Essays by Karen Anderson

Dozens of ants coming and going, over and around the clothes pins. Why, I wonder, and even more, how?

“There are two kinds of chances,” he said, leaning over the podium. “Those that come more than once and those that will never come again."

It’s almost too warm to jog but I lace up my shoes anyway. There’s no traffic this morning because it’s Sunday and the streets are quiet. The only cars are on their way to church or to the convenience store for coffee and a paper.

Reading the classic Mark Twain novel again sparks some reflection on how we use language today.

The mist, the fight over a reservation and the realization that a relationship had run its course.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I have a security blanket. I suspect that most of us do.

Freedom of speech, while guaranteed in the Constitution, was not encouraged in my home when I was growing up.

Nobody stopped to ask the man about his politics, his religion, his ethnic background. We all just helped.

One morning last summer, I walked out to the alley behind my house and noticed several diamonds lying in the dirt.