Tarot Readings With Maryellen

04/26/2026

When Daphne Koller was twelve, she was bored.

Not ordinary childhood boredom—the restless, world-doesn't-understand-me kind.

While other kids in Israel learned basic algebra, Daphne solved problems that stumped adults.

Her father was a botanist. Her mother an English professor. Curiosity was sacred in her home.

School couldn’t keep up. The curriculum felt like a prison.

At thirteen, her parents made an extraordinary decision.

Daphne walked into the Hebrew University of Jerusalem—not as a visitor, but as a student.

By seventeen, she had a bachelor’s degree.

By eighteen, a master’s.

By her late twenties, a PhD at Stanford. She joined the faculty.

She became a leading expert in artificial intelligence. MacArthur “Genius” Fellowship. Groundbreaking research. Foundations of machine learning that power voice assistants, medical diagnostics, and more.

But brilliance came with a truth.

The doors open to her remained locked for millions.

Not because of ability. Not ambition.

Because of zip codes. Bank accounts. Family connections.

Knowledge wasn’t rare. Access was.

In 2011, Andrew Ng tried something audacious.

He put his machine learning course online. Free. Available to anyone.

A few hundred people were expected.

Over one hundred thousand signed up.

Students from villages in India. Internet cafés in Nigeria. Refugee camps. Factory floors.

People who had never seen a classroom were suddenly learning from Stanford professors.

They completed assignments. Passed exams. Mastered material worth tens of thousands of dollars.

Scarcity was a choice.

In 2012, Daphne and Ng launched Coursera.

No tuition. No essays. No geography determining destiny.

Four universities joined. Critics worried. Skeptics doubted.

The platform exploded. Hundreds of thousands. Millions. Thousands of courses.

Farmers learned programming. Mothers earned certificates. Refugees completed Ivy League classes. Factory workers mastered finance.

Daphne analyzed learning data. Improved teaching. Adapted at scale.

Coursera now serves over 168 million learners worldwide. 350+ universities. Degrees, certificates, professional tracks.

In 2016, Koller left to tackle medicine. She founded Insitro in 2018.

AI to revolutionize drug discovery. Reduce failure. Save lives.

From classrooms to molecules, Daphne dismantled gatekeeping.

The greatest achievement isn’t awards.

It’s the farmer in Kenya learning to code. The grandmother in Vietnam understanding data. The refugee in Syria opening new doors.

168 million people who were told “no.”

Daphne Koller said yes.

And the world will never be the same.

04/25/2026

New York City, 2005.
Iris Apfel was 84 years old when her phone rang.
On the other end: Harold Koda, curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute.
He'd heard she had one of the best collections of costume jewelry in America.
Could he see it?
Iris thought he wanted to borrow a few pieces.
Koda initially asked for accessories and jewelry. Then five full outfits.
By the time Koda and his team finished exploring Iris's labyrinth of wardrobes, cupboards, and storage boxes, they left with 300 outfits and hundreds of accessories.
On September 13, 2005, the Met premiered "Rara Avis (Rare Bird): Selections from the Iris Barrel Apfel Collection."
It was the first time the museum had ever exhibited the personal wardrobe of a living person who was not a fashion designer.
Overnight, the octogenarian with oversized glasses and crimson lipstick became a symbol of audacious self-expression.
Iris Apfel called herself "a geriatric starlet."
The world called her a fashion icon.

Iris Barrel was born on August 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, New York—the only child of Jewish parents Samuel and Sadye Barrel.
Her father's family owned a glass and mirror business. Her mother ran a fashion boutique.
From childhood, Iris was surrounded by texture, color, and style.
As a young girl, she played with fabric scraps at her grandparents' home.
At age 11, her mother gave her $25 to buy a dress for Easter.
The dress cost $12.95. Matching shoes and a hat cost about $8. The train trip: 10 cents.
Iris Apfel was a "black-belt shopper" from the beginning.
She studied art history at New York University and attended the Academy of Art at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
She worked as a copywriter for Women's Wear Daily.
Then, on February 22, 1948, she married Carl Apfel.
In 1950, Iris and Carl founded Old World Weavers—an international textile manufacturing company specializing in reproducing antique fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries.
The Apfels traveled to Europe twice a year, sourcing textiles they couldn't find in the United States.
Their work was prestigious. Luxurious. Sought-after.
And they worked for the White House.
Over their careers, Iris and Carl took part in design restoration projects at the White House for nine presidents: Harry S. Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, and Bill Clinton.
Iris found the White House contract "among the easiest" of their clients—they generally wanted only to replicate what had previously been in place.
The Apfels ran Old World Weavers until they retired in 1992.
They'd been partners for 42 years. They'd traveled the world. They'd built a business and a life together.
But Iris's real masterpiece wasn't the textiles she sold.
It was the wardrobe she built for herself.

