Author: Dan Sanders

I'm a dreamer, a weaver of words, actor, picture maker, memory keeper

Mentors

Mentors can come from the docks, the back roads and back alleys, or, surprisingly, a monastery in Kentucky. Thomas Merton was one of mine. He wasn’t my only mentor, but he was a steady voice that helped me find clarity.

He was born in 1915 in Prades, France—a place distant from here, and even further removed from the Trappist life he ultimately embraced. Throughout his life, he authored 50 books, wrote 2,000 poems, and kept journals that revealed a relentless pursuit of personal growth.

What I admired wasn’t just that he was a monk. It was the strength underneath. He questioned everything, including himself. He spent time in silence, listening to things most of us drown out with noise, drinking, TV, or anything else we use to avoid facing ourselves.

He wasn’t afraid to say he didn’t have all the answers. Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure he was asking the right questions. That kind of honesty can surprise you and help you see things more clearly.

He taught me that solitude isn’t about escaping. It’s about taking care of yourself, like cleaning a boat so it keeps moving. He showed me that silence isn’t empty; it’s where change happens. He also taught me that being human is slow, difficult work, often done without recognition and against challenges.

I’ve had other mentors—some loud, some quiet, some unexpected. But Merton taught me how to be still without losing myself, how to listen, and how to stay honest even when the truth is hard to accept.

Every year on his birthday, I remember him. Though he was born in France in 1915 and eventually became a Kentucky monk, he somehow found his way into my journey. Even from behind monastery walls, he found ways to help others see new possibilities.

We don’t choose all our mentors. Some arrive unexpectedly, shaped by life, and turn out to be just what we need to keep going.

Now, fifty years later, after running up and down many roads, I find myself once again sitting in silence. Being alone is sometimes the hardest part—quiet, remembering who I have been, and, most importantly, who I am. I sometimes drift with the tide, or swim against it when necessary, here on the shores of Rambling Harbor.

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A Message of Hope — A story about friendship, courage, and the small ways hope still finds us.

I have a friend I’ve known since 1980, someone who used to listen to my overnight radio show when she was only sixteen. She would call me in the middle of the night, and we’d talk. I remember wishing her a happy eighteenth birthday at midnight. We met many years later in a grocery store when she was in her thirties, just before Halloween, at a time when my personal life was going through struggles as my wife battled cancer. I hadn’t seen her standing there, but I guess she remembered my voice, and I heard her say with a question mark in her voice, Sanders? And I then remember the voice that had kept me company through a phone so long ago. I like to tell her it was over the Candy Corn aisle, but she denies that memory. Still, I’ve always liked the idea that hope can show up in the corniest places. We’ve remained friends ever since. And before you get the wrong idea and think you know where this is going, here’s where it takes a sharp left.

My friend has been married and has a daughter and a granddaughter. I met her daughter once, when I think she was around eight years old—a beautiful young child. That daughter is now older than her mother was when she used to call that lonely late-night DJ. My friend comes from a religious upbringing, and her daughter, through her own choices, has been pursuing a life in the ministry as a student at a local school.

Here comes that left turn again. A few days ago, I got a message from my friend saying her daughter was preparing to go to Minneapolis, Minnesota, and that she was both proud and petrified. I told her I could understand both. Of course, we all know the horror unfolding in the city.

My friend is well aware of my resistance to the Vietnam War, my time in prison for refusing induction, my involvement with Phil and Dan Berrigan, as well as my own stay in seminary and a basic life of resistance to oppression in all its ugly forms. And I know that’s one reason she chose to tell me about her daughter’s upcoming adventure.

So why am I telling you this story? Because it’s a story of hope. In this world where ugliness is all around us—where women can be shot as their last words still echo in our minds, “I’m not mad at you, dude”; where our president tries to conquer the world and tear down democracy one White House brick at a time; where someone I’ve known and worked with can try to justify what ICE is doing and justify that shooting—when I’m at my darkest and it feels like everyone has lost all sense of morality and right or wrong… out of nowhere, I got a message of hope.

