Centering of the century

The rants and ramblings of a crafter/student/hiker/nature lover/life appreciater/dreamer/artist and more...I still get excited over the little things...(dirty I know)...I will eventually be posting my arts/crafts and various other projects I'm currently working on as well as posts related to or supporting any cause I am interested in or am wanting to raise awareness of.

I believe in progress not perfection, learning from the tough times and hakuna matata...

I choose to stay positive though not unaware of this world that is falling apart all around us.

Ask me anything ;)About Me{random art both serious and silly} Political stuff/Let's have more conversations globallyPrevious pageNext pageArchive

(Source: juliehannaphoto.photoshelter.com, via flowersofgaia)

qbutch:

magikool:

EASTERS ON 4/20 THIS YEAR BLAZE THE LORD 

IN THE HIGHEST

(via jessieautumn)

"The daily routine of most adults is so heavy and artificial that we are closed off to much of the world. We have to do this in order to get our work done. I think one purpose of art is to get us out of those routines. When we hear music or poetry or stories, the world opens up again."

- Ursula LeGuin (via nathanielstuart)

(via sunflower-mama)

splitmyselfintwo:


Elvira

happy 420 easter

"

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

"

- Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” (via endegame)

(Source: oliviacirce, via themindislimitless)

piavalesca:

haus der frauen, mission district, san francisco.

every time i pass the edificio de mujeres i’m captivated by its murals
which affectionately show respect for womanhood and motherhood
by illustrating many of it’s colorful details.

(via sfcitylights)

olganoes:

America’s favorite #BasketCase
friendswithfangs:

the perfect family :’0

"

Let’s be honest here -
I am not the girl men fall in love with.
I am the girl that men want to fuck.
I am a conquest. A prize. A show.

I could count on five hundred fingers
the number of people that have professed,
“I like you. You’re different. You’re an interesting girl.”
Apparently I’m not fascinating enough for you
to want to hold for more than a one night stand.

Once
as I finished swimming a sea of blankets
and got left stranded on the shore,
I asked myself:

What’s wrong with me?
What am I doing?
Am I not good enough for anybody?

And right before I could drown again,
the sun woke up and said,

"You are.
You are enough.
Forget the men whose hands have groped your hips
in search for answers to questions
you’ve never even heard of.
Do not settle for people who do not appreciate you,
who do not know how lucky they are.
Remember it is a privilege to be loved by you,
or even just
to be touched by you, and
the warmth of another body does not define your worth.

These men -
they think that they can own you
with their drunken stares and roughened arms, but
I have circled the earth
a thousand times
to feed the light flowing inside your skin.
Do not waste it by illuminating those who
can not even be bothered
to learn your last name.”

So that night when
the moon tried once more to pin me down,
I told him:

I am made of sunlight, crashing waves, and fireworks.
You think you can tame me
and cool my flesh?
I am the girl who plays with matches,
and trust me I play it well.
Lord knows I’ve walked through villages leaving
a pile of destruction in my wake.

My heart is a bushfire
and the next time you try to control me,
darling, make no mistake -

I will burst out and ravage you in flames.

I’ll
burn
you
to
the
ground.

(This isn’t a test.)

"

- Sade Andria Zabala (surfandwrite) | For All The Girls With Messy Hearts, And To The Men Whose Skin Have Tasted Mine (via theblackamericanprincess)

(Source: surfandwrite, via themindislimitless)

(Source: metal-marble, via possum-in-a-jar)

How to color eggs with onion shells.

wewantwow:

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This must be the most beautiful DIY tutorial I have ever seen. And it so happens to be in style of this weekend. Found on Ulicam, a very nice blog by Ulrika Kestere, photographer and illustrator. For the whole tutorial and lot’s of inspiration, click here.

(via girllikesappho)