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[Dariusz Brzozowski @Darekbrzoza]

"Kiedy Vincent van Gogh zmarł w 1890 roku, mając zaledwie 37 lat, zostawił po sobie życie pełne niepowodzeń, kilka znoszonych ubrań i obrazy, których prawie nikt nie chciał kupować.
Sześć miesięcy później zmarł jego brat Theo — jedyny człowiek, który wspierał go do samego końca.
Wydawało się, że wszystko gaśnie.
Zostało małe dziecko, setki listów i ogromna liczba obrazów, których świat jeszcze nie rozumiał.
Wtedy na scenę weszła Jo van Gogh-Bonger, młoda wdowa po Theo.
Miała 28 lat, syna do wychowania, świeżą żałobę i żadnego obowiązku, by zajmować się artystycznym dziedzictwem szwagra.
Wielu uważało, że te płótna nie mają większej wartości.
Ona jednak zrozumiała coś, czego inni nie widzieli: za tymi gorączkowymi pociągnięciami pędzla i intensywnymi kolorami krył się geniusz, którego epoka nie potrafiła jeszcze usłyszeć.
Zaczęła od listów Vincenta i Theo.
Porządkowała je, tłumaczyła, przygotowywała do publikacji.
To właśnie w tej korespondencji odsłaniała się dusza Vincenta — jego wrażliwość, samotność, wewnętrzne poszukiwania, ból i światło.
Te listy zmieniły wszystko.
Pokazały, że za łatką „szalonego malarza od słoneczników” stał poeta, myśliciel i człowiek, który czuł więcej, niż potrafił unieść.
Potem Jo zajęła się obrazami.
Organizowała wystawy, pisała do krytyków, kontaktowała się z galeriami i muzeami.
Nie zgadzała się sprzedawać prac za bezcen, nawet wtedy, gdy brakowało pieniędzy.
Starannie decydowała, kiedy sprzedać obraz, komu i w jakim celu.
Nie tylko chroniła dorobek Vincenta.
Cierpliwie uczyła publiczność, jak na niego patrzeć.
Najpierw Berlin, potem Paryż, później Holandia…
Wystawa po wystawie, recenzja po recenzji, krok po kroku budowała reputację Van Gogha.
To nie była romantyczna legenda o wierze w artystę.
To była przemyślana strategia: wytrwałość, intuicja i konsekwencja.
Gdy zarzucano jej, że przecenia Vincenta, nie wdawała się w wielkie spory.
Odpowiadała jego obrazami.
Kiedy zmarła w 1925 roku, Vincent van Gogh był już uznawany za jednego z najważniejszych artystów swojego stulecia.
A rodzinna kolekcja, która później stała się fundamentem Muzeum Van Gogha w Amsterdamie, istnieje w dużej mierze dzięki niej.
Jo van Gogh-Bonger nigdy nie trzymała pędzla jak malarka.
Ale to ona pokazała Vincenta światu.
To ona pomogła przemienić niedocenionego artystę w uniwersalny symbol ludzkiej wrażliwości i twórczości.
Bez niej Van Gogh mógłby zniknąć w cieniu.
Dzięki niej stał się wieczny."
za Przytulność

[Richard Angwin @RichardAngwin]

agree or disagree

[Suzie rizzio @Suzierizzo1]

Love this! 😂😂😂

[ihtiyar_33_ @Dede38__]

