petaltexturedskies:

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it? Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better? Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well, hopeless. Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia? Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.

Mary Oliver, “I worried”

(via perennialvelum)

thecryptkeeper:

they don’t tell you that everyone you ever love(d) in your life will haunt you

(via thescarediest)

firstfullmoon:

“But the paradox of love is perhaps the same as that of art, which Jeanette Winterson so elegantly termed “the paradox of active surrender” — in order for either to transform us, we must let it turn us over and inside-out. That is what Rilke called love’s great exacting claim, and in that claim lies its ultimate reward.”

— Maria Popova, “Kafka’s Beautiful and Heartbreaking Love Letters” (via soracities)

(via oculus-de-malus)

loonamoonland:

film from a morning walk we started in the pitch black and ended at the ocean

nobrashfestivity:

Gaston Savoy
Drawings, between 1988 and 2004

gar-wafflez:

(via minecraft)

expressions-of-nature:

by suga

(via gluten-free-lap-dances)