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.

Connecting IRL

Men "wake up at 30 or 40 and say, 'I have no friends,'" notes Sam Graham-Felsen in his New York Times  piece of May 25. "They actually have a lifetime of friendships. But really, the issue is that they haven't put in the effort they've needed to. Guys forget that friendship is a relationship—it requires watering." Among suggested watering techniques: "TCS," which stands for text weekly, call monthly, see quarterly.

The sentiment echoes through Alison Espach's novel The Wedding People, (Henry Holt and Co. 2025) where characters lament their shrinking social circles: "I know. I pretty much don't know anyone anymore," one says. "Right? The only person I know now is basically my mom."

Every day, my inbox fills with LinkedIn and Facebook connection requests from virtual strangers—people I've never met or barely remember. I delete them reflexively, though the irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, shutting down digital overtures while craving real connection, someone to share the weight of menopause, children launching into adulthood, aging parents, and the relentless churn of alarming headlines.

My neighborhood friendships remain solid bedrock—women who walk and hike together, exchange hopeful texts, gather for book clubs and occasional weekend getaways, host potlucks where spouses mingle over wine and conversation. But busy-ness threatens to erode even these connections. We're pulled in every direction by emotional family demands, challening careers, and marriages that need tending.

When our kids were small, we gathered daily at the playground after pickup, dissecting the minutiae of our lives while children climbed and swung. Now we're lucky to manage quarterly gatherings where so much ground needs covering that evenings blur past in breathless summaries—trips, visits, life events floating through the air like paper airplanes, dipping and dodging before disappearing.

The pandemic certainly fractured something fundamental about friendship, drawing us inward like turtles into our shells, boxing us into separate houses where relationships flickered to life only through screens. I've never fully recovered my instinct to reach out first, perhaps too comfortable in the safety of husband, children, and work colleagues. But pangs of loss strike when I realize months have passed without seeing a dear friend—no shared celebration of our sons' college graduations, no updates on her ambitious landscaping project.

Making new, deeper connections feels like swimming upstream. At Masters swimming, friendly hellos and how-are-yous punctuate my arrival, but there's little opportunity for real conversation when your head spends most of its time underwater. My texts suggesting coffee dates disappear into digital silence, leaving relationships as shallow as the children's wading pool.

Graham-Felsen captures this modern friendship drought perfectly, even including comedian John Mulaney's sharp observation from Saturday Night Live: "If you think your dad has friends, you're wrong. Your mom has friends, and they have husbands. Those are not your dad's friends." While my husband actually maintains his friendships better than most, work and family obligations still vacuum up most of his available hours.

Graham-Felsen's insights apply far beyond men—to anyone navigating our modern world where social media, emails, and texts create the mirage of connection without delivering genuine intimacy. Perhaps it's time to do better, to become the friend I'd want to have. After all, these connections to friends and family represent our only true wealth.

Hope Blooming from the Mountains to the Prairies

I've just emerged from a whirlwind of college graduations—exhausted yet filled with hope that this fresh wave of educated, passionate young minds will help resurrect a forward-thinking, common-good mindset in our society. From the cavernous Events Center at CU Boulder to the elegant theater at University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, the commencement messages echoed with purpose: forge new paths, create meaningful change, develop ethical code, craft empathetic art. The unmistakable pride radiating from families, the unbridled joy of graduates, and yes, the stirring notes of Pomp and Circumstance all fueled our graduation weekends with a special energy.

Aden and I accompanied Nana to Chicago to see my niece (and goddaughter) Julia receive her degree from U of Illinois. We savored family celebrations at the rustic Firehouse of Chicago and at Biaggi's in Champaign (or perhaps it was Urbana—the twin cities blur together). Later, we gathered around worn wooden tables at Murphy's Pub, diving into drinking games where Nana, nursing her water with surprising competitive spirit, invented most of the rules to "Toast to the Governor." In a moment of unexpected sweetness, a young stranger passed Nana a vibrant bouquet of daisies through an open window—she attempted to gift them to Julia, but when my goddaughter graciously declined, Nana held court from her corner seat, flowers proudly displayed as we cycled through rounds of Irish poker and countless introductions to Julia's friends and their beaming families.

