We often associate abundance with money, and that is certainly one type, but there are so many other kinds of abundance that can provide meaningful contributions to others — especially when we organize and combine them. Maybe your abundance lies in time, in the space you’ve carved out for yourself, or in the relationships you’ve nurtured over the years. Perhaps it’s in your resilience, your ability to laugh even in the face of difficulty, or the joy you find in cooking a meal from scratch. It could be in the connections you have, in the wisdom you carry about telling the truth, or even in your patience and persistence.
These forms of abundance can be powerful resources, not just for ourselves but for others. While one person might have an abundance in a certain area, they may also find themselves lacking in another. And this is where we can step in. Recognizing where we have abundance, we can find ways to give and share with others who may need it. Together, these shared resources can build networks of care and circles of resilience that not only support individuals but also fuel collective action for justice and change.
So, I ask us all: Where do you have abundance? And how can you give from these places — to help one another and create conditions for change?
An array of caution signs, stacked on each other and turned in a variety of angles. The signs are white triangles with red outlines. Black question marks are on every sign.Public domain image.
I wrote this in 2019, but it still feels relevant. Reposting today.
Casual Existential Threat Thinking.
That’s what I called it a few days ago. Casual Existential Threat Thinking. I was trying to put language to something I’ve been noticing inside myself. It’s something I sense others are feeling too. It’s this awareness that we’re living in an era that keeps producing big, existential threat questions — around us, within us. But because we can’t afford to totally shut down or break down, we try to find ways to live with the questions.
We try to make them less absolute.
We try to find ways to counter them, shifting their power and direction with our own actions.
We try to make sure they don’t turn into catastrophic thinking, at least not consistently, because we need to function well enough to address these questions. And we really don’t want to shut down or break down.
So these questions… in the onslaught of existential threats we encounter in the news… in the challenges in our own communities… in the thoughts and anxieties that emerge in our own minds…
… they can begin to feel…
casual.
Still actively threatening, for sure, but somehow… now a normal part of our lives? Just part of the landscape? Just part of our day to day thoughts, feelings, and conversations?
I wonder how this is impacting us.
To give some examples, on a pretty frequent basis, I’ll be doing something typical and run of the mill, and one of these questions will just bubble up out of the blue.
Will democracy hold up, or not?
Will women soon be criminalized for this?
What will it be like when the whole ecosystem collapses?
These questions swirl around.
If you’re feeling bummed out by me right now, let me also say, when these questions emerge, I am genuinely troubled, but I also don’t believe we have to go passively into an apocalypse. I don’t believe that all of my questions — or yours — are so absolute that they cannot be addressed, shifted, or changed at all. I’m a realist. And I still believe in possibilities and collective change too.
But my point today is… What is Casual Existential Threat Thinking doing to our minds and bodies? Especially in the sheer frequency of it? How is this impacting our stress levels? How is this disrupting our sleep levels? How is this affecting our relationships? How is shaping our internal sense of safety? How is this at once, becoming such a typical part of our days, yet of course so disruptive?
There’s a women’s prison not too far from my house. I would suspect that you might have a prison, jail, or immigration detention center not too far from you, too, but it may be somewhat out of view. Even though this prison is nearby, I went several years before I went down the street in its direction and noticed it there. And then, it was easy to forget again. That is equal parts on me and on systems that make it so. Every once and a while, I would hear something about conditions there and this would be back on my radar.
Now there is a major public health legal case. Women have suffered there for a long time. I decided recently to sign up for a Google alert about this prison. I also added the immigration detention center in my state. Now I get articles delivered to me, letting me know about difficult conditions in both places.
These are not pleasant emails to receive, but they’re important. We know that some people end up in these places for minor infractions. And even with they are far from minor — quite serious, even — no one forfeits their worth or their need for human rights. They shouldn’t lose adequate healthcare. These are often public health crises, right under our noses, purposefully placed out of view.
I encourage you to discover which jail, prison, or detention center is nearest you and set a Google alert to learn more. Know the truth; tell the truth.
Recently, I wrote a post about Robert Reich — economist, teacher, writer, podcast curator, and more. I admire him a lot.
Over the weekend, I saw a film I’ve been looking forward to for months. It’s The Last Class, which captures more than his final semester of teaching at UC Berkley. It reveals the way teaching keeps returning as Robert Reich’s true north. Despite all the public service, the social commentary, the books and the viral videos, he seems always drawn back to the classroom.
The Last Class follows Reich as he teaches his long-running “Wealth & Poverty” course at UC Berkeley one last time. It’s an intimate portrait, showing us not only his teaching style — his wit, clarity, insistence that students not accept the world as it is — but also the tension that comes with age, including what it means to face the end of something that has defined you. The film doesn’t shy away from big questions: inequality, what legacy looks like, what responsibility we pass on to younger generations.
I highly recommend The Last Class. If teaching or mentoring or caring for others has ever called you, this film will both challenge and move you. You can check if it’s showing in your area here: Where You Can Watch The Last Class
The Ann Arbor Symphony Orchestra before their concert begins
I’m a new symphony orchestra season subscription holder. Over the years, I’ve seen the Ann Arbor Symphony Orchestra in concert several times, and I’ve performed with them even more times. My local choir partners with them annually to perform major works. But I’d never been a subscriber until this year.
Truth be told, I became a subscriber this season because it gave me first dibs on Jacob Collier tickets. Jacob Collier, my favorite artist who I greatly admire, and Chris Thile, who I also enjoy, are performing with the Ann Arbor Symphony Orchestra next month. I bought two tickets in the 4th row (hooray!).
The opening concert for their season took place this weekend, and the music was tremendous. Every piece moved me, and several will stay with me for a long time. But today I want to reflect not just on the music, but on the power of a welcome.
Before the concert began, Jon Beebe, Board President of the Ann Arbor Symphony Orchestra, greeted the audience. Toward the beginning of his address, he asked us to turn to the people on our left and right and say, “I’m glad you’re here.”
It was such a small gesture, but I think it shaped the whole atmosphere of the evening. Of course, we came for the music — but this invitation made the evening feel like a collective experience. During intermission, I got to know both of my neighbors by name and learned a bit about their interests. After the concert, I noticed people connecting with those behind us too, well beyond those seated directly beside us. The night felt accessible and communal.
We face many daunting problems in our society, and it’s easy to feel powerless to impact them or shift them. But we shouldn’t underestimate the effect of small nods of belonging and bids to connect. They impact us physically and emotionally. And alongside the joy of the arts, they are a public good in themselves — a social benefit, and a public health benefit.
Whether we say it aloud or show it through hospitality and care, “I’m glad you’re here” is the beginning of something we need. Small gestures like that can shift entire rooms and ripple outward into whole communities.
Smuggling Grace 