Minneapolis

A river runs through me

Is it just me or do you find yourself crying more easily – and often – these days? And I’m not talking about sorrowful crying like when you miss the dearly departed or your beloved pet, and/or democracy although there’s plenty of those tears to go around. No, I mean the watery emotional response to television, movies, and reels type crying. This kind of reaction has never been foreign to me, but lately I’m a blubbering mess – and I make no apologies for it. Any reminder of our humanity in these dark days – however damp – is a good thing.

2026 so far

Those animal rescue Instagram reels have always made me tear up, but the other day I watched an emergency responder crawl across an icy lake on his belly to aid a struggling deer who could not get back up on the ice. The close up of the deer’s eyes -clearly frightened – but trusting of the burly man in his neon jacket – broke me. Thank God I was sitting at my desk at the time so there were no witnesses to my weeping. Note: Don’t worry, the deer is fine. Me? TBD.

It me!

The first six weeks of 2026 have been an Olympic test of endurance for those of us with a thimbleful of compassion and empathy and there have been days we have wobbled and crashed like those figure skaters in Milan who have looked like that deer in the rescue reel. I feel you.

And if the continuous pummeling of our cherished freedoms – including the public execution of American citizens on the streets of Minneapolis – isn’t enough to bring you to your knees – throw in the kidnapping of Savannah Guthrie’s  84-year-old mother and the deaths of some beloved stars like Catherine O’Hara and James Van Der Beek. No wonder I’m dehydrated.

RIP James Van Der Beek, March 8, 1977 – February 11, 2026

I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that I was a big Dawson’s Creek fan. Yes, I was closer to my 30th high school reunion than graduation when it aired, but what’s your point? I enjoyed a remarkably pleasant high school experience – even if I thought I was the only gay in the village – and I think Dawson’s reminded me of that happy time in my life. The show dealt with themes important to me – family, friendship and community, And even though the show tackled some tough issues – like grief – there was always some warm, soft lens nostalgic comfort about it – and I find myself longing for Capeside these days.

Home sweet home – Darrowby

Thankfully, I have the charming little village of Darrowby in the Yorkshire Dales of England to wallow in this month. That’s the setting for the PBS series All Creatures Great and Small based on the autobiographical books by veterinary surgeon James Herriot. The show, now in its sixth season, begins in the mid-1930s and follows the life of a good-natured veterinarian and focuses on the connection and community between the animals and humans in the town. Warning: You will become deeply attached to all of the fine characters, especially Mrs. Hall, the wise and compassionate housekeeper who is always at the ready with a nice cup of tea. No matter what is transpiring in the story, she always makes me feel like everything will be okay.

This week’s episode centered around the long-awaited end of World War II and the small village’s celebration of VJ Day. Everyone meets on the green in the center of town to share food and drink and you can feel their cumulative anguished relief. Everyone in the village – and the entire nation -has suffered and sacrificed for years. An elderly farmer, known as a man of few words, removes his cap and stands to speak and in a voice weathered by years says the words everyone is feeling.

We can celebrate, and we should…We have kept – all of us – the fires burning around here. And whatever shall be, that has to be the thing on which we all agree – keep the fires burning – always.

And as the sun goes down, the villagers assemble on top of the moors for a bonfire and in the distance you can see other fires burning as beacons to acknowledge the end of the war. The episode ends with a small brass band playing “I Vow to Thee, My Country” – a patriotic poem that became a popular Armistice hymn.

And the band played on…

My dear wife and I need to rewatch the last five minutes of the episode because we were both sobbing so loudly we surely missed some things. I’m talking shoulders shaking crying – my wife even snorted once and she’s not in my league as a crier. I want to cry that way again for my country – tears of pride and unity – not those of rage, disappointment, and fear.

Right before I sat down to write this piece, I watched (nervously) American Mikaela Shiffrin win a gold medal in the Alpine skiing slalom. It was the storybook ending that had eluded her at the Games four years ago. Watching Americans on the podium receive their medals and hearing the “Star-Spangled Banner” has long been one of my favorite parts of the Olympics. No surprise here – I always cry – a joyful cry. Not today. Nope, not even a tear. I guess you could say the band was out of tune.

Mikaela Shiffrin, Golden Girl

Don’t get me wrong – I love my country – just not this particular season. But I know that old farmer from Darrowby is right – we still have to keep the fires burning – especially the ones in our hearts – if we’re going to get that anthem right again.

Meanwhile, next week is the annual Christmas episode on All Creatures. Don’t worry, I’ll be pre-hydrating. And I know whatever happens, Mrs. Hall will make it all better.

Mrs. Hall makes all creatures feel better.

Thank you for your service

Last week was rather Dickensian for me. It began by seeing a group of Buddhist monks pass through my city on their Walk for Peace. Hundreds and hundreds of people lined their path in reverence and were lifted by the wake of hope they left behind. It was the best of times – and I did not want that glorious day to end.

