Stairs Inspirational Quotes

Failures are the stairs we climb to reach success.

As Kevin climbed the three flights of stairs to his apartment, his brain formulated a vague plan of action. He could not have explained it to anyone or even to himself in coherent sentences. But the outline was there in Kevin’s subconscious. It would not only change his life, but many others, as well. A Call to Action had been born.

There is no elevator to success, you have to take the stairs

All rising to a great place is by a winding stair.

But then I realized, they weren't calling out for their own mothers. Not those weak women, those victims. Drug addicts, shopaholics, cookie bakers. They didn't mean the women who let them down, who failed to help them into womanhood, women who let their boyfriends run a train on them. Bingers, purgers, women smiling into mirrors, women in girdles, women on barstools. Not those women with their complaints and their magazines, controlling women, women who asked, what's in in for me? Not the women watching TV while they made dinner, women who dyed their hair blond behind closed doors trying to look twenty-three. They didn't mean the mothers washing dishes wishing they'd never married, the ones in the ER, saying they fell down the stairs, not the ones in prison saying lonliness is the human condition, get used to it. The wanted the real mother, the blood mother, the great womb, mother of fierce compassion, a woman large enough to hold all the pain, to carry it away. What we needed was someone who bled, someone deep and rich as a field, a wide-hipped mother, awesome, immense, women like huge soft couches, mothers coursing with blood, mothers big enough, wide enough for us to hid in, to sink down to the bottom of, mothers who would breathe for us when we could not breathe anymore, who would fight for us, who would kill for us, die for us.

That unknown is a diamond in a universe of dirt. Uncertainty. Unpredictability. It is when you turn your emotions into art. It is BTS and the Sistine Chapel and Rumi's poetry and Ross Geller on the stairs yelling, 'Pivot.' Every creation great and small, they are our diamonds.

Your cruelties and mistakes may look damning to you, but that is not what I see. Every human conversation is more elegant and complex than the entire solar system that contains it. You have no idea how marvelous you are, but I am not only here to protect what you are now, I am here to protect what you will become. I can't tell you what that might be because I don't know. That unknown is a diamond in a universe of dirt. Uncertainty. Unpredictability. It is when you turn your emotions into art. It is BTS and the Sistine Chapel and Rumi's poetry and Ross Geller on the stairs yelling, 'Pivot.' Every creation great and small, they are our diamonds. And what you may be in two hundred years, we can guess with fair accuracy. What you are in two thousand . . . Oh, my friends . . . my best friends, you cannot know.

The elevator to success broke a long time ago, the problem is too many people are too lazy to take the stairs.

When you take the right stairs you will arrive at the precise destination.

When I became convinced that the Universe is natural – that all the ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my soul, into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with light and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf or a slave. There was for me no master in all the wide world -- not even in infinite space. I was free -- free to think, to express my thoughts -- free to live to my own ideal -- free to live for myself and those I loved -- free to use all my faculties, all my senses -- free to spread imagination's wings -- free to investigate, to guess and dream and hope -- free to judge and determine for myself -- free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the "inspired" books that savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past -- free from popes and priests -- free from all the "called" and "set apart" -- free from sanctified mistakes and holy lies -- free from the fear of eternal pain -- free from the winged monsters of the night -- free from devils, ghosts and gods. For the first time I was free. There were no prohibited places in all the realms of thought -- no air, no space, where fancy could not spread her painted wings -- no chains for my limbs -- no lashes for my back -- no fires for my flesh -- no master's frown or threat – no following another's steps -- no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all worlds. And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for the liberty of hand and brain -- for the freedom of labor and thought -- to those who fell on the fierce fields of war, to those who died in dungeons bound with chains -- to those who proudly mounted scaffold's stairs -- to those whose bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and torn -- to those by fire consumed -- to all the wise, the good, the brave of every land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and hold it high, that light might conquer darkness still.

Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her flawless skin had a slight sheen from her dash across the parking lot and up the stairs. Sexy, but he suspected the fantasy the sheen inspired was better than the reality. She was the job. Probably wore Kevlar to bed. End of story. Still, he did enjoy playing with her. He liked her big blue eyes, cute little nose, slim athletic body, and her earnest dedication to making the world a more law-abiding place. It made his dedication to crime much more interesting.

I trained. I punished myself. I thought making myself suffer on a day-to-day basis would prepare me for climbing hard at high altitude. I slept on the floor. I carried ice in my bare hands. I beat them against the concrete just to see if I could handle it. I never missed an opportunity to train. I ran stairs until I vomited, then ran more. I ruined relationships to get used to the feeling of failure and sacrifice (it was much easier than holding on). I trained in the gym on an empty diet to learn how far I could push myself without food or water. I imitated and plagiarized the heroes who lived and died before me. I spoke only strong words and ignored weakness at every turn. I subdued my fears. I was opinionated and direct. I became a man either well loved or truly hated. I was ready for anything.

Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar stairs with vexatious phlegm.

As for my damned literature, God knows what a business it is, grinding along without a scrap of inspiration or a note of style. But it has to be ground, and the mill grinds exceeding slowly though not particularly small. ...The treadmill turns; and, with a kind of desperate cheerfulness, I mount the idle stair.

So if you find nothing in the corridors open the doors, and if you find nothing behind these doors there are more floors, and if you find nothing up there, don’t worry, just leap up another flight of stairs. As long as you don’t stop climbing, the stairs won’t end, under your climbing feet they will go on growing upwards

There are those dreamers who make excuses for why they aren't passionate about or creating anything to match their desires and then there's those dreamers who stay up late just to finish a goal that will get them up the next set of stairs. We all have dreams but not everyone makes it a reality.

To a casual passerby, his appearance would not have inspired much confidence. His overcoat was patched in spots and frayed at the cuffs, he wore an old tweed suit that was missing a button, his white shirt was stained with ink and tobacco, and his tie--this was perhaps the strangest of all--was knotted not once, but twice, as if he'd forgotten whether he'd tied it and, rather than glancing down to check, had simply tied it again for good measure. His white hair poked out from beneath his hat, and his eyebrows rose from his forehead like great snowy horns, curling over a pair of bent and patched tortoiseshell glasses. All in all, he looked like someone who'd gotten dressed in the midst of a whirlwind and, thinking he still looked too presentable, had thrown himself down a flight of stairs. It was when you looked in his eyes that everything changed. Reflecting no light save their own, they shone brightly in the snow-muffled night, and there was in them a look of such uncommon energy and kindness and understanding that you forgot entirely about the tobacco and ink stains on his shirt and the patches on his glasses and that his tie was knotted twice over. You looked in them and knew that you were in the presence of true wisdom.

Failures are the stairs we climb to reach success.

People say, ‘I suppose you got bored with life,’ but it wasn’t as sudden as that. The seeds are in you and although it may take ten, twenty, or forty years, eventually you can do what you wanted to do at the beginning.

It was the morning rush hour. The crowd was coming up the stairs of Penn Station like ants on the 7th Avenue side, and a Jehovah Witness was having a hell of a time selling religion. — Christ Belongs To The Whole World.

For now, the Simple Daily Practice means doing ONE thing every day. Try any one of these things each day: A) Sleep eight hours. B) Eat two meals instead of three. C) No TV. D) No junk food. E) No complaining for one whole day. F) No gossip. G) Return an e-mail from five years ago. H) Express thanks to a friend. I) Watch a funny movie or a stand-up comic. J) Write down a list of ideas. The ideas can be about anything. K) Read a spiritual text. Any one that is inspirational to you. The Bible, The Tao te Ching, anything you want. L) Say to yourself when you wake up, “I’m going to save a life today.” Keep an eye out for that life you can save. M) Take up a hobby. Don’t say you don’t have time. Learn the piano. Take chess lessons. Do stand-up comedy. Write a novel. Do something that takes you out of your current rhythm. N) Write down your entire schedule. The schedule you do every day. Cross out one item and don’t do that anymore. O) Surprise someone. P) Think of ten people you are grateful for. Q) Forgive someone. You don’t have to tell them. Just write it down on a piece of paper and burn the paper. It turns out this has the same effect in terms of releasing oxytocin in the brain as actually forgiving them in person. R) Take the stairs instead of the elevator. S) I’m going to steal this next one from the 1970s pop psychology book Don’t Say Yes When You Want to Say No: when you find yourself thinking of that special someone who is causing you grief, think very quietly, “No.” If you think of him and (or?) her again, think loudly, “No!” Again? Whisper, “No!” Again, say it. Louder. Yell it. Louder. And so on. T) Tell someone every day that you love them. U) Don’t have sex with someone you don’t love. V) Shower. Scrub. Clean the toxins off your body. W) Read a chapter in a biography about someone who is an inspiration to you. X) Make plans to spend time with a friend. Y) If you think, “Everything would be better off if I were dead,” then think, “That’s really cool. Now I can do anything I want and I can postpone this thought for a while, maybe even a few months.” Because what does it matter now? The planet might not even be around in a few months. Who knows what could happen with all these solar flares. You know the ones I’m talking about. Z) Deep breathing. When the vagus nerve is inflamed, your breathing becomes shallower. Your breath becomes quick. It’s fight-or-flight time! You are panicking. Stop it! Breathe deep. Let me tell you something: most people think “yoga” is all those exercises where people are standing upside down and doing weird things. In the Yoga Sutras, written in 300 B.C., there are 196 lines divided into four chapters. In all those lines, ONLY THREE OF THEM refer to physical exercise. It basically reads, “Be able to sit up straight.” That’s it. That’s the only reference in the Yoga Sutras to physical exercise. Claudia always tells me that yogis measure their lives in breaths, not years. Deep breathing is what keeps those breaths going.

