Suzanne Fields Quotes

Beetee is still messing round the tree, doing I don't know what. At one point he snaps off a sliver of bark, joins us, and throws it against the force field. It bounces back and lands on the ground, glowing. In a few moments it returns to its original color. "Well, that explains a lot," says Beetee. I look at Peeta and can't help biting my lip to keep from laughing since it explains absolutely nothing to anyone but Beetee.

I know my own reasons for keeping Peeta alive. He's my friend, and this is my way to defy the Capitol, to subvert its terrible Games. But if I had no real ties to him, what would make me want to save him, to choose him over myself? Certainly he is brave, but we have all been brave enough to survive a Games. There is that quality of goodness that's hard to overlook, but stil... and then I think of it, what Peeta can do so much better than the rest of us. He can use words. He obliterated the rest of the field at both interviews. And maybe it's because of that underlying goodness that he can move a crowd--no, a country--to his side with the turn of a simple sentence. I remember thinking that was the gift the leader of our revolution should have. Has Haymitch convinced the others of this? That Peeta's tongue would have far greater power against the Capitol than any physical strength the rest of us could claim? I don't know. It still seems like a really long leap for some of the tributes. I mean, we're talking about Johanna Mason here. But what other explanation can there be for their decided efforts to keep him alive?

Since Mags seems to have no ill effects from the nuts, Peeta collects bunches of them and fries them by bouncing them off the force field.

Keeping up with him would require running, and there is no dignity in running after any man for any reason, injured or not.

So this is how a war starts.... Not with two armies facing off, waiting for the signal to charge.... It begins much more quietly. In a room, on a field, in a remote tunnel when someone who has power decides the time has come.

When I wake, I have a brief, delicious feeling of happiness that is somehow connected with Peeta. Happiness, of course, is a complete absurdity at this point, since at the rate things are going, I'll be dead in a day. And that's the best-case scenario, if I'm able to eliminate the rest of the field, including myself, and get Peeta crowned as the winner of the Quarter Quell. Still, the sensation's so unexpected and sweet I cling to it, if only for a few moments. Before the gritty sand, the hot sun, and my itching skin demand a return to reality.

It didn’t seem like much of a priority, jogging around a field with a gun with so many other things going on. And now I’m paying for my negligence.

We'd all mourn for a while, but at the end of the day we were a tough lot, and we'd survive.

Because once the force field blew, you’d be the first ones they’d try to capture, and the less you knew, the better,” says Haymitch. “The first ones? Why?” I say, trying to hang on to the train of thought. “For the same reason the rest of us agreed to die to keep you alive,” says Finnick.

No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of that stunt I pulled with the force field,” he answers. “Snow had no one to use against me.

Peeta can do so much better than the rest of us. He can use words. He obliterated the rest of the field at both interviews. And maybe it’s because of that underlying goodness that he can move a crowd — no, a country — to his side with the turn of a simple sentence.

I’m sorry, Peeta, I think. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. Save him? More likely I stole his last chance at life, condemned him, by destroying the force field.

Careful,” he says weakly. “There’s a force field up ahead.

The fight wasn’t over,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’d have won it.” Probably. “Right,” he said. “And something just flew past your window. It was oinking.

Because I did. It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on this firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos.

It’s just that I didn’t understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you’d continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I —” Finnick hesitates.

Buttercup,” I say. Thousands of people are dead, but he has survived and even looks well fed. On what? He can get in and out of the house through a window we always left ajar in the pantry. He must have been eating field mice. I refuse to consider the alternative. I

A force field. They've set one up between the Gamemakers and us. I wonder what brought that on," Beetee says. "Me, probably," I confess. "Last year, I shot an arrow at them during my private training session." Beetee and Wiress look at me curiously. "I was provoked.

When that wire was cut, everything just went insane. I can only remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena . . . blew out.

It’s just that I didn’t understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you’d continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I —' Finnick hesitates. I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick's face. The way he excused by behavior, blaming it on my pretend pregnancy. 'That you what?' 'That I knew I'd misjudged you. That you do love him. I'm not saying in what way. Maybe you don't know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him,' he says gently. Anyone? On Snow's visit before the Victory Tour, he had challenged me to erase any doubts of my love for Peeta. 'Convince me,' Snow said. It seems, under that hot pink sky with Peeta's life in limbo, I finally did. And in doing so, I gave him the weapon he needed to break me.

