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  • 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.

  • Darkness Can Not Drive Out Darkness

    “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

    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

    Click Below to Hear Poem As A Song

  • Taking The Long Way

    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.

  • Road Trip For The Aging Hippie


    Exact replica of his hippy van

    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.

  • Serendipity (Press Play)

    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.

  • Choosing Peace Instead of Power

    There are days when the desire for peace feels almost naive.
    When the demands of our leaders sound louder, sharper,
    more determined to prove something
    through domination rather than understanding.

    Battles are waged
    — in words,
    in policies,
    in posture —
    and I find myself asking
    the same question again and again:

    For what purpose?

    Is it to show strength?
    To claim ground?
    To stand above rather than among?

    I don’t want to be part of that kind of power.

    I want to live among others,
    not on top of them.
    I want to breathe shared air,
    not take more than my share.
    I want a life that makes room
    — for difference,
    for dignity,
    for voices that don’t sound like my own.

    And yet, choosing peace
    when our leaders glorify conquest
    can feel like swimming against a current.
    It can feel isolating.
    It can feel misunderstood.

    There is pressure to harden,
    to pick sides loudly,
    to respond with the same force that unsettles us.

    But peace is not passive.
    It is deliberate.

    It takes strength to refuse domination.
    It takes courage to remain open
    when closing off would feel safer.
    It takes discipline to stay rooted in compassion
    when anger offers a faster release.

    Peace begins locally.
    I remind myself of this in the way I speak.
    It is also in the way I listen.
    I resist the urge to reduce others to obstacles or enemies.

    I cannot control the battles
    being fought beyond me.
    However, I can decide
    what kind of presence I bring into the world.

    So I choose to breathe.
    I choose to soften rather than strike.
    I choose to stand for dignity
    without standing on someone else.

    This is not weakness.
    It is alignment.

    And on days
    when the contradiction feels unbearable —
    when peace feels
    out of step with the world —
    I return to this truth:

    *To fight for the rights of others,
    * To stay humble,
    * To care deeply


    My contribution must be toward
    building bridges,
    lifting people up,
    sharing space rather than conquering it.

    I do not want to live in this world alone.

    Let’s be brave.
    Let’s be humane.
    We don’t need to shout,
    but we do need to stand up.