A small tool to view real-world ActivityPub objects as JSON! Enter a URL
or username from Mastodon or a similar service below, and we'll send a
request with
the right
Accept
header
to the server to view the underlying object.
{
"@context": "https://www.w3.org/ns/activitystreams",
"type": "OrderedCollectionPage",
"orderedItems": [
{
"type": "Like",
"actor": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1753479723884748800",
"object": {
"type": "Note",
"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1765213960724570112",
"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635",
"content": "Old Timbers Don't Lie<br />I had a friend once, a city girl, bless her heart, who said old houses gave her the creeps. Claimed she could feel the walls watching her, like the place was judging her choice of throw pillows. Told me she liked things “fresh”, I suggested she try sleeping in the garden. That was many years ago, hopefully, she found her happiness and that brand new house.<br /><br />I've always been the opposite. To me, the older the place, the more alive it feels. Not alive like folks bustling around and kids underfoot, but like the spirit of time itself has settled into the cracks. Quiet, yes, but certainly not empty. I’ll take a house with a few stories soaked into the floorboards over some drywall box that still smells like carpet glue and bad decisions.<br /><br />I never was one to pine for living in ancient Rome or dancing it up in some medieval ale hall. Those times were rough, and I like my coffee hot, and my boots dry, thank you kindly. But don't you love the feel of the past? The smell of sun-baked wood, the grit of windworn stone, the song of a rusty hinge swinging on memory. It’s not so much about wanting to go back, as it is about stopping to listen to what the past has whispered into things.<br /><br />There’s a funny thing time does. It takes what man makes, our straight lines, fresh paint, square walls, and turns it into something nature might've dreamed up herself. She doesn’t ask permission. She just grows over it. Moss on brick. Rust on nail. Ivy up barn walls finding a sunny, welcome perch to thrive on.<br /><br />You build yourself a shed, and it’s just a shed. But leave it in a mountain hollow for a hundred years, let rosevine climb the walls and wasps nest in the eaves, and gradually, it’s not just yours anymore. It belongs to the wind, the rain, the bugs, and the raccoons. In that surrender back to nature, it becomes a real, living part of the earth.<br /><br />Man builds with intention. Nature loves to wreck it with style. And time, well, time’s the instigator that bonds them together. Lichen climbing the mailbox. The silver in the old split-rail fence. The silence that hangs thick in the air after the axe stops ringing.<br /><br />So when I sit on my porch, mug in hand, watching the mist roll through the trees, I don’t wish for new paint or straight lines. I thank the Creator and his good earth for wear, wind, and weather. For the way it softens the hard edges that man seems so obsessed with building into everything, each other included.<br /><br />Truth is, I trust an old house far more than a new one. Old timbers don’t lie. How many of these half-million-dollar, cardboard-and-staple boxes they sell as houses today can remain standing as nature applies her remodels? Will they even make it to the end of their first mortgage? A century? Yeah, right.<br /><br />Happy weekend and a blessed May from my house to yours.<br /><br />-SourdoughSam",
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],
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"published": "2025-05-03T01:30:04+00:00",
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"content": "Old Timbers Don't Lie\nI had a friend once, a city girl, bless her heart, who said old houses gave her the creeps. Claimed she could feel the walls watching her, like the place was judging her choice of throw pillows. Told me she liked things “fresh”, I suggested she try sleeping in the garden. That was many years ago, hopefully, she found her happiness and that brand new house.\n\nI've always been the opposite. To me, the older the place, the more alive it feels. Not alive like folks bustling around and kids underfoot, but like the spirit of time itself has settled into the cracks. Quiet, yes, but certainly not empty. I’ll take a house with a few stories soaked into the floorboards over some drywall box that still smells like carpet glue and bad decisions.\n\nI never was one to pine for living in ancient Rome or dancing it up in some medieval ale hall. Those times were rough, and I like my coffee hot, and my boots dry, thank you kindly. But don't you love the feel of the past? The smell of sun-baked wood, the grit of windworn stone, the song of a rusty hinge swinging on memory. It’s not so much about wanting to go back, as it is about stopping to listen to what the past has whispered into things.\n\nThere’s a funny thing time does. It takes what man makes, our straight lines, fresh paint, square walls, and turns it into something nature might've dreamed up herself. She doesn’t ask permission. She just grows over it. Moss on brick. Rust on nail. Ivy up barn walls finding a sunny, welcome perch to thrive on.\n\nYou build yourself a shed, and it’s just a shed. But leave it in a mountain hollow for a hundred years, let rosevine climb the walls and wasps nest in the eaves, and gradually, it’s not just yours anymore. It belongs to the wind, the rain, the bugs, and the raccoons. In that surrender back to nature, it becomes a real, living part of the earth.\n\nMan builds with intention. Nature loves to wreck it with style. And time, well, time’s the instigator that bonds them together. Lichen climbing the mailbox. The silver in the old split-rail fence. The silence that hangs thick in the air after the axe stops ringing.\n\nSo when I sit on my porch, mug in hand, watching the mist roll through the trees, I don’t wish for new paint or straight lines. I thank the Creator and his good earth for wear, wind, and weather. For the way it softens the hard edges that man seems so obsessed with building into everything, each other included.\n\nTruth is, I trust an old house far more than a new one. Old timbers don’t lie. How many of these half-million-dollar, cardboard-and-staple boxes they sell as houses today can remain standing as nature applies her remodels? Will they even make it to the end of their first mortgage? A century? Yeah, right.\n\nHappy weekend and a blessed May from my house to yours.\n\n-SourdoughSam",
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{
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"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635",
"content": "It's May!!! 💐🎐💧🌸🐦🐇🐝🌱",
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],
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1765217587107225600",
"published": "2025-05-03T01:44:28+00:00",
"inReplyTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/1177306860554821635/entities/urn:activity:1765213960724570112",
"source": {
"content": "It's May!!! 💐🎐💧🌸🐦🐇🐝🌱",
