Jason Stern on the notion of"staying in line" and the values it ensues in our children.
Jason Stern reflects upon a moment of clarity: a political conversation with his son.
Jason Stern remarks upon real and subjective events in terms of conciseness.
Once when I was a child I was stricken with fever. It must have been before they invented oral thermometers because the frequent rectal ordeal—truly unpleasant in my weakened state—gave a steady reading of 104 degrees.
When we conceived Chronogram 24 years ago, we had a clear intention: The magazine was to be an example, or paradigm, of the creative work and the community brought to light within its fold.
Jason Stern reflects on his decision to give up criticism for Lent.
Jason Stern shares insights from teaching a children's meditation class.
Jason Stern writes about a brief encounter with profound wisdom at the post office.
Jason Stern attends a performance of Dzieci Theater's “Fool’s Mass” at the Old Dutch Church in Kingston.
Jason Stern survives a run-in with the police.
Like most of the once burgeoning religious sites in Uzbekistan, this one was empty save the sweeper. After 70 years of Communism and a new government intent on keeping sects and fundamentalists out of the country, the madrasas are closed and people stay away from the mosques other than on important holidays.
Participating with underlying forces is not simply a matter of exploiting resources as the principles of capitalism guide, for to be harmonious with the reality both invokes and requires gratitude.
Mr. Zimmerman, my 11th grade chemistry teacher, was nearing retirement, and his impatience with the profession was beginning to show. But there was one lesson that stayed with me from the year I spent in his classroom.
Shards of sunlight swirled around the kitchen table, refracted by a crystal hanging from a string inside the window. Like daytime fireflies, the light-specks moved across the walls and faces of two young children sitting in chairs in front of watercolor paintings, brushes in hand.
Three things happened recently, events that are woven together in my being as a braided matrix. I can share two of these trials, and the third must remain a secret, as is only lawful.
I'm sharing a poem I learned from a Persian dervish. We sang it in Farsi, together with complex rhythms on dumbeks, daffs, and zarbs. Those who knew how would play the melody on the ney, setar, and kemancheh, all traditional Persian instruments.