A daughter's embarrassment of her mother's alternative approaches to healing turns into a letter of admiration and an apology.
We celebrate National Poetry Month, welcome our new columnist Sharon Salzberg, and imbibe the magic of k.d. lang's version of "Hallelujah" in this week's thread of good reads.
Hibernation restores us to our nourishing, grounding source and in so doing, frees us to become a force of reason, reflection, and kindness. A meditation for the gifts of winter and the blessings of solitude and rest.
For International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day, a suicide survivor asks us open ourselves to loss and allow each other the space to mourn and grieve without shame. If we support the healing of the soul, she writes, we may begin to celebrate our inner resilience and the divine spark in us all.
The video of Ray Rice hitting Janay Rice has prompted all sorts of responses. Rather than resorting to humiliation and social isolation, how do we deal with generational legacies of violence when it confronts us in the news cycle? A call to see the pain before us, and create consequences and opportunities for cultural transformation — not public shaming.
A Quaker chaplain offers some candid insights on being a minister to trauma. In the midst of chaos and suffering, she writes, deep shame can transform itself into hope.
You will not believe how a cancer doctor uses the venom from a scorpion's sting to paint the malignant tumors in children's brains and lymphatic systems. And, in the process, tap the human spirit.
Trent Gilliss finds inspiration in all things good: a civil rights pilgrimage in Alabama, a video on empathy, a potential pope right under our noses, and some playful voices in the Twittersphere.
In the Sikh faith, the role of the nurturer is one, among many, of the celebrated roles of all Sikhs, regardless of gender.
My last two years in Brooklyn I felt fortunate to have the view I did. My windows faced east, and, although the blank wall of another building loomed large directly in front, to the right grew a luscious tree and above was an unobstructed view of sky. I often woke at dawn and would stand on the fire escape and soak in the morning, while it still felt clear and clean.
This past summer, I drove to Chicago withGrace Boggs and Myrtle Thompson of Feedom Freedom Growers for some book-signing events and radio interviews. During the four- to five-hour drive from Detroit, Myrtle and I shared stories about raising our children. Grace didn’t say much.
We receive quite a few responses from people who are spurred to create or make something, to act or make a decision after listening to one of our shows. Renee Yates, a woman with multiple degrees in advertising, marketing, and theology living in Evanston, Illinois, wrote this poem “after listening to Ms. Tippett’s interview with the Dalai Lama”:
A story of learning and friendship and circles of learning in which each person is a teacher — of learning how to live with death and learning how to live.
Photo by Katie Harris/Flickr, cc by-nc-nd 2.0
Don’t worry. The article you are about to read has nothing to do with what you should or shouldn’t put on your Thanksgiving dinner plate. There’s nothing worse than having your hopes for the perfect holiday meal dashed by someone telling you that you might want to think twice before choosing this or that side dish.
No, this article is about the undeniable health benefits of thanksgiving — that is, the conscious expression of gratitude — itself.
Gratitude is extolled by every religion on earth as an essential virtue. Cicero, the renowned Roman orator, called it “not only the greatest of the virtues but the parent of all others.” Only recently, however, have medical researchers begun delving into the impact gratitude has on our mental and physical health.
In his new book, Parker Palmer takes a deep and wise look at the loss of values that have impoverished American democracy and public life. He discusses healing the heart of democracy and the five habits necessary in moving forward. Our extended correspondence interview with the Quaker elder and educator.
On a morning, sharp with winter, fresh with cold, I rise and walk on mesa paths,
red with longing-mine, red with loving-mine.
In slivers of air, here and there, smells of sage come and go. But their memory always lingers.
Bluejays dart through juniper without even a hello. But ravens stop and chat.
From the tops of topmost branches, they say: one day, you’ll understand our conversation.
And it maddens me. By which I mean, it gladdens me beyond belief. Or rather, into it.
Every day is the anniversary of something. The date on the calendar ripples with other dates, other stories.
For one woman with MS, a tree reminds her to make t'shuva — to turn inward, to return to goodness and godliness in preparation for the High Holy Days. A guest reflection for all to ponder.
During the month before the High Holy Days, it's Jewish tradition to read Psalm 27, writes our guest contributor. She reflects on turning inward and the struggle of preparing for quiet reflection.
I’m from the fire my father had for life and the fire my mother had for living. His was fueled by parties, drugs, wit, and self-involvement, hers by longing, anger, spite, and sweat. He was vivid.
When a poet is assaulted in a grocery parking lot for the length of his shorts, what does he do? Write a poem. A guest post from Luke Hankins.
In addition to providing me with a least a decade’s worth of entertainment, J.K Rowling’s Harry Potter series has also given me a fresh and hopefully meaningful way to explain my not-always-easy-to explain religion to others. And given that practically half the world has either read or seen the last installment of this epic series, I feel comfortable doing so without fear of spoiling the ending.
But first a little background…
When I moved to Jerusalem two years ago, I thought for sure that I would continue my yoga practice, especially after having yoga present in my life in so many ways for so many years. And I thought that I would even find others in this holy city to practice with. A sangha, a space, a teacher.
If there is one tangible object that represents my mother, it would be a quilt. She spent my childhood making beautiful patterns: lone stars, flying geese, double wedding rings. Each stitch was exactly even and the corners of the fabric joined together just right.