“I’m on a vegan, no sugar-added, raw foods-only diet,” I declared on my second orthopedic visit.
The doctor smiled, a tiny little pity smile that made me feel as weak as a child. “But what do you eat?” he asked.
I went from proud to panicked in one breathless instant. “Uh..” I stuttered, caught unexpected like a deer in headlights. What’s my go-to list? “Lots of veggies and fruits? Legumes, uh, tofu…nuts and, yeah that’s pretty much it.”
An essay by Bethany N. Bella Continue reading
I felt infinite.
Running has always been my excitatory excuse for release. I grew up believing I was the fastest (wo)man alive, idolizing track & field Olympics and my Jesse Owens biography book like it was the Bible. Running has always made me feel infinite.
A poem by Bethany N. Bella
“I think I want to be an entrepreneur,” I typed at 10:28 a.m. on December 16, 2016.
One balmy December morning, I decided to take a stroll outside during my four weeks of recharge (5 miles on a fractured fibula, but that’s another story). I wasn’t really looking for an intense workout, with my injured ankle and all, nor was I searching internally for career trajectory – just a baby-blue sky and a mind wide open for ideas.
The thought appeared to me suddenly, as if the waters to promised prosperity evaporated, and I could finally begin to see the path to my future purpose.
I think I want to be a local-food, regenerative agriculture, organically minded entrepreneur (who just also happens to be a vegan, a minimalist, a yogi, a storyteller, and an intersectional ecofeminist – nonexclusive entities in this contract called life).
I’m moving a lot slower this semester than usual – and it’s not just the aforementioned fractured fibula.
By Bethany N. Bella
Despite recent press coverage about the violence against international environmental defenders, another prominent figure has been murdered in cold blood.
On Sunday, January 15, 2017, world-renowned environmental activist Isidro Baldenegro López was killed in his uncle’s home in northern Mexico by a gunman, according to the local prosecutor’s report. He was 51 years old. The New York Times reports the alleged shooter, Romero Rubio Martínez, fired six shots and then fled the scene. Baldenegro died hours later.
A poem of resistance | Bethany N. Bella
“Do you have any paint at home?” I texted at 1:52 p.m. “Wall paint, any color. I just had this uncanny desire to make an accent wall in my room..”
My mother’s response was prompt, seemingly unfazed by my latest creative declaration. “All paint is in the basement … not sure what all is down there?”
“Cool! I’ll check!” I sent back hurriedly, already scuttling off to the basement and abandoning the conversation in my wake.
So goes living with a right-brained, zany Aquarius who plucks passion projects out of the air, committing to DO before the urge to create vanishes.