Naturalist

kaity–did:

There was a little girl in church, about 5, and her parents obviously let her get dressed herself that day because she came waddling in with the puffiest coat on in the summer in North Carolina. She comes and sits in the pew in front of us. 15 minutes into mass she turns around and hands my husand an orange. Her parents are mortified.

“Savannah not again!” They scold! (Again kills me)

They appologize and she turns back around. A few moments later she goes to hand me an orange but her parents grab it from her before she can.

Savannah is determined. She reaches her tiny fists into her puffy coat and pulls out two more ornages. She begins to distribute them. Her parents are now beat red and in shock. There is no stopping small Savannah now.

This small child proceeds to laugh a laugh I can only call maniacal (in a Catholic church) unzip the inner line of her coat and releases what had to have been 20-30 of those little kid oranges into the pews.

WE EAT Savannah yells cackeling

The priest can no longer contain his glee

The entire church is dying with laughter

She felt like Jesus on the moutian with the baskets of fish that day I’m sure.

Children are amazing.

jadoredepp:

Our man Johnny enjoying life, living in peace and as usual doing the most for others without expecting anything in return. Also seeing for once, only nice articles and stuff about him, all around the world. 

Let me give this precious precious man a standing ovation

Originally posted by yourreactiongifs

I love him more than anything and i’m a total mess 

hunger-of-a-dreamer:

If I had to see this with my own two eyeballs y'all gon see it too

horchatita:

gracelesscastiels:

today i met a christian guy who tries to follow the rules of the bible really good and i asked him if he is against gays because of Leviticus 20:13 and he told me no, he doesn’t because of Matthew 7

and he added that he would never judge anybody on their beliefs or way of living because only god can judge the people

this guy man

That would be *actual* Christianity for you.

(Source: jabbashutt)

maircury:

The only pain I want to feel in 2019 is the tattoo needle pain.

slut-rabies:

the fact that i don’t have heart shaped pupils is a fucking tragedy

clcero:

i dont even have guilty pleasures anymore i just like stuff and if people have a problem with that they can go fuck themselves

(Source: nerones)

cityelf:

People have the nerve, the audacity, the sheer ignorance to assume I no longer have an interest in Les Mis. Fools. Vagabonds. As if I haven’t been coiled like a spring ready to launch into a loving monologue about the Bishop of Digne if prompted every day for the last five years. As if I’m not ready to throw down at criticism of Cosette at any given minute. As if I don’t know how to navigate the Parisian sewer system by memory. Être libre? More like prepare to be free of your life if you make that mistake again, motherfucker

dementia-by-day:

If I can, I always opt to ditch my name tag in a dementia care environment. I let my friends with dementia decide what my name is: I’ve been Susan, Gwendolyn, and various peoples’ kids. I’ve been so many identities to my residents, too: a coworker, a boss, a student, a sibling, a friend from home, and more. 

Don’t ask your friend with dementia if they “remember your name” — especially if that person is your parent, spouse, or other family member. It’s quite likely to embarrass them if they can’t place you, and, frankly, it doesn’t really matter what your name is. What matters is how they feel about you.

Here’s my absolute favorite story about what I call, “Timeline Confusion”:

Alicia danced down the hallway, both hands steadily on her walker. She moved her hips from side to side, singing a little song, and smiled at everyone she passed. Her son, Nick, was walking next to her.

Nick was probably one of the best caregivers I’d ever met. It wasn’t just that he visited his mother often, it was how he visited her. He was patient and kind—really, he just understood dementia care. He got it.

Alicia was what I like to call, “pleasantly confused.” She thought it was a different year than it was, liked to sing and dance, and generally enjoyed her life.

One day, I approached the pair as they walked quietly down the hall. Alicia smiled and nodded at everyone she passed, sometimes whispering a, “How do you do!”

“Hey, Alicia,” I said. “We’re having a piano player come in to sing and play music for us. Would you like to come listen?”

“Ah, yes!” she smiled back. “My husband is a great singer,” she said, motioning to her son.

Nick smiled and did not correct her. He put his hand gently on her shoulder and said to me, “We’ll be over there soon.”

I saw Nick again a few minutes later while his mom was occupied with some other residents. “Nick,” I said. “Does your mom usually think that you’re her husband?”

Nick said something that I’ll never forget.

“Sometimes I’m me, sometimes I’m my brother, sometimes I’m my dad, and sometimes I’m just a friend. But she always knows that she loves me,” he smiled.

Nick had nailed it. He understood that, because his mom thought it was 1960, she would have trouble placing him on a timeline.

He knew that his mom recognized him and he knew that she loved him. However, because of her dementia, she thought it was a different year. And, in that year, he would’ve been a teenager.

Using context clues (however mixed up the clues were) Alicia had determined that Nick was her husband: he was the right age, he sure sounded and looked like her husband, and she believed that her son was a young man.

This is the concept that I like to call timeline confusion. It’s not that your loved one doesn’t recognize you, it’s that they can’t place you on a timeline.

What matters is how they feel about you. Not your name or your exact identity.

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(Source: dementiabyday.com)