Love as Resistance

"I know it's tough to 'not hate' these days . . . we get contaminados (contaminated). The hate gets more powerful with more hate. The only thing that is more powerful than hate is love. So please, we need to be different. If we fight, we have to do it with love. We love our people, we love our family, and that's the way to do it. With love. Don't forget that, please." — Bad Bunny, 2026 Grammys (2/1/26)

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Was it surprising that Bad Bunny—recording artist, cultural icon, Super Bowl halftime performer—gave an acceptance speech worthy of Dr. Martin Luther King upon winning his Grammy for Best Música Urbana Album? When his words about love recalled Dr. King's assertion that "love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend," I wiped away my tears. In a vacuum of moral leadership on the political front, artists and ordinary citizens step into the void to build scaffolding from hope.

Minneapolis and its people were nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize last week for their coordinated work protecting and providing for their neighbors—a response so inspiring that the world took notice. Cities across the globe rallied in support last weekend, citizens standing for each other and against cruelty and lawlessness. Dr. King's words echo again: "Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that."

Church leaders, professors, lawyers, and judges provide light when shadow threatens to swallow everything. The judge who ordered the release of five-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos and his father from an ICE detention center in Texas listed two Bible verses at the bottom of his written decision. One was John 11:35, the shortest verse in Scripture: "Jesus wept." I'm reminded of another: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." (John 1:5)

The contamination Bad Bunny describes is real—hate multiplying itself, spreading like contagion until we can barely recognize our own faces. But love remains more powerful, more contagious, more capable of transformation. Minneapolis proves this. Bad Bunny reminds us. And we must remember it, especially now, especially when hate seems easier than the hard work of loving our way forward.

**Post script: Bad Bunny doubled down on his positive messaging during his 13-minute Super Bowl halftime show. On the enormous scoreboard over the field his message said: "The only thing more powerful than hate is love." On the football he carried and showed to the cameras at the end of his show - the most-watched in history - "Together we are America."  

The Unlikely and Unimaginable

In my last post, I shared Rebecca Solnit's uplifting words: "The grounds for hope are simply that we don't know what will happen next, and that the unlikely and the unimaginable transpire quite regularly." I turned to this wisdom repeatedly last week, clinging to it like a lifeline amidst the relentless churn of tragic headlines—more shooting deaths, violent rhetoric both spawning tragedies and erupting in their wake. How do we hold onto hope and light when companies profit from an "engage to enrage" model that fractures us as a people, turning neighbor against neighbor for the sake of clicks and quarterly earnings?

I found my answer in retreat. Shutting off news feeds and email notifications, I fled to the mountains with friends and family, seeking sanctuary on a clear mountain lake and nearby trails. We surrendered ourselves to the symphony of water threading alongside the path, our steady footsteps on damp, leaf-littered earth, and the kaleidoscope of early fall foliage—leaves glistening pale yellow, peachy orange, and bold crimson against large boulders.

Over two days, we hiked twenty-six miles and climbed over 3,500 feet, sometimes filling the trail with stories and laughter, other times letting the profound quiet wrap around us like a benediction. And there, in that sacred space between effort and grace, we discovered Solnit's "unlikely and unimaginable" manifesting with startling frequency.

A rare, heavy fog descended to the meadows, bifurcating the massive peaks so they appeared to float like ancient ships above a silver sea. Countless spiderwebs, heavy with morning dew, materialized against dead branches—intricate mandalas outlined in crystalline perfection. A pair of plump gray ptarmigan materialized on a rocky slope, camouflaged and confident, regarding us with steady gaze.

The season's first snowstorm blessed us with fat flakes that kissed our gloves and dusted the high country beyond Winter Park with delicate tracings of white. Aspen groves revealed their autumn metamorphosis in waves—first glowing buttery yellow, then deepening to pale orange, finally blazing crimson on various altitudes and rock faces, each grove responding to its unique microclimate with painterly precision. Rain drummed against the cabin roof as we gathered around a worn wooden table, savoring warm soup and losing ourselves in card games punctuated by laughter.

