Mentor And Apprentice Quotes

You're dropping the bow hand as you release," he called, although Halt certainly wasn't. His mentor looked around, saw him, and replied pithily, "I believe your grandmother needs lessons in sucking eggs.

Sometimes, life threw up problems that even the wisest, most trusted mentor couldn't solve for you. It was part of the pain of growing up. And having to stand by and watch was part of being a mentor.

Never take advice about never taking advice. That is an old vice of men - to dish it out without being able to take it - the blind leading the blind into more blindness.

Halt waited a minute or two but there was no sound except for the jingling of harness and the creaking of leather from their saddles. Finally, the former Ranger could bear it no longer. What?” The question seemed to explode out of him, with a greater degree of violence than he had intended. Taken by surprise, Horace’s bay shied in fright and danced several paces away. Horace turned an aggrieved look on his mentor as he calmed the horse and brought it back under control. What?” he asked Halt, and the smaller man made a gesture of exasperation. That’s what I want to know,” he said irritably. “What?” Horace peered at him. The look was too obviously the sort of look that you give someone who seems to have taken leave of his senses. It did little to improve Halt’s rapidly growing temper. What?” said Horace, now totally puzzled. Don’t keep parroting at me!” Halt fumed. “Stop repeating what I say! I asked you ‘what,’ so don’t ask me ‘what’ back, understand?” Horace considered the question for a second or two, then, in his deliberate way, he replied: “No.” Halt took a deep breath, his eyebrows contracted into a deep V, and beneath them his eyes with anger but before he could speak, Horace forestalled him. What ‘what’ are you asking me?” he said. Then, thinking how to make the question clearer, he added, “Or to put it another way, why are you asking ‘what’?” Controlling himself with enormous restraint, and making no secret of the fact, Halt said, very precisely: “You were about to ask me a question.” Horace frowned. “I was?” Halt nodded. “You were. I saw you take a breath to ask it.” I see,” Horace said. “And what was it about?” For just a second or two, Halt was speechless. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally found the strength to speak. That is what I was asking you,” he said. “When I said ‘what,’ I was asking you what you were about to ask me.” I wasn’t about to ask you ‘what,’” Horace replied, and Halt glared at him suspiciously. It occurred to him that Horace could be indulging himself in a gigantic leg pull, that he was secretly laughing at Halt. This, Halt could have told him, was not a good career move. Rangers were not people who took kindly to being laughed at. He studied the boy’s open face and guileless blue eyes and decided that his suspicion was ill-founded. Then what, if I may use that word once more, were you about to ask me?” Horace drew a breath once more, then hesitated. “I forget,” he said. “What were we talking about?

The question is not "can you wear your father's shoes?". The question is "can you walk in your father's shoes?". It is one thing having a mentor and it is another thing to become like your mentor.

Halt, for his part, said nothing. But when Will turned to look at his mentor, the grizzled Ranger met his eye, and simply nodded. And that, Will knew, was the equivalent of three hearty cheers from Halt.

Mentors and apprentices are partners in an ancient human dance, and one of teaching's great rewards is the daily chance it gives us to get back on the dance floor. It is the dance of the spiraling generations, in which the old empower the young with their experience and the young empower the old with new life, reweaving the fabric of the human community as they touch and turn.

A wise man once told me, don’t believe anything you hear until you’ve seen it with your own eyes,” Halt said. Crowley looked up at him. “Who said that? Pritchard?” It sounded like the sort of thing their old mentor might say. Halt affected to think for a few seconds, then gave a slight smile. “No. I think it was me, actually. I can be very wise at times.

The average person will never help you become better than them on purpose.

The relationship between apprentice and mentor is one of the most beautiful and most sacred relationships. In sharing his wisdom with his apprentice, the mentor discovers even more wisdom to share.

