Healing In A Time Of Hate (And Hate Activism)
I thought the activists who approached me wanted to heal the wounded. I was wrong. There’s no healing when there is hate.
IdeART
Bleeding Colour
Body positivity starts with treating your self as a work of art.
City | Fiction | Pop Culture
An Illusion Of Taste – A Mumbai Story
The image is a depiction of the Mumbai skyline done in makeup. The text is a story about Mumbai’s goddess.
Checklist For Letting Go
At some point, you have to let go of the people who you think healed you because they’re no more than crutches. Maybe you needed them once but letting them go is part of growth. There is no glory in suffering, no love in neediness. Shared pain is an opportunity,…
The Romance Gardener
I found my kinship with green things when I was 8, watching fascinated as baby shoots poked out of the mud laid on a try, where I’d sprinkled mustard seeds a few days earlier. I didn’t know it then but I became a gardener that day.
Living Art
I’ve loved painting since I was young enough to find joy leaving my fingerprints on walls & my own face. That has not changed. Something about the interplay of colour & the feel of pigment in every form just makes me sit right. I feel like I tap into a…
When Shame Defines You
When shame defines you, it takes root in the fertile ground that is you, to propagate more of itself. Thus, the ashamed becomes the shamer.
Keep Your Kudo
Are you chasing compliments, dodging insults, fighting defensively? Are you building your identity propped on someone else’s kudo? Compliments are not about your feelings or you, at all.
Threadwork Therapy: Crochet Needle Healing
I picked up the crochet needle today. I began crocheting in 2002 after I heard it was calming. My impatient younger self had been bored by the labor but in 2002 I found something else. I was struggling through something I did not understand, had no support or idea how…
A Song Of Silence
What does loneliness sound like? A scream that no one seems to hear. Gasps that don’t make it past the throat. Sentences written in invisible ink. The redacted words on a page. It’s feeling unwanted, unnecessary, irrelevant even. Then you remember. You still exist. The print under the graffiti, the face…