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"content": "<a class=\"u-url mention\" href=\"https://www.minds.com/britasha\" target=\"_blank\">@britasha</a><br />Long read...<br /><br /> Ghosts<br /><br />I had been hired, shortly after marriage, to convert two summer rentals into a year round apartment in an east coast resort town. I had from September until the end of April to complete the job. At this time I was traveling with the band most weekends. When I had the opportunity to travel there, we were allowed to stay in the owners apartment which took up the entire second floor. The building had originally been the towns dairy, with the second floor being the offices. There were 7 summer rentals on the ground floor, the apartment I was creating would take the 5th and 6th units. The bathrooms were very tight with just small shower stalls. I didn't change those. I completed the job early, and the owner informed me the tenant they had lined up wouldn't be moving in. They encouraged me and my bride to move in. They would have me do more work there, and manage the summer rentals. We had become friends really. We moved in the first week of May. Finding little storage space, we opted to stack boxes in the bathroom at the far end of the apartment where the bedroom was. The band had a lot of shows lined up, and after a week there, I had to travel for two weeks. When I came back, I brought our sound engineer Matthew, and his girlfriend Tina, to visit a few days. The first thing I wanted was a hot shower and some clean clothes. My wife and our friends settled in the living room, at the opposite end from said bathroom.... I took my luggage back in the bedroom and to get clean clothes. I noticed the said bathroom door, which was no more than plywood with a gate latch, had the handle tied to a 8d finish nail driven in the trim. Not just tied, but a series of square knots, there had to be twenty... I grabbed clean clothes and walked to the living room. I asked my lovely bride about the door. Her reply was \"You didn't open did you?\" I chuckled and said no, she said she would explain later. I took my shower, dressed and returned to the bedroom. The string was untied, dangling from the handle, and the door open a few inches. Returning to the living room, I expressed my disappointment that she could share her bathroom secret with our friends but not me. I was met with silence and blank stares.....they all looked at each other, then Matthew said no one had left the room! Now we all went back there, the light was on and a box from the shower stall opened on the floor. My wife explained that shortly after I left, she began hearing noises from said bathroom. She said every time she came back there the door would be open, the light would be on, and box on the floor opened. Then she started hearing giggling from said bathroom, so she tied the door shut. During the coarse of the next few days, It was sporadic, but always a different box on the floor, opened like someone was looking for something. The light began turning itself on and off quickly, I changed the switch. We talked to the owners about it. It was his grandfather that had the dairy, his father had made it little apartments. His mother had recently passed, so they jokingly said it was her because she had been nosy and a prankster. Then they saw the light go on and off several times from outside. We were all curious. The owners, and another couple came over. We all went in the bedroom, tied the door shut, the light was out. We would all stay together and come back in an hour. We stepped out the door, I realized I had forgotten my wallet, I went in alone. The knots were not untied, but the door was wide open, the nail still attached to the string. Obviously we hit a nerve...my wife traveled with me after that.<br /> Later that summer 150 miles away, I was doing another job, and we found a puppy. She had been abandoned, so we kept her and brought her home with us. We named her Abby. She immediately bonded with us, and was constantly with us. In the apartment, she would spend a lot of time in the bedroom, growling at said bathroom. Things got quiet.<br /> Fast forward to September. We were cooking chicken on the grill. I came back inside for something. The wife asked if I had turned the chicken, then proceeded out the door, only to turn back around white as a ghost. \"Theres somebody in the hammock!\" she said. I ran out the door and saw the hammock swinging. There was no breeze. We had a heavy wooden gate, it was closed, I never heard it latch. Nobody on the street. <br /> I went back inside, the wife was shaking. We had dinner, and after she calmed some, I questioned her about what she saw. As she opened the door she saw legs come out of the hammock and man sat up. The man was wearing a watch cap, a turtle neck sweater, heavy black boots, and wool pants with a cuff. It had been 90° that day.<br /> There was a gentleman that lived a block from us, our dogs were friends. He was the unofficial historian for the town. One day, I described to him what had happened. Turns out, where our apartment was, had originally been the refrigerated section of the dairy. During World War 2, a German U boat had shot up a fishing boat, killing all 7 men on board. Their bodies were kept in the refrigerated section of the dairy. One body was never claimed.",
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"published": "2025-04-23T00:29:14+00:00",
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"content": "@britasha\nLong read...\n\n Ghosts\n\nI had been hired, shortly after marriage, to convert two summer rentals into a year round apartment in an east coast resort town. I had from September until the end of April to complete the job. At this time I was traveling with the band most weekends. When I had the opportunity to travel there, we were allowed to stay in the owners apartment which took up the entire second floor. The building had originally been the towns dairy, with the second floor being the offices. There were 7 summer rentals on the ground floor, the apartment I was creating would take the 5th and 6th units. The bathrooms were very tight with just small shower stalls. I didn't change those. I completed the job early, and the owner informed me the tenant they had lined up wouldn't be moving in. They encouraged me and my bride to move in. They would have me do more work there, and manage the summer rentals. We had become friends really. We moved in the first week of May. Finding little storage space, we opted to stack boxes in the bathroom at the far end of the apartment where the bedroom was. The band had a lot of shows lined up, and after a week there, I had to travel for two weeks. When I came back, I brought our sound engineer Matthew, and his girlfriend Tina, to visit a few days. The first thing I wanted was a hot shower and some clean clothes. My wife and our friends settled in the living room, at the opposite end from said bathroom.... I took my luggage back in the bedroom and to get clean clothes. I noticed the said bathroom door, which was no more than plywood with a gate latch, had the handle tied to a 8d finish nail driven in the trim. Not just tied, but a series of square knots, there had to be twenty... I grabbed clean clothes and walked to the living room. I asked my lovely bride about the door. Her reply was \"You didn't open did you?\" I chuckled and said no, she said she would explain later. I took my shower, dressed and returned to the bedroom. The string was untied, dangling from the handle, and the door open a few inches. Returning to the living room, I expressed my disappointment that she could share her bathroom secret with our friends but not me. I was met with silence and blank stares.....they all looked at each other, then Matthew said no one had left the room! Now we all went back there, the light was on and a box from the shower stall opened on the floor. My wife explained that shortly after I left, she began hearing noises from said bathroom. She said every time she came back there the door would be open, the light would be on, and box on the floor opened. Then she started hearing giggling from said bathroom, so she tied the door shut. During the coarse of the next few days, It was sporadic, but always a different box on the floor, opened like someone was looking for something. The light began turning itself on and off quickly, I changed the switch. We talked to the owners about it. It was his grandfather that had the dairy, his father had made it little apartments. His mother had recently passed, so they jokingly said it was her because she had been nosy and a prankster. Then they saw the light go on and off several times from outside. We were all curious. The owners, and another couple came over. We all went in the bedroom, tied the door shut, the light was out. We would all stay together and come back in an hour. We stepped out the door, I realized I had forgotten my wallet, I went in alone. The knots were not untied, but the door was wide open, the nail still attached to the string. Obviously we hit a nerve...my wife traveled with me after that.