As I sit here, far from the land I once called home, I feel like a castaway – safe enough in body, but restless in spirit. My heart has never left the people who don’t have the luxury of distance, who cannot step away, who must stay and endure and fight, quietly or loudly – for the simple right to live in peace.
I watch eighteen monks walking from Texas to Washington, DC. Eighteen human beings placing one foot in front of the other, blister by blister, mile by mile. They carry no weapons, no demands…only the radical offering of compassion. They speak to anyone willing to listen, reminding us that peace is not something granted by power, but something cultivated within. Their message is soft, ancient, and profoundly inconvenient.
And then I look at the other image unfolding at the same time: injustice normalized, cruelty excused, violence absolved by the very regime meant to protect its people. My eyes fill with tears at the stark polarity of it all. Love walking barefoot on asphalt, and brutality signing itself into law. How can these two truths exist in the same place, at the same moment?
Yes, peace begins within us. Yes, we must stand for those to whom violence is being delivered and disguised as order. But how do we reconcile this duality? A nation split down its own spine…grieving, angry, afraid. A war within our borders, fought by people turned into instruments, while those pulling the strings keep their hands clean of blood.
What breaks my heart most is knowing that this violence comes from flesh and blood no different from my own. That human beings, mostly masked men, can commit such harm with such malice, then return home and sleep. Your mother is watching you, your wives, sons and daughters. That evil does not arrive as a monster, but as a neighbor, a voter, a uniform, a signature on a page.
And yet… somewhere beneath the grief, a quieter truth persists: this does not have to be the end of the story.
I wrestle with forgiveness…for those who empowered this harm, who waved it through with one stroke of a pen, one push of a voter button. The ones who dismissed warnings as exaggeration, cruelty as “fake news,” consequences as something that would only happen to others. Someday, this will reach your doorstep too. Not as a headline, but as a reckoning. And I struggle, deeply, with how to hold compassion for that truth without surrendering accountability.
So I return to the monks.
Eighteen figures against the noise. Silent, aching, devoted. How can something so small withstand such chaos? Maybe it can’t…at least not in the way we measure power. But perhaps the outpouring of love, the tears, the prayers, the witnessing – that is how peace moves from an abstract ideal into something rooted, something lived. Not to heal the world all at once, but to heal hearts, one by one.
A forest does not begin with full-grown trees. It begins with a seed…fragile, buried, fighting through cold and heat, breaking open in darkness before it ever reaches the light. Strength is not loud at first. It is persistent.
We may not be able to meet might with might. But I am reminded of an old photograph from the 1960s: a single flower placed into the muzzle of a gun. A quiet refusal. A reminder that even in the face of violence, there are those who choose tenderness…not because it is weak, but because it is brave.
And maybe, just maybe, that is how the work begins. 🌱
Two Travelin' Chicas... 