Brilliant sunshine blessed both graduation weekends, casting a golden glow on radiant faces and illuminating the contrasting landscapes—majestic mountains framing Boulder and gentle, tree-dotted plains stretching across Illinois. The ceremonial robes bestowed a democratic dignity on all graduates: deep navy blue with vibrant orange sashes at Illinois, while CU's black robes were adorned with distinguishing gold, purple, orange, and green sashes marking different fields of study. Across both campuses, impromptu celebrations with lemonade, water, and donuts materialized for parents and professors while recent graduates, still slightly bleary-eyed from previous celebrations, eagerly plotted their evening revelries.

Commencement speakers delicately balanced celebrating achievement with preparing these young adults for the complex, ever-shifting world awaiting them. It's no small feat to honor their accomplishments while simultaneously steeling them for inevitable setbacks and inspiring them to become architects of much-needed change. I find myself profoundly hoping these bright souls maintain their courage and determination—finding secure footholds within our society's somewhat fragile framework and propelling themselves forward and upward at every opportunity. 

A Symphony of Goodbyes at Graduation

The bagpipes announcing the University of Colorado's commencement ceremony echo through my living room as I grapple with William's final days of college. I'm transported back to those same haunting notes of "Amazing Grace" drifting across Harvard's Quincy House courtyard three decades ago, when I faced adulthood with a hangover, misty eyes, and boundless uncertainty.

William—true to collegiate tradition—warned us he'd be "under the weather" from celebratory revelry. We'll skip the stadium ceremony for the more intimate computer science department festivities, where his name will trigger joyful cheers from his siblings as he crosses that symbolic stage. The grandparents will join us, creating a beautiful tapestry of generational support.

The nearly 22 years since William's birth feel impossible—those early days that crawled by, the whirlwind of youth sports and elementary school, then the increasingly swift current of high school and college. Now William joins his sibling Aden in adulthood, preparing to launch his professional life in New York this August.

My neighborhood text threads buzz with fellow parents of graduating seniors. We confess our contradictory emotions: fierce pride alongside disbelief, profound joy tangled with quiet heartache as we close the final chapter of our children's dependent years.

The world awaiting them seems harsher than the one we entered at their age—though perhaps that's merely the anxious lens of parenthood. These graduates, marching across my screen with sunglasses glinting, embrace the morning light with an infectious optimism that beautifully counters the ceremonial music guaranteed to moisten any parent's eyes.

The Power of a Mini-Adventure

 "Things look so bad everywhere / In this whole world, what is fair?

We walk blind and we try to see / Falling behind in what could be.

Bring me a higher love / Bring me a higher love, oh - oh..."

- Lyrics from "Higher Love" by Steve Winwood

"Man, what a hell of a year it's been / Keep on bluffin' but I just can't win

Drowned my sorrows, but they learned to swim / Man, what a hell of a year it's been."

- "Lyrics from "Good News" by Shaboozey

I embarked on a mini-adventure yesterday. Defying the persistent hip and lower back discomfort that seems unavoidable in post-menopause, I ventured to Denver's upscale Cherry Creek district for a third ear piercing in each lobe. My two existing piercings were done ages ago (clumsily, by a teenager with a nail gun), while Rowan, a Cherry Creek boutique, employs nurses who pierce with needles using hypoallergenic titanium posts. Quite the upgrade from the Torrance mall!

Aden accompanied me to Rowan and offered encouragement throughout the procedure as nurse Lauren precisely positioned the third sparkling post. Once the sting subsided, we strolled the streets sipping iced lavender almond milk lattes, admiring the vibrant red and yellow tulips and flowering trees that heralded spring. At Whole Foods, we purchased gluten-free cinnamon rolls and savored them on a shaded bench while tree blossoms drifted onto our plates. The thoroughfares remained relatively quiet early Sunday morning, populated mainly by pedestrians and post-yoga diners filling outdoor seating on this balmy day.

Following our impromptu breakfast, I took the scenic route to a competition where several of my swimmers awaited coaching. I hadn't traveled those roads in over a decade; my last journey along that path involved taking the children berry-picking at a Brighton farm. My playlist delivered one perfect track after another, and I relished this departure from routine even as my thoughts drifted toward circumstances I'd been attempting to avoid. Confronting life lately has proven challenging, and the lyrics seemed to acknowledge that struggle while simultaneously offering glimmers of optimism.