Tragedies, I was coming to realize through my daily studies in humanities both in and out of the classroom, were a luxury. They were constructions of an affluent society, full of sorrow and truth but without moral function. Stories of the vanquishing of the spirit expressed and underscored a certain societal spirit to spare. The weakening of the soul, the story of the downfall and the failed overcoming - trains missed, letters not received, pride flaring, the demolition of one's own offspring, who were then served up in stews - this was awe-inspiring, wounding entertainment told uselessly and in comfort at tables full of love and money. Where life was meagerer, where the tables were only half full, the comic triumph of the poor was the useful demi-lie. Jokes were needed. And then the baby feel down the stairs. This could be funny! Especially in a place and time where worse things happened. It wasn't that suffering was a sweepstakes, but it certainly was relative. For understanding and for perspective, suffering required a butcher's weighing. And to ease the suffering of the listener, things had better be funny. Though they weren't always. And this is how, sometimes, stories failed us: Not that funny. Or worse, not funny in the least.

Our father came to sleep in our house that night. He carried a small suitcase with a black mourning suit and a pair of polished shoes. Corrigan stopped him as he made his way up the stairs. 'Where d'you think you're going?'Our father gripped the bannister. His hands were liverspotted and I could see him trembling in his pause. 'That's not your room,' sad Corrigan. Our father tottered on the stairs. He took another step up. 'Don't,' said my brother. His voice was clear, full, confidant. Our father stood stunned. He climbed one more step and then turned, descended, looked around, lost. 'My own sons,' he said. We made a bed for him on a sofa in the living room, but even then Corrigan refused to stay under the same roof; he went walking in the direction of the city center and I wondered what alley he might be found in later that night, what fist he might walk into, whose bottle he might climb down inside.

When Elizabeth finally descended the stairs on her way to the dining room she was two hours late. Deliberately. “Good heavens, you’re tardy, my dear!” Sir Francis said, shoving back his chair and rushing to the doorway where Elizabeth had been standing, trying to gather her courage to do what needed to be done. “Come and meet my guests,” he said, drawing her forward after a swift, disappointed look at her drab attire and severe coiffure. “We did as you suggested in your note and went ahead with supper. What kept you abovestairs so long?” “I was at prayer,” Elizabeth said, managing to look him straight in the eye. Sir Francis recovered from his surprise in time to introduce her to the three other people at the table-two men who resembled him in age and features and two women of perhaps five and thirty who were both attired in the most shockingly revealing gowns Elizabeth had ever seen. Elizabeth accepted a helping of cold meat to silence her protesting stomach while both women studied her with unhidden scorn. “That is a most unusual ensemble you’re wearing, I must say,” remarked the woman named Eloise. “Is it the custom where you come from to dress so…simply?” Elizabeth took a dainty bite of meat. “Not really. I disapprove of too much personal adornment.” She turned to Sir Francis with an innocent stare. “Gowns are expensive. I consider them a great waste of money.” Sir Francis was suddenly inclined to agree, particularly since he intended to keep her naked as much as possible. “Quite right!” he beamed, eyeing the other ladies with pointed disapproval. “No sense in spending all that money on gowns. No point in spending money at all.” “My sentiments exactly,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “I prefer to give every shilling I can find to charity instead.” “Give it away?” he said in a muted roar, half rising out of his chair. Then he forced himself to sit back down and reconsider the wisdom of wedding her. She was lovely-her face more mature then he remembered it, but not even the black veil and scraped-back hair could detract from the beauty of her emerald-green eyes with their long, sooty lashes. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them-shadows he didn’t recall seeing there earlier in the day. He put the shadows down to her far-too-serious nature. Her dowry was creditable, and her body beneath that shapeless black gown…he wished he could see her shape. Perhaps it, too, had changed, and not for the better, in the past few years. “I had hoped, my dear,” Sir Francis said, covering her hand with his and squeezing it affectionately, “that you might wear something else down to supper, as I suggested you should.” Elizabeth gave him an innocent stare. “This is all I brought.” “All you brought?” he uttered. “B-But I definitely saw my footmen carrying several trunks upstairs.” “They belong to my aunt-only one of them is mine,” she fabricated hastily, already anticipating his next question and thinking madly for some satisfactory answer. “Really?” He continued to eye her gown with great dissatisfaction, and then he asked exactly the question she’d expected: “What, may I ask, does your one truck contain if not gowns?” Inspiration struck, and Elizabeth smiled radiantly. “Something of great value. Priceless value,” she confided. All faces at the table watched her with alert fascination-particularly the greedy Sir Francis. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, love. What’s in it?” “The mortal remains of Saint Jacob.

