Prairie Inspiring Quotes

The Bible that is falling apart usually belongs to someone who isn't.

When God allows something to be taken from you, He replaces it with something better.

They rode out along the fenceline and across the open pastureland. The leather creaked in the morning cold. They pushed the horses into a lope. The lights fell away behind them. They rode out on the high prairie where they slowed the horses to a walk and the stars swarmed around them out of the blackness. They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.

Whether you think you're right or you think you're wrong. You're right." "If you think in pictures, write. If you think in words, paint.

When we’re going through a rough patch, if we stay centered and stay out of fear, we can come out the other side wiser, stronger and better.

We don’t always choose our situation. But, we can always choose who we want to be in that situation.

Our lives are a work of art. Plant seeds of love and respect and reap a harvest of prosperity and peace.

Yet Katie held fast to the dream that perhaps there were men in the world who appreciated good women - men capable of loving a woman enough to die for her. Something had to inspire the heroes in fairy tales and books. Her Aunt Augusta always said it was only womenfolk’s eternal wish for better men that inspired such stories…but Katie liked to believe that living or, at least, once-living men inspired them.

Suddenly, over the slope, as if tethered to a cord of air drawing quickly upward, came a Northern Harrier, motionless but for its rising. So still was the bird - wings, tail, head - it might have been a museum specimen. Then, as if atop the wind, it slid down the ridge, tilted a few times, veered, tacked up the hill, its wings hardly shifting. I though, if I could be that hawk for one hour I'd never again be just a man.

Failure is a part of success. Every perceived loss is a lesson for a better outcome next time.

But no matter which path we take, Nessa, there will always be trying times. Faith is believing that God has a plan for our lives even when things seem to be falling apart. Trust Him with all your heart, dear. Trust yourself. Your faith is bigger than you realize.

Karma doesn’t require an eye for an eye. It only requires that we learn our lessons.

You see, evil always turns on itself and Light only multiplies.

S'il avait été encore en vie, Tolstoï défendrait les rivières, les forêts, les prairies, comme autant de personnes, esclaves du capital, exténuées, mourantes sous le joug des humains.

The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. That afternoon nothing new came to Thea Kronborg, no enlightenment, no inspiration. She merely

The more Clayton eyed the terrain of this country, the more he could believe in its prophecy. The clear streams sparkled in sunlight even in the shade of century-old cottonwoods, as if the water were privy to some source of internal light that blinked at will on its surface. The lonely rock outcrops scattered throughout the plain, broke up the grassy expanses like islands dotting the sea of prairie. To the west, the juniper-tufted cliffs rose abruptly, standing like the ramparts of a gigantic fortress that appeared to reach the sky. Each of these features was like an individual ingredient taken from an ancient recipe that existed before any man had set foot on this land.

Crossing the prairie he had learned something that he knew to be a contradiction: that a constant sound—like the slithering of wind-blown grass—can become its own silence. Here at the edge of the mountain ranges another lesson became clear: this dichotomous land had made some claim upon his soul. The plains seemed to go on forever, the gently rolling land seeming to mirror the endless sky. The vastness of it all gave him his first seed of hope. Here, in this spacious country where a man was constantly dwarfed by the grandeur of his surroundings, he might learn to burn up his past and let the sparks scatter to the stars. Under this broad Western sky there seemed to be more directions, more possibilities . . . not just about what to do with his life . . . but also what kind of man to be.