For decades, Iris dressed for herself.
Not for fashion magazines. Not for runway shows. Not for approval.
For joy.
She mixed couture with costume jewelry. Paired Dior haute couture with flea market finds. Layered 19th-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.
She shopped at global bazaars, thrift stores, tribal markets.
She wore oversized round glasses—her signature.
She piled on bracelets. Necklaces. Earrings. Rings.
"More is more and less is a bore," she declared.
Her style was exuberant. Fearless. Unapologetic.
She clashed patterns on purpose. Turned her small frame into a canvas of creative joy.
And nobody in fashion was watching.
Because Iris was in her 60s, 70s, 80s.
The fashion industry had no use for older women.
Iris didn't care. She was dressing for herself.
Then came 2005.
The Met exhibition changed everything.
Curator Harold Koda selected 40 objects from Iris's collection—each a promised gift to the museum.
He asked Iris to style the mannequins herself.
The result was pure Iris:
A Gripoix brooch next to a Roger Jean-Pierre bracelet.
A Mexican turquoise and hammered-silver belt beside a Central Asian silver choker.
Eighteenth-century paste earrings paired with modern plastic cuffs.
"Her originality is typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions," the Met noted. "Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity."
The exhibition was a sensation.
It traveled to the Norton Museum of Art in West Palm Beach, the Nassau County Museum of Art in Roslyn Harbor, and the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts.
At 84, Iris Apfel became famous.

In 2014, filmmaker Albert Maysles—known for documentaries like "Grey Gardens"—made a film about Iris.
"Iris" premiered at the New York Film Festival in October 2014.
It captured her wit, her wisdom, her refusal to slow down.
"I go at it full, I'm very passionate about what I do," Iris said. "I put my heart and soul into things and it feeds me. I push myself until I can't anymore and then come back again for more. I'm a glutton for punishment."
The documentary made her even more famous.
Suddenly, Iris—in her 90s—was a global icon.
Then came 2018.
At 96, Mattel created a Barbie doll in Iris's image—complete with oversized glasses, bold jewelry, and vibrant patterns.
Harper Collins published her biography: "Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon."
The publisher called her "a woman who transcends time and trends."
And in 2019, at age 97, Iris signed a modeling contract with IMG—one of the world's most prestigious modeling agencies.
Designer Tommy Hilfiger had encouraged her to get formal representation.
She was constantly sought out for appearances. Collaborations. Endorsements.
Why not make it official?
Iris became the oldest person to sign a major modeling contract.
She worked with brands like H&M, MAC Cosmetics, Ruggable, Ciaté London, Bernardaud.
She visited universities. Gave lectures. Inspired millions.
She proved that style has no age limit.

Carl Apfel died on August 1, 2015, at age 100.
They'd been married for 67 years.
Iris was devastated.
But she kept working. Kept creating. Kept living.
"Retirement is a fate worse than death," she once said.
On August 29, 2021, Iris celebrated her 100th birthday.
On February 29, 2024—her 102.5th birthday—she posted a characteristically ironic and funny message on Instagram.
The next day, March 1, 2024, Iris Apfel died at her home in Palm Beach, Florida.
She was 102 years old.

The legacy of Iris Apfel isn't just in the clothes she wore.
It's in the permission she gave us all.
Permission to be bold. To be different. To be unapologetically ourselves.
To treat aging as an adventure, not a sentence.
Iris rejected the idea that women should fade into beige and navy as they age.
She layered on more jewelry. Wore brighter colors. Got bolder.
"When you don't dress like everybody else, you don't have to think like everybody else," she said.
She proved that true style isn't about what you buy—it's about the story you tell with what you already are.
"Fashion you can buy, but style you possess," she famously declared. "The key to style is learning who you are, which takes years."
Iris spent 102 years learning who she was.
And she shared every colorful, exuberant moment of that journey with the world.

