Reprisal: Hold on to What You Believe

 "Hold on to what you believe, in the night, when the darkness has robbed you of all your sight."                 - Mumford & Sons, "Hold on to What You Believe"

From March, 2013:

In the dark nights when I was most ill, I believed in two things: first, that the life force threading through all the universe flows for good, and second, that the love of family and friends would hold me when I fell.  Many times friends had sight when I had none, when my recovery seemed hopeless. Now I believe something else: that I will be totally well.  Beliefs are urgent when the darkness falls, but must be cultivated in the light. Thankfully I can almost shut the door on the past, and move on to live in the bright spaces.

January, 2026:

Hold on to what you believe in the dark night of our country's soul. Cultivate those beliefs now—in community, in shared resistance, in small acts of grace and large acts of courage. Some days, others will have to hold the vision for us when we cannot see the way forward. We take turns carrying the light, trusting that dawn will come even when we can't imagine its arrival. We have survived dark nights before. We will survive this one, too—not unchanged, but perhaps stronger for having learned what we're willing to fight for.

Grounding in Difficult Times

The first ten days of 2026 delivered little snow and many painful, disturbing headlines. I want to write about all of it, and also about nothing at all. My brain spins with news of invasions and climate catastrophes, the death of innocents—then leaps away from every touchpoint like a finger retracting from a hot stove. The body knows when to pull back, when exposure threatens to burn us beyond our capacity to heal.

My New Year's goal to meditate—or at least breathe in a focused way for five minutes—lasted two and a half days before collapsing under the weight of reality. I've downsized the ambition: now I aim to remember to take a deep breath every once in a while, to focus for one minute on where my feet are and how I can stay rooted to that particular spot on earth. I will return to the expanded goal because meditation has steadied me through previous dark times, and this practice of returning—of beginning again without self-judgment—may be the most important lesson of all.

I find myself asking when we collectively lost access to our prefrontal cortex, that crucial portion of the brain that manages emotions, attention, self-control, and decision-making? When did our society surrender the duties of self-restraint, respect for others, and the assumption of positive intent? The questions themselves feel inadequate, searching for a single moment of fracture when the truth is more complex—a slow erosion rather than a sudden collapse, countless small abandonments that accumulated until we woke to find ourselves here.

As a white person born in this country, I've been shielded from rage and reactivity for much of my life. As a woman, I've endured being bullied or ignored, minimized and scrutinized by society, yet I've been fortunate to escape far worse. This awareness sits heavy—how I've mostly evaded the crushing weight of sustained trauma, the exhaustion of existing as someone else's target, the shock of becoming a repository for misplaced rage. Many people in our country have endured these conditions for what must feel like never-ending lifetimes, and also lives cut tragically short. Their resilience in the face of such sustained assault offers its own form of testimony, its own quiet instruction in how to persist.

I struggle under the onslaught of bad news, the struggle compounded by guilt and uncertainty about how to create meaningful change. Yet I keep returning to what I can touch and tend: my family and friends, those connections that anchor me when the world spins too fast. We've planned a visit to New York to see William. We celebrated our youngest's acceptance to CSU for fall 2026—his face splitting into that particular grin that erases years and lights the future. We carved out a day of rest watching sports, letting ourselves look away from the headlines without drowning in shame for the looking away. These moments don't solve anything, but they sustain us for the work ahead.

Writing about difficult times can deliver me from the mental treadmill, that "monkey mind" that ambushes me for thirty minutes each evening when my head meets the pillow. Focusing on gratitude and moments of genuine connection also helps, as do plans for future reunions—the simple act of believing in a future where we can gather. I'm learning that tending to my own people, ensuring they're seen and loved and supported, is not selfishness but preparation. We cannot pour from empty vessels, cannot offer strength we haven't cultivated in ourselves.

If you're feeling this weight, you're not alone—though I know that knowledge doesn't always lighten the load. We're all searching for our own forms of grounding, our own ways to remain present and useful in times that demand more than we have to give. The work is to keep showing up, to practice those deep breaths, to notice where our feet are planted, to tend our connections with care. Some days, that's enough. Some days, it has to be.

