Tranquil Resources

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  • Evolving As An Indie Author

    It Started Out Simple

    I wanted to make a little book for my family as a keepsake. Maybe a gift for a holiday. A little opportunity to try something new – Kindle Direct Publishing.

    Poetry was collecting in a folder. Sorting it into themes was my start. Somehow, finding my way to an app called Vellum,

    I started moving one poem at a time into something that looked like a book. When I had what I deemed a collection with actual sections and chapters, I saved it as a PDF and took my precious little document to KDP.

    Moving slowly, reading carefully, I began. I answered simple questions, then uploaded my very own PDF. Vellum had set it up with the exact right dimensions, so it was instantly accepted.

    Cover Creator

    My manuscript was there, but now how do I create a cover? Fortunately, KDP offers a free Cover Creator program. Again, a bit of learning to discover all of the incredible options, but I managed and was pleased with my first attempt.

    Pressing “Publish”

    My manuscript was uploaded. I had created a cover, accepted a “free” ISBN number, even determined a price for my creation, and within moments all the tasks were completed. I’d even been given a chance to preview the finished document. Now, all that was left was to hit that final button. PUBLISH.

    Could it actually be that simple?

    I hesitated. Even closed it down for a while. Took myself on a walk in the woods to breathe. A book of my poems was about to be printed.

    MY WORDS.

    MY NAME ON THE COVER.

    Take that in for a moment.

    I came back from my walk. Opened up the KDP website again. Everything had been saved. It was simply waiting for me to finish.

    I hit the button.

    Live On Amazon

    Within hours, my book was live on Amazon. Shortly after, I received notification that author copies were now available for me to purchase.

    This Little Book Became So Much More

    My friend, Mark, saw it and suggested he might have a photo or two. Turns out he had thousands – taken over time and across this country and more.

    Again, it started small: one photo, then another and another, placed with my poems.

    And Then…

    It got busy.

    My poetry.

    His photography.

    Then songs. That’s another journey, but let me just say we now have three full-color books, all with QR-coded original songs scattered throughout.

    We have now created our own website – http://tranquilresources.org

    The Journey Continues

    Every day, we search for beauty. Now, we collect moments into our own published books.

    And it all started because I wanted to share a little poetry.

  • Summer Song

    A haze clings softly to the distance,
    while raindrops tap gently on the window pane.
    The birds seem delighted by the morning,
    notes rising from leaves washed fresh
    from last night’s rain.

    Soon enough, the heat will settle,
    as the sunlight lifts.

    But not yet.

    For now,
    this cool morning air
    awakens my energy.
    Linger on the stillness.
    Linger on serenity.

    If I still myself enough,
    will I feel the next poem emerge?
    Words that race on by
    before they’ve had a chance to be heard.

    Let me quiet my mind.
    Give the poem time to be caught.
    It’s out here this morning.
    I can sense it
    just beyond the birdsong,
    just beyond the rain-washed leaves.

    Words playing in the morning air.
    A poem creating itself for me.

  • May Day – Still They Bloom

    May Day — Still They Bloom

    May arrives not gently—
    but with memory in its bones.
    A celebration, yes,
    but earned.

    The apple orchard lifts its branches
    like banners,
    each blossom a declaration
    against what tried to undo it.

    Apple blooms—
    thin as folded silk—
    have known the sharp tongue of frost,
    the kind that tries to say:
    not this year.

    And still—
    they open.
    Not in defiance
    but in persistence, 

    May Day rings with laughter,
    with ribbons and dancing,
    with hands reaching toward warmth—
    but here, in the orchard,
    the celebration is rooted.

    These blooms are not naïve.
    They know what tries to end them.
    They bloom anyway.

    Because within each fragile cup
    is a future forming—
    seed becoming story,
    blossom becoming fruit,
    a promise that what survives
    will nourish.

    So we gather in their presence,
    not just to celebrate spring,
    but to honor endurance—
    the kind that wears petals
    and refuses to fall.

