View allAll Photos Tagged Unyielding
Unyielding - Giving
Protective - Softness
Intelligence - Love
Strength - Beauty
Gentle Hermione - Rose palest pink.
this Raptor gives the surroundings an unyielding inspection on a cold morning above the snowy meadow
I'm never a hundred percent sure of the id between the Sharpie and a Coopers but he seemed to be a young adult with eyes turning a yellow/orange on their way to red. He also has the strong appearance of the "Cooper's cap" and did seem to be more crow-sized. I did not get a good enough look at the tail formation to be sure so I'll leave it to any who might feel more definite about the id.
Thank you for visiting!
...the seed pods of the tree peony are hard as nails and the seeds hard as bullets, incredibly difficult to germinate...
for Smile on Saturday: shells
This year's summer is intense and brutal - the heat severe and unyielding. The birding activity is quite poor - significantly less than the past few summers.
After venturing out very early in the morning a week ago, we came across some Painted snipes and sat on the roadside for an hour patiently hoping they would come out to the open - they didn't - they were quietly walking in the thick grass. But several Cattle Egrets in breeding plumage were flying across the fields disturbed by the farmers who were checking their fields. The light was perfect and the scenery beautiful - just had to wait for this Egret to land!
Thank you very much in advance for your views, faves and feedback if any.
What am I supposed to think
When I know you will not leave me
What am I supposed to do
When I turn around
And I see you still following
Anyone would think that
You are haunting me
Never letting me go
You make every road seem lonely
Even though you make sure
I am never alone
How did it get so complicated
This was never like you
Or did I just never know
So it looks like
You will always be with me
You have become as unyielding
As this twisting road
Destination to be decided
Maybe we’ll never go home
*****
There is something just so lonely to me about marshland, this in-between place, as if nothing ever finds its rest there, everything constantly shifting.
Whenever I have driven through this place, across the Pevensey Levels, and I have stopped and taken photographs and stood looking at the marshes, I am aware that I am never alone. There is an overwhelming feeling of being watched or followed.
It has always been an awareness that I cannot seem to shake off, and the twisting road across the levels only increases this feeling as it turns back on itself seeking the higher ground through the marsh. I thought that a sunny day might help to dissipate this feeling, rather than being in the mist or rain, but strangely it was even more oppressive, in the warm, sometimes windy conditions on this day in late May.
Pevensey Levels, East Sussex, UK.
I have paired this work with U2’s ‘So Cruel’, as Bono sings about heartbreak and obsession so well.
And if you would like to see more of my work, please visit my website at:
The overall picture usually says more than just summarizing details. It gives the space the effect, contrasts come to life and draw a softness that seemed in detail far too hard and unyielding.
literally bitten off by firm and unyielding consonants at both ends, it snaps like a camera shutter in your face. What more would one ask :-)
George Eastman
Explaining why he named his company Kodak.
HMM! HBM! Justice Matters!
silver spotted skipper on zinnia, little theater garden, raleigh, north carolina
🌳 "The Unyielding One" → The tree defies time, water, everything – almost like a silent hero.
Discovered on the Inn River near Aufhausen!
Find: @ [TWS] Event
"In the holy land, everything is sacred.
We are protected, we are untouchable".
---
"En tierra santa, todo es sagrado.
Estamos protegidos, somos intocables".
P. Ituska
I hope that you like it ^.^
*If you need any data about this photo, ask me please. Too, you can find the other products in older posts.
It’s impressive to me that these dried up stalks along the beach are still standing. They’ve weathered some harsh winds in the last few months!
Little London, Hampshire
Pamber Parish Council, Hampshire, unveiled Arthur the War Horse, a silhouette cut from 10mm steel plate, to commemorate not only the men and women who lost their lives in the Great War, but also, the horses, donkeys and mules that perished.
Local residents gathered at the Plough Inn, where the memorial is placed, to participate in the dedication ceremony conducted by Rev. John Lenton. David Lee played the Last Post and Reveille after two minutes silence. The Little London Brewery supplied a special beer for the day “War Horse”, from which profits, together with a collection, went to the Purple Poppy Fund.