Shadows on the Cave Wall

Our family attended Christmas Eve service at St. Andrew UMC, the first time in several years we've gathered in person rather than streaming from a laptop while traveling or huddled on the couch recovering from illness. The service unfolded with particular beauty—readers delivering their passages with practiced grace, our favorite a cappella group (Reunited choir) leading us through traditional hymns, the candlelight rendering of "Silent Night" with its wavering flames casting shadows across upturned faces, and a thought-provoking sermon by Rev. Mark Feldmeir that has lodged itself in my mind like a burr I can't shake loose.

Rev. Mark used Jesus' actual birthplace—a cave inhabited by livestock—as his jumping-off point for exploring Plato's Allegory of the Cave from The Republic. In this allegory, three individuals sit chained in darkness, their necks and ankles bound so they can see nothing but the cave's back wall. Their eyes strain into the murk, perceiving only faint shadows of events unfolding behind them. The sun casts dim light into the cave's mouth like an old-time movie projector, and the true events and sounds happening in the world beyond reach them only as blurred, distorted images and garbled echoes.

What is truth? Rev. Mark asked us. We don't even remember that Jesus was born in a cave—our Nativity scenes portray cozy wooden barns with abundant light sources, angels glowing, lanterns gleaming. Whatever we grow accustomed to seeing, hearing, feeling becomes our truth. Real people, actual events, genuine conversations—these get obscured by the third or three-hundredth retelling, our version shaped by confirmation biases and emotional attachments, smoothed into something more palatable than the rough edges of reality.

How astonishing that this twenty-four-hundred-year-old allegory applies to human knowledge with even greater urgency now. Rev. Mark observed how we stare at the flickering screens of our phones—our Instagrams and Reddits, YouTube and Snapchat—as if they constitute reality. We sit metaphorically chained to our chairs and the glowing objects in our hands while true, embodied life carries on without us, unwitnessed and unremembered.

What is true, and can we handle the truth? These remain difficult questions, no easier to answer now than in Plato's time. Despite all the knowledge society has accumulated, we may be less able to see through the shadows and murk than ever before—drowning in information while starving for wisdom, mistaking the shadow play for substance. The message threaded through the December holidays offers a counterweight to this confusion: light will shine in the darkness. Only light can pierce the inky black of the cave with its deceptive versions and watered-down truths.

Perhaps that's why we still gather in sanctuaries on Christmas Eve, why we still light candles and sing old hymns that our grandparents knew by heart. In an age of infinite shadows and endless projections, we need these moments of shared presence—real bodies in real space, real voices rising together, real light flickering against real darkness. The truth we're seeking might not be found on any screen, but in the warmth of another hand holding a candle beside ours, in the catch of emotion in our father's favorite carol, in the stubborn insistence that we are more than shadows on a wall.

Calm Rising

"Calm rising through change and through storm" — "Fair Harvard," Harvard traditional alma mater

In "Fair Harvard," which I remember only in fragments from a sleep-deprived commencement many decades ago, the university positions itself as the guiding light that inspires calm rising. In my adult life, I've discovered a different north star—my family and friends provide that steady beacon, that support when trouble arrives uninvited. My husband and my adult children, in particular, offer strong shoulders and a steady hand when I stumble into one of life's deeper potholes.

Through the skinned knees and serious illnesses, the slights from friends and bad swim meets, the difficult assignments I've navigated with Rob's help over the past twenty-four years, I never anticipated how swift the turning would be—these children we nourished and guided pivoting to become steadfast for us. When Aden, William, and Daniel were home at Thanksgiving, I found myself blindsided by the kaleidoscope of ages I could see in their faces, caught in memories of their toddler selves even as they chided me for purchasing the "spicy" version of Incohearent (an accident, I swear!).

