North Atlantic Books
Other offerings
Meditations, digital prints, and other resources for being with grief and heartbreak
Video set: Somatic practices for meeting this moment
Two videos from The Politics of Trauma: Somatics, Healing, and Social Justice author Staci K. Haines: body-based practices for grounding and resourcing your liberation work.
1, 2, 3, Space: for shifting states of awareness and accessing different kinds of knowing
Bodyscan: for increasing our somatic awareness and getting to know our sensations and our soma
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Resilience Through Crisis & Collapse:
li beirut, an herbal + healing support guide
A digital book of words, recipes, and herbal protocols for whole-self and community healing edited by Layla K. Feghali, author of The Land in Our Bones: Plantcestral Herbalism and Healing Cultures from Syria to the Sinai
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Unspeakable: Allowing our heartbreak so we don't break the world
A video from Rev. angel Kyodo williams, author of Radical Dharma: Talking Race, Love, and Liberation
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Digital print:
The Rooted Mother
Ink drawing and poem by Jonathon Stalls, author of WALK: Slow Down, Wake Up, and Connect at 1-3 Miles per Hour and creator of Pedestrian Dignity and Intrinsic Paths
not one straight line
raw knuckles, raw edges
wounds, all exposed
I am the rooted mother
up close
& long ago
stories of conformity
rattling all your bones
do you know your deeper name?
beyond the realm of thrones
I am the rooted mother
up close
& long ago
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The Return
A poem by Nina Pick, author of The Mind-Body Guide to the Twelve Steps: Finding Joy, Sensuality, and Pleasure in Recovery
I don’t speak either language
but they both sound like home—
beit, yom, salaam, olam.
Between them travels a river
holding its name in its mouth.
Other words sound familiar,
translated from the past—
beasts, barbarians, evil and damnable.
They sting my ears, then form
poisoned rivers inside me.
Gas the Arabs, reads the graffiti
on the door of a school in Hebron.
I choke on my name,
say Not in my name
or That’s not my name…
in the middle of the night
I can’t remember,
only that I learned it first
from the memorial wall
next to the cemetery,
where it was chiseled
again and again in the stone,
and in this way came
to recognize myself,
like a shadow cast on glass,
somewhere between tikkun hanefesh
and tikkun olam, my body
in the shape of the bones inside it,
the way God burns in the bush
and the bush does not burn.
