I’VE BEEN THINKING

In a year marked by conflict, chaos, and loss, music has been my unexpected refuge. In this post, I share the stories behind three songs that have been my constant companions through turbulent times—from the resolute spirit of "It Ain’t Over Yet" to introspective ballads capturing the bittersweet confusion of each new day, and a rollicking rock anthem that speaks to the rebel in all of us. Join me as I explore how these melodies have carried me through ambition, love, and the painful beauty of memory, reminding me that even in our darkest moments, there’s always a song that feels like home.

Lee Daniels’ The Butler (2013) portrays the life of Eugene Allen, an African American butler who served in the White House across twelve presidencies. The film highlights major justice conflicts, from civil rights to economic crises.

Reflecting on the film, I once believed that progress was inevitable—that history bent naturally toward justice. But the election of Donald Trump shattered that assumption, revealing a powerful backlash to decades of social advancements. His administration sought to dismantle democratic principles, favoring an autocratic minority.

This realization forced me to confront my own past activism. I once saw myself as an indispensable force for change, needing to be on the “right side” to validate my significance. Now, I understand that the fight for justice is ongoing, led by new generations with fresh visions. My role has shifted—from leading to supporting. The struggle for liberation continues, and I trust those coming after me to forge the path forward.

I was dead asleep when the phone rang at 6:30 a.m. on Thursday, November 11th, 1993.

“Rick, it’s Karen.”

“You’re up early. What’s up?”

“Your mountain is on fire.”

Before I could smell it or see it, I heard it—eighty-mile-per-hour winds driving a wall of flames over the ridge, roaring like a battalion of tanks. We fled with only our wallets, photo albums, and our howling dog, hot cinders raining through the open moonroof as we escaped. By nightfall, half the homes in our mountain neighborhood were ashes.

Thirty-two years later, as flames consumed Altadena, the memories reignited. The word "apocalypse" was used to describe the destruction, but its original meaning—revelation—feels more fitting. Disasters like this unveil truths: about our fragile systems, our disregard for the environment, and, most of all, our capacity for kindness. In this moment of survival, we have a chance to reimagine the future. Will we?

From the dozens of books I read this year, five stood out as unforgettable journeys into new worlds, profound human connections, and life-changing insights. Among them, The Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson redefined my perception of science fiction, offering a chilling yet hopeful exploration of climate change and humanity's resilience. Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow revealed the deeply human stories behind the gaming industry, a culture I had underestimated. Kate Chopin’s The Awakening revisited the timeless struggle for women’s independence with breathtaking poignancy.

Anthony Fauci’s memoir, On Call, shed light on a life of integrity and commitment to public health through decades of global crises. Finally, Rabbi Sharon Brous’s The Amen Effect delivered a heartfelt guide to building compassionate, inclusive communities. These books opened my eyes, challenged my assumptions, and left me with lessons I’ll carry long after the final page.

There’s a love story at the heart of one of the most cherished pieces of Christmas choral music in modern times. O Magnum Mysterium, composed by Morten Lauridsen in 1994, was a heartfelt Christmas gift commissioned by Marshall Rutter for his wife, Terry Knowles, the executive director of the Los Angeles Master Chorale. Conceived in secrecy and premiered as a surprise during the Chorale's holiday concert, this masterpiece captivated audiences from its first notes, earning a standing ovation and becoming a timeless expression of love, devotion, and artistry.

In memory of Marshall and the extraordinary legacy of love he left behind, this story reminds us of the enduring beauty of music inspired by the deepest human connections.

In 1991, I joined a men’s group that became a cornerstone of my life, yet when my marriage faltered years later, I found myself alone, harboring hurt and anger toward these men who didn’t reach out as I struggled. It wasn’t until years later—after their unwavering support during my son’s death and my health struggles—that I asked the question I was afraid to confront: What’s wrong with me? I realized I had spent my life projecting strength and self-sufficiency, convincing others and myself that I didn’t need help. This reflection led me to understand how fear of vulnerability and conditional love shaped my relationships. While I’ve begun to share my true self with a few trusted loved ones, the journey toward transparency and intimacy remains fraught, as the fear of rejection often feels like too great a risk to take.

My earliest Thanksgiving memory, at about ten years old, was a chaotic family gathering at a Hollywood hotel banquet room, a rare luxury for our working-class clan. That day, my embittered grandfather’s lengthy prayer set the tone for a meal that contrasted starkly with Norman Rockwell’s idyllic depiction of Thanksgiving in Freedom from Want. Over the years, Thanksgiving has come to embody not only the warmth of family but also the complexities and tensions that arise in any gathering. For Becky and me, our new tradition of dining at the bar of our favorite restaurant, mingling with bartenders and fellow patrons, offers a refreshing and personal way to celebrate—a reminder that Thanksgiving, like family itself, can evolve while holding on to what truly matters.

As I prepare to cast my sixteenth vote for president in the upcoming election between Kamala Harris and Donald Trump, I reflect on the journey of a lifetime in American democracy. From the optimism of voting for Lyndon Johnson and Barack Obama to the heartbreak of losses like Al Gore and Hillary Clinton, each election has shaped my understanding of politics and governance. The assassination of JFK, the upheaval of 1968, and the rise of MAGA politics have challenged my belief in progress and truth. Now, at 83, my vote is less about my own future and more about preserving democracy for my grandchildren—a future where truth prevails, freedoms endure, and hope remains a guiding light.

In the fall of 2011, I was in New York City with my friend Sam and my son-in-law Chris at a sidewalk bar in Greenwich Village. Chris, then the the father of two young sons, six and three years old, leaned forward with his elbows on the bar table and asked Sam and me, Okay, you guys have raised sons so tell me, what’s the single most important thing I can teach them? My answer then was immediate, and almost instinctual, but I don’t think it would be the same today.

Christian nationalists have invaded our current public conversation and weaponized the Christian faith. Their form of patriotism believes that America was founded as, and should therefore remain, a country built on their version of Christian values. They believe these values, and not the democratic vision enshrined in our Declaration of Independence and Constitution, should shape our government. They would prefer a world more like the authoritarian governments of our fiercest adversaries than a messy, pluralistic democracy.

It took me until I was in my forties to stop worrying so much about the lesson in what I was reading and whether people thought I was smart. I opened my imagination to whatever new world the author laid out before me and set myself loose to wander with fresh eyes and ears, brand new senses of touch and smell. I started to experiment with questions like, What choice would I make if I were in this situation? What would I feel in these circumstances? What if I were this character and not who I am, a woman in her circumstances and not a man in my own?

I’m so TIRED. But it's not just my age and my body that are exhausted - my spirit is also worn out. I’m soul-saddened by the death of a lifelong friend and the startling news of the serious illness of another dear one. At my age, the illnesses and deaths of my peers are no longer a rarity. But the depth of my current sadness caught me by surprise.