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  • Road Trip For The Aging Hippie

    Lyrics for my original song. Join our 2026 journey cross country. Today it begins.

    [Verse 1]

    Back in the day, we wanted to roam and play,

    Life felt so simple, nothing stood in our way.

    Bell-bottomed jeans, and our hair long and free,

    One small bag carried all we’d need.

    [Chorus]

    Oh, road trip for the aging hippie,

    With memories and dreams still so trippy,

    Pack it all up, hit the road once more,

    Follow the sun through that open door.

    [Verse 2]

    Music blaring, windows cranked down low,

    Not knowing exactly where we wanted to go.

    But today’s journey, it needs a plan,

    Filling the senior citizen version of a hippie van.

    [Chorus]

    Oh, road trip for the aging hippie,

    With memories and dreams still so trippy,

    Pack it all up, hit the road once more,

    Follow the sun through that open door.

    [Bridge]

    Bringing just the essentials, got bags piled

    Clothes kept simple.Need room for medical supplies

    One bag just for shoes, they’re orthopedic now,

    Barefooting’s a memory; our feet won’t allow

    [Verse 3]

    Save room for the gel, to tame this wild hair,

    That flowing, long look is now wispy and rare.

    Windows no longer crank, they slide like a dream,

    Heated seats cradling us, like warm sunshine beams.

    [Chorus]

    Oh, road trip for the aging hippie,

    With memories and dreams still so trippy,

    Pack it all up, hit the road once more,

    Follow the sun through that open door

    [Verse 4]

    In our minds, we’re youthful, with hearts full of cheer,

    Letting enthusiasm cover all that we fear.

    Taking in the landscapes, the sunsets so grand,

    With laughter and love, wobbling a bit as we stand..

    [Outro]

    So here’s to the journey. Joy filling our hearts,

    Let’s hit the road, let this adventure start.

    Life might have changed, but we’re still alive,

    On a road trip for the aging hippie, we’re ready to drive.

  • Serendipity (Press Play)

    There are moments when words aren’t meant to stand alone.
    They’re meant to sit beside sound.
    To rest inside melody.
    To breathe with music.

    This song is meant to be played slowly.

    It carries the idea of serendipity —
    the gift of finding something valuable
    that you weren’t searching for.
    The quiet wisdom of happy accidents.
    The grace that shows up
    when you stop trying to control the way forward.

    We’re about to take a journey we’re calling Road Bathing.
    Eight days to do what usually takes four.
    No tight plans.
    No checklist of must-sees.
    Just miles, pauses, and the willingness to notice what appears.

    That’s where serendipity lives.

    In the unexpected roadside pull-off.
    In the conversation that lingers longer than planned.
    In the moment you realize you don’t need to arrive quickly
    to feel like you’re already where you belong.

    This song was created for those moments —
    when you let go of urgency,
    when you leave space around you,
    when you allow the road to offer something back.

    So if you can, pause here.
    Let the music wash over you
    the way miles do under open sky.

    You don’t need to do anything.
    You don’t need to know where you’re going next.

    Just listen.
    Just notice.

    Sometimes, the most memorable parts of the journey
    are the ones we never planned.

  • Choosing Peace Instead of Power

    There are days when the desire for peace feels almost naive.
    When the demands of our leaders sound louder, sharper,
    more determined to prove something
    through domination rather than understanding.

    Battles are waged
    — in words,
    in policies,
    in posture —
    and I find myself asking
    the same question again and again:

    For what purpose?

    Is it to show strength?
    To claim ground?
    To stand above rather than among?

    I don’t want to be part of that kind of power.

    I want to live among others,
    not on top of them.
    I want to breathe shared air,
    not take more than my share.
    I want a life that makes room
    — for difference,
    for dignity,
    for voices that don’t sound like my own.

    And yet, choosing peace
    when our leaders glorify conquest
    can feel like swimming against a current.
    It can feel isolating.
    It can feel misunderstood.

    There is pressure to harden,
    to pick sides loudly,
    to respond with the same force that unsettles us.

    But peace is not passive.
    It is deliberate.

    It takes strength to refuse domination.
    It takes courage to remain open
    when closing off would feel safer.
    It takes discipline to stay rooted in compassion
    when anger offers a faster release.

    Peace begins locally.
    I remind myself of this in the way I speak.
    It is also in the way I listen.
    I resist the urge to reduce others to obstacles or enemies.

    I cannot control the battles
    being fought beyond me.
    However, I can decide
    what kind of presence I bring into the world.

    So I choose to breathe.
    I choose to soften rather than strike.
    I choose to stand for dignity
    without standing on someone else.

