I Was Born a Bird.

Britt. 20.

"I know this world is far from perfect.
I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon. I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic. But every ocean has a shoreline and every shoreline has a tide that is constantly returning to wake the songbirds in our hands, to wake the music in our bones, to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river that has to run through the center of our hearts to find its way home."

Before Summer Rain

Suddenly, from all the green around you,
something-you don’t know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window,
in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,
reminding you of someone’s Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide
away from us, cautiously, as though
they weren’t supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now;
the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

I’ve returned..

in order to post pictures of the mountains

and to gather together words that wake an ephemeral clarity in my heart, mind and soul.

hairsquare:

deer
coffeestainsandcigarettes:

(by ▲ Vanessa)

(Source: ache, via coffeeandyoga)

(via indiecats)