Tranquil Resources

Tag: mental-health

  • 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.

  • Morning Whisper

    Morning Whisper

    Rise early.
    Watch the sky
    color itself awake.

    Breathe in the mist
    of morning.

    Notice how birds
    take up so little space 

    Yet fill it
    with beautiful sounds.

    Gentle music.

    So easy to miss
    when thoughts
    crowd in

    where song belongs. 

  • 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

  • Everyday, Create Art

  • Keep Your Eyes On The Road

    Moving in between stories, 
    Trying to make one of our own.
    The headlines scream “Protest”
    While Monks Walk For Peace “Alone”.

    It’s hard to navigate the twists and turns
    Trying to stay centered on your own road.
    It’s hard to take in the day’s beauty
    While clutching on to the emotions you hold.

    Our life, my life 
    made up of so few precious days,
    I don’t want to be selfish now,
    But here’s what I’ve got to say.

    I’ll Walk For Peace 
    With every breath I take
    Every photo I share,
    Every poem I create.

    I’ll protest government overreach
    Though my activism legs are old and slow.
    So I protest by shining my little flicker of light
    Down this crazy, unrelenting, twisted road.

    We are a country 
    built from toil and mistakes.
    Our forefathers, far from perfect.
    So many lives have been lost along the way.

    But the message was always crystal clear:
    At least it was to me
    All of us are created equal. Remember?
    This is supposed to be the land of the free.

    Now, this poem may feel like a
    Twisting, turning mountain road 
    With blind corners to navigate.
    But know that I’m searching for beauty as I go.

    So my protest sign will read like a prayer:

    Keep your eyes focused on Peace.
    Steady as she goes.
    Because while you’re the one driving,
    You’re responsible for that piece of road.

  • 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.

  • 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.