Hood Inspirational Quotes

She was like the sun, She knew her place in the world - She would shine again regardless of all the storms and changeable weather She wouldn't adjust her purpose for things that pass.

Our deepest calling is to grow into our own authentic self-hood, whether or not it conforms to some image of who we ought to be. As we do so, we will not only find the joy that every human being seeks--we will also find our path of authentic service in the world.

What if there were health food stores on every corner in the hood, instead of liquor stores!?

Stories are made about girls like you. The wild ones, those rare faces that smile in the midst of chaos.

Marian exhaled. 'Because God made me a woman is no reason to be such a woman as men wish to make me.

Once there was a boy,” said Jace. Clary interrupted immediately. “A Shadowhunter boy?” “Of course.” For a moment a bleak amusement colored his voice. Then it was gone. “When the boy was six years old, his father gave him a falcon to train. Falcons are raptors – killing birds, his father told him, the Shadowhunters of the sky. “The falcon didn’t like the boy, and the boy didn’t like it, either. Its sharp beak made him nervous, and its bright eyes always seemed to be watching him. It would slash at him with beak and talons when he came near: For weeks his wrists and hands were always bleeding. He didn’t know it, but his father had selected a falcon that had lived in the wild for over a year, and thus was nearly impossible to tame. But the boy tried, because his father told him to make the falcon obedient, and he wanted to please his father. “He stayed with the falcon constantly, keeping it awake by talking to it and even playing music to it, because a tired bird was meant to be easier to tame. He learned the equipment: the jesses, the hood, the brail, the leash that bound the bird to his wrist. He was meant to keep the falcon blind, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it – instead he tried to sit where the bird could see him as he touched and stroked its wings, willing it to trust him. Hee fed it from his hand, and at first it would not eat. Later it ate so savagely that its beak cut the skin of his palm. But the boy was glad, because it was progress, and because he wanted the bird to know him, even if the bird had to consume his blood to make that happen. “He began to see that the falcon was beautiful, that its slim wings were built for the speed of flight, that it was strong and swift, fierce and gentle. When it dived to the ground, it moved like likght. When it learned to circle and come to his wrist, he neary shouted with delight Sometimes the bird would hope to his shoulder and put its beak in his hair. He knew his falcon loved him, and when he was certain it was not just tamed but perfectly tamed, he went to his father and showed him what he had done, expecting him to be proud. “Instead his father took the bird, now tame and trusting, in his hands and broke its neck. ‘I told you to make it obedient,’ his father said, and dropped the falcon’s lifeless body to the ground. ‘Instead, you taught it to love you. Falcons are not meant to be loving pets: They are fierce and wild, savage and cruel. This bird was not tamed; it was broken.’ “Later, when his father left him, the boy cried over his pet, until eventually his father sent a servant to take the body of the bird away and bury it. The boy never cried again, and he never forgot what he’d learned: that to love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one destroyed.

Robert again faced the sky. “That is a children’s dream, Marian. We are old enough that we must think of realities.” “The reality is that I have no place, excepting I carve out one alone.

You don’t need to drink to get over your feelings. Deal with your feelings that’s how you get over them,

Life is three hours journey; childhood, adulthood & old-hood; filled with inspiration, perspiration and desperation.

Describing good relatedness to someone, no matter how precisely or how often, does not inscribe it into the neural networks that inspire love. Self-help books are like car repair manuals: you can read them all day, but doing so doesn't fix a thing. Working on a car means rolling up your sleeves and getting under the hood, and you have to be willing to get dirt on your hands and grease beneath your fingernails. Overhauling emotional knowledge is no spectator sport; it demands the messy experience of yanking and tinkering that comes from a limbic bond. If someone's relationship today bear a troubled imprint, they do so because an influential relationship left its mark on a child's mind. When a limbic connection has established a neural pattern, it takes a limbic connection to revise it.

Mini cat poem for ISF kids: William went high Into the air Furly had stepped On the edge of The board

You are trying to take this whole situation and push it down, and hide it. It’s not going to get you anywhere.

You took life by the horns and tried to hold on tight, for fear of being ripped to shreds, left bloodied and battered.

