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."  

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.

When Your People are OK

My daughter flew to Montana to visit her grandmother over the weekend, and my phone filled with smiling selfies—some capturing the two of them together, mirror images of joy across generations; others featuring curious deer pausing mid-browse; many showcasing mountains ablaze with golden larches in the autumn light. Two of my favorite women and kindred spirits, they baked cookies and chocolate chip pumpkin bread, excavated the pantry's archaeological layers (unearthing pasta dated 2003), made pilgrimages to the Clavadetscher family's beloved gluten-free haunts, and caught up on everything from national headlines to personal histories. Their gathering warmed my heart with a heat that surprised me—until Aden told me about visiting Papa's grave and leaving him with a flag for Veteran's Day, when unexpected tears welled up and spilled over.

My emotions, never particularly hidden even in the best of times, currently roil just beneath a thin veneer of middle-aged composure. During Friday's therapeutic yet uncomfortable deep tissue massage, my tormentor-slash-masseuse mentioned that his daughter was expecting her third baby any day. Without warning, I launched into the story of Aden's birth—how my parents were present in the room, how the midwife struggled to stop my bleeding and called for medicine that wasn't there, how my non-medical father went sprinting down the hospital corridor to find someone, anyone, who could help "his baby." The memory cascaded forward: Aden now with my mom, the profound absence of my dad, and suddenly tears were rolling from the corners of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks in a slow, steady fountain to the pillow below. Trapped on the massage table with no arms free to wipe them away and no means of retreat to pull myself together, I felt uncomfortably exposed. Yet I remain grateful for the memories and the feelings—proof that love persists even when loved ones are gone, that the body remembers what the heart cannot forget.

Aden's home now, and William returns from New York a week from Friday—God willing and the airports cooperating. We'll gather with dear friends for Thanksgiving, and I find myself counting down the days with almost childlike anticipation. In this fractured world spinning faster than feels manageable, what ultimately matters reduces to something elegantly simple: "your people are OK," as a coaching coworker reminded me on Sunday. As of November 2026, many families and communities are not OK: are not paid, insured, or even fed. I think of how to help those without a safety net, how important it is to keep those members of our communities also in my mind.

Our relationships with friends and family and coworkers, the deliberate work we do to nurture and maintain these connections—these bonds are sacred, the only wealth that counts. I feel fortunate that my parents taught me about the strength and vital importance of family, the sustaining power of community. Even more grateful that our children understand the same truth, carrying it forward into their own lives like a torch passed from one generation to the next, its flame steady despite the wind.

Bearing the Beams of Love

 Those Questions

Warm enough in October to sit / outside without a jacket, barefoot / The seasons broken.

A mourning dove calls: Why / do you grieve? This world, / I answer. And what makes you

rejoice? This world, I answer. / Always those same questions, / that same response.

- Rebecca Baggett in The Sun Magazine October 2025, Issue 598.

Throughout 2025, small explosions of feeling detonate routinely in my chest, each blast triggering varied aftershocks—laughter that doubles me over, tears that arrive without warning, temper tantrums I'm not proud of, or wholesale retreat from the world's demands. Moving our son across the country, navigating the emotional minefields of working with teenagers, rising each morning to a contradictory cocktail of gratitude for continued existence and anticipatory dread of the day's headlines—all register as seismic events. The year has proven so disorienting that I titled my current playlist "Adventure 2026"—failing to notice my temporal error until my husband pointed it out - in August. Wishful fast-forwarding? Denial masquerading as optimism? Menopausal brain fog? Perhaps all three.

Being human requires stamina—deep, seemingly bottomless reserves of it across physical, emotional, and mental capacities. Yet even the deepest well runs dry occasionally, and I find myself turning to books, relationships, music, and movement to replenish what the world depletes. I seek out poems like those by Rebecca Baggett that make me feel understood, one voice among many rather than a lone boat tossed on indifferent waves. I devour books like the wonderful Sandwich by Catherine Newman that articulate the exquisite agonies and unexpected joys of motherhood with such precision they feel like testimony. Center quotes William Blake in her novel: "And we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love." That distillation captures everything. 

Bearing and hopefully sharing the beams of love—even when those beams feel too bright to hold, too heavy to carry alone—becomes the quiet work of our days. This is what it means to recognize we're all on "team human," fumbling forward together through uncertainty. We find our footing in rituals both grand and humble, in the presence of our loved ones, in the stubborn decision to trust the journey even as the road buckles beneath us with fresh potholes and sudden mudslides. The light grows bearable only when we stand shoulder to shoulder, reflecting it back and forth between us until it becomes something that illuminates rather than blinds, warms rather than burns.

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.

Love is Not Guaranteed

 A few days ago I read a quote in The Sun Magazine that slapped me across the face. The words that leaped off the page - "Love is not guaranteed" - were simply stated inside of another poem. I gave the magazine to a friend but that quote will not leave me alone. It echoed through my head on Mother's Day, as I spoke to my mother, opened cards from my husband and children, and exchanged texts with my friends.

My mom's love for me and for my siblings provided such a strong foundation in my life that I was virtually ignorant that love wasn't present and active in everyone's life. As an adult I knew I was extremely fortunate and that not everyone had an equal experience of being mothered, but my thoughts never descended to the ground level.

