we came across the Lake, with the light sparkling on them; only they were much bigger waves, and darker, like rolling hills; and they were the waves of the ocean which I had voyaged across three years before, though it seemed like a century. And I wondered what would become of me, and comforted myself that in a hundred years I would be dead and at peace, and in my grave; and I thought it might be less trouble altogether, to be in it a good deal sooner than that. But the waves kept moving, with the white wake of the ship traced in them for an instant, and then smoothed over by the water. And it was as if my own footsteps were being erased behind me, the footsteps I’d made as a child on the beaches and pathways of the land I’d left, and the footsteps I’d made on this side of the ocean, since coming here; all the traces of me, smoothed over and rubbed away as if they had never been, like polishing the black tarnish from the silver, or drawing your hand across dry sand. On the edge of sleep I thought: It’s as if I never existed, because no trace of me remains, I have left no marks. And that way I cannot be followed. It is almost the same as being innocent.

We, therefore, pray to the most kind Father through you, his only-begotten Son, who for us became man, was crucified and glorified, that he send us out of his treasures the Spirit of sevenfold grace who rested upon you in all fullness: the Spirit, I say, of WISDOM, that we may taste the life-giving flavors of the fruit of the tree of life, which you truly are; the gift also of UNDERSTANDING, by which the intentions of our mind are illumined; the gift of COUNSEL, by which we may follow in your footsteps on the right paths; the gift of FORTITUDE, by which we may be able to weaken the violence of our enemies’ attacks; the gift of KNOWLEDGE, by which we may be filled with the brilliant light of your sacred teaching to distinguish good and evil; the gift of PIETY, by which we may acqire a merciful heart; the gift of FEAR, by which we may draw away from all evil and be set at peace by submitting in awe to your eternal majesty. for you have wished that we ask for these things in that sacred prayer which you have taught us; and now we ask to obtain them, through your cross, for the praise of your most holy name. to you, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, thanksgiving, beauty and power, forever and ever. Amen. -From Prayer “To Obtain the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit” included at the closing The Tree of Life

memoir A Ride in the Neon Sun. Here’s what she says about traveling: Some people travel with firm ideas for a journey, following in the footsteps of an intrepid ancestor whose exotic exploits were happened upon in a dusty, cobweb-laced attic containing immovable trunks full of sepia-curled daguerreotypes and age-discoloured letters redolent of bygone days. Others travel for anthropological, botanical, archaeological, geological, and other logical reasons. Some are smitten by a specific country brewed from childhood dreams. For others, travel is a challenge, a release, an escape, a shaking off of the shackles, and even if they don’t know where they will end up they usually know where they will begin. The very hardest part of writing this book was that I was unable to stop working on it. I kept reading even after the initial manuscript was turned in, discovering new titles and authors whose works I just couldn’t bear to leave out. I even envisioned myself watching the book being printed and shouting periodically, “Stop the presses!” so that I could add yet another section or title. But of course the day actually came when I knew I had to stop or there would never be an end to the project.And here is the result, in your hands right now. So, before your next trip—either virtual or actual—grab a pen and begin making notes about the titles that sound good to you. And enjoy the journeys. I’d love to hear from you. My email address is nancy@nancypearl .com.

We lived in a safe, family-friendly area, but parts of London were rough, as you’d expect from any large city. Mark had a knack for attracting muggers. One time, we were in a train station and a little kid--no more than about eight years old--came up to him: “Oi, mate, give me your phone.” We always carried the cool Nokia phones with the Snake game on them, and they were the hot item. It was like inviting trouble carrying one around, but we didn’t care. Mark thought the mini-mugger was crazy: “Are you kidding me? No way.” Then he looked over his shoulder and realized the kid wasn’t alone; he had a whole gang with him. So Mark handed over his phone and the kid ran off. I never let him live down the fact that an eight-year-old had mugged him. I had my own incident as well, but I handled it a little differently. I got off the train at Herne Hill station and noticed that two guys were following me. I could hear their footsteps getting closer and closer. “Give us your backpack,” they threatened me. “Why? All I have is my homework in here,” I tried to reason with them. They had seen me on the train with my minidisc player and they knew I was holding out on them. “Give it,” they threatened. My bag was covered with key chains and buttons, and as I took it off my shoulder, pretending to give it to them, I swung it hard in their faces. All that hardware knocked one of them to the ground and stunned the other. With my bag in my hand, I ran the mile home without ever looking back. Not bad for a skinny kid in a school uniform.

You will promote harmony in your words and actions. You will not compete with other leaders or compare to them. You will work together with others to make meaningful changes. You will not measure success in numbers: dollars, followers, ranks, sales, reviews, Facebook likes. Rather, you will measure by people helped, connections made, and moments savoured. You will help people accept themselves by being real with them. You will not show up on the pulpit for attention or approval. You will show up because you have something important to say. You will build tribes instead of cults. You will see your followers as equals. You will learn with them, and they will trust you. And there is nothing like the trust of people who resonate with your most authentic, vulnerable self to push you, every day, to do your best. It will hold you to a higher standard of behaviour. As a self-aware leader, you can be honest. This is the missing element in so many ineffective and addictive doctrines. You can tell people the things that are true but hard to hear. Not everyone will be brave enough to sidestep idealism, but those who do will appreciate your honesty. If you do not describe the darkness and the light, the voyager who has followed in your footsteps will believe he is lost. He will blame himself or blame you for teaching him lies. By being honest about what the journey looks like—failures, warts, and all—your teachings will become sources of consolation rather than frustration. As that voyager travels down the crooked, lonely paths within him, he may find a dark, terrifying cave, but if you mentioned it, he will feel elated. Yes, he will think, it looks horrifying, but at least I’m on track if I’ve found this awful thing. Your honesty may be bitter medicine, but when it digests, it’ll provide such potent healing that its taste will become a distant memory.