Ben sadece bir barınaktan köpek sahipleneceğimi sanıyordum.
Evrakları imzalayacaktım.
Tavsiyeleri dinleyecektim.
Onu arabaya bindirip eve götürecektim.
Evde yatağı hazırdı.
Mama ve su kapları, tasması, birkaç oyuncağı…
Her şeye hazır olduğumu sanıyordum.
Ama onun, kafes kapısının sıradan bir yürüyüş için açılmadığını anladığı anda bana nasıl baktığına hazır değildim.
O kapı onun için açılıyordu.
Barınak çalışanının yanında duruyordu.
Hareketsizdi.
Neredeyse donmuş gibiydi.
Siyah tüyleri, küçük beyaz patileri, yorgun gözleri vardı.
Ve içimi sıkan kadar temkinli bir bekleyişi…
Zıplamıyordu.
Tasmayı çekmiyordu.
Havlamıyordu.
Sanki o gün sonunda seçildiğine inanmaktan korkuyordu.
O.
Tasma bana uzatıldığında önce barınak çalışanının eline baktı.
Sonra bana baktı.
Ardından bana doğru küçük bir adım attı ve bedenini bacağıma yasladı.
Çok yavaşça.
Sanki izin ister gibi.
Eğildim ve ona fısıldadım:
“Eve gidiyoruz.”
Kelimeleri anladı mı bilmiyorum.
Ama sesimi anladı.
Arabada ilk başta arka koltuğa çıktı ve hareketsiz kaldı.
Pencereye baktı.
Kapılara baktı.
Direksiyondaki ellerime baktı.
Dikiz aynasından onu görebiliyordum.
Rahatsız etmemeye çalışıyordu.
Fazla yer kaplamamaya çalışıyordu.
Yanlış bir şey yapmamaya çalışıyordu.
Beni en çok kıran da buydu.
Bir köpek, eve götürüldüğü gün rahatsızlık vermekten korkmamalıydı.
Arabayı sürmeye başlar başlamaz usulca ayağa kalktı.
Dikkatlice yanıma yaklaştı.
Bir patisini omzuma koydu.
Sonra diğerini.
Başını yanağıma yakın bir yere yasladı.
Ağırdı.
Sıcaktı.
Güveniyordu.
Nefesini kulağımın yanında hissediyordum.
Ve ağlamaya başladım.
Sevinçten titremiyordu.
Arabada zıplamıyordu.
Yüzümü yalamaya çalışmıyordu.
Sadece bütün bedeniyle bana tutunuyordu.
Sanki beni bırakırsa araba tekrar barınağa dönecekmiş gibi.
Yavaş sürdüm.
Neredeyse nefes almadan.
Bir elim direksiyondaydı, diğer elimle omzumdaki patisini usulca okşuyordum.
O da orada kalıyordu.
Gözlerini kapatıyor, sonra tekrar açıyordu.
Sanki bütün bunların gerçek olup olmadığını kontrol eder gibi.
Camdan sokaklar, trafik ışıkları, yabancı arabalar akıp gidiyordu.
Diğer herkes için sıradan bir gündü.
Onun içinse kapalı bir kapının ardında geçen bütün bir hayat sona eriyordu.
Barınakta insanları kaç kez izlediğini düşündüm.
Birinin kafesinin önünde durmasını kaç kez umduğunu…
Birinin başka bir köpekle çıkıp gidişini kaç kez gördüğünü…
İnce bir battaniyenin üzerinde, havlamaların arasında, bir gün kendisine ait bir insanı olup olmayacağını bilmeden geçirdiği geceleri düşündüm.
Ve şimdi, sanki beni çoktan sonsuza kadar seçmiş gibi bana yaslanıyordu.
Oysa birbirimizi daha sadece birkaç saattir tanıyorduk.
Eve vardığımızda hemen arabadan inmedim.
Orada kaldım ve ağladım.
O hâlâ patilerini omzumda tutuyordu.
Sonra burnunu yanağıma sürttü.
Sanki bu kez o beni teselli etmeye çalışıyordu.
O anda anladım:
Ben sadece bir köpeği kurtarmamıştım.
O da benim içimde bir şeyi kurtarmıştı.
Güçlü olmaktan yorulmuş tarafımı.
Koşulsuz seçilmenin nasıl bir şey olduğunu unutmuş tarafımı.
Çekincesiz sevilmenin nasıl hissettirdiğini unutan yanımı.
Bugün evde, yumuşak bir yatakta uyuyor.
Gerçi çoğu zaman yanıma yakın olmayı tercih ediyor.
Yürürken beni gözleriyle takip ediyor.
Oturduğumda başını dizlerime koyuyor.
Bazen uykusunda irkiliyor.
Ben de sakinleşene kadar onu okşuyorum.
Benden önce neler yaşadığını bilmiyorum.
Ama bir şeyi kesin olarak biliyorum:
Arabada patilerini omzuma koyduğu gün, onun barınak hayatı sona erdi.
Ve benim hayatım biraz daha yumuşadı.
Bazen bir hayvan teşekkürünü kelimelerle söylemez.
Sadece size öyle sıkı tutunur ki, konuşmaya gerek kalmadan her şey anlaşılır olur.
Bu hikâye kalbinize dokunduysa bir ❤️ bırakın ve kurtarılmış bir köpek için gerçek eve dönüş yolunun, birinin artık fikrini değiştirmediği gün başladığına inananlarla paylaşın.

