Between the Tides
Yesterday, we stood in protest.
We stood because an attempted takeover of democracy—fueled by hatred and power over others—is not the country we want to be. It is not the story we choose to tell about ourselves.
Today, the sky is hazy.
The air feels heavy with questions that have no easy answers. Tension hums beneath everything, like a low, constant vibration.
And I feel guilty.
Guilty for sitting in a place where richness surrounds me—
in flowers and birds,
in air scented with eucalyptus and lavender and lemons,
where people pass by with their dogs, simply going about their day.
The ocean keeps its rhythm.
Waves roll in, then pull back again.
High tide. Low tide.
A steady, ancient consistency in an otherwise tumultuous time.
Across the country, a Peace March continues.
A group of monks walking every day now passing through North Carolina, making their way toward Washington, DC,
with a single intention: to spread the message of peace.
Their march is not loud.
They simply walk.
And as they pass, crowds form—
people drawn to their message.
They offer the monks flowers and thank them for their presence.
For their quiet courage of putting one foot in front of the other,
day after day. It’s disorienting—this contrast between the beauty of the moment and the weight of the world. Between the urgency to resist and the quiet message of peace. But somehow both need to exist right now.
It’s in all of these thoughts that my resolve is replenished.
Where I remember what we are trying to protect.
Not just systems and structures—but mornings like this, shared air, ordinary walks, the right to move freely and live gently.
The monks walk.
The tides turn.
The work continues.
Nothing stays fixed forever.
And yet, some things endure.
Today, I sit in the in-between—
holding grief and gratitude, anger and awe,
watching the waves,
reminding myself, again, to believe that peace is not passive—
it is practiced.
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