A few years back, I had a long session with a psychiatrist who was conducting a study on post-traumatic stress disorder and its effects on reporters working in war zones. At one point, he asked me: “How many bodies have you seen in your lifetime?” Without thinking for too long, I replied: “I’m not sure exactly. I've seen quite a few mass graves in Africa and Bosnia, and I saw a well crammed full of corpses in East Timor, oh and then there was Rwanda and Goma...” After a short pause, he said to me calmly: “Do you think that's a normal response to that question?” He was right. It wasn't a normal response. Over the course of their lifetime, most people see the bodies of their parents, maybe their grandparents at a push. Nobody else would have responded to that question like I did. Apart from my fellow war reporters, of course. When I met Marco Lupis nearly twenty years ago, in September 1999, we were stood watching (fighting the natural urge to divert our gaze) as pale, maggot-ridden corpses, decomposed beyond recognition, were being dragged out of the well in East Timor. Naked bodies shorn of all dignity. When Marco wrote to ask me to write the foreword to this book and relive the experiences we shared together in Dili, I agreed without giving it a second thought because I understood that he too was struggling for normal responses. That he was hoping he would find some by writing this book. While reading it, I could see that Marco shares my obsession with understanding the world, my compulsion to recount the horrors I have seen and witnessed, and my need to overcome them and leave them behind. He wants to bring sense to the apparently senseless. Books like this are important. Books written by people who have done jobs like ours. It's not just about conveying - be it in the papers, on TV or on the radio - the atrocities committed by the very worst of humankind as they are happening; it’s about ensuring these atrocities are never forgotten. Because all too often, unforgivably, the people responsible go unpunished. And the thing they rely on most for their impunity is that, with the passing of time, people simply forget. There is a steady flow of information as we are bombarded every day with news of the latest massacre, terrorist attack or humanitarian crisis. The things that moved or outraged us yesterday are soon forgotten, washed away by today's tidal wave of fresh events. Instead they become a part of history, and as such should not be forgotten so quickly. When I read Marco's book, I discovered that the people who murdered our colleague Sander Thoenes in Dili, while he was simply doing his job like the rest of us, are still at large to this day. I read the thoughts and hopes of Ingrid Betancourt just twenty-four hours before she was abducted and taken to the depths of the Colombian jungle, where she would remain captive for six long years. I read that we know little or nothing about those responsible for the Cambodian genocide, whose millions of victims remain to this day without peace or justice. I learned these things because the written word cannot be destroyed. A written account of abuse, terror, violence or murder can be used to identify the perpetrators and bring them to justice, even though this can be an extremely drawn-out process during and after times of war. It still torments me, for example, that so many Bosnian women who were raped have never got justice and every day face the prospect of their assailants passing them on the street. But if I follow in Marco's footsteps and write down the things I have witnessed in a book, people will no longer be able to plead ignorance. That is why we need books like this one.

Hearing God is not a real sound or voice. It is illusion because when you convince yourself that there is God, unintentionally you will interpret that everything is done by God. It is a psychological feeling, nothing more! All the religions' teachings and Holy Books, who wrote them? If your answer is God, how can you prove that? If you claim they are part of history, then history is written by men. If the answer is these Holy Books were not written by God, that means they were written by people like me and you. I don't want to follow others' beliefs and footsteps. If the Holy Books were written once, they were and still are subject to modification and addition! I don't want to follow others’ thoughts, ideas, and the way they perceive things. In all religions there are verses that say that men are dominant over women. God is not male or man; it is obvious that those verses were written through men for the benefit of men, In order to control and repress women. If you tell me I misinterpret these verses, the verses are very clear and to the point.

MORE FROM GOD’S WORD I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, love the Lord your God, obey Him, and remain faithful to Him. For He is your life, and He will prolong your life in the land the Lord swore to give to your fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Deuteronomy 30:19-20 HCSB Ignorant zeal is worthless; haste makes waste. Proverbs 19:2 MSG But Daniel purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself…. Daniel 1:8 KJV But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be provided for you. Matthew 6:33 HCSB Above all and before all, do this: Get Wisdom! Write this at the top of your list: Get Understanding! Proverbs 4:7 MSG The wise people will shine like the brightness of the sky. Those who teach others to live right will shine like stars forever and ever. Daniel 12:3 NCV SHADES OF GRACE The Gospel is not so much a demand as it is an offer, an offer of new life to man by the grace of God. E. Stanley Jones A PRAYER FOR TODAY Dear Lord, today I will focus my thoughts on Your will for my life. I will strive to make decisions that are pleasing to You, and I will strive to follow in the footsteps of Your Son. Amen

MORE FROM GOD’S WORD Worship the Lord your God and … serve Him only. Matthew 4:10 HCSB A person should consider us in this way: as servants of Christ and managers of God’s mysteries. In this regard, it is expected of managers that each one be found faithful. 1 Corinthians 4:1-2 HCSB If they serve Him obediently, they will end their days in prosperity and their years in happiness. Job 36:11 HCSB We must do the works of Him who sent Me while it is day. Night is coming when no one can work. John 9:4 HCSB Serve the Lord with gladness. Psalm 100:2 HCSB The greatest among you will be your servant. For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted. Matthew 23:11-12 NIV Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Romans 12:11 NIV SHADES OF GRACE Kindness in this world will do much to help others, not only to come into the light, but also to grow in grace day by day. Fanny Crosby A PRAYER FOR TODAY Dear Lord, in weak moments, I seek to build myself up by placing myself ahead of others. But Your commandment, Father, is that I become a humble servant to those who need my encouragement, my help, and my love. Create in me a servant’s heart. And, let me be a woman who follows in the footsteps of Your Son Jesus who taught us by example that to be great in Your eyes, Lord, is to serve others humbly, faithfully, and lovingly. Amen

OTHERS WILL FOLLOW YOUR FOOTSTEPS MORE EASILY THAN THEY WILL FOLLOW YOUR ADVICE.