This beautiful young child I met so many years ago is heading into the belly of the beast to try to influence and bear witness to the truth. And I’m sharing this with you because I have friends who feel as scared and disappointed as I have—friends who, in their own ways, have tried to bring truth and hope into the world, who want things to change and get better, and who have felt disappointed, hopeless, and lost as things just keep getting worse.

And maybe part of why this hit me so hard is because this isn’t just anyone’s daughter. This is the daughter of a woman who has been woven through almost half my life—a friend who once called a lonely late-night DJ at sixteen, who somehow stayed woven through the fabric of my life through decades of change, disappointment, and small miracles. I care what happens to her. I care what happens to her daughter. And knowing that this young woman is stepping into the world with courage, conviction, and a sense of calling… well, that felt like a comforting hand on my shoulder in a dark room.

Hope doesn’t always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it shows up as a message from an old friend, telling you her daughter is heading into the storm because she believes in something better. She leaves on Wednesday. And for a moment—just long enough—you remember that belief is still possible, and you feel yourself steady a bit. I hope this story offers the same small steadiness to anyone who’s felt their strength wavering.

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The Face in the Window

From a cross he cried, “Forgive them.”
“I’m not mad at you,” she smiled.
Three times he fell,
Three shots rang out.
From the wood, his blood hit the ground.
From the car, the road turned red.

They say he walked again.
I asked if that is so.
Is this where her story ends?
Or did he know he’d need to be seen again
in this world of doubt and sin —
a world where mercy comes, if it comes at all,
from a car and a smiling face within?

Forgive them.
I’m not mad at you, dude.

And while her heart and name were Good
There is no forgiveness for what the ICE man stood.

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Gridiron for Leg Irons

In the winter of
Nineteen hundred and sixty-four
Something was going on,
Called the Vietnam War.

But all we could hear,
At the stadium that night
Was the roar of the crowd,
As we continued our fight.

But older friends
Had joined the fray,
And died in a swamp
Many worlds away.

The play was called.
And I started my run.
As another friend died
Under the gun.

The play I remember
Was Buck-forty-five
As the government kept telling
Us, lie after lie.

Then came the day
They said I must go.
But I stood on the line and shouted
My NO!!

They locked me in chains,
Both hands and
Both feet.
But the mind of the boy
Would not face defeat.

The judge said,
Son, “What will you do?”
I said, “Your honor.
It is all up to you.”

If you think I was wrong, then
To jail, I must go.
If you believe I was right
There’s a great Broadway show.
Perhaps we could go.

And with those words
In the blink of an eye
I traded the gridiron
For leg irons
And two years
At Danbury FCI.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

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Shianna: A Christmas Story

On the morning of December 16th, 2017, I heard a small, weak, almost inaudible cry — the kind of sound that tells you something is terribly wrong.
A tiny soul was struggling for life.

My little white furry friend, who had been my happiness and my wife’s favorite, was very sick. She had been my emotional support for the six years since my wife passed away.
That day, Chloe Cat had to be put to sleep.

In a fit of grief and panic attacks, I all but wrecked the veterinarian’s exam room. Two friends who were with me explained to the staff what was happening, and the office simply said,
“Let him go. We understand. We’ll take care of it later.”

I have always had a cat — sometimes two — as a friend.
The emptiness of my home in the days after Chloe crossed the Rainbow Bridge was thunderous silence.

So I began searching the internet for a new friend. Not one who could ever take Chloe’s place, but one who might help fill the hole left in my heart.
Page after page.
Cat after cat.
Days and nights that seemed like years of tears.

And then one day, looking up from the floor of an adoption center webpage, two great big eyes said,
“Hey, I’m here. Come and get me.”

I called the adoption center, and they agreed to come in the day after Christmas so I could visit this hopefully newfound friend.
A 50‑mile trip in sub‑zero weather in an old car I wasn’t sure would make it to the center, much less back home.
A rural road.
No GPS.
But I felt guided, and I made it there.

I was led into a room filled with cats of all sizes and colors, each one greeting me, purring, and showing off.
But the two big eyes I had seen online were missing.

When I asked, I learned she was hiding deep inside a treehouse, keeping to herself, not part of the crowd.
My first sign that we might be meant for each other.