Gilan,” she said, “you’re looking well.” And apart from those wrinkles, he was. He smiled at her. “And you grow more beautiful every day, Pauline,” he replied. “What about me?” Halt said, with mock severity. “Do I grow more handsome every day? More impressive, perhaps?” Gilan eyed him critically, his head to one side. Then he announced his verdict. “Scruffier,” he said. Halt raised his eyebrows. “’Scruffier’?” he demanded. Gilan nodded. I’m not sure if you’re aware of recent advances in technology, Halt,” he said. “But there a wonderful new invention called scissors. People use them for trimming beards and hair.” “Why?” Gilan appealed to Pauline. “Still using his saxe knife to do his barbering, is he?” Pauline nodded, slipping her hand inside her husband’s arm. “Unless I can catch him at it,” she admitted. Halt regarded them both with a withering look. They both refused to wither, so he abandoned the expression. “You show a fine lack of respect for your former mentor,” he told Gilan. The younger man shrugged. “It goes with my exalted position as your commander.” “Not mine,” Halt said. “I’ve retired.” “So I can expect little in the way of deference from you?” Gilan grinned. “No. I’ll show proper deference….the day you train your horse to fly back around the castle’s turrets.

Halt," said Will eventually, "can I ask you a question?" "I think you just did," Halt replied, with the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. It was an old formula between the two of them. Will grinned, then sighed and became serious. "Does life always get harder when you get older?" Page | 142 "You're not exactly ancient," Halt said gently. "But things have a way of turning out, you know. Just give them time." Will made a frustrated little gesture with his hands. "I know... it's just, I mean... oh, I don't know what I mean!" he finished. Halt eyed him carefully. "Pauline said to thank you for rescuing her assistant," he said. This time, he was sure he saw a reaction. So that was it. "I was glad to do it," Will replied eventually, his voice neutral. "I think I'll turn in. Good night, Halt." "Good night, son," Halt said. He chose the last word intentionally. He watched as the dim figure strode away toward the fire, seeing the shoulders straighten as he went. Sometimes, life threw up problems that even the wisest, most trusted mentor couldn't solve for you. It was part of the pain of growing up. And having to stand by and watch was part of the pain of being a mentor.

Find that person who will make your whole world tremble with a few words. Apprentice yourself faithfully to him until you can make your own world tremble constantly.

You said earlier today that you wanted to talk about something,” Halt said. Crowley nodded, gathering his thoughts before he began. “We seem to share a lot of the same skills,” he said. “And the same weapons. I noticed you carry a saxe knife and a throwing knife like mine. I wondered where you came by them.” Crowley, of course, carried his two knives in the distinctive Ranger-issue double scabbard. Halt’s were in separate scabbards, placed close together on the left side of his belt. He glanced at them now, where the belt was draped over a rock beside the campfire. “My mentor gave them to me,” he said. “He was a Ranger, like you.” Crowley sat up at that piece of information. “A Ranger?” he said. “In Hibernia? What was his name?” “He called himself Pritchard. He was an amazing man.” “He was indeed,” Crowley affirmed, and now it was Halt’s turn to look surprised. “You knew him?” Crowley nodded eagerly. “I was his apprentice for five years. He taught me everything I know. How did you come to meet him?” “He turned up at Du . . . Droghela, some three years ago. He took me under his wing and taught me silent movement, knife work, tracking and the rest. I could already shoot, but he tightened up my technique quite a bit.” Crowley noticed the hesitation and correction when Halt mentioned the name of the place where he’d met Pritchard. But he let it pass. “Yes. He was very big on technique.” “And practice,” Halt agreed. Crowley smiled at the memory of his old teacher. “He had a saying. An ordinary archer practices until he gets it right. A Ranger—” “Practices until he never gets it wrong.” Halt

Mentorships, similar to other important relationships, usually end. Ideological differences and a need to chart a personal path might preclude parties from maintaining the original balance that stabilized a mentoring relationship. Conflict between an apprentice and his master is not always bad; in fact, it is almost inevitable, if the apprentice’s destiny is to exceed the accomplishments of the master.

