Tag: Chicago

How Orban’s Defeat Reflects on Trump’s Leadership

FeaturedHow Orban’s Defeat Reflects on Trump’s Leadership

Victor Orban doppelgängers tread the sidewalks, take the bus, greet diners and volunteer at the shelter. And why wouldn’t they? Chicago has the second largest Eastern European residents in the U.S. If you live in Manhattan, you must see sixty two year-old, jowled-faced, grey-haired Orban lookalikes all the time. Of course, I hardly knew his face before he lost it in the recent Hungarian election. 

For a few days Victor Orban appeared on every loopy screen in hotel bars, hamburger joints, doctor’s waiting rooms-everywhere I went. Orban touted his government as an illiberal democracy, one devoid of woke freedoms, gay rights, women’s rights, minority rights and protections for immigrants. Others described it as a kleptocracy, a mafia state. The Heritage Foundation fashioned their destruction of democracy after Orbanism and called it Project 2025, the Trump Administration’s roadmap. Orban’s loss was so monumental that freedom fighters the world over rejoiced.

Donald Trump’s role model as a loser created a shift toward a glowing hope in the world while cornering an animal in the Oval Office. More and more credentialed people started speculating that our President is sick, demented, mentally ill. MAGA podcasters turned on him. White Christian Nationalists turned on him. Republican talking heads turned on him. And he’s gotten crazier. Reports suggest he was kept out of the Situation Room while the high-stakes military operation in Iran to extract the downed pilots was underway.

Wall Street Journal, April 18: Aides kept the president out of the room as they got minute-by-minute updates because they believed his impatience wouldn’t be helpful, instead updating him at meaningful moments, a senior administration official said.

The entire month of April, Trump has been so weird. Orban’s loss is his loss. His ignorance of war strategy in Iran humiliates him. Bumbling diplomatic efforts in Western Europe, the Middle East and China belittle his leadership. Elites talk about his failures. He’s a hot table of delight for late night comedy. His reaction to getting backed in the corner is to post an array of crazy, from an AI photo of himself as Jesus to yelling about wiping out a whole civilization.

From sea to shining sea, Christian pastors are condemning Trump’s Jesus and his spiritual advisor Paula White for comparing him to Jesus at a White House event. Other preachers pride themselves on keeping politics out of the pulpit. But Trump and Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, who lays Jesus on every military helmet, have brought the pulpit to politics. MAGA Christians like Paula White preach Trump has a divine mandate to rule. Divine.

If Trump were our relative we’d be huddled at the kitchen table scheming on how to take the car keys away. The last thing we’d do is rejoice over all the bad things happening to him as a result of his damaging behavior. Nor would we be kneeling down to say “God will take care of us” as he lit the house on fire.

But we can’t take away the keys. Or the matches.

God help us.

 

Mow the Grass War Tactic

FeaturedMow the Grass War Tactic

God and Nature teamed up to give Chicago a few 70 degree days in March. On one of those days, Elsa hopped into the back of a Flash Cab, happy to be going anywhere in a car, even to the vet for a shot. She gave the vet a kiss, because Elsa loves attention, even if it stings. Afterwards, sunshine accompanied us on a mile walk to the park. Elsa chased a few squirrels then jumped on the bench next to me, laid down, eyes open to the sky, blinking away sleep.

I’d been softly observing the small periwinkle clumps popping out of the fallow ground here and there. Hyacinths. They were rebelliously making themselves known far away from the boundary where the rest of their family sprouted. Did you know the hyacinth root is poisonous? Yep, if Elsa digs up Hyacinths with her snout or teeth, it would precipitate an emergency vet visit. 

These Hyacinth bulblets multiply slowly over years. When you see them out there on their own, you can bet the root system is strong and ancient. It’s impossible to get rid of. They always come back in the least expected place. When the grass grows an inch or two Chicago Park District employees arrive with monstrous noisy machines that gleefully mow everything down, including errant Hyacinth cells.