Speaking of optimism, Rob and I indulged in another mini-excursion last week; we both ducked out of work early Wednesday and headed to Boulder where William's startup (Measures AI) had reached the finals of Boulder's New Venture Challenge. Their founder delivered an exceptional pitch with impressive slides. We delighted in hearing all six presentations (three per category) though naturally favored Measures, which secured runner-up status by a narrow margin and received a $10,000 award. Not shabby compensation for an undergraduate senior project launched just last summer.

Afterward, we treated William to drinks at a nearby rooftop lounge, settled by the fire with a view of the 16th Street Mall showcasing its own beds of purple and pink tulips. Capturing moments of joy with our children and each other has made 2025 tolerable thus far. Breaking routine, viewing familiar landscapes from fresh perspectives, and embracing spontaneity reminds me that I can't always predict what awaits. For the price of fuel, a few hours, and some coffee, unexpected delights and welcome news might be just around the corner.

Instructions for Living

 "Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it."

-Mary Oliver, "Instructions for Living a Life"

"Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up. And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang."

- Mary Oliver, "I Worried"

Our three adult children joined us yesterday for church on the couch, Easter edition. While the cats meandered about in quest of warm laps, we immersed ourselves in the sermon, which incorporated Mary Oliver's three-fold instructions for living fully. Rev Mark highlighted how eleven disciples couldn't fathom the resurrection, their anxiety and trepidation compelling them to sequester themselves behind locked doors, while Peter alone embraced the women's extraordinary news. In that era, women were deemed unreliable witnesses, yet our children were visibly stunned that the proclamation "Jesus lives" stirred amazement only in Peter, who hastened to investigate firsthand.

Our 21-year-old, particularly incredulous, expressed disbelief at this revelation. "How did I not know this?" he questioned, leaning forward intently. "When did they finally celebrate?" I explained the gradual nature of acceptance, noting that Thomas required tangible evidence before acknowledging the resurrection's reality. 

Throughout the day, I turned William's surprise over repeatedly in my thoughts, like one would handle a smooth worry stone nestled in a pocket. Initially, amusement washed over me—how aging often unveils less palatable truths about the mystical narratives of childhood. Then, recollecting my own recent awakening to the numerous factions actively dismantling democracy from within, my age-derived smugness evaporated instantaneously. 

Returning to the Easter message, our pastor chose not to dwell on the disciples' skepticism or the physical confirmation later offered through Christ's presence. Instead, he illuminated Peter's profound astonishment. Fascinatingly, the Greek term describing Peter's emotional state appears just once throughout scripture—here, on this transformative third day.

After brunch Aden and William accompanied me for an early afternoon stroll. Lacking proper walking footwear, we wandered unhurriedly, absorbing the breeze and warm sunshine as they caressed the flourishing trees and emerging perennials. We paused deliberately—inhaling the lilacs' fragrance, admiring the delicate carpet of fallen petals beneath our feet, peering over the creek's edge in search of ducks. Together, we surrendered to wonder.

The day's splendor and precious family moments replenished my spirit, temporarily alleviating my persistent concerns about our nation's trajectory. Yet deep disappointment surfaced in the morning when the communal prayers in the service encompassed ourselves, our community, and our world—but conspicuously omitted our country. Even our devotions, I suspect, have become potentially divisive terrain. My family swiftly hushed my observation, protective of their Easter contemplation and I stayed quiet, vowing to preserve their amazement.

 This morning, we collectively grieve Pope Francis's passing—the departure of a virtuous man who strived to embody and transmit Christ's authentic teachings throughout our troubled world. Despite his (undoubtedly stressful) obligation to meet with American officials during his final days, I hope his Easter departure brought serenity. His absence - the absence of a life well-lived - will create a profound void as he seemed to truly understand God's instructions for living.

Pushing Back on Evil

"Evil turned out not to be a grand thing. Not sneering emperors with world-conquering designs. Not cackling demons plotting in the darkness beyond the world. It was small men with their small acts and their small reasons. It was selfishness and carelessness and waste. It was bad luck, incompetence, and stupidity. It was violence divorced from conscience or consequence. It was high ideals, even, and low methods." - Joe Abercrombie, Red Country, as quoted in "Sunbeams" in The Sun Magazine April 2025

Growing up, my father often pondered the question of evil. "How can so much evil exist in a world created by a benevolent Creator God?" he would ask. We explored this whenever his philosophical side emerged, revealing the lasting impact of his Georgetown Jesuit education after years of working life.