The silhouette was inspired by the War Horse Memorial in Ascot which is the first national monument dedicated exclusively to the millions of UK, Allied and Commonwealth horses, mules and donkeys lost during The Great War. It has been crafted from the original sketches made to produce Poppy the War Horse, with the full agreement and backing of the founders of the War Horse Memorial.
This silhouette, together with the national monument in Ascot, pay tribute to the nobility, courage, unyielding loyalty and immeasurable contribution these animals played in giving us the freedom of democracy we all enjoy today.
Entropy, as a giving force, defines the repetition of everything which does not proceed beforehand.
This ever-present, irrational knowledge continues to be consumed, as a snake would devour its own tail.
Only by viewing the hyperaesthetic canvases with unyielding eyes does an involuntary and cybernetic appreciation grow.
It must be coddled. And yet still a profound wonder and awe exists… even by the creator himself.
No?
No, or, ... how will I
put this? Maybe, yet, yes.
Or otherwise, at some times.
My opinion has difficulty
to hold out, in front of
a compelling look.
Confronted by a posture that
indicates an unyielding character.
Before, there was little doubt
that a wall has two sides,
an inner and an outer side,
and an upper side, of course,
although that is beyond the scope
of this consideration.
But now . . . now no stone
will stick to another,
and no concrete resists
the gnawing of
an unsecure mind.
DM, 2022
Today is the 9th day of Valentine's month of February, and it is fitting to share my gratitude for the love shown to me by my friends and to promote love and friendship for everyone. We all need and deserve friends.
HSS 😊😊😍
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel,"
William Shakespeare - Hamlet
A single rose can be my garden; a single friend, my world
Leo Buscaglia
Friendship is the golden thread that ties the heart of all the world."
John Evelyn
Friendship is the only cement that will ever hold the world together.
Woodrow Wilson
Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It's not something you learn in school. But if you haven't learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven't learned anything,
Muhammad Ali
The language of friendship is not words, but meanings. It is an intelligence above language
Henry David Thoreau
The most important thing is, even if we're apart, I'll always be with you.
A.A. Milne - Winnie the Pooh
Will You Ever?
Kaitlyn M. Yawn
I don't think you will
Ever fully understand
How you've touched my life
And made me who I am.
I don't think you could ever know
Just how truly special you are,
That even on the darkest nights
You are my brightest star.
You've allowed me to experience
Something very hard to find,
Unconditional love that exists
In my body, soul, and mind.
I don't think you could ever feel
All the love I have to give,
And I'm sure you'll never realize
You've been my will to live.
You are an amazing person,
And without you I don't know where I'd be.
Having you in my life
Completes and fulfills every part of me.
Kaitlyn M. Yawn. "Will You Ever?." Family Friend Poems, July 21, 2006. www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/will-you-ever
A letter to my best friend:)
Emma Shaeffer
www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5OG1oA8tc0
Don Williams-You're My Best Friend (Lyrics)
www.youtube.com/watch?v=noboitrMunE
With heartfelt and genuine thanks for your kind visit. Have a beautiful day, be well, keep your eyes open, appreciate the beauty surrounding you, enjoy creating, stay safe, and laugh often! ❤️❤️❤️
Dok vjetar igra svoju večernju igru među klasjem, ovaj mali plavac čvrsto se drži svog uporišta. Krhak, ali ustrajan. Nježan, ali ne predaje se. U toj tišini pred sumrak, on i trava dijele isti ritam – ritam života koji nikad ne miruje.
While the evening wind dances through the grass, this small blue butterfly holds on tightly. Fragile, yet persistent. Gentle, yet unyielding. In the silence before dusk, he sways with the grass in rhythm — the rhythm of a life that never stops.
Icon “Holy Martyrs Faith, Hope, Love and their mother Sophia». Cathedral of the Archangel Michael Mikhailovsky Zlatoverho monastery. Kyiv. Ukraine.
Memory of Sts. martyrs Faith, Hope, Love and their mother Sophia occurs September 30th(September 17, old style). This is one of the most remarkable days in Christian church calendar when one of the most touching stories of life is recalled, which speaks of the unyielding courage of three still very young Christian virgins and their holy mother.
