Right this minute, there is someone going through chemotherapy shopping at your grocery store, buying popsicles and ice cream to help their sore mouth, and worrying what the cashier is going to think.

There is someone on hemodialysis buying white bread instead of whole wheat, trying to keep their phosphorus levels reasonable between appointments and hoping for the best.

There is a person attending intensive outpatient treatment for their eating disorder who has been challenged by their therapist to buy a Frappuccino.

There are dietitians picking up a dozen different candy bars to eat with their clients, who feel ashamed and guilty about enjoying them.

There is someone who just doesn’t have it in them to cook right now, and this frozen pizza and canned soup will keep them going.

There are people recovering from chronic dieting and semi-starvation who are buying chocolate and chips at their deprived body’s insistence.

All around us are people listening to what their bodies need and attempting to make the best possible choice within a context of overwhelming food pressure. All of their choices are valid, and every single one of these foods is “real.”

Michelle @ http://www.fatnutritionist.com (via onherplate)

(via rosaley)

“Ultimately there is no other purpose to being alive than to fully live. The more we can embrace this fact the more deeply we can do so, and as life unfolds within and around us we will know when to act and when to wait, when to speak and when to fall silent, when to stay and when to go…”

— GROUNDING THE CARDINAL CROSS

We are moving to Portland, Maine! Not until July-ish but it is still very exciting. I am eager to get out of Philadelphia.

Potential Careers

Hoping if I write them all down maybe one will present itself as the right path…

*Food Blogger

*Holistic Nutritionist/Ayurvedic Consultant

*Librarian

*Fine Art Photographer

*Yoga teacher

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait in Letters (Houghton Mifflin, 1977)

(via apoetreflects)

What To Do When Your Boyfriend’s Asshole Best Friend Says, “Hey, Never Trust Anything That Bleeds For Seven Days And Doesn’t Die,
Right?”
OR The Only Poem I’ll Ever Write About Periods.

Don’t excuse him because he’s had
at least three lite beers
and is sweating through his black button down
that his mom or exgirlfriend
probably bought him.
Don’t excuse him because he’s been turned down
by the last six girls he went on dates with
after meeting them on tindr
with a picture that’s seven years old
Don’t excuse him because
he’s usually such a nice guy
because you don’t want to be a bitch
because you don’t want to cause a scene
because when you were seventeen
your sister told you
no one likes an angry feminist

Tell him,
Hey, Asshole:
Let me explain something to you.
Every goddamn motherfucking month since I was eleven,
a part of me
tore itself to shreds
ripped itself apart inside me
and then remade itself.

So yes, I bleed for seven days
and I don’t die
You know what else can do that?
Gods.
Immortal beings.
Things of legend.
Fuck, I can even
create life.

So I say, never trust anything that can’t
bleed for seven days and not die.
You know what that makes it?
Weak
Fallible
Mortal.
So let’s see, hon,
What you’re made of.
If you can bleed for seven days
and not die.

Rip out his jugular with your teeth.
And when he bleeds for seven seconds
and dies,
spit on his corpse and say,
I thought not.
Katherine Tucker (via makojaeger)

(via lexluthr)

Peaceful Sleep Chant

averywitchyblog:

The moon shines bright
She rules the night
Blessed be the sleep for me
And peaceful are the dreams
That come to be.

Triple Moon be my guide
So that when I rise
I may have

The youth of The Maiden
The power of The Mother
And the wisdom of The Crone

(via natural-magics)

We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it’s our job to invent something better.
Chuck Palahniuk (via misswallflower)
How has she become one of those people who wears yoga pants all day? She used to make fun of those people. With their happiness maps and their gratitude journals and their bags made out of recycled tire treads. But now it seems possible that the truth about getting older is that there are fewer and fewer things to make fun of until finally there is nothing you are sure you will never be.
Jenny Offill, Dept. of Speculation (via losertakesall)

(via nogreatillusion)

Tuesday marked my first day of Mysore practice. I keep thinking I need to write down the thoughts and feelings the practice is bringing up. This must be the place.

I was initially very scared to start. I thought my practice was not ready. I was nervous I would not be able to wake up so early. I was worried I might be one of the lazy people Sharath Jois mentioned in his famous quote, “Everyone can do Ashtanga. Except lazy people.” 

And you know what? I wish I had been able to overcome my fears and begin this practice years ago. This week my teacher worked me through the beginning of the series up to Paschimottanasana, adding a few new poses each day. I stumbled my way through Led Primary yesterday, feeling more daunted and like less of a superhero by the end. I feel strong though, in unexpected places. It’s a practice of millimeters, I just keep saying to myself. “Practice and all is coming.” (Pattabhi Jois) 

Something that has been on my mind quite often this week is the idea of inadequacy, of filling a void, which Jean Marie so perfectly describes in this article on her blog. She speaks about wondering if she really “belongs” in the Mysore room, and how this feeling is so related to having something to prove. 

It took the first 3 years of practicing yoga to feel like I was not just the fat girl hiding in the corner of the class. It took going to class every day, or as close to every day as I could manage, to keep from wanting to crawl out of my own skin and disappear. 

I think another aspect that kept me from the practice for so long was that the teachers I used to so love practicing with had nothing good to say about Ashtanga— like that so many women never make it to the second series and all the “fun poses” because they get stuck on the jump backs. Because they will never be strong enough. Honestly though, after this week, I have to say I am really disappointed in myself for listening to them. I am eager to nurture this budding feeling of maybe this isn’t so unattainable. It’s a hopeful feeling. A strong feeling. It’s incredible to me that four days of practice has stoked such a fire in me. To keep the metaphor going, I hope that the fire will grow. I hope it will start to burn away the depression, the mean things I say to myself, the feelings of not belonging anywhere or being good enough and always, always having something to prove. 

Having something to work toward makes me feel excited to wake up at 5 AM to go sweat in a room with a bunch of other people who are probably as crazy as me. 

Sometimes it feels like when I make a big positive change in my life, some other area of my life immediately begins to crumble, or maybe I just notice the cracks in the foundation. Nothing else about this week has been steady. After days of being locked in conflict with my mother, I have come to a place of radical acceptance. “Family isn’t whose blood you carry, it’s who you love and who loves you.” (Jackie Chan)

It is time for me to let go of expectations I have been clinging to for far too long and make space to let the light in. 

a passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

view archive



Ask me I won't say no, how could I?