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ausetkmt · 1 year

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The car made its way along a tree-lined gravel road. The sky was clear, and as the car drove by, the trees swayed from side to side, almost like a sign of welcome. The road opened up into a large pasture. In the middle of the pasture was a wooden pergola with grapes growing on it and a circular garden surrounding it. Tiny houses darted the pasture, as brown children played merrily in the mud. In the center of all of this, planting in the circular garden like she was Mother Earth herself, was a Black woman.

For Chantel Johnson, this scene was “heaven.” It was actually Bear Creek, North Carolina, in May 2016, but more importantly, it was Johnson’s first glimpse into homesteading, and she was hooked at first sight.

Johnson, an African-American woman in her late 20s at the time, made her way up the gravel road that day with her boyfriend, whom she’d met a few months prior on OK Cupid. Johnson was attracted to his profile picture: a shot of him standing with goats. She recalls thinking to herself, “Are those goats? I want to meet those goats!”

Chantel Johnson at her first homestead in Chatham County, North Carolina, 2016. Photo courtesy Chantel Johnson

Johnson was grieving and depressed. It had been less than a year since her younger brother, who had been shot and paralyzed on the South Side of Chicago in 2014, succumbed to his injuries and passed away, in August 2015.

She carried that grief with her up the gravel road that day to visit her boyfriend’s friends, an interracial couple — Black wife and white husband, with kids — who owned a 30-acre homestead in Bear Creek. When the friends offered Johnson and her beau the opportunity to live with them on the homestead and help out, Johnson jumped at the chance. If this was heaven, then perhaps she could find the antidote for her grief here.

One of the first official uses of the term “homesteading” was in 1862 with the passing of the Homestead Act, signed by President Abraham Lincoln to encourage western expansion and United States agricultural development. But the act of homesteading — a focus on self-sufficiency dependent on the land, with an emphasis on subsistence agriculture — predates the Homestead Act, especially for Black Americans.

Homesteading knowledge and skills allowed slaves to create a modicum of a life for themselves by growing their own supplemental food, raising small livestock and making needed tools and home goods. This same knowledge sustained Black families during the Reconstruction era and beyond. While there have been several resurgences of the self-sufficient homesteading mind-set in the United States, the face of these movements has been overwhelmingly white.

Meanwhile, Black people, and Black women in particular, have become the poster children for the antithesis of the values homesteading espouses. In contrast to self-sufficiency and hard work, Black women are stereotyped as dependent, disproportionately reliant on public assistance, and unwilling to work, perhaps most famously by former President Ronald Reagan’s racialized “welfare queen” remarks.

Black women also bear the brunt of many of our nation’s worst health outcomes, including high rates of obesity, high mortality from heart disease and breast cancer, and some of the worst maternal health outcomes and infant mortality rates. Only recently has the medical field started to acknowledge the role of trauma in facilitating these disparities.

Johnson recalls several layers of trauma from her childhood and young adult years. As a young girl growing up on the Southeast Side of Chicago, she remembers moments of joy and abundance contrasting starkly with moments of anger and scarcity, which flowed lockstep with the dwindling of the family’s financial resources from the first to the end of the month.

Then as an undergraduate student at a predominantly white university in the Midwest, she recalls being shunned by white and more affluent Black classmates alike, because she didn’t speak or behave the way they felt someone in that space should. She quickly learned to code-switch, alternating between ways of speaking and behaving based on her surroundings. It’s a practice that many Black people are all too familiar with, in their efforts to live, work and study in predominantly white environments.

She also struggled initially with coursework, attempting to translate her Chicago secondary education, where she graduated as salutatorian, to the rigors of university work. Johnson has conflicting feelings about the costs and benefits of her undergraduate education: “I was so fortunate to be at that school, where an institution had time to nurture me, but at the same time I was being traumatized and I was being changed. And that was a very difficult thing.”

Between 2012 and 2014, her middle brother and younger brother were each shot several times, but survived. The ultimate trauma was her younger brother’s untimely death, 15 months after he was shot in 2014.

Johnson received her bachelor’s degree, graduating cum laude, later earned a master’s degree and obtained a research job in North Carolina. But the impact of the trauma remained. Taken together, these experiences created a rage against “the system” in Johnson. She was angry about systemic racism and poverty and the laws, policies and institutions that uphold it.

“I’ve done everything right — star child, went to college, went to Africa for a few months, did AmeriCorps, I volunteered, I got this job, and I don’t understand why this isn’t enough and my brothers are being shot,” she says.

This revelation, four months prior to discovering Bear Creek, marked the beginning of Johnson’s homesteading journey. In her mind, self-sufficiency was the only option, because the system wasn’t going to take care of her. It was rigged.

Consequently, by the time she got her first glimpse of heaven, she was already intent on giving up her spacious two-bedroom townhouse in Durham, North Carolina — in exchange for less than 300 square feet of shared living space, with no electricity or plumbing, and an outside toilet. And to gradually transition from her research job, where she was miserable, in exchange for hard labor cultivating, raising animals and living off the land.

The transition came with other challenges as well. Johnson recalls initially being scared of the chickens she was tasked with putting back into their coops every night, having to rely on the assistance of a 5-year-old on the homestead for help. Also, after moving to Bear Creek permanently, two of the first homesteading tasks Johnson learned were chopping wood and lighting the wood-burning stove for cooking and heat. Two months later, Johnson found herself in the dead of winter, cold in the tiny house. Everyone else was away; she was alone and crying because she couldn’t light the wood-burning stove.

“That’s when I started to regret my decision,” Johnson remembers. But thankfully her cell phone still worked, so she found a YouTube video that walked her through lighting such a stove. Figuring out how to do it convinced her that maybe she could make it in this way of life. That she could bet on herself to succeed in spite of the odds.

While Johnson didn’t grow up with examples of homesteading around her as a child, for Aja Yasir growing your own food was always a normal way of life. Her parents were a part of the Second Great Migration: the period from 1940 to 1970 when Black people migrated from the South to Northern states en masse. Both of her parents brought the practice of subsistence agriculture with them to Chicago, purchasing a vacant lot next to their home in Englewood, on the South Side, to establish a home garden. They weren’t alone; other families in the neighborhood also had home gardens. For Yasir’s parents, the act of growing your own food was bolstered by 1960s and 1970s Black health messaging from the Chicago branches of the Black Panthers, the Nation of Islam, and Chicago-based Black public figures like Dr. Alvenia Fulton.