“Mowing the grass” is an Israeli war term coined in their conflict with Hamas in Gaza. These days we hear about the mow-the-grass theory with Trump’s war in Iran. It’s a violent approach meant to weaken Iran’s, or Hamas’, capabilities through intense surface bombing. Mow-the-grass implies that our beef with Iran is intractable. We can only manage it, akin to the Park District gardeners regularly chopping the heads off the relentless hyacinths. The roots are never destroyed. Iranians have unending seedbeds of henchman whose aim is to destroy Israel and terrorize the United States, just as those poisonous doggie land mines remain beneath the surface. Mowing the grass provides temporary relief. There is never, nor will there ever be, lasting freedom from danger. 

Meanwhile, the Iran war has distracted us from Israel’s mowing the grass in the West Bank. “Settler Mind” has become a buzz word describing Israeli soldiers (IDF) who kill and maim Palestinians on their own property. The Israeli Settlers have been given free reign to burn out their Palestinian neighbors. 

The US Ambassador to Israel, Mike Huckabee, avowed Christian Zionist, has stated on Israeli radio (before the explosive Tucker Carlson interview) that “biblical lands” belong to Israel. He insists on calling the West Bank “Judea and Samaria”, biblical names. Have you wondered lately why the US policy on Israel has shifted away from Trump’s Comprehensive Plan to End the Gaza Conflict? The US is sitting on the park bench softly observing Israel mow the Palestinian grass.

If the White House doesn’t remove Ambassador Huckabee soon, the Arab countries will deem the United States a non-player in any constructive role in peace in the Middle East. Their only regard for the US will be in whatever corrosive deals the individual Gulf states are cooking up with the Trump dynasty. Is that the real strategy?

At the moment, even those corrupt deals look bleak. For who can trust a small-fingered discrepant mean old would-be king?

Why Vote? To Be in That Number

FeaturedWhy Vote? To Be in That Number

The first vote I cast was against the Viet Nam war. It didn’t matter who the candidate was. I voted to stop the killing and maiming of Americans and Southeast Asians fighting on the other side of the world. Every vote since then has been for others. Oh, I could say I’ve voted for women’s rights, my own civil rights, or to keep Social Security and Medicare, but I’m a privileged white woman. In reality, my rights have never been directly threatened as a woman. And, though I have no personal or family wealth, I’ve never feared Social Security and Medicare cuts. My Plan B was, and is, simply to “go without.” 

The Chicago Board of Elections notified me recently that I’d be receiving my mail-in ballot for the March 17, 2026 primary.  Mail-in voting is perfect for me. I always know who I’m voting for. I mark my ballot, then drop it in the mailbox long before Election Day.

Most of the votes I’ve cast were for candidates who vow to protect the rights of others. The rights of women, gay rights, the civil rights of Black and Brown people all figure into my sizing up candidates for all the years I can remember. 

This year? Jeez, is this year different.

I’ll mark the ballot for all my favorite candidates, but that’s a secondary reason for voting. Present times call for me to vote for myself, to be in the number, to exercise what’s left of Democracy. The witless words of the current president of the United States make me aware of the precariousness of my ballot. The other day he fantasized aloud about nationalizing elections. Here’s what those words said to me: Hey Regan, I’m not going to count your vote.

Among the “Ice Out” and “Remember Renee and Alex” signs carried by activists in sub zero fields of love across the Upper Midwest in January, slogans like these bobbed up and down in the snow-drenched crowds:

What Happened to Love?

If You’re Family’d Been Taken You’d be Here too

Hate Never Made America Great

Dark Skin is not a Crime

ICE is for Drinks not Communities

Resist the Cruelty

Never Again is Now

Grandmothers and fathers, programmers and poets, priests and ministers, rabbis, imams, and buddhists all risked their lives, reputations, livelihoods and freedoms to raise their voices in nonviolent outrage. For others.

Millions of us have always voted for others.

I’m a lesser fan of the Christian bible but there’s a passage in the gospel of Luke that goes like this: Then Jesus turned to the crowd and said, “When you see clouds beginning to form in the west, you say, ‘Here comes a shower.’ And you’re right. When the south wind blows, you say, ‘Today will be a scorcher.’ And it is. You know how to interpret the weather signs of the earth and sky, but you don’t know how to interpret the present times.”

For you and Alex and Renee and all I’ve ever cared about, I vote. For civil liberties, justice, and freedom, I vote. 