First-century discipleship was expressed as a servant-master relationship (see Matthew 10:24). Once accepted as a disciple, a young man started as a talmidh, or beginner, who sat in the back of the room and could not speak. Then he became a distinguished student, who took an independent line in his approach or questioning. At the next level, he became a disciple-associate, who sat immediately behind the rabbi during prayer time. Finally he achieved the highest level, a disciple of the wise, and was recognized as the intellectual equal of his rabbi.'" 2. Memorizing the teacher's words: Oral tradition provided the basic way of studying. Disciples learned the teacher's words verbatim to pass along to the next person. Often disciples learned as many as four interpretations of each major passage in the Torah. 3. Learning the teacher's way of ministry: A disciple learned how his teacher kept God's commands, including how he practiced the Sabbath, fasted, prayed, and said blessings in ceremonial situations. He would also learn his rabbi's teaching methods and the many traditions his master followed. 4. Imitating the teacher's life and character: Jesus said that when a disciple is fully taught, he "will be like his teacher" (Luke 6:40). The highest calling of a disciple was to imitate his teacher. Paul called on Timothy to follow his example (see 2 Timothy 3:10-14), and he didn't hesitate to call on all believers to do the same (see 1 Corinthians 4:14-16; 1 1:1; Philippians 4:9). One story in ancient tradition tells of a rabbinical student so devoted to his teacher that he hid in the teacher's bedchamber to discover the mentor's sexual technique. To be sure, this is a bit extreme, yet it demonstrates the level of commitment required to be a disciple. 5. Raising up their own disciples: When a disciple finished his training, he was expected to reproduce what he'd learned by finding and training his own apprentices. He would start his own school and call it after his name, such as the House of Hillel.

The trouble with Hemingway’s cabin in the woods is that it’s a cabin and it’s in the woods. The Beatles didn’t get good by renting a self-storage garage in the boonies and doing their ten thousand hours in solitude. There seems to be an audience component to getting good, even if the audience happens to be in a Hamburg strip club. Yes, young writers need to log long hours with their tools, but once their solitary work’s done, they need to talk and compare notes with other apprentices, as well as mentors. With others, they need to test their sense of what’s working and what isn’t. Hearing even drunken applause is important; it helps you keep going.

I believe anyone can teach anyone anything. But I mean this in a specific sense. If you have two dedicated, reasonably intelligent people, one interested in teaching and the other wanting to learn, something great can happen. Think master and apprentice, mentor and protégé. For learning, small numbers win. The success of this one-on-one method is proven throughout history; many so-called prodigies were tutored by a parent or family friend (Einstein, Picasso, and Mozart all qualify). Yes, they had amazing, inherent talent, but they were still privately taught by people invested in their learning. Teaching is intimacy of the mind, and you can’t achieve that if you must work in large numbers.

Brightheart? Jaykit felt a rush of anger so strong it almost knocked him off his paws. Why had Firestar chosen one-eyed Brightheart when there were so many other warriors to choose from? As if he couldn’t guess! He dug his claws into the earth, refusing to step forward to greet his mentor. He ignored her embarrassment, although he could sense it like holly leaves pricking his pelt. He ignored the encouraging murmurs of the other apprentices. He ignored Spiderleg’s angry, “Sshh!” which quieted them. And then he felt a muzzle gently but firmly pushing him forward. Leafpool’s voice murmured in his ear. “Go on.” Gritting his teeth, he padded toward Brightheart and Firestar. “I know it must be hard for you,” Brightheart greeted him sympathetically. “But I promise I will teach you how to protect your Clan even without sight.” She pitied him!

