A Magis Moment

"Those of us who shout the loudest about Americanism in making character assassinations are all too frequently those who, by our own words and acts, ignore some of the basic principles of Americanism-

The right to criticize;
The right to hold unpopular beliefs;
The right to protest;
The right of independent thought.

The exercise of these rights should not cost one single American citizen his reputation or his right to a livelihood  .... Freedom of speech is not what it used to be in America. It has been so abused by some that it is not exercised by others."

- Excerpt from the Declaration of Conscience, June 1, 1950, a speech by Republican Freshman Senator Margaret Chase Smith (Maine) against McCarthyism

Last night, tangled in sheets and chasing sleep, I found myself frantically bookmarking a page where Senator Margaret Chase Smith's four pillars of Americanism emerged from the novel I couldn't put down. Her courage arrests me—a freshman senator confronting the era's most formidable bully, a colleague from her own party she had once considered a friend. Senator Smith's voice cut through the Red Scare's paranoid fog, calling out the profoundly anti-American nature of McCarthy's "spy on your neighbor" tactics. Though McCarthy dismissed her and the six Republican colleagues who joined her statement as "Snow White and the Six Dwarfs," he was the one who ultimately crumbled, his witch hunt finally ending—but only after inflicting immeasurable harm on countless Americans.

The entire speech pulses with eloquence and startling relevance. Reading it sparked something I've been nurturing: hope that we, too, might rise to meet our moment's challenges. One line from Senator Smith's address rings with particular clarity across the decades: "As an American, I am shocked at the way Republicans and Democrats alike are playing directly into the Communist design of 'confuse, divide and conquer.'" The Communist design may not orchestrate our current chaos (though Russia certainly meddles), but the strategy of division remains devastating and effective.

As I delved deeper into Senator Smith's legacy, an email arrived from Regis University here in Denver. Nearly a decade has passed since I earned my Masters in Creative Writing there, yet President Salvador Aceves's message felt like a call across time—a plea to resist the proposed budget bill (HR 1) that would slash aid to first-generation college students and those most desperate for educational opportunity.

President Aceves invoked the word magis to rally his readers—a Latin term meaning "more," "deeper," "for the common good." The Jesuit concept draws me closer to my Jesuit-educated father's memory, this word that lifts us from our scattered busy-ness and demands we go deeper, standing in solidarity with those who need our strength. "This is our magis moment," President Aceves wrote.

A magis moment - the phrase tickles my mind into thinking "magic." A summons to higher values and shared purpose. How do we magically stand with our neighbors against the forces that would fracture us? Spectatorship feels like complicity now; we must become patriots in the truest sense. The more voices that rise, the more hands that act, the safer and stronger we become - the more magic we make. We have luminous examples to follow—and generations depending on our courage.

What We Share in the Sunlight

"We will block your actions with one hand, and we will have the audacity to extend the other hand so that you might take it, or your children one day might take it. Because the brief high that comes from domination is nothing compared to the infinite love and joy of true community." —Valarie Kaur, Los Angeles, June 11, 2025

"How do we make peace with our bodies? There are two different ways to look at that question: one is how do I make peace with this body? But the more important question right now in this country is how do we all go out in the world and make peace with our bodies? Because nobody's gonna care what we silently believed in our houses. They're gonna ask us—in this moment—whether we were the people who went out into the world and put our bodies and our voices on the line to protect each other." —Glennon Doyle on Jimmy Kimmel, 13 June 2025

A cluster of us settled onto the cool, shaded grass within sight of the capitol dome, our voices interrupted by a toddler's squeals as he patted a friendly dog.  We carpooled up to the No Kings rally from the suburbs south of Denver - a network of women and men who have attended protests, speeches, and marches over the years. As a group, we are willing to place our bodies momentarily in public spaces alongside millions whose bodies remain perpetually vulnerable.

I wish the viewers of Fox News could have joined us yesterday to witness children chasing iridescent bubbles, to step aside for the 98-year-old navigating her wheelchair through the throngs, to hear the drummer's rhythmic plea for peace echoing off the concrete. Two radiant young women distributed golden roses throughout the crowd, and I carried one home where it now glows from my vase of blush peonies—a defiant splash of sunshine.

Young children hoisted handmade signs or rode securely in backpacks shouldered by determined parents as we moved through a forest of cardboard signs and upside-down flags (a universal symbol of SOS - my country is in trouble). The prevailing theme balanced heartbreak with humor, embracing that familiar truth: sometimes you must laugh, or risk drowning in tears.

