I don't remember at what age I made the unilateral decision to abandon the notion of God as the ethereal benefactor up in the sky.
I was past my teen years at least. I know because at the precocious age of 12, I informed my devout Episcopalian parents that I was ready to be confirmed.
And so began confirmation classes at St. John's Anglican Church in our small Nova Scotia town. I remember kneeling before the bishop as he blessed me and intoned prayers I have long since forgotten.
The cross I received as a confirmation gift from my aunt - also my godmother - is long gone. I now wear a gold Thai pendant with the image of the Buddha around my neck.
The feral children regard me with dull, vacuous eyes as I drive by them on the road. They do not move from their spot near the river, which is littered with a jagged line of broken-down toys and rusted bicycles. The eldest is a boy with clear blue eyes...
The day I decided to become a permanent resident of Brattleboro was the day I chose to prepare myself for all it meant to live in a nuclear town. The nation's longest-running nuclear power plant, Vermont Yankee, stood a few miles down the road - something that could not...