I can't help it either, the laughing: solemn gatherings, slow ballads, pompous orations, any person or occasion that assumes I'll offer my unreserved respect: I tend to find them all hysterical in the end. Especially if someone similar is there to set me off. They don't have to do much: I recognize what it looks like when somebody's composure starts to strip itself away. They'll maybe cross their arms with that twitchy, shaky, tension, or they'll grab down little wheezes of embarrassed air, or they'll simply hood their faces under their palm, trying to hide how fast they're slipping, how fast *we're* slipping, because I'll be weakening with them by then, I'll be just as lost, pulled equally tight against the moment when we both stop caring and let it disgrace us -- when we laugh.

The truth is that The Wild One -- despite an admittedly fictional treatment -- was an inspired piece of film journalism. Instead of institutionalizing common knowledge, in the style of Time, it told a story that was only beginning to happen and which was inevitably influenced by the film. It gave the outlaws a lasting, romance-glazed image of themselves, a coherent reflection that only a very few had been able to find in a mirror, and it quickly became the bike rider's answer to The Sun Also Rises. The image is not valid, but its wide acceptance can hardly be blamed on the movie. The Wild One was careful to distinguish between "good outlaws" and "bad outlaws," but the people who were most influenced chose to identify with Brando instead of Lee Marvin whose role as the villain was a lot more true to life than Brando's portrayal of the confused hero. They saw themselves as modern Robin Hoods ... virile, inarticulate brutes whose good instincts got warped somewhere in the struggle for self-expression and who spent the rest of their violent lives seeking revenge on a world that done them wrong when they were young and defenseless.

He may be the stoutest man hereabouts,' said Gisbourne scornfully, 'but hereabouts is not the wide world...

As long as we encourage a culture of victim hood, said Monty, with the rhythmic smoothness of self-quotation, we will continue to raise victims. And so the cycle of underachievement continues.

I’ll need your guys’s help with the proposal,” Daddy says. “Lara Jean, I’m sure you’ll have some ideas for me, right?” Confidently I say, “Oh, yeah. People have been doing promposals, so I have lots of inspiration.” Margot turns to me and laughs, and it almost sounds real. “I’m sure Daddy will want something more dignified than ‘Will You Marry Me’ written in shaving cream on the hood of somebody’s car, Lara Jean.

Kenny rested his hand on my leg, patting it delicately. His thoughts staying just that, thoughts, as we drove in silence, back to my prison of paradise, back to the one place I knew I could be happy, yet miserable, all in the same day.

At the last moment, Antoinette came out of her faint and shouted one word to her child. That word, reader, was adieu... Adieu is the French word for farewell. “Farewell” is not the word you would like to hear from your mother as you are being led to the dungeon by two oversize mice in black hoods... “Farewell” is a word that, in any language, is full of sorrow. It is a word that promises absolutely nothing.

In our formative years, every person begins creating a self that can keep him or her company through later stages in life. It requires concentrated effort to create self-hood. The task of creating a fully developed human being is an ongoing process, an open-ended assignment. The goal of self-hood is to evade slipping into a state of thoughtlessness, where we fail to take ownership of our thoughts, deeds, and lifestyle.

In general children from low-income families are at risk of being failed by schools because of the erroneous belief that their parents lack ambition for them. A focus on the need for aspirations as widely set is necessary for closing the achievement gap between marginalized and privileged people. Yet an environment where students may not see themselves represented in person or on the page, what exactly are they inspiring to? Who sets those standards and are they achievable in the wider world without culturally sensitive and competent teachers?

They preferred writing about great men to writing about great hills; but they sat on the great hills to write it. They gave out much less about Nature, but they drank in, perhaps, much more. They painted the white robes of their holy virgins with the blinding snow, at which they had stared all day. They blazoned the shields of their paladins with the purple and gold of many heraldic sunsets. The greenness of a thousand green leaves clustered into the live green figure of Robin Hood. The blueness of a score of forgotten skies became the blue robes of the Virgin. The inspiration went in like sunbeams and came out like Apollo.

Whatever fear he’d instilled in people on the streets was of no consequence inside the market, packed with ramshackle stalls and vendors and food stands, smoke drifting throughout, the tang of blood and spark of magic acrid in his nostrils. And above it all, against the far wall of the enormous space, was a towering mosaic, the tiles taken from an ancient temple in Pangera, restored and re-created here in loving detail, despite its gruesome depiction: cloaked and hooded death, the skeleton’s face grinning out from the cowl, a scythe in one hand and an hourglass in the other. Above its head, words had been crafted in the Republic’s most ancient language: Memento Mori.