I slowly reached into the opening of the treehouse, and the staff gave me a chair.
For at least an hour, I sat with my hand through the opening — speaking softly, but mostly not speaking at all.
Letting the unspoken thoughts and feelings that can only exist between humans and animals speak to both of us.

The adoption center people must have thought I was a bit daft, sitting there with just my hand in a cat treehouse.
But they didn’t bother me.

And then I felt it.
I knew this was my animal soul mate, my familiar.

I found the attendant and said, “I’ll take her.”

As I signed the adoption papers, I was told that if there was any problem — any at all — I could bring her back, no questions asked.
A red flag.
And the fact that she was already eight months old — another sign she had been returned.

She had also been hurt; the doctor’s notes read: severe wound, possible nerve damage.
Well, that went along with the shrapnel I’ve carried in my lower back for 50 years.
Two reclusive critters with nerve damage — tell me that’s not two souls looking for each other.

I had left my car warming. I loaded my new friend into her carrier, left the adoption center, and we began the long ride home.
I drove mostly with one hand, the other on her case, telling her the whole way how good things were going to be.

I still wasn’t sure we’d make it back to Boston in my sputtering old car.
But we did.

Once safely home, this little life spent the first part of the night hiding.
I found her behind the stove.
Once coaxed out of there, she spent the night under the bed, and I spent it talking to her through the mattress and trying to think of a name.

Many people don’t understand her name, which is, in some ways, the reason I’m writing this a few days before Christmas — besides the fact that she was adopted the day after Christmas.

If you say her name, you’d think it’s spelled Cheyenne, like the town or the Native American nation.
In fact, one time I overheard a friend tell someone who asked what kind of name it was, and the friend — knowing I am part Native American — said,
“It’s Native American.”
I didn’t bother correcting her.

Her name is a contraction of Shilo.

Shiloh was an ancient Israelite city in the central hill country north of Jerusalem. The meaning of “Shiloh” is debated — possibly related to a root meaning tranquility or peace. Some scholars propose a meaning connected to place of rest.
Either one is fine with me.

And Anna: she was a prophetess, one of the very few women in Scripture clearly given that title.
Anna appears only in three verses in the entire Bible (Luke 2:36–38), yet she stands as one of the most powerful spiritual figures in the New Testament.

And so, having found my new friend the day after Christmas, and somewhere in the middle of the night as I talked to her through the mattress on my bed, her name became Shianna.

Sometimes the gifts that matter most don’t come wrapped in paper or tied with ribbon.
Sometimes they arrive the day after Christmas, with big eyes, a wounded past, and a quiet way of saying,
I’m here.

This is the story of how Shianna found me —
or maybe how we found each other.

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A Radio Christmas Remembered

The holidays always make people feel nostalgic. I know I do, even though I don’t really take part in what feels like holiday madness these days, instead of real joy. I get a kick out of the ads that promise big savings if I just spend twice as much as usual.

New Year’s Day has always been a time for me to reflect, feel grateful, and sometimes regretful. Even when I was young, there was always someone or a moment to remember. As we get older, those memories matter even more.

I haven’t done live radio since 2006, and sometimes I miss it. It’s hard not to miss something you dreamed about as a kid and finally got to do. But when I talk to friends, they remind me that radio isn’t what it used to be. Now it’s all programmed and controlled by corporations, with little room for real personalities. I was lucky to work in radio when it meant something, when underground FM was fun and creative.

I wrote the next story a few years back, but it actually happened more than 40 years ago. I’m sharing it again because it’s real and it means a lot to me. People have told me it’s one of their favorite stories, and it’s one of my favorite Christmas memories, too.

A Radio Christmas Remembered

It was a quietly magical December, around 1982. Snow was blowing outside in the middle of the night—well, 3 a.m. is hardly morning. The kind of snow that sneaks up on you, drifting quietly and getting deeper. It moved across the empty parking lot, turning this lonely spot into something like the Montana or Wyoming prairie. It was the perfect scene as Merle Haggard sang about wanting the Big City to let him go. Even though I wasn’t far from Boston, it was easy to feel cut off from the world, watching the snow shape the night. I probably wouldn’t see another person for at least three more hours. I was the only one on duty from midnight to 6 a.m. I could still see most of my car, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to move it in the morning, even if someone could get to me.