But I see that present times call for selfishness.

Present times call for me, and you, to vote first for ourselves.

Dead Dogs

Dead Dogs

The cat jumped from the cabinet behind the Christmas tree onto the back of the couch and slinked over to perch behind the woman sitting across from me. 

“Watch out! The cat’s behind you,” a nearby party-goer warned.

“Oh that’s ok. I like cats,” said the guest in proper guise.

Staring down the resident pet, I drifted off to a time long ago when I was in the same position as the proper guest. When I turned to greet the host’s cat  (a stupid-human gesture), she swatted me in the face, claws out.

The Christmas party conversation turned to pets.

“Do you have any pets?” I was asked.

“Oh yes, I have a Westie.”

I love my dog and I talk to her a lot, but I don’t talk about her much. My mother, Agnes, hated people who anthropomorphized their pets. Really hated them. My feelings aren’t as strong but I have the genes—an aversion to pet talk.

It turns out Agnes was onto something. As long ago as the 1870s Charles Darwin criticized the natural tendency to ascribe humanlike attributes to non-human animals. His pitch was for humans to show as much interest to the natural world of insects and plants as we do to our pets. In doing so, he opened the forbidden subject of anthropomorphism. Darwin’s England was ground zero for the upper classes treating their pets like children or stand-ins for friends. Since then, many scientific abstracts and PhD theses have tried to punctuate the negative consequences of anthropomorphism: over-spending on human-like clothes, feeding pets non-compatible human food, beautifying dogs with toxic cologne, nail polish, breath freshener and worst of all, expecting non-human animals to have human emotions.

I suspect Agnes was more drawn to anthropomorphism than her sophistication would allow. Her sobering suggestion that trees are worth adoration are probably my earliest spiritual experience of our life together. Another was her reverence in quietly revealing the nesting robin’s eggs outside the bathroom window. But she’d never stand for conversations about them. In her world, if you didn’t present a funny story based on serious articles from the New York Times or Time Magazine, you were an out and out bore. Her ghost leads me to the Never-Trumper’s Bulwark podcasts, whose tagline reads “a few laughs to wash down the crazy.”

There’s a trail of dead dogs nipping at my aging heels. I threw this into the mix at the Christmas party in order to join the pet talk.

“Do you dream about dogs from your past?” Someone asked of no one in particular.

“All my dead dogs are present,” I blurted out. 

It’s a goofy thing to say, like I’m a Buddhist or Spiritualist or the crazy white-hair in the corner with her Diet Coke. Other than my dog Henry, who talked to me during the Covid shutdown, I’ve always thought of my pets as nothing more than animals (forgetting that I, too, am an animal). No fancy garments, doggy day care or prepared meals. But as dead pals, they are sentient. Here. They may be the beings between the here and the hereafter, waiting to guide me to wherever that is. I hope so.

I’ll need protection to escape the cruel and the crazy running my country.

Knock On Wood

Knock On Wood

The activist community that confronted ICE in Chicago has quieted down for the winter since ICE commander Gregory Bovino hightailed it out of town with 100 of his 200 military combatants. Southern activists report that ICE is wreaking havoc on the streets of New Orleans and other Gulf Coast towns while training the 10,000 newly-enrolled ICE recruits. In the Upper Midwest, we’re like mama bears and cubs in hibernation. We’re squirreling away our esprit to ready ourselves for the war we expect ICE to launch over the threshold in the spring.

Oh, there are cadres of fresh revolutionaries protesting against high property taxes at winterized town halls. Indivisible and other groups are keeping the newly activated engaged with Happy Hours, Coffee Hours and Sound Baths. And eager canvassers are stepping out in the cold to knock on doors for their favorite state and local candidates.

llinois’ 2026 primary is March 17. In times past, a St. Patrick’s Day election meant a big turnout at the polls. Can you guess why? Yeah, a lot of people took the day off for the parade and voted afterwards. But Illinois Governor Pritzker has told us that Bovino and his returning troops may try to disrupt our elections. What does that mean?

No one has a clue.

