New Year's Day 2022: greetings to our tiger year

 I woke up this morning to a sea of white outside my bedroom window, as the first real snow of the season arrived in my Denver neighborhood overnight. It was snow-quiet, punctuated by laughter of a dog walker and the scrape of a shovel, and of course, the cries of the geese flying over the small lake across the street in City Park. A perfect setting for the new year we all want--a clean slate after a year filled with so much sorrow--the losses, disappointments, climate stress or catastrophes that we've all suffered or witnessed. 

I'm also spending the day somewhat unexpectedly with a house guest--my friend, Lauren, whose company is a joy, but the reason for her presence today and yesterday is not. She's an evacuee from Louisville in Boulder County where high winds and quick-moving flames destroyed hundreds of homes and businesses on Wednesday afternoon. So much devastation, and for those unable to return--most everyone in Louisville, as the evacuation order hasn't been lifted--there are more worries: possible pipe or water damage for those with gas heat, as the gas was turned off community wide until damage could be assessed. Lauren believes her house was spared, but won't know for sure until she returns, most likely on Sunday.

Like everyone, I wish for luck in the new year, and I still observe, from nostalgia rather than belief, the customs I've picked up in my long life: my mom's practice of trying to do things on the first day that she wanted to see mark the coming year: in my case, a calm mind, reading, listening to music, enjoying the company of friends. From my former partner, the late Paula Sperry who was born in Texas, the southern custom of making a pot of black-eyed peas with okra. It's now in the Instant Pot where I hope to correct a cooking error in step one of the process. No doubt mistakes will be part of 2022. May they all be easily corrected.

From Japan, where I lived for years, some familiar customs: a "hatsu" (first) shower--firsts being important on the first day of the year, a bowl of miso soup in lieu of the traditional ozoni, and the habit of checking out the New Year's concert from Vienna on Great Performances--not a Japanese custom really, but there are enough fans in Japan for NHK to broadcast it every year. I have moved aside the cow figurine on my seasonal decoration table and put the tiger in its place. On the lunar calendar 2022 is the year of the tiger, noted for strength and bravery, a good talisman to carry forward into this sure-to-be challenging year.

I've told a few friends during the holidays that dread was complicating the hope I usually feel at the start of a new year. Too many systems damaged or changed: the threats to democracy, the climate, our safety with so many guns and so much suffering continuing. In my best moments, I hope to invoke whatever tiger-bravery or strength I can muster for the challenges ahead.

Amid the sad memories of the old year are the gems--those moments that stay in memory though they didn't always feel important at the time: infusing myself with the beautiful, blue sky and clean air that returned from last summer's smoky skies cleared near my cabin on Linda Lane's land near Guffey. Lots of memory gems from last summer, where I spent a couple of weeks each month before I closed it for the season in September: chatting over coffee with Linda while watching the sun travel over 36-mile Mountain, walking Belle, Linda's border collie, along Ranger Station Road, indulging Hop, a 15-year-old Corgi, with treats upon entreaty. Hop may be living her last year now, but we thought that last year, and well, she's still here. 

I'm remembering many moments with friends this past year, after we all got our vaccines and life in person started to reemerge. Many of them over food--at a restaurant, at home, mine or another's, and especially  on holidays when a friend with a beautiful home filled with sunshine and art and beautiful table settings opened her heart and cupboard. Other moments laughing with laughter yoga friends in Cheesman Park, well into winter. There was food there too, always a picnic on the table just outside the Botanic Gardens. 

And then there are those memory-gems on zoom--my hybrid life continuing--with friends who can't or don't wish to meet in person: meditation sessions with Eyes of Compassion Sangha, saying the morning or evening chant together; a birthday celebration with treasured family in Illinois as I turned 74 in February. Music moments came on zoom and in person this past year, and I expect that to continue in our hybrid world. In December, SAGE Singers gave a joint concert with Sine Nomine, another community choir, in the lighted stained glass church where Dr. King once preached. (The audience could opt for in-person or zoom.) I have switched from singer to support person with SAGE, enjoying this new role every bit as much as when I sang.

There were also memorial moments this past year, most recently for a neighbor who died this fall, a long-time resident of Montview Manor, where I still happily live: Kathy Tull, whose daughters provided a December wassail party where we shared food, stories about Kathy's life, and reminded ourselves of the rather special community we have here at "the manor". Later today I plan to toast whoever shows up for a potluck upstairs, then returning to the apartment. Lauren and I are in a similar mood: a few episodes of The Golden Girls if we can find them in honor of Betty White who died this week just weeks short of her 100th birthday, and then something funny or silly--moments that I hope to blend into this still-newborn but sure-to-be challenging year.

