All seats provide equal viewing of the universe.
—Museum Guide, Hayden Planetarium (via fuckyeahyoga)
Lady gaga “speaks out” against bullying
Macklemore “speaks out” against homophobia
Kanye “goes on a rant” about racism.
Kanye “goes on a rant” about George Bush.
Coded language don’t really be coded tho.
Nicki Minaj “goes on a rant” about sexism.
Oop oop oopity oop did someone drop a bunch of truth over here?
Make sure you add toffee bits to your next batch of chocolate chip cookies. Trust me.
While making aforementioned cookies I teased my boyfriend with some yoga poses I thought were challenging. His hips are more open than mine are thanks to his suburban tae kwon do training and great genes. As I was showing him how we’d spend a few breaths in half split, I surprised myself with how close to the ground I got working into full split. Closer than he was! I go to my yoga classes because they’re a form of exercise I love. I don’t dread going and I feel amazing afterward. It doesn’t matter if I have the strongest pose, I feel strong and powerful in my body. I haven’t been feeling any progress lately and without even realizing it, I’ve moved closer to being able to do something I’ve never seen myself capable of. I’ve been working towards more open hips but didn’t see that manifesting in a near split. Yoga is amazing. I am amazing. You are amazing.
the world is heavy
but your bones
(just a cubic inch)
can hold 19,000 lbs
ounce for ounce
they are stronger than steel
atom for atom
you are more precious than diamond
and stars have died
so that you may live
you need to remember these things
when you say that you are weak
THROWBACK THURSDAY UP IN THIS BITCH. I was saving this recipe for my upcoming cookbook but you guys said FUCK THAT. So here is the most requested recipe, The Thug Kitchen RCB Burrito.
ROASTED CHICKPEA & BROCCOLI BURRITO
3 cups of cooked chickpeas (2-15 ounce cans, drained)
1 large yellow onion
1 red bell pepper
1 large crown of broccoli
4 cloves of garlic
3 tablespoons olive oil
1-2 tablespoons soy sauce, tamari, or Bragg’s Liquid Aminos (You can usually find this old school hippie shit near the vinegars or soy sauces in the healthy eating section of most big grocery stores and on the internet)
2 teaspoons chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander or more cumin if you don’t want to go to the store
black pepper or cayenne pepper to taste
Heat the oven to 425 degrees. Chop up the onion, bell pepper, and broccoli so that all the pieces about the size of a chickpea. Chop up the garlic real small but save that shit until later. Place all the chopped up veggies in a large bowl with the cooked chickpeas. Pour in the oil and soy sauce, stir, and then throw all the spices in there. Mix until all the vegetables and shit are covered.
Put all of that on a large rimmed baking sheet (like what you would put cookies on but with an edge) and bake for 20 minutes. Take it out of the oven, don’t fucking burn yourself, add the garlic, and bake for another 15 minutes. The broccoli will look a little burnt at this point but that is the plan so chill the fuck out and take it out of the oven. Squeeze the juice of half of the lime over the pan and stir the roasted chickpeas and veggies all around. Taste some and see if it needs more spices or anything. Now make a fucking burrito. I like mine with spinach, avocado, cilantro, and some fire roasted salsa but you do your thing.
makes 6-8 burritos
here is a tribe in Africa where the birth date of a child is counted not from when they were born, nor from when they are conceived but from the day that the child was a thought in its mother’s mind. And when a woman decides that she will have a child, she goes off and sits under a tree, by herself, and she listens until she can hear the song of the child that wants to come. And after she’s heard the song of this child, she comes back to the man who will be the child’s father, and teaches it to him. And then, when they make love to physically conceive the child, some of that time they sing the song of the child, as a way to invite it.
And then, when the mother is pregnant, the mother teaches that child’s song to the midwives and the old women of the village, so that when the child is born, the old women and the people around her sing the child’s song to welcome it. And then, as the child grows up, the other villagers are taught the child’s song. If the child falls, or hurts its knee, someone picks it up and sings its song to it. Or perhaps the child does something wonderful, or goes through the rites of puberty, then as a way of honoring this person, the people of the village sing his or her song.
In the African tribe there is one other occasion upon which the villagers sing to the child. If at any time during his or her life, the person commits a crime or aberrant social act, the individual is called to the center of the village and the people in the community form a circle around them. Then they sing their song to them.
The tribe recognizes that the correction for antisocial behavior is not punishment; it is love and the remembrance of identity. When you recognize your own song, you have no desire or need to do anything that would hurt another.
And it goes this way through their life. In marriage, the songs are sung, together. And finally, when this child is lying in bed, ready to die, all the villagers know his or her song, and they sing—for the last time—the song to that person.
You may not have grown up in an African tribe that sings your song to you at crucial life transitions, but life is always reminding you when you are in tune with yourself and when you are not. When you feel good, what you are doing matches your song, and when you feel awful, it doesn’t. In the end, we shall all recognize our song and sing it well. You may feel a little warbly at the moment, but so have all the great singers. Just keep singing and you’ll find your way home.
This is so sweet.