Contrary to the narrative peddled by right-wing media, zero danger materialized. When someone revved an engine along the parade route, my shoulders tensed reflexively. I instinctively moved closer to Aden—both of us wearing faded Harvard athletic shirts in an oddly defiant gesture—scanning for any rogue vehicle threading through our peaceful procession. The surreal irony wasn't lost on me: in today's climate, being a Harvard alumna somehow feels radical. A Presbyterian minister in his own weathered shirt even approached to ask, with genuine concern, if I worried about having "a target on my back." But there was no target, and the revving engine was merely Captain America astride his motorcycle, riding brief stretches before crowds engulfed him in celebration. His shield proclaimed "No Kings in America," and our collective cheers rippled through the summer air.

One particularly honest sign declared: "we want our dysfunctional democracy back." Democracy—government by the people, for the people—will inevitably prove messy because we humans are irrevocably flawed. Yet the democratic process remains historically more effective than strongman-style autocracy. Autocrats squander precious time and resources reinforcing their tenuous power, nurturing paranoia about potential threats, and funneling wealth toward themselves and their cronies. We witnessed this yesterday in a military parade that drained taxpayers of $25-42 million—resources that could have fed America's homeless veterans and families. Meanwhile, protesters walk for free.

Don't fear those of us who want to reclaim our country. We dream of a nation where citizens with brown or black skin navigate their days without fearing they'll be profiled and disappeared by masked figures in military fatigues. A country where healthcare benefits aren't sacrificed so the wealthiest one percent can secure another tax break. A nation where scientific research and innovation flourish rather than wither, where ignorance doesn't masquerade as policy.

We pursue this vision peacefully, with our bodies and voices raised not in isolation within our houses—agonizing privately over mounting fears—but openly, in community. We march toward that shimmering dream of justice and liberty for all, extending one hand in resistance while keeping the other perpetually open, ready to welcome anyone brave enough to take it.

We're All in This Together

The sticker selection in our mountain wine shop sprawled like a colorful map of alpine life. Snow cats and multicolored peaks competed for attention with cheerful "I'd rather be skiing" slogans rendered in bright bubble letters as we waited to purchase our vinho verde. Then one circular message with relatively modest red lettering emerged from a sky blue background, cutting through the visual noise: "We're all in this together." I didn't buy the sticker, but every time I've closed my eyes over the past three days, I can see it emblazoned against my eyelids like an afterimage burned by sudden sunlight.

My mountain weekend with old friends was orchestrated by the husband of the birthday girl we'd gathered to celebrate—a perfect gift both for her and for us. The weather blessed us with evening chill and Saturday sunshine, the previous week's rain clearing in wisps of cloud so we could savor the sun filtering through pale green aspen leaves and summer wildflowers on our meandering walk to town. Our conversation flowed like the creek beside the path: children, marriages, careers, current events, music, literature, card games. We never surrender to television during girls' weekends—our voices provide all the entertainment we need.

After twenty years of friendship, few secrets remain and honesty flows as freely as wine from our glasses. We revisited the exhausting terrain of raising young children from our current vantage point of launching adults into the world—some even walking down aisles. None of us claim family roots in Colorado, so we became each other's chosen family, weaving ourselves into an unbreakable support network. When illness knocked me sideways, one friend navigated middle school orientation for my daughter, another orchestrated the meal train, a third accompanied me to doctor appointments. We rotate through these acts of grace as life delivers its inevitable and seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Now our conversations sparkle with the kind of openness that paves the way for riotous laughter: we compared notes on wonky hips and physical therapy exercises, sheepishly apologized for digestive episodes triggered by the previous night's lentil soup, and exchanged observations about how we and our husbands navigate this strange new chapter without children underfoot year-round. A few weeks ago, I'd reflected on how difficult genuine connection has become in our screen-dominated world, and this weekend in the mountains went far toward mending those gaps in shared experience. It felt like a friendship vow renewal, and I'm profoundly grateful.

We kept our phones largely silent and our screens dark, so Sunday afternoon's news struck like cold water, shocking some of the weekend's delight right out of me. Reading about troops and guardsmen, peaceful protests and dangerous skirmishes, all I could think was that sky-blue sticker's simple proclamation: "We're all in this together." Everyone—regardless of gender, age, political affiliation, or socioeconomic background—everyone who recognizes something has gone terribly wrong, we share this moment of reckoning. I don't know what else to believe, or how else to help, except to remind us all of our chosen families, our intentional communities, and the universal longing we harbor to feel safe and secure in the world we're creating together.

Perhaps that's why the sticker continues to float behind my closed eyes—not as naive optimism, but as essential truth. In our fractured moment, we need each other more than ever.

