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Isn’t it “under control?” Are we all just thrilled that our states and counties and cities are “opening up?” Are we looking forward to those summer parties? Making those summer travel plans? Because, you know: Flattening. The worse is behind us. Or, as the informed and deeply thoughtful members of the First Family tell us, the virus is about to “magically” disappear.

Regardless of what is happening in your community, in your state—and I hope the news is as good as it can be—please know this: Cases of the coronavirus in prisons and jails across the United States have soared in recent weeks. The number of prison inmates known to be infected has doubled during the past month. The Marshall Project reports that 46,967 prisoners have so far tested positive. Prison deaths tied to the coronavirus are up by 73 percent since mid-May.

Now, according to the national database maintained by the New York Times, the five largest known clusters of the virus in the United States are not at nursing homes or meatpacking plants, but inside correction institutions.

Of course they are.

We have heard for months that prisons and jails would be hot spots, that they are extreme high-risk environments.

They are often overcrowded, unsanitary places where social distancing is impractical, bathrooms and day rooms are shared by hundreds of inmates, and access to cleaning supplies is tightly controlled. Add to this that we have an aging (and chronically ill) prison population with limited access to health care. Oregon, my state, has one of the oldest incarcerated populations in the nation. Once behind bars, prisoners age faster than the rest of us. Health researchers estimate from 10 to 15 years faster.

The response from governors, from Departments of Corrections and from officials within prisons themselves has been inconsistent, muddled, mostly ineffective. A few states have moved forward with robust testing. Most states have not. Some states are releasing medically vulnerable prisoners; others are not. Many are stalling, arguing politics. This is not about politics. This is about health. Men and women are dying.

The crisis is now. The response must be now: testing for all; release not just for the medically vulnerable and aged but for all low-risk inmates who have served at least half of their sentences.

Compassionate release.

Virtually all state prison systems and the federal prison system allow for the early “compassionate release” of sick, elderly, or disabled prisoners. Almost always, this doesn’t happen.

Now comes Bernie Madoff, the financial world’s equivalent of a serial killer. Entering the final stages of kidney disease with less than 18 months to live, he filed for compassionate release from federal prison. The Bureau of Prisons denied his petition, as it does 94 percent of those filed by incarcerated people. He has filed an appeal with the sentencing court.

Should he be released to die at home? Should we feel compassion for him? Here’s what a thoughtful New York Times opinion piece has to say.

I don’t think it’s a matter of feeling compassion—defined as “sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings of others–for Madoff or for others seeking to spend their final days outside a prison. To feel compassion for someone who ruined so many lives may be beyond us.

But what is not beyond us is a long, long overdue public discussion about whether retribution should be our only penological aim, and justice for victims defined only as the long-term warehousing of perpetrators. Are victims made whole? Are criminals reformed? What does—what should–“justice” mean?

What do you think?

(And oh, the irony of this Times column just as Trump announces his list of commutations and pardons.)

I am sitting in a room. It’s not just any room. It’s the historic Kuenburg Hall at the New Residenz in the center of Salzburg. I am listening to Mozart performed by the Mozart Players in the city of Mozart’s birth. His statue dominates the courtyard. His “birth house” is just down the street.

I am not a classical music aficionado, but you don’t have to be to love Mozart. The guy knew how to write a tune. I don’t usually attend classical music concerts, but here in Mozart-besotted Salzburg how could I not? The room, despite its pedigree, is simple, plain except for the wood-carved frieze on the ceiling and the elegant 12-foot tall windows facing out to the courtyard. The audience is seated on folding chairs. The twelve players are seated on folding chairs. They are, at most, fifteen feet from me, so close that during the French horn solo I can hear the musician’s in-take of breaths.

They play. Man, do they play. They play with all the energy and exuberance that the music demands. They play with a combination of intense concentration and dreaminess, of both working their craft and transcending it. I’ve seen this in the faces, in the bodies, of ballet dancers. I’ve felt it in myself during those moments in the zone where “working” is not really what I’m doing.