Ali explained that Uncle Arash had been tasked with the strangest job in the Persian army. At night, after the human wave attacks and the mustard gas left countless dozens or hundreds of Iranians dying on the battlefield, it was Arash’s job to quietly and secretly put on a long black cloak, get atop a horse, and ride around the battlefield of fallen men with a flashlight under his face. He was meant to look like an angel. He was meant to inspire the dying men to die with dignity, conviction. To keep them from suicide. The delirious dying men would see Arash on his mount, in his illuminated hood, and believe they were being visited by Gabriel himself, or the twelfth imam returning for them. “Your uncle was an angel,” Ali told his son. “Literally. He helped a lot of people.

[Magyar] had an intense dislike for terms like 'illiberal,' which focused on traits the regimes did not possess--like free media or fair elections. This he likened to trying to describe an elephant by saying that the elephant cannot fly or cannot swim--it says nothing about what the elephant actually is. Nor did he like the term 'hybrid regime,' which to him seemed like an imitation of a definition, since it failed to define what the regime was ostensibly a hybrid of. Magyar developed his own concept: the 'post-communist mafia state.' Both halves of the designation were significant: 'post-communist' because "the conditions preceding the democratic big bang have a decisive role in the formation of the system. Namely that it came about on the foundations of a communist dictatorship, as a product of the debris left by its decay." (quoting Balint Magyar) The ruling elites of post-communist states most often hail from the old nomenklatura, be it Party or secret service. But to Magyar this was not the countries' most important common feature: what mattered most was that some of these old groups evolved into structures centered around a single man who led them in wielding power. Consolidating power and resources was relatively simple because these countries had just recently had Party monopoly on power and a state monopoly on property. ... A mafia state, in Magyar's definition, was different from other states ruled by one person surrounded by a small elite. In a mafia state, the small powerful group was structured just like a family. The center of the family is the patriarch, who does not govern: "he disposes--of positions, wealth, statuses, persons." The system works like a caricature of the Communist distribution economy. The patriarch and his family have only two goals: accumulating wealth and concentrating power. The family-like structure is strictly hierarchical, and membership in it can be obtained only through birth or adoption. In Putin's case, his inner circle consisted of men with whom he grew up in the streets and judo clubs of Leningrad, the next circle included men with whom he had worked with in the KGB/FSB, and the next circle was made up of men who had worked in the St. Petersburg administration with him. Very rarely, he 'adopted' someone into the family as he did with Kholmanskikh, the head of the assembly shop, who was elevated from obscurity to a sort of third-cousin-hood. One cannot leave the family voluntarily: one can only be kicked out, disowned and disinherited. Violence and ideology, the pillars of the totalitarian state, became, in the hands of the mafia state, mere instruments. The post-communist mafia state, in Magyar's words, is an "ideology-applying regime" (while a totalitarian regime is 'ideology-driven'). A crackdown required both force and ideology. While the instruments of force---the riot police, the interior troops, and even the street-washing machines---were within arm's reach, ready to be used, ideology was less apparently available. Up until spring 2012, Putin's ideological repertoire had consisted of the word 'stability,' a lament for the loss of the Soviet empire, a steady but barely articulated restoration of the Soviet aesthetic and the myth of the Great Patriotic War, and general statements about the United States and NATO, which had cheated Russia and threatened it now. All these components had been employed during the 'preventative counter-revolution,' when the country, and especially its youth, was called upon to battle the American-inspired orange menace, which threatened stability. Putin employed the same set of images when he first responded to the protests in December. But Dugin was now arguing that this was not enough. At the end of December, Dugin published an article in which he predicted the fall of Putin if he continued to ignore the importance of ideas and history.

Let not your courage fail you. Your help is coming.

They have to find inspiration in the people who make it out, not necessarily out of the hood itself but out of the cycle of trauma brought by poverty and oppression. The hood is still home. But they have to look beyond the troubled streets they are on every day and see themselves as worthy of saving.

So you see? The fairytale got it all wrong, it was not my grandmother who made me the cloak, but it was my mother and I’s own hands that wove together the seams that would forever erase my name from history. Instead, to be known forevermore as—Little Red Riding Hood.

Another person wearing a hood—a probe shield.

The best invention to come. The best design. The best next things to come it’s right in front of you. It might be something you use daily. Look carefully in your hood .In your surroundings, or in your life. Look at what is at your disposal. Look at your culture. It might make you the next millionaire. Pay attention to your hood. Don’t allow people to steal how you live and make that their new invention or ideas that will make them millionaires.