Wright is an interesting study of a superstar architect having both right and wrong influence. “All Architecture, worthy the name,” he decreed in 1910, “will, henceforward, more and more be organic.”12 So inspired by Viollet-le-Duc and Louis Sullivan, he inspired countless others (including young me) toward an organic approach to architecture. At the same time, the very pomposity of his decrees helped inflame a fatal egotism in generations of architects, and his most famous buildings belie his organic ideal. They were so totally designed—down to the screwheads all being aligned horizontally to match his prairie line—that they cannot be changed. To live in one of his houses is to be the curator of a Frank Lloyd Wright museum;

If the American culture of movies, shopping males, and soft drinks cannot inspire us, there are other Americas that can: Americas of renegades and prisoners, of dreamers and outsiders. Something can be salvaged from the twisted wreck of the “democratic sprit” celebrated by Walt Whitman, something subverted from the sense that each person has worth and dignity: a spirit that can be sustained on self-reliance and initiative. These Americas are America of the alienated and marginalized: indigenous warriors, the freedom fighters of civil rights, the miners’ rebelling in the Appalachian Mountains. America’s past is full of revolutionary hybrids; our lists could stretch infinitely onwards towards undiscovered past or future. The monolith of a rich and plump America must be destroyed to make room for many Americas. A folk anarchist culture rising in the periphery of America, and can grow in the fertile ground that lies beneath the concrete of the great American wasteland. Anyone struggling today – living the hard life and fighting the even harder fight – is a friend even if he or she can never share a single meal with us, or speak our language. The anarchists of America, with our influence as wide as our prairies and dreams that could light those prairies on fire, can make entire meals on discarded food, live in abandoned buildings, and travel on the secret paths of lost highways and railroads, we are immensely privileged.

We loved to light fires at night, to keep warm, to show the authorities in Mayo and Dublin that we were unafraid of lighting a big fire on the edge of the Main Dublin-Ballina road, or just to let the heavens above know that we, a few Mayo lads, were down here on earth and alive, despite the odds. We loved the joy of sitting around an open fire having the craic like they did on cattle drives across the American prairie ages ago.

Naturalist E. O. Wilson writes, “There can be no purpose more inspiring than to begin the age of restoration, reweaving the wondrous diversity of life that still surrounds us.” The stories are piling up all around in scraps of land being restored: trout streams reclaimed from siltation, brownfields turned into community gardens, prairies reclaimed from soybeans, wolves howling in their old territories, schoolkids helping salamanders across the road. If your heart isn’t raised by the sight of whooping cranes restored to their ancient flyway, you must not have a pulse.

Grant might have lost his mind. At the moment, he didn't miss it.

Away deep in the aim to study himself in the school of the land his ancestors' gravestones flowered, Rip planned to burn his oil on the journey for growth by the hike, the thumb, the hitch, the rod, the freight, the rail, and he x'd New York on a map and pencilled his way to and into and through and under and up and between and over and across states and capitals and counties and cities and towns and villages and valleys and plains and plateaus and prairies and mountains and hills and rivers and roadways and railways and waterways and deserts and islands and reservations and titanic parks and shores and, ocean across to ocean and great lakes down to gulfs, Rip beheld the west and the east and the north and the south of the Brobdingnagian and, God and Christ and Man, it was a pretty damn good grand big fat rash crass cold hot pure mighty lovely ugly hushed dark lonely loud lusty bitchy tender crazy cruel gentle raw sore dear deep history-proud precious place to see, and he sure would, he thought, make the try to see it and smell it and walk and ride and stop and talk and listen in it and go on in it and try to find and feel and hold and know the beliefs in it and the temper and the talents in it and the omens and joys and hopes and frights and lies and laughs and truths and griefs and glows and gifts and glories and glooms and wastes and profits and the pulse and pitch and the music and the magic and the dreams and facts and the action and the score and the scope and span of the mind and the heart and spine and logic and ego and spirit in the soul and the goal of it.

She could hardly wait to cross over from Kansas into the Oklahoma prairie and take in God’s beautiful land. —Addison in "Addison’s Adventure" by Lisa M. Prysock.

Sunlight filtering through the wood-framed windows has a quiet prairie confidence. Juliette rouses slowly. She is comfortable and calm, hovering between sleep and wakefulness. A distant, unpleasant thought – just beyond the reach of her mind. Peace. Whatever else there is, it can wait. This is more important.