The Two-Track Life

A dear friend once observed that life perpetually runs on two tracks—a profound truth that has echoed through my thoughts for years. At any given moment, existence barrels along the high track, gathering momentum through adventures, meaningful connections, invigorating workouts, and robust health. Yet simultaneously it careens down the lower track, accumulating moments of loss, waves of overwhelm, and the inevitable physical challenges that accompany the mortal journey. This duality proves both exhausting and impossible to ignore.

Ezra Klein recently explored this very concept in a podcast interview with writer Kathryn Schulz, discussing her compelling memoir Lost and Found—a title that conjures childhood memories of classroom tables laden with forgotten mittens and lunch boxes while simultaneously offering a deeper metaphor for fate's capricious nature. Schulz articulates what many of us struggle to express, captured in a passage that resonates with particular clarity in these turbulent times:

"But even in the most peaceable of times, the extent to which we are confronting the world beyond our own immediate reality is a choice. There's always boundless suffering. There's always boundless beauty. It really is a matter of: Where do we look? And it's tough. You both have to do both at once—and can't do both at once. The question of what kind of balance you strike is infinitely interesting to me." 

Last night, I slipped away from book club early, seeking rest before 6am swim practice. Yet peace proved elusive as my mind churned with the political realities we'd dissected—shared frustrations, simmering anger, tentative hopes for moving forward. I attempted my familiar countdown from 100, desperate to abandon the evening's conversation and its underlying anxieties. Somewhere beyond 800, a restless sleep finally claimed me.

After this morning's workout and my requisite second cup of coffee, William called from Chiang Mai, his voice thick with culture shock. Fresh from a week in Japan's ordered precision, he now found himself navigating Thailand's vibrant chaos—an extreme example of balancing adventure's endless "ands" with finite reserves of energy. He and his travel companions wrestle with sleep deprivation, constant newness, foreign languages, and demanding physical activity. While their experience represents an amplified version, we all perform similar juggling acts within today's relentless pace.

Where do we look? The question haunts me as I consider Schulz's words. How do we honor suffering—both our own and others'—while simultaneously embracing joy in our fleeting existence? That narrow four-inch balance beam where Olympic gymnasts tumble offers another apt metaphor for this perpetual challenge. Yet in this moment, given our country's precarious state, that slender wooden beam seems more forgiving than the demands of our daily realities.

Perhaps the answer lies not in achieving perfect balance, but in accepting the wobble—recognizing that we cannot simultaneously hold all of life's contradictions without occasionally stumbling. The grace exists not in the steadiness, but in the getting back up, in choosing where to direct our gaze despite the dizzying motion of those dual tracks beneath our feet.

What We Share in the Dark

Our youngest son compelled us to attend the IMAX screening of Mission Impossible: Final Reckoning over the rainy Memorial Day weekend. Rob and I rarely venture to theaters, preferring our couch and easy chair with a handy remote for strategic snack breaks. But we've caught a few MI films theatrically, and the franchise's dramatic action and special effects justify the outing.

Final Reckoning could have benefited from a more ruthless editor, but delivered the promised high-stakes action. In one unbearably tense sequence, Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) tumbles around an unstable submarine 500 feet beneath the surface. I had to avert my eyes to keep my heart rate within reasonable bounds, and scanning our fellow theatergoers, I found every gaze locked on the screen—hands covering mouths, chewing suspended, bodies leaning forward as the music swelled.

The shared reactions reassured me because I often wonder if I'm alone in my responses. This collective experience somehow amplified my emotion, making it harder to dismiss the action as "just a movie." I looked around again near the film's end when Ving Rhames' character, Luther Stickell, speaks through a recording. His words prove inspiring and uplifting, and this time I watched hands rise to wipe away tears, heads nodding as the message echoed through the theater:

"Any hope for a better future comes from willing that future into being, a future reflecting the measure of good within ourselves. And all that is good inside us is measured by the good we do for others. We all share the same fate—the same future, the sum of our infinite choices. One such future is built on kindness, trust and mutual understanding, should we choose to accept it, driving without question towards a light we cannot see—not just for those we hold close but for those we'll never meet." —MI: Final Reckoning

More inspiring than most graduation addresses or recent political rhetoric, these words resonated beyond the theater's sound system. The writers seemed to speak directly to millions of moviegoers, asking us to consider what future we create daily, what world we want to inhabit. Observing the theater, many appeared equally moved, amplifying the effect. When the credits rolled, we applauded—something movie audiences once did routinely. My son stared wide-eyed, having never witnessed this ritual. Perhaps we needed that applause because we all crave shared experiences and inspiration.

The irony isn't lost on me that I found this connection in a darkened theater, surrounded by strangers, while working to maintain deeper friendships in my actual life. But sometimes the most unexpected moments remind us what we're missing—and what remains possible when we're willing to be moved together.