As the keeper of the light, I stayed in touch with others who were awake during the darkest hours—the night people. I’ve always liked night people. There’s a passion in how they move through life—caring, yet often a little lonely, choosing the quiet roads and the small hours. My way of connecting with them was through a country radio station in the basement of a small strip mall in the middle of nowhere. Still, our AM signal reached far and wide, especially at night—traveling over flat land and even across the ocean, carried on the darkness. I was the only show in town, the only one playing music on the AM dial in that forgotten time zone.

About once a week, a cross-country trucker would call me. When he got to Rhode Island and picked up my signal, he’d say, “The California Kid is on the line.” This time, he wished me a Happy Holiday and, as always, asked for a few songs to help him make it to Maine. I was his companion on the road.

I also got calls from Alice. She drove all over the area, servicing ATMs, and would call once or twice a week while she worked. I never met Alice; she was a bit like the coyotes that roamed the parking lot, always staying out of sight. I called her Dallas Alice, after the Little Feat song Willin’, which I played for her every time she called.

On that snowy night, Alice called to wish me a Merry Christmas and told me to wait a few minutes, then look outside. After we hung up, I played Willin’ and walked up the steps to the door. There, already gathering snow, was a small pre-lit Christmas tree and a card that read, “Merry Christmas from Dallas Alice.” I saw her footprints in the snow. She had parked close to the entrance so she could get back to the main road quickly.

I never met Alice, but her kindness lingered long after that night. I never met the California Kid either, yet in the passion of their journeys and the gentle connections forged in the dark, we shared something rare—a caring warmth that glowed quietly in the lonely hours. On that cold, snowy night so many years ago, a woman named Alice—Dallas Alice—and a trucker called the California Kid gave me memories that still make me smile every Christmas.

Every Christmas, I remember the way we reached for each other across the airwaves—passionate, caring, and yes, a little lonely, but never truly alone.

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“Between Manger and Cave”

A couple of nights ago, I watched a rarity on television, an excellent show, Kevin Costner Presents: The First Christmas. As I listened to Costner’s narration, I couldn’t help but think back to my seminary days and wish someone had taught this version then. What struck me, beyond Costner’s presentation and delivery, was how different it was from what the Bible teaches or what churches traditionally teach. Instead of repeating familiar pageantry, it offered a retelling grounded in historical imagination and modern scholarship, a version that, to my mind, feels closer to the reality of what may have happened.

The Gospels of Matthew and Luke give us the only biblical accounts of Jesus’ birth, and they are spare, theological narratives. Luke tells us of Mary and Joseph traveling to Bethlehem because of the census, of the child lying in a manger because “there was no room in the inn,” and of the shepherds who were the first witnesses. Matthew, by contrast, emphasizes prophecy fulfilled: the Magi following a star, Herod’s paranoia, and the slaughter of the innocents. Both accounts are symbolic, designed to show Jesus as Messiah and Savior, but they leave many historical details unspoken.

Costner’s special, however, fills in those gaps with realism. It places the birth not in a wooden stable but in a cave—a detail supported by early Christian writers like Justin Martyr and by archaeological evidence from Bethlehem. Caves were common shelters for animals, far more plausible than the tidy manger scene we’ve inherited from centuries of pageantry. That single shift changes everything: from rustic charm to raw survival. Mary and Joseph are portrayed as vulnerable teenagers under Roman oppression. Herod’s cruelty is dramatized with unflinching detail, and the shepherds and Magi are woven together in a single narrative, reflecting how oral traditions often collapse timelines. The effect is a story that feels raw and human, less about prophecy and more about survival in a dangerous world. And in many ways, that realism rings truer than the theological gloss of the Gospel accounts.