A tale of two cities

And my week ended watching and rewatching videos of an American citizen being shot dead by a gang of ICE agents – one of whom applauded after the victim lay dead on the street in front of a bakery in Minneapolis. It was the worst of times – and it feels as if these horrific days will never end.

You all know by now that Alex Pretti, the man executed by ICE agents on Saturday morning, was an ICU nurse at the Veterans Affairs hospital in Minneapolis. Jesus, irony can sometimes be as bitter cold as a Minnesota winter. Alex Pretti was a helper – by all accounts a kind man who held a deep respect for the veterans he served. In the aftermath of his death, the son of a deceased veteran who Pretti had cared for posted a video of Pretti giving his father a final salute in a hospital corridor as he somberly read aloud from text that began with these lines:

“Today, we remember that freedom is not free. We have to work at it, nurture it, protect it and even sacrifice for it.”

Like any reasonable American, I was appalled that Pretti was killed exercising his First Amendment freedoms, and his connection to veterans made my heart ache even more. The grandfather I was named for was a veteran of both world wars and my father served in the Army. And I worked as a development officer for the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) for eight years. I was responsible for cultivating planned gifts – bequests, trusts and annuities – and would always visit the local Veteran’s hospital whenever I was meeting with donors. These hospitals are deeply attuned to the veteran experience, and you certainly feel a sense of respect for service and love of country when you spend time in one – especially when you see some of the collateral damage left behind by combat.

And I think that’s why I mourned Pretti’s senseless and unnecessary death even more deeply when I learned he cared for veterans. And I’m certain that is why I was utterly consumed with rage when Kristi “ICE Barbie” Noem and other federal agents immediately tried to defame Pretti’s reputation and described him as a domestic terrorist who had taken to the streets to sow carnage. We’ve all seen the videos – deep gratitude to Pink Coat Lady who risked her own safety to record the definitive angle of the murder on her own deadly weapon – an iPhone. Hey Siri – Please save us.

NO SUCH THING AS THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER – poem by Andrea Gibson

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” is a well-known 1970’s spoken-word/song by Gil Scott-Heron that condemns passive consumerism and argues that real change only happens in the streets – and not by watching TV. I guess the song could be updated to include doom scrolling. As it turns out, the revolution will be live-streamed, and that is what is saving us, and democracy, these days.

Alex Pretti knew this and he was an active participant in what Rachel Maddow eloquently describes as “principled, peaceful, and relentless protest.” And he paid the ultimate price – his one, precious life. And cue the irony again – yesterday, the Trump administration – reacting to the massive public outrage over Pretti’s killing, booted Gregory Bovino – the Nazi Munchkin in charge of immigration operations in Minnesota – and signaled that the number of federal agents in Minneapolis would be reduced. And just this morning, we learned that the chief federal judge in Minnesota has ordered the head of ICE to appear in court on Friday for a hearing on contempt for violating court orders.

Pretty sure Mary Richards would have been protesting. Rhoda, too.

Enough? Not even close, but it’s a start and none of it would not have happened without the good and brave people of Minnesota taking their ire over how their neighbors are being treated to the streets – in sub-zero temps mind you. Operation Metro Surge – the ICE mission in Minneapolis – was doomed from the start. For starters, don’t invade a city full of descendants of Vikings in the dead of winter.

Do you hear the people sing?

I just know that a modest group of Buddhist monks in plain robes and throngs of Minnesotans in puffer coats have given me tangible hope that better days are ahead. But as Alex Pretti knew all too well – we have to work at it.

Alex Jeffrey Pretti, ICU nurse and patriot, 1989-2026

                                                                                                    

Alex Pretti’s colleagues offered a moment of silence yesterday in a hallway of the VA hospital where he served.

Prayers of the people

I went to church this past Sunday. That’s not exactly breaking news – I know lots of other people did, too. The thing is, except for a few memorial services, I haven’t been to church in a long time. I guess Monica and Ross would say we were taking a break and like many breaks, it’s a long story that involves a toxic man or two – the kind of men who feel threatened by women who don’t agree with them. Sound familiar? Anyway, I’ve had enough of that dung to last a lifetime, and I surely don’t need it at church.

But nothing like watching an unarmed American citizen be shot in the head (three times) by a masked ICE agent to drive me to seek some divine intervention. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything else to do – I was desperate to find some peace. And so, my dear wife and I bundled up on a brisk January morning and made the familiar drive to our former church.

Say her name.

And we were greeted by a tsunami of smiles and hugs – big fat hugs – long ones that you feel in your spine. We were almost a bit embarrassed, but good Lord, it felt so good to held by kind folks who were feeling the same way we were after the horrible events of last week – last month, last year. I was glad I had come even before I sat down.