By the time Yasir was born, in the mid 1970s, growing food at home had become an established family tradition. A tradition that was almost broken when in her early adult years Yasir decided she wanted nothing to do with agriculture. Instead, she moved as far away from Chicago as she could, to pursue her bachelor’s degree in Atlanta. But a polarizing global figure would entice Yasir back to the land: Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez.

Four-year-old Aja Yasir at her parents’ garden in Chicago. Photo courtesy of Aja Yasir

It was late 2005, Yasir had returned to the Chicago area, completed a master’s degree, and was working at a local radio station. A colleague at the station shared an article about Chávez ousting an American missionary group, New Tribes, from Venezuela, accusing them of being imperialists and exploiting indigenous people. Yasir’s interest was piqued. Then, in 2006, she heard Chávez’s United Nations speech, in which he referred to President Bush as “the devil,” in protest of U.S. global domination. Yasir wanted to investigate the conflicting media images of Chavez — hero of the poor versus villain of democracy. So she left Chicago for Venezuela, with no Spanish and a flimsy local job prospect. She stayed in a town in Barlovento, a region with a large population of Afro-Venezuelans, known for its cocoa production.

Yasir still remembers how fresh everything tasted in Barlovento, and the prominence of locally grown and made food: “You cannot escape agriculture in that town because everybody is doing something involved with agriculture, whether it’s raising chickens in their yard, or growing bananas, or harvesting and making chocolate. Agriculture is just connected like that.” Barlovento made her appreciate her Englewood upbringing, rooted in urban agriculture.

Her reunion with the land would come to serve her almost a decade later.

Yasir considers herself to be someone with a lifetime of traumatic experiences, although she prefers not to retraumatize herself by going into detail about a lot of it. However, she did share about a recent anguish. In January 2016, her 3-week-old daughter, Yaminah, unexpectedly died, falling victim to a rare genetic condition. The cumulative effects of years of unresolved trauma, combined with losing a child, resulted in a complex array of mental health challenges.

A couple of months after the death of her youngest daughter, Yasir found herself driving around Gary, Indiana, with her husband, trying to decide if they could live there permanently. In 2015, the family had rented an apartment in Gary as a trial, prompted by the lower cost of living than the Chicago suburb where they’d previously resided. Now they wanted something of their own. But Gary had its challenges — hit hard by deindustrialization, white flight, racism and poverty. The city was blighted and grocery stores were scarce.

Yasir and her husband eventually found a house that had been abandoned for two decades in a less depressed part of Gary and decided to purchase it, under the expressed condition by Yasir that the only way she could live there is if she put a garden in. Shortly after purchasing the property, she mulched the entire front lawn with wood chips, a regenerative agricultural practice to enrich the soil, in preparation for her front yard garden.

To her surprise, her desire to do something as basic as grow food turned into a public battle with the city of Gary, which sent citations claiming that the wood chips in Yasir’s front yard were debris that was causing environmental problems in the neighborhood. “I didn’t realize that growing food was so abnormal until moving to Gary,” Yasir recalls. What the city of Gary didn’t know was that Yasir was prepared to fight back.

She wasn’t just fighting for her garden; she was fighting for her life.

“You don’t understand the grief that a mother goes through when she loses a child … I would not be able to manage the grief without the garden, and so that was the fight. We don’t have a connection to Gary, we don’t have any family here, the only connection to Gary we have is this garden and the garden is how I process grief … I’m fighting for my medicine.”

In 2019, Yasir sought the support of the Farm-to-Consumer Legal Defense Fund, signing up with them as a homesteader. They sent an attorney from California to represent her case against the city. In October 2019, Yasir won. Also, unrelated to her case, in 2019 Yasir’s home became a Certified Wildlife Habitat site with both the National Wildlife Federation and the Indiana Wildlife Federation. In order to be declared a Certified Wildlife Habitat, a garden or outdoor space must be maintained in a way that provides a sustainable environment for native animals and insects.

Aja Yasir and her husband Yasir Allah in her garden, which she named “A Rose for Yaminah.” Photo courtesy Aja Yasir

Yasir’s garden, perched against the backdrop of Gary, is an anomaly. A walkway leading to Yasir’s front door divides her front yard into two sides — food plants on the left and medicinal plants on the right. There’s a small retaining wall at the entrance of her yard, on either side of the walkway, to keep the wood chips off the common sidewalk area. Closest to the retaining walls, she plants edible flowers like roses, poppies and hibiscus, for beauty and pest management. On the left, you might find plants like Black Beauty tomatoes, red okra and Eritrean basil. On the right, she grows medicinal herbs like artemisia (also known as Sweet Annie). Around the back of her house, she has a burgeoning orchard with apple, nectarine, cherry and plum trees. She grows more than 200 species of plants, collects rainwater and makes medicinal teas. Her garden provides an invaluable part of her family’s diet. For example, they get 95 percent of their medicinal and culinary herbs and 100 percent of their leafy greens from the garden during the growing season. She named her garden “A Rose for Yaminah,” for her daughter who passed away.

Typically, Yasir doesn’t get to spend as much time in her garden and homesteading as she would like, finding moments in between homeschooling her daughter and managing her real estate business. And the results of her labor don’t always materialize quickly, which can be challenging. Yasir explains: “The hardest thing about this lifestyle is patience. I’m a regenerative gardener, which means I put a lot of work into soil health and biodiversity. Restoring balance to an ecosystem can be tough, especially when your family’s food is dependent on that ecosystem.”

Black women are becoming increasingly interested and visible in homesteading initiatives, as evidenced by the Facebook groups Sistas Who Can and Sistahs of Soil, which have Black female membership in the thousands. There has also been a recent upsurge in followers of homesteading Instagram pages led by Black women, like @thehillbillyafrican and @alysonsimplygrows.

Johnson and Yasir’s stories illustrate homesteading lifestyles catalyzed by mental health needs, but for others the health of the physical body is what leads them to homesteading. This was the entry point for Jacqueline Smith (who goes by Jackie), although in a way she’s been preparing to homestead for most of her life.

At the age of 9, Smith, also born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, was diagnosed with Type I diabetes. Her pancreas ceased to produce the vital hormone insulin, and Smith’s childhood was marked by strict dietary restrictions, daily insulin shots and frequent visits to the doctor. Having to deal with the illness as a child made Smith bookish, by her own description, and reserved.

