When I water the flowers on my deck, I am thinking how beautiful the colors are. Or maybe how hot the day has been. My goal is to keep the flowers alive so my guests and I can enjoy them.
Middlebury used to be a place where you could get things fixed instead of buying new. It was a time before nearly everything came from chains or big box stores or was delivered at the door.
Unlike the divisive national political scene which gives me a stomachache and makes it hard for me to speak with my neighbor and another close friend, the Middlebury town meeting was like a gooey chocolate brownie to a sugar addict.
For interests on my Match.com profile, I wrote, “I knit, run a non-profit, make documentaries, and read.” I showed this to my daughter. “Knit, Mom? You put that first?”
This month the Middlebury New Filmmakers Film Festival held a friendly cocktail hour at Middlebury Inn to thank the hosts who had given housing to this year’s filmmakers and guests.
On the television is a vast landscape. The camera moves over brown spaciousness that reminds me of the Gobi Desert. I wait until the narrator identifies it as … Mars!
Rene Morin, a fine mason, built my brick house and three neighboring ones. He lived next door when we moved here in 1979.
What? Do you hear and ask this question often? I did, too, until recently. When my daughter visited last summer, I asked her if she thought I needed hearing aids.
On the eleventh day after the new moon, spirits call me. I am giving Grandmother Erdenchimeg an energy healing. Her back is sore after the evening reindeer milking.
Sitting at Quaker Meeting one recent Sunday morning, I heard messages about the horror in Israel and Gaza and how we as peacemakers might help. I could not focus on this big topic, though. I was thinking about wood.
In July, I traveled to Mongolia again, hoping to interview the various protagonists in my documentaries.
It begins with a nail. I’m trying to stay calm and focused and mindful. I know I leave for Mongolia in two weeks, and I haven’t been there in four years.
When acting on an impulse, I usually do not know why I am doing it. My guidance tells me what I need to do but not how or why.
Since the first time Sas Carey stepped foot on Mongolian soil in the summer of 1994, she felt a “leading” — a calling to “support and document the traditional Mongolian nomadic lifestyle.”
A driving force in my life has been exploring. “Marrying Mongolia,” my new book, follows that theme from childhood.
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