The catalog of small miracles grew with each passing hour, and I began wielding it as counterweight to the crushing headlines from the world below. Each dewdrop, each bird call, each moment of shared laughter became evidence of a different truth—that beauty persists, that wonder endures, that connection transcends the manufactured divisions designed to keep us scrolling and seething.

Now, settled back into my familiar desk chair with the glow of the computer screen replacing mountain vistas, I clutch these memories like smooth worry stones worn gentle by countless hands. The unlikely and unimaginable didn't abandon us when we descended from those heights—it simply awaits our attention, ready to unfold in ways we cannot predict or orchestrate. Hope isn't about knowing what comes next, but about remaining radically open to the glowing miracles that surround us, even in—especially in—our darkest hours.

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. 

Finite Disappointment, Infinite Hope

"We must accept finite disappointment, but we must never lose infinite hope." - Martin Luther King, Jr 

" "Hope" is the thing with feathers - / That perches in the soul - / And sings the tune without the words - / And never stops - at all -"     - Emily Dickinson

It's difficult to refrain from wailing and railing against the malevolent forces at work, but sound and fury are not helping me. The best advice I've heard in the five days since election results destabilized our country was to express gratitude for the men and women who sought to protect dignity and equality of all people.  We don't do this enough and risk those people feeling alienated and unappreciated.

Inspired, I wrote the following text to my family:

"As we come to the end of this crazy week, I want to say how grateful I am for all of you. For your support of equality for all people, your moral compass, your intelligence and integrity. Most of all, kids, I am grateful for your father, who teaches his sons a masculinity that isn't threatened by women and treats them as equals, and who shows his daughter how to be strong and self-sufficient. You are all worthy of strong and true partners like your father is to me. Let's continue to look out for people who are not as fortunate and realize that a better world for them is a better world for all of us. Love,  Mom."

Hope, I've heard, is not a strategy, but it is a fuel. I don't know and can't predict the future, but I hope that good things (currently hidden in the shadows) await us, and that we can resist hate and anger to work toward achieving those good things. May you all be well, and thank you for your efforts to contribute light, dignity and hope to the world.

Abracadabra...We Have a Graduate!

 " 'Abracadabra' is actually from the Aramaic (before Hebrew) phrase "Avra kehdabra" which means literally 'I will create as I speak.' " - Medium

On Friday, Daniel's Literature teacher said kind words about him on stage and then the principal of his small high school shook his hand, handed over a diploma and moved his tassel to the "graduated" side of the cap.  Our family cheered loudly, William's bellowed "Atta kid!" bringing a smile to Daniel's face as he posed for the final graduation photo.

Our third high school graduation brought familiar feelings of joy and pride and gratitude for the teachers and tutors who helped our son along the way, and also an unfamiliar sense of surprise and delight. Far from assuming that this graduation was inevitable, I had many low moments in the past 16 years when I doubted the possibility. In tough times my thoughts and vision would drift forward; I would "play the movie" about Daniel's future, and the tape would lapse, blunt cut ends flapping in my mind.

With its time management, peer pressure, sophisticated topics and group interactions, high school can lay a minefield at the feet of it's initiates. When students layer in emotional and learning challenges, high obstacles loom over the mined ground and a path forward seems impossible. But speaking expectations aloud, "You are smart, you will graduate, we just need to find the right place" helped fuel our collective belief and determination to move Daniel forward.

When I heard Kerri Walsh Jennings say on a podcast that her favorite word is "abracadabra" because it means "I create as I speak" I stopped my walk and replayed it.  We all know that words are powerful and that our brain believes what we tell them, but this "I create as I speak" mantra jolted me into a higher plane of awareness.  Daniel and I went to many classes together and as we drove to and fro, we worked to speak positively about his potential, his ability to do good things, graduate, go to college. And, well - to oversimplify - it worked! 

(It's interesting, too, how familiar the Aramaic spelling is to Avada Kedabra in Harry Potter, which actually means "I kill as I speak" but that's a post for another time.)

I believe more in the power of speech than I ever have and I am trying to watch my words and how I speak about my own difficulties and opportunities, as well as those things confronting my husband and my children. Our brains believe what we tell them and the more I say good things, the more good I can create.