The priest began the service by asking for a moment of prayer for Renee Good and I swear I could feel the weight of those prayers pressing on my shoulders. I’ll be honest – I’ve had a really hard time praying for a really long time. It’s hard to pray when your heart feels rage. I hate that feeling and it was so lovely to have it extinguished for a few hours.

I’m a lifelong Episcopalian and the liturgy of the Book of Common Prayer (BCP) has always comforted me. No matter how long I’ve been away, those words remain the same. They are the words I spoke as a child in a world that was so different than the one we’re living in now. Don’t get me wrong – even as a kid, I knew that world wasn’t perfect, but it seemed like Walter Cronkite was telling the truth and that everybody agreed that masked men shooting unarmed folks were the bad guys.

We are not okay.

To be fair, I’ve been a bit of a prodigal daughter when it comes to the church – drifting in and out only to return in times of grave distress. That was the case in November of 2016 following Hillary Clinton’s soul crushing loss to Trump. I was devastated and didn’t know what else to do – besides rage. Are you picking up on a pattern here? I will never forget that Sunday – it was a lifeline to the hope of better days. That was 10 years ago and here we are and I’m getting some strong Job vibes as the locusts continue to swarm over Minneapolis.

And yet, once again on Sunday, sitting with a group of diverse folks who share a lot of the same hopes and fears as I do, made me feel better. A guiding mantra of my life has long been “safety in numbers” and maybe that’s what led me to church. And this prayer in the BCP is a more eloquent version of that sentiment:

A Prayer of St. Chrysostom

Almighty God, you have given us grace at this time with one accord to make our common supplication to you; and you have promised through your well-beloved Son that when two or three are gathered together in his Name you will be in the midst of them: Fulfill now, Lord, our desires and petitions as may be best for us; granting us in this world knowledge of your truth, and in the age to come life everlasting. Amen.

I’m certainly not here to proselytize. Religion is not everyone’s lane, and my own faith has wobbled plenty over the years, but one thing that has not waivered is my belief in community – two or three or a thousand. And that is what is saving me these days. The brave citizens of Minneapolis-Saint Paul have been preaching the gospel of community in all manner of ways since the horror of last week. My friend Mitch sent me a beautiful essay by Maribeth Romso, a writer who lives there. Here’s the link to the entire piece, but I’m sharing the last few paragraphs that read like a prayer to me.

Minnesotans know that grief can hollow a place out if it’s not met with care. But we also know the assignment.

Show up.
Feed people.
Listen.
Protect one another.
Name the harm.
Love anyway.

Right now, life in Minneapolis feels like being in the belly of a whale: dark, disorienting and heavy with sorrow. We have been here before, but our broken hearts are not alone.

Two or three… Keep gathering, friends. You know the assignment.

We are Minneapolis.

Cry January

When are you going to start writing again? This is the question I’ve heard from no less than half a dozen people over the past couple of weeks. Okay, six people is not exactly a mandate (unless you’re Donald Trump) but be careful what you wish for. I’m writing again.

Writing is how I process the world and the first nine days of January have given all of us a lot to digest – and regurgitate. What the absolute fuck? I feel like we’re rats on the Titanic, only the sinking ship is our country. In nine interminable days, we awoke to learn that the U.S had invaded Venezuela, seen a bear eating former(?) heroin addict change the childhood vaccination schedule – and flip the food pyramid on its head. Make Meat Great Again!

And that all pales in comparison to what we saw – over and over and over again – on Wednesday, when Renee Nicole Good – say her name, say her name, say her name – was murdered in cold blood by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. Unless you live in a Fox News bunker, you know the stone-cold facts by now. I don’t need to recount them for you.

The bleak midwinter

And I don’t need to recap the hideous demonization of Good from the right – who are deadly wrong on just about everything. I can rant and rave about them – and God knows, I do – but that doesn’t really make me feel better. This week, I have not recognized myself in my own rage and that is not a good feeling.

An American girl

I have been comforted by the passionate but peaceful gatherings of heartbroken and bewildered Minnesotans who once again find themselves at ground zero of an unfathomable act of violence against an American citizen. How ironic that George Floyd’s name was recalled so many times on Wednesday, when so many of us felt like we couldn’t breathe as we saw a young woman be shot in the face at point blank range.

We should all be enraged – but living in rage is not sustainable. Trust me on this. We need to do something tangible – and that something is not the same for everyone. Here’s the thing – we all have a voice and there are many ways to use it. I can be bossy (understatement), but I would not begin to tell you what to do. I just know what I need to do today – so I’m writing. And quite selfishly, it makes me feel better to tell you about it.

Even in this black hole of a week, there have been glimpses of hope – the thousands of peaceful protests all over the country, some members of Congress finally growing a pair, and a faint but growing sense that there are more of us than maybe we thought.

These days are hard, my friends, but they are getting shorter.

Damn, I love a good metaphor.

Thank God for the poets.