\n Later that summer 150 miles away, I was doing another job, and we found a puppy. She had been abandoned, so we kept her and brought her home with us. We named her Abby. She immediately bonded with us, and was constantly with us. In the apartment, she would spend a lot of time in the bedroom, growling at said bathroom. Things got quiet.\n Fast forward to September. We were cooking chicken on the grill. I came back inside for something. The wife asked if I had turned the chicken, then proceeded out the door, only to turn back around white as a ghost. \"Theres somebody in the hammock!\" she said. I ran out the door and saw the hammock swinging. There was no breeze. We had a heavy wooden gate, it was closed, I never heard it latch. Nobody on the street. \n I went back inside, the wife was shaking. We had dinner, and after she calmed some, I questioned her about what she saw. As she opened the door she saw legs come out of the hammock and man sat up. The man was wearing a watch cap, a turtle neck sweater, heavy black boots, and wool pants with a cuff. It had been 90° that day.\n There was a gentleman that lived a block from us, our dogs were friends. He was the unofficial historian for the town. One day, I described to him what had happened. Turns out, where our apartment was, had originally been the refrigerated section of the dairy. During World War 2, a German U boat had shot up a fishing boat, killing all 7 men on board. Their bodies were kept in the refrigerated section of the dairy. One body was never claimed.",
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"content": "One of my \"barn\" cats had a litter 7 days ago. One eyed Wendy, shes nine yrs and this was her only litter. She has lots of health issues, including a heart problm. Anyway, she had 4 beautiful babies and for th first three days evrything was goin great. On day 4 she developd mastitis, so I startd bottl feeding... Th littl guys refused th bottl so i tried th syring, i was getting them fed but i dont think it was enough or they already had th infection. They all died seemingly at th same time curld up in a ball of kitties togethr. It has been heartbreaking for Wendy. For two days now shes been searching for them. Today th mastitis burst like an abcess, gross and unexpectd, but once cleand looks good. Shes been on colloidal silvr for th infection and doing really well, just supr sad.",
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"published": "2025-04-18T01:35:38+00:00",
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"content": "One of my \"barn\" cats had a litter 7 days ago. One eyed Wendy, shes nine yrs and this was her only litter. She has lots of health issues, including a heart problm. Anyway, she had 4 beautiful babies and for th first three days evrything was goin great. On day 4 she developd mastitis, so I startd bottl feeding... Th littl guys refused th bottl so i tried th syring, i was getting them fed but i dont think it was enough or they already had th infection. They all died seemingly at th same time curld up in a ball of kitties togethr. It has been heartbreaking for Wendy. For two days now shes been searching for them. Today th mastitis burst like an abcess, gross and unexpectd, but once cleand looks good. Shes been on colloidal silvr for th infection and doing really well, just supr sad.",
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"content": "When you all feel like rising up against this corrupt system, hit me up. Been waiting for this shit for a minute.",
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"published": "2025-04-17T15:46:55+00:00",
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"content": "When you all feel like rising up against this corrupt system, hit me up. Been waiting for this shit for a minute.",
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"content": "<a href=\"https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1758986695618863104\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1758986695618863104</a>",
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"content": "Overpriced bullshit anyways.",
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"content": "Overpriced bullshit anyways.",
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"content": "This. This right here is why we should stop asking them to stop poisoning us.<br /><br />This is why we should FORCE them to stop. ",
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"content": "This. This right here is why we should stop asking them to stop poisoning us.\n\nThis is why we should FORCE them to stop. ",
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"content": "Agreed, she's a wretched cancer on the entire planet. ",
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"content": "🐝 Honey and Bee Facts 🐝<br />Did you know that one spoonful of honey can sustain a person for 24 hours?<br />One of the world's first coins featured a bee symbol.<br />Honey contains living enzymes, making it a unique and special food.<br />The best way to eat honey is with a wooden spoon; if unavailable, use a plastic one.<br />Honey contains a substance that helps the brain function better.<br />Honey is one of the few foods on Earth that can sustain human life on its own.<br />Bees have saved people from starvation in Africa.<br />Propolis, produced by bees, is one of the most powerful natural antibiotics.<br />Honey has no expiration date.<br />Some of history’s greatest emperors were buried in golden coffins and covered with honey to prevent decomposition.<br />The term \"honeymoon\" comes from the tradition of newlyweds consuming honey for fertility after marriage.<br />A bee lives less than 40 days, visits at least 1,000 flowers, and produces less than a teaspoon of honey—but to her, that is a lifetime of work.<br />Thank you, precious bees... 🐝💛",
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"content": "🐝 Honey and Bee Facts 🐝\nDid you know that one spoonful of honey can sustain a person for 24 hours?\nOne of the world's first coins featured a bee symbol.\nHoney contains living enzymes, making it a unique and special food.\nThe best way to eat honey is with a wooden spoon; if unavailable, use a plastic one.\nHoney contains a substance that helps the brain function better.\nHoney is one of the few foods on Earth that can sustain human life on its own.\nBees have saved people from starvation in Africa.\nPropolis, produced by bees, is one of the most powerful natural antibiotics.\nHoney has no expiration date.\nSome of history’s greatest emperors were buried in golden coffins and covered with honey to prevent decomposition.\nThe term \"honeymoon\" comes from the tradition of newlyweds consuming honey for fertility after marriage.\nA bee lives less than 40 days, visits at least 1,000 flowers, and produces less than a teaspoon of honey—but to her, that is a lifetime of work.\nThank you, precious bees... 🐝💛",
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"content": "How did I not know this??<br />While digging into some plant histories for a writing project, I stumbled onto something that blew my mind. I had no idea that Cabbage, Broccoli, Cauliflower, Kale, Brussels Sprouts, Collard Greens, and even Kohlrabi all trace back to the same wild plant: Brassica Oleracea, better known as Wild Cabbage, a scrappy little flower that grows wild along coastal wetlands.<br /><br />Over a few thousand years, generations of farmers selectively bred different parts of this tough little plant: leaves, buds, stems, and flowers, to create the vegetables we know and love today. 💚<br />",