Step by step, the differences become clear. The journey to Bethlehem in Luke is framed as obedience to a Roman decree; in the show, it is hardship and fear. The birth in Luke is humble, marked by a manger; in the show, it is stark, set in a cave carved into rock, damp and shadowed, where animals were kept. The witnesses in Luke and Matthew are divided: shepherds first, Magi later, but the show collapses them into a single dramatic moment, reflecting how memory and oral tradition often blend.

Herod’s violence in Matthew is theological, a warning about worldly power; in the show, it is visceral, a reminder of the brutality of history.

In the end, the Gospels give us a theological testimony, while Costner’s special offers a reconstruction that feels historically plausible. One stresses prophecy and divine purpose; the other stresses realism and human struggle. And if accuracy is the measure, Costner’s version may come closer to the facts of the Nativity than the Gospel accounts themselves.

Watching Costner’s retelling reminded me that stories never sit still; they shift with the teller, the time, and the need. The Gospels gave us prophecy and promise, the churches gave us ritual and pageant, and Costner gave us grit and survival. Somewhere between manger and cave, shepherd and Magi, theology and history, the truth of the Nativity flickers. And maybe that’s the point: every generation must find its own way to cradle the child, whether in scripture, in spectacle, or in memory. For me, Costner’s version felt less like myth and more like history, a ritual of faith, doubt, and wonder that refuses to fade, even under the harsh light of television.

And isn’t it something when Hollywood, of all places, edges closer to the facts than the pulpit? The Gospels gave us prophecy, the churches gave us pageantry, and Costner gave us caves, grit, and teenage parents. Two thousand years later, it takes a cowboy narrator to remind us that the Nativity was not a pageant in a stable but a birth in a cave, messy, human, and all the more believable.

CODA: If you’d like to see the full special for yourself, here are the official streaming options:

  • Watch on Disney+
  • Watch on ABC.com

Runtime: 1h 24m | Rating: TV-PG

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

from the Edge of the List

So, it’s official: Pam Bondi, Attorney General and microphone wielder, has reportedly directed the FBI to compile a list of “anti-American” groups. The leaked memo reads like a fever dream of ideological purity — targeting anyone who dares question immigration enforcement, capitalism, gender norms, or traditional family values.

In other words, if you’ve ever posted a meme about billionaires, marched for trans rights, or wondered aloud whether Jesus would deport asylum seekers — congratulations, you might be on the list.

I can’t say I’m surprised. When college students began being arrested for writing in campus newspapers, I figured it was only a short walk to us on social media. The ink dries, the post goes live, and suddenly free speech is treated like contraband.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just a rumor. It’s been fact-checked and confirmed. You can do your own fact-checking, too — the memo exists, the directive is real. What we’re smelling here isn’t the sweet air of liberty; it smells like dictatorship.

The memo builds on Trump’s NSPM‑7 directive and paints dissent as domestic terrorism. It’s not about violence — it’s about views. And if your views don’t align with the administration’s gospel, you’re suddenly a threat.

Do your own fact-checking. Here are the verified fact-checking and reporting links on Pam Bondi’s leaked DOJ memo directing the FBI to compile lists of “anti-American” groups:

  • Snopes – Confirmed leaked memo
  • Reuters – Bondi orders law enforcement to investigate “extremist groups”
  • Ken Klippenstein – Original leaked memo publication
  • Common Dreams – Coverage of Bondi memo
  • Democracy Now! – “Domestic Terrorism” leaked DOJ memo
  • Nation of Change – Memo targets anti‑Americanism, anti‑capitalism, anti‑Christianity
  • Crooks and Liars – Bondi plans to treat anti‑Trump activists as domestic terrorists
  • Factually – Fact‑check summary of Bondi memo

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November 15, 1969 — Vietnam Moratorium

On this day in 1969, the Vietnam Moratorium Committee staged one of the most potent anti-war protests in American history. Students, activists, religious leaders, veterans—millions of us—took to the streets, calling for an end to the war and the withdrawal of American troops.

And I was there. I remember the sound of voices rising together, the signs carried high, Peace Now, Bring the Boys Home, Stop the Killing. It wasn’t fringe, it wasn’t small. It was a broad coalition of Americans from every walk of life, standing shoulder to shoulder in a peaceful, nonviolent demand for change.

