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We are eating genetically modified foods that are so far from food that some seeds are actually not even called seeds. They are called pesticide. Here is a complete list of GMO foods to avoid. They are linked to cancer, ruining the planet, and protected by the government.
Please share this list with everyone you know. Take a stand against Monsanto, take your health into your own hands, and make a statement.
GMO foods are not safe to eat and are not labeled in the markets.
Fun online chat about The 24 Things and how to set your Sankalpa
Fellow 24-er Anne the host of Moms Thoughts radio had me on to talk about 24 Things and how to set your Sankalpa
Clara walked onto the stage and took the microphone in hand. She glanced at her first grade teacher in the wings. The mike clunked, and scratched as it brushed up against her purple, pleated skirt.
“Smile” chirped her teacher and gestured for her to hold the mike to her mouth.
The pianist played the intro to Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Getting To Know You”, but Clara’s vocal cue was met with silence. The lyrics escaped her. She stood motionless.
Seven hundred students, teachers and parents filled the gymnasium. There was no snickering, eye rolling, or elbowing from her fellow students. They supported her with smiles and unwavering attention.
Her teacher came onstage. She got on one knee and put her arm around Clara. “Would you like to try it again next week?” Clara stood in the spotlight, white knuckles wrapped around the microphone and nodded.
Then, as if on cue, the student body yelled out “THAT’S O-KAY” and cheered for little Clara.
My son sat criss-cross on the floor clapping and looking around the room. He was learning, thanks to Clara, about success and the balance needed to realize it.
Read more at The Elephant Journal
I am cleaning out my basement. I clutch my box of Hefty Ultra-flex Garbage Bags, inhale the musty aroma and repeat the mantra – it’s good to let go.
I unearth achievements from old newspapers and unopened gifts that I kept out of guilt. I exhume the exalted size four jeans, with a hole in one knee. I stumble over my college textbooks; their bindings as pristine as the day I purchased them.
I come across a 1995 instruction manual for the telephone system, where I was an office temp in between acting jobs. This reminds me, my agent hasn’t called in seven years. They dropped me the day I told them I was pregnant.
One of the things that surprised me about motherhood was the unanticipated disappearance of my old self. I attribute it to many things; weight gain, lack of sleep and time to myself, giving up a career that I loved, but I felt deeply that I wanted to be home with my child and that required letting go of things that I identified with.
I sift through an old photo album and admire myself in costumes or at parties with other youthful, enthusiastic performers and I wonder what happened to “that girl”. It is as if she was absorbed into the fabric of who I am now. And somewhere, in the process of that melding, I released much of her sarcasm, selfishness, and anger. Though sometimes I miss that feisty, sharp tongued, do almost anything on a dare, girl.
The vacuum cylinder is coated with sparkles and stray pine needles are strewed about the house. The Christmas commotion has settled and it’s perfect time to appreciate all we have, let go of what weighs us down and make space for new dreams in this New Year.
This year, why not toss your resolution and try a Sankalpa—it’s a powerful way to start any endeavor. A Sankalpa is a simple but specific intention; a spiritual resolve. It is like a blank canvas. Kalpa means, idea, imagination of the mind, creation. Each New Year or any new beginning is the time to choose your Sankalpa.
The difference between it and a New Years Resolution is the direction of the energy, behind the determination.
New Year’s Resolutions often require that we give something up—sweets or alcohol—the focus is more on what we have been doing wrong and implies that we are not enough.
But, a Sankalpa focuses on what we want to call into our life, the focus shifts from lack to receiving and abundance.
Read More at the Elephant Journal
by Marylee Fairbanks | May 9th, 2012 | 5 Comments
I don’t like being upside down and backwards. This makes Handstand a challenge for me. I don’t trust that my fellow students can hold me steady while I substitute my hands for feet. It’s a reflection of my own limited thinking, not an accurate assessment of their competence.
Still, I try. I go to class and work gradually. First, I achieved Headstand, which I couldn’t do a year ago. It’s a stepping-stone to the loftier goal of Handstand.
Yoga is always putting new challenges in our paths. Just when we think we have achieved a difficult asana, we discover that it was the modified version. It taught me to give up hope.
An old friend, Christianne, sent me an email. She wrote, “I accidentally gave up hope, but I got it back again.” Her mom, whom she calls Nana, was ill and Christianne was scared.
I’m a normal American Mom. I drop my son at school, hurry to yoga class, swap kids stories with the bank teller, and destroy the Earth.
I wait in the school pick up line with the A/C running. I rest my head and close my eyes and an image comes to mind. It’s been haunting me, accompanying me wherever I go. It’s a bird, oil covered and struggling in the surf. The waves crash over him, his tar soaked wings are powerless. He suffocates. I open my eyes and shake the image away.
The Yoga Sutras say the most difficult task is training the mind. Yoga teaches us to observe thoughts, note if they serve us, and release them. But as much as I try, I can’t release this haunting imagery.
My son jumps into the back seat and tells me about his day on our drive to the grocery store. I search the trunk for my re-useable bags, wipe down my shopping cart until it is 99.9% germ free, and roll into the produce section.
Read more at The Elephant Joural
The lock was jammed again. I checked the keychain, but it was hard to see. The super still had not fixed the light on the stoop. I dropped my bag, sighed, and used two hands to jimmy the lock. Click.
I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was behind me. It was my first year in New York City and I was troubled by the thought that I would end up a tragic statistic. I positioned my bag over my shoulder and readied myself for the six-floor walk up.
My roommate would be home. She didn’t work on Tuesdays, so it was our movie night. We were single and gift-less and it was Valentines Day; or as we called it “Black Tuesday”.
I checked the door was shut behind me and discovered a black, cardboard, heart taped to my mailbox. I turned it over and read a single word, written in red, all caps.