My parents raised us Catholic and represented the best of that tradition—socially liberal, curious, and questioning. (Mom would still attend church if her small parish had a more open-minded priest, which sadly isn't the case.) Despite all our discussions, the question of evil - of course - remains unanswered.

The latest issue (592) of The Sun Magazine tackles this difficult subject. In an interview, writer and editor Randall Sullivan suggests that God permits evil because we have free will. To eliminate evil completely would mean creating copies of God rather than independent, free-thinking people. Sullivan also believes that "people are more good than bad," a view I want to share, though current events make this hard to believe.

The reality is that evil and harmful people do exist. Our freedom lies in how we respond to evil—whether small and petty or grand and destructive. I find strength in the words of author Ursula K. Le Guin, also featured in this month's "Sunbeams" section: "It is very hard for evil to take hold of the unconsenting soul." (A Wizard of Earthsea)

Last week, about 5 million people worldwide showed their refusal to accept the wrongs happening in our country. May we continue to resist, stand firm, and recognize our duty to oppose "selfishness and carelessness and waste," to not consent.

Where the Waters Meet

There's nothing like being buffeted by relentless winds, pummeled by swells, and dragged by invisible currents to momentarily liberate you from an existential crisis. As I cleaved through the briny water last Saturday, towing my fluorescent orange safety buoy behind me and praying that my trajectory led toward the finish line rather than the vast Atlantic, my mind detached from all political anxieties and emotional burdens. While not precisely tranquil, the exhilaration and physical ordeal honed my focus to a razor's edge, cultivating profound gratitude for life, vitality, and the privilege of sharing extraordinary experiences with kindred spirits.

Rob and I embarked for St. Kitts last Wednesday, with an interim stop in Miami. I was astonished to discover the island lay a further three hours' flight from Florida—I did not conduct thorough research after finalizing arrangements with SwimTrek to attempt the Nevis to St. Kitts ocean crossing and race. We descended onto the West Indies on an aircraft brimming with aspiring swimmers, mingling and conversing as we located the shuttle destined for our respective hotels. The atmosphere enveloped us in warmth, with tropical clouds suspended like cotton sculptures against bright blue skies, and palm fronds rustling rhythmically in the breeze (which would soon emerge as our formidable adversary).

That evening, we crossed the street to meet up with Colorado friends at the Marriott, where I unexpectedly collided with my closest friend from youth swimming (with two teammates we held the 200-yard free relay record for 13-14 year-olds in New England for nearly two decades). Shocked greetings, warm hugs and hurried introductions ensued—we hadn't encountered one another in over four years and had never been introduced to each other's husbands. What an amazing coincidence—gratitude to the universe!—she wasn't even aware of the swimming event but merely vacationing.

Our practice session the subsequent day proved illuminating, as SwimTrek guided us into the ocean where the Atlantic converges with the Caribbean Sea, acquainting us with the tumultuous waves and treacherous currents awaiting us during the 2.65-mile competition. The practice only offered 1.5 kilometers, yet as we navigated back into the placid waters of the bay, several participants decided to opt out of the next day's race. Apprehension intensified when event coordinators announced escalating winds forecast for race day and a potential alteration of the course toward a safer, coastline trajectory.

I silently prayed that we could complete the crossing—it was on my bucket list for nearly a decade to accomplish a channel crossing. The English Channel waters are too frigid, the Maui Roughwater swim appeared too remote and unforgivingly turbulent, so I settled on this challenge. Ha! The fates cackled in response.

The water radiated warmth and the sky was unblemished on race day. We rose at 5 a.m. to board transportation to the shoreline at St. Kitts, then ferry across to Nevis, the race's origin point. The bumpiness of our ferry ride amplified swimmer concerns about the swells, and our briefing regarding wind and current diverted my attention from seeking sea turtles to contemplating survival. I started the race alongside friends from Colorado but promptly lost visual contact as my safety buoy entangled in a rope in the bay, requiring de-tangling before I could proceed.