Свята Софія Римська (ім'я Софія означає "премудрість") жила з родиною в Мілані в II столітті, за царювання імператора Адріана (117-138 рр.). У неї було три дочки, яких звали Віра, Надія і Любов. Ці імена дала їм мати, і означали вони найголовніші цінності в житті людини. Свята Софія була християнкою. Дівчаткам вона прищеплювала віру з дитинства, незважаючи на те, що навколишній світ був ворожий до всіх, хто вірив у Христа.
Святые мученицы Вера, Надежда и Любовь родились в Италии. Их мать, святая София, была благочестивой вдовой-христианкой. Назвав своих дочерей именами трех христианских добродетелей, София воспитывала их в любви ко Господу Иисусу Христу. Святая София и дочери ее не скрывали своей веры во Христа и открыто исповедовали ее перед всеми. Наместник Антиох донес об этом императору Адриану (117-138), и тот велел привести их в Рим.
Император приказал жестоко истязать их: святых девиц жгли на железной решетке, бросали в раскаленную печь и в котел с кипящей смолой, но Господь Своей Невидимой Силой хранил их.
Once upon a time, in the small Bosnian village of Jajići, nestled among rolling hills and ancient stone paths, stood a majestic white cherry tree. It wasn’t just any tree; it was naša trešnja, as the villagers affectionately called it. With its gnarled trunk and branches that stretched like welcoming arms, the cherry tree had been a silent witness to the passage of time, standing proud in the village square for generations.
On a foggy winter morning, just days before the New Year, the tree looked otherworldly. Its bare branches, coated with a delicate layer of frost, shimmered faintly in the mist. The village was quiet, as though holding its breath in anticipation of the coming year.
For as long as anyone could remember, the white cherry tree had been more than just part of the landscape. In spring, its blossoms painted the village in hues of white, their fragrance floating on the breeze. In summer, its fruits were a feast, tiny treasures that children plucked while their laughter rang through the air. It was a playground, a meeting spot, and a giver of sweet vitamins that nourished not just bodies but souls.
As a child, I spent countless hours beneath its canopy. It was here that we played hide-and-seek, climbed to touch the sky, and sometimes just sat in its shade, sharing secrets and dreams. I remember how my grandmother told me that the tree was planted by her great-grandfather when he returned from the war, a symbol of hope and resilience. "This tree is a part of us," she would say. "Treat it with care, and it will always give back."
That morning, as I stood before the tree once more, I was no longer the little boy chasing cherries and dreaming of adventures. Time had marched on, and life had taken me far from Jajići. But the tree remained, steadfast and unyielding.
The fog clung to the ground, swirling like a living thing, as memories of childhood flooded my mind. I thought about the generations who had come before me, all of whom had laughed, cried, and grown beneath these branches. I imagined the stories the tree could tell if it could speak: tales of love, loss, and resilience in the face of life’s storms.
I reached out and touched its frosty bark, feeling a connection that words could never fully capture. Though its branches were bare, I knew that come spring, it would burst into life again, a testament to the enduring spirit of Jajići.
As I turned to leave, I whispered a silent promise to return more often, to keep the tree alive not just in memory but in presence. The white cherry tree wasn’t just a tree—it was a part of all of us who called this village home.
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Autumn in the country advances in a predictable path, taking its place among the unyielding rhythms of the passing seasons. It follows the summer harvest, ushering in cooler nights, and shorter days, enveloping all of Lanark County in a spectacular riot of colour. Brilliant hues of yellow, orange and red exclaim, in no uncertain terms, that these are the trees where maple syrup legends are born. -
Arlene Stafford-Wilson
The crickets sang in the grasses. They sang the song of summer's ending, a sad monotonous song. "Summer is over and gone, over and gone, over and gone. Summer is dying, dying." A little maple tree heard the cricket song and turned bright red with anxiety. - E.B. White (Charlotte's Web)
Thank you for your kind visit. Have a wonderful and beautiful day! xo❤️
Description and Credits: You can get more details of this Post in my Blog in the section about me in my profile.
◐ RAWR! - Unyielding Sword ◐
"Blessing of the Sunset"
In the crimson twilight, a warrior stands steadfast at the edge of a sea of metal, surrounded by sharp reflections and the gleam of steel. Clad in a heavy chainmail mantle, his head shielded by a helmet of interwoven rings, he appears forged from the same unyielding material as the swords around him.
