Guess what I’m making today. Hellls to the YEAHHHHHHH.
Also I am 80% plant based diet, 20% meat. I feel best this way. Any of the two extremes I really feel off balance. I think it is important to listen to your body intuitively and not propagandist literature about what is good for you. Your body has a voice. Listen to it.

As for those that consume with a conscience yes I’m all for knowing where your food is sourced. What you eat is as much political as it is personal and with the eruption of all the information we have out there it is important to find what personally works for you. And also most importantly to not judge or change others but only to cultivate awareness. That is key, after all. You are only responsible for your own body. What other people do is their own choice and business. Thank you and ok 🙏

 

What the Living Do

By Marie Howe

This is the everyday we
spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight
pours through

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here, and
I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street,
the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying
along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
that yearning.What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to
pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss – we want more and more and
then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing
so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m
speechless:

I am living, I remember you.”

-Marie Howe

*
There’s a ghost in my right wrist. I have to see the man with the pins and he may say that my feet are the problem. Or maybe it’s the region above my spleen. East less salt, he might say. Or control the fire in your belly. In high-school, a boy told me that most of my organs were controlled in the webbed section between my thumb and pointer finger. He said this while pressing the skin between his fingers. I could feel my head throb less and I have to say that I believed him. And I believe him still. Pain is a good teacher. And the absence of it. (But the problem of presence is we can’t ignore it. And the problem with absence is that we can.) Still, it is hard to believe that such a small part of my own geography could govern such higher, more secretive organs.