Jacqueline Smith teaches a young Black girl gardening at her garden in Chicago. (Photo courtesy Jacqueline Smith)

As a teenager, she attended Chicago High School for Agricultural Sciences, not because she was interested in agriculture (in fact, the opposite was true at the time) but because her mother thought that the school would offer her a better education, due to its small student numbers and selective entry process. By the time she finished high school, Smith had developed a true interest in agriculture and was offered a full scholarship at a Midwestern university where she pursued a Bachelor of Science in agricultural economics.

While on campus, she was often assumed to be an African-American studies major. Her interest in agriculture was frequently questioned by her largely white, male classmates, from America’s breadbasket states, who were perplexed as to why a Black woman wanted to learn about agriculture. She met their curiosity with her own questions: “Well, why not? Why can’t I learn this?” She never received a compelling response.

The beginning of her undergraduate studies also marked Smith’s diagnoses with a second chronic illness, gastroparesis. After finishing her degree and while working at a corporate job back in Chicago in 2006, the stress of her illnesses sent her into a three-day coma. When she awoke from the coma in the hospital, she knew she had to make a change, but she wasn’t sure what or how, so she pursued a master’s degree in public service while she figured it out.

After earning her master’s degree, she developed an itch to garden. She also started to have recurrent dreams of being pregnant, although she was not. The gardening itch, combined with the increased challenges of managing her health needs while working a structured and stressful 9-to-5, led her to quit her job and become a full-time homesteader. In 2018, she started an agricultural consulting business, GrowAsis, helping clients design, plan and maintain their own garden oasis. When she “birthed” her business and new life, she ceased to have the pregnancy dreams.

Smith lives in Roseland, on the far South Side of Chicago. A typical day involves waking up early in the morning, slipping on her denim overalls, grabbing the chicken feed from her garage, and heading to her backyard to tend to her chickens. She has a total of 11 hens that she keeps for egg production. She usually gives them a small snack of split peas or flaxseeds to eat while she cleans their coop. Their manure is collected and stored for later use in her garden beds. She then turns her compost bin before checking on the status of her vegetable and herb plants.

Jacqueline Smith holding some produce from her garden in Chicago, 2016. Photo courtesy Jacqueline Smith

Smith designs her homesteading activities to support her dietary and health needs. During the growing season, Smith estimates that she can produce approximately 80 percent of the food she consumes from her garden and chickens. During the 2019 polar vortex, Smith didn’t go to the grocery store for two months, because she had enough food stored from her garden that she had either frozen or canned herself.

Homesteading with two chronic illnesses is challenging for Smith. When her illnesses flare up, it can halt her productivity for days at a time. She’s had to learn to rely on fellow farming friends to step in during these times to help her keep her homestead afloat until she recovers. By doing this she’s built a community, a village, that supports her.

Chantel Johnson has since moved on from Bear Creek, North Carolina, leaving behind that heaven, in search of one that is her own. The challenge is that Johnson is a landless homesteader, renting land to carry out her homesteading activities. She’s moved a total of four times since Bear Creek due to disadvantageous changes in the rental conditions or increasingly intractable rental relationships with the landowners — when you don’t own the land, you’re at the mercy of those who do. Her relationship with her boyfriend dissolved after move number two.

Despite the challenges, with each move Johnson has been able to expand her operations. She and her boyfriend in Bear Creek started off with 25 hens for egg production, and then added a few pigs, chickens for meat and turkeys. When their relationship dissolved, Johnson kept the animals and continued to add to her livestock progressively. She eventually decided to abandon agriculture and focus exclusively on livestock, due to the frequent moves, as it’s hard to transport crops from one place to another.

As of this writing in July 2020, Johnson is no longer fully off grid, residing on a farm in Chatham County, North Carolina, with a little more living space and a few more creature comforts. She has come a long way from the newly minted homesteader of Bear Creek. She currently has 500 chickens she raises for meat, a significant increase over last year’s stock, due to the high demand for chicken during the coronavirus pandemic. She also has eight pigs that she recently learned to butcher herself, instead of outsourcing them for processing. She plans to raise 125 turkeys this year for the holidays. She sells her sustainably raised meat at local farmers markets or direct order to customers. Amazingly, this is largely a two-person operation, with Johnson and her current boyfriend, who owns some of the land she farms on, as an employee.

Chantel at her homestead in North Carolina, holding one of the 120 turkeys she raised for the holiday season.Photo courtesy Chantel Johnson

Homesteading still plays an integral part in managing her mental health needs, having experienced several ups and downs throughout this four-year journey. Johnson characterizes the first part of her homesteading journey as being about survival — proving that she could survive in this lifestyle. Now, she is determined to make the second half of her journey about thriving. It’s a sentiment shared by Yasir and Smith as well — the intention not just to survive, but thrive.

Beyond this shared intention, these women’s stories are connected in their origins — experiences with trauma as Black women in the U.S. and a decision to return to the land for healing — sisters of the soil, victors of their destiny.

Shanna B. Tiayon is a social psychologist, freelance writer and speaker. Her work focuses on topics of well-being and the ways we may infringe upon the well-being of others. She’s a TEDx speaker and 2020 Best American Travel Writing award winner. When she’s not working in the area of well-being, she’s homesteading with her family — gardening, preserving food and composting.

#Black History Month 2023 #Black Women #Black Women with Gardens #Black Women Homesteaders #Black folks growin food #Black folks Gardening #The New Sisterhood of Black Female Homesteaders

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chase-prairie · 1 year

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discourse is the mind-killer, she tells herself, trying to resist the urge to weigh in on a shitty post about restoration

#im glad you have good experience with older members of the restoration community #that doesnt erase their hostility their racism their homophobia and general assholery #theres a reason restoration is only older rich white folks #it doesn't necessarily mean theyre heroes #i stg if i have to hear one more old white dude tell me that i'm being selfish for wanting an income #'well back in my day we packed our own lunches!!! real bootstrap work!!! these kids these days etc etc' <- literal actually said to me #they praise eo wilson then wonder why black students leave the conference #i mean...#its not an accident they call native gardening social justice #if you can call your white safe rich practice 'social justice' then you never have to encounter black brown or gay folks #thats by design #ask anyone who worked on the bell bowl project about 'bee lives matter' in a city full of cop violence #boomers as a category may not be helpful but lets not pretend its just ageism that divides restoration

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seadragonsoda · 2 years

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The season of magic is upon us *✧･ﾟ:* ･

Instagram | Twitter

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therelivesafaerie · 1 year

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Everything is magical here, from mud to the drops of rain. Nothing lefts behind, creatures are not stuck there perhaps they lead the forest to another world. A world free from beings like humans and full of creatures like magical. Nothing does there, everyone and everything stays alive..