That was our first home. Before I felt like an island in an ocean, before Calcutta, before everything that followed. You know it wasn’t a home at first but just a shell. Nothing ostentatious but just a rented two-room affair, an unneeded corridor that ran alongside them, second hand cane furniture, cheap crockery, two leaking faucets, a dysfunctional doorbell, and a flight of stairs that led to, but ended just before the roof (one of the many idiosyncrasies of the house), secured by a sixteen garrison lock, and a balcony into which a mango tree’s branch had strayed. The house was in a building at least a hundred years old and looked out on a street and a tenement block across it. The colony, if you were to call it a colony, had no name. The house itself was seedy, decrepit, as though a safe-keeper of secrets and scandals. It had many entries and exits and it was possible to get lost in it. And in a particularly inspired stroke of whimsy architectural genius, it was almost invisible from the main road like H.G. Wells’ ‘Magic Shop’. As a result, we had great difficulty when we had to explain our address to people back home. It went somewhat like this, ‘... take the second one from the main road….and then right after turning left from Dhakeshwari, you will see a bird shop (unspecific like that, for it had no name either)… walk straight in and take the stairs at the end to go to the first floor, that’s where we dwell… but don’t press the bell, knock… and don't walk too close to the cages unless you want bird-hickeys…’’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

Every morning, as I walk into Pixar Animation Studios—past the twenty-foot-high sculpture of Luxo Jr., our friendly desk lamp mascot, through the double doors and into a spectacular glass-ceilinged atrium where a man-sized Buzz Lightyear and Woody, made entirely of Lego bricks, stand at attention, up the stairs past sketches and paintings of the characters that have populated our fourteen films—I am struck by the unique culture that defines this place. Although I’ve made this walk thousands of times, it never gets old.

Immediately upon entering Washington, we made a wrong turn in the heavy traffic, and while my mother was trying to read the road map and direct my father to our hotel, there appeared before us the biggest white thing I had ever seen. Atop an incline at the end of the street stood the U.S. Capitol, the broad stairs sweeping upward to the colonnade and capped by the elaborate three-tiered dome. Inadvertently, we had driven right to the very heart of American history, and whether we knew it in so many words, it was American history, delineated in its most inspirational form, that we were counting on to protect us against Lindbergh.

Georgia pines flew past the windows of the Greyhound bus carrying Isaac Woodard home to Winnsboro, South Carolina. After serving four years in the army in World War II, where he had earned a battle star, he had received an honorable discharge earlier that day at Camp Gordon and was headed home to meet his wife. When the bus stopped at a small drugstore an hour outside Atlanta, Woodard asked the white driver if he could go to the restroom and a brief argument ensued. About half an hour later, the driver stopped again and told Woodard to get off the bus. Crisp in his uniform, Woodard stepped from the stairs and saw white police waiting for him. Before he could speak, one of the officers struck him in the head with a billy club, then continued to beat him so badly that he fell unconscious. The blows to Woodard’s head were so severe that when he woke in a jail cell the next day, he could not see. The beating occurred just four and a half hours after the soldier’s military discharge. At twenty-six, Woodard would never see again.83 There was nothing unusual about Woodard’s horrific maiming. It was part of a wave of systemic violence that had been deployed continuously against Black Americans for decades since the end of Reconstruction, in both the North and the South. As the racially egalitarian spirit of post–Civil War America evaporated under the desire for national reunification, Black Americans, simply by existing, served as a problematic reminder of this nation’s failings. White America dealt with this inconvenience by constructing a savagely enforced system of racial apartheid that excluded Black people almost entirely from mainstream American life—a system so grotesque that Nazi Germany would later take inspiration from it for its own racist policies.84