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"content": "How did I not know this??\nWhile digging into some plant histories for a writing project, I stumbled onto something that blew my mind. I had no idea that Cabbage, Broccoli, Cauliflower, Kale, Brussels Sprouts, Collard Greens, and even Kohlrabi all trace back to the same wild plant: Brassica Oleracea, better known as Wild Cabbage, a scrappy little flower that grows wild along coastal wetlands.\n\nOver a few thousand years, generations of farmers selectively bred different parts of this tough little plant: leaves, buds, stems, and flowers, to create the vegetables we know and love today. 💚\n",
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"content": "This is unbelievable!<br />Arrest Obama, Brennan, and Crooked Hillary Clinton now, or resign Pam Bondi!<br /> <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1757878636511240192\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1757878636511240192</a>",
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"content": "⚠️ scammers are using fake CAPTCHA tests to steal passwords, install malware, and hijack accounts ⚠️ <br /><br /><a href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPJQgzF772E\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPJQgzF772E</a>",
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"content": "If you are new to us, here is our guide.<br /><br />Welcome,<br />This is NeuroDivergent Support Circle, a quiet space, a small refuge for those who trod the winding paths of autism, ADHD, and other forms of neurodivergence — and for those who walk beside them.<br /><br />We gather here, not for debate or display, but for quiet company. A place where stories may be shared, silences honored, information exchanged, and no one is hurried.<br /><br />Feel safe to be as you are. There is no need for masks here, no need to pretend. We have all known the weight of them.<br /><br />The ways of this space:<br /><br />Be kind.<br />Let your words fall gently. All who come carry stories unseen.<br /><br />Be gentle.<br />With yourself and with others. There are days that are easy and filled with laughter, and days that are hard and words are few. Both belong.<br /><br />Be patient.<br />The river flows at many speeds. Each may find their own pace without urging.<br /><br />Let there be no fixing, no debates, no judgment.<br />This is a space for listening, sharing, and simply being.<br /><br />Matters of diagnosis and medicine are left to the healers beyond these walls.<br />We are companions, not physicians or therapists, tending one another's company, not offering cures.<br /><br />Cherish both the words and the quiet.<br />Silence speaks in its own way, and is always respected.<br /><br />Whether you offer words or simply share the stillness with us, you are part of the circle.<br /><br />You are welcome here.<br /><br />— Ailil Finn 💚<br /> Caretaker",
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"content": "Thrown to the World — Growing Up Undiagnosed with Autism<br /><br /><br />A reflection for parents, companions, and those who share the path<br /><br />The world is a cold and silent place when you do not know its language. When its rules are unwritten, yet expected to be understood, and its touch is harsh against a mind that feels everything too much.<br /><br />My heart aches for parents and caregivers who struggle to bridge the chasm between their world and that of an ASD child. No guidebook exists for such a journey, no map to light the way. <br /><br />I was once that child, set adrift in a time when the word autism was not yet spoken. When silence was not a choice, but an imposition.<br /><br />The 1960s and '70s saw me shuffled from home to home, each move a terrifying new world, with new expectations I could never meet. The things an autistic child needs most is a stable home, steady love, and a routine they can depend on. Foster parents took me in unknowing, unprepared. Their kindness or cruelty wielded without understanding. No one told them they were receiving a child who fit a different mold. How could they? The mold itself had not yet been named.<br /><br />My childhood was a string of ruptures. Meltdowns that seemed to others, like disobedience or defiance. Peers saw my differences as weakness, a thing to be exploited, the bullying was unceasing. Teachers mistook my silence for insolence, my discomfort for rebellion, often joining in the ridicule. Punishment was the cure, misunderstanding its method.<br /><br />In the early grades, I was an outsider in my own skin. How to play with other children, the nuances of conversation, the safety of belonging, these were all foreign to me. Cast into a world that demanded compliance, I could only watch and try to mimic, never quite grasping the steps.<br /><br />State Children’s Services did not see me. How could they? To them, I was simply another orphan in need of placement. I could speak, dress myself, feed myself, and was housebroken. That seemed to check all their boxes well enough. Needs past that were thrown onto unprepared foster families to sort out. Autism was never brought up. Accommodation did not exist. There was no refuge, only survival.<br /><br />And so, I did.<br /><br />But survival is not living.<br /><br />Now we approach the disconnect between parents and their ASD children. Even now, in a time where understanding is greater, where diagnoses bring validation, the struggle persists. Parents look at their ASD children and see confusion, chaos, and difficulty. So many times as a child, I poured my heart into doing it right, to please my caregiver, but it was something not possible for me to do. In that moment, my failed effort, and the reprimand that followed, told an already crushed child their feelings of failure and inability were completely validated. Self-esteem falls farther and farther into the abyss.<br /><br />A scratchy sweater, a buzzing light, the chaos of a school cafeteria, these aren't just annoyances. They are unbearable sensory overloads, like being trapped in a world that never stopped shouting. A meltdown isn’t manipulation, defiance, or bad behavior. It’s a child reaching the limit of what they can handle. Instead of asking, “Why are you acting like this?” try asking, “What’s causing this to be so hard for you right now?” That small shift will change everything!<br /><br />Take the time to sit down with your ASD child, one on one and simply explore who they are.<br />Music, artistry, science, patterns, try and see the world through their eyes. It's common acceptance that ASD children experience the everyday world different than their normally wired<br /><br />Have you ever simply sat with your ASD child and explored who they are? Not as a puzzle to solve, but as a person, whole and vivid. Perhaps through music, artistry, or the quiet brilliance in how they see the world, differently from anyone else. Many of us on the spectrum call these our superpowers. Have you discovered your child’s?<br /><br />It might be a gift for mathematics and science, the ability to see abstract concepts as living images. Or perhaps it is the power to hear music not as sound, but as color and shape, weaving unseen worlds. The range of these gifts is often staggering. But if your gaze is fixed only on daily struggles, you may never see them.<br /><br />Consider for a moment how the outcome might change if, instead of seeing your child as broken and in need of fixing, you met them where they already shine. Is it in patterns, numbers, stories, or songs? There is a whole world inside them waiting, not for correction, but for someone who will recognize and nurture their gifts.