The Moratorium wasn’t just one day. It was a series of protests, teach-ins, vigils, and marches that grew month after month. On November 15, 1969, it culminated in Washington, D.C., where more than half a million people gathered—the largest anti-war demonstration in U.S. history. From Arlington National Cemetery to the Capitol Building, we marched and listened to voices that carried moral weight: Senator George McGovern, Coretta Scott King, Pete Seeger, Muhammad Ali, John Kerry, Daniel Ellsberg, and Abbie Hoffman.

President Nixon wasn’t swayed. Just weeks earlier, he had given his “silent majority” speech, asking Americans to back his plan for “Vietnamization”—gradually withdrawing U.S. troops while shifting responsibility to South Vietnamese forces. He claimed to have a secret plan to end the war, but offered no details. His approval ratings soared, and many rallied behind him.

But for those of us in the streets, the war was not an abstract policy. It was blood and loss, friends drafted, lives shattered. We weren’t silent, and we weren’t a minority. We were the conscience of a nation, refusing to let the killing continue unnoticed.

Looking back, the Vietnam Moratorium was more than a protest. It was a turning point in public opinion, proof that ordinary people could gather in extraordinary numbers to demand peace. It showed the world that America’s heart was divided, and that many of us believed the war was morally, politically, and economically wrong.

I was there, and I carry that memory with me still—the chants, the music, the hope, and the stubborn belief that voices raised together can bend history.

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Born today, November 8th, 1897 Dorothy Day

From an early age, I was drawn to voices that challenged the world’s cruelty with conscience and compassion. I read books by and about Mahatma Gandhi, Thomas Merton, Elie Wiesel, and John Howard Griffin, among others. Each offering a view into suffering, resistance, and the sacred duty to bear witness. But among them all, it was Dorothy Day who walked beside me the longest and still does. Her words didn’t just echo in my mind; they shaped the very path beneath my feet.

Dorothy Day, born on this day in 1897 in Brooklyn, New York, was not merely a writer or an activist. She was a radical in the truest sense: one who went to the root. She co-founded the Catholic Worker Movement during the Great Depression, not as a charity, but as a revolution of mercy. Houses of hospitality. Loaves of bread. A newspaper that cost a penny, “The Catholic Worker”, and told the truth. She believed in voluntary poverty, in the dignity of every person, and in the fierce, inconvenient demands of love.

It was her vision that led to the creation of communities like the Community for Creative Nonviolence (CCNV) and Jonah House, which I was a part of. These were not places of comfort, but places of confrontation with injustice. With indifference. With the part of ourselves that wants to look away. And yet, they were also places of deep, stubborn hope, the kind Dorothy carried like a candle into the darkest corners of the world.

Even now, as I live and write from Rambling Harbor, her teachings guide me. In every act of remembrance, in every refusal to be silent, in every meal shared or injustice named, I feel her presence. Not as a saint on a pedestal, but as a companion in the struggle. A woman who once said, “Don’t call me a saint. I don’t want to be dismissed so easily.”

Dorothy Day taught us that the works of mercy are not optional. That feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and comforting the afflicted are not acts of charity, but of justice. She reminded us that the personal is political, and the political must be individual. That love, real love, is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams.

So today, on her birthday, I light a candle not just for her memory, but for the movement she sparked, a movement that still burns in kitchens and shelters, in protests and poems, in every quiet act of resistance that says: We will not abandon each other.

Dorothy Day walked the hard road. I’ve tried, in my own stumbling way, to follow.

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RAMBLING HARBOR: Red Flags, Pink Dreams, and the Ghost of Karl Marx

So it begins again.

Out here in Rambling Harbor, where the fog rolls thicker than campaign promises and gulls squawk like pundits, I heard the old chant—Communism!—echoed not from a union hall, but from the gilded throat of a man who once sold steaks and bankrupt casinos. Trump saw Zohran Mamdani win the mayor’s race and called him a communist. Not a progressive. Not a democratic socialist. Just red paint on a dreamer.