    May Day—
    not just the arrival of beauty,
    but the proof of it.

  • Transitions

    Transitions

    There’s a rustle in the morning—
    spring arrives on wind and rain,
    March slipping through the doorway,
    I hear it calling my name:

    You are here again.
    In this place of turning seasons,
    where the sky can shift its mind

    One day, sunlight spills like honey,
    the next, a gray hush settles—
    cool breezes of the winter kind.


    Still, the smallest blooms are waking,
    lifting gently through the ground,
    tiny proof of patient courage
    as I look earnestly around.

    I am making my return now—
    from the palms,  and ocean’s foam—
    Give me just a breath to settle,
    to remember this as home.

    Through Pacific into Mountain,
    then to Central, carried through,
    each new hour gently handed back
    like a gift, as I entered anew.

    Now I’m here, and spring is stirring,
    soft new life as it begins,
    and I feel that quiet wonder
    of my Wisconsin home again

  • Sunrise Messages

    There is a quiet shift happening.

    The suitcases aren’t packed yet,
    but I can feel the turning.

    Soon, we will return to Wisconsin.
    To seasons that bite for a while still before the bloom.
    To thawing lakes instead of ocean waves.
    To a different rhythm.

    But before we go —
    I need to pause.

    I need to say thank you.

    What a gift it has been to be here.
    To wake each morning and walk toward the bay
    To breathe in air softened by salt and eucalyptus.
    To let the sky stretch wide above me,
    uncomplicated and generous.

    These morning walks became more than exercise.
    They became prayer.
    They became listening.
    They became noticing.

    I wrote a poem about those walks.
    About the way the light met the water.
    About how the sky held everything
    without trying to control it.

    And then, as sometimes happens,
    the poem began to hum.

    Words found melody.
    Steps found rhythm.
    Breath became song.

    The ocean has a way of doing that —
    turning observation into offering.

    Today I’m sharing that song with you.
    It carries the hush of early morning,
    the widening horizon,
    the gentle insistence that each day is a beginning.

    As we prepare to leave, I don’t feel loss as much as layering.

    Wisconsin is not a departure from this place.
    It is the next verse.

    I need to find morning walks there too —
    different skies, different winds,
    different lessons.


    Stillness instead of surf.
    But the same invitation to

    Notice.
    Breathe.
    Begin again.

    Gratitude travels well.
    It doesn’t require an ocean view.

    So I carry this season with me —
    the color of the water at dawn,
    the way the clouds part without argument,
    the reminder that rhythms continue whether I cling or release.

    Thank you, California mornings.
    Thank you for the song.

    Soon we’ll turn toward Wisconsin —
    not leaving light behind,
    but carrying it home.

  • Everyday, Create Art

  • Keep Your Eyes On The Road

    Moving in between stories, 
    Trying to make one of our own.
    The headlines scream “Protest”
    While Monks Walk For Peace “Alone”.

    It’s hard to navigate the twists and turns
    Trying to stay centered on your own road.
    It’s hard to take in the day’s beauty
    While clutching on to the emotions you hold.

    Our life, my life 
    made up of so few precious days,
    I don’t want to be selfish now,
    But here’s what I’ve got to say.

    I’ll Walk For Peace 
    With every breath I take
    Every photo I share,
    Every poem I create.

    I’ll protest government overreach
    Though my activism legs are old and slow.
    So I protest by shining my little flicker of light
    Down this crazy, unrelenting, twisted road.

    We are a country 
    built from toil and mistakes.
    Our forefathers, far from perfect.
    So many lives have been lost along the way.

    But the message was always crystal clear:
    At least it was to me
    All of us are created equal. Remember?
    This is supposed to be the land of the free.

    Now, this poem may feel like a
    Twisting, turning mountain road 
    With blind corners to navigate.
    But know that I’m searching for beauty as I go.