The warrior finds himself on the threshold between light and darkness, and the sun's rays cascade over him, embracing him with a sacred glow. Each beam becomes a promise of courage, every glimmer a shield against the forces of darkness. The sea of metal undulates before him, a cold and relentless expanse, yet under the sun’s blessing, it transforms into a field of light urging him forward without fear.
The swords of iron, pointed toward the enemy, seem to hum under the golden touch of the sunset. They are not merely weapons; they are extensions of his will, carrying within them the brilliance of the sun's final breath. In this moment, the warrior is more than a mere man—he is the living connection between sky and earth, between hope and resolve.
With a slight bow of his head, the warrior receives the sun’s blessing, feeling its warmth like a sacred vow. He knows that the light of the sunset not only shows him the path but empowers him to face the sea of metal and the dark forces that lie ahead. Bathed in this light, he is not alone; he carries with him the glory of the day and the promise of a new dawn
I whisper my secrets to the moon
That cold unyielding reflection never lies
Illuminating the in-between
Such silvery spinnerets of light where the darkness bleeds through
I share my honeyed dreams beneath your embrace
And just like you my darkness is hidden behind my bright white smile.
Icon “Holy Martyrs Faith, Hope, Love and their mother Sophia». Cathedral of the Archangel Michael Mikhailovsky Zlatoverho monastery. Kyiv. Ukraine.
Memory of Sts. martyrs Faith, Hope, Love and their mother Sophia occurs September 30th(September 17, old style). This is one of the most remarkable days in Christian church calendar when one of the most touching stories of life is recalled, which speaks of the unyielding courage of three still very young Christian virgins and their holy mother.
Свята Софія Римська (ім'я Софія означає "премудрість") жила з родиною в Мілані в II столітті, за царювання імператора Адріана (117-138 рр.). У неї було три дочки, яких звали Віра, Надія і Любов. Ці імена дала їм мати, і означали вони найголовніші цінності в житті людини. Свята Софія була християнкою. Дівчаткам вона прищеплювала віру з дитинства, незважаючи на те, що навколишній світ був ворожий до всіх, хто вірив у Христа.
Shot in Wilmington, Vermont after the rain.
The Old Stone Wall by Laurie Apgar Chandler
The Old Stone Wall
We wander, both, the crisp clear slopes of autumn,
Through scattered leaves of faded, fallen color.
For me, a carefree hour, or maybe two.
The stone wall, though, has twice outlived its builder:
He who plucked the granite from heavy, stubborn soil.
Dragging, rolling, hefting the puzzle pieces into place.
That wall and man shared much in common,
in their struggle to tame nature’s endless march.
Rugged, stalwart, they took the character of an unyielding land,
framed fields that winter buried deep in drifted white,
that spring sprinkled with tender newborn calves,
and summer balanced barefoot children on the winding way.
In time, the passing years gathered up the man
and crusted stone with olive moss and lichen gray.
Stumbling with age and witness to a different time,
still, there are stories harbored here,
meaning to be found in the wall’s enduring presence,
if only that, when I am gone, the silent stones will stay.
Scientific name: napus var. napus
Charlock or wild mustard, Sinapis arvensis, yellow blossoms with high depth of field
In fields of gold, the wild mustard stands,
A sea of yellow 'neath the sky’s soft hands.
The wild mustard whispers on the breeze, so free,
A vibrant pulse in earth’s eternal spree.
Each blossom bright, a sun on stem’s embrace,
In depth of green, they find their timeless place.
Unyielding in the soil, they softly sing,
Of spring’s bright promise, as the seasons bring.
Wild Daisies..
Captured on a tranquil afternoon, a field of pristine white wild daisies dances rhythmically in the soft breeze, adorning the park's path with an ethereal beauty. Untouched and unblemished by human hands, these wildflowers display an unyielding spirit, blossoming with a natural grace that requires no cultivation or intervention. Their vibrant presence serves as a potent and moving testament to resilience, a constant encouragement to persevere and find strength, even in the face of life's inevitable anxieties and daily burdens that can often seem to overwhelm us.
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Please do not copy my image or use it on websites, blogs or other media without my express permission.
