There were mostly middle-aged white people, residents of the city in which I live, congregating on the front lawn of city hall when I arrived that night. A state assemblyman from my district was speaking on a bullhorn, urging people to stay until 7pm, when the curfew would begin. At 6pm, a line of military trucks from all over the state came cruising down the avenue before stopping at the light, flexing their military muscle to the people lining the sidewalk. Residents shouted, “Go home” and “We don’t want you here.” We moved to this community nearly 30 years ago

We all make mistakes for which we should all be forgiven,” our yoga teacher announces as class begins. “This morning, I am choosing to forgive the mistake they apparently made out there.” He smiles, then motions with his chin toward the window where, across the street, two men in matching highlighter-yellow jackets are using a jackhammer to break up a new concrete sidewalk poured only a few weeks ago. The workers had become familiar to us, part of a construction crew working on a new development across from our yoga studio, their noise competing with the instructions of our sensei

Virtual Seder meals. Drive-through church services. Zoom happy hours. FaceTime reunions. Many of us are valuing time with family and friends now more than ever. And we’ve gotten pretty inventive at finding new and safe ways to connect. I thought I’d share one of my recent “virtual connecting” experiences: There were nine of us, average age 62, old friends who have been meeting for dinner every month for the past three decades, attempting to reconnect after days and days of staying in to stay safe. Earlier in the week, Tom volunteered to use Microsoft Office to bring all of us