POEMS by Rainer Maria Rilke (Rilke, Rainer Maria ) - Your Highlight Location 656-659 | Added on Monday, June 10, 2013 8:15:58 AM Extinguish my eyes, I still can see you, Close my ears, I can hear your footsteps fall, And without feet I still can follow you, And without voice I still can to you call. Break off my arms, and I can embrace you, Enfold you with my heart as with a hand.

The time for change is when it can no longer be resisted. In other words, when you have a man by the balls and are pulling hard, he will invariably follow in your footsteps.

What is it ye hope to gain from sharing my bed?” His voice stopped her. “You already have a bairn.” The creak of a stall door followed his question. Footsteps whispered on the packed-dirt floor. With her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw him as a towering shadow emerging into the broad aisle of the barn. He must have been checking on Rand. She frowned at his question. He made it sound like she had some ulterior motive besides being attracted to him. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she hedged. “You want to couple with me. Why?” She rolled her eyes; she’d understood that much of the question. It was the part where he seemed to have a problem with “sharing a bed” with her she didn’t get. Tamping down her offense was getting old. If he was going to be bold, she would be, too. “You’re easy on the eyes,” she clipped. “I’m attracted to you, and we’re married, so why not, right? Am I missing something here? Shouldn’t I be the one asking you why you don’t want to ‘couple’? Oh, wait, I did. And you wouldn’t give me a straight answer.” He moved closer, stopping a foot away, which meant his voice now came from high above her. “Are you a wanton woman?” The question had been dark. Dangerous. And it kicked her offense into full-on anger. “I’m knocked up and I want sex with my husband. If that makes a girl wanton, then I suppose I am. What of it?” She lifted her chin in challenge. “I’ll ask again. What is it ye hope to gain? The truth, Melanie.” Her heart sank to hear him call her by her given name, and this sudden edge of hostility confused her. It felt like he was accusing her of something, but what? She was also insanely aroused. Not only had her eyes adjusted to the dark well enough to see his serious and seriously handsome face, but his looming presence filled her with an irrational sense of security. Add to that his scent of leather and man, and her lips trembled for another kiss. She didn’t want to lash out any more. Anger released itself to the night like steam from a mug of cocoa. “Pleasure,” she whispered, her breasts reaching for him with her quickening breath. “That’s the truth. I want to feel your body under my hands. I want to feel you inside me as you make me your wife in more than just name. And I want pleasure for you, too. Especially for you. You’ve given up almost everything for me. Giving you pleasure is the only way I can think of to thank you.” He blinked with surprise. “I dinna expect your thanks. ’Tis not why I stole ye away from Steafan.” She rolled her eyes, but this time with affection instead of annoyance. “Duh, I know that. You’re so darned honorable you’d never do anything for something as paltry as my thanks. It’s not just about thanks. I love you, you stubborn Highlander.” She cupped her hand over her mouth. The ornery thing had just blurted that which she had yet to fully admit to herself. Considering how much it hurt to have Darcy reject her physical advances, she was in no mood to bear his inevitable rejection of her heart. Mortified, she turned to run away. But his arms went around her. He hadn’t lied when he’d claimed to be quicker. “Do ye mean that, lass?” he asked, bending over her back, holding her. “No,” she lied, trying to pry his arms away. “I’m out of my mind. Don’t listen to a thing I say. Let me go.” “No. I willna. And I think a confession spoken in ire is more trustworthy than one spoken in calm.” He turned her around and lifted her face to his. “I love you, too, lass.” He kissed her.

Word has been spread to our accomplices within the city, London has armed the villagers and all are waiting for our signal.” Koranis stooped to hoist up a canvas bag, which he dropped on the rickety table before us. “The rockets,” he said, pulling a long, slender tube from the bag. “The King of Sarterad had to send all the way to Alidovia for these--they only arrived yesterday. Prop them up facing skyward, light the wick at the bottom and we have our signal.” He tossed the strange tube he held to Steldor, then removed two more from the bag for Galen and Temerson. “Set them off as planned, in the designated areas of the city, and be ready,” Cannan ordered. “I’ll certainly have to be,” said a new voice--one with an accent. We all leaped backward to face the cellar stairs, where we could hear methodical footsteps descending. Knives had appeared in the hands of the men around me; they were small, but they would be effective. The Cokyrian commander emerged into the torchlight, calm and unarmed. “Oh, good Lord,” King Adrik breathed, but everyone else stood silently, rigidly, their eyes assessing the enemy. Addressing the captain, Narian declared, “This stops now.” Cannan clenched his jaw and I slipped behind Steldor, hoping he could protect me. Maybe if I hid…but there was nowhere to conceal myself. I certainly had a knack for stumbling into the most compromising and dangerous of situations. I hadn’t been involved in this at all, but was sure to be sentenced for it now. Taking a breath, I forced myself to step into the open. After all, I had wanted to be here. And if I had to die, I stood in good company. “What is it you think you know?” Steldor demanded, but Narian ignored him, speaking only to Cannan. “You have the ability to be the voice of reason here. Don’t let these men walk to their deaths.” “Should I have them die by execution instead?” the captain ground out, but Narian did not flinch, continuing to stare at him, steely conviction in his eyes. “I’m alone, Cannan. I’ve been following your movements and the movements of your men since Shaselle was caught with that dagger, and I haven’t said a word to the High Priestess, to my comrades, not even to Alera. I’m giving you a chance to walk away, to live. Don’t be a fool--take it.” Cannan tucked his knife into the shaft of his boot, then cast his eyes over Steldor, Galen, Adrik and Koranis. All resolutely met his gaze. “I don’t see fear in this room, Narian,” he said, shaking his head. “Do what you must, as will we.

