In this dream, Dear, my wife, had died. Gathering for the memorial service in a big old stately church (probably in Boston, her hometown) was every single person whose life her love had touched, even unknowingly. And not just the living. The dead too. It was a heck of a turnout. And I’ll be damned if Trump didn’t show up.
CoolMindWarmHeart.com
While Donald Trump may be colossally unworthy of our trust to be president, there is one thing about him I honor: his role in making saints. (Not that he knows he’s doing so.) I’m not cracking wise here. If a saint is somebody who has compassion for everyone all the time, Mr. Trump is among the masters who serve those of us who hunger to grow that skill.
My Other Website
"The push to change the words “nigger” and “injun” in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, because the so-called offensive nature of those terms might limit today’s readership and appreciation of that literary classic, is a wonderful opportunity to reflect on how we avoid taking responsibility for our feelings––and therefore miss the chance to become more awake, more whole, more useful friends to one another."
The Essay: The Gold in Niggers and Injuns