In fact, properly speaking, no parish priest has any convictions on politics. At the back of his mind, he regards the state as an enemy that has usurped the temporal power of the Pope. Being an enemy, the state must be exploited as much as possible and without any qualms of conscience. Because of this innate and perhaps unconscious hostility to the state as an institution, the parish priest cannot see that it is the duty of a citizen to endeavour to make political life as morally clean as possible. He cannot see that the community as a whole must always come into the forefront of every citizen's political consciousness and that personal interests must be sacrificed to the interests of the nation. No. The parish priest regards himself as the commander of his parish, which he is holding for His Majesty the Pope. Between himself and the Pope there is the Bishop, acting, so to speak, as the Divisional Commander. As far as the Civil Power is concerned, it is a semi-hostile force which must be kept in check, kept in tow, intrigued against and exploited, until that glorious day when the Vicar of Christ again is restored to his proper position as the ruler of the earth and the wearer of the Imperial crown. This point of view helps the parish priest to adopt a very cold-blooded attitude towards Irish politics. He is merely either for or against the government. If he has a relative in a government position, he is in favour of the government. If he has a relative who wants a position and cannot get it, then he is against the government. But his support of the government is very precarious and he makes many visits to Dublin and creeps up back stairs into ministerial offices, cajoling and threatening. He is most commonly seen making a cautious approach to the Education Office, where he has all sorts of complaints to lodge and all sorts of suggestions to make. Every book recommended by the education authorities for the schools is examined by him, and if he finds a single idea in any of them that might be likely to inspire thought of passion, then he is up in arms at once. Like an army of black beetles on the march, he and his countless brothers invade Dublin and lay siege to the official responsible. Woe to that man.

Try any one of these things each day: A) Sleep eight hours. B) Eat two meals instead of three. C) No TV. D) No junk food. E) No complaining for one whole day. F) No gossip. G) Return an e-mail from five years ago. H) Express thanks to a friend. I) Watch a funny movie or a stand-up comic. J) Write down a list of ideas. The ideas can be about anything. K) Read a spiritual text. Any one that is inspirational to you. The Bible, The Tao te Ching, anything you want. L) Say to yourself when you wake up, “I’m going to save a life today.” Keep an eye out for that life you can save. M) Take up a hobby. Don’t say you don’t have time. Learn the piano. Take chess lessons. Do stand-up comedy. Write a novel. Do something that takes you out of your current rhythm. N) Write down your entire schedule. The schedule you do every day. Cross out one item and don’t do that anymore. O) Surprise someone. P) Think of ten people you are grateful for. Q) Forgive someone. You don’t have to tell them. Just write it down on a piece of paper and burn the paper. It turns out this has the same effect in terms of releasing oxytocin in the brain as actually forgiving them in person. R) Take the stairs instead of the elevator. S) I’m going to steal this next one from the 1970s pop psychology book Don’t Say Yes When You Want to Say No: when you find yourself thinking of that special someone who is causing you grief, think very quietly, “No.” If you think of him and (or?) her again, think loudly, “No!” Again? Whisper, “No!” Again, say it. Louder. Yell it. Louder. And so on. T) Tell someone every day that you love them. U) Don’t have sex with someone you don’t love. V) Shower. Scrub. Clean the toxins off your body. W) Read a chapter in a biography about someone who is an inspiration to you. X) Make plans to spend time with a friend. Y) If you think, “Everything would be better off if I were dead,” then think, “That’s really cool. Now I can do anything I want and I can postpone this thought for a while, maybe even a few months.” Because what does it matter now? The planet might not even be around in a few months. Who knows what could happen with all these solar flares. You know the ones I’m talking about. Z) Deep breathing. When the vagus nerve is inflamed, your breathing becomes shallower. Your breath becomes quick. It’s fight-or-flight time! You are panicking. Stop it! Breathe deep. Let me tell you something: most people think “yoga” is all those exercises where people are standing upside down and doing weird things. In the Yoga Sutras, written in 300 B.C., there are 196 lines divided into four chapters. In all those lines, ONLY THREE OF THEM refer to physical exercise. It basically reads, “Be able to sit up straight.” That’s it. That’s the only reference in the Yoga Sutras to physical exercise. Claudia always tells me that yogis measure their lives in breaths, not years. Deep breathing is what keeps those breaths going.

She didn’t see what everyone else saw. She was too busy fighting for more; for the next victory, in whatever shape it might come- as small as counting the exact number of steps in a flight of stairs, as big as getting in the Ivy League. For a moment, sometimes longer, these victories slowed the treadmill on which her mind churned, the one that made her feel she could never keep up.