Every pretty flower glows here like stars sparkles at night.. there is no flower that hasn't grown in the forest of fae."

Foot steps of a fae founded by a little boy; leading to the forest.. Elders said, fae took away the offerings.. the offerings kept fo them under the tree..

The village has been blessed, perhaps they should celebrate it with some strawberries, mashed potatoes and some wine.

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confuzzledlittlelad · 1 year

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This song sounds awfully familiar

#folk music #otgw #over the garden wall #old black train #blasting company #check it out it's really cool

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mystephaniewilderuniverse · 4 days

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Keep Your Eyes Open

So happy! Made in Belgium hot or cold drink cups. Perfect for wine or a cup of tea. I have said before that I am bad about paying attention to detail. I brag about how I am a “Big Picture” person, but frankly, I often miss that too. The question is where is my attention? I can’t answer that, but images get trapped in my head and swirl around and take flight. My mind is in a dream state much of…

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#Black Mountain #Chifferobe Home and Garden #folk art #great gifts #handmade #home goods #Made in western North Carolina

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cobrakaisb · 3 months

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always an angel, never a god

summary: the aftermath of luke’s failed quest to the garden of the hesperides includes a dirty motel, a new wound, and sharing a bed with his best friend.

word count: 2.8k

featuring: ONE BED TROPE, set pre-tlt, luke and reader both have crushes on each other, lowkey hurt-comfort, mentions of injuries/getting injured, death, angst with a tiny bit of fluff

“let’s just stop here for the night, then we can keep moving,” you begged, standing in the motel parking lot. luke was weary, eyeing the property distrustfully. “it doesn’t look safe,” he mumbled, hand fisting the strap of his worn blue backpack so tightly that his knuckles were white. “please,” you whispered, eyes shining with tears. it had been a rough couple of days, especially with the major losses you’d both suffered.

“just until tomorrow morning,” you begged. he sighed, but nodded his head. you exhaled a breath of relief, as your forehead came to rest on his shoulder. he stiffened, but relaxed under your soft touch. your lips ghosted against his shoulder, as you planted a soft, barely-there kiss on the faded green cloth. luke’s fingers gently brushed against the back of your hand, wrapping around your wrist. you lift your head from his shoulder, lacing your fingers together, and lead him towards the motel lobby.

it’s clearly rundown; the carpet floors are dirty and the room reeks of mildew and sweat, but neither of you complain. you're just happy to have access to a bed and a shower. luke walks up to the check in desk, ringing the small bell to alert the employee(s) that someone was here. a few minutes pass by, but then an older man comes out from the back room. he looks hesitantly between the two before asking, “can i help you folks?”

“we’d like a room please. just for tonight,” you explain, squeezing luke’s hand a little tighter as the man continues to stare you two down. you can’t imagine what you look like to him: bruised, battered, bleeding, and crying. not to mention luke’s face; the wound was still open and dripping blood every few seconds. you’d done what you could on the road to help stop the bleeding, but the only real way to heal it was going to be with stitches and deep disinfectant.

“just your luck, we have one room left,” he smiles, inputting something in the system before handing you a key. you smile tightly at him, feeling the tension in luke’s shoulders seeping into your bones. why would there only be one room left if the parking lot was empty? “thanks so much,” you replied, leading luke out of the lobby and towards your room on the second floor.

“i really don’t like it here,” he grumbled, setting his bag down on the floor once you entered the room. you toed off your worn out black converse, locking the door behind you as you rolled your eyes. “it’s just one night. besides we need to rest and regroup now that…” you started to say, but ended up pausing. it hurts to mention her; the wound in your heart is still fresh. you swallow, taking a deep breath before turning to luke, “let’s take care of your face.”

he nods, wordlessly following you into the bathroom. he watches as you grab the first aid kit from the backpack and turn on the hot water. he waits patiently, occasionally admiring you, while you wet one of the few provided face clothes. “this might sting,” you whispered as you began to clean away at the blood and grime caked onto his cheek. he winces, gripping onto you for support.

“it’s okay. you’re okay. i’m almost done,” you said, trying to soothe him. instead of watching your motions, he looks at your face. your eyes, ones which normally shone bright with joy, were dull; the vibrant colors muted by your sadness. he wondered if you felt pity for him and his failure, or if you were still coping. this quest wasn’t meant to be a three person one, but you refused to let him partake in the challenge alone. he couldn't help but blame his dad for your sorrows; everything always came back to the gods.

“can you sit down on the toilet for me? i want to clean the cut, and i need a better vantage point,” you explained, putting the towel on the side of the sink as you opened the first aid kit. he complied to your orders, taking a seat on the closed toilet. he waited with bated breath, as you dug around in the kit, looking for whatever it was you needed. finally, you made eye contact with him, a small smile on your face as you held up a cotton ball and bottle of peroxide.

luke groans, throwing his head back in frustration. “no, absolutely not,” he mumbled, moving his head away from you. he froze, however, when your palm rested against his uninjured cheek. “please luke, i don’t want it to get infected,” you whispered, voice soft and thick with emotion. his brown eyes meet yours; they’re swimming with worry. “okay,” he relaxes, rolling his shoulders back to release some of the tension in them. you smile softly, trying your best to be reassuring as you remove your hand from his cheek to pour a small amount of peroxide onto the cotton.

“this is going to sting,” you warned. luke takes a deep breath, and subtly nods for you to continue. as gently as possible, you begin to clean the deep wound running from his eye to his jaw. luke hisses, his right hand gripping onto your thigh. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” you mumbled, but you continued your ministrations. luke doesn’t answer, simply gritting his teeth and keeping a hold on your thigh. after a few more swipes, you pause to inspect the wound. your hand grips his jaw, and you turn his face to the right; satisfied with your work, you throw the used items in the small garbage.

he watches as your attention focuses back on the first aid kit. you’re digging through the small red box, searching for the required items to stitch up his face. despite his dire situation, the crushing weight of worthlessness and embarrassment, and his most likely infected wound, he couldn’t help but feel serene. being here with you was exactly what he needed; you were all that he needed.

