Tranquil Resources

Tag: Breathe

  • 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.

  • Pacific Ocean

    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.

  • Windows Wide Open

    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

    Click Below to Hear Poem As A Song

  • Road Trip For The Aging Hippie


    Exact replica of his hippy van

    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.

  • 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.

  • 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