Amidst all this dread of the future present, I received an unexpected message about my life story that put the worries of the world on the back burner. In 2020 Tortoise Books Chicago published a memoir I’d written thanks to the encouragement of friends. 

A few years after I retired I attended a poetry reading at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Shuffling up to Poet/Author/Moviemaker Kevin Coval, I disclosed, “I wish I could write”. 

“Everyone can write. Everyone has stories to tell,” Kevin responded. “Come Saturday afternoon to the writing class. It’s free.”

Kevin and the others welcomed me, a much older student, into the upper room of significant creatives. One day he introduced me as “one of our writers,” and a bolt-of-lightning zipped around my bones. 

Beth Finke, memoir writing teacher extraordinaire, praised my weekly essays while x’ing out the “weak” verbs and extraneous paragraphs. Writing expended a lot of brain energy and I often gave up from exhaustion. Then Beth would assign an energizing prompt like, “the tune you most remember from childhood” (Elvis’ Hound Dog). Poor thing had to listen to every detail of every step in the long saga of getting my book published.

Vivienne, an accomplice in many adventures, insisted I write a book so she could make a movie about my life. This seemed preposterous, but slipped into the maybe compartment when she wrote, produced and directed her full-length feature, “Dare to be Wild” (Netflix). It still seemed preposterous because as a friend asked me recently, “Is your life that interesting?” No. Yet, Kevin Coval attests every life is interesting.

The unexpected news I received this week puts the idea of a production, based on my book, on the front burner, in the cards, out front, on center stage, in the spotlight, on the radar, on a winning streak, ahead of the game, beating the odds, nailing it, on fire.

Knock. On. Wood.

Chicagoans: People of the Water

Chicagoans: People of the Water

Chicago is a water town. Lake Michigan and the sky above are our watermarks, the invisible identifier embedded in the soul of anyone who lives here for more than a year, or so. We are built around the lakeshore, the river banks, the canals, the bridges. Oh those bridges! For the next two to three years, three downtown bridges over the Chicago River are closed for repair. I know the river. I know those bridges. Whenever I’m a passenger in a car headed toward the Chicago River, I, a non-driver, turn into a navigational virtuoso.

“Turn left on La Salle Street! Now! Go to Jackson and make a right. Yes, Jackson.”

I’m insufferable. And always right.

Once you’ve lived anywhere in Chicago with even the thinnest view of the lake or the river, you can never go back, never not have water in your sights. Magical is an inadequate adjective. It’s cellular. What must it have been like for those who settled this land we call Chicago? Did a wild black and blue sky moving over Lake Michigan shout danger to our native ancestors? On windy days, did the lake and river together kick up such a fuss that the confluence was unnavigable? Were their beliefs tied to a cellular connection between the water, the land, the ancestors? Dare we imagine that those first peoples inseminated future generations, yes us, with a cellular connection to the water? 

My favorite visitors are those whose excitement about the Chicago Harbor Lock exceeds mine. The Lock is at the confluence of the Chicago River and Lake Michigan. It is part of multiple locks and dams that allow water from Lake Michigan to flow inland, toward the mighty Mississippi. Chicago devised reversing the flow of the river in the 1900s to send our sewage downstream, away from our beloved lake. Lucky for us. Unlucky for St. Louis. 

Boats and cargo ships moving from the river to the lake first enter the lock and tie up. Like a water elevator, the water raises or lowers to meet the level of the lake. I’ve been on tourist boats waiting in line on either side for tankers and cargo boats to get through the Lock. Thousands of Chicagoans live in high-rises with floor to ceiling windows where they can pull up their work desk and chair and watch the Lock all day long as they work from home. What a great city. This water town.

In mid-September, Customs and Border Patrol (CBP) agents were dispatched to Chicago as part of the Trump Administration’s ICE operation to arrest illegal immigrants with criminal records. They announced themselves by cruising up and down our cherished Chicago River, in and out of tour boats and kayaks. Some were masked. All were uniformed. All were armed with semi-automatic long guns. How did such an invasion get through the Lock?

Since that absurd melodramatic entrance into our city, the CBP has cruised into neighborhoods in military vehicles, springing into action to terrorize Chicagoans, citizens and non-citizens. 