<br /><br />An ASD mind can do astonishing things. But it is fragile when met with dismissal. I remember countless times offering up something I had created, something I had written or drawn, work far beyond what anyone expected of a child my age. Proud. Excited. Only to be met with, “You couldn’t have written that,” or “Where did you copy this from?” Do you think I shared my work again?<br /><br />What if, instead, our parents had known that there is another kind of world? Not the neat and familiar world of a neurotypical child, but one shimmering with detail, overwhelming in its intensity, and deep beyond reckoning. Yet, too often, that world is forced into conformity, made to wear intolerable clothes, eat intolerable foods, endure intolerable interactions. This forcing leads only to two outcomes.<br /><br />First comes the building of false masks, quiet imitations of expected behavior, worn only to avoid the pain of conflict. But does it ever truly fix the behavior? No. To try is to misunderstand the problem. At best, your ASD child will learn to hide what you call undesirable behavior, often so well that even you may not see it.<br /><br />The second outcome is the familiar meltdown. Frustration, left to grow, builds until it overwhelms. I do not speak for every autistic child, but I can tell you, for me, meltdowns were never rebellion. They were the breaking point, when the weight of frustration simply became too much. I could no more control those moments than hold back a storm. If you would understand meltdowns, do not look for the flaw in the child. Look for the frustration.<br /><br />If there is one thing I would tell those raising children like me, it is this. We do not need to be fixed. We are not puzzles missing pieces, nor mistakes needing correction. We are whole, just as we are. We need not to be reshaped, but we do need to be understood. We need to be taught how to carry ourselves through a world that may never fully understand us, our ways, or our gifts.<br /><br />Listen, not just to words, but to all the languages we speak. Silence is a language. Stimming is a language. Repetition is a language. There are songs within us that most of the world cannot hear. Yet each of these speaks—of needs, of feelings, of a world alive inside.<br /><br />The only question is, will we learn to listen?<br /><br />— Ailil Finn 💚",
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"content": "Thrown to the World — Growing Up Undiagnosed with Autism\n\n\nA reflection for parents, companions, and those who share the path\n\nThe world is a cold and silent place when you do not know its language. When its rules are unwritten, yet expected to be understood, and its touch is harsh against a mind that feels everything too much.\n\nMy heart aches for parents and caregivers who struggle to bridge the chasm between their world and that of an ASD child. No guidebook exists for such a journey, no map to light the way. \n\nI was once that child, set adrift in a time when the word autism was not yet spoken. When silence was not a choice, but an imposition.\n\nThe 1960s and '70s saw me shuffled from home to home, each move a terrifying new world, with new expectations I could never meet. The things an autistic child needs most is a stable home, steady love, and a routine they can depend on. Foster parents took me in unknowing, unprepared. Their kindness or cruelty wielded without understanding. No one told them they were receiving a child who fit a different mold. How could they? The mold itself had not yet been named.\n\nMy childhood was a string of ruptures. Meltdowns that seemed to others, like disobedience or defiance. Peers saw my differences as weakness, a thing to be exploited, the bullying was unceasing. Teachers mistook my silence for insolence, my discomfort for rebellion, often joining in the ridicule. Punishment was the cure, misunderstanding its method.\n\nIn the early grades, I was an outsider in my own skin. How to play with other children, the nuances of conversation, the safety of belonging, these were all foreign to me. Cast into a world that demanded compliance, I could only watch and try to mimic, never quite grasping the steps.\n\nState Children’s Services did not see me. How could they? To them, I was simply another orphan in need of placement. I could speak, dress myself, feed myself, and was housebroken. That seemed to check all their boxes well enough. Needs past that were thrown onto unprepared foster families to sort out. Autism was never brought up. Accommodation did not exist. There was no refuge, only survival.\n\nAnd so, I did.\n\nBut survival is not living.\n\nNow we approach the disconnect between parents and their ASD children. Even now, in a time where understanding is greater, where diagnoses bring validation, the struggle persists. Parents look at their ASD children and see confusion, chaos, and difficulty. So many times as a child, I poured my heart into doing it right, to please my caregiver, but it was something not possible for me to do. In that moment, my failed effort, and the reprimand that followed, told an already crushed child their feelings of failure and inability were completely validated. Self-esteem falls farther and farther into the abyss.\n\nA scratchy sweater, a buzzing light, the chaos of a school cafeteria, these aren't just annoyances. They are unbearable sensory overloads, like being trapped in a world that never stopped shouting. A meltdown isn’t manipulation, defiance, or bad behavior. It’s a child reaching the limit of what they can handle. Instead of asking, “Why are you acting like this?” try asking, “What’s causing this to be so hard for you right now?” That small shift will change everything!\n\nTake the time to sit down with your ASD child, one on one and simply explore who they are.\nMusic, artistry, science, patterns, try and see the world through their eyes. It's common acceptance that ASD children experience the everyday world different than their normally wired\n\nHave you ever simply sat with your ASD child and explored who they are? Not as a puzzle to solve, but as a person, whole and vivid. Perhaps through music, artistry, or the quiet brilliance in how they see the world, differently from anyone else. Many of us on the spectrum call these our superpowers. Have you discovered your child’s?\n\nIt might be a gift for mathematics and science, the ability to see abstract concepts as living images. Or perhaps it is the power to hear music not as sound, but as color and shape, weaving unseen worlds. The range of these gifts is often staggering. But if your gaze is fixed only on daily struggles, you may never see them.\n\nConsider for a moment how the outcome might change if, instead of seeing your child as broken and in need of fixing, you met them where they already shine. Is it in patterns, numbers, stories, or songs? There is a whole world inside them waiting, not for correction, but for someone who will recognize and nurture their gifts.\n\nAn ASD mind can do astonishing things. But it is fragile when met with dismissal. I remember countless times offering up something I had created, something I had written or drawn, work far beyond what anyone expected of a child my age. Proud. Excited. Only to be met with, “You couldn’t have written that,” or “Where did you copy this from?” Do you think I shared my work again?\n\nWhat if, instead, our parents had known that there is another kind of world? Not the neat and familiar world of a neurotypical child, but one shimmering with detail, overwhelming in its intensity, and deep beyond reckoning. Yet, too often, that world is forced into conformity, made to wear intolerable clothes, eat intolerable foods, endure intolerable interactions. This forcing leads only to two outcomes.