She was sweeter than red figs.

“I said to the almond tree, ‘Sister, speak to me of God.’ And the almond tree blossomed.”

[lallaimane]

Spent all day swimming in the most beautiful shade of the Mediterranean

[peoplehood-deactivated20211003]

W.R., ON THE DEATH OF SUMMER AND BAPTISMAL PROMISES

[apoemaday]

Witness

by Crystal Wilkinson

I’m convinced that if you could have seen my grandmother standing in the doorway waiting for him to come home from the fields, if you’d smelled that spectacular evening thick with sweat & felt the pulsing of the stars, if you’d borne witness to the animals’ moans echoing in the holler that night, if you just could have seen the hair rise up on granddaddy’s arm like that, like offerings to god, when his elbow touched hers, if you could have seen her longing dissipate just a little as he came through the door smelling like a day’s work, you should have seen them close enough to breathe the same air while not even touching. (He smiled at her without smiling.) If you could have seen them watching me watch them, then you’d know how much i love you. If you could have heard her say, You want some supper? We got pie.

[wild-gastronomy]

Rose and Walnut Cookies

[apoemaday]

Not Anyone Who Says

by Mary Oliver

Not anyone who says, “I’m going to be careful and smart in matters of love,” who says, “I’m going to choose slowly,” but only those lovers who didn’t choose at all but were, as it were, chosen by something invisible and powerful and uncontrollable and beautiful and possibly even unsuitable — only those know what I’m talking about in this talking about love.

[haohaode]

Pursuit of Jade 《逐玉》 (2026) ／ Eps. 34 + 36 Fan Changyu and Xie Zheng + homecoming

[hellshee]

the best thing about tumblr is that you can watch a show and then you come here and someone has made a gifset of it and you can put it on your blog like a sticker in a journal

[sentimentalbeing2001]

Rainy day roses

[lallaimane]

Eternally grateful for having friends who send me handwritten letters and postcards and to whom I can send handwritten letters and postcards. Eternally grateful for always having an envelope to look forward to and for always having postmen knock on my door.

[lallaimane]

“I bought a card for you today. I’ll send it after my trip. I waited a little longer to send one because I knew I wanted to buy one at this store in London. This card is literally made for you.”

My beautiful friend

[macadamianutmilk]

Lil almond croissants for my roommate’s birthday breakfast (homemade frangipane and rum syrup, store-bought day old croissants)

[teddypng]

Patricia Highsmith, Her Diaries and Notebooks: 1941-1995

[doodleoo]

today I got the most beautiful batch of strawberries

[julaibib]

Frequent du'ā is the highest expression of servitude. When a person supplicates, they admit inability and dependence upon their Creator, and this humility honours the supplicant. So the more they invoke Allāh, the more dignified and noble they are to Him:

ليسَ شيءٌ أكرمَ علَى اللهِ من الدُّعاءِ 

There is nothing more noble to Allāh than du'ā.

• صحيح الترمذي (٣٣٧٠)

[apoemaday]

Onions

by William Matthews

How easily happiness begins by dicing onions. A lump of sweet butter slithers and swirls across the floor of the sauté pan, especially if its errant path crosses a tiny slick of olive oil. Then a tumble of onions.

This could mean soup or risotto or chutney (from the Sanskrit chatni, to lick). Slowly the onions go limp and then nacreous and then what cookbooks call clear, though if they were eyes you could see

clearly the cataracts in them. It’s true it can make you weep to peel them, to unfurl and to tease from the taut ball first the brittle, caramel-colored and decrepit papery outside layer, the least

recent the reticent onion wrapped around its growing body, for there’s nothing to an onion but skin, and it’s true you can go on weeping as you go on in, through the moist middle skins, the sweetest

and thickest, and you can go on in to the core, to the bud-like, acrid, fibrous skins densely clustered there, stalky and in- complete, and these are the most pungent, like the nuggets of nightmare

and rage and murmury animal comfort that infant humans secrete. This is the best domestic perfume. You sit down to eat with a rumor of onions still on your twice-washed hands and lift to your mouth a hint

of a story about loam and usual endurance. It’s there when you clean up and rinse the wine glasses and make a joke, and you leave the minutest whiff of it on the light switch, later, when you climb the stairs.

[loveletters2myself]

[majestativa]

The multifaceted & ingenious mind of the human.

CARMEN M. PURSIFULL — The Many Faces of Passion, (2003)