I can't find the original author of this statement, but when I googled the quote the internet offered up a little more: "Love is not guaranteed.We are not owed love. That's why, when we get it, we know how lucky we are and hold on for dear life." A stark realization - that people out there do not have love in their lives. Love as both necessity and luxury - as gift and good fortune of the highest magnitude.

The idea reminds me never to take loving relationships for granted, to hold up my end of the bargain and make the special people in my life know my love. A poignant reminder on Mother's Day and every day.

Corazón

ίQue signifícan ellos,
los latidos de mi corazón?
Sus ritmos, sus alitbajos
Hablan de amor y dolor.
Mi corazón, con su válvula
Agujereada,
Que crece en realidad,
ίCrece igualmente en su capacidad de amar?

Like a door ajar, permitting stealthy entrance
Of unwanted visitors.
Hospitably offering respite, una Zona Rosa for guests
Of which the host remains unaware.
The expanding hostel pointing left but growing right.
A tipping point approaches,
How long can we stay in balance?
Only in this moment.

The doctor will penetrate with fleam, with vision
Of repair and wholeness.
Yet a heart once broken will remain so,
The Atman dwelling within.
Brahma’s twin shines through unstitched seams,
Expands to fill wounds deep and wide.
The question: build hard to pulsing crescendo,
Or patiently abide with steady pulse?

Quantifying Love

“In a provocative New York Times article, Ayelet recently made a controversial confession. She boldly proclaimed, "I love my husband more than I love my children." Ayelet's article struck a nerve with moms around the country, and some of them are here to talk to her about it. “

Oprah: I think a lot of people interpreted it, or misinterpreted, that article that you wrote…when you say I love my husband more, I think a lot of women heard you don't love your children.

Mothers in the discussion: Why can't you say to them I love your daddy different? Why is there such an obsession of putting somebody before the other?

Ayelet: [In the article] I was responding to what I have seen as a replacement. And what I say is I'm in love with my husband but I love my children. I mean the truth is, yes, of course you love people differently. But what I'm saying is I don't think what we're seeing nowadays is people loving differently. I think we're seeing people loving more.
(from http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/A-Mothers-Love_1/, captured 8/28/2010)


I love Ayelet Waldman. What’s not to love about a woman who gets booed on Oprah for declaring her love for her husband? Or for writing a series of excellent novels based on her “maternal ambivalence”? (That has to be my new favorite phrase). Yet, reluctant as I am to turn from Waldman and her stance on all things maternal, the focus of this blog entry centers on the quantification of love. As the “mothers in discussion” at the Oprah show asked, “Why is there such an obsession of putting somebody before the other?” Waldman noted “I was responding to what I have seen as a replacement.” My interpretation of this statement is that our culture has replaced the ability to love differently with a scale on which the balance of love could be measured, some receiving a fair quantity, and some found lacking.

Love eludes easy measurements such as height, weight or length. It cannot be regarded as a particle or a wave, either of which can be pinned into numbers by enterprising physicists. Perhaps it can be defined more closely as a piece of music, as variable as a symphony in which hundreds of instruments are employed. Between two different people whose own harmonies are unique the interplay of sound must have an infinite number of possible dynamics, and the relationships between a wife and her friends, parents, siblings, spouse, children must have exponentially more probable manifestations. There is no possibility of comparison, no right, wrong, or equal.

When people say to their children, “I love you all the same,” I hope they are not lying or being purposefully dense, but just simplifying the truth for their offspring. The truth – for me – being that it is impossible to love three different people the same way. I love each of my children passionately and with my whole heart, but I do not love them the same. They are different individuals at different stages of growth, and it would be impossible to say that each tugs on my heart in exactly the same way.

It also troubles me when people say “I love my child through adoption exactly the same as I love my biological children.” How is that remotely possible? My relationship with my biological children began in my body, where they grew attuned to my rhythms and preferences and I began to understand theirs. My relationship with my youngest child began through dreams and photos, progress reports and prayers, only beginning in person when he had reached the age of 23 months. For my two older children I am, for better or worse, the only mother figure they have ever had and they have no doubt or mixed feelings about my permanence. I am the third mother-figure in my youngest child’s life, and I doubt that I represent the same type of permanence and constancy to him, though I hope that I will over the long haul.

I have no favorites among my children; though my journey with my biological children has been easier in some ways, it has not been “better”. On any particular day, in any particular month, one child has more needs than another, one skips through her days while another trudges. The situation can always be reversed; in the blink of an eye their fortunes, and their outlook, can change. Our love does not waver with these changing conditions, but it can be stretched and challenged by the needs of the children, the needs of husbands or wives. Love relationships that are tested by circumstance can emerge stronger, like arm muscles flexed in carrying a baby or a toddler.

I suppose what people really mean when they say “I love my children the same” is that they have no favorites. Good enough, I suppose, but in the interest of truth and honesty let us say that love relationships between different people are of necessity different. Each relationship has its own issues, pressure points, hot spots and soft spots. Let’s forgive ourselves for loving each person differently, our spouses and our children, our siblings and our parents. Life should not be characterized by amount and sameness, but by quality and by uniqueness.