“okay so i have the needle and thread. do you want to shower first? otherwise you won’t be able to,” you explained, moving back to stand between his legs. luke’s hands came to rest on the small of your back, fingers creeping under the hem of your tee shirt. “i’ll shower, then you can stitch me up,” he agreed, humming softly as you absentmindedly twirled one of his black curls around your finger. “perfect. i’ll be right outside,” you whispered, trying to step out of his hold, but his arms just tightened around you.

“stay,” he pleaded, brown eyes widening. you sighed, a conflicted look in your eyes. “i can’t lose you,” he whispered. “i won’t lose you,” he continued, resting his head against your abdomen. you can feel the tears welling up in your eyes. everything was getting to be too much, on the both of you. “i’m not going anywhere angel, i promise,” you replied, fingers carding through his hair in a feeble attempt to soothe him. he lets out a shaky breath in response, and you can feel his tears seeping through your tee shirt.

“it’s okay. i’m right here,” you whisper, trying to keep your voice from cracking. your fingers still card through his hair as you lean down and plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. this whole quest has been a pot of emotions, and it seems like it’s finally boiled over the edge, for both you and luke. you want to let your guard down, and crumple to the floor and sob, but you don’t. luke needs you right now.

a few minutes pass by, but he calms down. he sits up straight, arms still holding you in a vice grip. “i’m sorry,” he mumbled, and you aren’t sure what he’s apologizing for. “there’s nothing to apologize for. i’m here to support you, whatever that looks like,” you explained, cupping his jaw with a small reassuring smile on your face. “will you just sit outside the door? i need to know you’re there,” he said, reverting back to the original conversation. “whatever you want,” you answered. once the words leave your mouth, his arms unravel from your waist. you step back, giving him room to stand. he pulls you right into his chest. “we’ll talk later,�� he promised, waiting for your hum of agreement to let go.

“shower. you reek,” you teased, trying to bring some joy back into the depressing atmosphere. he finally cracks a smile as he pretends to smell his underarms. “a shower is a good call,” he agreed, lightly pushing you towards the door, a sign that he wants to get changed. you obliged, leaving the room just as the sound of gushing water arises.

luke takes his time in the shower, letting the water drip down his clean body. he knows you’re sitting right outside the door, just like you promised, because he could hear your soft humming and mutterings. he was angry, and he refused to let that anger out on you. instead, it stews inside of him; all the resentment, annoyance, and disappointment. he was supposed to come back a hero, they all were. instead, he’s returning a failure, and with one less friend. he thinks about his father, who recycled a quest from the history lessons at camp and refused to help. he thinks of you, his pillar of strength. he thinks of beth, hoping that she reached elysium, where she belonged. his mind wanders back to camp half-blood, and the faces of his siblings and all the unclaimed children fill him with dread. what will they think, now that they’re head counselor failed?

“are you almost done?” you asked, pulling him from the depths of his mind. he shakes his head gently, water spraying from his soaked curls. “just finishing up,” he answered, turning the water off. “i put your pajamas on the sink,” you replied, closing the door so he has some semblance of privacy. “thanks,” he answered, and the sound of the opening curtain muffled your reply. he takes a couple extra minutes to dry off and pull on his pants, purposefully leaving the shirt to the side.

“okay i’m decent,” he shouted, and the door cracked open. he sees you standing there with your eyes closed, and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “i told you i was decent!” he laughed, and you opened your eyes with a giggle. “i just had to make sure,” you replied, your usual smile encompassing your cheeks. he playfully shakes his head at your words. “whatever you say,” he said, and reclaimed his seat on the toilet lid.

you took your spot between his legs, and his hands found their home on your waist. “this might hurt, and take a while because i have to go slow, but it’ll help you heal,” you said, holding up the needle with a shaky hand. luke grabbed your wrist, steadying the shaking. “hey, it’s gonna be fine. i trust you,” he mumbled, placing a soothing kiss on your palm. “i know, but i hate seeing you hurt,” you answered, taking a deep breath. finally, once you’ve calmed down, you begin stitching up the wound. luke remained still through the entire process, but you could see the pain in his eyes. in a matter of minutes, and with the quick snip of the scissors, you tied off the stitches.

“done,” you announced, tapping on his forearm. luke thanks you, and gets you from his spot, admiring his reflection in the mirror. “handsome as ever,” you whispered, heat creeping up your cheeks when you realize he heard you. he blushes at your words, but still manages to throw a cocky smirk your way. he doesn’t comment on your words, instead he pushes you towards the shower. “get cleaned up so we can sleep,” he mumbled, closing the door on his way out. you’re frozen, forgetting how to function, but once you regroup, you take the time to shower.

it’s longer than usual, but you deserved it after everything this quest has put you through. while you’re standing under the showerhead, letting the water wash over you in waves, you can’t help but blame yourself. everything that went wrong could be pinpointed back to you. you and beth were supposed to take care of the dragon, but you were distracted by your worry, turning to check on luke. in that split second, everything went downhill from there. you should have just remained focused, followed the plan, and none of this would have happened.

“i think you should get out of the shower now, before the motel sends us their water bill,” luke whispered, opening the door to the bathroom. you clear your throat, blinking harshly. were your cheeks wet from the water or tears? “i’ll be out in a minute,” you promised, and luke agreed. once the door closed, and you were back in the privacy of the bathroom, you stepped out of your sanctuary. it’s when you dried yourself off that you realize you forgot to grab your sleepwear, but thankfully luke had you covered. sitting on the bathroom counter were a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, along with your hairbrush. you felt yourself smiling gratefully at the gesture, and started your nightly routine.

he heard the sound of the door opening before he saw you. you were wearing the clothes he’d laid out, and your hair was dripping wet, despite your efforts to dry it. you threw the towel on the floor, letting it sit in a sopping wet heap, before climbing into the bed. he didn’t think you’d comment on the fact that the motel manager seemed to be playing matchmaker, and he was right. you lied down silently, pulling the covers up to your chest as you turned to face him.