#ALINTIVEŞİİRSEL ..

[VoteVets @votevets]

BREAKING: Rep. Pat Ryan just got the House Armed Services Committee UNANIMOUSLY to force Pete Hegseth to explain every senior military firing within the next 5 days. Hegseth has fired 24+ officers without cause or explanation. Even Republicans want answers.

[SKI @skiistiredasf]

Meet Aniya Moore, this incredible Black Queen who beat brain cancer as a teen and is now turning her pain into purpose as a future pediatric oncology nurse! 👏🏾
Diagnosed with medulloblastoma during her freshman year at Pender High School in North Carolina, Aniya endured a grueling 17-hour surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy — yet she never lost sight of her dreams. Declared cancer-free in November 2023, this resilient warrior pushed through balance and motor challenges to graduate with honors on May 29, 2026!
Now this shining survivor from Watha, NC is headed to Fayetteville State University (HBCU) this summer to study nursing, determined to support and inspire young patients fighting the same battle she overcame.
From survivor to future healer! This is full-circle strength, faith, and Black excellence at its finest!
Proud of you, Aniya! Your story is going to touch, motivate, and save so many lives. Keep shining bright, Queen! The world needs more warriors like you! 👏🏾👏🏾

[Native American History @alaska_godosiyo]

"All that your ancestors had to go through for you to be here... and you doubt yourself? How dare you. You come from a legacy of survival that is to never be questioned."

[VisionaryVoid @VisionaryVoid]

The Sit-In That Came Before the Sit-Ins.

On January 27, 1950, an 86-year-old woman walked into Thompson's Restaurant in Washington D.C., a cafeteria a few blocks from the White House, and asked to be served. The manager refused. The reason given: "colored."

Her name was Mary Church Terrell. Her father, Robert Reed Church, had been born enslaved and became the first Black millionaire in the South. She had graduated from Oberlin College in 1884, delivered an address to the International Congress of Women in Berlin in 1904 in English, German, and French, and spent decades at the forefront of civil rights organizing. She was 86. When journalists asked why she was still leading the charge, she replied: "We're second-class citizens because we sit idly by."

Terrell chaired the Coordinating Committee for the Enforcement of D.C. Anti-Discrimination Laws and organized picket lines across the capital. The committee ran an eight-month boycott of Hecht's, one of Washington's largest department stores, until it desegregated its lunch counter on January 14, 1952. Two days later, Terrell ate lunch there. The Thompson's lawsuit, meanwhile, invoked Reconstruction-era statutes from 1872, laws that had existed for eighty years without enforcement, arguing they barred racial discrimination in the capital's restaurants outright.

On June 8, 1953, the Supreme Court ruled unanimously. District of Columbia v. John R. Thompson Co., Inc., written by Justice William O. Douglas, invalidated restaurant segregation in Washington. Terrell told the Washington Post she would "die happy knowing that children of my group will not grow up thinking they are inferior."

Rosa Parks would refuse to give up her bus seat five years later. Greensboro students would stage their famous lunch counter sit-ins a decade after Terrell had walked into Thompson's. When Barack Obama, in his 2009 inaugural address, remarked that sixty years earlier his father might not have been served at a local Washington restaurant, he did not say her name. Mary Church Terrell died on July 24, 1954, at 90, just weeks after Brown v. Board of Education, having lived long enough to win.

History eclipsed her. She was already gone by then, and she died happy anyway.

