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"We write down made up stories to tell the truths we wish we could say out loud."

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Surveyor’s Ridge by kepPNW

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Ravenclaw at Christmas

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Gryffindor at Christmas

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Hufflepuff at Christmas

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Slytherin at Christmas

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“A Christmas tale from a faraway land of snow and ice…”

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By: Austin

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Amanda Millis, In Transit, 2020, Oil on linen

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I go down to the shore in the morning

I go down to the shore in the morning and depending on the hour the waves are rolling in or moving out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what shall — what should I do? And the sea says in its lovely voice: Excuse me, I have work to do.

~Mary Oliver, “I Go Down To The Shore” in  A Thousand Mornings (Penguin Press; October 11, 2012)

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lake louise during larch season / sept 27, 2020

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we throw yellow leaves into the air, run races, write poetry in public spaces. count the quarters to see if we can afford the slushy, play music too loudly, speed down the highway. take picnic breaks, stargaze, have sentimental conversations in hologram face masks. 

i want to be in the pocket of autumn. i want to build my nest in warm fog and hot chocolate. i want to collapse into every road trip and candle wax and sharp chill and pumpkin seed. color my life in witch hats and dark lipstick and softly playing music. oh howl with me, little wolf. don’t you know i brushed the door of death and he told me to turn back? don’t you know i waded in darkness with cold like a cloak, all horror and haunting? don’t you know, little wolf, i was once roadkill?

rise above. wing like flock of starlings. little day like love-this-album, like i made you a scarf, like here take my gloves. little life like let’s count the hours and crawl into bed and sing to the mountains.

prayer like demand. prayer like - here i am.

we buy pretty thread, we strum guitars, we go too far for coffee. we stomp in puddles, we read through rainstorms, we paint our walls in delicate seafoam. we pet dogs and try yoga and quit yoga and take up dancing. we walk longer than we meant to, we link arms in the cold, we swap sweaters, we say -

okay. i love you. let’s go home.

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October storms against our windows. You cleared autumn’s path. You turned the seas night-dark.

Miguel Hernández, tr. by Robert Bly, from Selected Poems; “To My Son,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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a b i g a i l 🍂

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Just love me. Do you love me?

BECOMING JANE 🍂 2007 | dir. Julian Jarrold

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the sea, the sea