The phenomenon of the "creative ilness", described in detail by Henri Ellenberger, in his massive study of the history of the unconsious, is alive and well in our own culture. Ellenberger described its characteristic elements: A creative illness succeeds a period of intense preoccupation with an idea and search for a certain truth. It is a polymorphous condition that can take the shape of depression, neurosis, psychomatic ailments, or even psychosis. Whatever the symptoms, they are felt as painful, if not agonizing by the subject, with alternating periods of allevation and worsening. Throughout the illness the subject never loses the thread of his dominating preoccupation. It is often compatible with normal, professional activity and family life. But even if he keeps to his social activities, he is almost entirely absorbed with himself. He suffers from feelings of utter isolation, even when he has a mentor who guides him through the ordeal (like the shaman apprentice with his master). The termination is often rapid and marked by a phase of exhilaration. The subject emerges from his ordeal with a permanent transformation in his personality and the conviction that he has discovered a great truth or a new spiritual world.

Lionpaw looked at his mentor in surprise. I thought you weren’t interested in apprentices.

Have a mentor, but choose carefully. You want to learn from a professional, not a con artist. Once you find this kind of salesperson, ask her to take you on as an apprentice/ understudy. Make a lunch date, and ask what are the techniques that work best. Even if this super salesperson isn’t in your particular field, her knowledge would surely transfer to your line of work. WEEK 7 LEADERSHIP | FRIDAY Very few companies have meaningful evaluation systems in place.

targets destroyed, the training, the discipline, the hours of study, all led to this moment. This cold, bright afternoon in January 2061 marked the true beginning. A clear mind and cool blood. The apprentice knew these elements were as vital as skill, as wind direction, humiture, and speed. Under the cool blood lived an eagerness ruthlessly suppressed. The mentor had arranged all. Efficiently, and with an attention to detail that was also vital. The room in the clean, middle-class hotel

At age twelve, boys would begin to apprentice to learn a trade. Girls would learn homemaking skills in preparation for marriage. Between the age of twelve and eighteen, a boy might begin an apprenticeship to become a rabbi. He would finish memorizing the Torah, along with much of the Old Testament, and the teachings of his mentor.

One of the most important skills a mentor must teach an apprentice is how to fight.

It's unfortunate that we don't have a mentor system anymore. In the Renaissance, artists were apprentices to masters. You learn to do a painting by painting. But now we're all on the Internet cruising around, looking for a quick fix. So I caution writers all the time to slow down and pay more attention to the work in front of them than to the end result. I don't think you write one book and get anywhere. I think you write five books and then maybe you are finally on the right path. But it takes a long time to hear your voice, and to learn how to control material. It is amazing what words on a page can do. You think you have said it well, and you look at it three days later and realize it's a mess. I think writers coming into the business can't see the mess. Their prose seems sterling to them six months later, and its hard to recognize that there's still much to be learned.

My apprentice is doing well, too.” Sharpclaw obviously didn’t intend to be outdone. “I promise you, she would have clawed my ear off this morning if Sandstorm hadn’t stopped her.” “You just wait!” Cherrypaw muttered, only half joking. “One day when Sandstorm isn’t around . . .” Sharpclaw gave her an affectionate swipe across the haunches with his tail. “Well done,” Firestar told her. “But please leave your mentor in one piece. We need him.

year with his original mentor at Castle Redmont, learning the finer points of the warrior’s craft. “Well,” he said at length, “to assault a castle, you need siege engines, of course.” “Siege engines?” Will repeated. He knew vaguely what Horace was talking about. He knew definitely that he didn’t have any. “Catapults. Mangonels. Trebuchets. The sort of things that throw rocks and giant spears and dead cows at the defenders and batter down the walls.” “Dead cows?” Will interrupted. “Why would you throw dead cows at the walls?” “You throw them over the walls. It’s supposed to spread disease and lower the defenders’ morale,” Horace told him. Will shook his head. “I don’t suppose it does much for the cows’ morale either.” Horace frowned at him, feeling they were getting off the point. “Forget the dead cows. You throw boulders and such to breach the walls.” Another