This Pridefest is brought to you by....

Denver's Pride Parade--or The Coors Light Pride Parade--was Sunday, and thousands of others, I found a spot along the East Colfax route to watch what is truly Denver's best party. For two and a half hours, laughing, dancing, singing marchers--on foot or on float--paraded down the street enroute to a rainbow festival of food and entertainment in Civic Center Park. I had hoped to be part of the parade, as I have in the past few years, but a wonky foot led me to a chair under a shady tree instead. Watching is of course, a big part of the fun so no regrets there.

As I often do, I summoned up one of my younger selves--one who would have been marching in the early 80s down this street, a time when the AIDS epidemic was at its peak and the legalization of gay marriage was far from a possibility in anyone's minds. More a protest than a parade, though I remember its playful irreverence, such as the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence--gay men dressed as nuns--posing on cathedral stairs. This younger self would have felt awe and joy at how mainstream LBGTQ acceptance has become--though in fairness she would not have used most of that acronym--just "L" and "G". At the same time, she would have been appalled at just how corporate everything has become. Perhaps she would have stalked off and joined her friends in the park to grouse about it. We would have thoroughly dissected the rainbow equivalent of "green-washing", a distraction from corporate practices that should be questioned.

Coors was a major sponsor of the parade this year, as it has been for a number of years now, but it was not the only one backing Pridefest, the weeklong celebration preceding the parade. Other big players were Walmart, Wells Fargo, Nissan, Smirnoff, Comcast Xfinity, along with Channel 7TV and The Colorado Department of Health and Environment. There were a host of supporting and participating sponsors too--retail outlets, oil and gas companies, banks, among others. (Click here for a full list.) Many, many other groups participated, not for profit, but with a message to share: churches, non-profits, politicians, cultural and student groups. My beloved square dance group, The Rainbeaus, danced their way down the street, while behind them the Mile High Freedom Band played.

Older Kathy is less likely to rush to judgment, while lamenting the fact that Coors beer has been and probably remains a taste abomination, far inferior to the numerous craft beers in Colorado. Craft breweries were banned from selling their tasty wares because of the deal with Coors and instead held an alternate event in West Denver. (Perhaps I'll take younger Kathy there next year.) Older Kathy would have also pointed out the fact that sponsorships underwrite programs for the LBGTQ community at The Center all year long. And--let's face it--we're in a corporate age, in which non-corporate funds are scarce and the costs of putting on any public event--insurance, security, materials--are well outside the limits of passing the hat around.

Seeing the youthful energy and creative decorations of the marchers on Sunday, I found it impossible to be churlish. This year was the 50th anniversary of what's now called the Stonewall Uprising, that night in June when patrons of the Stonewall Inn in NYC rebelled against the police harassment they were constantly subjected to. That rebellion provided the energy to launch a gay liberation movement that led to such amazing changes in US culture. The results of this long struggle led to Sunday's celebration, which I cheered on along with everyone else.  I didn't take a single picture, knowing that The Rainbeaus' chief photographer, Frank Bull, would share his album with me and other club members. Here are a few photos I downloaded from his collection. The first one expresses the conviction I'm sure all would share.

And this one expresses the contradictions. Corporations may well have excellent hiring practices for LBGTQ job seekers, but their work in the world raises questions, such as: How is our community affected by fracking of oil and gas in Colorado?

I enjoyed the creativity here on this float and many others.

Then too, the spirit of protest still lives.

Skipping the party, I headed toward the bus stop on 17th, ready to give my foot a complete rest. Two women passed by and pressed a rainbow crown in my hands--with the King Soopers supermarket logo. How appropriate, I smiled to myself. And at the same time, in my heart, I thought: Until next year--all good wishes for pride, activism, persistence and above all--love.

The crumbs of one woman's year: 2017

"Slung as though in a hammock, or a lull, between one Christmas forever over and  a New Year nearing full of relentless surprises, waywardly and gladly I pry back at those wizening 12 months and see only a waltzing snippet of those topsy-turvy times, flickers of vistas, flashes of queer fishes, patches and chequers of a bard’s eye view….