The story of Iris Apfel teaches us something essential:
You don't have to be young to be relevant.
You don't have to be thin to be beautiful.
You don't have to follow trends to have style.
You just have to be yourself—fearlessly, joyfully, unapologetically.
Iris didn't become famous until she was 84.
She didn't sign a modeling contract until she was 97.
But she'd been living boldly her entire life.
The world just finally noticed.
And when it did, Iris didn't dim her light to make others comfortable.
She cranked it up.
More jewelry. More color. More pattern. More life.
"More is more and less is a bore."
That wasn't just a quote.
It was a philosophy for life.

Iris Apfel lived to 102.
She worked with nine presidents. Built a textile empire. Dressed for joy for eight decades.
She became a fashion icon in her 80s, a model in her 90s, and a symbol of fearless aging at 100.
Her message was simple:
Style isn't something you put on.
It's something you radiate.
And the most revolutionary accessory you'll ever wear is the courage to be exactly who you are—at every age.
Age isn't a number. It's an attitude.
Iris Apfel proved that the second act—or third, or fourth—can be the most spectacular of all.
That creativity doesn't retire. That boldness doesn't fade. That joy doesn't have an expiration date.
She lived fully and creatively until the very end.
On her 102nd birthday, she was still posting on Instagram. Still making people laugh. Still wearing those oversized glasses and piling on the jewelry.
Two days later, she was gone.
But her legacy endures:
In every woman who chooses bold earrings over invisibility.
In every person who refuses to dress "age-appropriately."
In everyone who decides that more is more and less is, indeed, a bore.
Iris Apfel didn't just dress for herself.
She dressed for all of us—showing us what's possible when you refuse to shrink.
Rest in power, Rare Bird.
You taught us to fly.

04/23/2026

COMET ALERT: ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME ☄️

Don't miss your chance to see Comet C/2025 R3 (PanSTARRS)! This ancient traveler from the edge of our solar system is making its closest approach to Earth on April 26–27, 2026.

📅 Peak Earth Approach: April 26–27, 2026
🕒 Best time to watch: 60–90 minutes before sunrise
📍 Where to look: Low on the eastern horizon

Find a dark spot away from city lights, look up, and take it all in. These are the moments you don’t want to miss!

Tag someone who loves space and the night sky! ✨

04/17/2026

The Woman Who Saw It Coming
In 1925, a schoolteacher sat alone with a book.
Her name was Anna Essinger. She ran a small boarding school in a quiet German village. She was not a general, not a politician, not a famous voice of her time. She was a woman who believed, above all else, that every child deserved to be treated as a full human being.
The book she read that year was Mein Kampf.
When she finished it, she set it down and understood something that most of the world would not grasp for another decade: this was not empty fury. This was a blueprint. And if the man who wrote it ever rose to power, the Jewish children in her care would have no safe future in Germany.
She filed that knowledge away — and kept teaching.
Anna had grown up the oldest of nine children in Ulm. At twenty, she traveled to Nashville, Tennessee, where she encountered the Quakers and their unshakeable belief in human dignity and equality. Those values became the quiet architecture of her life. When she returned to Germany in 1919, it was on a relief mission — feeding children left hungry by a world war. By 1926, she had opened her own school: Landschulheim Herrlingen. A place without fear, without punishment, without walls between children of different backgrounds. The children called her Tante Anna. Aunt Anna. Or simply TA.
When Hi**er became Chancellor in January 1933, Anna was not surprised. She had been watching for eight years. She was ready.
The first test came quickly. The N**i government ordered all public buildings to fly the sw****ka on Hi**er's birthday. Anna organized a day trip. Every child left the premises. The flag flew over an empty school. It was a small, quiet act. But it told her what she already suspected: she could not keep these children safe in Germany much longer.
She began to plan — in secret.
She traveled across Europe searching for a safe place. Through her Quaker networks, she found Bunce Court: an old manor house in Kent, England. No proper plumbing. Barely any electricity. Leaking roofs. Overgrown grounds. But it was beyond N**i reach.
Over that summer, she met with parents in quiet, careful gatherings. She explained what she was going to do. She told them she could not promise their children would ever come home. Almost every parent said yes.
Her teachers wove English language and British customs into every lesson. The children had no idea they were being prepared to leave their country forever.
On October 5, 1933, three groups of children departed Germany by three different routes, led by three different teachers. Parents delivered their children to railway stations with aching instructions: no tears, no long goodbyes, nothing that might draw attention.
Imagine forcing a smile at a train platform, watching your child walk away, not knowing if you would ever see them again.
The groups reunited in Belgium, crossed the Channel by ferry, and were met in England by red double-decker buses that carried them through the Kent countryside to Bunce Court. School resumed the next morning.
There was almost nothing to work with. So they built it themselves — students and teachers together. They ran electrical cables, converted stables into dormitories, planted gardens, raised animals. When British inspectors arrived expecting disorder, they left astonished.
As Europe darkened, Bunce Court became more than a school. Children expelled from German schools arrived. Teenagers came alone on the Kindertransport, carrying a single suitcase and a name tag. A concert pianist gave lessons in a freezing room. A theater director staged Shakespeare. A community of the displaced quietly became a family.
After the war ended, the final arrivals were Holocaust survivors — deeply traumatized young people who had forgotten what ordinary life felt like. Anna and her staff received them with steady, patient care: structure, gardens to tend, animals to raise, something to contribute. One survivor later said they were helped to "become human again."
The school closed in 1948. By then, Anna Essinger had educated and sheltered more than 900 children.
She died in 1960, in the same county where she had brought 66 children to safety twenty-seven years earlier.
A school in Ulm now carries her name. Former students held reunions for fifty-five years. They called Bunce Court their "Shangri-La" — and the ground they had walked on holy.
History is filled with people who saw danger coming and looked away, waiting for certainty, waiting for permission, waiting for the world to agree.
Anna Essinger saw it coming — and acted.
She saved hundreds of lives not with speeches or power, but with foresight, a crumbling manor house in England, and an unshakeable belief that every child's life was worth fighting for.
She read the warning. She believed it. And she moved.

