Where The Sidewalk Ends

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. #beinspired

Wed, 22 May 2013 20:40:17 -0400

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. #beinspired

I rock ruff and stuff with my afro puff #MyNaturalIsDope...

Wed, 22 May 2013 18:17:47 -0400

I rock ruff and stuff with my afro puff #MyNaturalIsDope #mybeautifultwa #luvyourmane #urbanhairpost

My #horoscope for today is on point. #Leo #DailyOm #Energy...

Sun, 19 May 2013 14:58:18 -0400

My #horoscope for today is on point. #Leo #DailyOm #Energy #Exchange #FixedFireSign #Zodiac #SunSign #RulingSign

thegodmolecule: here is a tribe in Africa where the birth date...

Sun, 19 May 2013 01:45:56 -0400

thegodmolecule:

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.

Marching won’t do it. Voting won’t do it. Rallies...

Sat, 18 May 2013 22:39:01 -0400

Marching won’t do it. Voting won’t do it. Rallies won’t do it. Going to church or the mosque won’t do it. Civil disobedience won’t do it. Rioting won’t do it. Keeping our money in our community is the only thing that will do it. And when I say “our community” I don’t mean simply patronizing stores and businesses in your hood. I mean establishing supporting BLACK-OWNED businesses. In the Jewish community, their dollar bounces 18 times before it leaves a Jewish hand. In the Asian community, their dollar bounces 10-12 times before it leaves an Asian hand. In the Hispanic community, their dollar bounces 4 times before it leaves a Hispanic hand. Black dollars don’t bounce. As soon as we get a dollar, we spend in a non-Black owned business. At the rate we’re going, we’re going to spend ourselves into oblivion. Conspicuous consumption is a sickness, and the Black community is terminal.

#nocaptionneeded #selfexplanatory

Fri, 17 May 2013 14:22:28 -0400

#nocaptionneeded #selfexplanatory

Photo

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:37:29 -0400

Photo

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:20:56 -0400

thelionesspurrs: 8-inch chocolate penis that oozes fondant...

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:13:33 -0400

thelionesspurrs:

8-inch chocolate penis that oozes fondant cream… Fresh mint fondant, Valencia orange fondant, Williams Pear liqueur fondant, Mozart chocolate liqueur fondant, Cointreau liqueur fondant and Irish coffee liqueur fondant.

United Indecent Pleasures

(via skindeap)

I need this in my life.

*purrs*

thelovenotebook: Love quotes? you will love this blog!

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:11:07 -0400

thelovenotebook:

Love quotes? you will love this blog!

"Meditation is another dimension of natural beauty. People talk about appreciating natural beauty —..."

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:10:47 -0400

““Meditation is another dimension of natural beauty. People talk about appreciating natural...

Photo

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:10:00 -0400

every day i remind myself that it won’t be as long as it has been….

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:04:40 -0400

every day i remind myself that it won’t be as long as it has been….

purestone: Fell in love with the artistry.

Fri, 17 May 2013 00:02:39 -0400

purestone:

Fell in love with the artistry.

"If you are having trouble with your enthusiasm for sadhana, just tell yourself: “I may be dead in..."

Thu, 16 May 2013 23:58:24 -0400

“If you are having trouble with your enthusiasm for sadhana, just tell yourself: “I may be...

thelovenotebook: Love quotes? you will love this blog!

Thu, 16 May 2013 23:57:41 -0400

thelovenotebook:

Love quotes? you will love this blog!

thelovenotebook: Love quotes? you will love this blog!

Thu, 16 May 2013 23:48:50 -0400

thelovenotebook:

Love quotes? you will love this blog!

its-salah: Following his release from Guantanamo Bay, Sami...

Thu, 16 May 2013 23:47:52 -0400

its-salah:

Following his release from Guantanamo Bay, Sami Al-Hajj, a (former) Guantanamo Bay detainee, dashes towards his eight year old son Mohammad and swoops him up in his arms, hugging him and planting tender kisses on his face in their first reunion after seven years.

After being imprisoned in Guantanamo Bay for seven years, during which he was repeatedly interrogated and tortured, including being physically, sexually, and psychologically abused, Al Hajj was released without any charges held against him.

Al Hajj, a journalist for the Al Jazeera network, was arrested in Pakistan in 2001 while on his way to do camerawork for the network concerning the war that had recently broken out in Afghanistan. It has been speculated by both Al Hajj’s lawyer, Clive Stafford Smith, and Reporters Without Borders that the main reason that he was incarcerated for so long was due to the US Miliary’s desire to make him an informant against Al Jazeera, as most of Al Hajj’s interrogations consisted of American interrogators questioning him about the (Al Jazeera) network.

While in Guantanamo, Al Hajj wrote a poem titled Humiliated in Shackles to his son Mohammad:

When I heard pigeons cooing in the trees,
Hot tears covered my face.

When the lark chirped, my thoughts composed
A message for my son.

Mohammad, I am afflicted.
In my despair, I have no one but Allah for comfort.

The oppressors are playing with me,
As they move freely around the world.

They ask me to spy on my countrymen,
Claiming it would be a good deed.

They offer me money and land,
And freedom to go where I please.

Their temptations seize
My attention like lightning in the sky.

But their gift is an empty snake,
Carrying hypocrisy in its mouth like venom,

They have monuments to liberty
And freedom of opinion, which is well and good.

But I explained to them that
Architecture is not justice.

America, you ride on the backs of orphans,
And terrorize them daily.

Bush, beware.
The world recognizes an arrogant liar.

To Allah I direct my grievance and my tears.
I am homesick and oppressed.

Mohammad, do not forget me.
Support the cause of your father, a God-fearing man.

I was humiliated in the shackles.
How can I now compose verses? How can I now write?

After the shackles and the nights and the suffering and the tears,
How can I write poetry?

My soul is like a roiling sea, stirred by anguish,
Violent with passion.

I am a captive, but the crimes are my captors’.
I am overwhelmed with apprehension.

Lord, unite me with my son Mohammad.
Lord, grant success to the righteous.

Why Stand Ye Here Gazing? (A Rant)

Thu, 16 May 2013 13:44:41 -0400

Why are we always so shocked and awed and amazed by corruption, greed, lies, and murder? Why do we...

What’s a lioness without a lion? What a queen without a...

Wed, 15 May 2013 11:54:34 -0400

What’s a lioness without a lion? What a queen without a king? What’s a woman without a man? Sistas, we must abandon the misguided ideology of western feminism that says “I don’t need no man. I’m am independent woman.” Our African traditional spirituality and culture is based on the equal and complementary partnership and balance of the masculine and feminine. African deities had spouses. European deities are lifelong bachelors with no feminine presence. Queens, we need our Kings, and they need us. We’re better together.