The water's salinity was so sharp I had to block the rear of my throat with my tongue to prevent inadvertent swallowing. As we emerged into the unprotected ocean, waves of two to three feet rocked us laterally, compelling me to breathe predominantly to my left to avoid waves in my face. Throughout the journey, I periodically switched to breaststroke to locate the prominent hill serving as my visual reference. I inadvertently collided with several clusters of swimmers, including one containing my friend Sue, but inevitably drifted away from them. The waves impeded our visibility of one another and obscured the finish line. A short rain storm pelted us with cool freshwater, but blew over in a hurry.

Four hundred and eighty-nine individuals registered, yet only 379 completed the course. Many withdrew prior to the start, given the intimidating conditions, and approximately 50 participants were extracted by support personnel, either at the swimmer's request or because they had swum so off-course that completion within the three-hour maximum became impossible.

Sue and I finished virtually simultaneously—she maintained a slight lead and paused for me, extending her hand to assist me as I staggered onto the beach so we could cross the finish line together. Unaccustomed to competitors waiting for me, I was overwhelmed with emotion (and exhaustion). We had both navigated remarkably efficient routes, covering 4.19 kilometers versus the absolute distance of 4.1 kilometers, which conserved our energy and minimized our distress. Some swimmers were displaced by the current and endured an additional kilometer or two (rendering their subsequent struggle against the current to finish truly heroic).

Rob supplied us with endless water as we rested, attempting to regain our mental faculties and hydration. Two of my companions placed in their age category (first and second in the 60-69 classification), an impressive achievement, while I secured fifth position in mine (50-59). This exceeded my expectations; I had intended to proceed at a more leisurely pace and appreciate the surroundings, but conditions rendered pausing impossible!

In summation—nothing quite compares to an adventure punctuated by acute moments of perceived mortality to reinvigorate one's zest for existence and temporarily banish life's mundane concerns.

AOC and Bernie Sanders: Stand Up for Democracy

 In part to battle the existential angst I've wrestled with since November and in part to feel solidarity with like-minded citizens, I went down to Civic Center Park in Denver yesterday to rally for Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio- Cortez. We found comfort in upwards of 30,000 new friends and my daughter, Aden, who miraculously found us in the crowd. The message: Trump and his oligarch bros are stealing from us and from our country and they are ripping up the constitution to replace democracy with mob-style rule.

This message crosses all party lines and they (we) hope it appeals to anyone with common sense, who cares what happens to their neighbors. Neither party in our beleaguered two-party system is doing a good job of standing up for our rights and our inheritance as citizens - the Social Security, Medicaid and Medicare that we have paid into for all of our lives.

Consider that First Amendment rights are under attack on multiple fronts: activists who are legally in the United States have been arrested for saying things that Trump does not like. In Denver, immigrant and labor activist (and immigrant) Jeanette Vizguerra was arrested at her job in Target without a valid order of deportation. Jeanette was bound in chains and hauled off to the GEO - operated detention center in Aurora, her arrest occurring in front of her daughter who reported the agents said "we finally got you!'

Trump has sued CBS and ABC because he does not like the facts that they report. His new compadre Jeff Bezos announced that the editorial pages of the Washington Post could only cover certain topics, and his opinion section editor resigned in protest. We cannot assume that the attacks on free speech will stop there.

Our Fourth Amendment rights are also under attack. Trump wants his ICE agents to be able to enter homes without a warrant. Such an action has been (since the Constitution was amended with the Bill of Rights) illegal and would infringe on basic civil liberties. We need to wake up, talk to our neighbors and organize, and we need to do it now - or these changes will roll over all of us like a tidal wave and soon our peaceful and legal marches, rallies and protests will be under attack from this administration.

Our veterans, amazing men and women who put their lives on the line for this country in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan, are having their services frayed by cuts made to the Veterans Administration. When Sanders pointed out the bravery that our troops showed in fighting to preserve our democracy, and the shocking way they (and our democracy) are being treated now, my stomach turned over. My father was in Vietnam with the Army and his exposure to Agent Orange most likely caused his terminal illness - I can't believe the cretins currently running our government think they can remove support for people like my dad.