Jaclyn held the bag over her shoulder as she ran through the tall grass in the field, avoiding the knights’ tents just over the rise. She rushed into the forest, not breaking her pace. She had come this way so many times that she could do it in her sleep. She easily leaped over a fallen tree and skirted some bushes. Dappled moonlight washed over the leaves on the floor, shining through the trees from above. Jaclyn hurried forward. She hoped Paul would remember to bring his horse, Nilly, so they could practice the joust. When she broke into the clearing she could see the pond glistening beneath the stars above. She put the bag on the ground and spun, searching for Paul. The mistletoe glen was empty. Chills of apprehension shivered up her spine. It is all right, she told herself. It’s early yet. He still has time. She sat on the ground. Where was he? She tried to concentrate on something else. The feast this eve had gone well. There had been no fighting. But she guessed all the men were on their best behavior before the joust. When the joust began and there were official losers, then she guessed she would see more unchivalrous behavior. She looked over her shoulder. Where was Paul? Suddenly, she heard footsteps. She stood, her heart thundering with joy. Alexander exploded into the clearing. He looked around the clearing. “Where’s Paul?” Her happiness vanished. What was he doing here? Following her again? She scowled. “He’s not here yet.” He marched straight for her. “You came here to practice?” “Well,” Jaclyn stammered,”when Paul gets here.” “D’Sayre is coming.” “What?” “He followed you.” Alexander kicked the bag behind the tree. “Why is he following me? Why are you following me?” He grabbed her arm. “D’Sayre is trying to learn your secrets. Me? I just want a kiss.” He pulled her into his embrace and pressed his lips to hers.

What made me happiest was knowing that I was following in my father’s footsteps, and Andre knew it. Even though I’d found out more than I’d ever wanted to know about Julius, part of being a daddy’s girl was that your father was always the most important man in your life and, no matter what, you always wanted his approval.

Unless I know what I owe him in return. We already have a bargain, and I am determined to never need anything more from him beyond this drive. “I can walk,” I assure him. “I’ll just follow the sound of your footsteps.” “Why are you so stubborn, Helen?” he asks me. “It won’t kill you to accept my arm. I’m a doctor. I’m here to help you, not to hurt you.” “You are helping me,” I say with forced cheerfulness. “You’re carrying my suitcase and offering me a ride to New York. Isn’t that enough for one day, Dr. Larson?” “I just don’t understand you,” he says as he begins trudging toward his colleague’s vehicle. “All the blind people I have met usually prefer a little more touch in their communication.” “Well, you hadn’t met me,” I say simply as I stroll behind him. “I don’t like being touched. I don’t like it when people use my disability as an excuse to fuss over me.” “That’s not what I was doing!” he says defensively. He grumbles to himself, but continues moving toward the road. He walks in silence for a few seconds before speaking again. “I think I should warn you: road trips with Dr. Philips can get a little... crazy.” “Crazy?” I say with a mixture of concern and curiosity. “Dr. Philips is usually very

Surely a young beauty like yourself is lonely, too. It can be a part of the game, if you like.” “Get off,” she said, thoroughly done with this. His answer was to lean in closer. So she kneed him in the groin. As hard as she could. “Aw, ow, dammit!” He doubled over and thudded onto his knees. Jane brushed off her knee, feeling like it had touched something dirty. “Aw, ow, dammit indeed! What’re you thinking?” Jane heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Mr. Nobley. “Miss Erstwhile!” He was barefoot in his breeches, his shirt untucked. He glanced down at the groaning man. “Sir Templeton!” “Ow, she kicked me,” said Sir Templeton. “Kneed him, I kneed him,” Jane said. “I don’t kick. Not even when I’m a ninja.” Mr. Nobley stood a moment in silence, looking over the scene. “I hope you remembered to shout ‘Ya’ when taking him down. I hear that is very effective.” “I’m afraid I neglected that bit, but I’ll certainly ‘ya’ from here to London if he ever touches me again.” “Miss Erstwhile, were you perhaps employed by your president’s armed forces in America?” “What? Don’t British women know how to use their knees?” “Happily, I have never put myself in a position to find out.” He stared at the prostrate Sir Templeton. “Did he hurt you?” “Frankly, your arm-yanking earlier was worse.” “I see. Perhaps you should retire to your chambers, Miss Erstwhile. Would you like me to escort you?” “I’m fine,” she said, “as long as there aren’t any other Sir Templetons lurking upstairs.” “Well, I cannot give Colonel Andrews a glowing reference, but I believe the way is safe.” She stepped closer to Mr. Nobley and whispered, “Are you going to out me to Mrs. Wattlesbrook for the servants’ quarters lurking?” “I think,” he said, nudging the prostrate Sir Templeton with his foot, “that you have suffered enough tonight.” Mr. Nobley smiled at her, the first time she had seen his real smile. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a grin. His lips were closed, but his eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth definitely turned up, creating pleasing little cheek wrinkles on either side as though the smile were in parentheses. It bothered her in a way she couldn’t explain, like feeling itchy but not knowing exactly where to scratch. He was not particularly amused, she saw, but smiled to reassure her. Wait, who wanted to reassure her? Mr. Nobley or the actual man, Actor X? “Thanks. Good night, Mr. Nobley.” “Good night, Miss Erstwhile.” She hesitated, then left, Sir Templeton’s groans following her up the stairs. On the second floor, Aunt Saffronia was emerging from her room, clutching a white shawl over her nightgown. “What was that noise? Is everything all right?” “Yes. It was…your husband. He was being inappropriate.” Aunt Saffronia blinked. “Inebriated?” “Yes.” She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Jane.” Jane wasn’t sure if Aunt Saffronia was speaking to Jane the niece or Jane the client. For the first time it didn’t matter; both Janes felt exactly the same. She acknowledged the apology with a nod, went to her room, and locked the door behind her. She thought she was angry but instead she plopped herself down on her bed, put her face in her pillow, and laughed. “What a joke,” she said, sounding to herself like the movie incarnation of Lydia Bennet. “I come for Mr. Darcy, fall for the gardener, and get propositioned by the drunk husband.” Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow she would play for real. She was going to drive full force into the game, have a staggering good time, and kick the nasty Darcy habit for good. She fell asleep with the ticklish thought of Mr. Nobley’s smile.

