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Great New Reads

Compelling, thought-provoking, honest, funny, heartbreaking and soul stirring new work published most Wednedays.

The Opposite of Faith

In this fierce and unflinching love letter of sorts, from mother to child, L.S. Taylor explores the gap between the love that's known and the one that's felt.

Left Hanging

In this poem by Robin Woolman, a crow entangled in a tree points to larger entanglements, the nature of loss, and walking away.

A colorful salad with eggs, tomatoes, and greens on a table, beside a labeled glass and cutlery. Dimly lit bar background with bottles.

Salad Days

While lingering over lunch, Amy Losak discovered how to love life's delicious details from an expert: Her mother.

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Editor's Note

Slow Moving

I’m in the midst of moving, going from a house in an olive grove to one just off the plateia in a nearby mountain village. The photo shows the side of a moving box, the rooms ready to be checked off. So orderly.

But that belies the messy reality. It’s a time of chaos and contemplation, a process raises questions both large and small:

Why do I save so many random scarps of paper?
What do I really care about?
What is worth keeping and what should go?

For this "adventure in moving," my husband and I have the luxury of time, so we are literally slow moving. It’s a chance to see the stuff of my life with new eyes. It’s a gift, really. A pain in the keister, sure. But also a gift.

As I work through the drawers and closets of this place we’ve called home for five years, I'm discovering archaeological evidence of the life I left behind in Portland, Oregon in 2019. Back then, I had a big corporate job, and still have a vestigial set of business clothes and – I kid you not – pantyhose. Not sure why I’ve kept them, to be honest. Here in Greece, I’m in a swim suit or a sweat suit depending on the season. Pretty simple.

I find myself wanting less and less stuff. Not that I’m embracing minimalism. God forbid. I’m a maximalist at heart, and the current austere aesthetic feels drab and dispiriting to me. Buy a color already!

But still. It’s clear that not everything I hold onto truly matters. Much of it is just baggage.

Old clothes, old expectations, old hopes. For sure old fears and resentments, they can go. Even old achievements. I’m not sure I need those anymore either, even though I chased them hard.

The most tantalizing item in the keep-donate-toss triage is a subtle beast, a lifelong companion, as familiar as the inside of my mind. Could I let go of my urgent attachment to things working out in a particular way? Imagine how much lighter my life could be. At 62, I don’t want to carry it anymore, and anyway, there’s isn’t enough room where I’m going. In my new home, there is only space for infinite love.

XO Jean