\n\nFirst comes the building of false masks, quiet imitations of expected behavior, worn only to avoid the pain of conflict. But does it ever truly fix the behavior? No. To try is to misunderstand the problem. At best, your ASD child will learn to hide what you call undesirable behavior, often so well that even you may not see it.\n\nThe second outcome is the familiar meltdown. Frustration, left to grow, builds until it overwhelms. I do not speak for every autistic child, but I can tell you, for me, meltdowns were never rebellion. They were the breaking point, when the weight of frustration simply became too much. I could no more control those moments than hold back a storm. If you would understand meltdowns, do not look for the flaw in the child. Look for the frustration.\n\nIf there is one thing I would tell those raising children like me, it is this. We do not need to be fixed. We are not puzzles missing pieces, nor mistakes needing correction. We are whole, just as we are. We need not to be reshaped, but we do need to be understood. We need to be taught how to carry ourselves through a world that may never fully understand us, our ways, or our gifts.\n\nListen, not just to words, but to all the languages we speak. Silence is a language. Stimming is a language. Repetition is a language. There are songs within us that most of the world cannot hear. Yet each of these speaks—of needs, of feelings, of a world alive inside.\n\nThe only question is, will we learn to listen?\n\n— Ailil Finn 💚",
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"content": "Happy Friday!<br />",
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"content": "my stress reliever 😜...whats yours?",
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"content": "do hospice. did it for a family member. funeral was 2 days ago. beautiful service but the best part was THE WHOLE CLAN was present for a remembrance meal together,, & we joked ... maybe it won't take a passing to bring us all together again!! in Mary's Arms SAFE IN THE LORD.",
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"content": "do hospice. did it for a family member. funeral was 2 days ago. beautiful service but the best part was THE WHOLE CLAN was present for a remembrance meal together,, & we joked ... maybe it won't take a passing to bring us all together again!! in Mary's Arms SAFE IN THE LORD.",
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"content": "The Weight of Friendship<br />Cold March morning up here in the Sierra. A real bone-chiller, the kind that settles in raw and deep and makes your bones creak just getting out of bed. Outside, the wind is howling across the ridge, roaring through the pines like it’s on a mission to rip them loose. Hard, beady snow whips sideways through the porch light as I crack the door to peek at the old thermometer. Says nineteen, with that wind, it bites like zero.<br /><br />I settle back inside, wrap up in my favorite cabin blanket, and wait for the fire to convince the chill it’s time to move along. My fingers curl around a steaming mug of go-get-um. Steam drifts into the lamplight, swirling away like my thoughts. That first slow sip, smooth as worn saddle leather and strong enough to float a horseshoe! Bless the Colombians. My fingers, and my brain are coming back to life.<br /><br />Now the gears begin a slow turn.<br /><br />Been thinking a lot lately about friendships. Turned 66 last week. A lot of my old crew didn’t make it this far. Bad hearts, bad luck, or just time doing its job. The ones still left, I can count on one hand. I don’t really see that as a bad thing. I’ve always kept the gate high for who gets to walk through it.<br /><br />Whether it’s a weekend hunt, an evening of cards, or just catching up on the phone, you learn a lot by how you feel when it’s over. Some friendships fill your cup. You walk away feeling lighter, like the world fits better around you. No performance, no tiptoeing. Just the easy kind of calm where even your flaws feel understood.<br /><br />I think about the last hunt I shared with my buddy Jim. We'd been chasing elk and blacktail around the Oregon coast range every season together for more than 20 years. Two days in the saddle to get up to our favorite camp, hauling horses and gear up slopes that would make a mountain goat cuss. Come evening, campfire talk came easy. His grandson’s first fish. The summer I wrecked Dad’s truck. Long pauses between words as we shared the fire and a bottle of something-or-other. Never uncomfortable, never strained. We didn’t come home with an elk that trip, but we sure didn’t come home empty either. We didn't know that would be our last ride together. When we loaded up and parted at the trailhead, I drove off with that quiet kind of warmth. The world felt steadier. The ground felt more solid. That’s the kind of bond you haul through life like a good pack. Worn in. Built to last.<br /><br />Then there’s the other sort.<br /><br />A while back, I ran in to a guy I've known for a long time. Call him Dale. We go way back to the eighties. He invited me over for a few hands of cards at his place. Conversation seemed a lot of work. I tried to lighten things up with some humor, nothing sharp, but it was landing with a thud. On the drive home, I found myself replaying everything I had said, trying to figure out what went sideways. Next time I saw him, he was colder than this March wind. No explanation. Just distance.<br /><br />I have lived long enough to know which kind I would rather carry.<br /><br />I want the kind of friendship where my name is safe when I am not in the room. Where my stumbles, forgetting a birthday or mouthing off when the whiskey is talking, get a nod and a grin, not turned into some story passed around like cheap change. I want the kind where I do not have to drive home wondering if I made a fool of myself. Where I am not bracing for the next cold shoulder over something I never saw coming.<br /><br />Friendship should be a refuge, not a test. A place where you can bring your whole self, complicated, messy, flawed, human, and still be met with love, respect, and acceptance.<br /><br />So these days, I measure friendship not by how long it has lasted, or how many favors we have traded, but by the weight it leaves behind when we part...<br /><br />If I walk away feeling lighter, then that is a friendship worth keeping.<br /><br />And if I do not? Well, life is too short to carry that kind of weight.<br /><br />Last sip of go-juice. The fire has finally got the upper hand and it's time to get off my duff and get something done.<br /><br />Here’s to the Jims. Quiet anchors in a noisy world. May your road carry more of them, and fewer of the rest. <br /><br />Take care out there and enjoy your first weekend of Spring.<br /><br />--SourdoughSam 💚",
