Keep Time in Your Pocket
"keys to the kingdom got locked inside the kingdom"
Welcome to the Full Moon — at the moment of this posting the moon has waxed into all the light it can reflect back to us, as you read this it begins to wane. Thanks so much for your attention, it is the most precious thing. Really.
This past “No Kings” day, March 28, 2026, I found myself in the car traveling to St. Paul, with Josh and my neighbor, Paula. A bit of deja vu rose as we drove across town together, once again choosing the side streets over the freeway, as we had done this before on the first “No Kings” event last June 14th, 2025, nearly ten months ago now.
A lot has transpired since then and I just now did the work of looking back and reminding myself what has been. At the time of that first “No Kings” I had just taken a break from writing here to delve into substitute teaching at Minneapolis Public Schools. Over more recent months, I did the opposite, paused the teaching in order to delve deeply into sharing what is going on here. It’s been a horrifying 10 months of events and when I looked I found how time’s passing doesn’t allow me to hold it all in memory. So I am going to try to weave something here that will hold for us what we have been through during this firehose of tragedy and disruption.
On June 14th, the three of us snaked our way through the St. Paul city streets. That time crossing the Mississippi at Ford Parkway as we headed east, passing the old Ford plant, now being developed with new apartment buildings and turning north on Snelling avenue, passing Macalester College. I remember being haunted by the friendly memories of living there in my 20s.
Ten months ago, Paula got a text in the back seat.
This time we crossed at east Lake Street, entering St. Paul on Marshall. And here we were again, sitting just as we were that time, Josh driving, me in the passenger, and Paula in back. The familiarities of place piled on to that deja vu, the view of the river, the houses that lined the street. Good old St. Paul.
The friend texted that tragedy had happened and the event was cancelled. We turned off the Valerie June that we had been listening to and put on MPR, silence between us, but the special report filling the space. It took a few minutes before we would hear the name of who had been killed. At first just that police responded to a report of gunshots at a Minnesota Senator’s house and one worried officer’s hunch that they should check in at the house of a nearby Representative. Upon arrival, the officers discovered the assailant still there and exchanged gunfire.
Along with the text came dread, what could have happened? Who was it? The mood in the car had deflated. We were so close by now and without talking about it, we continued rather than turning around.
Eventually the newscaster said that state Sen. John Hoffman and his wife Yvette, were in surgery for their injuries. State Representative Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark had been killed.
I recognized her name when the reporter finally shared it, but I couldn’t have recognized her if I passed her on the street. I knew of her by reputation, as a foremost leader of our legislature, respected by reporters and fellow legislators alike. I had the impression she was a skilled negotiator, hard-working, and fair. Back then, as we wound our way through the green and verdant summers day, my heart sank, as it does when something has gone terribly wrong.
As we drove this time, we recalled our last drive out loud, layering our memories on top of one another’s. The text, the news, the going anyway, because isn’t that what protest is about, not letting fear stifle our voice?
Finally, on that first ride, one of us had spoke, we are in agreement, right? Didn’t it feel more important than ever? After all, we wouldn’t have even known if it hadn’t been for the late hour texts.
Once we arrived, we saw that we weren’t the only ones that decided to stay the course. The crowd in front of the capitol steps was thick and waiting. We didn’t know much about what had happened. We learned that it was targeted. The perpetrator had impersonated a police officer and in his vehicle had a list of about 70 potential targets.
The program would be altered, the organizer told us from the podium. The musicians were still there and going to play. And a few community leaders would speak. I later learned that Ellison’s name was on the list found in Boelter’s SUV that he had disguised as a police vehicle. Still Ellison stood up on those steps and spoke. Nekima Levy Armstrong spoke too. She praised us for our presence, that this is exactly what we have to do when we have lost one of our own.
They knew the drill. You get the news, you get the heartbreak, the horror, and you continue to stand up. You do it in their name, you do it because these lives can’t be in vain.
Ten months have passed since then, we couldn’t remember it all in that moment, but time is held in our bodies. The past is felt even if we can’t quite grasp it in words. In the car we were on route to the same place. This time thousands upon thousands more people will be there. In part because of the performers. Joan Baez. Bruce Springsteen. Jane Fonda. Bernie Sanders. Back at the first, I remember I was showing up in the hope that pure numbers of bodies would convince others that protest is a choice, getting out is a choice, being together in our voice is a choice.
I could not have anticipated the road.
It has taken tremendous stamina. We have no other defense than our willingness to keep on going at a pace that is sustainable. If we use our energy wisely and understand that energy is made by our comradeship, we may just make it to a better future for everyone after all.
