i'm looking for something, it's true.

to find poetry in the likeliest of places, to find poetry in the unlikeliest of places, to collect it all into a treasure chest more valuable than pirate's booty, shinier than diamonds, and with weight more expensive than gold

Writers are always interchanging in some way, just as the air we breathe doesn’t belong to one place.

Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.


I really like this answer to the post I just made.

I wrote, Why is it that sometimes the people you love the most make you feel the worst?

and this person responded, Because you hold them so high sometimes, that it’s a far drop down when they let go.

One of the gifts of being a writer is that it gives you an excuse to do things, to go places and explore. Another is that writing motivates you to look closely at life, at life as it lurches by and tramps around.

—Anne Lamott, from Bird by Bird, via Brainpickings (via bostonpoetryslam)

When I was a student at Cambridge I remember an anthropology professor holding up a picture of a bone with 28 incisions carved in it. “This is often considered to be man’s first attempt at a calendar” she explained. She paused as we dutifully wrote this down. ‘My question to you is this – what man needs to mark 28 days? I would suggest to you that this is woman’s first attempt at a calendar.’

It was a moment that changed my life. In that second I stopped to question almost everything I had been taught about the past. How often had I overlooked women’s contributions?

—Sandi Toksvig (via rosetastone, learninglog) (via fleurinc) (via megwhat) (via atnatnatn) (via wtfhistory) (via dead-men-talking) (via tuggywuggy) (via astrotastic) (via runningafterthesunset)

Spring’s of course been a postscript to the winter—
the bad news bad, the good of no consequence,
my body almost forgotten in itself.

—Graham Foust, “Aggressively Minor,” published in Typo (via bostonpoetryslam)