She demanded to see ye and then turned her back on me. Now she willnae speak, and she’s better at silence than ye ever were.” Marjorie allowed herself a brief smile. “Oh, dear. She’s given you the cut direct. It’s the greatest show of disdain a lady can give a gentleman.” He lifted a straight eyebrow. “Ye’ve nae cut-directed me,” he returned. “I recall a slap direct, though.” She’d begun to wonder if he was baiting her on purpose. “There’s no such thing. And a slap isn’t ladylike. I blame you for inspiring my misbehavior, though.” His grin warmed her insides. “I’ll accept that responsibility. And I’ll be encouraging ye again, I imagine.” Desire touched her, heady and welcome. But she was still a prisoner, and until that altered, she couldn’t be certain how much of this was her free will, and how much she merely wanted it to be. “Perhaps a cut direct would teach you some manners, sir.” With a sniff she preceded him up the stairs. Graeme caught hold of her elbow and pulled her around to face him. With her a step above him, for once they stood eye to eye. “Ye can turn yer back on me, mo boireann leomhann, but dunnae stop talking. I like the sound of yer voice.” On the tail end of that, he leaned in and kissed her.

Rory’s narrowed gaze shifts from me to the asshole behind me three times before I finally push away from both of them and storm down the curving stairs. But apparently, just because I walked away doesn’t mean Jameson is done performing. “Have a good day, baby. Make the world a beautiful place. Inspire others. Lead with your heart not—” I slam the door before one more inspirational babble can fall from that man’s ridiculous mouth.

The gym is my level playing field, as in, it keeps me level so I can play the game of life without destroying myself and everyone around me. It’s my place to wage war and I am at war- both with myself and with humanity. It’s my place to make things right, to remain a hero, to fight my inner villain. I was a villain as I climbed up the stair mill to begin my workout. I tore Mr. Hyde’s throat out with my teeth to remain Dr. Jekyll. Good would only come by killing evil. Killing evil is what I do while I am at the gym.

This encounter may be the signal of the end of a lengthy dry spell for you. If your luck is on the rise, you may be able to leap to the top of a set of stairs instead of moving a step or two at a time. The following future may unfold before you as well as you reach this moment.

It was no mere fancy. Fancy does not remold a man in a moment. Fancy has its ups and downs, its hot minutes and-its cold. This was a steady inspiration; an enlarge¬ ment of the soul such as I had hitherto been a stranger to, and which I knew then, as plainly as I do now, would serve to make my happiness or my misery as Fortune lent her aid or passed me coldly by.

Life has hidden stairs; whenever you feel trapped, look for those mysterious stairs to get out of there!

Nine Strategies for Walking More • Walk while you talk. Use personal phone calls and even work meeting calls as opportunity to walk, whether it’s outside or just around your home or office space. • Communicate in person. At work, walk to talk to a colleague before you call or click. • Walk your dog! If you don’t have one, maybe this will inspire you to get one: A U.K. study found that dog-owners walk twenty-two minutes more per day than non-dog-owners. At the very least, borrow your neighbor’s dog—it’s the rare canine that won’t enjoy an extra outing. • Walk your kid to school. If it’s safe, there is no better way to get steps in while also doing something healthy for your child (see Steps, Community, and Less Loneliness, this page). • Take the stairs. Okay, you’ve heard this one before, but we’d be remiss if we didn’t remind you that taking the stairs is another way to get steps in without having to go for a formal walk. Every flight counts. • Shop in person. During the pandemic, a lot of us got used to ordering groceries and just about everything else online.

Sophie had to force herself to breathe slower to keep her head from getting woozy. “I’m sure I speak for everyone,” Keefe grunted, “when I say: Are we there yet?” “Almost,” Tiergan promised. “Everyone dig deep—and don’t look down.” “Steaming sasquatch poop—that’s a long way to fall!” Keefe announced. Fitz moved closer to Sophie, his new cologne tickling her nose as he whispered, “I almost forgot. I brought you a present.” Her heart skipped at least five beats when he slipped an orange velvet satchel into her palm. He’d been bringing her lots of tiny gifts lately—and she’d been trying hard not to read too much into it. “Ugh, anyone else ready to vomit from the Fitzphie?” Keefe asked. “I am,” Dex said, as Linh asked, “Did Fitzphie become an actual thing?” “I don’t even know what ‘Fitzphie’ is supposed to mean,” Tiergan noted. “Want me to explain it?” Tam offered. “No,” Sophie said, opening the satchel and pulling out a fist-size crystal prism. It was heavy like a paperweight, and when she held it up to the light, rainbow sparkles flashed across her fingers, highlighting words carved across the base, along with the Foxfire seal. Alvar Soren Vacker “That’s called a Radiant,” Fitz explained. “It’s the highest honor any prodigy can receive when they complete the basic levels at Foxfire. Alvar was so disgustingly smug about earning one that he told my mom she should keep it on the mantel in our main sitting room, so it could inspire Biana and me to work harder.” “Ugh, I forgot about that,” Biana grumbled. “I can’t believe Mom did it.” “I know. So I think it’s time to destroy it. And considering where we are, maybe it’d be fun to let it take a really nasty fall.” “Gotta give you credit,” Tam told Fitz. “That’s pretty much a perfect gift.” It was. Though Sophie felt bad taking it. “Shouldn’t you or Biana do the honors?” “Nope. Alvar was there when they took your parents,” Biana argued. “And when you were kidnapped.” “Just throw it extra hard, for us,” Fitz added. Sophie glanced at Dex. “Alvar helped kidnap you, too.” “So boost your throw with the Sucker Punch I made you,” he suggested. They seemed pretty sure, so Sophie gathered whatever mental energy she could muster and channeled it into her arm muscles. A burst of force from the Sucker Punch gave her throw extra oomph as she hurled the Radiant down the center of the curving stairs, where none of the bodyguards would be standing. A satisfying