‘Look back, back, the big voices clarion, look back at the black, colossal year,’ while the rich music fanfares….(but) I can give you only a scattering of some of the crumbs of one man’s year, and the penny music whistles."  —Dylan Thomas in The Crumbs of One Man’s Year

Sitting here in front of my window this warming morning, in this lull between Christmas and New Year’s Day, I see the last melting patches of snow in City Park, as I try to channel Dylan Thomas. I think I have. Though the news feeds are full of “best of’s” and “most importants” of 2017, I sit back and see, as Thomas did, a few “waltzing snippets” that stay in memory. Start with a memory, any memory will do.

I’m near Mudbiscuit, my cabin in Florissant, one June morning, walking down Ranger Station Road with Linda and her two dogs, Belle the Border Collie and Hop the Corgi, breathing the crisp, high altitude air, grateful that I can still return to this beautiful place every summer. I’m watching the dogs, sniffing the history of the night with the focus of a rookie detective. I’m distracted by Hop’s butt, long white and gold hair swaying in the wind. An icon of my country life, like the hummingbird feeders, always my first task when I arrive to open the cabin, filled with a vague anxiety that these tiny birds, having made their home in a nearby cottonwood tree, altitude 8,800 feet, will not survive if I stop providing a daily ration of sugar water. Here's Hop and Belle with their human, Linda, that morning.

Then it’s  time to check the greenhouse. Linda planted early and the greens are thriving. Sunlight on the red-stemmed chard, the park choi, lettuce and peas. Back to the cabin to wash, chop, serve, eat. The day passes: I putter, read, answer email, all a blur until the sky colors change, the great magnificent sky, that surprises me every season I return after being away.

Is it any wonder that the Japanese word for nostalgia, natsukashii, has the root, natsu or summer—where memories wander first? But I have winter memories too, this winter of our resistance following the 2016 upset and deeply upsetting presidential election in the US. So many of us then were frightened, disoriented, still disbelieving.

Jump to Jan. 21, the day after the inauguration of the Divider in Chief, and I’m about to join thousands of Coloradans at the Denver Civic Center for the Women’s March. We don’t know yet that it will become the largest protest in US history, with nearly 5 million taking part around the globe. It’s early, I’m anxious, as full buses pass us at the stop near home. A neighbor gives us a lift and within the half hour we’re walking toward the 16th Street Mall. Then I see it—a steady stream of pussy-hatted women, men pushing strollers, kids, a stream of signs, and I can feel the energy and anticipation of the day. I’ll soon see many more that day. But it’s that first glimpse, as the sun appeared over the heads of those early arrivals, that brought both a thrill and sense of relief. We’re all in this together….

A season of protests reminding us of our unity across race, gender, class and generations. On Valentine’s Day, also known as V-Day--observed by the global activist movement to end gender violence--I was again on the Mall with friends and celebrants, dancers, chanters, and speakers--all pledging to work for justice. Images of red and movement and words, but the image that stays is this one of the young STEM women, remembered partly because I learned what STEM meant that day. We’re all in this together....

The year moved into spring, and I see more images of actions: The silent procession around the State Capitol on International Women’s Day, Climate Action on Earth Day, also a March for Science, notable for its creative signs and the youth of many of the participants. A march and rally in support of “our Muslim neighbors”. In my senior building here in the city, we’re writing postcards to our representatives. Having just moved in the previous October, I’m getting to know my neighbors. So much to resist and encourage. Yes, we’re all in this together….

Delicious moments—cooking being the most ephemeral art, its appreciators also its destroyers. Sitting at a long table at The Mercury Cafe with dear friends on my birthday, eating a pagan vegan plate (greens, tofu, veggie green chili, fried cornmeal), perhaps my 100th plate of it, the menu item I order there  most often….An exquisitely expertly-prepared plate of sushi, a birthday gift from a friend, at Denver’s premier sushi restaurant….Another dinner treat from visiting friends in August at a local artisan restaurant, probably my prettiest food picture of the year.

Summer also brought disillusionment. I watched the Rachel Maddow Show nearly every evening with country or city friends, the stories flowing by, marking the damage this hobbled and flawed democracy brought about by electing the current president and Congress. Then one evening, I was sitting with neighbors in the lobby of my apartment building, not distracted by the slivers of visible sunset, and realizing that there can be no giving up. Maybe it was after 45’s insulting speech at The Boy Scout Jamboree or after his refusal to support more safety measures for football players, saying they  would ruin the game. Not the worst he had done, but the gratuitous cruelty and ignorance struck me viscerally. Remembering, I feel again that shiver of fear, then a calmness, a resolve. We simply cannot give up. Elections are coming in 2018. We’re all in this together….