The sound is luscious and alive and everywhere. I alternate between closing my eyes because I only want sound, nothing else, and closely observing the musicians, watching their faces, deciphering their body language.

Here’s why I’m studying them so intently: These extraordinary musicians at the top of their game are playing for an audience of eleven people. There are more musicians than there are audience members. And I see in their faces and in their bodies that they don’t care. Of course they want people to listen, just like I want people to read my books, but that’s not why they perform. They do it for the love of the music, for the joy of playing, for the now-ness of the performance.

Do they hold back because they are playing to an almost empty room? No. Do I write a lesser book because I get a lower advance? No. I do what I do, they do what they do, because it’s what we do. It is what we love. It is about the thing itself. The beautiful thing. It is good to be reminded of this.

And it is necessary to be reminded of this in an art and literature world that often seems to be dominated by numbers — attendance records, revenue earned, books sold, even, Lord help us, twitter followers. Please let us not forget the joy in the act itself.

Sometimes I think English is the richest of languages: a murder of crows, a sleuth of bears, an exaltation of larks. I mean, really, it doesn’t get much better than that.

But it does.

It turns out that other languages have emotionally enriching words that are sadly lacking in English. A University of East London researcher is investigating non-English words for positive emotions and concepts that have no direct translation in English. Although certainly one can feel an emotion without having a name for it, having a name captures the emotion, shines a light on it, preserves it, makes it sharable. What Tim Lomas, the researcher, says is that if you don’t have a way of identifying a specific feeling it “becomes just another unconceptualized ripple in the ongoing flux of subjective experience.”

I don’t know about you, but I am not partial to unconceptualized ripples.

So here is a sampling of what Lomas has found so far. You may want to boost your vocabulary with these words:

Gula (Spanish) the desire to eat simply for the taste
Mbukimvuki (Bantu) “to shuck off one’s clothes in order to dance”
Schnapsidee (German) coming up with an ingenious plan when drunk
Volta (Greek) leisurely strolling the streets
Gokotta (Swedish) waking up early to listen to bird song
Gumusservi (Turkish) the glimmer that moonlight makes on water
Gigil (Philippine Tagalog) the irresistible urge to pinch or squeeze someone because you love them so much
Firgun (Hebrew) saying nice things to someone simply to make them feel good
Sprezzatura (Italian) when all art and effort are concealed beneath a “studied carelessness”

I think there ought to be word for how muscles feel when they are toasty and pliant and well-used.

I think there ought to a word for the wave of well-er-than-well feeling that floods the body during a brisk walk on a bright February morning.

I think there ought to be a word for that rush of surprise and pleasure when discovering a bag of last summer’s hand-picked blueberries at the back of the freezer.

Because those are the words I would use to describe this morning.

“The human foot is a masterpiece of engineering and work of art”
– Leonardo Da Vinci

A few months ago, when it was warm and dry and I wore sandals every day (and had my toenails painted Aegean blue), I posted “In Praise of Feet.” Now that we are firmly into stuff-your-feet-into-boot weather, I feel the need to talk feet once again.

First, a reminder: Twenty-five percent of the body’s 212 bones are in the feet, as well as 33 joints (20 of which are actively articulated) and more than 100 muscles, tendons and ligaments. If any of these bones – or the ligaments, tendons and muscles that surround them – become misaligned or stressed, the effects can be felt in the knees, the hips, the low back and let’s not forget the infamous IT band. And you don’t’ even realize that the FEET are the culprit.

Consider this: Feet are TINY compared to the rest of you, yet they must support and stabilize the entire body. We plant our feet more than 10,000 times a day. Make that 15,000-20,000 times a day if we exercise. And each time the foot contacts the ground it absorbs about 300 pounds +/- of force.