[Mark Carney @MarkJCarney]

82 years ago, 14,000 Canadians landed on Juno Beach, many of whom would never come home.

On the anniversary of D-Day, we pause to honour those who served and sacrificed. We remember that our rights, our freedoms, and our way of life were fought for and were won by those who answered the call.

[Kerry Kennedy @KerryKennedyRFK]

My father dedicated himself to the cause of justice. He stood with the people, all people, and he refused to accept that the way things were was the way they had to stay. He carried titles that history remembers, but the ones he held closest were that of husband and father.

What I miss most is not the public man. It is the one who came home at the end of a long day, who wanted to know what we thought and why, who pushed us to be curious, generous, and unafraid of hard questions. Daddy did not lecture us about his values. He lived them, and that is how they became ours.

I think of him often now, when so much of what he believed in and worked to uphold is being trampled by those in power. His legacy of championing justice, democracy, and freedom has been passed to each of us.

[Massimo @Rainmaker1973]

In the 1990s, Canadian ecologist Suzanne Simard made a groundbreaking discovery that challenged everything we thought we knew about how forests work. While studying managed forests in British Columbia, she noticed something puzzling: when birch trees were removed to promote the growth of valuable Douglas firs, the firs did not flourish as expected, they actually struggled and grew more slowly.

Determined to understand why, Simard traced the movement of nutrients using radioactive carbon isotopes. What she found was astonishing. Trees were actively sharing resources through vast underground fungal networks known as mycorrhizae. These delicate, thread-like fungi connect the roots of different trees across the forest floor, forming a complex web that allows the exchange of carbon, water, nutrients, and even chemical signals, sometimes between entirely different species.

She discovered that older, larger trees often serve as central "hubs" or "mother trees," supporting younger saplings by redistributing vital resources and helping the entire ecosystem remain resilient. When these key trees are removed, the underground network weakens, and the health of the remaining forest declines.

Simard’s research overturned the traditional Darwinian view of forests as battlegrounds of ruthless competition. Instead, she revealed a far more sophisticated reality: forests operate as highly cooperative systems where trees communicate, support one another, and even warn neighboring trees about threats like drought, disease, or insect attacks.

What appears to the human eye as a silent, still forest is, in truth, a vibrant, interconnected living network, built not on isolation and rivalry, but on deep connection and mutual aid.

[ᗰᗩƳᖇᗩ @LePapillonBlu2]

ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY ‼️

[Gianl1974 @Gianl1974]

IDIOT

[Barnaby Breaks History 🇺🇸 @CorpBarnaby]

🇺🇸 Most Badass Americans You Don’t Know D-Day Edition: John J. Pinder Jr.

Technician Fifth Grade John J. Pinder Jr. landed on Omaha beach on his birthday. He didn’t make it off.

Born June 6, 1912, in McKees Rocks, Pennsylvania, Joe Pinder was the oldest of three children. His father worked in the steel industry.

He graduated as valedictorian of Butler High School in 1931.

Pinder spent the next several years as a right-handed pitcher in the minor leagues.

He played six seasons in the farm systems of the Cleveland Indians, New York Yankees, Washington Senators, and Brooklyn Dodgers.

In 1941 he won 17 games and was still chasing a shot at the major leagues when the war came.

He entered the Army in January 1942 after Pearl Harbor.

Assigned as a radio operator with the 16th Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Division, he fought in North Africa and Sicily.

In Sicily he earned a Bronze Star for staying at an observation post under fire.

On June 6, 1944, Pinder landed with the first waves on Omaha Beach on his birthday.

Communications were shattered. His job was to get a working radio ashore.

He made it off the landing craft. They were 100 yards off the beach.

Then he was hit. A round tore into his face after only a few steps off the boat.

Pinder held the torn flesh of his face together with one hand, carried the radio with the other, and delivered the radio to his unit, while wading thru waste deep water.

That should have been enough. It wasn’t.

Weakened and bleeding, he turned around and went back into the surf and fire three more times to salvage communication equipment.

He even recovered another workable radio.

On the third trip machine gun fire hit him again, this time in the legs.