My five year old was disappointed. He sat on the small elf chair at the Christmas worktable,
“Mine’s not good at all. See? All the colors are mixed up.”
“It’s beautiful, pal.” I held the clear, plastic baseball up and wondered if I could rearrange the sand. I twisted the cap, but it was hot-glued and tacky to touch, “Your dad will love it!”
“No, it isn’t good, Mom. Look at Cal’s.” He kicked his leg back and forth and picked at a glob of glittery glue on the tabletop.
Cal, my son’s cousin and best friend, sat at the workbench and poured a scoop of florescent green sand into a funnel. He chose a football instead of a baseball, and worked with elfish attention to detail.
He mapped out the design in his mind, picked his colors deliberately, and in long slow intervals added layer after layer of dyed sand. He squished his cheek on the workbench, and fixed an apprentice’s eye on the shiny specs that drained into the hourglass.
He overheard our conversation, but continued his work. He selected snowy white for the final layer and looked at us. His best buddy sat with his chin in his hand.
Cal completed his endeavor and handed the football to the silver-haired lady elf. Her apron had two red-striped pockets. She holstered candy canes in one and her hot glue gun in the other. She adhered the top of Calvin’s handiwork, “Nice job,” she chirped, “you would make a fine helper for Santa.” Calvin smiled and joined his cousin at the sticky table.
Thanks for the interview Energy Healing Info.
Dianne sat next to me in second grade. Her last name started with a G but I can’t remember it. She never looked you in the eye, rarely brushed her hair, and always sat alone. She concealed her bitten fingernails under hand-me-down sleeves and poked a hole in the end for her thumbs to stick out. I think of her every time I buy an expensive jogging shirt with a convenient “thumb hole for added warmth”. I have always wanted to find her because I need to tell her something.
It was the early 1970s so the tormenting lacked the mercilessness that today’s cyber-bullying provides, but she seemed unhappy and alone.
Today, I listen to the news, a continuous loop of bullying stories ending in arrests, controversy, and heart breaking suicides. I am frightened for the future of my young son.
“The king's name is Gukubita. It means ‘beat’. But don't worry, he beats his chest not his visitors." Our guide Eugene winks, adjusts the automatic rifle on his shoulder, and turns toward the jungle.
We walk up the base of the Sambinyo Volcano to track Gukubita and his family of mountain gorillas.
Rwanda’s volcano region is called the Virunga Mountains and is the place Dian Fossey founded the Karasoke Research Center in 1967 to study and protect the gorillas.
Karasoke protects one third of all mountain gorillas in the Virungas, and because of their efforts the critically endangered population has increased by almost seven hundred.
Eugene’s machete rings out a high Cschringgg, as it strikes the bamboo thicket. The lush, emerald-colored terrain is difficult to navigate. There are no trails, so we walk on top of the vegetation.
I lie in my driveway and wave my arms and legs. Harry, my 11 month old border collie, jumps on top of me, mouth open, tongue hanging out, smiling. He steals my hat and runs. I give up my snow angel and try to get it back.
“Mom!” my son calls. “Pretend you are the bad guy and I am a superhero destroying your icy lair.” He stands atop a six-foot drift that the plow left behind.
I smell the fire my husband built in the kitchen hearth. My face feels cold. “Lets take our picture, head in, and eat cupcakes,” I tell him. The lure of sprinkled covered, vanilla icing trumps his superhero game.
His Dad comes out carrying a camera and our 12-week-old puppy, Tom. We endeavor to get our son and dogs to pose in front of our newly built snowman. Little Tom sinks into the drift. His black fur is coated with ice. I scoop him up, hold him and smile into the camera.
My boy and I build a snowman after every snowstorm. Then we eat cupcakes. It’s our little tradition that I offer up to my father.
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“I hate this shirt.” My son takes the grey polo shirt, rolls it up in a ball and drops it.
“What do you mean you hate it? It’s a perfectly nice shirt. I just bought it for school. Please put it on and don’t say hate.”
“I don’t want to wear it.”
“Just put it on. We’re late.”
“I don’t like it!”
“Put it on!”
My husband hears this and enters the room. “Hey Bud, let’s go check out your shirts.” he says and leads our boy up to his bedroom. He supports my position. He lays out some clothes and they feel the textures. They talk about the change of season and joke about frozen knees in January. Then, he allows our boy a choice between three appropriate shirts. Meanwhile, I’m in the kitchen putting a stray plate into the dishwasher, wrapping a freshly baked blueberry muffin for the ride, wiping smudges off the countertop, and fighting back tears.
This is my Monday morning after I invested 15 sweaty, awareness-enhancing hours doing yoga. I took a weekend workshop with Johnny Gillespie who, with the use of straps, blocks and a 95-degree room, encouraged us to slow our practice and uncover bad habits.
“A slower practice brings a deeper level of awareness.” Johnny says and tightens the straps on our forearms and calves. My muscles fight back with twitches and cramps, but our leader assures us that we were “unwinding dysfunction”. “You will continue to strengthen the very thing that causes you pain unless you retrain the body and mind.”
I think, the five-minute forward bend with a cork block wedged in-between my thighs is the very thing causing me pain.
“Okay guys, find a partner because we’re going to work on handstands. No walls!” Johnny announces.
Marylee Graffeo Fairbanks is a writer, mother, and yoga teacher.
She is a columnist for Gaiam Yoga, Bliss.com, and Life as a Human, and an editor and contributor with The Elephant Journal.
She is a registered yoga teacher, Reiki practitioner, and founder of Chakras Yoga and The 24 Things. Prior to having her son, she performed in musicals, in New York and across the country.
chakras yoga | po box 189, west boxford, ma 01921, usa