Brushing a strand of honey-golden hair from her face, he returned the smile . . . but felt it fade almost immediately when he got a closer look at her cheek. “Is that a handprint on your face?” Lucetta waved it off. “It’s nothing. He leaned closer. “Did Silas hit you?” “It was more of a slap, but considering I was expecting far worse, well . . .” Bram’s hand clenched into a fist. “He touched you?” “Well, yes, slapping a person does entail touching, but again, it could have been much worse.” “Excuse me.” Stepping around her, he nodded to Mr. Skukman, who was sitting on Silas’s back, arms folded across his chest as if it were an everyday occurrence to lounge around on the back of a man he undoubtedly wanted to strangle. Bram couldn’t help but admire Mr. Skukman’s restraint even though Bram had no intention of following in the man’s footsteps. “Would you be so kind as to stand with Lucetta for a moment?” he asked Mr. Skukman. “Of course.” After making certain Stanley and Ernie still had Silas firmly under control, Mr. Skukman stood, walked around Bram, and then, to Bram’s surprise, pulled Lucetta into an enthusiastic hug, so enthusiastic that Lucetta’s feet left the ground even as she laughed. Realizing that the poor man had obviously been just as distraught as Bram had been over Lucetta’s abduction, Bram couldn’t help but smile at their reunion. His smile faded almost immediately, though, when Silas began trying to squirm his way free. “I demand you release me at once. I’m Silas Ruff, an influential man about the country. Believe me when I tell you I’ll use that influence to see each and every one of you pay for your interference and careless disregard for my person.” Bram walked closer to him and looked down. “I’m afraid your influential days are numbered, Silas. You see, kidnapping is a serious offense, which is why you’ll be spending quite a few years in jail.” Silas had the nerve to smile. “I didn’t kidnap anyone.” “No, you paid a Mr. Cabot to organize and implement the abduction. And before that you paid him to track down Lucetta’s family, which allowed you to learn her stepfather is a notorious gambler with a bit of a drinking problem.” The smile slid off of Silas’s face. “How do you know that?” “Mr. Cabot told me, of course.” “How

From 'Creating True Peace' by Thich Nhat Hanh To better understand the practise of protection, please study the Five Mindfulness Trainings in Chapter 3, particularly the third, sexual responsibility. By practising the Third Mindfulness Training, we protect ourselves, our family, and society. In addition, by observing all the trainings we learn to eat in moderation, to work mindfully, and to organise our daily life so we are there for others. This can bring us great happiness and restore our peace and balance. Expressing Sexual Feelings with Love and Compassion Animals automatically follow their instincts, but humans are different. We do not need to satisfy our cravings the way animals do. We can decide that we will have sex only with love. In this way we can cultivate the deepest love, harmony, and nonviolence. For humans, to engage only in nonviolent sexuality means to have respect for each other. The sexual act can be a sacred expression of love and responsibility. The Third Mindfulness Training teaches us that the physical expression of love can be beautiful and transcendent. If you have a sexual relationship without love and caring, you create suffering for both yourself and your partner, as well as for your family and our entire society. In a culture of peace and nonviolence, civilised sexual behaviour is an important protection. Such love is not sheer craving for sex, it is true love and understanding. Respecting Our Commitments To engage in a sexual act without understanding or compassion is to act with violence. It is an act against civilization. Many people do not know how to handle their bodies or their feelings. They do not realise that an act of only a few minutes can destroy the life of another person. Sexual exploitation and abuse committed against adults and children is a heavy burden on society. Many families have been broken by sexual misconduct. Children who grow up in such families may suffer their entire lives, but if they get an opportunity to practise, they can transform their suffering. Otherwise, when they grow up, they may follow in the footsteps of their parents and cause more suffering, especially to those they love. We know that the more one engages in sexual misconduct, the more one suffers. We must come together as families to find ways to protect our young people and help them live a civilised life. We need to show our young people that happiness is possible without harmful sexual conduct. Teenage pregnancy is a tragic problem. Teens are not yet mature enough to understand that with love comes responsibility. When a thirteen-or fourteen-year-old boy and girl come together for sexual intercourse, they are just following their natural instincts. When a girl gets pregnant and gives birth at such a young age, her parents also suffer greatly. Public schools throughout the United States have nurseries where babies are cared for while their mothers are in the classroom. The young father and mother do not even know yet how to take care of themselves - how can they take care of another human being? It takes years of maturing to become ready to be a parent.

