Brooke Smith is so tender in this scene
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ewr (1923-2022)
Today, this little girl would have been 100 years old. -
Keep the light on
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Public ServantRIP, Sandra Day O'Connor
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You are what you eatDavid French: We’re misinformed not because the government is systematically lying or suppressing the truth. We’re misinformed because we like the misinformation we receive and are eager for more.... The market is very, very happy to provide us with all the misinformation we like. Algorithms recognize our preferences and serve up the next video or article that echoes or amplifies the themes of the first story we clicked.... It’s important to recognize that no person or movement is immune to the temptations of bespoke reality. We’re all vulnerable... That means following as many or more people who disagree with me as agree with me. That means reading the best and smartest people I can find who disagree with me. These practices help both challenge me and humanize my opponents.
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My town in the Golden Hour
Downtown Dallas, Texas USA
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Hot Club by Marion Elliot
Delightful Django (presumably) and friends by artist Marion Elliot, via the equally delightful Spitalfields Life. (Follow for many more treasures.)
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Coaxing the last tomatoes from the vine 📷 🌱
They taste better than they look. No surprise there, for “What’d life be without homegrown tomatoes?”
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Ears down / Ears up 🐶
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Welcome, Morning - Anne Sexton
There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning, in the chapel of eggs I cook each morning, in the outcry from the kettle that heats my coffee each morning, in the spoon and the chair that cry “hello there, Anne” each morning, in the godhead of the table that I set my silver, plate, cup upon each morning.
All this is God, right here in my pea-green house each morning and I mean, though often forget, to give thanks, to faint down by the kitchen table in a prayer of rejoicing as the holy birds at the kitchen window peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it, let me paint a thank-you on my palm for this God, this laughter of the morning, lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard, dies young.