The protests in Portland have ebbed and flowed for the past seven weeks, and are now back to peak crowds as baton wielding Federal officers sent by Trump have stepped into the fight, supposedly to protect the U.S. courthouse. I can't think about much else these days. I go to sleep and wake up with it. It has detonated the air with the deafening flashbangs, thick clouds of tear gas, and pepper bullets. Worst of all, protesters are getting dragged into unmarked vehicles - minivans and SUVs for god's sake.
There are cozy havens everywhere I walk... I imagine what it feels like to sit there, and think about how the changes around us compel us to make these new refuges.
It was hard to know what disaster to pay attention to yesterday. And yet we keep on with our small lives, surviving, loving, laughing, singing. I'm privileged to be able to turn away.
Alan and I seem to be competing for who can make the other one cry more, as we share things we've read and seen and heard. The planeload of marchers arriving in DC on the Patriots' plane - of course marked "Patriots." Emma Gonzalez' speech. Martin Luther King Jr.'s granddaughter. Kids speaking more clearly, coherently, … Continue reading Shoulders and Coattails
...with this march and the discussions, her school is asking Rosa to learn that she is a change-maker, that her actions impact not only her friends and family but her community and the world.
The first time I visited Fernhill Wetlands was in late December of 2016, during the presidential transition period. A thick mist shrouded the ponds and streams, and in hindsight, I should have known that the opaque fog was a portent to the darkly bizarre and disorienting year ahead. The cold seeped in around my insulating layers, … Continue reading A Swamp, A Refuge
Do we choose hope or despair, heroism or cowardice, light or dark? Frodo and Sam might have answers.