The quickest path to your destiny is to follow God's footsteps.

People need to show expectancy, not disapproval; too those who walk in a different kind of hospitality. If they choose to live a marvelous life, be honor-bound by their choice and commitment. Not everyone is gonna follow in your same identical footsteps; that's why you need to teach them to follow in their own purpose-built direction.

No matter the circumstances, God created you for a purpose, His purpose. Do you want to fulfill that purpose? Then follow Jesus. Replace grief with meaningful prayer. Walk in Jesus’s footsteps rather than in your emotions. Stand on solid ground instead of shifting sand. When God reveals that it’s time to grow beyond your comfort and to be others-focused, go full throttle. Don’t look back; keep your gaze on Jesus. Keep moving.

Reflect, today, upon this beautiful but sorrowful scene of the gaze of love shared by mother and Son on the way to Calvary.  Reflect also on the fact that both mother and Son meet you on your own journey toward the Cross.  No matter what you encounter, no matter what you endure, they are there, attentive to you, loving you and offering their hearts to you.  Seek also to emulate the hearts of Jesus and our Blessed Mother to those whom you encounter each day.  Grow in compassion and concern for all who suffer, being present to them as they go step by step on their personal via dolorosa (sorrowful way). My Sorrowful Mother, you already endured so much.  But you would not miss this short moment in which you could express your tender love for your Son.  As you looked at Him, your heart intertwined with His.  You felt the pain He felt. You communicated a supernatural joy that strengthened His resolve to give His life for the Salvation of the world. My dear Mother, pray for me that I may be open to your motherly concern for my life.  As I carry my cross and endure the sufferings that befall me, intercede for me and open my soul to the strength of your Son as it flows through your own tender heart. My suffering Lord, as You continued on Your journey to Calvary after falling for the first time, You looked at Your mother with such love.  Your concern was not for Yourself, it was for Your mother and for all who would receive the grace of Your Cross.  May I be one of those, dear Lord, who opens my heart to You at all times and who absorbs the graces You offer so that I can follow in Your footsteps.

Power through. If you lose your way, follow the footsteps in the sand. If you stumble, angels are ready to hold your hand. If you fall, God will carry you to your destination.

Your footsteps follow not what is outside the eyes, but what is within, buried, erased.

If u want to be different follow the footsteps of your own shadow!!rather than be an image of an living embodiment!

In the dark, when night’s chill cuts Cold as death they climb the hill Breaking door and windowpane They come to burn, slash, and kill. Shadows pounding on the door They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. Waves they crash upon the bow Of withered ship at sea Wind and weather rip the sails There’s little hope for thee. Shadows pounding on the hull They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. Within darkling wood you walk So foolish after all Footsteps follow, catching up You run until you fall. Shadows pounding on the path They beat the drums of fear Place your faith in Maribor And loudly, so he hears. When man stood upon the brink Novron saved us all Sent by god above he was In answer to our call. Shadows pounding on the gate They beat the drums so near If your faith’s in Maribor He’s with you, never fear.

February 2013 Continuation of Andy’s Message (part three)   Thank you, Young, for your evaluation of my beginner’s attempt at erotic writing. It is no easy task following in the footsteps of an erotic auto-biographer.               You are indeed correct to note my lack of descriptive commentary when we were an “item.” I’ve come a long way. Age, maturity and experiences have much to do with my transformation. I’m more frank than you give me credit for these days.☺ When we do meet, you’ll have a vastly different perspective of the man you once knew. For now, will you allow me to resume my tale?

At noon the following day, the Comanches crested the rise above the Masters farm and drew in their horses, well out of firing range. Loretta clutched her horse’s reins with such force that her knuckles ached. Hunter sat astride his stallion beside her, his knee brushing hers. Loretta couldn’t look at him. Instead she stared at the little house she had thought never to see again. Nothing about it had changed. She wondered what Uncle Henry had done with the fifty horses Hunter had left. They weren’t in the back pasture. A flash of blue crossed the yard. Amy. Running to the house to warn Aunt Rachel and Uncle Henry that Indians were coming. It seemed like a hundred years ago that Loretta had done the same. She saw Hunter reaching toward her out of the corner of her eye. She looked at him as he lowered his medallion necklace over her head. The flat stone was still warm from where it had rested against his chest. She pressed her palm over it. “You will wear it? For always? And remember Hunter of the Wolf? It is a promise you make?” “I will wear it.” Her fingers curled around the medallion. “I have nothing to give you.” His eyes clouded with warmth. “Your ruffles.” She pursed her lips. “I’m wearing them. If you want them, you’ll have to come back and steal them.” His gaze ran the length of her. “Maybe so. You will make them nice like flowers, yes?” She sighed and bent her head. She knew why the memories hurt. They had become friends. It was impossible, crazy, but it had happened. And saying goodbye had a sharp edge. “Well, I guess this is it.” “For this little bit time.” She looked up. “Hunter, you mustn’t--” He leaned toward her and crossed her lips with a finger. “You can read my trail, eh? You can walk in my footsteps and come to me. I will leave you signs.

