I think my muse lives here
frittering around among the
bougainvillea
and
pelicans
and
rose hips
and
waves.
Dancing in colors
of
nightly sunsets.
Not at all interested
in
shades
of
gray.
My muse struggles
in places with
limited light.
But put her in
sunshine.
Hear her
squeal
with
delight.
So,I sit here watching.
My eyes filled
with her
glee.
Trying to write
fast enough
while she’s here
with me.
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness.
Only light can do that.
Hatred cannot drive out hatred.
Only love can do that.”
— Martin Luther King Jr. 1963
This quote feels especially appropriate today—especially this day.
We seem to be living in a time when darkness
is being answered with more darkness.
When outrage feels justified.
When anger travels faster than understanding.
And yet, Dr. King reminds us
that the tools we instinctively reach for
are not the ones that actually heal.
Light is quieter than darkness.
Love is slower than hatred.
Both require intention.
Choosing light does not mean ignoring injustice.
It does not mean silence or passivity.
It means refusing to let cruelty shape who we become.
It means responding with clarity instead of contempt,
courage instead of bitterness,
humanity instead of fear.
Love, in this sense,
is not sentimental.
It is disciplined.
It is brave.
It is the daily decision
to see one another
as more than a label,
more than an enemy.
On this
Martin Luther King Jr. Day,
may we remember
that progress comes
when ordinary people
choose to be bearers of light—
in their words,
their actions,
and their willingness
to stay human
in inhuman times.
Even now.
Especially now.
Windows wide open
Skies pure blue.
It’s January
And I’m doing winter
The way I want to do.
There will be walks
Sometimes on the beach
But among the flowers and butterflies
Within easy reach.
Windows wide open
Smell of citrus fills the air.
Back home the temperature plunges
But I don’t care
I’m not there.
Today, we check in
To the place we get to stay.
The road trip was fun
We saw so much along the way.
But I’m ready, now
To stop living in the car.
Wearing the same two outfits
Creating lunches with apple slices
And Granola bars.
Window wide open.
Miles traveled, time to think.
Freedom is not free these days.
Our country on the brink
But these two aging hippies
Protested plenty in our day.
Viet Nam and Women’s Rights
The length of hair and skirts.
Battling government and our parents
Demanding freedom till it hurt.
Windows wide open
So while we can still stand,
We’ll use our freedom
To cross over frozen land
Away from cold and frozen snow
Windows wide open
In the winter of our life
We’ll go to a place
Where flowers can grow
We’re taking the slow route to California from Wisconsin this year. We are joking a little about our former youth. Things are maybe a bit more challenging now (ahem).
Although we had tickets to fly, we just couldn’t do it. In the end, we canceled that plan and loaded up our senior-citizen version of a hippie van. Trust me, we brought everything.
Why didn’t we just fly? We could have crossed those miles in hours instead of days. But here’s the thing—before the drive begins, the journey already starts in our minds. Which route should we take? How far each day? And then the memories come rushing in.
“Remember the singing cowboy in Amarillo? Maybe we could stop there again. Do you think he’d sing The Yellow Rose of Texas?”
Remember the people at a hotel stop in Kansas who laughed at our mountain of luggage?
“Where’s the kitchen sink?” they chortled. Then we shared snowbird destinations. They were headed to Texas.
Remember the year we had to backtrack because of road conditions. We ended up in a cheap motel. It had a school-cafeteria-style restaurant serving home-cooked food on red Melmac plates. It was those plates that got us—and the first place Mark was ever called “Honey.” We’d made it to the South.
These are the stories we cherish. And there are so many more.
Serendipity. That’s what we’re calling this journey now—letting the road tell the story.
Every day, I write. Every day, I’ll share.
This country is filled with beauty you can’t see from the air. You have to drive through the farmland. There are places where cattle roam free. In others, they’re packed into spaces so small there’s barely room to breathe. You have to see the fields now. They carry solar panels and wind turbines. These are our human attempts to harness nature. They aim to feed an ever-growing appetite for electricity. And we’ll pass the stark contrasts — oil rigs and old farmyard windmills.
We’ll pass through bustling towns and others so small and worn you’re left wondering who lives here—and why. And then we make up stories. We fill that why space with moments we imagine they cherish: family traditions, legacies passed down.
And we keep driving. I create charcuterie boards on my lap while he drives. We watch the sun rise and set over changing landscapes and unfamiliar places. Always keeping our eyes peeled for that thing—the unexpected piece of art meant just for our imaginations.
Wait.
Stop.
Let’s take a picture of that.
What was it?
You’ll have to wait and see.
Oh, okay. I’ll show you one. We did find our singing cowboy.
Lyrics for my original song. Listen and follow along.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