Still he kept going.

Weakening but exposed on the beach, he helped get the radios working so the men around him could call for support.

While doing so, he was hit for the third time and killed.

Medal of Honor. Posthumous.

It was presented to his father on January 26, 1945.

Pinder was initially buried in Normandy.

In 1947 his family brought him home to Grandview Cemetery in Burgettstown, Pennsylvania.

He was the only professional baseball player awarded the Medal of Honor in World War II.

John Pinder is an American Badass

Thank you, John! 🫡🇺🇸

[Rohoza (Дев'ятий) Mykhailo 🇺🇦🇱🇹🇨🇦 @Oct7NeverForget]

If Satan has a residence on Earth, it is in Russia: the story of former Kherson mayor Volodymyr Mykolayenko, who survived Russian captivity.

After seeing Russia from the inside, he described it as a moral void, completely incompatible with Ukraine.

In captivity, he survived purely through willpower—holding on by sheer determination. When he finally returned home on August 24, 2025, it felt as though he had grown wings.

What struck him most was the way Ukrainians welcomed the released prisoners. From the Belarusian border all the way to Chernihiv, crowds stood along the roads waving Ukrainian flags. For the first time in a long while, he felt genuine respect and love.

Mykolayenko neither hid nor fled, even though he had the opportunity. He joined the Territorial Defense Forces because he asked himself a simple question: who else would protect his family?

He was given an assault rifle, but quickly realized that rifles alone cannot stop tanks.

The Russians lured him to a meeting under false pretenses, threw him into a car trunk, and took him away.

In captivity, he was beaten almost daily and suffered a broken rib. The occupiers offered him the position of head of the occupation administration, but he refused.

They demanded that he publicly condemn Roman Shukhevych, yet Mykolayenko instead called him a Hero of Ukraine.

Later, he was transferred between detention facilities—first to occupied Crimea, then to Russia’s Voronezh region, where the beatings became even more severe.

He never received a single letter from his family. He even refused prisoner exchanges, insisting that wounded young soldiers should be released in his place.

In his view, this war did not happen because of abstract mistakes. It happened because of geography and irresponsibility.

Russians chose Putin twenty-five years ago, and many continue to support him today. At the same time, too many members of Ukraine’s elite behave as if they have a “backup country”—Paris, Prague, New York—places they can escape to while blaming the people who were left behind.

But most Ukrainians have no alternative. There is no second homeland. There is only Ukraine.

According to Mykolayenko, the true strength of the country lies in its people—those who have survived occupation, torture, and loss, yet continue to fight.

Victory rests on two pillars: the soldiers who destroy the occupiers every day, and the civilians who do everything they can each day to ensure that the army can keep fighting.

He himself endured for the sake of his family and his faith in victory. He is proud of his daughter, who has been fighting since the first day of the war, and hopes that his grandchildren will one day be proud of both him and their country.

[Olena Rohoza @OlenaRohoza]

🇺🇸➡️🇺🇦 She came to Ukraine from the U.S. state of Utah. She planned to help. Instead, she found a second home.

Combat medic of the International Legion, Glenna Manchego, known by the callsign “BabyDoc,” has spent the last four years saving the lives of Ukrainian soldiers. She has gone from serving with an assault unit to working at stabilization points, where every minute can mean the difference between life and death.

Her words are worth reflecting on:

💬 “You show up in the worst day of someone’s life to become their best friend.”

For her, Ukraine stopped being just a place of service long ago.

When thousands of miles separate you from your homeland, yet your heart chooses to stay here, it is no longer about a contract. It is about values. About people. About a country.

And while Russian propaganda continues to tell its stories to the world, this woman from Utah keeps it simple:

Ukrainians are fighting for their families, their land, and their right to be Ukrainian.

And after victory?

🇺🇦 “BabyDoc” wants to live in Ukraine. Return to university. Or open her own bar.

And you know what?

After everything she has done for our defenders, Ukraine is no longer a foreign place to her.

Thank you to every foreign volunteer who stood shoulder to shoulder with Ukrainians in their darkest hours.