My spiritual journey really started when I was a sophomore in High School. I came home from basketball practice one rainy evening and a friend of the family was waiting in the living room for me. He said he just wanted to talk to me for a minute or two. We went down stairs and he posed this question to me; “Michael, If you were to die tonight and to stand before God, why should He let you into heaven?

think the word you might be searching for,” she finally said, “is stupefied. Or awed? Inspired?” She gave a shy little smile. “But vib. I’m not mad at you, Bartleby.” My heart felt like a rubber ball bouncing down the stairs.

The back of Tess's head disappeared as she descended the stairs. 'You'll like him a lot more if you listen more to his actions than to his words.

Looking down from a fork in the tree, a little girl shivers in the bitter autumn wind. She could be inside in the warmth. Inside; amidst all the smelly pots and pans and piles of dirty clothes. The darkened lounge room flickering out a constant reel of cartoons; the light outside strangled as it tries to valiantly penetrate curtains too hard for a child to open. Michelle had gone into her Auntie’s room, as she had done many times before, to say that she will just be outside. ‘Okay my dearie,’ came the exhausted reply. There Patricia lay, her crumpled hair peeping out from the blankets. The stale, sour, smell of too much hibernation trapped in that tiny room. Her frayed sequin shoes left discarded near the door. The feather cap hanging limply from her dresser door, waiting for life to ride underneath it once again and for the wind to make it shimmer with delight. Michelle had walked outside, hoping that this canyon of loneliness would not follow her down the stairs. Out into the sounds of activity, the fresh waft of sea air, and the theatrical display of birdlife. There, Michelle now sits, watching it all as she reunites with the silent strength of her tree.

You can reach the roof of your house by stone stairs, by wooden stairs, by bamboo steps or by a rope. Likewise, there are diverse ways of experiencing the Absolute Divinity – the Ultimate Oneness. In fact, in that blissful state of oneness, you and God are one and the same thing.

I didn't fall, the stairs of SL just needed a hug OKAY!

So stretch! Reach for it. Like falling down stairs, where your inner-genius takes over and saves you — your instincts are ready to serve you.

I could feel the spring in my step as I walked up one flight of stairs from the parking garage into the company’s lobby. Although I wore my old blue suit, a remnant of all my previous job interviews, I felt the day had new possibilities. After all, I was interviewing at a company that made something I loved – movies!

I think I have grown wise enough To not to wish to climb up the stairs 'M gonna sit, walk, crawl, swing by on the step I am And let the upper ones have their stare

If success is the peak (or the summit), or the final destination in the success journey, then failures should be treated as the stepping stones (stairs) to reach success.

That’s so inspiring,” I said. “It makes me think of my father’s accident, too. He fell down a flight of stairs, almost exactly five years before he died. My dad suffered a very serious traumatic brain injury that left him delirious for over a month. We were told that he might never come back or be himself again. When he finally came back to his right mind, my brother said he was sorry my dad had endured such a traumatic experience. My dad responded, ‘Oh, no, not at all. It’s all part of my curriculum.

Stairs are the only option to reach your desire, just take a new step and keep walking till you reach where you wish to be...

I don't adopt the way of other's stairs and shoulders to confess my feelings, emotions, or devotion, dedication, and affection and not even the third party to involve and participate in my private matters. I appreciate and respect the direct expression that inspires purity and reality.

Farewell, Jarlaxle. Or fare ill. It matters not to me.” “But I am your muse.” “I don’t like the songs you inspire.” Entreri turned his mount around, stepping to the stair.