    This is not weakness.
    It is alignment.

    And on days
    when the contradiction feels unbearable —
    when peace feels
    out of step with the world —
    I return to this truth:

    *To fight for the rights of others,
    * To stay humble,
    * To care deeply


    My contribution must be toward
    building bridges,
    lifting people up,
    sharing space rather than conquering it.

    I do not want to live in this world alone.

    Let’s be brave.
    Let’s be humane.
    We don’t need to shout,
    but we do need to stand up.

  • The Gift of January

    January — the gift of starting over.
    Not all at once.
    Not with long lists or heady resolutions,
    but one step at a time.

    This month invites a pause.
    A moment to notice the light
    as it arrives quietly, almost unnoticed.
    To breathe slowly and steadily.
    To resist the urge to look ahead at everything waiting to be done,
    or to replay what has already passed.

    Instead, let there be gratitude.

    I am here, right now.

    In this early hour, the scene is simple.
    A single tree stands in silhouette
    against the gray winter sky.
    Strong. Patient. Unrushed.
    It does not fight the season it is in.
    It waits. It reflects. It rests.
    Gathering what it needs
    for what will come next.

    January asks the same of us.

    It is not a month for rushing forward
    or demanding clarity.
    It is a month for quiet reflection.
    For steady breathing.
    For trusting that growth can happen
    beneath the surface,
    even when nothing seems to be moving.

    Today, doesn’t need to start loud.
    It can begin gently.
    With presence.
    With patience.
    With light slowly finding its way in.

    Today, I simply say to myself:
    Allow yourself to rest.
    Practice patience.
    Be kind to yourself.

  • Carrying The Light

    Today, I choose to share my podcast.
    This one is offered to close out a year
    filled with so much noise and uncertainty.
    Through it all,
    I decided to stay focused on light,
    searching for beauty.

    I turned off the news
    and found my truth by walking the woods.

    I embraced creative potential,
    forcing myself to keep learning,
    keep trying new things.

    Creating is my way
    of breathing healthy air.
    This year, that meant
    self-publishing a book,
    writing songs,
    and producing a podcast.

    What will the new year bring?
    Who knows.

    https://open.spotify.com/episode/2lUgiUWQDzRdENfrYnE2gQ?si=Hxb3NxwNQsitqaZ00eZ0gg

  • A Quiet Crossing

    This year does not end with a celebration.
    It ends with an exhale.

    It has been a tumultuous year — politically loud, emotionally charged, and unexpectedly heavy. A year that brought loss we didn’t see coming. A year that tested patience, resilience, and the ability to stay soft when everything felt hard.

    There are still many moments when our country feels fractured, when anger seems easier than hope. When the noise makes it hard to hear our own thoughts, let alone each other.

    And yet.

    In the midst of all this disruption, something else happened quietly.

    We created a book that promised light at the end of the tunnel. It was not just a slogan. It was a belief we needed to hold onto ourselves. We wrote words meant to steady us. We shaped something gentle in a time that was anything but.

    We created music in the darkest corners of the year. Songs born not from ease, but from necessity. We found a way to share that music with others. It could travel beyond us. It could remind someone else that they weren’t alone.

    That is what makes this a quiet crossing.

    Not because the year was calm — it wasn’t.
    But because we are leaving it with intention.

    We are not carrying everything forward. We are setting some things down. The outrage. The exhaustion. The constant vigilance. We honor what this year asked of us, without letting it define what comes next.

    This crossing isn’t about forgetting.
    It’s about choosing what deserves space in the days ahead.

    So as the calendar turns, we step forward gently. A little wiser. A little more worn. Still hopeful. Still creating. Still believing that light matters — especially when it has to be made by hand.

    This is how we cross: quietly, honestly, carrying forward our own flicker of light.

    https://a.co/d/drrG5MJ

  • Listening To The Morning

    https://spotifycreators-web.app.link/e/cWXvlJhg6Yb

    Do you have 10 minutes to pause?
    So don’t if it’s too much.
    But, if there are minutes to spare,
    listen to this episode from my attempt at a podcast.


    Put in your earbuds.
    Close your eyes.
    Make it a meditation.

    Find Our Book

    My friend and I created a book filled with photography, poetry, and original songs linked with QR codes. This is a book sharing a meditative way to move from darkness to light after loss. Check it out.

    https://a.co/d/i7cIJcB

  • When the World Pauses Without Asking

    Firefighter speaking to me over my Ring Doorbell

    Holidays are supposed to arrive gently.
    Marked by familiar rituals.
    By comfort.
    By things we expect.

    But sometimes the season is interrupted.

