writespell

This little space is where I post things that inspire me, I like, find pretty or completely random. I write at www.writespell.com where I do that too and a few other things. Redundant? Perhaps. I don't mind.

I like: Mojitos, Twinkle lights, Umbrellas, Photography, Chasing Fireflies, Vintage Things, Reading, Piano, Bracelets, Inspiration, Love letters, Balance, Eloquence, Thrifting, Museums, Wine, Salads, Politics, Books, Music That Moves Me to Tears, Swans, Salsa dancing, Journals, Candles, Postcards, Scarves, Chocolate, Vintage clothing, Red wine, Typography, La Playa at Night, Seashells, La Dolce Vita, White Wine, Stars, Flamenco dancing, Keeping Busy, Bubbles, Travel, Converse, Freckles, Nature, Tea Cups, Life, Playing, Graphic design, Magic, Starbucks, Etsy, Sparkly Things, Makeup, Smiling, Moscato d'Asti, Chandeliers, Antiquing, Spain, Decorating, Parenthood, British Comedies, Walking, Cleaning, Love, Sun Hats, I Love the Sound of Pouring Rain Showers & Thunderstorms, Flowers, Swimming, Dancing in My Underwear, Butterflies, Ballet, Spirituality, Music, Movies, Spirited Away, Faries, Literature, Tattoos, Compassion, Waxing Philosophical, The color green, Sunscreen, The Color Pink, Salsa music, Maltese Dogs, Sidewalk chalk, Old Photographs, Crafting, Big Purses, Angels, Clean Floors, Clean Laundry, Blogging

I love: My husband, kids, family and friends.

Oh...and my name is nicóle
[No images belong to me unless otherwise stated.]

bohemea: As in all transformations, there is an element of sadness. Something very familiar, very comforting is being left behind for the unknown, which beckons her, siren-like and irresistible. She is, as Rilke once observed, seated before her own heart’s curtain. It allows only the tiniest peek. Intolerable, the waiting and the melancholy. All changes, even the most longed for, must have their melancholy. At Twelve: Portraits of Young Women by Sally Mann, 1983-1985

bohemea:

As in all transformations, there is an element of sadness. Something very familiar, very comforting is being left behind for the unknown, which beckons her, siren-like and irresistible. She is, as Rilke once observed, seated before her own heart’s curtain. It allows only the tiniest peek.

Intolerable, the waiting and the melancholy. All changes, even the most longed for, must have their melancholy.

At Twelve: Portraits of Young Women by Sally Mann, 1983-1985

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    Portraits of Young Women by Sally Mann, 1983-1985
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