Publisher's Log: April 11, 2020
It is finally Saturday and I am not in the office for the first time this week. Even as my grief and weariness envelopes me, I breathe a little bit easier being home.
I am making bagels, my third batch in two weeks. Soon I will go to the garden and clean up the asparagus bed. I imagine watching the asparagus spears come up and wonder whether I will remember that amidst this backdrop of death, life, pure and wholesome, springs from the earth.
I worry that people truly do not care about the existence of the newspaper. With this one so snugly tied to my own life, I sometimes feel like I am the one in danger of being snuffed out.
Still, as the dough rises and the seedlings in the window lean toward the light, I again am filled with a small beckoning of hope that there will be enough creativity and care to get to the other side.
I ready for the garden and the thought that the sun will warm my soul.
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