Movement becomes meditation. Let it be a dance.
A little girl asks, what is dust? I reply, the little parts of us that are ready to die.
...Your passion is that bright. Your beauty is that wild. You, untamed, are magnificent....
Planning Parenthood isn't easy.
The last few weeks have been filled with sleep and sleeplessness. While jetlag is the usual suspect, I sense it's more than that. My body is still processing all that I saw, all that I heard... When I close my eyes, I can hear the buzzing of machines. Machines that go on and on for … Continue reading Sewing Past Stigmas
I am the woman who walks on the beach alone. The woman who is assaulted and violated just because a young man sees my body as property that is not currently being manned. I am every woman. I am the woman whose breasts are grabbed by hands groping between the bus seats. I a.m. the woman stopped by … Continue reading Violated and Vulnerable, Me Too.
First things first. Food. Literally the first thing I did upon arrival in Japan was find my favorite foods. Where else but the local Lawson! (Yes, I scoped it out on my way to the I-House Japan, where I was staying). Little did I know, there was a closer convenience store (conbini! - that's a … Continue reading Nihon! Genki DesuKa?
Is there an old adage that tells us that anytime you feel a sense of loss of trust, it is truly only a loss of trust in self? I sat in the front cart of a bicycle in the cycling capital of the world, and noticed that I implicitly trusted the friend who was cycling … Continue reading The Director
"My mother sacrificed her freedom at the altar of security. She paid the price in shame." My mother wrote this line about my grandmother. I look up and back to the prior generations and see reflections of my rebellion. I see the same mistakes. The same patterns. The same struggle for freedom. Does that mean … Continue reading Why Not?
The faint smell of cigarette smoke. It pervades the whole apartment. I notice it in little pockets as I pad back and forth barefoot, alone. The floors creak slightly and I know how old the building is. I think of my mother's Upper West Side NYC apartment in the eighties. I wonder, sometimes, if I … Continue reading Unimagined Freedom