“it’s all my fault,” you whispered, eyes glossing over as you looked at him. luke’s eyebrows furrowed, and a confused look took over his previously serene face. “what?” he replied, uncertainly. “everything with beth, your scar, the quest. it’s all my fault,” you continued. he was baffled by the fact that you genuinely believed that. something of this caliber, of his undoing, was not your fault. “why would you think that?” he asked, genuine curiosity present in his tone. “i was supposed to distract the dragon, we both were, but i was nervous. i looked away for just a second, and the dragon maimed beth. then came for you,” you answered, voice cracking and shaking. luke’s hand cupped your cheek, wiping away at the lone tear before it could drip down the bridged of your nose.

“beth died a hero, she knew what she was signing up for,” he whispered, thumb rubbing over the apple of your cheek. he wanted to reassure you that none of it was your fault, that nobody would blame you for what happened, that he didn’t blame you. “the blame doesn’t fall on you,” luke continued, staring softly into your eyes. “never,” he finished, kissing the tip of your nose.

“but she’s gone. and your quest…” you trailed off, more tears brimming at your water line. “my quest was stupid anyway,” he replied, pulling you closer to him. “it was never serious. not to him,” and luke didn’t need to specify who the him was. “but it was important to you,” you said, finally meeting his brown eyes, “so it was important to me.” luke sighed at your words, his eyelashes fanning his cheekbones. “you’re the most important thing to me angel. i’ve stopped craving his approval long before this,” luke explained.

he wished that he kept his closed so that he didn’t have to see the shocked look on your face. or the pity flashing behind your eyes. he knew, deep-down, that you didn’t pity him, you just felt bad for everything he’s faced. you felt guilty for the relationship with your parent, when he had none.

“he loves you luke, you must know that. maybe not as much as i do, but there has to be some compassion there,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pulled your foreheads together. “nobody can love me as much as you do,” luke whispered, lips ghosting over your skin from the proximity. “of course not, angel,” you answered, closing your eyes. he knew the stress of the quest and day was taking over you, so he let you fall into the arms of hypnos.

when you were really asleep, he whispered the words he’d been dying to say: “i love you.”

the way i am not strong enough to be your man // always an angel, never a god

#luke castellan #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan x you #pjo luke #percy jackon and the olympians #cobrakaisb writing

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scottishcommune · 20 days

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Saturday 6th of April, a great clamour echoes down Princes Street. A mixture of music and furious chants and sirens interrupts the usual hum of tourists and traffic. By the gardens, a quiet metal pen is surrounded on both sides...

On one side, a large, noisy, dance party rages. Queers, straight folk, trade unionists and allies mostly blotting out the hate speeches. Occasionally, an off-tempo chant booms out of the sound system, but mostly it’s playing queer classics. Powerful women from the STUC black workers, disabled & LGBT committees gather and speak about real feminism, muffled somewhat by the noise. A message of support from Belfast rings out over the PA. On the other side of the transphobic bloc, antifascists and unaffiliated queer activists rage against the barrier. Chants of ‘No borders, no nations, trans liberation’ and ‘trans rights, women’s rights, one struggle, one fight’ blast out of megaphones...

A good reportback on the counterprotest against Posie Parker and her hate mob in Edinburgh last Saturday

#scot pol #edinburgh #trans liberation #trans rights #antifascism #anarchism

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whatawonderfulexistence--blog · 6 months

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Fall For Me (Poly! Sleep Token x Fem! Reader) - Part I

Well, it happened... After trying to evade the hype for so long they finally got me 😂😂 This story has had me in a chokehold (haha, get it?) since I started toying around with the idea of it. Hopefully you guys enjoy it, let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list for future chapters and/or Sleep Token one shots!

WARNINGS: None

Part II

My Masterlist! ~ AO3 Link!

Credit to @spookyghostjelly for beta reading, ily bb 💗💗💗

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You sat with your feet propped up on the counter, one of the magazines you had yet to sell spread open on your lap. "Be fashion forward this fall." You read out loud to the empty store in a mocking tone as your eyes grazed over the pictures of chunky sweaters, jeans, and boring, brown leather boots. The bell over the door jingled as a customer entered the store, your eyes darted up, expecting one of your regulars. You were met with the sight of someone in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over their head. 'Great,' you thought to yourself, 'just when I thought I was going to have an easy evening.' You watched the man carefully, waiting to see what exactly he was going to stick in his pockets. Now, you normally turn a blind eye to shoplifters up to a certain extent, everyone deserves to have something to eat. But, being an independently owned store you could only take so much of a loss on your inventory. To your surprise, the man didn't pick up a single item. He took his time looking over the contents of each shelf, his hands never leaving his sweatshirt pocket. "Can I help you find anything, sir?" His head turned slightly in your direction, but not enough for you to see his face.

"What time do you close?" You were caught off guard by his British accent, it was an uncommon occurrence to get outsiders in your small backwoods town.

"Eight o'clock." He nods his thanks and hurriedly exits your store, almost bumping into one of your regulars on the way out.

"Everything alright?" He asks as the strange visitor leaves your store.

"Do you know him?" You ask quietly, as if he would somehow be able to overhear you despite having rounded the corner of the building already.

"Yeah, he's one of those… those cultists that set up shop in the woods." He explains. You were a bit shocked at the realization. You had been seeing headlines in the local newspaper for months as curiosity rose around the small group of men that had built a few Cabins on the very edge of town. Reporters didn't dare venture into their camp for an interview, but that didn't stop them from snapping a few pictures from the safety of the treeline. Four cabins sat at each corner of a small clearing, a large fire pit dominated the center. From what you could make out they seemed to have some sort of root cellar and a lackluster garden, which would explain why you hadn't seen any of them in person until this afternoon. "You be careful, (Y/N). Freaks like that might just try to sacrifice you to some goat demon they worship." He warns. You can't help but roll your eyes at the outlandish statement.

"Mark, those boys haven't done a single thing to bother anyone since they got here. They've been out there for months, if they were going to take someone they would've done it by now." You argue.

He chuckles, "Trust me darlin', I hope you're right. But until then me and a lot of other folks around here plan on keeping a close eye on them. You'd do best to stay away from them."

"You think I can't take care of myself?" You challenge, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Now, Miss (Y/N), you and I both know you'd beat my ass to next Sunday if that's what I was implying." The two of you shared a laugh. "I just don't want something bad to happen, that's all. These strange men show up out of nowhere one day and no one knows where they came from, hell none of us have ever seen their faces. They all wear these black masks, least that's what the reports are saying. You can never be too cautious."

