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Waiting for God is like... You're expecting a guest. You haven't seen them in ages. You know they're coming, although you forget the exact time. And you don't need to impress them—they'd probably sleep on the floor, but why wouldn't you give up your bed? And it's not clean enough and you don't have matching curtains and they're not gonna care because they love you but you'll still probably do your best. Scrub the counter, at least. So you try to stay up to greet them but they're late or you were wrong about the day and you keep dozing off. All you really have to do is be at home when they knock and you'll wake up and figure everything out when they get here—but who wants to answer the door half-asleep? And you can probably get a few more things done while you're waiting. You can light a candle—that's welcoming, right?

So maybe you stay up doing dishes or maybe you give up and go to bed, but the knock makes you jump either way. It's light outside when you let them in, and that's not right, it can't be morning already. The windows are dark. Anyway, you're pouring them tea and apologizing for the mess and you realize they're not a guest at all—they live here, actually. Have your whole life. They probably make your lunch every day. Your house isn't yours at all, now that they're here, now that they've arrived and always been here. It's been yours, plural, yours together, and isn't it lovely that you don't have to worry about the curtains matching anymore? They've already seen them and chosen to stay every time.

There's another knock at the door. They arrive and you pour them tea. You get some sleep. You stop being surprised when your lunch is ready to go. You're expecting a guest. They make themselves at home; they are at home; they've been making themselves a home.

Your days are spent opening the door. They've been gone for so long; how could they have left you; why are they always forgetting to use a coaster and leaving icy circles on the wooden table; why can't you have any privacy in this house; you can't find them anywhere; this is only home when they're here; they keep arriving and you keep making tea do you think they'll ever get tired of tea do you they'll get tired of you opening the door half asleep do you think they're secretly annoyed by the mismatched curtains

Someone knocks on the door. You are interrupted. You keep forgetting you're expecting a guest. You were hoping they'd come and interrupt you. Someone knocks on the door. You're awake. You always make enough tea for two.

Eventually someone doesn't knock on your door. You find them on your doorstep waiting. You've been expecting a guest. The windows of your house are open all the time now, even though it's dark and cold, and you make your home some tea. It's never cold inside, as if opening the door let in warm air instead of cool. The candle you lit has been burning without getting smaller. You can't remember why you used to be surprised, why waiting was frantic. You wash the dishes because that's the next thing to do; because you wash the teacup of your not-guest like it's the chalice of a king.

One day you don't have a door anymore. You can see through the walls of your house and the whole galaxy spreads out before you. They're expecting a guest. You walk outside. The universe makes you tea.

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Large lighthouse lamps with Fresnel lenses, 19th century

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Erika Stearly

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Mid-Century Radios From Genuine Plastic Radios of the Mid-Century, Ken Jupp & Leslie Piña, 1998.

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Women Watching Stars, Ōta Chōu, 1936

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The Great Collapse (photography/synthography, 2007-2023).

A transformation of old memories, experimental synthographic destruction and recomposition of old film photographs from the desert and old abstract photographs, reinterpreting them to capture a feeling rather than a setting:

Seeing other versions of reality flicker in the light; a fleeting quantum mirage; a double-exposure photograph of a memory happening before your eyes, just as the sun is setting and the car is moving fast enough that you look back and it's gone, and you wonder if it was a trick of light or if you maybe glimpsed through to something else, somewhere else, briefly, before it collapsed.

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Proof of Life , Part III The Annunciation   -    Francis Di Fronzo , 2023.

American, b. 1969 -

Oil, watercolor and gouache on panel , 32 × 25 × 1 1/2 in. 81.3 × 63.5 × 3.8 cm. Framed.

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I've made a hobby of collecting Robert F. Eschenfeldt's Illinois DNR posters and I wanted to share the ones I do have so more people can see his beautiful art.

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The Shortest Day. Words by Susan Cooper, illustrations by Carson Ellis.

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timelessness as a concept has done wonders to my faith

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A group of curious preschoolers visits some beehives in Stockholm

Submit your cute pet here | Source: https://bit.ly/3qre7V4

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“One way the holy people of old came to tears was by holding two opposing thoughts in the heart. The difference in these tears will become immediately evident. They are a result of a vision of the fallen creation held over against the mercy of the Creator; the vision of the horror of human interaction held against the knowledge of a good and loving God, a God who, most unbearably of all, continues to love us nonetheless.”

— Maggie Ross, The Fountain and the Furnace

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Comic for “The Ruin” a poem written by an unknown author in the 8th or 9th century

How wondrous, this wall stone,

Shattered by fate.

Castles are smashed,

The work of giants, crumbled.

Ruined are the roofs,

Tumbled the towers.

Broken the barred gates.

Frost in the plaster,

Ceilings a-gaping.

Torn away, fallen,

Eaten by age.