One more thought to leave you with: last Saturday (March 15, 2025), Trump's administration defied a court order that says he could not deport Venezuelan immigrants to El Salvador. Despite a back-and-forth between the judge and the administration over when, exactly, the planes took off it has been noted that the second plane took off after the order came down. Consider then what power the courts actually have if the executive branch ignores them? Our system of checks and balances is coming down around us - Trump is immune and his pardon power and shamelessness mean that his cronies are nearly so.

This news hurricane leaves us all depressed and dispirited, but now is the time to fight back. However you choose to participate, it's time to organize, or we will lose the form of government that has brought relative peace, prosperity and influence to our country for almost 250 years. Our government needs to change - we can all agree on that - but considered, thoughtful change, not a process that strips our government and sells it for parts.

Girls in Sports

 "Previous studies have found that 70% of children quit sports by age 13, and by age 14 girls quit at twice the rate of boys."

"Reasons participants gave for abandoning sports were coaching issues, poor body image comparison from social media and the competitive pressure of the sport."

Nemours Childrens Health

I started coaching for a USA Swimming affiliated year-round club team in September. I stepped back for two and a half months during girls' high school season, so I have really only coached club for three to four months. I enjoy the kids immensely, and I am so happy that some of my high school swimmers joined me with the club team to keep training through spring, summer and fall.

One big concern I have with youth sports is the number of young teens who quit sports by age 14 - particularly the girls. Participating in sports gave me confidence, a lifetime addiction to working out, a healthy overall lifestyle, and physical strength. Swimming did the same thing for my older son and daughter. My daughter and I still lift weights together (she lifts more!) and I love to see the number of women who are comfortable in the weight room. One young woman recently came up to Aden after bench press and whispered "you have great arms." Fabulous!

But why do so many girls leave? I have much more research to do, but the Nemours summary rings true. Common sense indicates that coaching has something to do with it, along with body image issues, development in puberty making girls uncomfortable in a changing body, and competitive pressure. As a coach, I try to ratchet down that pressure, focusing on technique, process, and each swimmer bettering themselves. A major emphasis for our group is having fun, trying to get to know each other (despite having heads underwater most of the time), and learning technique.

Striving for excellence as an individual can be separate from a focus on goal times and how well you do compared to others. Striving for excellence as a team can mean building community, teaching young people how to work through adversity and overcome obstacles, as well as swimming fast. In this crazy world, sports can prepare young people for the challenges of adulthood and provide them with a safe place to come when their school or social networks provoke angst.

I'm in the learning stages of supporting youth, especially young women, in staying with sport, and I can't wait to learn more and do it better.

AI and the Creative Process: Finding Balance

After the girls' high school swim season ended, I discovered I had amassed over 300 pages of swim workouts scattered across my computer. On a whim, I uploaded them all to Claude, the AI assistant my husband regularly uses. Now, when I need to create new swimming sets, Claude helps me design them using both my historical workout data and the specific focus I want for that day. It's remarkably effective—and yes, a tiny bit unsettling. But I still maintain control over the final product, exercising my judgment on any output, which helps me feel like I'm still "driving the bus."

Rob helped me set up my project with Claude and urged me to test out different scenarios. According to Amazon Web Services, as much as 57% of all online content is generated by AI. As consumers of information,  it's important to recognize this fact and to be aware of how the technology works. 

My mother is visiting from Montana, and we've just revived a children's book project we started during the pandemic. I have three rough drafts and valuable feedback from a brilliant member of my writing club. Yesterday, we took our first chapter to Claude with specific requests: put the action first, trim the exposition, and refine the dialogue to authentically reflect both the character's age and the late 1940s setting.

The experience is fascinating. After each reading, we tell Claude what needs adjustment and watch as edits appear in real-time. We read, suggest changes, and iterate again. As someone with an English degree and a Master's in Creative Writing, I should be horrified by these efficiencies and mourn the diminishing need for writing expertise. Instead, I find myself more excited than upset. After all, the words originated with me, and the editorial direction remains mine. Claude never tires and never takes my changes personally. I keep reassuring myself that the quality of the final product depends on the quality of my input—at least for now.

My husband reminds me that AI is growing more sophisticated and capable of learning every day. AI already shapes many aspects of our daily lives, from how we shop online to how we connect with news, friends, and products through apps. I acknowledge the potential dangers when AI is used unethically, and I remain wary of the AI industry's growing influence in Washington.