© NICK MUNROE (MUNROE PHOTOGRAPHY)
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ᴇɴᴘᴇɴsɪᴠᴇ sᴏᴜʟ
She reclines in stillness, eyes sealed against the world, the cigarette’s ember pulsing like a fragile truth. Smoke rises from her lips - a mute prayer unraveling into the night.
In this suspended breath, time dissolves. Memory and irrefutable conclusion entwine, and within the quiet, love reawakens - not as a blaze, but a slow, sacred flame, fragile yet unyielding beneath her closed eyes.
♡
🚫 Untouched by AI
ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙʏ sᴜʀғᴀᴄᴇ
Jules moves like a shadow sharpened by steel - silent, watchful, unyielding.
With eyes that speak of storms survived and ink that tells stories no voice dares,
he stands as both armor and enigma.
A cross hangs near his heart,
but it's his loyalty that sanctifies.
He is not loud, but he is present -
the kind of presence that anchors you
when the world tries to pull you under.
P.S. - I know this image lingered in silence, waiting patiently in time’s quiet corner - only now have I found the heart (and inspiration) to bring it to light.
It was a promise long owed, and finally kept.
Better late than never, they say, right?
“Three weeks? Oh no, we don’t do that! Nine or ten days at most is enough for us. We’d never stay that long.”
Quite why this woman felt the need to question the length of our holiday in such admonishing tones was a question that hung tentatively in the air across the desk between us. That she’d obviously been earwigging the conversation between us and the hotel receptionist was another one that nobody seemed to have an answer to. Why do people so often seem to feel the need to impose their own values on you? I mean, we weren’t doing anything wrong that either of us were aware of. Apart from checking in at the same time as a busybody with an agenda that was. It’s not as if we were hatching plans to kidnap puppies, or hotwire the neighbour’s Vauxhall Viva while he’d gone to dominoes night at The Plume, was it? As far as we know, it is entirely legal to choose the length of your own holiday and go for three weeks if you so desire. Or even three months. Or three days if that’s what floats your boat. We smiled, nodded and hoped we wouldn’t bump into her or her husband for the remainder of the nine or ten days at most that they had booked themselves in for.
Apart from that, it was good to be back in this part of the world. Catalunya and the Balearics. Before we retired, we used to take just two weeks - because three was out of the question as far as work was concerned - in Majorca every summer. We often went in spring as well. It was like a second home for us. For many years we hoped it would become a first home in fact, but a lot of barriers seem to have put themselves in the way of that particular ambition. We loved exploring different corners of the island, finding spots that the likes of Mr and Mrs Noseyparker were never likely to discover, swimming and snorkelling in the gentle warm Mediterranean. It was a place where we were completely happy and knew exactly where we were going for those two precious August weeks. The journey home to the dreaded September silly season, otherwise known as the start of the autumn term, was always an especially low moment in the annual cycle of events. And from there things only ever seemed to get worse.
Then 2020 arrived and the world closed down for a couple of years. By the time things started to return to normal, we were no longer straitjacketed by the academic year planners. We could go away whenever we wanted. And “whenever we wanted” wasn’t in the middle of summer when prices were sky high and everyone else was on holiday too. Now we could take our holidays when the rest of the world was working or in school - well except for us and the couple who seemed to think that we should be on our way home by next Friday at the very latest. Head for the sun at bargain prices at the start of October and things are far more peaceful in these southern latitudes than they ever were in August. And now we were finally back in the Balearics. But instead of our old stomping ground, we’d decided to have a look at the quieter and smaller neighbour to the east. Neither of us had ever been to Menorca before, but we’d heard good things.
We could see the similarities almost immediately. The scented green pine forests and the baked red earth were so friendly and familiar. The curious balls of soft vegetation on the beaches that we’ve only ever seen on these islands. Unyielding white limestone walls flanking narrow roads, the edges as sharp as dragons’ teeth. Conversations in the local Catalan dialect rather than Spanish. Road signs leading the way to the “platja,” rather than the “playa.” We could easily be back on the island where we’d spent so many summers, but there were subtle differences too. There was a compactness that we liked, and even though the main road across the island was mostly a single carriageway in either direction, it soon became apparent that it wouldn’t take that long to get to wherever we wanted to go. And then there was that wild section of coastline to the north, mostly visited only by the hikers who were on the Cami de Cavalls, the long distance trail that circumnavigates the island.