Chicago responded with multiple layers of volunteer rapid response teams covering every scenario of civic and private life. New and old activists carry whistles to alert neighbors of CPD/ICE presence on our streets. Neighborhood school patrols walk children to school.

The Customs and Border Patrol floated into Chicago with 250 agents. There’s reason to believe that number is reduced to 100 for the winter. One of their most horrific tools, tear gas, doesn’t work in cold weather. They’ve gone off to warmer climes for training — to figure out how to deal with the likes of Chicagoans. Reportedly they will be back a thousand fold in the spring.

Oh these blue-minded Chicagoans.

These people of the water.

Will be ready.
______________

“Yet once you’ve come to be part of this particular patch, you’ll never love another. Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies. But never a lovely so real.”― Nelson Algren

Broadview: Silent Resistance

FeaturedBroadview: Silent Resistance

The announcement of a “Peace is our Protest” silent meditation hit my incoming a few weeks ago. I asked my Zoom meditation group to join me at The Broadview ICE Detention Center outside Chicago.

“I thought you were joking!” Rita said afterwards. 

And why wouldn’t she think it was a joke? Since the start of the Trump Administration’s Operation Midway Blitz in late 2025, Broadview has been newsworthy. Masked men in military costumes with automatic weapons shoot protesters in the head with pepper balls that explode into disabling chemicals. Demonstrators have been wrestled to the ground, zip-tied and arrested. Who in our group of graying meditators with varying degrees of mobility and vitality would be going someplace like that?

Well, Abigail and I did go. It was an easy drive. We arrived early. There were a few people already settled on their meditation mats, facing west. We set our lawn chairs down behind them. All was quiet. Two noisy protesters yelled out from time to time but experienced meditators treat ambient noise as neutral thoughts, not sound. We followed their piety and remained unstirred. Silent. Eyes closed. Forty-five minutes passed. A gong sounded. We stretched. 

“Look behind us,” Abigail whispered.

Over my shoulder I caught sight of about two hundred people. Sitting. Quietly. These valorous contemplatives came in behind us and squatted so softly we had no idea they were even there.

“I tried silent protesting and it never works!” A noisy bystander on a bike screamed at us. 

No one responded. No one felt compelled to yell back, argue, persuade. We remained silent. 

An unnamed man read a passage from Gandhi on non-violent resistance. We then folded our chairs and walked softheartedly to the car. As I passed by an Illinois State Trooper, he locked eyes with mine and said, “Thank you for coming.”

Broadview, an immigration processing center constructed in the 1970s, is a spit from the interstate highway leading to downtown Chicago. For thirteen years, a vigil at Broadview has been organized by the Interfaith Community for Detained Immigrants. Every Friday morning, Sisters of Mercy Pat Murphy and JoAnn Persch have led peacekeepers in prayer for detainees, some of whom are in transit to other facilities or are awaiting deportation.

“We are brothers and sisters, and it doesn’t make any difference the color of our skin or our religion or the country we come from,” Sister Murphy says, “we believe in one human being to another, a theology of presence.”

At the silent meditation protest we neither asked for nor received answers. No conclusions. No changes. No one needed to be there. We came to be present. A living theology of presence. I call this God. Others call it something else — the universe, spiritual essence, nature, mindfulness, other God names.

A week later the whole world watched millions peacefully protest at No Kings’ rallies. In Chicago, I walked all around the Butler Field rally in Grant Park and saw very few hateful slogans on signs. I’ve never seen such a noble protest. We marched up Michigan Avenue converging with streams of others walking from the south and west carrying woke messages.

Love not hate.

Faith Over Fear. 

Love Your Neighbor.

The Woodstock Nation. Long may it last.

