Essays by Karen Anderson

You can know things, and you can learn things. To essayist Karen Anderson, the latter feels more valuable.

When I was growing up, my parents attended church every week and I went to Sunday School—which was a welcoming place but I mostly worried that no one would come to pick me up.

When I was a kid, my dog got loose one day and ended up in the yard of the meanest man on the block.

On grief, and how its difficulty is a measure of love.

A walk through the neighborhood on a snowy day evokes a powerful, happy memory.

We are sitting on the couch by the light of the Christmas tree, drinking tea and eating frosted Santa Clauses.

On the value of having a default cause: something to blame, something fairly blameless, neutral, available.

When the opportunity came to pledge a sorority, I seized it.

We all know that “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” are listed in the Declaration of Independence as “inalienable rights.” But why? Why that?

Karen Anderson reflects on being told to "slow down" in retirement. (She'll let you know when she does.)