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.
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.
The Singing Cowboy sang The Yellow Rose of Texas again for us.
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.
Tranquil Resources 