___________________________________________________

Satyāgraha, from Sanskrit: “holding firmly to truth”, is a particular form of nonviolent resistance or civil resistance. The term was coined and developed by Mahatma Gandhi (1869–1948). Gandhi proposed a series of rules to follow in a resistance campaign:

  1. Harbor no anger.
  2. Suffer the anger of the opponent.
  3. Never retaliate to assaults or punishment, but do not submit, out of fear of punishment or assault, to an order given in anger.
  4. Voluntarily submit to arrest or confiscation of your own property.
  5. If you are a trustee of property, defend that property (non-violently) from confiscation with your life.
  6. Do not curse or swear.
  7. Do not insult the opponent.
  8. Neither salute nor insult the flag of your opponent or your opponent’s leaders.
  9. If anyone attempts to insult or assault your opponent, defend your opponent (non-violently) with your life.
  10. As a prisoner, behave courteously and obey prison regulations (except any that are contrary to self-respect).
  11. As a prisoner, do not ask for special favorable treatment.
  12. As a prisoner, do not fast in an attempt to gain conveniences whose deprivation does not involve any injury to your self-respect.
  13. Joyfully obey the orders of the leaders of the civil disobedience action. 

Texas Goodness

Texas Goodness

Something fluttered around me, as if I’d stepped into a web of butterflies. But I hadn’t. Butterflies were off in the distance. On the Nature Boardwalk surrounding the marshy South Pond in Lincoln Park I was soaking in the August-blooming bubblegum-colored big-flowered swamp mallows. And there on a daisy branch sat a goldfinch. And another, on a farther branch. Hidden in the yellow coneflowers were a few more, pecking at seeds. Goldfinches had entered my airspace as they headed for the wild prairie flowers at the swamp’s edge. Goodness nurturing goodness.  

My held-breath whispered, “You know, Regan, God did not have to give us the goldfinch.” At that moment, as others before it, I believed in God. The previous morning, fearing all goodness had vanished from the earth, I assumed God, like the butterflies, had flittered off in the distance, out of sight, out of the picture.

I lost my faith in goodness for the umpteenth time the day President Trump told Texas Governor Greg Abbott to redistrict Texas in order to gain five more gerrymandered Republican Congressional seats. Americans, who vote with their pockets, are realizing everything they buy to survive in this world since Trump became President has skyrocketed. Because of that, commentators suggest Trump is afraid we’ll all vote against his MAGA party in the 2026 mid-term elections yielding more Democrats in Congress. Cynics say Trump needs more Republicans in Congress in case he declares an “election emergency” and tells Congress to appoint him for another term. 

No one need explain redistricting to me. In the 1980s I worked in the Illinois legislature where computerized gerrymandering was invented in the basement. Drawing legislative lines to benefit Democratic incumbents was de riguer, not just acceptable, but expected. No one uttered the word gerrymander then. Today, Illinoisans are surprised to hear Republicans scoffing that their state takes the cake on gerrymandering. The secret is out.

Republican Governor Abbott yielded to Trump’s demand. He introduced a newly drawn map with the five added Republican Congressional seats to the Texas legislature. The Democratic Texas lawmakers promptly left the state. The Texas legislature needs those Democrats in the Austin capital to make up the necessary quorum to vote on that map. 

And those Texas Freedom Fighters, as they’re described at Jesse Jackson’s Rainbow PUSH Coalition, are housed in a high-security hotel outside of Chicago. They’ve had bomb scares and death threats. They cannot move around without security. I can’t think of a lower hell than being far from home stowed away in an exurb hotel with no end in sight.

One of the exiled Texans, James Talarico from Austin, attends a Christian seminary to ground himself in the fight against White Christian Nationalism that’s roiling the Texas legislature. A nurturing goodness, he speaks of hope and love and responsibility to the United States.

These Texans, these democracy heroes, are saving us from the worst of gut-wrenching trumpism. When the day comes to proclaim their victory, let’s stroll around the Nature Boardwalk among the goldfinches, daisies and butterflies, nurturing goodness. 

Maybe then God will come back into the picture.

More about James Talarico

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Fritz Edelstein on ‘Let it Be’

Fritz Edelstein on ‘Let it Be’

Guest Blogger Fritz Edelstein, Principal at Public Private Action, was the Director of Constituent Services in the U.S. Department of Education where we became friends during the Bill Clinton administration. Fritz lives in Park City, Utah, and for many years he produced the “Fritzwire” newsletter.

Let it Be by Fritz Edelstein:

“Let It Be,” one of The Beatles’ most iconic songs, is often seen as a poignant farewell to the band’s incredible journey. Written by Paul McCartney, it was released as a single in 1970 and became the title track of their final studio album. The song carries a timeless message of hope, resilience, and acceptance, making it a beacon of comfort for listeners across generations.