Moments of joy: that’s what my laughter yoga friends call those moments when we look around us, fully present in the beauty that presents itself, perhaps always there if we just bother to notice. Burying my face in a blossoming tree in City Park across the street from me here in Denver; handing out water bottles to exhausted and grateful marathon runners in City Park, probably my most rewarding volunteer experience.

In October, gazing at a sea of student faces at Metro State University. I was on a panel with 5 other women who had worked on Big Mama Rag, a feminist newspaper published in Denver in the 1970s--more than 40 years ago. We were talking to students in the women's studies department, telling them so many important things--about our passion, our mistakes, what we tried to do and what still needs doing. I remember the expression of the transgender youth in the 2nd row who was really listening, as many others listened impassively or took notes; never doubt the importance of the audience's role in a presentation. We hoped they were listening too--not enough time for Q & A before their next class. Afterwards, as we panelists sat around a table in the student center, I remember a relaxed pleasure and pride: remembering this time we shared and our gratitude for being a part of what is now history!

Death made itself visible to me this year, not exactly a next door neighbor, but more like a silent and solemn newcomer who has moved in down the block. In the spring two women died, members of one of my groups (OLOC), one suddenly and one from cancer. Both were honored at one of our monthly meetings in a ceremony led by another member--who herself passed away later in the year from cancer. In early March a former neighbor turned friend—Joanne, age 85—died from complications of cancer and an accident. A day earlier, Gerry Starbuck, my first employer in Denver in 1977, passed away. Later, a good friend from my days in Japan, Kim Oswalt, passed away. Not long afterwards I was telling a neighbor about these deaths. “ It will be more and more like this,” she told me matter-of-factly but not without sympathy. She didn’t need to explain how aging brings knowledge--the sense of one’s own vulnerability accompanied by increasing losses. The image I call up most often is the one below from the Day of the Dead exhibit and celebration at the Denver Botanic Gardens in early November. I paused for several moments before this altar where the artist explained her story and art to a group of children. In the past few years I’ve seen this holiday grow beyond its Mexican roots into a developing North American holiday, with numerous events around town. We need it to recognize the role of death in human life and honor the lives of those no longer with us.

Moments of auditory joy: sitting on the stage of the Grant Park Orchestra in Chicago, listening to a young woman play Bach’s cello suite No. 5 on her viola, the lights of Millennium Park behind her.
The Sound Circle a cappella chorus, singing beneath the stained glass windows of a Boulder church.

This fading year of 2017 will always be the year I discovered song. In September I joined my first flash mob where more than 100 of us sang Holly Near’s "Singing for Our Lives", as we peeled off jackets to the surprise of onlookers at the DCPA. Yet the scene that returns is the short concert we gave on the Mall afterwards, becoming celebrities of the hour to passersby. One solitary older man caught my eye, watching silently and then finally, slowly joining in on a song. World Singing Day came a month later, and I was there, on the Pearl Street Mall in Boulder, where anyone who came by got a lyric booklet with tunes ranging from "Uptown Funk" to "Imagine", and where we sang our hearts out, in one big outdoor karaoke session. Instead of an electronic screen, we had various small choirs lead us, and instead of a room, the sunny, chilly outdoors. In December I was back on the 16th Street Mall in Denver, singing “alternative lyrics” to popular Christmas carols, all aimed at mocking the GOP tax bill, It  passed the Senate the following day, unfortunately, but the singing helped sooth and energize.  I think we’re on to something as we head into Resistance Year #2.

And then Christmas and the company of friends, and some slow easy days with time for reflection.