04/09/2026

04/08/2026

In 1942, Ernest Hemingway wrote a private letter he never intended anyone to read.

He had just finished a memoir by a woman he openly disliked. He called her difficult, unpleasant—"possibly a high-grade bitch."

Then he wrote this:

"She has written so well, and marvelously well, that I was completely ashamed of myself as a writer. She can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves as writers."

Her name was Beryl Markham.

And the book was the least extraordinary thing about her.

At four years old, Beryl arrived in British East Africa. While colonial girls her age learned piano and polite conversation, she ran barefoot with Maasai warriors, learned to hunt with a spear, and forged a fearless bond with horses that would define her life.

At eighteen—when women in Kenya weren’t allowed to hold professional licenses—she became the country’s first licensed female racehorse trainer.

She was just getting started.

In her twenties, she taught herself to fly. Not in a flight school. Over the vast East African wilderness. Navigating by rivers, mountain ridges, and pure instinct. A single engine failure meant death. She flew anyway.

Then, in 1936, at thirty-four, she decided to attempt what experienced pilots called suicidal.

Lindbergh had crossed the Atlantic west-to-east with the wind at his back. Earhart had done the same.

But east to west? Against the headwinds. Non-stop. Through the night.

No one had ever done it.

On September 4, 1936, Beryl climbed into her single-engine Percival Vega Gull at an airfield in England and flew into the dark.

For twenty-one hours and twenty-five minutes, she battled ice on her wings, crippling fatigue, and a darkness over the open Atlantic that offered nothing—no lights, no land, no horizon.

She ran out of fuel and crash-landed in a peat bog on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia.

She had aimed for New York. She landed hundreds of miles short.

It didn’t matter. She had done what no human had ever done: flown the Atlantic solo, nonstop, east to west.

The world celebrated. Publishers came calling.

In 1942, she released her memoir, West With the Night. Hemingway read it, wrote his now-famous letter… and then the book quietly went out of print.

For forty years, it sat in silence while Hemingway’s novels were taught in every classroom in America. The woman he said could outwrite them all was simply… forgotten.

In 1983, a literary scholar rediscovered it. The book was reprinted—and became a national bestseller. Today, West With the Night is considered one of the finest memoirs of the twentieth century.

Beryl Markham died in Kenya in 1986, at eighty-three years old.

She once wrote: "Every tomorrow ought not to resemble every yesterday."

She crossed an ocean alone in the dark to prove she meant it.

The world forgot her for forty years.

The book survived anyway.

Some achievements are simply too extraordinary to stay buried—no matter how long the world tries.

Have you ever read West With the Night? 📖 If not, consider this your sign to pick up a copy. Her prose will stop you in your tracks.

04/06/2026

“A Prayer for This Realm”

We pray that all living beings find peace in the darkness by revealing their own light and helping others turn on theirs, so this realm is not as dark. May humanity face its shadows, unraveling old scripts, so that a ripple of transformation touches every facet of life and creates a new way of being in the Great Shift.