Back to Church

 Early Easter morning found three of us in our normal spot in church for the first time since the pandemic. Daniel and I have been in the building for Sunday School many times over the past three years but never to a regular service. Not that Easter is a "regular" service; our pastor compared it to the Super Bowl or even a Taylor Swift concert. The choir was on point and the orchestra played superbly, but the most amazing thing for me was scanning a sea of happy, hopeful faces. The world has not felt happy or hopeful in recent months and so the joy of the singers as they bobbed to their hymns, the warm greeting of fellow worshippers, the welcoming waves from good friends a few rows up - all suffused us with a rosy glow.

I admit to feeling twinges of unease at the echoing coughs and sneezes that are so easy to hear in that cavernous space, especially when the crowd fell silent, but if I'm brave enough to go to airports, concerts and swim meets it's definitely time to go back to church. The sermon resonated, too, as Rev Mark prevailed on us to keep hope alive and to keep moving forward. 

Our college kids met us at home after the service and watched the online version as we prepared scrambled eggs and pancakes. They sang quietly along to familiar hymns and recited well-worn words of prayer along with us as we moved about the kitchen. Despite the heavy punctuation of non-attendance, the narrative of our family's faith journey still hops along. Though complacency has been jettisoned by cataclysmic events in the world, hope springs eternal alongside the daffodils that mark our Easter table.

Tragic Optimism

The BBC posted a link that I followed earlier in the week explaining "tragic optimism," a phrase first coined by Holocaust survivor Victor Frankl. It means "there is space to experience both the good and the bad, and that we can grow from each." Embracing tragic optimism, we can acknowledge the pain and suffering in the world and in our own lives but move forward regardless with a firm grip on hope.

The writer positioned tragic optimism in opposition to what she termed "toxic positivity," an attitude that suppresses negative emotions or - worse - labels them as weaknesses. After two years of significant societal change and personal hardships, suppressing feelings of anger or sorrow seems like a short road to emotional turmoil.

Even as I recognize blessings of good health and resilient children, food and shelter and comfort of friends and family, I've struggled this week to support William moving toward an ACL surgery and finals, to read the headlines in the morning, to help buoy Daniel over the results of some poor choices. I'm exhausted and certainly not feeling particularly lucky, so I'm also a tiny bit gloomy over getting a crown at the dentist today (see previous post).

On this sunny spring day, when we need rain but will embrace the sunlight anyway, I plan to wrap my arms around some tragic optimism, finding meaning in  life's setbacks and sorrows and maintaining a firm grip on that slippery eel called hope.

Act of Radical Hope

 "In a time of Covid-19, climate change and catastrophe, having a baby is an act of radical hope." - Tom Whyman, "Why, Despite Everything, You Should Have Kids (if You Want Them)", New York Times, April 13, 2021

I work with a lovely young woman who has two young girls, one only four months old. We met yesterday to discuss changes in the onboarding process, and she confessed that though she knew the world was a mess, she couldn't look at the news. My co-worker's biggest goal is to get her baby to transition from breastfeeding to a bottle before she can come back to work full-time.  Having faced this same issue with my oldest (twenty years ago), I could sympathize. What are headlines when your child won't eat?

In a rare moment of frustration she asked, "What are we even doing, having children, when the world is like this?" A profound question, not only in the time of COVID. Those of us in mid-life who were following the climate crisis twenty or thirty years ago asked the same question before we had our children, and the situation has not gotten better.

In 2000, before we conceived our oldest child, I asked my mentor in Environmental Studies if I should follow the dictates of my biological clock (loudly ticking), given what we knew then about global warming and its devastating potential effects.  He pondered the question, a single man with a step-daughter whom he loved. I'll never forget what Frank told me: "It's an act of hope, it forces you to work hard for a better society, a better world. When you have children, you have skin in the game."

Parents do have skin in the game, as we fight for a more just society, a functioning democracy, an environment that will continue to support life in future generations. I only have twenty-five or thirty years left on the planet if I'm lucky, and I confess that if I didn't have children, I might be tempted to give up the fight. Certainly I would have spent a lot more time in bed during the past pandemic year. 