When he tried to picture what his life would be like without her, he saw only emptiness. She had to believe him. Afraid as he had never been, he reached out to her, his hand palm up and open. For an endless moment she stared at his outstretched fingers; then, with a strangled cry, she ran toward him. As her hand met his, Hunter caught her slight form to his chest with his uninjured arm and hugged her until he feared her bones might break. Flowers in springtime. Soft as rabbit fur. Warm as sunshine.. A sob caught in his chest. “Your shoulder. You’ll hurt yourself.” “It is as nothing.” It wasn’t a lie. The pain seemed distant now, like a hawk hovering and circling. Later it would descend to tear at his flesh, but for now he could ignore it. Hunter buried his face in the curve of her neck, his favorite place. So many nights he had dreamed of this, yearned for her. Tears filled his eyes, and a tremor coursed through his body. “I have such great love for you, little one. Such great love.” “I love you just as much, Hunter. I thought I’d die when you left me.” “You will go from this place with me, walk in my footsteps?” A strained silence settled between them. “Oh, yes, Hunter, yes.” “Do not make a promise of it quick. We must go west. Alone, Blue Eyes, leaving all that we are behind. All those we love, your people, my people.” Loretta caught his face between her hands, shaking with the intensity of her emotions. “Hunter, you are my people. I’ll follow you anywhere.

I have such great love for you, little one. Such great love.” “I love you just as much, Hunter. I thought I’d die when you left me.” “You will go from this place with me, walk in my footsteps?” A strained silence settled between them. “Oh, yes, Hunter, yes.” “Do not make a promise of it quick. We must go west. Alone, Blue Eyes, leaving all that we are behind. All those we love, your people, my people.” Loretta caught his face between her hands, shaking with the intensity of her emotions. “Hunter, you are my people. I’ll follow you anywhere.

You will go from this place with me, walk in my footsteps?” A strained silence settled between them. “Oh, yes, Hunter, yes.” “Do not make a promise of it quick. We must go west. Alone, Blue Eyes, leaving all that we are behind. All those we love, your people, my people.” Loretta caught his face between her hands, shaking with the intensity of her emotions. “Hunter, you are my people. I’ll follow you anywhere.” “I do not know the way.” His voice was gravelly, the words he spoke halting. Admitting his own vulnerability didn’t come easily. But this was no time for pride. If Loretta chose to follow him, her life could be at risk. He wanted her to know that. “The song says we will make a new nation, but this Comanche fears he cannot feed even two. If you walk behind me, you follow a man who is lost.” Loretta encircled his waist with her arms and pressed her cheek against his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin, loving it. Her gaze settled on the gigantic moon that shone down on them. Mother Moon, watching over them. “You aren’t lost, Hunter. The words in your song will guide you. And when you falter, your Great Ones will lead you--to the place we’re meant to find. We will sing the People’s songs to our children. The Comanche and tosi tivo will live as one forever. Don’t you see? You and I are the beginning.” She arched her back to see into his eyes. “Hunter and his yellow-hair, together as one.” “You believe?” Hunter studied her, more than a little amazed. “The words of my song are inside your heart?” Smiling through tears, Loretta told him the meaning of her name. “Yes, I do believe. I believe in your Great Ones, I believe in your song, but, most important, I believe in you.” She touched her fingertips to the scar that lined his cheek. “I’m not afraid of anything except being without you. This morning I thought you’d been killed…I’ve never been so frightened. Never.

You’re just annoyed because you can’t find a way to be in charge and control this whole thing and it’s making you jumpy.” Kerry considered that, relented a little. “Maybe.” “And because we all like him. A lot. And you’re feeling overly nudged.” “Nudged?” Kerry repeated, eyebrow raised. “How about all but shoved down the aisle? You know, just because you’re all schmoopy and wedding obsessed doesn’t mean the rest of us live to follow in your pearl-and-laced-encrusted footsteps.” Fiona just batted her lashes again. “Oh, come on. You love the schmoopy. You just don’t want to admit it. And you don’t have to go all pearls and lace. I’m sure we can find something in a tasteful banana leaf gown for you.” Kerry nudged her sister with a sharp elbow--it was that or snicker--but Fiona just nudged back, and clung to her arm like a kelp bed attached to the seafloor. “And, okay,” Fiona added, “perhaps we’re just enjoying seeing you so out of your depth. Between that and Cooper’s full-on pursuit, I can see it’s enough to make anyone a little grumpy.” She squeezed Kerry’s arm, then added, “Ms. I Can Run Circles Around the Globe But Not Around Mr. Dead Sexy Accent.” Kerry gave up, as she always did, in the face of Fiona’s unrelenting cheer and pulled her in for a quick, if purposely smothering hug. “Don’t say anything to Fergus,” she whispered against Fiona’s hair before turning her sister loose. “He’s already stuck his nose in way too far, and you know he’ll just worry about me.” Fiona laughed. “You’re the only one Fergus never worries about. And don’t kid yourself about slowing his roll; he’s thrilled--thrilled--finally to have the chance to stick his nose in your business. Do you think anything will stop him from ‘helping’ you make the right choice?