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"content": "The Weight of Friendship\nCold March morning up here in the Sierra. A real bone-chiller, the kind that settles in raw and deep and makes your bones creak just getting out of bed. Outside, the wind is howling across the ridge, roaring through the pines like it’s on a mission to rip them loose. Hard, beady snow whips sideways through the porch light as I crack the door to peek at the old thermometer. Says nineteen, with that wind, it bites like zero.\n\nI settle back inside, wrap up in my favorite cabin blanket, and wait for the fire to convince the chill it’s time to move along. My fingers curl around a steaming mug of go-get-um. Steam drifts into the lamplight, swirling away like my thoughts. That first slow sip, smooth as worn saddle leather and strong enough to float a horseshoe! Bless the Colombians. My fingers, and my brain are coming back to life.\n\nNow the gears begin a slow turn.\n\nBeen thinking a lot lately about friendships. Turned 66 last week. A lot of my old crew didn’t make it this far. Bad hearts, bad luck, or just time doing its job. The ones still left, I can count on one hand. I don’t really see that as a bad thing. I’ve always kept the gate high for who gets to walk through it.\n\nWhether it’s a weekend hunt, an evening of cards, or just catching up on the phone, you learn a lot by how you feel when it’s over. Some friendships fill your cup. You walk away feeling lighter, like the world fits better around you. No performance, no tiptoeing. Just the easy kind of calm where even your flaws feel understood.\n\nI think about the last hunt I shared with my buddy Jim. We'd been chasing elk and blacktail around the Oregon coast range every season together for more than 20 years. Two days in the saddle to get up to our favorite camp, hauling horses and gear up slopes that would make a mountain goat cuss. Come evening, campfire talk came easy. His grandson’s first fish. The summer I wrecked Dad’s truck. Long pauses between words as we shared the fire and a bottle of something-or-other. Never uncomfortable, never strained. We didn’t come home with an elk that trip, but we sure didn’t come home empty either. We didn't know that would be our last ride together. When we loaded up and parted at the trailhead, I drove off with that quiet kind of warmth. The world felt steadier. The ground felt more solid. That’s the kind of bond you haul through life like a good pack. Worn in. Built to last.\n\nThen there’s the other sort.\n\nA while back, I ran in to a guy I've known for a long time. Call him Dale. We go way back to the eighties. He invited me over for a few hands of cards at his place. Conversation seemed a lot of work. I tried to lighten things up with some humor, nothing sharp, but it was landing with a thud. On the drive home, I found myself replaying everything I had said, trying to figure out what went sideways. Next time I saw him, he was colder than this March wind. No explanation. Just distance.\n\nI have lived long enough to know which kind I would rather carry.\n\nI want the kind of friendship where my name is safe when I am not in the room. Where my stumbles, forgetting a birthday or mouthing off when the whiskey is talking, get a nod and a grin, not turned into some story passed around like cheap change. I want the kind where I do not have to drive home wondering if I made a fool of myself. Where I am not bracing for the next cold shoulder over something I never saw coming.\n\nFriendship should be a refuge, not a test. A place where you can bring your whole self, complicated, messy, flawed, human, and still be met with love, respect, and acceptance.\n\nSo these days, I measure friendship not by how long it has lasted, or how many favors we have traded, but by the weight it leaves behind when we part...\n\nIf I walk away feeling lighter, then that is a friendship worth keeping.\n\nAnd if I do not? Well, life is too short to carry that kind of weight.\n\nLast sip of go-juice. The fire has finally got the upper hand and it's time to get off my duff and get something done.\n\nHere’s to the Jims. Quiet anchors in a noisy world. May your road carry more of them, and fewer of the rest. \n\nTake care out there and enjoy your first weekend of Spring.\n\n--SourdoughSam 💚",
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"content": "OK -- little champ wanted some and he got some!<br />LOL<br />Listen to Mom... brother laughs... <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1751971034708074496\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1751971034708074496</a>",
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"content": "Wow! Can you believe we are already on the last weekend of March! Hold on to yer hats, April is out for delivery! 🙏❤️",
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"content": "Wow! Can you believe we are already on the last weekend of March! Hold on to yer hats, April is out for delivery! 🙏❤️",
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"content": "How Much Damage Have Vaccines Done to Society?<br />The data that shows the less appreciated forgotten consequences of <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vaccination\" title=\"#vaccination\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vaccination</a>...<br /><br /><a href=\"https://www.midwesterndoctor.com/p/how-much-damage-have-vaccines-done\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.midwesterndoctor.com/p/how-much-damage-have-vaccines-done</a>",
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"content": "How Much Damage Have Vaccines Done to Society?\nThe data that shows the less appreciated forgotten consequences of #vaccination...\n\nhttps://www.midwesterndoctor.com/p/how-much-damage-have-vaccines-done",
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"content": "Goes here lol",
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"content": "Here is an early Happy Liberation Day wish for all those who have held the line and endured over the past 50+ years.<br /><br />Let's get on with this Golden Age of America, giving all the Glory to the one and only Big Guy! 😇<br /><br />I believe there will be days in the near future where so much transpires that the time between morning and noon will seem like months.<br /><br />Let us all buckle up, link arms, stand tall and step boldly into this new era of Truth, Harmony and Abundance!",
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"content": "Here is an early Happy Liberation Day wish for all those who have held the line and endured over the past 50+ years.\n\nLet's get on with this Golden Age of America, giving all the Glory to the one and only Big Guy! 😇\n\nI believe there will be days in the near future where so much transpires that the time between morning and noon will seem like months.\n\nLet us all buckle up, link arms, stand tall and step boldly into this new era of Truth, Harmony and Abundance!",
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"content": "<a href=\"https://www.ripleys.com/stories/johnny-appleseed\" target=\"_blank\">https://www.ripleys.com/stories/johnny-appleseed</a>",
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"content": "✦ The Stone ✦<br />A tale from the old paths<br /><br />In the winding streets of an old irish village, where the cobblestones remembered, and the roads still murmured the footfalls of those long passed, there stood a small apothecary, weathered and half-forgotten. Its faded sign, marked with curious symbols, swayed softly in the breeze, unnoticed by most. Yet, for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, the call was clear.<br /><br />Elara, a young seeker, cloak drawn up against the cold, made her way up the worn stone steps. The old wooden door, stained dark with age, yielded with a soft creak, and the light ring of a bell announced her arrival. Within, the scent of sage and cedar mingled with the warmth of beeswax candles and old wood. Shelves lined the walls, some bending slightly beneath the weight of earthen jars, bundles of herbs and roots. Scattered amongst were objects and artifacts, some humble, some quietly strange.<br /><br />Behind the counter stood an elder woman, hair of silver, her robe plain but dignified. Her eyes were deep and still as a winter pond. She regarded Elara with neither surprise nor expectation, as if she'd known the girl would come.<br /><br />“What brings you, child of the circle?” the elder asked, her voice soft as wind through bare branches.<br /><br />Elara bowed her head gently before she spoke. “I come seeking a raven feather,” she said. “It is said to carry the gift of sight beyond sight, to see not just what is, but what lies beneath, the hidden ways, the quiet truths.” The old woman listened, offering no interruption, only the slow nod of one who has heard such quests before. She let the words hang in the air, giving them space to breathe.