The very first outing was a wild one too for that matter, as the tail end of a mainland storm strafed the top half of the island. White tops on the water at Cala Pregonda. It was a good job that I’d brought the camera bag then.
Deep within the shadows of the cave, where light barely licks the stone floor, a quiet struggle unfolds. A young macaque squirms, defiant and wide-eyed, limbs flailing with the energy of youth. But the mother's grip is firm—not harsh, but unyielding. Her eyes, half in shadow, speak not of anger, but of ancient patience.
She has seen these tantrums before.
The cave, cool and echoing with the whispers of time, has been their refuge—a place of safety, but also of learning. Here, away from the blinding light and chaos of the forest, she teaches her child the rules of survival. Respect. Caution. Restraint.
He challenges her, of course. That is his role—to test the boundaries so he might one day draw his own. But she, in turn, fulfills hers. Not with words, but with presence. With firmness. With love that wears the face of discipline.
And so, in this quiet chamber of stone and shadow, a lesson is passed down—not loudly, not cruelly, but through the steady, unwavering hands of a mother who knows the wild world will demand far more than she ever will.
To all mothers—whether in homes or in the heart of the wild—Happy Mother’s Day.
A man alone on the cliffs, a silhouette against the darkening sky, the waves crashing far below, their mournful roar rising like the echoes of forgotten grief, each tide a reminder of his sorrow.
Above, a seagull passed aimlessly, their shadow brushing the stone like fleeting memories, untouched by the weight of his sorrow.
The sea, infinite and unyielding, stretched endlessly before him, cold and indifferent, a reflection of the depth of his loneliness, the tide relentless in its rhythm, as if mocking his stillness.
He lingered there, eyes hollow, staring into the abyss, as though pleading for it to speak, to give meaning to the silence that consumed him, to the sorrow that the tide could never wash away.
by bes~• Morocco 09/24
bliss .l. people among us
Fleeing from the mistakes of my past, my only hope is to reach the border. I try to outrun the choices I’ve made and escape the life that led me here. Though I am filled with fear and regret, I can only move forward, toward that faint hope of freedom. My heart thunders in my chest, a wild drumbeat of desperation. Every pounding hoofbeat feels like a heartbeat slipping away, each breath a stolen moment. I have to keep riding, faster and harder, but I know that no matter how far I go, the shadows of my sins will follow. If I fall now, there is no forgiveness. There is only the dark, unyielding weight of all I've done…
...laying claim to me in the end.
Battles are fought in the shadows, where true strength is forged in silence. The greatest adventure lies not in the glory seen, but in the weight we carry alone—unbroken, unyielding, burning with the heart of a warrior.
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Amidst the vast expanse of land, sea, and sky, a lone sentinel stands defiantly against the elements. Split Rock Lighthouse, an architectural marvel perched upon the rugged cliffs, appears diminutive in comparison to the titanic forces that surround it. Like a speck in the grand tapestry of nature, this humble structure is dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of its surroundings. The land stretches out in an unyielding embrace, the sea crashes against the rocks with a primal roar, and the heavens above boast an infinite canopy of swirling clouds. In this juxtaposition of the minuscule and the majestic, one cannot help but marvel at the audacity of human ambition in the face of nature's relentless power. Split Rock Lighthouse, a testament to man's resilience, forever etched in the annals of time.
#298
A symphony of rust and amber glow.
The spring trees wear crowns of fleeting splendor,
Their hearts unyielding as they bid farewell.
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A religious vocation is not like a job application or a personal assessment. It is an unmerited, pure gift of grace. It is a “call,” because the grace of God awakens within unannounced, like a high-pitched alarm clock (at least in my experience), blaring when you least expect it. It is an invasion, an interruption if not outright intrusion of grace, and it does not allow you to go back to rest in your former life without either forgetting what you heard or responding to the gift. I vacillated each day between wanting to forget the call and wondering how to respond to the gift. The thought of being a nun scared me. Who would want to wear black Oxford shoes for the rest of her life? Or a long, polyester skirt? Or a black veil for that matter? The impending threat of looking pious for the rest of my life was frightening; yet, the deep inner presence of God drew me like an exotic aroma of spices. I lived between the inner world of God's alluring love and the outer world of adolescent changes. In this wavering life, I learned my first lesson: God is irresistible and unyielding in love. God has infinite patience; God is a jealous lover. God will pursue the soul relentlessly and never gives up because there is nothing to give up: “I have loved you with an everlasting love,” the prophet Jeremiah wrote (Jer 31:3). From all eternity God loves this particular life in this particular way for reasons hidden in the inscrutable heart of God.