This mindset, a personal failing, not a global truth, helps me to understand Tom Whyman's position that having a baby continues to be an act of radical hope. It's not for everyone and I applaud those who can fight for a more just world on the basis of their own moral imperatives. Personally, the three young faces at my kitchen table provide deep motivation for my work on climate change, for our personal choices in terms of solar panels and food, and for getting up out of bed each day with a positive attitude. We do not know the future, and something - someone - great may lead us into a better place that, for now, we can't yet see. 

Winter is Coming

 "Winter is coming." The tagline from Game of Thrones takes on new meaning these days as a tidal wave of COVID rises over the United States and winter storm warnings dot our phones here in Colorado. The exceptionally warm fall has given way to temperatures in the teens, and we look ahead to long months of weathering the storms inside.  

We snuck in an outdoor "Friendsgiving" meal with neighborhood families yesterday, on the one day of sunny, semi-warm weather between cold fronts. Teenage boys gathered in one corner of the yard, college girls in another, and the dads and moms segregated in well-spaced groups of four near the patio. Everyone added coats as the temperature fell and reluctantly called it when the sun started to slip below the hazy horizon.

Add an existential dread around the election to this mix of forecasts and you have a perfect storm of tension and uncertainty. I have little desire to do any of my normal activities and writing has fallen by the wayside. My one imperative is to drive north to Montana and rescue my mom from the snow, dark and cold. She hasn't yet acquiesced to the plan, but Rob and I can't help but feel that she would be safer here in the winter months, and would certainly light up our family as we self-isolate from November until early spring.

From now until daylight hours and spring seeds start to grow we'll have to do the hard work of cultivating hope and finding silver linings. The cold and snow today, for example, could provide a boon to overstressed firefighters by limiting the growth of the wildfires in the mountains near Estes Park. Time indoors and reduced work hours at the club could provide time to write my way into an actual book (instead of just talking about it). If my mother comes, her presence will be an outright gift to all and a boon to the children doing school remotely.  

We know that change is a constant, that however dark our winter the spring must eventually come. There will be a vaccine for the virus, there will be a light at the end of our tunnel and even though I'll get tired of pumping the handcart of hope fast and furious along those tracks, I bet we're gonna make it through.

 

Hope on a Post-debate Morning

 " 'Hope' is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all - "

- Emily Dickinson, "'Hope' is the Thing with Feathers"

Waking up this morning after a night spent tossing and turning, trying to banish thoughts of the cataclysmically awful presidential debate, I reached desperately for poetry or prayer to hold onto. Dickinson's wonderful lines on hope swam into focus and I repeated them fervently for a few moments as I poured my coffee. A good thing, too, because the morning dealt me two quick kid-crises. First William somehow inhaled a probiotic into his sinus cavity, an activity which resulted in copious amounts of water and snot on floor, counter and ceiling. Second, Aden called in a panic from her apartment in Boulder because she woke up from a deep sleep and "couldn't remember anything."

Overcoming the panic I felt at a 7:15am call from my college student who is under a stay-at-home order in virus-swamped Boulder, I reassured her that her wake-up experience was normal and wished for myself that I had that same experience, especially this morning. Now sitting at my computer, I scan headlines and try to quell my heartburn with more coffee as I review the piteous landscape that is American politics. On the BBC website, headlines read "Trump and Biden duel in chaotic, bitter debate" and "'The loser is us, the American people" and "Childish, grueling and an 'unwatchable fever dream' - how the world saw Tuesday's debate.'"

I can't bear to comment or to analyze more deeply. My one fervent wish is that such a debate never happen again. I pray that Biden's campaign decides to skip on the next two presidential debates. They would be the same, if not worse, and no one needs to re-live that torture.

Turning away from that scarring experience, I have to reach for hope, that elusive winged creature that  "never stops - at all-". Dickinson's poem shows her sympathy for those - like me - who wrestle with their demons and strain to find and cling to hope, but also throws down the gauntlet. We can't stop holding on to hope.  My family needs me to provide sinus spray and answer early morning phone calls (and who knows what the next crisis will be?) and without those fantastic wings of hope to lift me skyward, I would be flat on the floor this morning.