Everyday, do more than you could; seek more than you should; understand more than is understood. Thus only a man stops being a hood.

A poisonless snake should also greatly extend his hood; poison or no poison, the display of the enlarged hood itself is fearsome.

In late 1953 Corridan would tell actor Karl Malden, who was visiting Chelsea in preparation for his role as the Corridan-inspired priest in the film On the Waterfront: “I was born in this neighborhood [the West Side]. When I was growing up there were two ways to go. Become a priest or a hood.

Four hooded figures emerge from the shadowy depths of the sea. They carry no weapons or arms to defend themselves. With a careful tread, the four quietly make their way from the water to a nearby brick building, which is emblazoned with the Crown’s insignia. Night cloaks their secret wanderings, but the golden moon spills its rays over their heads.

People are undermined and underestimating the hood, township, or projects. But all these businesses are sustainable, booming, and flourishing because of the support from the hood. If we can support each other the same way we support this business. Then we all can be rich in the hood. We won’t have people giving back to the community if the community didn’t give them anything like support.

Congratulations to all those who just graduated and those who will still graduate. I wish all of you can get employed. For those who might get jobs immediately please don’t lose hope. Never allow people in your hood to tell you that you are the same because you are sitting with them being unemployed. You are not the same. You are a post graduate. Get yourself The Theory of 46 Be’s book to keep you going. I would say, All the best with your future life, but I remembered that you are the future.

Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, Turning a spirit as he nears the sky! His voice is heard, but body there is none To fix the vague excursions of the eye. So, poets' songs are with us, though they die Obscured and hid by Death's oblivious shroud, And earth inherits the rich melody, Like raining music from the morning cloud. Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud, Their voices reach us through the lapse of space: The noisy day is deafened by a crowd Of undistinguished birds, a twittering race; But only lark and nightingale forlorn Fill up the silences of night and morn.

the hood was heavy night a tool to see the light

Even coffee knows it needs a little heat to get strong — so don’t panic in the pressure.

You’re not just surviving—you’re standing in strength that can’t be shaken. You walk with oil on your life and fire in your voice. So don’t shrink… shine.

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Absence taught me what presence never could. Some exits aren’t losses they’re loud confirmations.

Heaven honors what the crowd ignores, so don’t claim someone’s brilliance, if you overlooked their beginning. That’s not support that is sabotage in disguise.

I am declaring an era of divine surplus where scarcity is silenced. In this season,” says the Lord, “I am not just meeting needs — I am rewriting what 'need' means. Your storehouses shall echo with abundance before you even know they’re empty. I am sowing breakthroughs inside your declarations; speak, and you’ll unlock what I’ve already loaded into your atmosphere. This is the hour where surplus becomes strategy, and faith becomes your funnel. I am commanding the winds of overflow to be your servants — not your signals.

In this season," says the Lord, "I am not reviving what was, I am revealing what never was. I am birthing movements in the margin — divine assignments disguised in the ordinary. Your voice will carry frequencies that haven’t been heard yet, because I am amplifying what cannot be copied. The gates you thought were closed were actually charging with glory, waiting for your arrival. Walk boldly: I have made your obedience magnetic, and your faith disruptive.

When the world turns quiet around me, I don’t chase echoes—I become the voice. Their silence isn’t rejection, it’s redirection. I rise not because they called, but because destiny did.

Letting go isn’t loss — it’s alignment. You weren’t designed to carry dead weight when your spirit was born to soar. God's love doesn’t adjust to your seasons; it anchors you through them.

When you stop inviting what dishonors your worth, peace becomes your closest companion. God didn’t call you to entertain chaos — He anointed you to walk as confirmation.

You won’t find fulfillment in applause or arrival; it rests in the quiet places where you keep showing up, unseen but anointed

Heaven honors movement, not mood. Say yes even while shaking.

You carry revival in your lungs and restoration in your laughter. I am reviving your joy so it becomes your announcement. Even your giggle will carry glory.

I will not entertain what heaven did not assign. I am not available for detours dressed as desire.

You are walking out of yesterday’s shadow into tomorrow’s overflow—because even delay must bow to destiny.

You are not denied, just divinely timed. What God scripted for your hands cannot be canceled by what tried to crush your heart. It’s not lost—it’s locating you. Even your missteps are being rerouted by mercy. Grace isn’t checking your credentials—it’s honoring your calling. Every flaw is just fuel for favor.

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