This time, the book I will be talking about is Wild Winds, Adventures in the High Andes, written by Ed Darack. I came upon this book from a friend. She was finishing her service and was getting rid of some of her non-essential items. She saw the book and figured I might like it. So she gifted it to me. Wild Winds is about a mountaineer and photographer (Darack) and his passion for photographing… Read More
via Daily Prompt: Branch This is me, I am but a tree. With my roots in the ground, I am able to grow round. Through the winter cold, until the river runs bold. My branches are strong, by the wind they sing a song. Of patience and realness, and love for stillness.
Water turns to snow and the earth begins its glow. A blanket swaddles the earth, except cold and not of the hearth. We animals seek refuge inside. Afraid of summer’s winter bride. Waiting, we try to survive. Only some are able to thrive. They are those who dealt with the froze. They are those who find the first rose.
Up I climb, into the skies. Spent some time as mother’s eyes. Shared her breath, my legs they hung. Spent some time as mother’s lung.
Introduction Food scholars have found that some areas within the alternative food movement, such as farmer’s markets and natural-grocers, operate as exclusionary spaces that primarily serve privileged white shoppers. The rhetoric used, attitudes upheld and physical characteristics of these spaces ostracize non-white individuals, effectively making the high quality, organic and locally grown food inaccessible to them. This ethnographic study examines a natural grocer and farmer’s market in Boulder, CO, utilizing the usage… Read More
Tall as mountains and Strong like a boulder. Listen to them, for they are older. Hard as wood but Soft as a lung. Here is where those monkeys hung. Deep as roots and Old as earth. It is to them, whom we owe our birth.
Today is a day A day Like all the rest Yet, we set it aside As if to show our pride To whom are we trying to prove that as one, we think we move? The fear inside Tells me its all just a ride But maybe Maybe It’s actually a look inside Two whom are we trying to show That as one, we go in the same flow? Perhaps it is… Read More
From up on high, the ascendants cry, of happiness and truth, here they are young as youth. All is temporary, they cannot be stationary. Descend, the ascendants of the peak. From down below, the descendants search, yearning for that heavenly perch. Upward, their gaze to the sky, longing to give another hearty cry.
This is me, I am but a tree. With my roots in the ground, I am able to grow round. Through the winter cold, until the river runs bold. My branches are strong, by the wind they sing a song. Of patience and realness, and love for stillness.