On Being Blog

May 02

May 01

“Strength without a sense of direction leads to violence. Strength with a sense of direction is grace.” —Matthew Sanford

For an unusual take on the mind-body connection, listen to our interview with Matthew Sanford, who has been a paraplegic since the age of 13. He shares his wisdom for us all on knowing the strength and grace of our bodies even in the face of illness, aging, and death.

About the photo: A former patient of a Red Cross orthopedic center in Kabul, Afghanistan constructs a prosthetic leg as part of an effort to assist those affected by mobility disabilities, including hundreds of mine victims.

Photo by Kanishka Afshari/FCO/DFID

[video]

Apr 30

theatlantic:

Saturn’s Hurricane Is a Super Storm on Steroids, Even for the Solar System

[Image: NASA]

Too choice not to reblog.

The Museum of Flight by Kazim Ali -

What a great poem from therumpus:

Kazim Ali

All boys want to fall
Sent like sun-thunder westward

Sense-sure and censured they twist
out of the wings fastened to their backs

itching always for more blue
suspended endlessly in space at the moment of fall

Here in the sky ward
you can count them:

Lightning-struck or hurled from heaven
Panicked or resigned,

But all heading in the blue direction,
their fathers always at a loss for words.

Here is the disobedient one who willfully jumped

And here the wild one who raced for the sun

Here is the stupid one who lost control of the horses

And here the frightened one who stowed away
on the silver boat bound for the storm.

They all raced away from rules like sea-drunk criminals
hopelessly confused about the laws of men and gods

caught by gravity, unspooling like bolts of silk across the sky
chattering on and on about infinity and eternity

the whole way down.

(Source: therumpus.net)

Apr 29

“It’s better to find the way out than to stand and scream at the forest.”

~Wolof proverb, as found in Aimee Malloy’s excellent book, However Long the Night: Molly Melching’s Journey to Help Millions of African Women and Girls Triumph. Do yourself a favor and pick up a copy.

Photo by Lucinda Lovering / Flickr (cc by-nc 2.0)

~Trent Gilliss, senior editor

“What we’re doing is praying with our feet, with our bodies.”

Aztec dance instructor Centzi Millia wears chachayotl, the thick anklets of Aztec danzantes made of rattling seed pods during a class. She’s part of a new movement of Catholic Latinos in the U.S. who are turning to the spiritual practices of their indigenous ancestors, such as the Aztecs and other ancient traditions, and finding “a mestizo way of life.”

Read more of Shweta Saraswat’s article, “Aztlan, Anew,” which gives you a glimpse of what’s going on in your neighboring communities that you might not even be aware of.

Apr 28

simbarashe:

Ladine, New York. #hair #fashion #instagood #love #photooftheday #beautiful #follow #girl #instadaily #black #dreads

Now this is fierce.

~Trent Gilliss, senior editor

(via anindiscriminatecollection)

[video]

A Nigerian Easter in the Midwest

From the front door she calls, “He has risen!” Her children respond, “He has risen indeed. Let’s eat!”

I dodged church Easter Sunday this year. My mother Gbeme, however, worshipped at the Baptist church she’s been attending twice weekly for the past 20 years.

Raised Catholic in Nigeria, my mother’s Easter begins the seasonal swap from heavy wools to floral prints and pastels. She wears a beautifully vibrant gele — an intricately fashioned tie around the head worn by Yoruba women — and iro and buba — the matching outfit traditionally worn by Yoruba women — to church. She exchanges compliments with the other congregants about their upbeat clothes and steady health. For two hours the pews fill, the choir sings, and for the larger Easter crowd, the young new pastor delivers an especially rousing sermon. Soon thereafter, church dismisses. Time to eat.

For many Americans, Easter is synonymous with the egg. But in my bicultural household, creamy frejon is the signature Easter week delicacy. The bean soup is made of smoothly blended brown beans called ewa ibeji and steeped coconut, then sweetened with cane sugar to taste.

In the mid-1980s, my mother left metropolitan Lagos to attend college in rural Wisconsin — and made necessary modifications to the original frejon recipe. Back then international foods weren’t as integrated. In lieu of traditional Nigerian dishes, my mother observed her first few Easters amid sweet friends, sweet rolls, egg salad, and hearty Midwestern casseroles. After she graduated, she moved from Wisconsin to Minnesota, reuniting her with city dwelling, a dense Nigerian immigrant community, specialty grocers, and Easter frejon.