Taking a Deeper Breath

While some would have you believe that my city has collapsed and is burning down, here in Portland, peaceful protestors have been on the streets every single day since George Floyd's murder nearly three months ago. It's important work. Not all of it happens downtown. Carl and I missed our weekly neighborhood vigil the day after I broke my heel, but with my cast and scooter we're back out again. There's been a core group of us out there every week, and with the ghastly attack on Jacob Blake, Jr., there was an even bigger crowd yesterday.  We need protests. Crowds in the streets get attention. Crowds with a united purpose get action: The 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom helped lead to the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Peaceful protests give voice to pent-up rage, and provide both encouragement to supporters and tangible proof to skeptics that the people want change and they will not be silenced:  crowds beget crowds.    Peaceful protesting is a powerful tool

It seems a lifetime since my last post. In that time, my photographer son was arrested while on assignment to cover the protests, and I broke my left heel in several places in a freak accident with my little grandchild. More about those later. The point is that life as we know it can turn in a heartbeat, and in ways completely outside our control. We always have a choice, though, about how we respond. If anyone knows about unjust imprisonment, physical pain, or mental and emotional anguish, they would be His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet and the Most Reverend Desmond Tutu, Archbishop Emeritus of Cape Town, South Africa. The same could be said for the late Honorable John Lewis, Member of Congress representing the Fifth District of Georgia. Between them, these three icons of grace under extreme circumstances have experienced deep personal and community pain. Archbishop Tutu grew up poor in a segregated society. Childhood polio left him with an atrophied hand, a younger

I live in Portland, Oregon. So I've had a number of challenging conversations lately -- in person and via e-mail -- about "the situation" in my hometown. Those who have gotten in touch with me have been angry about the protests and the violence that followed for many nights. I read angry letters to the editor in my local paper. I see the anger of the young White man who flipped me off this afternoon as I stood at our weekly vigil with my "End White Supremacy" sign (and the older White man who also flipped me off a few minutes later). I absorb the anger of those who disagree with my views on White privilege, reparations, policing, and criminal justice reform. There seems to be no end to the anger of those who believe that we should not be protesting. Then there's the deep anger of the protestors. I feel my own rage at the murder of George Floyd, and at the sight of peaceful people being beaten and teargassed in my city by armed federal troops in camou