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
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.
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.
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.
