Tranquil Resources

Tag: finding peace

  • Growing Beautifully Old

    There comes an age
    when we no longer envy
    the perfect bloom.

    We begin instead
    to admire the flower
    that weathered the wind,
    stood faithfully beneath
    days of scorching heat,
    and still turns its face
    to the light.

    Its petals curl now—
    Not in defeat
    but like old parchment,
    holding stories
    written about resilience.

    Perhaps
    growing older
    is simply practicing
    Forest Bathing—

    Walking slowly now.
    Letting each step
    be a conversation
    with time.

    Spending our later years
    moving gently
    through the blossoms.
    Discovering the best of them
    are the ones
    that learned how to grow old,

    trading brightness
    for character.
    No apologies.
    Just grace.

  • My Golden Anniversary

    Three years on the Third

    When I first looked out the window this morning, the lake had disappeared.

    Fog rested gently on the water while, to the east, the rising sun painted the sky with soft hints of rose. Rays of light slipped through the trees, but across the lake, the shoreline was impossible to see.

    Split realities.

    Light and fog.

    Certainty and uncertainty.

    Standing there with my coffee, I couldn’t help thinking how much that morning looked like life itself.

    Then I remembered.

    Today is my golden anniversary.

    Three years on the third.

    Three years alcohol-free.

    When people hear “three years,” they often imagine a dramatic turning point. Mine wasn’t dramatic at all. I began with a simple promise to myself.

    I had spent years wishing I could be the person who enjoyed one glass of wine before bed.

    I wasn’t her.

    One glass became another.

    Then another.

    Eventually, I stopped wishing I were someone else and accepted who I was and stopped drinking altogether.

    That acceptance changed everything.

    Not overnight.

    One day at a time.

    One sunrise at a time.

    Today, looking back, I don’t spend much time thinking about what I gave up.

    I think about what I gained.

    I gained mornings.

    I gained peace.

    I discovered that words were waiting for me before the rest of the world woke up.

    Over these past three years, those quiet mornings filled journals.

    Those journals became poems.

    Some poems became songs.

    Those songs found their way into books.

    Now, together with a friend, we have built Tranquil Resources — a place where photography, music, and words come together in hopes of helping someone else slow down, breathe, and notice beauty.

    One of the biggest surprises?

    I didn’t need alcohol to be creative.

    I had believed that for years.

    Instead, I found that creativity had been patiently waiting beneath the noise.

    When I stopped numbing my life, I started noticing it.

    I noticed baby ducks taking impossible steps.

    Morning fog drifting across the lake.

    The sound of sandhill cranes.

    The way sunlight filters through oak trees.

    The beauty had always been there.

    Now I was finally present enough to see it.

    As I stood looking out the window this morning, something else happened.

    The fog began to lift.

    Slowly, the shoreline appeared exactly where it had always been.

    It hadn’t disappeared.

    I simply couldn’t see it for a while.

    Maybe hope works that way.

    Maybe purpose does too.

    Maybe the life we’re searching for isn’t gone at all.

    Maybe it’s simply waiting beyond the fog until we’re ready to walk toward it.

    Three years ago, I promised myself I would choose life.

    Not perfection.

    Not certainty.

    Just the next right thing.

    Today, I’m healthier.

    Stronger.

    Far more hopeful.

    And perhaps for the first time in my life, I’m no longer afraid to let people see what I’ve created.

    that may be the greatest gift of these past three years.

    Not sobriety.

    Freedom.

    Freedom to write.

    Freedom to create.

    Freedom to become the person I was quietly meant to be all along.

    So today I’m celebrating out loud.

    Not because my journey is finished.

    But because this ordinary Monday morning reminded me how extraordinary an ordinary life can become.

    If you’re standing in your own fog today, wondering if the shoreline will ever come back into view, let me leave you with this:

    Keep walking.

    The light is already rising.

    You just may not be able to see the shore yet.

    Three years ago I made myself a promise.

    Today, I celebrate the life that promise made possible.

    For years, I believed I was not good enough. I don’t believe that anymore. Now I believe I’m just one brave step away from who I was always meant to become.


  • Before It Passes

    I write.

    Not because
    the world will remember,
    but because I might.

    A photograph.
    A few lines.
    A moment held
    before it slips away.

    The butterflies.

    The hummingbirds.

    The trees
    lifting their arms
    into morning sway.

    The wind,
    sometimes gentle,
    sometimes angry.

    Nature keeps 
    reminding me

    That beauty
    was never meant
    to last.

    Only to be noticed
    before it passed.

    I write
    wanting
    to make simple rhymes.

    Preserving
    moments.

    Trying
    for just a little while

    to hold
    time.

  • 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.

  • 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

  • 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.

  • Between The Tides

    Between the Tides

    Yesterday, we stood in protest.
    We stood because an attempted takeover of democracy—fueled by hatred and power over others—is not the country we want to be. It is not the story we choose to tell about ourselves.

    Today, the sky is hazy.
    The air feels heavy with questions that have no easy answers. Tension hums beneath everything, like a low, constant vibration.

    And I feel guilty.

    Guilty for sitting in a place where richness surrounds me—
    in flowers and birds,
    in air scented with eucalyptus and lavender and lemons,
    where people pass by with their dogs, simply going about their day.

    The ocean keeps its rhythm.
    Waves roll in, then pull back again.
    High tide. Low tide.
    A steady, ancient consistency in an otherwise tumultuous time.

    Across the country, a Peace March continues.
    A group of monks walking every day now passing through North Carolina, making their way toward Washington, DC,
    with a single intention: to spread the message of peace.

    Their march is not loud.
    They simply walk.

    And as they pass, crowds form—
    people drawn to their message.
    They offer the monks flowers and thank them for their presence.
    For their quiet courage of putting one foot in front of the other,
    day after day. It’s disorienting—this contrast between the beauty of the moment and the weight of the world. Between the urgency to resist and the quiet message of peace. But somehow both need to exist right now.

    It’s in all of these thoughts that my resolve is replenished.
    Where I remember what we are trying to protect.
    Not just systems and structures—but mornings like this, shared air, ordinary walks, the right to move freely and live gently.

    The monks walk.
    The tides turn.
    The work continues.

    Nothing stays fixed forever.
    And yet, some things endure.

    Today, I sit in the in-between—
    holding grief and gratitude, anger and awe,
    watching the waves,
    reminding myself, again, to believe that peace is not passive—
    it is practiced.

  • 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.