The boys had a field day with Incohearent's not-so-appropriate cards, which they refused to let me see. William would hold one up to Daniel with mock disbelief—"can you believe this?"—and Daniel would roar with laughter even as William doubled over himself. They deemed five or six cards allowable for my delicate sensibilities and tucked the rest away, still chuckling at my maternal folly. The teasing felt tender, a sign of how the power dynamics had shifted—they were protecting me now, deciding what I could handle.

When the good-natured ribbing and laughter subsides, they remain my best friends and fiercest defenders. After I endured a terrible week—the kind where I woke each day to an elevated heart rate and sick stomach—Aden appeared on Saturday to check on me, even staying to make dinner for the four of us while I huddled on the couch in my pajamas, grateful to be relieved of duty. William called from New York amidst a crushing work schedule and holiday festivities, then called again the next day just to check in, his voice a lifeline across the miles. Daniel and a friend made sugar cookies last night, filling the kitchen with the scent of vanilla and butter, their laughter drifting through the house like music.

I don't know what I've done in this life or past lives to merit such remarkable children. When I was wrestling through tough days with three young ones under the age of seven—the endless laundry and sleepless nights, the tantrums and traumas—I never would have believed how the tables would turn, how quickly the protected would become the protectors. William returns home Sunday night for Christmas, and I find myself counting down with the anticipation of a child on Christmas Eve. Having everyone under one roof, celebrating that most sacred of family holidays together—this is the calm rising I never knew to hope for, the gift that makes every difficult year worthwhile.

Three Trees and A Memory

 

We have three trees this year: two miniature specimens decorated with homemade ornaments in the family room and one beribboned, baubled beauty commanding the living room. Only one of the mini trees is real, releasing its faint evergreen perfume from its position near the sliding glass doors, where the heating vent dries it out in real time. The cats have decided we erected these small trees for their amusement—Jack has toppled the LED-lit version twice, sending my favorite kindergarten ornaments skittering under the couch. Both felines drink from the pine-scented bowl of water at the base of our one live tree, dodging needles and dangling ornaments with theatrical precision, intent on provoking whoever settles on the couch.

My parents made Christmas magical when we were growing up, carrying on a tradition from my father's Swiss-German family with devoted precision. They stashed a live tree in the garage or a neighbor's backyard until Christmas Eve, when they hustled us to bed early, gated us onto the top floor of the house, and spent the entire night transforming our living room. By dawn on Christmas Day, every bauble and twinkle light would be positioned with exacting care. The presents, too, appeared in gift-wrapped splendor—no lazy bags or visible tape allowed. My father would "check to see if Santa had come" before releasing us to stampede down the stairs toward our Christmas miracle. Of course, he needed those extra minutes to ensure every twinkle was in place, the stockings hung just so, the presents artfully strewn across the living room carpet.

My father wondered aloud if any of us would carry on his tradition, and none of us could commit to that Christmas Eve marathon. I believe my brother John attempted it once or twice, but I'm too fond of sleep to go that route. I felt waves of guilt about taking the easier path when our kids were small, and now I harbor only mild remorse that we have just one miniature real tree, only a faint whisper of pine in the house, far fewer needles embedded in the carpet.

Dad passed away almost six years ago exactly. I had to calculate the years because it feels both impossibly distant and startlingly recent, time collapsing and expanding in that peculiar way grief has of distorting our perception. I'm crying as I type because we miss him with an ache that hasn't diminished, and he's everywhere at the holidays—present in the lit trees and old-fashioned Christmas carols that drift through our rooms. He wouldn't appreciate the unwrapped Amazon boxes stacked under our tree or the cheating I do with the pre-lit artificial tree, but he wouldn't have said anything. He would have smiled that particular smile of his and done his best to make the holiday special for all of us, accepting our imperfect efforts with the same grace he showed everything.

I know he's here—just as he illuminates the Christmas tree-lit rooms of my mom and my siblings, a presence we all feel when the lights glow warm against December darkness. Merry Christmas, Dad. We're doing our best, even if the trees go up earlier and the magic requires less midnight labor. You taught us what matters wasn't the perfection of the presentation but the love woven through every careful choice, every twinkling light. We carry that forward, imperfectly but with full hearts.