Finnick towing Peeta in off his metal plate. Finnick reviving Peeta after the force field stopped his heart. Mags running into the fog so that Finnick could carry Peeta. The morphling hurling herself in front of him to block the monkey’s attack. The fight with the Careers was so quick, but didn’t Finnick block Brutus’s spear from hitting Peeta even though it meant taking Enobaria’s knife in his leg? And even now Johanna has him drawing a map on a leaf rather than risking the jungle. . . .

You can’t,” says Peeta. He holds out his hand into seemingly empty space. There’s a sharp zap and he jerks it back. “Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof.” “Always worried about our safety,” I say. Even though Cinna has shown Peeta the roof, I wonder if we’re supposed to be up here now, so late and alone. I’ve never seen tributes on the Training Center roof before. But that doesn’t mean we’re not being taped. “Do you think they’re watching us now?” “Maybe,” he admits. “Come see the garden.” On the other side of the

I stick to the road out of habit, but it’s a bad choice, because it’s full of the remains of those who tried to flee. Some were incinerated entirely. But others, probably overcome with smoke, escaped the worst of the flames and now lie reeking in various states of decomposition, carrion for scavengers, blanketed by flies. I killed you, I think as I pass a pile. And you. And you. Because I did. It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on this firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos. In my head I hear President Snow’s words, spoken the morning I was to begin the Victory Tour. “Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire, you have provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem.” It turns out he wasn’t exaggerating or simply trying to scare me. He was, perhaps, genuinely attempting to enlist my help. But I had already set something in motion that I had no ability to control. Burning. Still burning, I think numbly. The fires at the coal mines belch black smoke in the distance. There’s no one left to care, though. More than ninety percent of the district’s population is dead. The remaining eight hundred or so are refugees in District 13 — which, as far as I’m concerned, is the same thing as being homeless forever. I know I shouldn’t think that; I know I should be grateful for the way we have been welcomed. Sick, wounded, starving, and empty-handed. Still, I can never get around the fact that District 13 was instrumental in 12’s destruction. This doesn’t absolve me of blame — there’s plenty of blame to go around. But without them, I would not have been part of a larger plot to overthrow the Capitol or had the wherewithal to do it. The citizens of District 12 had no organized resistance movement of their own. No say in any of this. They only had the misfortune to have me. Some survivors think it’s good luck, though, to be free of District 12 at last. To have escaped the endless hunger and oppression, the perilous mines, the lash of our final Head Peacekeeper, Romulus Thread. To have a new home at all is seen as a wonder since, up until a short time ago, we hadn’t even known that District 13 still existed.

As we near the tree, Finnick suggests I take the lead. "Katniss can hear the force field," he explains to Beetee and Johanna. "Hear it?" asks Beetee. "Only with the ear the Capitol reconstructed, I say. Guess who I'm not fooling with that story? Beetee. Because surely he remembers that he showed me how to spot a force field, and probably it's impossible to hear force fields, anyway. But for whatever reason, he doesn't question my claim. "Then by all means, let Katniss go first," he says, pausing a moment to wipe the steam off his glasses. "Force fields are nothing to play around with.

Each day it’s the same. Wake up. Get dressed. Ride through cheering crowds. Listen to a speech in our honour. Give a thank-you speech in return, but only the one the Capitol gave us, never any personal additions now. Sometimes a brief tour: a glimpse of the sea in one district, towering forests in another, ugly factories, fields of wheat, stinking refineries. Dress in evening clothes. Attend dinner. Train. During ceremonies, we are solemn and respectful but always linked together, by our hands, our arms. At dinners, we are borderline delirious in our love for each other. We kiss, we dance, we get caught trying to sneak away to be alone.

