"Not ignorance, but ignorance of ignorance is the death of knowledge."

Alfred North Whitehead

thatkindofwoman:

Yeah, well then. 

[Dearly Departed — Shakey Graves and Esme Patterson]

(Source: taaylow)

This week I finally acknowledged a mountain on the horizon that has been begging to be moved for quite some time.
It’s called Mount Master’s Thesis.

This week I finally acknowledged a mountain on the horizon that has been begging to be moved for quite some time.

It’s called Mount Master’s Thesis.

(Source: onceuponawildflower, via thatkindofwoman)

dailydoseofnewmusic:

The Rails - Bonnie Portmore

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London-based folk music duo The Rails will release their debut album on April 7, you can pre-order Fair Warning here

all the colors. all the flowers. all my life.

all the colors. all the flowers. all my life.

(Source: wolf-teeth, via likewrinkles)

(Source: floralls, via 0hcaroline)

I “get” graffiti.

Or, at least, I have a new perspective on it.

How in this glorious, wide world do city-dwellers overcome feeling stifled?

I’m in this large city that is rich in opportunity. It’s a bustling area with long sidewalks and tall buildings that echo busy steps and hum with purpose.

Why is it that quite frequently I feel trapped and stuck? Honestly, right now, all I want to do is sing at the top of my lungs. I want to run and sing and dance until my legs shake and my lungs burn.

But I can’t.

At home, way out on the edge of nowhere, I could. I could go out into the open field that is my front yard, spread my arms wide, and all but yell anything my little heart desired — show tunes, Disney songs, hymns, commercial jingles, anything!

The openness and emptiness offers a different kind of opportunity. It is a place where expression can be loud and large and off-key, yet no one can hear me. The city doesn’t have that.

And that’s why I think I “get” some tiny portion of graffiti. It is a loud and large expression done in private. You wake up one day and there is new art, secretly made in the night; and it is now decorating the concrete. I know it would be naive and silly to say this creative thought applies to all graffiti, but I wouldn’t be surprised if for some of those artists, graffiti is a sort of city-version of my field-belting solos.

It is a way to survive and possibly overcome city-stifling.


All that to say, I think it’s high time for warmer weather to be showing up soon. These cold days are making me blue.

Happy blogiversary to me! Four years old! 
My blog is a preschooler. How is that possible?!
Thank you, Tumblr for reminding me and celebrating!

Happy blogiversary to me! Four years old!

My blog is a preschooler. How is that possible?!

Thank you, Tumblr for reminding me and celebrating!

(Source: assets)

I remember vividly a panic-filled phone call, an extended visit to the hospital, the conversations in the overcrowded room. I remember the shared, serious looks.
I remember the laughter.
It’s been two years, today. I remember another tearful phone call, plans for funeral preparation, my many “lists of minimals” including bobby pins, lipstick, and tissues. I remember the hugs and condolences of many.
But more-so, I remember the laughter, believe it or not. 
Yellow is Christine’s favorite color. It is a happy color, a color defiant of grief and sadness if there ever was one. Purple was her mother’s favorite. It, too, is a happy color. It is one that, for me at least, inspires passion and gears me up to pour my heart into loving others and fighting back. 
This week is yellow. It is a time to celebrate. This week is purple. It is a time to remember Joan. It is a time to be thankful for her three precious daughters I call friends. 
This week is a time to celebrate the laughter.

I remember vividly a panic-filled phone call, an extended visit to the hospital, the conversations in the overcrowded room. I remember the shared, serious looks.

I remember the laughter.

It’s been two years, today. I remember another tearful phone call, plans for funeral preparation, my many “lists of minimals” including bobby pins, lipstick, and tissues. I remember the hugs and condolences of many.

But more-so, I remember the laughter, believe it or not.

Yellow is Christine’s favorite color. It is a happy color, a color defiant of grief and sadness if there ever was one. Purple was her mother’s favorite. It, too, is a happy color. It is one that, for me at least, inspires passion and gears me up to pour my heart into loving others and fighting back.

This week is yellow. It is a time to celebrate. This week is purple. It is a time to remember Joan. It is a time to be thankful for her three precious daughters I call friends. 

This week is a time to celebrate the laughter.

Names for My Unborn Puppy

Jubilee