Generous African Grey Parrot Shares Food Tokens With Another Parrot So They Can Both ‘Buy’ Walnut Treats
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Generous African Grey Parrot Shares Food Tokens With Another Parrot So They Can Both ‘Buy’ Walnut Treats
Explaining My Depression to My Mother: a Conversation
by Sabrina Benaim
Mom, my depression is a shapeshifter. One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear, The next, it’s the bear. On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone. I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.” Mom says, “Try lighting candles.” When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame, Sparks of a memory younger than noon. I am standing beside her open casket. It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die. Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark. Perhaps, that’s part of the problem. Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.” I can’t. Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head. Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?” Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party. Only I am a party I don’t want to be at. Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?” Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go. I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go. It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom. You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company. Mom says, “Try counting sheep.” But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake; So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in. Mom says, “Happy is a decision.” But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break. Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying. No. I am afraid of living. Mom, I am lonely. I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely — The lonely into busy; So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching SportsCenter on the couch To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed. But my depression always drags me back to my bed Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city, My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves. The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat, But I am a careless tourist here. I will never truly know everywhere I have been. Mom still doesn’t understand. Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?
Edward Hopper painting as a gif
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Burst into bloom this morning. Platycodon. Balloon flower. 💙Monday July 19, 2021
Dehydrated Snake Gratefully Drinks Water From the Hand of a Compassionate Hiker in Thailand Park
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Lead Head Glass on Etsy
I’m still processing all of the wisdom shared in the recent @yogaforhumankind Trauma Informed & Community Yoga Training. Co-facilitators @meilaiswanyoga and @jo.buick and all the participants shared in such an inspirational, insightful, heart felt and authentic way it gives me so much hope for the future! We covered some tough and important terrain from Trauma theory to social justice and an indepth exploration of the nervous system, but the theoretical was beautifully balanced with the experiential. There were many helpful self regulation practices shared, ample time for rest and restorative yoga, mutual support from the group and beautiful music from Mei Lai (and everyone else who sang along). Mama and Baby sloth as a beautiful embodiment of co regulation are an actual memory from this course - as well as an expression of the feeling of being nurtured and supported through growth - which was a big part of the experience. I’m so grateful for this experience and the chance to evolve as a ‘Trauma Informed Human’. . . . . #gardenofyoga #traumainformedyoga #traumainformedyogatraining #yogaforhumankind #sloth #yoga #mentalhealth #mentalhealthawareness #yogalife #yogalove #yogateacher #yogateacherlife
Sloth photo by @jay.79photo https://www.instagram.com/p/B8Nhktrg01G/?igshid=rxj15ivnni8s
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The Kiss of the oceans - postcard from 1923
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Link to buy a fine facsimile of this postcard above..^^^^
“A book is a dream you hold in your hand”
— Neil Gaiman
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Sabrina Benaim - “Unrequited Love In 9 Parts”
“Unrequited love, A play in nine acts. One : The questions hangs a hook through my pink cheek. How did you do that thing that you did to my heart? Two : Because isn’t the real tragedy how you found yourselves in one another. How you took one brief look into the mirror of her, turned around, and walked away. Three : The girls arms are empty. But her fists are filled with the laughter of ghosts. Watch their fitful ridicule each time she cries over love less real than they are. Four : there are baseballs falling out of my mouth. Each ball a name of a body i reached for in the dark to find myself. A parade of honest names slip from the grip of my loose glove jaw. The love i want is a basketball. A heavy thumping in the chest. When it is my turn to step up to the plate, I do not swing. I do not swing. Five : Her name is a wooden ship. To try and force it into his glass bottle heart would only break her. Six : A montage of all the times i wished out had taken my hand, and then when you didn’t, and the moment passed, a montage of all the i wished myself far far away to. Portland, Barcelona. Basically any place i have never seen your smile. Seven : What is the name of a place everyone can see is burning? But no one can feel the effects of the smoke or the heat of the flames except the place. and that place is not a place but a person. and that person is the I in my poems only it’s my real life body that aches. And isn’t that love? not being able to see the explosion even though you are the one holding the bomb? and the bomb is also you? Eight : The girls hair turns to forget-me-nots and thyme. Her bones soften to willow branches, her skin flaws maple leaves. Her chest is a cabinet of well stacked cigar boxes. caskets carrying memories, she is slow turning to ash. In lieu of conversation, she passes smoke. The girl collects sea shells. Up-turns them into bowls, fills them with dried lavender and amethyst in hopes of luring someone new. Still, remembering is her favourite pass time. She cannot hold her heart up without trembling so she hides it away in bottomless midnights which are her grief, but are also her lust. The girl is now a girl who is also a whale, full of unoccupied space and its tragic how she displaces her emptiness with loneliness. How she wants and wants and wants and needs to know why. why the boy might want to live so far away from her now when his house is only a couple blocks south of ten minutes. And all that space lays still. Loud as a snails cry. Wouldn’t I know about crawling up inside ones self. Wouldn’t I know about a body full of waiting and a floor clean as a plate in a cupboard holding nine other plates onto of it, how its all so unbearable. Holding love. How it makes the girl feel helpless. This period of heavy pockets. Of change her heart is unwilling to make. Nine : Did you hear me? I said I love you. I said I still love you. Still, you.”