Second Confrontation With The Limp. Today while ascending the escalators, In the crowd of thousands of spectators, The limp appeared once again, With similar signature of pain and strain, And the drag with which he pulled his right foot, Today seemed shorter than half a foot, He appeared to be moving in a definite direction, Without any doubts or dereliction, As I was ascending the escalator, He was descending the stairs one at a time , like a helpless procrastinator, And there I caught a glimpse of human emotion, A feeling of surging and pristinely humane sensation, A man who must have been in his mid sixties and ascending the escalator beside me, With side parted grey hair and a composed look that even skies longed to see, Caught the sight of the limp holding his bag in his left hand, While he held his right leg with his right hand and pushed it to the next step, to maintain balance and anyhow stand, He descended the stairs with caution, one step at a time, And the left leg, was in complete denial to rhyme, With the floundering right foot supported by his ankle high shoes, But there was nothing to cover or hide his face bearing the painful blues, The man looked at him and turned to see him again and again, Then without making it obvious, he removed his spectacles and cleared his tears, as he revived his look simple and plain, But it seemed he missed a heart beat when he saw the man limping in the crowd, A rush of emotion crossed him and surged his existence and for anyone equally sensitive, it was silent yet very loud, His feelings of sympathy were displayed all over his face, The sadness that he managed to hide with a synthetic grace, Failed in preventing him to constantly turn his head and look at the limping man, Perhaps it reminded him of someone dear or he felt a fellow human beings pain culminating in the form of the limping man, And he quietly wept and maybe felt deeply sorry for the limp and his relentless dragging, For whatever reason the limp too turned and looked back, and both were locked in a momentary emotional tugging, Where the limp gently smiled and bowed a bit, The man tried to smile too but he couldn't, so he lifted his hand slowly and waved it at him, as if to tell him, keep walking, never stop or sit, And then both pursued, rather were lured by their destinies, One ascending, the other one descending, with their own dreams, own hopes and a bunch of certainties, The man must be where he ought to be, the limp too might be at his destination now, But today both of them conquered their destinies with that humbling and simple bow!

To quote Zig Ziglar, "The elevator to success is out of order, but the stairs are always available." Expect to do the work and expect to reach success after a process. The worst thing that you can feel is an entitlement to success. Even if you have worked hard, nobody is entitled to success - hard work is merely an element of success, not a promise of it.

THEY OWN THE STAIRS YOU OWN THE CLIMB सीढ़ी उनकी है चढ़ाई तुम्हारी है SEERDHI UNKI HAI CHADHAI MERI HAI

She smiled, her face tender in the lamplight. “I wish you had known him. He could make just being alive seem like an act of triumph. People used to smile when they saw him coming… he made everything all right.

Kat bit her lip as he hustled her down the stairs. “I―I don’t feel well, Boone!” she complained. “I think I’m going to be sick!” “Nonsense, Katherine! It’s normal for first-time brides to feel a little nervous.

Ah, well.” She sighed at her reflection in the murky mirror. “Perfection belongs to the Lord alone, right?” She gave herself a curt nod in agreement and headed down the stairs.

A Piece of Heaven Just For You by Maisie Aletha Smikle Just for you I will climb To the mountain peak Just for you I will dive in the ocean deep For you My love The valley is never too wide I will tread plateaus and plains And ride camels on their reins Just for you My beloved Just for you I will swim and thread rivers and seas Paddle through the frosty snow and icy breeze Just for you My darling I will do triathlons around the circumference of the globe Trek rocky grounds And slippery slopes Just for you My darling I will zipline from the north pole to the south pole I will swing from the treetops And parachute from the backdrop Just for you My darling Just for you I will sing And cook a pot of stew Just for you my love I will climb the stairs of heaven To reach the clouds And bring back a piece of heaven Just for you my beloved

A man who avoided tough stairs all his life has no significant success in life!

You just want to hold a grudge.” “Yes. Burns more calories.” “That's not true.” “Yes, it is. How do you think your grandma got those legs of hers? She's not exactly a StairMaster gal.”-Rory and Lorelai, Forgiveness and Stuff (Season 1, Episode 10)

I don't plan to cut you," Hallie told him quietly. "I got cut once myself. I won't scratch you because I don't like to see a man walking around with scratches on his face. I won't throw acid in your eyes because it makes me sorry to see a blind person. All I'll do is kill you where you stand. If you get through the door I'll kill you on the stair. If you make the stair I'll kill you in the parlor. If you make the street I'll kill you on the curb. I'll kill you in the alley. I'll kill you in God's House. I'll kill you anywhere.

I've always found fairytales inspire my creativity and imagination.

The elevator to success is out of order. You’ll have to use the stairs . . . one step at a time.