“And one man’s year is like the country of a cloud, mapped on the sky, that soon will vanish into the watery, ordered wastes, intro the spinning rule, into the dark which is light.” —Dylan Thomas

A patriotic week

This holiday weekend I’m at Mudbiscuit, my cabin in the hills, and I’m finding contentment in the quiet, the cooler temperatures, and the lack of distractions, enticing or otherwise.  By that, I mean no disrespect to enticing distractions. Last year I was in the city, spending the evening of July 4 on a friend’s high balcony, chatting and enjoying firework displays over Denver. This year I had the possibility of choosing any of numerous rural and small-town events: an arts festival in Green Mountain Falls, an “old-fashioned celebration” in Woodland Park, complete with flag-raising, art, fun for kids, and a symphony performance. In Florissant, I could shop for antiques or try my skill at the “new ol’ time shooting gallery”; Buena Vista promises a “patriotic parade”, kids’ games and “awe-inspiring fireworks”. I decided to pass them all by in favor of unstructured time here on the land. Most days that means time to take morning walks with Linda and her dogs, do a few small chores, check email, read, or collect greens and herb clippings from the small greenhouse Linda and I tend. Evenings, however, bring a structured event—watching The Rachel Maddow Show at Linda’s cabin and talking about the continual stream of breaking news and scandal out of Washington.

Last year I wrote another blog about my conflicted feelings about this holiday—all of the patriotic associations and some difficult personal memories around July 4 This year, this year of Resistance to the party in power, the patriotism issue is even more conflicted. Despite a sporadic effort to reclaim the US flag as a symbol of progressivism, it still carries too many negative associations for me—memories of misguided wars and right-wing rallies. Perhaps that will change in coming years. I hope so.

Instead of the flag, several news photos on Facebook and reports on Rachel Maddow sent a burst of patriotic feeling through me last week. The photos were of the group ADAPT, a disability rights group. Members occupied the Denver office of Sen. Cory Gardner for 2 nights, demanding that any health legislation passed by Congress protect Medicaid and the health care that millions stand to lose of the Republican bill passes. Photos showed their peaceful protest and then later their arrest as they were forcibly removed from Gardner’s office. Their courage and resilience touched me deeply, part of widespread resistance to this disastrous so-called alternative to the Affordable Care Act negotiated by former Pres. Obama. I’ve always thought that this is the true meaning of patriotism: fighting for your country to be a true land of liberty and equality and justice.

A photo taken after the last members of The Denver Ten were released from the detention center*"

The news stories reminded me of some Denver history that I had forgotten—another protest by ADAPT in July of 1978. Rachel reported that ADAPT members forced a halt to bus transportation after the long holiday weekend ended that year. Their demand? The simple right to ride buses that were accessible to them. Today all city buses have lifts and wheelchair space, thanks to their courage and savvy strategy. Today, nearly 40 years later, ADAPT members again took risks to remind us that health care is a matter of life and death for all of us, some more than others, and that their—and our—patriotic fight for equality must continue. Unfortunately, I could not show support for ADAPT in person last week, but I hope to do so as this health care fight continues to unfold. 

Instead, I showed some small patriotic spirit yesterday when I visited nearby Guffey. It was Heritage Day for this small town, and if anything was an old-fashioned celebration, it was this event. Linda joined me and we decided to make the library book and bake sale our first stop. I know some of the bakers personally, so I jumped at the chance to stock up on Peg’s delicious chocolate chip banana bread, Rita’s baklava, and Lani’s healthy oat cookies. Next stop was a lemonade stand, staffed by students and parents from the Guffey Community School.  Excellent quality with real lemons, so I turned down the free refill offer and tossed another dollar into the coffers. What could be more patriotic than supporting two major cornerstones of democracy—libraries and schools. Later, I contributed to another worthy institution—the fire department—which was serving ice cream and brownies in the firehouse.

Although there were a number of artisans selling handmade and recycled items, I chose to hang out with Pier and Steve, the couple staffing the Park County Democrats booth. Park County, which includes Guffey, is considered a Republican stronghold despite this town’s former counterculture reputation, so I thought Pier and Steve were doing an important and rather brave thing by putting up the booth. Most festival-goers passed them by without comment while I was there—except one dude, decked out in fancy Western gear a la Wyatt Earp, muttered something about Obama and Kenya. That was truly surprising considering how soundly the old “birther” accusations were discredited and the fact that Obama is no longer president (alas!). A few stopped to chat. One was a man who said he’s from a long line of Republicans and is married to a Muslim immigrant. When I expressed sympathy for what has become of his party, he declared, “It’s not my party anymore!” As I wondered how many other Republicans feel as he does, I felt suddenly cheered. Another couple stopped by and rummaged through bumper sticker choices. I finally made a donation and chose one as well, expressing my hopes that we will all survive today’s epidemic of fake news and tweets: “Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.”