-Birth of a Dancing Star From Cradle Catholic to Cyborg Christian, Ilia Delio, OSF
A presence both soft and unyielding, where past and future converge in poised descent.
The story begins here and continues in Dynasty’s Breath, where the empire exhales its quiet grace.
Location: Buddha Garden
the structure was a concrete and steel leviathan, drinking the sun through a thousand glass scales. it threw a grid of perfect, repeating shadows onto the ground, a calculated geometry of darkness. into this grid walked a man, a small, solitary figure, his purpose unknown. he was an anomaly in the vast, silent equation of concrete, sky, and sea. he cast a small, imperfect shadow of his own, a brief, organic signature on the unyielding stone, before being swallowed by the scale of the thing.
from my archive...
Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. Song of Solomon 8
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🌙 Barges Lighthouse – Sentinel at Dusk
Beneath a dense, brooding sky, dark clouds weave together with the final light of day, creating a veil of ink and gold. The sea, almost still, reflects this nocturnal tapestry, where rocks lie revealed by the falling tide. On the horizon stands a solitary vertical line: the Barges Lighthouse, an unyielding sentinel facing the Atlantic.
️ Description
A monochrome sunset along the Vendée coast, capturing the slender silhouette of the Barges Lighthouse, alone in a landscape where sky, sea, and stone become one.
📍 Name: Barges Lighthouse
️ Location: 2 km offshore from La Chaume, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Vendée (85), France
📏 Height: 24.81 m
⚓ Elevation: 31.3 m
💡 Light range: 13.5 nautical miles
🌙 Phare des Barges – Veilleur du crépuscule
Sous un ciel dense et tourmenté, les nuages sombres s’entrelacent aux dernières lueurs du jour, tissant un voile d’encre et d’or. La mer, presque immobile, reflète ce drapé nocturne où affleurent des rochers découverts par la marée basse. À l’horizon, se dresse un trait vertical et solitaire : le phare des Barges, sentinelle immuable face à l’Atlantique.
️ Description
Monochrome du soir sur la côte vendéenne, révélant la silhouette élancée du phare des Barges, isolée dans un paysage où le ciel, la mer et la roche se confondent.
📍 Nom : Phare des Barges
️ Localisation : 2 km au large de La Chaume, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Vendée (85)
📏 Hauteur : 24,81 m
⚓ Élévation : 31,3 m
💡 Portée lumineuse : 13,5 milles nautiques
The storms of life, they have a way of stripping things down, leaving us raw and exposed.
Yet, within that vulnerability, something extraordinary can happen.
Just like a weathered tree standing stoic after a tempest, there's an enduring strength at my core.
But now, a vibrant blossom bursts forth, unlike anything before.
This new growth isn't a rejection of the past, but a testament to resilience.
The roots are the same, nourished by the same weathered trunk, but the expression is dazzlingly new.
It's the spirit of life unyielding, a reminder that even amidst upheaval, beauty can flourish in unexpected ways.
Picture made with Gemini.AI
Psalm 62:7: “With God rests my salvation and my glory; He is my Rock of unyielding strength and impenetrable hardness; my refuge is in God!”
he stands against the raw wall. the texture a silent witness. the light finds him, but only in parts. his hair is a bright mess. his glasses are black mirrors. the hand, adorned with metal, rests on the pinstripe. a planet hangs from his neck, a small, silver secret. the rest is deep, unyielding shadow. a stage for a single moment.
Korth's Meadow - Iowa
These oaks are unyielding when it comes to letting the leaves fly in the wind. Every autumn, they are the very last to let go. . .
This is the meadow area where I hike miles, enjoying beautiful autumn days, wildlife and migrating birds! Winter and snow will bring a whole new landscape to savor and enjoy!
Copyright 2019