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Featured Selections

From the Archives

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Save The Last Dance For Me

A woman in a gray hooded coat, with hands in her pockets, is actually dancing alone at the bus stop a block away. She is turning and twirling with herself, and now with me, and now with you.

By Rex Weyler August 1982
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

No Camping On City Streets

The eviction notice arrives in the mail, just like any other bill or letter. There’s no sheriff, no knock at the door, no sign posted for everyone in the neighborhood to see.

By Frances Lefkowitz November 2006
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Season Of My Grandfather

My mother, my stepfather, my five-year-old brother, and I lived in a sunny three-room tenement in Brooklyn, New York. The walls of our foyer were lined floor to ceiling with my mother’s books, and I read as many as possible, entering a trancelike state in which everything else floated on the edges of my awareness.

By Michelle Cacho-Negrete April 2008
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Lost

People have started offering you desserts in a way they think is casual, saying, “It’s just one bite. It won’t make a difference!” But it does. You can eat certain foods and you cannot eat others, and this is the only way you can feel OK. Losing weight is not the point.

By Kathryn Phelan June 2017
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Heart Of Understanding

If you look into this sheet of paper, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in it. Without a cloud, there can be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. “Inter-being” is a word that is not in the dictionary yet, but if we combine the prefix “inter-” with the verb “to be,” we have a new verb, “to inter-be.”

By Thich Nhat Hanh July 1988
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Waiting

Everything that has ever been in this house is alive, in you, in us. We’re going to spread that kindness — the winter fires, the rain splashing in on your bedroom curtains in July, the kitchen’s warmth, the light of the chandelier in your eyes, your moonflowers, your roses, the red in the dogwoods. I’ll give it away again and again and you do the same, you hear?

By Elizabeth Rose Campbell December 1980
Photography

That Sacred Otherness

And sometimes it’s the very otherness of a stranger, someone who doesn’t belong to our ethnic or ideological or religious group, . . . that can repel us initially, but which can jerk us out of our habitual selfishness, . . . and give us intonations of that sacred otherness, which is God.

September 2012
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Reading The Water

For the last seven years, my father and I have kayaked a thirty-six-mile portion of Oregon’s Rogue River each August. We run the river in an inflatable kayak, him reading the water and me providing the manpower to paddle the boat through world-class rapids.

By Michael Copperman April 2012
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Seed

The ultimate consequence of my time in the Seed was an overwhelming self-disgust that lingered for years. Everything seemed a mockery of itself. I fundamentally doubted the authenticity of any conviction — my own or someone else’s. I had acquiesced and adopted the Seed’s judgment for a time, and I could not easily disown it.

By Marc Polonsky January 2007
Fiction

Batrender

From my perch twenty yards beneath the cave, I’ve a perfect vantage point to watch the bats emerge at twilight, streaming out of the mouth like musical notes from a horn.

By Devin Wallace April 1995