The billion lines that form around my brother’s eyes when he’s telling a joke or a story, are tiny, glorious markers of the joy the whole experience brings him. The personal joy, the shared joy. The scribbles on my mother’s face –– she too laughs with her whole being –– are the mountains she climbs, the waves she rides, the joy she feels. When a girlfriend laments her scars, sunspots and crow’s feet, we tell her that it’s those imperfections, kinks that makes her unique. We love to see celebrities embracing their age, women beautiful by virtue of their lines, and not despite them. That’s the thing about wrinkles, on someone else’s face they’re endearing, quirky –– life’s map lines. On our own, they’re pesky reminders of vice, stress and decay. I can’t say I’m wild about all the new lines on my face. Life is hard, life is beautiful, and who’s to know which line is which. But they are mine to own. Each and every one. In the meantime, I’m buying myself an expensive eye cream, because what the hell.

Take a look at these photographs by local artist Maureen O’Connor of rescue animals –– porcupines, raccoons, foxes, crows and a moose –– shot in beautiful homes around Toronto. The animals look as comfortable as they do bizarre in these traditional interiors. Some, like the raccoon standing on a vintage kitchen table, are amusing, while others, like a deer looking out the living room window, are moving. I couldn’t choose just one favourite, which is why I purchased five at The Artist Project this weekend.

I’d be quite happy at this parasol, hot sand underneath my bottom, and a warm wind blowing about me. When I was little I spent hours at the beach. I loved the feeling of salt and sand against my skin; I loved the way it darkened to the colour of cinnamon. I could spend ten straight hours on a beach –– looking for shells, building sand castles, idling in the shore –– and never get bored. To this day, I love coming home with sand in my shoes, a small reminder of where I’ve been.

It’s not just Lisa Congdon‘s zany, high-wattage style that grabbed my attention; it’s how massively prolific she is, too. She’s an illustrator, author, teacher and speaker, and seems to wear every hat with aplomb. Passion, energy, talent, drive –– she must have all of these in bucket loads. Take a look at her shop; between her prints, pins, badges and magnets, maybe something will take your fancy also.

I was taken by these beautiful flower photographs, shot by Japanese photographer, Kazuma Ogawa. The Iris in particular, is so breathtaking. They come and and go so quickly, just a few weeks at the end of May, but Irises really are a grand and whimsical bloom. We have five or so in our front garden, and in a leafy garden, their petals feel like a gift.

Just for a moment, because it’s cold and slushy outside, and we’re paler than usual, and likely fending off a virus or two, let’s imagine ourselves belly deep in salt water, sun on our faces, and the prospect of an al fresco fish lunch ahead of us. Now, doesn’t that feel lovely? Thank-you Audrey, for always being a Roman holiday/ breakfast at Tiffany’s moment when I need it.

I haven’t had a haircut in over a year, as made obvious every time I catch a glimpse of myself hair down in the mirror. It’s long and straggly, and the tips are drier than toast. Up, it just looks like a nest of feathers and twigs. I’m considering another lob, something that forces me to wear it down for a few months, and maybe a highlight or two. The dream haircut is Mia Farrow’s in the Sinatra years, but I’m not brave enough for anything that drastic. But I must do something, before a bird comes to hibernate.