The most recent “No Kings” rally was a testament to endurance of the lower back. As we stood for each speaker to commend and serenade us, the stretching commenced, along side chants and cheers and singing. Twists and folds and squats all to try to lift some space between our lower vertebrae.
And just to test my back further, I returned to the capitol the following day for the Palm Sunday Action where Black Faith Leaders lead the way, as they have always done in civil rights movements over time. We sang the gospel songs to celebrate Jesus’ triumphal entrance into Jerusalem. More on that in my last post.
Since I am writing about making a container for time, Palm Sunday isn’t such a bad one for me. It is these where once I sat with my mother and uncle in the St. Olaf Lutheran Church of Austin singing hosanna, such a beautiful word while waving the palms. Thinking of those Jews of Jerusalem chanting to Jesus as he lampoons Pontious Pilate and his war procession that was happening across the city. I didn’t know then how real that street really was and that I would someday walk there myself, feeling into the years of history.
This is Holy Week, so between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, there also begins a seder, just like the Jesus’ last supper, where we will drink wine and break matzo. Around the table, we will imagine what freedom will look like.
Let’s throw the unleavened dough up upon our shoulders and go wandering in the sun, where it will turn to hardtack and sustain us over time. My mother was born in a breadbasket of fields on the edge of a steep ravine in the watershed of the Minnesota River, land of the Dakota. Deep in the ravine the ephemerals, bloodroot, may flowers, sweet Williams, Dutchmen’s britches, still bloom. The earth is soft and live with the layers upon layers of detritus that makes it loamy and rich. It has been that way for a millennia, even though the above land, the tillable soil, has been broken from its prairie roots. When the settlers, of which my ancestors were, came, it seemed as if they would never make a dent into that tangle of roots. But now there is barely an intact prairie in sight and the topsoil blows in the winter winds staining the white snow a dingy gray. But the bottom lands keep building.
So keep telling the stories that will bring a future that allows us all to thrive. I imagine more people than ever have been paying attention. If the future seems beyond our control, know that it’s all in the stories we tell ourselves today.
I recently revised my how to be patriotic post and I think I filled in the blanks that I couldn’t when I first wrote it. I would love it if you’d go back and check it out now that it’s better.
Below this line is the Updates Section.
Epstein Files. I’m finally going to write about the Epstein Files. Sorry that I have ignored them for too long. They have felt too big for me to address and recently I realized they are way too big for me not to address. Here is a great conversation between Heather Cox Richardson and Representative Maxwell Frost around the strategies he is using to review the mountains of emails and ensure that no elite class is above the law.
DHS funding shutdown (as written about here and here)- The Senate delivered a way to fund TSA and FEMA without ICE and CBP to the House, but leader Mike Johnson and his GOP MAGA folk hijacked the legislation by not brining it to the floor where it would have most likely have passed with bipartisan support and instead sent back to the Senate something inane that has no possibility of passing. That is government not working. Do you remember the last shutdown when Mike Johnson delayed swearing in Arizona Representative Grijalva to prevent her from signing the discharge petition for the release of the Epstein files?
Eviction Crisis- I have not been able to keep up on this. Thank you for sharing whatever you know.
Save HCMC - HCMC is a safety-net hospital which means that by mission and legal obligation it must treat low income, uninsured and vulnerable populations. The loss of HCMC would be huge, for those populations AND because it is our premier trauma hospital. Here are some articles to read if you are interested in this: MPR: what’s behind the financial crisis at HCMC? and Minnesota Reformer: Hennepin County Medical Center is an important statewide asset.
Save the BWCA- HJ Res 140, Stauber’s novel use of the Congressional Review Act to undo a 20 year mining ban, has yet to come up on the senate floor. Right now the Senate and house is on Easter break. The 60 day window will runs out in mid April.
My delegate update. I went to the Congressional District 61 Convention and it was a lot of fun. I didn’t want to go. It was a beautiful day outside after our long cold winter and the day was purported to be spent inside a crowded high school auditorium. But conventions with their Robert’s Rules and Walking Caucuses are zany and automatically full of like minded people. So I will go on from here as an alternate to the congressional convention and to the state convention. I am also signed up to go to Minneapolis and to Hennepin County conventions. The next one being Minneapolis on Saturday April 18th, but I have a dilemma there as I realize I have a conflict and will have to choose between my Mia Friends Bookclub for The Lion Women of Tehran. So making that decision is in process.
TWO(!) Songs for the Full Moon
Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt 1 by Flaming Lips
Girl in the War by Josh Ritter