As she led them out onto the mud, Dovepaw glanced back to see Thornclaw pull a long stick out from under the roots of an elder bush at the edge of the bank. Before he could carry it off, Jayfeather erupted from the undergrowth, a bundle of herbs in his jaws. "Hey, that's mine!" he protested, spitting leaves everywhere. "Put it back!" "Are you mouse-brained?" Thornclaw mumbled around the stick. "I need it. It's only a stick." "It's my stick." Dovepaw was startled to see how worked up Jayfeather was, his eyes blazing and neck fur bristling, as if he was facing an enemy. "If you don't bring it back to me in one piece, I'll... I'll..." "Okay, I'll bring back your stupid stick," Thornclaw snarled. "Keep your fur on." He raced back across the mud with the stick in his jaws. Dovepaw and Ivypaw followed more slowly behind their mentors. Dovepaw was trying to lift each paw as soon as it touched the scorching ground. Her pads would be shriveled by the time she reached the water. "Do you think the heat is getting to Jayfeather?" Ivypaw whispered. "Thornclaw's right. It's only a stick." Dovepaw shrugged. "Maybe it's medicine cat stuff." "Yes, but what happens to us if our medicine cat gets bees in his brains?

An expectant hush fell over the rest of the Clan. “Come forward,” Fireheart heard Bluestar’s voice command from above. The kits padded side by side to the center of the clearing, their mottled gray coats bristling with anticipation. “Dustpelt,” rasped Bluestar. “You will be mentor to Ashpaw.” Fireheart watched as Dustpelt walked toward the larger gray kit and stood beside him. “Dustpelt,” Bluestar went on, “this will be your first apprentice. Share your courage and determination with him. I know you will train him well, but don’t be afraid to turn to the senior warriors for advice.” Dustpelt’s eyes gleamed with pride, and he leaned down to touch Ashpaw’s nose with his own. Ashpaw purred loudly as he followed his new mentor to the edge of the circle.

What?” The question seemed to explode out of him, with a greater degree of violence than he had intended. Taken by surprise, Horace’s bay shied in fright and danced several paces sideways. Horace turned an aggrieved look on his mentor as he calmed the horse and brought it back under control. “What?” he asked Halt, and the smaller man made a gesture of exasperation. “That’s what I want to know,” he said irritably. “What?” Horace peered at him. The look was all too obviously the sort of look that you give to someone who seems to have taken leave of his senses. It did little to improve Halt’s rapidly rising temper. “What?” said Horace, now totally puzzled. “Don’t keep parroting at me!” Halt fumed. “Stop repeating what I say! I asked you ‘what,’ so don’t ask me ‘what’ back, understand?” Horace considered the question for a second or two, then, in his deliberate way, he replied: “No.” Halt took a deep breath, his eyebrows contracted into a deep V, and beneath them his eyes sparked with anger. But before he could speak, Horace forestalled him. “What ‘what’ are you asking me?” he said. Then, thinking how to make his question clearer, he added, “Or to put it another way, why are you asking ‘what’?

Hi, Fireheart. How’s life as a deputy?” Her eyes were gently curious and her voice was friendly, not challenging. “Fine,” Fireheart told her. Or it would be, if I didn’t have a pain in the neck for an apprentice, he thought with frustration, or the elders fretting about the wrath of StarClan, or a leader who can’t even decide who should mentor Brindleface’s kits.

Mentors and apprentices are partners in an ancient human dance, and one of teaching’s great rewards is the daily chance it gives us to get back on the dance floor. It is the dance of the spiraling generations, in which the old empower the young with their experience and the young empower the old with new life, reweaving the fabric of the human community as they touch and turn.

You want to know what it’s like to be a Clan cat, don’t you? About the code that binds us and gives us the courage to survive, about the Gatherings, where we meet in peace for the flicker of a full moon to share tongues and wisdom and news. And the battles—oh, yes, the battles. I can see from the way your eyes gleam that this is what interests you most: the blood-soaked history of the four Clans, the fighting skills passed from mentor to apprentice.

their way across the border into Araluen. Will has defeated one of Tennyson's Genovesan assassins in Clonmel – but there are two left alive. Are the extraordinary archery skills of Will and Halt enough to save them during a duel with the assassins . . . or is Will's mentor facing his last battle?

