The Yoke’s on Us

What would it be to really rest? What does that even look like? In my heart of hearts, I don’t know. I have a vague memory of rest as a child. But then again, the rose-colored, sparkling recollections of our youth tend toward the unreliable. They are shadows without edges. They fade back and forth between truth and what we wish were truth. For some of us, childhood was a wondrous time filled with ease, freedom, unstructured afternoons, imagination without limits, softly oversized beds with cool sheets, and unmolested dreams. Some of us have those memories. Not all of us.

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Love Trumps Hate

To the man who yelled, “The president still loves you!” at me today upon seeing my “Love Trumps Hate” bumper sticker: Because you hollered at me from your car as you were driving away, I gather that you did not want to engage in a dialogue about the president, his feelings for me, or my feelings for him. I guess it was safer that way. One-line zingers have become the currency by which we pay for participation in our society. Still — I would like to reply, and what I have to say takes more than one line.

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