Bring me the sunrise of a faraway land where the soul sings of the memories of night and the sleeping dark leaps into light.....Tell me the story of torment and delight how distant moors turn into meadows of blooms and my sobbing deeps become the prairie soul.

The Ballad of the Lone Cowboy In the heart of the prairie, where the wildflowers bloom, Lived a cowboy named James, with his guitar and tunes. He’d sit by the fire, under stars shining bright, And pen down his thoughts, every day and each night. His page was a canvas, where his stories took flight, “Cowboy’s-just for fun,” in the soft moonlight. With quotes that inspired, and tales that spun, He shared his heart freely, just for fun. One day he wrote of a boy, so young and so brave, Whose mother fought battles, no more could she save. Through the eyes of the child, the world seemed so vast, But James’ tender words, held the readers fast. The cowboy’s creations, like his spirit, roamed free, From grand tales of adventure, to sweet family glee. Each post was a window, to a life rich and full, Of laughter and sorrow, of push and of pull. So here’s to the cowboy, with his hat and his grin, Whose stories keep dancing, on the winds that spin. For in every line, and each word that’s penned, Lies the essence of life, from start to end. I hope this story captures the essence of the “Cowboy’s-just for fun” page and resonates with the themes you enjoy. If you have any specific elements or ideas you’d like to include, feel free to let me know, and I can incorporate them into the story.

The Ballad of the Lone Cowboy In the heart of the prairie, where the wildflowers bloom, Lived a cowboy named James, with his guitar and tunes. He’d sit by the fire, under stars shining bright, And pen down his thoughts, every day and each night. His page was a canvas, where his stories took flight, “Cowboy’s-just for fun,” in the soft moonlight. With quotes that inspired, and tales that spun, He shared his heart freely, just for fun. One day he wrote of a boy, so young and so brave, Whose mother fought battles, no more could she save. Through the eyes of the child, the world seemed so vast, But James’ tender words, held the readers fast. The cowboy’s creations, like his spirit, roamed free, From grand tales of adventure, to sweet family glee. Each post was a window, to a life rich and full, Of laughter and sorrow, of push and of pull. So here’s to the cowboy, with his hat and his grin, Whose stories keep dancing, on the winds that spin. For in every line, and each word that’s penned, Lies the essence of life, from start to end. I hope this story captures the essence of the “Cowboy’s-just for fun” page and resonates with the themes you enjoy. And if you like this page, please share it with your friends. I hope you enjoy this story and feel inspired to share it with others

In the breadth of its impact, Wilder’s work—even in its bowdlerized, co-opted versions—has few parallels. It has shaped and inspired politicians across the decades. The second heir to the Little House fortune, Roger MacBride, ran for president as a Libertarian. Ronald Reagan wept over his TV tray in the White House watching his friend Michael Landon enact a blow-dried Simi Valley version of Wilder’s homespun pioneer values.9 Little House on the Prairie is the one book Sarah Palin’s family could remember her reading as a child.10 Saddam Hussein is said to have been a fan.11

There will always be road construction in life, and never a point when all the highways are fixed. Keep walking.

Halloween by Maisie Aletha Smikle Halloween Halloween Fun for the teen and preteen Fun for the queen And those in between Halloween Halloween Don't be mean A treat for you And your friends too We are not naughty We are nice We like candied apples With lots of spice Decked in costumes out we go Two dressed as bushy tail foxes in frocks One dressed in a hat with beard and locks Singing reggae to the tune of the blues Knock knock Give us treats we don’t like tricks Give us chocolate and candy That's so sweet fine and dandy We’ll take our sweets to the prairie And trade them with a fairy call Mary Who is very cheery And not at all contrary Fairy Mary return all teeth Fallen out from eating too much sweets Polished and bright to chew just right We’ll eat more fruits noon or night

I am Mavis Elizabeth Betterly. I am used to hard work. I can run a household better than Mrs. Oblinger ever could. What does it matter, those things that hold me back? What does it matter when I make mistakes? They don't make me who I am.