Moved by the dream, McCartney turned his feelings into music. The lyrics reflect his mother’s comforting presence, with lines like “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: Let it be.”While some interpreted the song as having religious undertones, McCartney clarified that “Mother Mary” referred to his own mother, whose memory brought him peace during a difficult time.

Musically, “Let It Be” is both simple and profound. The gentle piano melody and soulful vocal delivery create a sense of serenity, while the gospel-inspired arrangement adds emotional depth. The song’s climactic guitar solo, played by George Harrison, gives it a stirring, cathartic energy. This combination of elements underscores the song’s universal message: even in times of uncertainty, there is solace in acceptance and hope.

The release of “Let It Be” coincided with the official breakup of The Beatles, giving the song additional weight. For fans, it felt like a farewell gift from the band—a reminder to cherish the good moments and embrace change with grace. The song’s themes of resilience and faith resonated deeply, particularly during the social and political upheavals of the late 1960s and early 1970s.

Over the years, “Let It Be” has become a cultural touchstone, often played during moments of collective reflection or mourning. Its message transcends its origins, offering comfort in times of personal or global crises. For McCartney, the song remains one of his most personal creations, rooted in the memory of his mother’s wisdom and love.

As The Beatles’ final single before their disbandment, “Let It Be” serves as both a farewell and a timeless message of hope. It reminds us that even in the face of loss or uncertainty, there is peace to be found in letting go and trusting the passage of time.

___________________________

Join us in Chicago on July 20 to sing ‘Let it Be’ and 17 other Beatles tunes. It’s always the best event of the summer.

Normal/Abnormal

Normal/Abnormal

Two nests of crow chicks fledged on my city street this past week. I wonder if the high-rise humans down the block noticed the chicks’ noisy beginning of life in the urban wild. Everyday for two weeks, I looked up from under the trees while walking Elsa. I saw the chicks poking their hungry beaks out of the nests, then stepping out to  bounce from leafy limb to limb to rooftop to balcony, squawking away. The parent crows flew farther and farther, screaming at their offspring as encouragement to get those wings flapping and join them in pursuing edible horizons. And then, quiet. They’re gone. They’ll be back, of course. But for now, the daily racket of new young crows has flown the coop.

How comforting to observe the steadfast natural order of things. These days, the built world I’ve known my whole life is breaking down so fast that I half expect the natural world to follow;  Lake Michigan to dry up and all the birds to drop from the sky. That bad? Sometimes. Experts say old-age limits short-term memory, exaggerates long-term. My long-term emotional memories are thus resistant to age-related decline. I’m in my 80th year, having just celebrated the 79th. The fear I felt watching the original Mad Max (1979),  Poseidon Adventure (1972) and Blade Runner (1982) bubbles up without reference to those movies. It simply presents itself as the world we know is over.

On the other hand, I’m convinced The Wizard of Oz gave me a love for birds, if not a curiosity about an unearthly world. Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow; why, then, oh why can’t I? 

Yeah, why can’t I?  

Every time a crow chick leaves the nest, some transcendental part of me follows. My earliest dreams were flying visions. I willed myself off the ground and flew around the neighborhood spying on people. God help me, if I had a drone. I’d probably be peeking in the windows of high-rise residences. 

There’s no question movies have influenced my core. They’re not saving me from worry, nor diverting the fear of living in a militarized police state. That long-term memory perverts itself into real and present danger. Can the now-pardoned Jan 6 insurrectionists show up as a Mad-Max-type private army? Would there be a search and rescue operation if my transatlantic ship capsized like the Poseidon? And worse, will there be an antidote for experimental robots gone bad as in Blade Runner?

Fortunately, the clouds of knowing break open every morning to a normal reality.  Recent shoulder surgery grounds me in pain. Friends gather for coffee. My granddaughter is marrying a super guy. Regulars show up at church. The same 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are read at every meeting. The “No Kings’ protest is actually a movement. The rabbits are back in the park. Elsa goes for walks. 

Normal and abnormal live side by side.

For now.