wooded area, eventually making his way to the road that led to the hanging tree. Once there, he simply followed the path the truck had taken on previous trips, walking briskly, but not so fast as to attract attention. There was precious little to attract anyway on a hot Sunday shortly after dawn. Most miners and Peacekeepers would not rise for hours. After a few miles, he reached the depressing field and broke into a run for the hanging tree, eager to conceal himself in the woods. There was no sign of Lucy Gray, and as he passed under the branches, he wondered if in fact he’d misinterpreted her message and should have headed to the Seam instead. Then he caught a glimpse of orange and tracked it to a clearing. There she stood, unloading a stack of bundles from a small wagon, his scarf wound in a fetching manner around her head. She ran over and hugged him, and he responded even though it felt too hot for an embrace. The kiss that followed put him in a better mood. His hand went to the orange scarf in her hair. “This seems very bright for fugitives.” Lucy Gray smiled. “Well, I don’t want you to lose me. You still up for this?” “I have no choice.” Realizing that sounded halfhearted, he added, “You’re all that matters to me now.” “You, too. You’re my life now. Sitting here, waiting for you to show up, I realized I’d never really be brave enough to do this without you,” she admitted. “It’s not just how hard it will be. It’s too

The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof — one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it. No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta’s lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he’s practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still. “What?” I ask. “I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever,” he says. Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I’ll never have, I just let the word slip out. “Okay.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Then you’ll allow it?

Come on, Harts! Let’s see if Santa came!” Oh, Santa came last night, that’s for sure…

The properties of energy are such that, fundamentally, we are neither solid nor separate. We are patterns and fields of energy, translated by our senses into what we perceive as distinct physical beings with distinct physical parts. And unknown to many people, the nonphysical, experiential aspects of who we are—our thoughts, feelings, memories, beliefs, assumptions, perspectives, etc. —are also energetic in nature.

Your personal desires are an expression of your true Self as an extension of One Source. They are vital to the expansion of the Universe and only you can honor them. As you do, your personal energy field or consciousness contributes to the field of human consciousness in ways that encourage others to be in harmony with One Source. As more and more of us come into harmony with One Source, we naturally come into harmony with each other.

All [things in the world, good and bad] arise from [Source, from] one indivisible field, one Wholeness. Nothing is left out. [...] When you flow with what life puts in your path [and resist nothing], you take in every bit of [life, and of Source], bumps and all. In allowing the entirety of what presents itself, fullness replaces the emptiness. Disappointments, failure, rejections - all are part of a tapestry that no longer has holes in it. [...] When you [make peace with and accept life in its fullness, good and bad], you find what you've unwittingly been looking for all along: wholeness.

When you entertain thoughts of those with whom you're entangled - whether in a body or not - your thougths excite the shared energetic field that your interactions over time have created. If the person you're thinking about is sensitive, they will pick up on your energetic signature and think of you in return.

The field mice spent their days scampering through the tall grasses and collecting fairyberries and beanstalk seeds. The stable mice helped themselves to oats and barley from the horse stalls, and built nests of straw from the Pegasus pen. The barn mice sat on the rafters, playing their fiddles and enjoying the grains they'd snatched from the golden goose's coop. The pantry mice were the happiest of all because they spent their days sleeping and their nights gorging on a plentiful supply of delicacies. They were the plumpest of mice, roll-poly critters who slumbered in the pantry during the day, then awoke after the kitchen had closed. A lazy waddle beneath the Castleteria tables would yield a cornucopia of delights- thronecake crumbs, hot cross bun bits, and pieces of pickled-plum tart.

Felicity glanced at him, then looked out toward the lane again. 'Why did you hit Mr. Fields?' That was a question he preferred not to answer until he'd thought his motivations over more thoroughly - yet he was familiar enough with Lis to know she'd insist on an answer. 'He...insinuated some things I didn't appreciate.' 'Some things that were true, perhaps?' ... 'Yes.' 'Then why-' 'If he knew me, or cared in the least, he wouldn't have said them. Quin didn't.

Saturday, September 17, 2005: Today in New Orleans, a traffic light worked. Someone watered flowers. And anyone with the means to get online could have heard Dr. Joy’s voice wafting in the dry wind, a sound of grace, comfort and familiarity here in the saddest and loneliest place in the world.” Chris Rose, The Times-Picayune

I always hated it when TV reporters stuck a microphone in the faces of people who'd just lost a home or a loved one, wanting to know how they felt. They felt like shit. They hurt, and they didn't know how they were going to get through the night. They wanted to scream and cry and hit the guy with the microphone.

