This article was originally published by New America Weekly. I am an arms
Who doesn’t love a fresh salad in summer? During the warmer months, I
Unlike many yoga stories, mine did not begin by coming to the mat
This article was originally published by New America Weekly. I am an arms dealer in Libya, but my weapons reduce violence and last longer than a bullet. As the founder of the Voice of Libyan Women (VLW), a women’s
Who doesn’t love a fresh salad in summer? During the warmer months, I love to eat a vegan salad for lunch and save the hot meals for evening. It's really easy to make a tasty salad that’s full of
Unlike many yoga stories, mine did not begin by coming to the mat through a transformative or life-changing event. My life was humming along nicely, full of family, friends, and a sense of security. Truthfully, the only reason I
I grew up in a society deeply wounded by war. The USSR of my childhood was covered with monuments to war heroes. The culture was saturated with movies, books, and songs dedicated to the bravery of the Soviet soldiers defending their motherland. Every family was affected, as the USSR’s total death toll in World War II was about 24 million, or roughly 14 percent of the population—a number too large for me to truly grasp
In July 2015, Rosemary Alles left her high-paying job with NASA’s SOFIA mission and began the process of leaving behind her San Francisco home and giving away her possessions. She’s moving to South Africa to advocate for elephants, in order to give everything she can to these beautiful creatures. Why such a drastic move? Depending on whose numbers you go by, there are only 200,000 to 400,000 African elephants left. An elephant is killed for its
In many ways, my search began on YouTube, that ubiquitous archive of modern life in all its glamour and grime. I am a strong believer in the process of the “YouTube wormhole,” a spiritual practice (should you choose to view it as such) in which a person watches a video and then selects a subsequent clip that is provided by some higher-power algorithm on the page’s side panel. This process can be repeated ad nauseam
Invoke calls on the collective wisdom of women. As a magazine, we publish articles that uplift, empower, and connect women. As a community, we’ll nurture creativity through weekly practices, monthly writing circles, retreats, and more.
We believe women’s voices are vital medicine for this time on our planet and every woman has a creative spark to share. We invite you to join us!
When I was 29 years old, I jumped out of an airplane for the first time. Until then, my idea of an extreme sport had been jaywalking. But my sister had been trying to get me to do it for years, and since she was the women’s freestyle skydiving world champion nine years in a row and had survived more than 5,000 jumps without injury, I figured I’d probably be okay. So I said yes.
My brain is in that mushy, fresh-out-of-ceremony state: I just spent four nights dancing under the full moon with 200 women from all over the world as a part of an ancient Mexica rite. We fasted, we prayed, we sang our hearts out. We were up all night freezing our tushes off and were up all day getting broiled by temazcals and the fierce Costa Rican sun. It was hard—mentally, physically, emotionally—in ways I still
Growing up, my body felt like my despised enemy. It was slow, overweight, and the reason I was mercilessly outcast by my peers. My body became a place I never wanted to inhabit, which is a slippery slope. After anxiety, disordered eating, a sexual assault, and depression, I now realize how disconnected I was from my form and what my body was telling me. Discovering yoga in high school and eventually earning my 200-hour teacher
Many memoirs have covered the terrain of grief, but Nora McInerny Purmort’s does so with more sass, swearing, and style than most. For a book that chronicles the author’s experience losing her husband, father, and unborn baby all within two months, it’s a surprisingly funny and enjoyable read. (Which isn’t entirely surprising if you've read the Minneapolis author’s blog My Husband’s Tumor or saw Aaron’s obituary, which revealed his true identity as Spider-Man, who’d lost his