And women, take EXTRA note: If you were ever pregnant, the increased weight on your joints, combined with greater laxity due to hormones, probably led to permanent structural changes in your feet, including lower arches and bigger feet. (Mine grew a size and a half.) If pregnancy didn’t get you, it may be that your ill-chosen footware is doing damage . And by “ill-chosen” I mean those fancy, pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes.

Most of us have weak, inflexible feet, confined in shoes and idle most of the day (planted under a desk). I’ve read that 3 out of 4 people develop foot problems as they age. If your feet hurt, you don’t want to stand on them. Or walk. If your feet hurt you curtail physical activity, which accelerates aging, which makes everything hurt.

I have to admit that, like most of you (I am betting) I pretty much ignored my feet. That is until I started hanging around ballet dancers (during research for my new book, Raising the Barre). Dancers are, as you might imagine, foot obsessed. And so now I am. And you should be too!

Here’s what the National Institute on Aging has to say about foot care. Here’s what I have to say: Don’t wear shoes when you don’t have to. Walking and standing in bare feet strengthens them. (I’m not talking to you plantar fasciitis sufferers. You’ve got your own regimen.) Get yourself a wide elastic band and start exercising your feet. Wrap the band around the ball of your foot and flex, point, flex point, every night for maybe 5 or 10 minutes. Place a tennis ball or racketball ball under your foot and roll it around. It feels good. And it does good. For me the breakthrough was moving from the gym, where my feet were always encased in shoes (albeit good ones), to the yoga and Barre3 studios where I am gloriously barefoot, and every move I make stretches and strengthens these two size 9 masterpieces of engineering.

Yes, I love feet. But not in a creepy way.

A few years ago, as part of research for Counterclockwise, I took a college anatomy class, the most wonderful part of which was getting my own skeleton to take home. (Alas, plastic not bone.) And by far the most wonderful part of the skeleton was…the foot.

Why? Listen up. The foot contains 26 bones (one-quarter of the bones in the human body are in the feet), 33 joints (20 of which are actively articulated) and more than 100 muscles, tendons and ligaments. What a glorious work of engineering. There is no more structurally interesting, meticulously constructed, mechanically brilliant part of the human body.

And our feet better be all this. They support and stabilize our entire body. They allow us to move from place to place. We plant our feet more than 10,000 times a day to sit, stand and walk. Make that 15,000-20,000 times a day if we exercise. And each time the foot contacts the ground it absorbs about 300 pounds +/- of force. (Fun fact: The sole of the foot contains 200,000 nerve endings.)

According to athletic trainers and physical therapists, most of us have weak, inflexible feet, confined in shoes and idle most of the day (planted under a desk). The body compensates for weak feet by enlisting back, hips, knees and shoulders – all good body parts, but they have their own work to do. Physical therapists who see patients complaining of tight IT bands or low back pain frequently trace the problem back to weak feet.

And yet…Ever see anyone at the gym working out their feet?

Me neither.

That is, until I started hanging around with dancers (during research for my new book, Raising the Barre). Dancers are, as you might imagine, foot obsessed. I never really thought about my feet, never considered that I might be walking around on “old” (as in stiff, frail, vulnerable) feet that could lead to bigger problems until I saw the dancers flex and point their extraordinarily muscular feet, until I saw the strong top arch of their feet, until I marveled at how long they could stay (and stay steady) on their toes.

I bought a wide elastic band started working on my feet — flex, point, flex point, every night for maybe 5 or 10 minutes. It’s amazing what happens when you exercise muscles, isn’t it? It’s not just biceps or triceps or quadriceps that need action; it’s the anterior, posterior and peroneal tibials of the feet. Ankle rotations help. Walking barefoot whenever possible (and certainly inside the house) helps. Barre3 classes in bare feet: Yes! Massaging your own feet: Sure! And, occasionally, oh yeah, Aegean blue toenail polish.

