Hitching a ride, trusting a partner, marrying the same person three times
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Judy Bratten has taught school in New York City and London and now lives in Virginia.
Shall we throw Hustler and the Times into the fire? And, years from now, when these words and this argument are forgotten, shall we make into a funeral pyre the “spiritual” tracts we now so revere, those that spell out for us the right way, when we’re all heading the same way?
It is April and the cold wind shears through Spring, sharp and strident, cutting away the warmth that had been nuzzling the earth. The daffodils have been shredded and the azaleas’ fragile blooms are scissored to limp bits of faded rag.
Except for a few independent strands, her soft white hair is pulled back from one of the gentlest faces ever to smile through a window. Her dress is plain, as comfortable as her worn blue tennis shoes, yet feminine.
I have toyed with preparing a cookbook of my own. But with Mrs. Ewald’s book I no longer consider that necessary, for this is the most complete and varied collection of vegetarian recipes I have seen.
The days of my life are inscribed in autumn’s diary; the leaves are pages burnished by experiences: some fiery red, some golden yellow, some mellow green, some dull brown.
It is often difficult, usually frustrating and seldom appreciated, but those of us who continue to live our lives faithful to our beliefs and ideals are truly patriots and lovers of freedom.
There’s a cool, shady corner in the kitchen. That’s where I raise a simple crop that’s not dependent on sparse rain clouds or my depleted compost pile. Sprouts: lentils and alfalfa are best. Mung beans are pretty good, soy beans, too.
Little Rebecca has inherited her mother’s desire to explore foreign places. She can sit in the car happily singing, sleeping or just watching the world go by for ten hours as long as she is moving on to new people and places. Some morning she’ll run to the car demanding to “go, go, go someplace.”
While nursing my rosey two-month-old, I read of the death by starvation of a three-month-old child in — no, not India — but within the “Golden Triad,” in Winston-Salem. The child lived one block from a federally-sponsored health center and her mother qualified for ADC benefits and food stamps.
Our concept of New Eden is of a cooperative community of 40 or so families and individuals, living in their private dwellings, who share a love of God and God’s creation, and who are willing to break away from the disintegrating society around us to create a new life.
They say the New Age has arrived, that our consciousness is being raised, that we are witnessing a new stage in our evolution. Though I don’t consider myself a pessimist, it’s hard for me to overlook the spiritual apathy, old-fashioned greed, and general selfishness that seems to pervade our civilization.
If I were to join in communion with you, to commune with you, to communicate with you, I would do so over a cup of raspberry leaf-mint tea and a piece of Celebration Carob Cake (so called because it was the first cake I baked after the birth of my last child).