"I'll take my chances." You smile politely in an attempt to get him off his soap box. "Now, I take it you're here for your pack of Marlboros."

"Yes ma'am, and an extra one for Donnie if you don't mind." He responds with a nod as he fumbles for his wallet in his back pocket.

"You got it boss." The rest of your evening was spent rather uneventfully, save for the fact that you would practically jump out of your chair every time the door opened. You glanced up at the clock, there was about twenty minutes left until you closed. "Maybe he decided to not come back." You shrug. Moments later an old, beat up pick up truck rumbled into the parking lot. You watched as the driver got out, his head dipped low to hide his face in the hood of his black sweatshirt. He pushes through the door, the jingle of the bell the only sound to cut through the tense silence. "Welcome back." You tried to sound friendly despite your unease. He nods at you in response, not saying a single word as he makes his way quickly and directly to everything he needs. He approaches the counter, unloading his arm load of supplies before taking a step back. "You got a name to go with those big, broad shoulders of yours?" You ask in a bit of a teasing tone, trying to do what you could to lighten the mood. He remained silent, despite the fact you couldn't see his face you couldn't escape the feeling of his piercing gaze. You opened a bag, carefully organizing his contents inside. "$18.75, sir." He slaps a twenty dollar bill on the counter, not even waiting for his change as he grabs his bag and flits out the door. You watched as he drove off, not sure exactly what you were supposed to make of that interaction. You had a similar occurrence every day for almost a week. He would come in, grab an armful of groceries, put down his money, and he left. You would try and greet him whenever he would come in your store, it was always met with a curt nod.

"Vessel." You froze as he finally spoke up. You looked up, your eyes met with 6 slits on an odd looking mask. "You can call me Vessel." You couldn't think of how to respond at first. He had barely acknowledged your existence before tonight, what had changed?

"Vessel… (Y/N)." You stick out your hand to shake his. "It's nice to finally meet you." You smile as his hands clap into yours.

"You're different from the other people we've run into from town." He remarks.

"The reporters?"

"Some of them, a few others we just happened to cross paths with." You could feel him studying you. "You don't seem scared."

"Vessel, you've been coming in here for over a week now. If you were going to try and hurt me you would've done it by now." You notice the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile.

"I guess you have a point." He chuckles. You finish scanning his items and give him his total. He places the money down on the counter and picks up his bag.

"How come you never take your change?" You ask as he's almost out the door.

"I know you run this place by yourself, think of it as me tipping a small business." He flashes a brief, brilliant smile at you. You try to hide your shy smile by fixing up your register. "Oh, and (Y/N)?" You glance back up at him. "It's nice to finally meet you too."

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Tag List: @herripinkle @mustluvecho @jumpcauseimfroggy (If you would like to be tagged for Sleep Token stuff let me know!)

#sleep token fanfiction #sleep token #sleep token x reader #vessel #vessel x reader #ii x reader #iii x reader #iv x reader #sleep token fan fic #my writing #my fanfiction

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gallusrostromegalus · 2 years

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This week in Dog News:

I competely forgot that Herschel likes to eat tomato hornworms and accidentally put my hand in his mouth when he was halfway through hakuna matataing one and had probably the worst texture experience of my life. i screamed loud enough to summon a nurse from the old folks home next door.

I found a youtube channel that is just ASMR Process videos of this guy cleaning really, really dirty rugs and apparently it's Arwen's new favorite thing. She likes classical music and cozy british craft shows and apparently this has a similar enough sound profile to make her chill

Arwen now has her own youtube channel so i can make playlists for her.

Charlie has once again managed to extract the 5-inch wide hard plastic interior of the puzzle ball through the not-that-flexible 1.5 inch opening without breaking the hard plastic puzzle or the rubber outside.

I have yet to actually witness this feat because he always does it behind the dining room table where black magic is obscured from my veiw.

All three dogs are coordinating efforts to hunt rabbits now. Charlie flushes the rabbits from the garden, Herschel waits at the wire fence, Arwen waits at the bolt holes under the wooden fence, and I'm usually ambling out the studio door, 'blocking' the third exit zone. I've had a rabbit run over my foot- and I mean "little buny feets launching off my sandal" over- twice today, and I think the dogs are getting annoyed that I am not contributing to the team here.

Herschel is very close to figuring out doorknobs. He can reach them and understands they have to turn, and that he needs to lean on the door to open it. He is held in check soley by his stubby little toes and lack of opposable thumbs. He kicks, fruitlessly, at thee knob, only able to get the barest fraction of a grip on it, until he sits down and just SCREAMS at the door until Aren comes and uses her freaky monkey paws to open it for him.

Charlie is perfectly capable of opening doorknobs but chooses not to, because it makes me sad.

He instead eats my mom's green beans right off the vine.

#Dogs #Family Lore #Charleston Chew #Arwen #Arwen the Evil Genius #Herschel The Hanukka Goblin

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botaniqueer · 2 months

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Seed Sources

I updated the sources list for 2024! Here is the Google Docs link for sharing off Tumblr. A lot of my gardening guides are written with the Pacific Northwest in mind, but this should useful for most folks on Turtle Island. For people elsewhere I'm not 100% sure how many of these are able to ship off-continent but it's worth checking out! EDIT: I have found out the hard way that indented bullets do not work on Tumblr for web browser so I have tried my best to make them visually distinct. The Google Doc is formatted properly though.

General/Big Brand Seed Shops

Burpee Seeds

Ed Hume Seeds

Johnny’s Seeds

Renee’s Garden

Territorial Seed

Independent online fruit and veggie shops

(More exotics and rare cultivars)

Adaptive Seeds

Breeds plants specifically to adapt them to the Pacific Northwest

Alliance of Native Seedkeepers

Indigenous-owned seed company

Experimental Farm Network

A network of plant breeders with an extensive collection of unusual cultivars and species of edible plant that don’t commonly appear elsewhere.

Very reputable

Pro-Palestine

Fedco Seeds

Good on social justice issues and have awareness of white supremacy

Maui Seed Company

Lots of Hawaii-growing species, plus soaps!