But right now, I'm simply enjoying the experience of collaboratively rewriting a book with my mother—and Claude—hopefully transforming it into something truly engaging for readers.

PS - This blog post was also edited by Claude. ;-)

Cutting

 We had our Family Day brunch on Sunday and sat outside blinking in the bright Colorado sunshine as icicles dripped and splattered off the table behind us. The conversation ranged widely from swimming to school classes to politics. Our kids are a bit concerned about what the economy will do when affected by tariffs and job cuts. They can already see the online jobs websites flooded by recent layoffs.

The idea of cutting back on waste and trimming fat is not inherently bad or wrong. Our son, William, even mentioned that he wanted to personally "cut" to get in better aerobic shape and reduce any extra weight (not that he carries much on his 21-year-old frame).  But ruthless cuts can injure a body, a staff, a company, a country. 

Let's look at National Parks, for example, whose staff recently lost 1,000 full-time positions. My family and friends visit National Parks several times per year and we rely on staff to let us in, help us park, provide clean restrooms and maintain trails. Not only have these staffers lost their dream job - for which they are highly qualified - but park visitors will not see helpful rangers, not experience clean facilities,  not receive medical aid after injuries and face more threats from wildfires. 

These cuts are reckless. There is no plan for how to operate our National Parks going forward, no fall-back, no appreciation for the importance of our National spaces. National Parks have been flooded with visitors since COVID and - despite their growing popularity - have now been carelessly trashed.  If you want to comment on the layoffs please visit npca.org/jobcuts. Enough is enough.

Family Day - 17 Years Later

 I wrote this paragraph in 2018, on the ten year anniversary of our Family Day, when Daniel received his U.S. passport:

-February 14, 2018

I remember talking with the grandparents of another young boy who was going home that day. The grandmother explained that she and her husband had to come finish the adoption process for her daughter as the younger woman was now nine months pregnant and couldn't fly. She mused on how close her grandchildren would be in age (less than one year) and on how different they would look.

"You're so lucky," she said, her eyes sweeping across our fair-skinned Daniel, playing with his siblings. "He will be able to pass," and her eyes fell to the darker-skinned baby in her arms, "and our grandchild definitely will not."

I had to pause and blink several times as I processed her statement. "Pass?" I repeated with at a higher octave. I felt like I'd been thrown back to a previous century.

"Yes, pass. He will look white, like the rest of you. This little one," and she patted his plump, dimpled arm "will not."

I never forgot her statement, couldn't believe people were thinking that way and using the word "pass" as if it was still important to pretend to be white in the 21st century. 

Fast forward to early January, when Daniel and I were discussing our new government's policies on immigrants, he shocked me by saying virtually the same thing as the woman in the embassy, "I'm lucky - I look like you guys. I don't think ICE would even look twice at me, but I am worried about my friends who are darker."

I flashed back to the day when I ignorantly overlooked her comment as aged and irrelevant. Turns out it is true now as it has been for four hundred years: the lighter your skin the easier your life. What does it say about our country that we've gone backwards? That my son, a US citizen of 17 years, has to carry his passport and US government - issued ID with him when he walks on his college campus? 

I will leave you to your own conclusions since mine are evidently short-sighted.

Attention - Seeking

 "Attention is the new money."  - Ezra Klein on the Ezra Klein Show

Sociologists have observed the shrinking attention span of modern Americans, most obvious in teenagers but impacting adults, as well. Horrified by my own increasing phone usage, I vowed to reduce it in the new year and succeeded for a whole week before the "time on your phone" stat crept up again. As I'm in the thick of it with high school swimming I tell myself that it's just swim times and playlists, but I can't quite pull the wool over my own eyes (such is my preoccupation with swimming, though, that I first wrote "pool" instead of "pull").

Any increased phone usage is not spent on news doom-scrolling, I guarantee you, since my peace of mind can't tolerate more than thirty seconds of the current headlines. My first venture back into non-frivolous podcasting (i.e. NOT "Call Her Daddy" or "Not Gonna Lie with Kylie Kelce") was my listen to Ezra Klein's show last week. 

Klein's statement "attention is the new money" caught me off-guard while at the same time hitting home. He noted that the oligarchs now on podiums and in seats of government are not your standard billionaires but the ones who control the flow of information via websites, newspapers and social media sites. Those who control information can alter reality for users of their platforms. As Klein noted, one party seems to understand this and one does not - to their great detriment.

