Greetings! If you're in the neighborhood and enjoy being outdoors, please join us: Sunday, September 19 - 11:00am at Sankofa Farm in Bartram Gardens "Mother Tongue" is the final program in the series that celebrations the fortifying roots of Black Art. The cob oven, called "The Furrow" is both a work of art and a... Continue Reading →
Not One (For the Million Mothers March) Not mine son Not mine Not my son Not my brother nephew or current lover Not my neighbor cousin or future husband Not mine Not hers Not anybody’s Son I am not saying no more I am saying not ONE We with the millions of ancestors behind us... Continue Reading →
We gather together
Seen and unseen
When mothers pray
The heavens come forth to listen
The kids look forward to our annual beach vacation all year. It's an opportunity to get away from the day-to-day pressures and routine of school, home-life and chores and simply sleep, eat and play! I look forward to it as well. It's the only week of the year that we are all home at the... Continue Reading →
Born of Warriors Now is not the time to sit down and grow weary For we are born of warriors Trained on soil rich with the spirits that passed before us We were selected from our tribe and trained for battle Even stripped of our land, our riches and our families We stood strong ushering... Continue Reading →
My father loved to read and wrote a multitude of songs and essays yet published only one song in his lifetime. Today in his memory I am excited to be hosting a fundraiser for Philly Youth March and Voice4Justice. The event featuring Grammy Nominee Ursula Rucker and the extraordinarily musical Monica McIntyre begins today at... Continue Reading →
The soil moist beneath your feet is comfort for your journey
We are you
You are we
We are here
Even though I was a mother myself, all of the Mother's Day commercials with scenes of children hugging and delivering gifts and flowers to their mothers trickled into my joy like Chinese water torture.
My Uncle was a Vietnam War Veteran. He was fortunate to be one of the ones to come home alive, but the person who left never really came home. He was sad, he was depressed, he struggled with the choices he was forced to make at war and never really felt comfortable in his skin when he came home. He was a walking casualty of war.
I truly hope I will never have to rely on this information myself ever again, but at least if I have to go through this again, I will grab the Safe4people kit, my Robi Comb and my flat-iron and get to work!
Oh, the joys of Parenting!
Toni's Room 