Pricey

Smart Seeds Emporium

Some of the photos are enhanced stock photos which is a little annoying, but I have ordered from them

True Love Seeds

Works with Black and Indigenous populations to source seeds and does education projects regarding race and ethnicity

Contains unusual seeds from breeding projects

Pro-Palestine

Uprising Seeds

Pro-Palestine

Local to the Pacific Northwest

Succulents and Other Ornamentals

Mesa Garden

Smart Seeds Emporium

Lots of ornamentals in this shop as well as food plants

Germination can be inconsistent on some of their seeds

Avoid/Blacklist

Baker Heirloom Seeds

Take credit for seeds from other sellers, including Indigenous farmers.

Work with Cliven Bundy and upholds white supremacy

#plantblr #plants #resource #Remembered I had a seed sourcing list and figured I should update it for 2024 after making that post

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therelivesafaerie · 1 year

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Path; a path that takes you to an unknown destiny filled with peace

Where does the path go? There is a saying about the path.. it takes you where you need to be the most.. it can hear your heart beat and your soul cravings. Perhaps it leads you to the way you need to be.

It changes destination for each, it's a different location. Some have said they've been led to a beautiful scenery of green trees with flowers and fruits growing, few have said they led them to the river with the water flowing and fishes in the water seems to be dancing."

How long has it been since a human visited the path?

It has been a long time, elders said. Just when there was no grudge between humans and faeries, humans visited the path as well perhaps not anymore. The greedy beings have destroyed the happiness and created the grudges between beings and the creatures. Nobody crosses the path or the trees, once that is located in the forest.

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frankieburieshisdead · 11 months

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✮ Hobie Brown x male!ballerina reader ✮

You and Hobie started going out about 6 months ago. You met at a black-empowerment student group on your campus years before you had started seeing each other, and you remembered him starkly because he was the only person in the room who had brought up any kind of black queer issue, to which he was quickly shut down. He never returned to the group, and you always thought he was so much cooler than you for that. Being the only dark face in a line of pinky white dancers every day meant that you couldn't give up the small community of black people you had amongst the students. Even if it meant nodding along with arguments like 'gay black folks give us a bad name.' Hobie would never do that. Hobie would have said something. Its part of the reason he swore to never return to organized liberation movements. "If the movement cant be translated to a mentality, its not worth your time my love," he had told you, and you had just smiled, because you knew you would never be as brave and he was. It was one of the reasons you fell in love with him.

He brought you flowers on your first date. They were haphazardly picked and thrown about, clearly hand picked from someones garden he had pilchered, wrapped in an old newspaper. You loved them more than anything anyone had ever given you. You still kept them pressed in between a stack of books you kept at your hostel.

He came to every single one of your shows. Even the ones he couldn't afford, at fancy recital halls that made you feel out of place, he would find a way to sneak into the audience. One time, he even managed to get a job as a lighting guy a month before your biggest performance of the year so that he would be there. You still tease him about it.

The first time you went to one of his shows, you stuck out like a sore thumb. It was right after rehearsals, so you were still in your pink leotard and sheer brown leggings. Angry boys with spiked clothing kept on bumping up around you as the crowd bobbed up and down with the loud music. You couldn't find Hobie anywhere, and you didn't know why you did what you did, but when a particularly hard shove landed you on your hands and knees, scraped up from the grain of the cement floor, you called out for your boyfriend. "Hobie!" You shouted, almost certain he wouldn't hear as the crowd around you swallowed up the noise. Only he did hear, and not a moment later he was behind you, wrapping his long lanky arms around your waist as he pulled you back onto your feet. "You alright sweetheart?" He whispered just loud enough for you to hear. "Just got a bit overwhelmed. Sorry Hobes." You replied. He shook his head fondly at you, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Come with me?"

You spent the rest of the concert in the sound box above the stage, wrapped up in Hobie's big flannel jacket as you cheered on the lovely man you were beginning to fall in love with.

When he told you about the mask, about his other life as a webslining vigilante, you found that you weren't even surprised. Of course, your anti-cop, pro-punk politics boyfriend was Spiderman. It was the first time you had seen him look nervous, so you took his face in your hands and pressed his forehead agaisnt your own. "You're the bravest person I know. I am so proud of you," you whisper against his lips. And then, because it had to be said "don't you ever let yourself get hurt." He kissed you gently and promised.

He broke that promise less than a week later. You were warming up in your room before your first class, far earlier than anyone else was awake, which was why the loud banging on your door startled you so much. Never in a million years did you expect a bloody and battered Hobie Brown to fall into your room. He wouldn't let you call the police. Wouldn't even let you call an ambulance. You would never forget the rasping noise he made as he lay on your floor, blood soaking through your carpet.

You didn't speak to him for weeks after it happened. You were able to bribe some of the medical students from the STEM section of the campus to stitch up your clumsy boyfriend who had fell down the stairs. Apparently, it wasn't even that deep of a wound, just happened to nick a part of the body that blead a lot or something like that. You still woke up shaking when you thought about it.

Hobie does everything to get you to forgive him. He leaves flowers inside your ballet locker everyday, steals new lace for your shoes from the silk shop he knows you lone but can never afford. He apologizes again and again, but you can't look at him without seeing the gasping expression on his face as you thought you were watching him die. It's not until he does the one thing you thought he would never do, the one place where Hobie Brown swore he would never show his face again.

He was at the next black empowerment meeting you attended. You couldn't help the visible shock fall onto your face. "Just for the record, I don't like it here." He stated plain and clear before the meeting had even started. "I think you lot are a bunch of bootlicking, regressive posers who wouldn't know what respectability politics looked if they smacked you in the face." Hobie brought his gaze to his shoes, black locs falling over his eyes. "But I fucked up. I really scared someone I care about, and I dont know how to make it right. He's one of the bravest people I know, and I am so lucky that in some capacity, he chose me." Hobie looked up, directly at you now, "I love you sweetheart. I'm sorry, I should have never put you in that position. Let me make it up to you. However I can baby, let me make it up to you."

You stopped going to meetings. Hobie introduced you to a group of black ballet dancers who he had met when a theater had accidentally double booked his band, and suddenly your community was started to look a lot bigger than the arts campus. He promised you that he would always go to the hospital when he was hurt like that, even if it meant supporting a system of bourgeois control over public health that contributed to the futile distribution of wealth under capitalism. You didn't quite catch that last part. He kept his promise. He made it up to you.

END

#hobie brown #spider punk #hobie brown x oc #hobie brown x reader #spiderpunk x reader #hobie brown x y/n #fanfic #hobie brown x male reader #sfw little post #drabble

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