It’s familiar. Every time someone feeds the hungry or dares to house the poor, the powerful reach for fear. They don’t know Marx from Mamdani, but they know fear sells. Say “communism” loud enough, and you don’t have to explain why the soup kitchen’s empty or the subway’s crumbling.

Trump says it’s “communism vs. common sense.” But if common sense means ignoring hunger, I’ll take the red flag and wave it like a lifeline.

Out here, we remember sovereignty isn’t yachts and tax breaks—it’s warm meals, safe beds, and mayors who dream in public.

And I’ve been thinking about words. Big ones. Loaded ones. Communism dreams of erasing the lines. Socialism redraws them more fairly. One says, “No rich or poor.” The other says, “Let’s make sure the poor don’t die waiting.”

We weaponize both. Call libraries socialist and bailouts capitalist. We forget the post office is a miracle, and roads don’t pave themselves.

Me? I’m just a poet with a busted radio, listening to hunger beneath the headlines and wondering what kind of world we could build if we stopped arguing about labels and started listening to mercy.

Out here in Rambling Harbor, the tide keeps rising. And I keep writing—because someone has to remember the difference between a dream and a distraction.

—Dan, still rambling, still harboring

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I Was There When the Soup Was Still steaming, and now I’m steaming

Father J. Edward Guinan didn’t start a charity. He started a rebellion wrapped in mercy.

In 1970, fresh from the Paulist Council and the restless spirit of George Washington University, Guinan and a handful of students opened the Community for Creative Non-Violence (CCNV)—a communal home dedicated to radical service, protest, and poetic resistance. His vision was seismic and straightforward:
“To resist the violent; to gather the gentle; to help free compassion and mercy and truth from the stockades of our empire.”

I joined not long after being released from Danbury Federal Correctional Institution, where I’d served time for refusing induction into the Vietnam War. That refusal wasn’t just political—it was spiritual. I walked out of Danbury with a record and a rhythm, and CCNV gave me a place to put both.

We met at the Newman Center, planned protests like prayers, and fed strangers like family. The Zacchaeus Community Kitchen had just opened near the White House, and Mother Teresa—not yet a household name—came quietly to serve the first bowls of soup. She sat with the guests. That was enough.

In 1973, we launched the Hospitality House, offering medical care to the homeless. It wasn’t a clinic—it was a promise. We fed 200, sometimes 300 people a day. Seven days a week. No grants. Just grit.


By 1974, we opened Euclid House, a communal living space and organizing hub. We fasted for famine relief. We slept on floors. We argued about scripture and soup recipes. We were broke, burning with purpose, and building a sanctuary from scraps.

And now—in 2025—I find myself thinking about those days more than ever. The government is shut down. SNAP benefits are expiring. Families are forced to choose between rent and food. Shelters are full. The hunger we fought in 1973 is still here—just dressed in new bureaucracy.

And I’m mad as hell.
Not just at the politicians who play chicken with people’s lives.
But in the silence. The scrolling. The shrugging.
The way we let hunger become background noise.
Where is the outrage?
Where is the yelling on social media?
Where is the mercy?

CCNV wasn’t perfect. But it was real. It was radiant.
And I was there when the steam rose from the first pot,
when protest became presence,
and when mercy moved in.
You don’t have to go out and get arrested.
You don’t have to directly feed the hungry.
You don’t have to open your home to the homeless.
But for Christ’s sake—YELL.

Yell at the fat-cat politicians who play with poor people’s lives like it’s a game.
Yell like someone’s life depends on it.
Because it does.
Rambling Harbor is where memory meets resistance.
Where soup becomes scripture.
Where sanctuary is stitched from scraps.

I was there.
And I’m still here.
And I’m still yelling.
I’m no longer at CCNV. I’m not peeling potatoes or stirring soup.
But like in the movie Network—the one someone asked about the other day—I’m still yelling.
Through my posts. Through my websites. Through my letters to Congress.
I am yelling that I am mad as hell.
And if you’re not—
You could be.
You should be.

And for Christ’s sake, don’t tell me not to call the fat cats fat
When children are skinny from need.
I’m yelling.
And you could too.

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