Last week, the Biden Administration announced that it was considering an Executive Order that would restrict asylum claims at the U.S.-Mexico border.
Recently, I got the urge to listen to Marvin Gaye’s album “What’s Going On?” I’m fortunate enough to own the CD and, yes, I still have a CD player.
Our cat Buster loves meat. Raw meat. We adopted him because he was cute and cuddly, and because my husband fell in love with him.
I taught my first yoga classes over thirty years ago, when my teacher and mentor Gayna took her annual two-month long winter trip to Zihuatanejo, Mexico, and asked me to fill in for her while she was away.
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.
In the past few years, we have heard, with growing alarm, the concern that changing demographics in Vermont will soon spell disaster.
This Christmas Day something remarkable happened on our farm: at 4 p.m. chore time three generations of women headed out to the barn to do our milking and feeding chores while three generations of men finished up the dinner and table preparations for our … (read more)
It was almost thirty years ago when we received a phone call from Indonesia. While we did not know the person calling, she was actually a Vermonter from the Vergennes area who lived in that part of the world.
This past summer my family and I went on a trip to France. We went partly to indulge my Dad’s desire to see some of the Tour de France, and partly to fulfill my daughter’s wish to visit Paris.
Well, it happened again. Sunday night it started raining and just kept on.
A few weeks ago, I read a New York Times article that both intrigued and annoyed me: “Vermont May Be the Face of a Long-Term U.S. Labor Shortage.”
I rarely play the piano anymore, but there are times it brings me home.
Yesterday, Peter Welch joined the call for a permanent ceasefire in Gaza, and today we will be bringing him a fresh loaf of challah bread to say thank you.
It was the summer of ‘68. Cities across America were erupting in riots, political differences were tearing families apart, the war in Vietnam was raging, protesters at the Democratic National Convention were being bludgeoned.
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.
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