Jan Stafl, my friend, died two weeks ago. He was 58. He had lived – and I mean lived – 4 years with an aggressive, incurable form of cancer for which he had received a 9-month prognosis. No, he didn’t die “after a long battle with cancer.” Jan didn’t battle his cancer. He worked with prodigious energy and deep curiosity and extraordinary courage to understand it, to be on speaking terms with it, to learn from it. He worked thoughtfully, patiently, with grace and humor – and I have to say again, with prodigious energy — to teach himself and those around him how to die in full consciousness.

I write about Jan to honor him. But I write about him in this particular forum to make two points. The first is that, sometimes you do everything right, and you still get clobbered. You are physically active, and you eat well, and you have deep and loving connections to family and friends, and you live in a beautiful place, and your work is meaningful, and you have a rich spiritual life. In short, you live the ultimate counterclockwise life. And then you get some weird bad cancer and you die.

I know I am not the only person who works overtime to fool herself into thinking she has the ultimate control, that she can avoid all things bad by doing all things good. Of course I know this is not true. But Jan’s death forces me to feel it and deal with it. This is a good thing, not a bad thing.

Jan’s illness and death, also, I think, puts the correct focus on why we should choose to live healthy, vibrant lives. We choose this life not to avoid death (ha!) or even, it seems, to avoid random illness. We make purposeful healthy choices every day so that we can live wholly and fully during the years we are alive. We make these choices so that we have the energy and resilience and embodied delight to enjoy the world and to do good things in it.

Which is what Jan did.

In spades, as they say.

Sometimes the only thing you can do is make a story of it.

This is the story of Alena.

My husband and I arrived in Copenhagen one early afternoon last spring. A taxi dropped us off in front of what we thought was our airbnb apartment. But it wasn’t. We were jetlagged, over-luggaged, sweaty (it was an astonishing 70 degrees), cranky. And lost. I traipsed back and forth in front of a long line of sleek canal-side apartments checking addresses and names, not finding our place, becoming increasingly distraught.

Then a woman called to us from a second-floor balcony. She had a cloud of blond hair and a larger-than-life smile. “Can I help? Are you lost?” Yes. And yes.

She raced downstairs and began to fuss over us. Her English was quick and charming. She would help us find the apartment, she said, but she would not hear of us standing on the sidewalk while things got straightened out. She helped us lug our luggage up to her place. She poured us tall glasses of water. She made us coffee. She offered us food. She lent us her phone. She was spontaneously, gloriously, unself-consciously generous.

Finally we connected with our host and found the apartment. A few days later, we invited Alena over for dinner to thank her. She refused and instead invited us to her apartment where, at the end of a long day of work, she prepared an extraordinary multi-course meal. I remember these tiny, impossibly creamy little potatoes. I remember enough fresh salmon, perfectly prepared, to feed the entire neighborhood. We brought dessert from Lagkagehuset, tiny, beautiful works-of-art pastries. We had to catch a flight in the early morning, but we stayed late, very late, eating and talking, talking and laughing.

When we got back home, I told everyone about Alena and how she was what I would remember most about our week in Copenhagen. I sent her a scarf in a shade of blue that I thought would match her eyes. We emailed back and forth for several months. Her written English was impossibly quirky and very funny. I loved hearing from her. Late last summer, she told me she was suffering from depression, and nothing was helping. This was territory she knew well, she said. It would pass, she said. I sent her a silly card. Twice a week I emailed what I hoped were encouraging thoughts. Then, mid-fall, she stopped answering.

This morning an email arrived from a woman who introduced herself as Alena’s best friend. She told me that last week Alena took her own life.

So this is a sad story, and maybe not a story you want to hear at the holidays (or ever), and certainly not a story that has to do with counterclockwise advice. So you are wondering why I am telling it.

I am telling it because I have to, because, in telling it, I am honoring Alena. I am telling it because I want to make it into a story not about death but about generosity of spirit and the way we touch each other’s lives, about moments of connection and how they stay with us, how they live on. Even though we don’t.