<br /><br />When Elara finished, the old woman turned not to the rarities behind glass nor to the glittering curiosities nestled among the herbs, but to a humble shelf near the hearth. There, she chose a small, dark river stone, worn smooth by water and time.<br /><br />She pressed it into Elara’s hands. It was surprisingly warm.<br /><br />“This stone,” she said, “has lain silent and watchful while unnumbered lives of men have come and gone. It has spent eons beneath waters that mirror the stars and planets in night skies without count, enduring floods, droughts, and the long breath of ice. It knows the whispers of the water and the deep rhythm of the earth. It does not see with eyes, but it remembers.”<br /><br />Elara turned the stone over, feeling the deep calm it carried. It was not a thing to show visions, but to teach the deeper sight, the quiet noticing, the patient understanding of what passes unseen.<br /><br />“The gift you seek,” the old woman continued, “is not in feathers nor fine tokens. It is in the stone’s way, to watch, to listen, and to remember. Sight beyond sight is not granted. It is a thing patiently learned.”<br /><br />Elara pulled coins from the pouch under her cloak, but the old woman gently refused. They spoke quietly by the hearth until the sun slipped low. Elara managed to sneak a few coins into the elder’s apron before she took her leave.<br /><br />When Elara stepped back into the street, the market’s clamor seemed softer somehow. The stone, resting heavy in her pocket, was no mere token. It felt more like a companion, reminding her that true vision comes not from the sky or a feather, but from listening to the quiet places of the earth and the self.<br />With each step, Elara began to see not just the streets, the people, the town before her, but to understand the subtle threads weaving it all together.<br /><br />— Ailil Finn<br />Shared from the warmth of my hearth, where old tales find new tellings.",
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"content": "✦ The Stone ✦\nA tale from the old paths\n\nIn the winding streets of an old irish village, where the cobblestones remembered, and the roads still murmured the footfalls of those long passed, there stood a small apothecary, weathered and half-forgotten. Its faded sign, marked with curious symbols, swayed softly in the breeze, unnoticed by most. Yet, for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, the call was clear.\n\nElara, a young seeker, cloak drawn up against the cold, made her way up the worn stone steps. The old wooden door, stained dark with age, yielded with a soft creak, and the light ring of a bell announced her arrival. Within, the scent of sage and cedar mingled with the warmth of beeswax candles and old wood. Shelves lined the walls, some bending slightly beneath the weight of earthen jars, bundles of herbs and roots. Scattered amongst were objects and artifacts, some humble, some quietly strange.\n\nBehind the counter stood an elder woman, hair of silver, her robe plain but dignified. Her eyes were deep and still as a winter pond. She regarded Elara with neither surprise nor expectation, as if she'd known the girl would come.\n\n“What brings you, child of the circle?” the elder asked, her voice soft as wind through bare branches.\n\nElara bowed her head gently before she spoke. “I come seeking a raven feather,” she said. “It is said to carry the gift of sight beyond sight, to see not just what is, but what lies beneath, the hidden ways, the quiet truths.” The old woman listened, offering no interruption, only the slow nod of one who has heard such quests before. She let the words hang in the air, giving them space to breathe.\n\nWhen Elara finished, the old woman turned not to the rarities behind glass nor to the glittering curiosities nestled among the herbs, but to a humble shelf near the hearth. There, she chose a small, dark river stone, worn smooth by water and time.\n\nShe pressed it into Elara’s hands. It was surprisingly warm.\n\n“This stone,” she said, “has lain silent and watchful while unnumbered lives of men have come and gone. It has spent eons beneath waters that mirror the stars and planets in night skies without count, enduring floods, droughts, and the long breath of ice. It knows the whispers of the water and the deep rhythm of the earth. It does not see with eyes, but it remembers.”\n\nElara turned the stone over, feeling the deep calm it carried. It was not a thing to show visions, but to teach the deeper sight, the quiet noticing, the patient understanding of what passes unseen.\n\n“The gift you seek,” the old woman continued, “is not in feathers nor fine tokens. It is in the stone’s way, to watch, to listen, and to remember. Sight beyond sight is not granted. It is a thing patiently learned.”\n\nElara pulled coins from the pouch under her cloak, but the old woman gently refused. They spoke quietly by the hearth until the sun slipped low. Elara managed to sneak a few coins into the elder’s apron before she took her leave.\n\nWhen Elara stepped back into the street, the market’s clamor seemed softer somehow. The stone, resting heavy in her pocket, was no mere token. It felt more like a companion, reminding her that true vision comes not from the sky or a feather, but from listening to the quiet places of the earth and the self.\nWith each step, Elara began to see not just the streets, the people, the town before her, but to understand the subtle threads weaving it all together.\n\n— Ailil Finn\nShared from the warmth of my hearth, where old tales find new tellings.",
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"content": "What Came First?....<br />An unquenchable yearning for answers to life's elusive mysteries always simmered within me. Answers that neither the whispering winds in the leaves nor the babbling streams of my surroundings could provide.<br /><br />Echo Summit rose majestically just beyond the outskirts of the town I called home, its broad shoulders the crown of a long-dormant volcano. Rarely did the townsfolk dare to tread its slopes. The peak was steeped in local legends as a mystical threshold where the universe's veil grew thin, and its secrets could be discerned. It was whispered that atop this summit, one might not only glean the wisdom of the cosmos but commune with the gods themselves.<br /><br />I began my trek with the break of day casting strokes of amber and rose across the sky. I reached the base trail and began my ascent on a path both steep and ruthless. The climb was harsh, an arduous journey over unforgiving stone, taking most of the day to make the summit. The fierce stare of circling raptors was never far from view above. Yet, my resolve was unyielding, grounded as deeply as the ancient roots that anchored the earth beneath my feet.<br /><br />Upon reaching the summit, I found myself on a modest plateau. I could hear the wind singing through the trees and see the stars beginning to unveil their magnificent celestial tapestry overhead. This was the sanctuary I had sought—a place of silence and whispers, where earth meets the infinite.<br /><br />Seated alone, with the vast universe stretched out above and below me, I listened carefully. I had envisioned the mountain might gift me some profound and ancient knowledge, or perhaps some insight into my most burning questions. But as dawn's gentle fingers brushed the horizon, I realized the mountain had no secrets it was willing to share with me.<br /><br />I stood to leave. Then, as sudden as the sunrise, an epiphany unfurled within me.<br /><br />I slipped my phone out of my pocket — four bars!<br /><br />I jumped to Amazon's website and placed my order:<br />One chicken and one egg, Prime delivery!<br /><br />I'll let you know...<br /><br />-Ailil Finn",
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