We turned onto the thoroughfare and walked north toward the palace, and my spirits lifted. Despite the destruction and death, this was a glorious day for Hytanica. I started to say something to this effect to Galen, but he halted, his face ashen, and the words died on my lips. His hand fell on my shoulder, and I looked at him in confusion, then followed his gaze farther up the road. My eyes fell on Steldor, who was kneeling on the unforgiving stone of the street, a few other men milling around him, and my confusion grew. Shouldn’t Galen be pleased to find his best friend? I couldn’t see what Steldor was doing, but after a moment he stood, and the men who were with him lifted a flat litter bearing a body. My eyes took in the height and build of the man lying unnaturally still, the nearly black hair, the officer’s insignia on the black leather jerkin, the blood--and my breath caught in my throat. I tried to run to Steldor, denials raging in my head, but Galen pulled me against his chest. I stared uncomprehendingly at the litter, the image burning itself into my brain, while tears stung my eyes. Cannan’s arms were folded over his chest, his sword tucked beneath his hands. It was really the only evidence any of us needed. As sobs shook me, Galen passed me into the arms of my suitor and advanced upon his best friend, his motion unnaturally stiff. Steldor turned his head at the sound of the approaching footsteps, his dark eyes dry but looking helpless, hopeless and alone. Cannan had been Galen’s father the same way he had been Steldor’s, and the young men stood side by side, watching the Hytanican soldiers carry the litter toward the palace, not moving until it was out of sight. Both of them seemed lost, not knowing what to do or say, then they wrapped their arms around one another in a fierce embrace, befitting the brothers that they were. They held each other for a long time, almost as unmoving as their deceased father. I fell back against Grayden, losing what little strength remained to me, and he hugged me, eventually leading me back to my house. Though I was only eighteen, I felt I had stumbled upon one of life’s few truisms: with every step forward came a step backward, with every gain came a loss and with every joy came tears. In the end, the best for which one could hope was to leave the world in better straits than existed on the day of your birth; to have truly lived. And oh, how Cannan, the Captain of the Guard, had lived.

Are you trying to fulfill Olun’s prophecy?” he asked. “Is that what you’re trying to do?” I rolled my eyes. It was true my father’s chief druid, Olun, had divined that I would one day follow in my sister Sorcha’s footsteps. But she had been killed on the field of battle. The Forgotten Vale was nothing more than a placid meadow.

The world-change that can be effected through people with wealth requires people to earn wealth. Beauty that follows in the footsteps of the Great Creator requires creative artists. Your work, your calling, no matter what it is, has an inherently sacred quality.

Start your journey with your first step and people will follow in your footsteps

Nate used his left foot to block a determined Zero from escaping before closing his door with the intention to begin the next step in his own plan. His Plan B if you're keeping track ‒ once again hoping that Twitch had stayed put ‒ and which first required that he be granted his second out of the afternoon. Upon hearing the customary creak of a more tangible step ‒ the second from the bottom on the wooden staircase, which had become gradually loosened from the risers above and below it over time ‒ his mother did an about face from the bar, where she was making last minute modifications to her shopping list. The sound by then had become oddly comforting to each family member ‒ for separate but similar reasons. The step itself been repaired in just minutes, years prior when Dr. Lansing added five nails to the tread. But one evening many months ago it just as abruptly reappeared. Nate was the first to notice when, as Natalie bounded up the stairs ‒ which she so often did en route to his room ‒ it matter-of-factly announced its return. He pondered for the briefest moment if he hadn't simply imagined it, recalling several prior occasions when he'd become temporarily convinced that the faint but familiar cries of X-Ray were whispering to him from directly below his window ‒ though leading to anticlimax in each instance. Before knocking however, Natalie placated his incredulity. "It's back!” she exclaimed with typical unfettered enthusiasm, while smiling unseen from just beyond his closed door. Although he failed to demonstrate even a remotely comparable level of excitement, it turned into a pleasant reunification for Nate nonetheless, and this time ‒ due perhaps in equal parts to its' lesser prioritization and his greater procrastination ‒ their father had left well enough alone. During its previous incarnation it had been labeled by Ms. Lansing as the Cat's Bell due to its function as an auditory cue of the comings and goings in the home, although the cats themselves sauntered about far too lightly to bring about any noticeable effect.. Nate had become so attuned to its mildly disquieting creaks and more subtle wooden groans as to discern ‒ even when his door was closed ‒ whether Natalie had been specifically intent on visiting him, or was instead merely passing by along the way to her own room. A distinction which was due primarily to an initial amplified vibration that he decided brought to mind the recoil of a springboard, then followed by a sequence of forward gliding leaps rather than her usual evenly paced yet swift footsteps.

So excuse me, while I follow in your footsteps. Call it genetics if you like.

Every new day is a gift from God. You open the gift when you open your eyes. What do you say when someone gives you a gift? .. Say “thank you” and appreciate then follow his footsteps because He is your Father who cares for you the most and who has many more precious gifts just for you.

Today's Mantra. Follow in another's footsteps and you will sorely lose sight of your own.

I learned from following in Papa Sevier’s footsteps as I grew up. Life is not unlike cinema. Each scene has its own music, and the music is created for the scene, woven to it in ways we do not understand. No matter how much we may love the melody of a bygone day or imagine the song of a future one, we must dance within the music of today, or we will always be out of step, stumbling around

I and thousands like me are forsaking everything for what we believe. Our drive and motivation doesn’t come from tangible commodities that this world has to offer. Our religion is Islam, obedience to the one true God and following the footsteps of the final prophet messenger. Your democratically elected governments continuously perpetrate atrocities against my people all over the world. And your support of them makes you directly responsible, just as I am directly responsible for protecting and avenging my Muslim brothers and sisters. Until we feel security you will be our targets and until you stop the bombing, gassing, imprisonment and torture of my people we will not stop this fight. We are at war and I am a soldier. Now you too will taste the reality of this situation.

Success leaves clues, and it’s important to follow the footsteps of the people you’re FOMOing over to see how they did it—and how you can do it too.

When you experience some kind of serious trauma at a young age, it stays with you. It’s like a ghost which follows a few feet behind every footstep – a quiet whispered sound that reminds you of your past. For the most part, it is neither haunting nor frightening. Its presence is nothing more than a reminder of unfinished business.