    So my protest sign will read like a prayer:

    Keep your eyes focused on Peace.
    Steady as she goes.
    Because while you’re the one driving,
    You’re responsible for that piece of road.

  • Walk For Peace

    Today, I feel guilty.

    While I get to step away from the harshness of our times—if only briefly—people in Minneapolis keep fighting. They keep grieving. They keep demanding to be heard.

    ICE OUT.

    Two people in their state are dead. Their deaths came while peacefully protesting. Videos run nonstop from multiple angles.
    Look.
    Believe your eyes.

    The lies pour out of the mouths of these so-called “agents” like water—easy, uninhibited, flowing free. Spin created on the spot, delivered with confidence. How do people lie so effortlessly? And with such conviction?

    Meanwhile, thousands gather day after freezing day, standing in bitter cold, calling out: “Bullshit.”
    They’re told to keep recording. Keep sharing the videos. Let truth burn a hole through the sewage of lies.

    We are not domestic terrorists because we stand up for democracy.
    We are not inciting violence because we carry cameras and whistles.

    And yet—alongside all of this—there is the Monks’ Walk for Peace.

    The contrast is stark. Like a Minnesota winter against the sunshine of California. Both exist at the same time. The question is simple: Which state do we choose to live in?

    The Monks’ message is simple too.
    Let everyone live.
    Be compassion.
    Be love.
    Open your hearts to kindness.
    Make room for one another.

    People gather along the roads as the monks pass—praying, walking with them for a while, wanting to warm themselves in the light of their message. Now the monks have stepped into ice and cold, but the message does not change.

    It flickers like a candle—steady, persistent—showing a way out of the darkness.

    Light a candle.
    One candle becomes many.
    Many become a torch.
    A torch becomes a blaze.

    This light can burn through the darkness. It can show a way out of this night of terror.

    Truth is our torch in the night.

    Walk with the monks.
    Light a candle.
    Join their growing flicker of light.

    Love is not passive—it is resistance.

    Stand with Minnesota.
    Hold that candle high.
    Rise up with love and light.

    Drown out the flood of lies.
    Flood the world instead—with kindness, with truth, with moments of light.

    Choose light. Choose truth. Choose each other.

  • Light A Candle For Democracy

    Light a Candle for Minnesota

    My heart pounds. My eyes cry.
    I have grandchildren who expect to grow up in a safe world. They deserve that. We promise them that.

    But right now, in Minneapolis, that promise feels fragile—shaken by ongoing violence involving federal agents and civilians. In just the past few weeks, federal immigration agents have shot and killed at least two people during operations in the city, including a 37-year-old man in south Minneapolis this Saturday..

    These are agents supposedly sent to “keep the streets safe.”
    Yet people are dying on those streets.
    Homes surrounded. Doors broken in.
    Protests rising.
    Tear gas deployed.
    Tensions flaring.

    America is at war with itself.

    I see masked agents armed with weapons.
    I see people in the streets trying to protect their communities.
    I see Fear. Grief. Anger.

    How did we get here?
    What kind of anger drives people to strike before they listen?
    What hunger for power requires another’s suffering?

    And so I turn to the Monks’ Walk for Peace. I want to walk with them. Their message of compassion and love is where I find my calm. Still, I struggle. How does one remain compassionate now? How do I walk in quiet love yet insist on accountability for violence?

    I want peace returned to this country I love—
    not the absence of struggle,
    but the presence of justice, dignity, and safety for all.

    I want my grandchildren to grow up in a world where leaders protect life, not devalue it.
    Where disagreement does not turn into violence.
    Where service means safety for everyone, not fear for some.

    This feels like a turning point. Democracy itself is at stake. Republicans have the power to stop this right now, and I am pleading with them to do so—before our country is pushed further toward fascism.

    For now, I light a candle for Minnesota.
    And for our country.
    And I pray.

    Sweet land of liberty.
    Let freedom ring.

