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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
During the holidays,
light is everywhere—
twinkling on trees,
glowing in windows,
flickering in quiet corners of our homes.
And yet,
for many,
this season can still feel heavy.
The nights are long.
The days are full.
The heart carries more than it shows.
In moments like these,
we often look for something
bright enough
to fix everything at once.
But hope doesn’t arrive that way.
It comes softly.
It comes steadily.
It comes in small,
faithful ways.
In my song, Light A Candle, I wrote:
“Find a quiet moment.
Light a candle.
Watch it dance.
Invite the stillness.
Give your heart a chance.”
A candle does not banish the dark.
Its quiet glow steadies the room.
It reminds us that presence
matters more than perfection.
So this season,
if the holidays feel overwhelming,
don’t search for a brighter light.
Light the candle you already have.
Sit with it.
Let it be enough.
Even in the darkest nights of winter,
a gentle flame can guide us—
one breath, one moment at a time.
There are days
when the world
seems to move
faster than I can follow.
.
Lists multiply,
expectations
stack themselves
heavily on my shoulders,
and suddenly—
even without meaning to—
I find myself rushing
from one moment to the next.
But rushing
rarely
brings me
closer to peace.
If anything,
it pulls me
farther from the heart
of what matters.
So today,
I give myself permission
to pause.
Just for a minute.
Just long enough
to feel the ground beneath
my feet again.
I will close my eyes.
Take a slow breath in.
Imagine
gathering all the scattered pieces
of my attention
and bringing them home.
Then, on the exhale,
I’ll let the rush go—
like snow slipping softly from a branch.
Let it fall away.
The world will keep spinning.
My tasks will still be there.
But I will be different—
steadier, calmer,
anchored
in the quiet strength
that comes from choosing presence over pace.
Release the rush.
Return to yourself.
Winter teaches us the quiet art of simplicity.
When the world slows,
and the landscape softens
beneath a blanket of snow,
Distractions fade.
The branches, once full, now stand bare—
nothing extra, nothing hidden,
only what truly belongs.
In that stillness,
we see what remains
when all is stripped away:
shape, essence, truth.
It reminds us
that life
doesn’t need to be full
to be beautiful.
Sometimes,
the truest beauty
is found in the pause,
in the hush between moments.
Simplicity
doesn’t mean emptiness—
It means space.
Space for light to enter.
Space to rest.
Space to notice
what we might have missed
in the rush of other seasons.
So, when the world
feels quiet and still,
don’t rush to fill it.
Let winter’s silent beauty
speak softly to your soul.
There is peace in simplicity, and grace in the quiet things that remain.
This weekend, an episode of “Oregon Life”, a small town local channel featured us! It was part one of two, entitled “Poetry In The Pines. You know that feeling you get when you’re excited and nervous at the same time? That’s how we felt! But then, to our surprise, it turned out to be stunning. It was a representation of two old people finding beauty in each day.
Dr. Wayne Dyer called it
“Now I lay me down to sleep.”
My ritual goes like this:
Light a candle.
For a moment, watch the flame dance.
Then, name one thing that you can let go,
Imagine the flame carrying it away.
Blow the candle out.
Closure. The day is finished.
You are free to rest.
Even the smallest flame
can hold our burdens,
and remind us that
tomorrow will bring light again.
Listen to the song I created called “Light A Candle”.