The RiverClan warrior gave a little nod to Stormpaw just like any mentor approving of his apprentice's courage. Then he turned to look up at Tigerstar again. "You'll have to kill me first, Tigerstat!" he spat.

. . . Or maybe because of the seizures he’d had since he was a kit. He knew his parents still worried about him, even though it had been a while since his last upsetting vision. They’re probably hoping that with some training from the other medicine cats, I’ll learn to control my visions once and for all . . . and I can be normal. Shadowpaw wanted that, too. “The snow must be really deep up on the moors,” Dovewing mewed. “Make sure you watch where you’re putting your paws.” Shadowpaw wriggled his shoulders, praying that none of his Clanmates were listening. “I will,” he promised, glancing toward the medicine cats’ den in the hope of seeing his mentor, Puddleshine, emerge. But there was no sign of him yet. To his relief, Tiger star gave Dovewing a nudge and they both moved off toward the Clan leader’s den. Shadowpaw rubbed one paw hastily across his face and bounded across the camp to see what was keeping Puddleshine. Intent on finding his mentor, Shadowpaw barely noticed the patrol trekking toward the fresh-kill pile, prey dangling from their jaws. He skidded to a halt just in time to avoid colliding with Cloverfoot, the Clan deputy. “Shadowpaw!” she exclaimed around the shrew she was carrying. “You nearly knocked me off my paws.” “Sorry, Cloverfoot,” Shadowpaw meowed, dipping his head respectfully. Cloverfoot let out a snort, half annoyed, half amused. “Apprentices!” Shadowpaw tried to hide his irritation. He was an apprentice, yes, but an old one—medicine cat apprentices’ training lasted longer than warriors’. His littermates were full warriors already. But he knew his parents would want him to respect the deputy. Cloverfoot padded on, followed by Strikestone, Yarrowleaf, and Blazefire. Though they were all carrying prey, they had only one or two pieces each, and what little they had managed to catch was undersized and scrawny. “I can’t remember a leaf-bare as cold as this,” Yarrowleaf complained as she dropped a blackbird on the fresh-kill pile. Strikestone nodded, shivering as he fluffed out his brown tabby pelt. “No wonder there’s no prey. They’re all hiding down their holes, and I can’t blame them.” As Shadowpaw moved on, out of earshot, he couldn’t help noticing how pitifully small the fresh-kill pile was, and he tried to ignore his own growling belly. He could hardly remember his first leaf-bare, when he’d been a tiny kit, so he didn’t know if the older cats were right and the weather was unusually cold. I only know I don’t like it, he grumbled to himself as he picked his way through the icy slush that covered the ground of the camp. My paws are so cold I think they’ll drop off. I can’t wait for newleaf!

THE WARRIOR CODE 1. Defend your Clan, even with your life. You may have friendships with cats from other Clans, but your loyalty must remain to your Clan, as one day you may meet them in battle. 2. Do not hunt or trespass on another Clan’s territory. 3. Elders and kits must be fed before apprentices and warriors. Unless they have permission, apprentices may not eat until they have hunted to feed the elders. 4. Prey is killed only to be eaten. Give thanks to StarClan for its life. 5. A kit must be at least six moons old to become an apprentice. 6. Newly appointed warriors will keep a silent vigil for one night after receiving their warrior name. 7. A cat cannot be made deputy without having mentored at least one apprentice. 8. The deputy will become Clan leader when the leader dies or retires. 9. After the death or retirement of the deputy, the new deputy must be chosen before moonhigh. 10. A gathering of all four Clans is held at the full moon during a truce that lasts for the night. There shall be no fighting among Clans at this time. 11. Boundaries must be checked and marked daily. Challenge all trespassing cats. 12. No warrior may neglect a kit in pain or in danger, even if that kit is from a different Clan. 13. The word of the Clan leader is the warrior code. 14. An honorable warrior does not need to kill other cats to win his battles, unless they are outside the warrior code or it is necessary for self-defense. 15. A warrior rejects the soft life of a kittypet.