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Welcome to Quarry Hill's Blog!

Quarry Hill Creative Center in Rochester, VT, founded 1946 by Barbara and Irving Fiske, is Vermont's oldest alternative community and at one time was probably also its largest. In the 60s -80s, as many as 90 people lived here.
It was and is visited each year, often in summer (but in every season, really) by visitors from all over the world.
We welcome interesting and creative people who are peaceful, bring no weapons, don't believe in hitting children or killing animals, and enjoy the beauty of Vermont and of themselves.

Most of us do not adhere to any particular dogma or religion, though many do find Eastern philosophy closest to our own thought (some of us are also members of the Quakers/Society of Friends).
We value the individual, particularly people who are energetic and have a sense of humor.
Visitors are welcome-- and prospective residents, too. There are some places for rent, others for sale. If interested, get in touch!
And, please follow the Blog and comment whenever you like!

"The symbol is the enemy of the reality, and the reality is ever one's true guide, true friend, true companion, and true self." Irving Fiske, 1908-1990

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Stephen Hawking

Prof. Stephen Hawking, the great physicist, recently celebrated his 70th birthday, though he was too ill to attend his party. We hope that he recovers and is able to learn more about the cosmos so that we can understand it better... his life with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) and his ability to communicate through a computer about Black Holes and the origin of the universe is fascinating. Here's a poem from my Quaker meeting about Hawking. Not sure who wrote it. Friends, this poem was recently posted on NPR in honor of Steven Hawking’s 70 birthday and an interview I heard with Kitty Ferguson, his biographer. Gary

Steven H To have the whole universe in your mind/
and star by exploding star not be able to speak, to say where they began going and when.
To be able to blink to share what’s on,
what’s in your mind, closing and opening your eyes,
so an eye, electric, can read what you’re saying and say it into our ears’ sea.
To be able to hear what was and still is to be, in the blink of an eye, numbers adding up to one accountable mystery, one muscle left twitching like a bow across the sky.
To play what you’re hearing, by moving your tongue across your teeth, so we can see on your screen the notes waves sing from being everything.

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