So, Inspector,” he interrupted, and took a drink of champagne, “have you been enjoying your stay here?”    “Yes. Yes, I have. You—”    “And do you believe that I could steer your law enforcement career in a direction you might not find entirely agreeable?”    Larson’s face reddened. “The—well, I have a job t—”    “With that in mind,” Richard continued, ignoring the attempts at an explanation he had no interest in hearing, anyway, “I suggest you exercise a bit more discretion when you speak of the lady of the house.”    “Well, you have to admit, she does have a—”    “Given that her father was a very successful thief, Samantha has made it a point to study various security measures and methods. She is an expert in that field, in fact. That is the beginning and the end of your contact with and interest in her. If I hear another word about the possibility of her guilt by association, I will see you ticketing parked cars in Piccadilly. Is that clear?”    “Very clear, sir.

And maybe most importantly, I’ve never met a woman who I wanted to be with more than I wanted to be out on the field. So don’t you dare say you won’t be my first anything because you’re my first everything.

That’s when I remember the force field. And what happens to dropped objects. I watch, breathless, for what the love of my life would call poetic justice.

Benno recalled how Lucy had sighed when Tom had said—well, Benno couldn’t actually remember what he had said, that’s how incredibly not funny his comment was, but he remembered clearly how she gazed admiringly at the person Benno now realized was a snake in the grass, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a— “Hey, Benno!” He looked up to see Tom, the person he now hated more than anyone in the world, waving cheerfully at him from the sidelines. Benno picked up the ball and trotted over, trying to look casual and elegant, like the best players on the Italian national team. This effect was ruined when he stepped on a small rut in the field, tripped, and dropped the ball. “Ciao, Tom,” he called out. “Come stai?” As usual, Tom was flummoxed by this most basic Italian greeting. Benno imagined that he could actually hear the wheels in Tom’s brain turning as he tried to remember the correct response.

Channels I Watch Often Darwin on the Trail (One of my two favorites) Flat Broke Outside Homemade Wanderlust (The other of my two favorites) Technomadia.com Books Read and Reread The Backpacker’s Field Manual, Rick Curtis Step By Step: An Introduction to Walking the Appalachian Trail, Appalachian Trail Conservancy The Best About Backpacking, A Sierra Club Totebook, Edited by Densise Van Lear The Modern Backpackers Handbook, Glenn Randall Lipsmackin’ Backpackin’, Christine and Tim Conners A Women’s Guide to the Wilderness: Your Complete Outdoor Handbook, Ruby McConnell Wild, Cheryl Strayed Girl in the Woods, Aspen Matis A Walk in the Woods, Bill Bryson Grandma Gatewood’s Walk, Ben Montgomery Journey on the Crest, Cindy Ross A Blistered Kind of Love: One Couple’s Trial by Trail, Angela and Duffy Ballard Appalachian Trials, Zach Davis Almost Somewhere, Suzanne Davis How to create more from what you already have

What’s it like seeing the man you love on the field?” I ask. “Thrilling. Exciting. Terrifying.” I laugh, but that pretty much sums up love, doesn’t it?

The funny thing, if anything can be called funny in a Hunger Games, was watching the Gamemakers attempting to deliver her sponsor gifts, which they repeatedly failed to do. They were as blind to her spot as the tributes. And while they joked about it, you could see they were embarrassed to have a girl from District 3 understand their arena better than they did. When the field cleared, it was down to Wiress and a boy from District 6. Wiress finally stood up, revealing herself, and the boy leaped for what he thought was her, cracked his head, and drowned in the lake. The victor’s hovercraft flew around for about an hour trying to locate her before she walked back to the Cornucopia for a ride. Later, when asked how she’d figured out her strategy, she replied, “I followed the light beams.” More than that, she could not, or would not, say. You wanted to cheer for her, given that she’d outsmarted the Gamemakers, but she was just too unnerving.