I will leave further political observations to the experts but remind myself that Klein's concise summary runs parallel to familiar exhortations "Where the mind goes, energy flows" and the Biblical "Where your heart is, there your treasure will be also." I am trying - for now - to focus on the positive and fill my brain with positive possibilities instead of negative outcomes. I want my energy flowing to life-affirming actions that I can control. These include music I listen to, books or articles that I read, and to helping the young people I coach.

My current favorite playlist has "sun keeps on shining" (almost monday), "Life is Beautiful" (Tim McMorris) and "Feeling Alive"  (Earl St. Clair). The upbeat, positive music sinks in so much that some days I wake up singing "Life is great, life is beautiful."  Good books keep me focused on the positive power of words, and affirming young swimmers helps them reach goals. If attention is the new money, I want to build up my resources and spend them well.

Nuggets of Wisdom

My acupuncturist is an amazing healer, a fiery Colombian American and self-avowed recovering Catholic. Each time I visit her sky blue office I feel soothed and supported while at the same time challenged and uplifted. Her belief in the divine is supported by her knowledge of quantum physics (right up my alley) and she discusses frequencies with fervor.

A few treasured observations from my visit yesterday:

- "Monkeys don't like monks." This witty assessment of how Gregorian chants can be an antidote for stress and the so-called 'monkey-mind,' even for recovering Catholics (although she asked permission to play that particular arrangement, acknowledging that some raised Catholics could be anti-monk, or at least averse to chanting).

- "The Spanish word for faith is fe, which = force and energy."   I love this, as my faith has taken a beating since 2016, when I felt that Christianity was co-opted by people who act the least like Jesus of anyone I've ever met. Deyba talked about how Jesus' positive energy, his high frequency, was so powerful that he could walk into any group of people and change their existing energy field. She explains how we can raise our own frequencies with positivity and optimism, how we can also use our force and energy for good and positively alter the energy of a person or even a room of people that we encounter. This takes a lot of work, a great deal of self-care, and healthy boundaries.

I'm working on the healthy boundaries. As an oldest daughter, a woman raised in 1980's "Ronald and Nancy Reagan" America, I am certainly a people-pleaser. Deyba has been teaching me to do what I need to do for my health and my peace of mind, making choices for better sleep, fewer conflicts, positive outlook (manta - 'everything is always working out for me') and healthy eating, reading, listening.  

If we could all hum our way to higher frequencies, how much better could we be? (Apparently humming is another wonderful way to soothe and uplift). I'm prepared to wield humming, good health and Gregorian chants as we enter 2025.

PS - Thinking of everyone in CA affected by the fires and praying for quick resolution and no further loss of life.

 

Resolute in 2025

I stopped making specific new year's resolutions a few years ago, probably around the time I turned 50 and realized that the years march on regardless of my more-healthy diet or my vow to spend less time on my phone. Ideas for self-improvement float into my head year-round, and the restlessness has previously fed my need to stay busy, to do meaningful things, to deny myself rest. While these personality traits are difficult to shake, wisdom won through trying experiences has made me want to be resolute in the face of whatever comes, and not to make resolutions to make myself better for mysterious times ahead.

My friend Hana sent me this lovely poem by Donna Ashworth that expresses such sentiments better than I can, and I want to share it with you.

"On the stroke of midnight tonight,
You can resolve to be better, if you like...
To be fitter, to eat cleaner, to work harder.

On the stroke of midnight tonight,
You can resolve to become a 
Whole new you, if you so choose.

Or, you can take a moment to acknowledge
All you already are,
Because it's a lot. You're a lot.

And you deserve to be commended.

On the stroke of midnight tonight,
Perhaps you could congratulate yourself
For coping, for breaking again,
And for rebuilding again.

For catching the stones 
Life has thrown at you and using them
To build your castle that
Little bit stronger.

You have endured, my friend.

And I don't see the need to resolve 
To become a whole new you,
When you are already so very much indeed.
Happy new year. You made it.

Now let us face another 365-day turn, 
Arms wide, accepting and embracing
And 'seeing' each other
For all we are."

Happy New Year xxoo!