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.
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.
Do you have 10 minutes to pause? So don’t if it’s too much. But, if there are minutes to spare, listen to this episode from my attempt at a podcast.
Put in your earbuds. Close your eyes. Make it a meditation.
Find Our Book
My friend and I created a book filled with photography, poetry, and original songs linked with QR codes. This is a book sharing a meditative way to move from darkness to light after loss. Check it out.
There are days when the world seems to move faster than I can follow.
. Lists multiply, expectations stack themselves heavily on my shoulders,
and suddenly— even without meaning to— I find myself rushing from one moment to the next.
But rushing rarely brings me closer to peace.
If anything, it pulls me farther from the heart of what matters.
So today, I give myself permission to pause. Just for a minute.
Just long enough to feel the ground beneath my feet again. I will close my eyes. Take a slow breath in.
Imagine gathering all the scattered pieces of my attention and bringing them home.
Then, on the exhale, I’ll let the rush go— like snow slipping softly from a branch. Let it fall away.
The world will keep spinning. My tasks will still be there. But I will be different— steadier, calmer, anchored in the quiet strength that comes from choosing presence over pace.
Tranquil Resources 