By mid-afternoon I was home,  back to my unstructured weekend, sans fireworks and hoopla, but with time to read, reflect, and feed the hummingbirds. Rachel is taking a break this weekend too, but she and I and all of her other viewers will be back tomorrow. The patriotic struggle continues.

*Comment from Front Range Resistance: "By approximately 2:30 AM on Saturday, July 1, all nine of the remaining ADAPTers had been released from the Denver Detention Center. Sisters Dawn and Hope Russell and live-blogger Carrie Ann Lucas had already headed home for the night, but the remaining seven disability activists took a moment to celebrate the achievement of the entire Denver Ten. These brave advocates represent all of us: our diversity, our similarities, and our interdependence."

The 4th of July: Reframing an afflicted holiday

Like Dylan Thomas' Christmas memories, wrapped in a snowball rolling to the sea, my memories of childhood 4th of July events are a blaze of sparklers, illuminating images of backyard barbecues, barefoot summers, relatives enjoying a day off with a beer and home-cooked food, evenings with fireflies and the echo of far-off fireworks, TV reruns of Yankee Doodle Dandy. The 1950s in Hammond, Indiana.

After that, the magic ended. In later years, the day brought sadness or indifference, and now, sitting here on July 4, 2016, I wonder what to make of Independence Day. Skimming through my Facebook feed, I picture this holiday as a stressed Statue of Liberty trying to move through an excited crowd. People are grabbing at her sleeves, insisting that the day reminds us how much the promise of America has failed, or how it never was that hot to begin with, or how we've failed to honor those who have served, or how we should be proud of the freedoms we have. Polarizing thoughts in a very polarized country. Cautionary notes too: this is, after all, a noisy and stressful day for animals. Some friends, mercifully, simply wish me a happy 4th of July. I hope to join some of them later in a non-ideological viewing of fireworks.

By the mid-1960s, as I entered early adulthood, my image of this celebration of national independence had darkened. The Vietnam War, which I opposed, made any patriotic display distasteful to me. Living in various apartments in Chicago, I had no backyard or interest in barbecue or sparklers. Less time for TV or family visits as well.

By age 30, the day acquired a painful meaning: my father died suddenly on July 4, 1977. En route from Denver to Chicago that day, I didn't know the news until later, watching fireworks for the last time as a young woman with two living parents. That day was also my half-sister's birthday, the day she received such a terrible present. Can any anniversary of a painful event ever escape such an association?

Years passed, I acquired animal companions along the way, and the celebrations of the 4th were a source of anxiety for them. It was usually hot, and I still had no interest in patriotic displays. Some years I enjoyed having a day off work, I'll admit, though not always. It was summer vacation for those working or studying in the school system.

In 1990, I escaped the 4th of July by moving to Japan. Early July is still part of the school year in Japanese universities, and the 4th came and went as I prepared for final exams and the following summer vacation. Japan has only one national holiday in July, "umi no hi" (Sea Day), a day set aside for enjoying vacation time, preferably at a beach. I was usually on my way back to the US by the time it arrived.

Since returning in 2010, I've observed or not observed the holiday in various ways. One year I cooled off while watching rather impressive fireworks off Navy Pier in Chicago. Last year I was at my cabin, venturing out for a couple of hours for Guffey Heritage Day. I enjoyed the library's book and bake sale, but had to pass on the chicken wing cook-off. Guffey used to have a "chicken fly" contest, in which children could see whose chicken could fly the farthest, an event the chickens never seemed to mind. (Only hot dogs were served in those days).... I digress.

If July 4th has to have a meaning, I vote for a national "Interdependence" day, one in which we try to heal the polarization and acknowledge all of the ways we are bound to each other and to the developing world. Acting locally, thinking globally--my favorite ideological phrase these days. We could fly the Earth flag, reminding ourselves where our true allegiance lies. (Image from NASA)

This morning I started the day with music. The GALA chorus convention is in downtown Denver, and thousands of singers with LBGT choruses all over the country have come to sing together. They have a live broadcast stream, which began today at 9 a.m. The Boston Gay Men's Chorus performed beautifully in a program which included a commissioned work celebrating peace and interconnectedness. More concerts will be broadcast daily through July 6, and you can access them free. Click here.

For the rest of the day, I'll let my mental image of the Statue of Liberty free herself from the crowd, letting herself and the beleaguered country she represents have a day off,  just to chill and look up at the sky.