RED PANTS LEGACY
Red Pants for the World is a project designed to support an army of young women living created lives, altering the planet. We are committed to all women living great lives despite their circumstances. Our first program is to support the women in rural Afghanistan.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Thursday, July 8, 2010
This week I'm sharing links in honor of the UN's CEDAW--The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women -- in celebration of women and children around the world and their right to freedom and full self-expression.
CEDAW The Convention on the Elimination of all forms of Discrimination against Women A Priority:
Nepal Orphans Home - attends to the welfare of children who are orphaned, abandoned, or not supported by their parents, providing for basic needs, schooling, and health care with love and compassion:
Half The Sky Foundation:
The Hunger Project:
Three Cups of Tea:
Afghan Women's Writing Project:
And in memory of Emily, whose life continues to fully flower.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Like an enervated man
Gasping for air
Like a wounded bird
Searching for remedy
Like a guilty conscience
Seeking some virtue
Like a hungry child
Craving some sustenance
Like a thirsty creature
Yearning for some water
I want some serenity
I need some harmony
I am waiting for some tranquility
Come please Come
Peace Peace Peace
It’s sunny day. It comes back to me in slow
motion. I’m three years old. My father is often
amazed at the fact that I should remember this far
back into my childhood. I tell him the
memories are unforgettable.
Paper continues to fall, communist
propaganda literally rains down on us. The
helicopters are so noisy, so high in the sky. I
stand looking up, my arms are wide open. I want
to catch all the pieces of falling paper.
Paper, paper, everywhere
At least it’s better than when they decide to shower
us with bullets.
Mother is at work. She is a teacher at the school
across the street. You can see it when you
go outside the huge walls of my grandparents’
The walls are made of the thick hay and mud. I
remember the walls. The height of them makes me
feel protected. I imagine that these walls
are strong enough to stop the rockets.
I go inside the house to play behind the big black
couch in the main guestroom. This is where we
hide when the sirens sound in the middle of the
One night, I hear my father pray for us to die
together if we are hit. That night he holds mother
and I close to him. I can feel him shivering as I
secretly agree with him. I’ve never seen father
Now, I play with my big red doll when it happens. I
hear a loud noise. I know it is a bomb. I run out
into the garden. Somehow, I find my hand in my
aunt’s hand and I am being pulled behind her.
Small feet try to keep up.
Everyone gathers outside,
smoke rises from the direction of the school. I see
it come up over the wall. The noise numbs my ears.
There is screaming and shouting on the other side
where mother is.
We run out of the gates, into the street, though I
am hesitant. I don’t want to see her pieces lying
before me. She would be coming home for
All I see is smoke. My heart has stopped, my
knees shake, I know she’s gone. Everyone is
crying. My grandmother holds me. My head is on her
chest and I watch the smoke. I don’t say a word. I want
her to walk out of the smoke. That’s all I want.
I break free of my grandmother. I stand alone, but
I do not cry. After that I don’t remember what
happens. What I do recall is my mother, running
out of the smoke. She runs towards me. I’m in her
arms. I can smell her. She smells of mother. She
holds me tight. She cries as she whispers “we have
to get away from here.”
My mouth is dry.
If you are moved by these writings and pictures, please support Provence Solidaire Afghanistan or contact this blog by email to see how you can support women in Afghanistan.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
to hear my cries?
to see my tears?
Where is the wind
to refresh my flames?
sitting in the cell of my grief
When the birds fly back home
When the winter is gone
When the spring sun shines again
You will be here
You will be back
Winter is gone
Birds are back home
Spring sun is shining
You are not here
You are not back
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- Residing Bloomington, Indiana for twenty years, my life is about all people living created lives. I am a four book contracted fiction writer, a thirty-five year graduate of the work of transformation with Landmark Education and est, and I love my life, my fantastic daughter, Rudi and my ex-husband, Keith.