    A sound you didn’t anticipate.
    An impact you didn’t see coming.
    A moment where everything shifts, and suddenly the world you knew five minutes ago no longer exists in the same way.

    When a car crashed into my house, it wasn’t just damage to walls and windows. It was the feeling that routine had been broken. That life, once again, had reminded me how quickly everything can change. It was Thanksgiving. We were together, as a family. Then, just like that, everything changed.

    It felt strangely familiar.

    Like the moment when someone you love is gone,
    grief enters—the light in the room changes.

    There is a pause that follows moments like these —
    not one we choose, but one we are given.
    A forced stillness.
    A slowing we didn’t plan for. 

    The world keeps moving,
    but we are held in place,
    trying to understand how we got here.

    And the holidays don’t stop.
    Lights still glow.
    People still rush.
    Music still plays.

    But inside, we begin to move differently.
    More carefully.
    More slowly.
    We notice what matters
    because we have no energy left for what doesn’t.

    This kind of pause is not peaceful —
    at least not at first.
    It carries fear, frustration, and unanswered questions.
    It asks us to breathe when breathing feels hard.

    So now it’s Christmas, and so much is still unresolved with my house.
    With every breath, I need to swallow frustration.
    Allow space for unanswered questions.
    Let the uncomfortable pause not paralyze me with fear,
    but teach me.

    Life is fragile.
    Control is an illusion.
    Presence — real, honest presence —
    is sometimes all we have to offer.


    So this holiday season, I’m allowing interruption.
    I’m letting disruption invite stillness.
    I’m honoring the pause —
     even when it arrives through shock or loss.

    Because sometimes,
    when the world changes in an instant,
    the most human thing we can do is
    stop and remember:
    I am here.
    I am breathing.
    I need to let that be enough.

  • Trying to Breathe

    Cleaning crew removed everything from storage

    I’ve been trying to stay centered on peace and joy.
    It’s that time of year, after all — the season of light, of calm, of remembering what matters

    But the truth is, I’m still standing in the middle of a mess.

    A driver ran into my house.
    The damage is real. The disruption lingers.
    And the insurance process — slow, unclear, incomplete — has added another layer of strain. There are unanswered questions. Partial approvals. An estimate that far exceeds what’s been offered. Unnerving silence where communication should be.

    And here I am, trying to figure out what comes next.

    I’m sharing this not because my story is unique — it isn’t. This is how life works. This is how unexpected things arrive. This is how we end up in hard places, still trying to function, still trying to breathe.

    Some days feel especially dark.

    I notice the anger. The tightness in my chest. The urge to replay conversations, searching for something I might have said or misunderstood, to solve everything all at once. I know anger doesn’t repair walls. It doesn’t move claims forward. It doesn’t bring clarity.

    So I come back to the smallest things I can control.

    One breath.
    One step.
    One moment of noticing something beautiful — even though that feels out of place right now.

    I remind myself that peace is something I have to work on every day.  I need to return to it again and again while things are still unresolved.

    This is me working through a dark time.
    This is me trying to stay soft without being naive.
    This is me choosing not to carry anger, even when I have every reason to feel it.

    And if you’re walking through something hard too, know that I get it. This is hard work.

    Be courageous with me —breathe — and keep breathing — until the next step becomes clear.

    Here’s What I Am Going Do Right Now

    Breathe in slowly, reminding myself that everything is safe in this moment.
    Breathe out gently, releasing what I cannot solve today.
    Feel my heart and rest, just here, just now.

    This is my one step
    And this is enough.

  • Painting What We See

    There is a quiet beauty in being older now—
    in sitting back
    and watching the season arrive on its own.

    One simple strand of lights
    is enough to set the stage.
    A single candle, scented like Frasier fir,
    fills the air with the memory of Christmas trees
    and years held close.


    On the stove: orange rinds, cloves, and ginger
    simmer slowly,
    bringing with them the warmth of baking,
    of comfort,
    of familiar things remembered.

    I don’t do everything I once did.
    I don’t hang all the lights or put up a tree.
    I don’t indulge the way I used to.
    Life—and health—have gently asked me to move differently now.

    So I adapt.
    We drive through glowing neighborhoods.
    I accept tins of cookies from friends.
    We reminisce.

    We let this home carry the aroma of past seasons
    with candles and potpourri.
    We watch old Christmas movies.
    We sit quietly while the world hurries around us,
    trying to get everything just right.

    And in the stillness, something settles.

    I am no longer the one creating the perfect scenes.
    I am the one witnessing them—
    with gratitude,
    with softness,
    with love.

    Like Norman Rockwell,
    I sit back and observe.
    I notice the light.
    I hold the moment.

    I paint what I see.