04/05/2026

At 17, she married a vice-governor decades older than herself. The marriage lasted only three months before she fled on horseback, galloping away from a life of boredom toward a destiny that would shake the foundations of the modern world.

This wasn't just a teenage rebellion; it was the birth of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, the woman who would eventually be known as the "Mother of the New Age."

Helena was born into Russian royalty, but she had a fire in her soul that no palace could contain. After leaving her husband, she didn't go back to her family to apologize.

Instead, she vanished.

For years, she traveled the globe like a ghost, popping up in Egypt, Mexico, Canada, and eventually the forbidden mountains of Tibet.

During an era when women were expected to stay home and sew, Helena was crossing borders and studying ancient mysteries that most people didn't even know existed.

"I am a citizen of the world. My home is wherever the truth is hidden."

By the time she arrived in New York City in the 1870s, she was a force of nature. She didn't look like a typical mystic.

She was a stout woman who rolled her own ci******es, spoke with a booming voice, and had piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through people.

Along with a few friends, she founded the Theosophical Society.

Her goal was simple but massive: to prove that all religions come from the same ancient source and that science and spirituality are actually two sides of the same coin.

Her most famous books, like The Secret Doctrine, were thousands of pages long and filled with complex ideas about the origin of the universe. She claimed she didn't write them alone.

She said she was in constant mental contact with "Mahatmas" or Great Masters living in the Himalayas. "I am only the pen," she often said when people praised her brilliant writing.

"The ink comes from those who know more than I ever will."

Of course, fame brought enemies. Many people in the scientific community called her a fraud. They accused her of using hidden strings and trapdoors to fake "miracles" like making bells ring in the air or causing letters to fall from the ceiling.

There were huge scandals, and her reputation was dragged through the mud. But Helena never backed down. She kept writing and teaching until her very last breath in 1891.

Even today, her influence is everywhere. If you have ever heard of karma, reincarnation, or the idea that "everything is energy," you are hearing echoes of what Madame Blavatsky brought to the West.

She paved the way for people like Mahatma Gandhi and even influenced famous scientists and artists who were looking for something deeper than just material facts.

Helena Blavatsky showed us that one person’s curiosity and courage can change how millions of people think about the universe.

Helena Blavatsky proved that if you are bold enough to set your own rules, you don't just live a life—you change history. She didn't just break the mold; she smashed it and built a new world from the pieces.

Society will try to cage you, and critics will try to silence you, but the truth doesn't need permission to exist

Don't die a copy of someone else's expectations.

>We Are Human Angels<
Authors
Awakening the Human Spirit
We are the authors of 'We Are Human Angels,' the book that has spread a new vision of the human experience and has been spontaneously translated into 14 languages by readers.

We hope our writing sparks something in you!

04/04/2026

🚨 HONOR OVER ORDERS: General George’s Sacrifice

Title: A SALUTE TO BRAVERY! Army Chief Chooses Dismissal Over Sending Soldiers Into a "Su***de Mission" in Iran
U.S. military history added a chapter of unprecedented integrity today. General Randy George, Army Chief of Staff, has been relieved of his post following a direct standoff with President Donald Trump. The reason? His firm refusal to launch a ground invasion in Iran that, according to his own reports, would result in thousands of coffins returning home.

"A madman will lead the great American army to ruin," was the phrase that marked his exit. For George, protecting the lives of his soldiers outweighed his loyalty to the Commander-in-Chief. As the Pentagon faces a leadership vacuum, the nation stands divided.

Do you believe General George’s refusal is the greatest act of patriotism seen in this crisis, or is it dangerous insubordination? 🏛️🎖️🇺🇸⚖️🔥

#2026

04/03/2026

Across Peru, ancient stone aqueducts—built centuries ago—are still in use today, showcasing remarkable engineering that has stood the test of time. These systems often include spiral channels that guide flowing water in a controlled, swirling motion. As the water moves through these curves, sediments settle out naturally, helping to keep the flow clean without modern filtration.

The design works with gravity and movement rather than mechanical intervention. The spiraling paths slow the water just enough to separate impurities while maintaining a steady flow toward fields and communities. This not only preserves water quality but also reduces the need for constant maintenance, as the system largely cleans itself over time.

Beyond functionality, these aqueducts represent a deep understanding of nature and resource management. Built with locally available stone and shaped by observation of natural water behavior, they continue to support agriculture and daily life in surrounding regions. Peru’s enduring aqueducts show how traditional knowledge can offer sustainable solutions, proving that effective design does not always require modern technology to remain relevant and efficient.

11/08/2024