    Walk With The Monks – Walk For Peace

  • What Is It I’m Seeing?

    I watched bits of the news yesterday. It’s too overwhelming and chaotic to fully absorb. The list of crises is long and exhausting. Every single one demands my attention. They require my care. I pledge allegiance to the side I want to see prevail.

    Minneapolis has been a battleground for weeks now. Created by our president. Can you believe that? His soldiers—ICE agents—breaking down doors, slamming into cars, pulling people out of homes and streets, and tear-gassing others directly in the face with no regard for injury. Where does this level of vile anger come from? What fuels such deep-seated fear of other humans that it turns into a desire to destroy them?

    At the same time, I am trying to read The Book of Forgiving by Desmond Tutu and his daughter, Mpho. In it, I’m being asked to understand that no matter the act—or the depth of pain inflicted—you must seek forgiveness. I’ll be honest: I want to put conditions on that. But conditions aren’t part of these teachings. Conditions keep us bound inside the conflict. So somehow, I’m being asked to understand where the hatred comes from.

    The hate came from somewhere.

    Were these men raised in poverty? Taken advantage of by past government systems?
    Wait—are they feeling emasculated? Men deprived of strength, vigor, and control? Have we weakened men, made them feel less than? Stripped them of confidence, power, and authority?

    Bear with me.

    Last night, we watched A League of Their Own—a movie about women forming baseball teams while men were away fighting World War II. The women became good at baseball. Very good. But when the war ended and husbands returned, they were expected to go back home—to be housewives again.

    There’s a scene in a dance hall during a night away from the game. It reminded me of my mom. She grew up in a dance hall and loved the atmosphere. Loved to dance. Was good at it. But when she came of age, she married—because that, too, was her dream. Dancing was replaced by cooking, laundry, raising kids, and feeding chickens. Dance became something she only touched in rare, brief moments.

    She became angry.

    She spent her days screaming at a life she hadn’t wanted. Hated it. Took it out on her kids. The female version of emasculation—a microcosm of a larger system. She had wanted more.

    Fast forward.

    My generation took the reins. We called it feminism. We said we didn’t want to be controlled anymore. We wanted careers like men. Freedom to make choices about our lives, our bodies. We entered male-dominated spaces, became good at those roles, took their jobs—and then added insult to injury by demanding shared parenting, shared household labor, and sometimes asking men to become homemakers.

    Some men welcomed this shift. Others did not.

    “Get back in your place,” they screamed.

    My brother warned me once: “Don’t make more money than your husband. It will hurt his ego.”

    In Minneapolis, one woman blocked the path of an ICE agent. He ordered her out of her car. She said, “Hey dude, I’m not mad at you.” He screamed again, “Get out of the fucking car.” Then he drew his gun. As she tried to escape, he shot her three times. As he walked away, he called back, “Fucking bitch.”

    Emasculation?

    Our president wants to be seen as all-powerful. In control. Confident that people listen to him—and only him. He wants to be called strong. Dubbed the greatest peacemaker. Some people are feeding his ego. In return, he rewards them—funding projects, granting favors, letting them live in peace.

    So, Desmond Tutu—if forgiveness begins with understanding, I’m trying to do that part. But how do I take the next step? For me to forgive this hate-filled supremacy gripping our country right now, must I surrender my freedom? Would I need to relinquish my strength? Must I give up my power?

    Maybe forgiveness isn’t absolution or reconciliation. Maybe it looks more like refusing to become what I oppose. Maybe it means holding my ground—clear-eyed, steady, unwilling to excuse violence or cruelty—while still resisting the pull toward hatred myself. I need to seek to understand without surrendering my voice. I need to stay open without laying down my strength.

    If forgiveness is a journey, then today I am still walking. I am angry at times and grieving often. Yet, I am determined to stay human in a moment that keeps asking me not to be.

    As the Monks walk for Peace, I will walk too.