COVID-19
“Waiting,” from the COVID journals of Patricia Smith.

“Waiting,” from the COVID journals of Patricia Smith.

On waiting — and moving forward — in a pandemic. “Experience tells me the world is not always a safe place, and yet — “ I know there should be a holiness in waiting. In learning to be still, to learn the lesson that we are not in control. This is, after all, what advent is all about. We wait and...
“I don’t know what to do about it,” an essay by Laura Bernstein-Machlay.

“I don’t know what to do about it,” an essay by Laura Bernstein-Machlay.

On passing time in Detroit. “I’m so sorry, I whisper to the silence all around.” Monet, The artist’s garden at Giverny, 1900. This feature is available, in slightly different format, on Medium, here. Where I live, COVID-19 has landed like a tornado. It staggers and sways through Detroit and beyond, so everyone deemed nonessential stays under cover when...
“The Beach and the Bells,” an essay by Jenny Gillespie Mason.

“The Beach and the Bells,” an essay by Jenny Gillespie Mason.

Zoom healers, a beach trip, and a campanile with canned chimes. “I can’t help but feel I’ve done something wrong in bringing them, that I put my own sanity before others’ health.” I stayed up too late on Zoom for Wendy’s fiftieth birthday dance party. I don’t remember the last time I danced like this with other...
“Time Slowing Down,” an essay by Karen Sullivan.

“Time Slowing Down,” an essay by Karen Sullivan.

“Civilized time has always felt bottled, and now it’s not.” Once, deep in an Alaskan winter in the abyss of a post-divorce-induced depression, I spent an entire Saturday sitting in the living room of my rented postwar cottage, rocking absentmindedly in a creaky chair, dog in my lap, staring through small frosted windowpanes at feathers of...
“Home and Office,” by Sarah Waring.

“Home and Office,” by Sarah Waring.

A British transplant is thrust into telecommuting while sheltering in place. GetVoip.co Three keys and one door never before unlocked: I look at the options in my hands, their golden weight full of promise and yet trepidation. My first choice seems given — the key with the worn, plastic cap has to be the one. A woman standing...