One of my most requested songs is what audiences call The Windshield Wiper Song. The real title is Those Words We Said, written by one of my favorite songwriters, Kim Richey. I recorded it years ago with 3rd Time Lucky, a trio made up of Mickey, our drummer friend Gary, and me. People always remember one line: “Me and one good wiper blade up against the rain.”

It’s such a great line. Who hasn’t been there? I was just there on Friday night as I drove on I-70 in a rental car, loaded to the gills, with Dennis stretched out on a stack of pillows over guitars, clothes, and miscellaneous items we didn’t want to leave behind. My husband slept soundly next to me in the reclined passenger seat.

I can still pull an all-nighter behind the wheel when I have to. I don’t want to anymore. Getting eight hours of sleep is a priority these days, which means hitting the sack by nine p.m. at the latest. No more late-night gigs.

But what surprised me most wasn’t the storm or the lack of sleep. It was remembering that I had exactly what I needed.

I never thought to inspect the windshield wiper blades—or the wiper fluid—when we picked up the rental car. I didn’t think about either one until the GPS warned of a tornado watch and the first drops hit the windshield.

I turned on the wipers, and worn-out pieces of rubber flapped back and forth across the windshield. Did I mention it was 3:30 a.m.? When I pushed the knob to add a little wiper fluid, there wasn’t any.

As with everything, storms pass. Driving through them makes them pass a little faster.

Funny how often life works that way. We spend so much time wishing for perfect conditions or for things to be different, when what we already have is enough. One good windshield wiper. One cup of rest stop coffee. One good night’s sleep after a long drive. We already have what we need for the next mile.

Last night I slept eleven hours with no problem. Dennis did too. Apparently, he wasn’t sleeping as soundly as his upward-facing feet suggested. He must have had one eye open the whole time so he wouldn’t miss a chance to stretch his legs—or worse, get left behind at a rest stop.

I used to think catching up on sleep was like looking for the end of a rainbow, but as it turns out, there really is such a thing.

We even left our van more than a thousand miles away for a new transmission. But I know it’s in excellent hands and exactly where it needs to be.

As I drove along Interstate 70, life reminded me that what I need is most often what I already have.

Sometimes it shows up as one good windshield wiper.

Sometimes that’s enough.

You can hear our version of Those Words We Said below

Or listen on YouTube: Those Words We Said

Ahh, July.

Ripe tomatoes.

Thunderstorms.

Antlers in velvet.

Growing up in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, I was familiar with the impressive antlers of bull elk, moose, and buck deer covered in soft, fuzzy velvet. I still love a summer thunderstorm that suddenly seems to pop up out of nowhere. There’s one rumbling in the distance as I write this.

But it wasn’t until I moved to Tennessee that I discovered what a tomato is supposed to taste like—ripened on the vine, watered by the rain, warmed by the sun, juicy and so flavorful it doesn’t need anything else.

A new friend at Janes Island State Park in Maryland brought me a few of his homegrown tomatoes to enjoy under this full moon. Their rich flavor, in all its summer abundance, feels like the perfect way to celebrate a month that has been just as full—family and friends, crabbing, swimming, kayaking, s’mores around the campfire, and meals served on paper plates at picnic tables.

July reminds me not to “rush the hands of time” as I wrote in the song How to Make a Life. Just as a little sunshine and a little rain help a tiny seed grow, life is ripe with opportunities to slow down and savor the moment—a conversation, a smile, and a shared meal beneath a lingering sunset.

Every full moon, I like to gather the moments that have ripened throughout the month and offer a simple thank you for this wild and precious life.

Listen on Bandcamp 🎶 How to Make a Life

A month of Sundays—looking back over the moments that stayed

Happy Full Buck Moon. 🌕

August will be here soon enough, calling us back to calendars and schedules. Until then, may you savor these full, fleeting days of summer and all the little moments that make them memorable.

Trisha

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This week we played our first two gigs since March. When my husband injured his back, we made the difficult decision to step away from all our musical commitments, including our duo, Travelin’ Kind, so he could heal. I had no desire to perform or entertain solo—except maybe in the living room—and, truthfully, I needed the break too.

At first, I was a little untethered. Keeping the Travelin’ Kind machine rolling has consumed my days and nights for well over a decade, and in the past five years, it’s been a full-time operation.

With an open calendar, we decided we were long overdue for a catch-up with family and friends. We sold our PA system and all the excess gear we had accumulated to fund our trip and then took to the open road. We went to Louisiana, Iowa, and Pennsylvania. Our travels led us to the southern tip of Maryland, where opportunity waited for us to try something we’ve never done before: become camp hosts at a state park. As it turns out, we’re both pretty good at raking pine needles. Who knew?

I brought my acoustic guitar with me. It’s hard for me to leave home without it, because you never know when inspiration will strike. But instead of making set lists and practicing songs, I walked Dennis, rode my bike, and discovered what the newly opened space had to offer.

Movement was something my body was craving. I didn’t know it at the time, but my heart was too. Looking back, I can see I was carrying far more grief than I realized after losing my Mom in October. I tried to outrun it by staying busy, but thankfully, life had a way of sneaking in some checks and balances to steer me in the right direction. Mickey’s uncompromising back became the pause neither of us would have chosen—but both of us needed.

Creating an intentional break was scary at first. Usually, if a musician is not working, it’s called unemployment. I was afraid of losing everything we’d worked for, as if there were some musician retirement package waiting. There isn’t. I had convinced myself that if I weren’t constantly booking, promoting, and producing, I’d be left behind— forgotten. I confused making music with making a living.

What I eventually discovered is that there was nothing to lose. I was still at the heart of all those pursuits. My relationship with the music had simply been resting in the space between.

To play music again felt right. My guitar felt good in my hands. The bass I borrowed did too. My voice was still strong. My heart lit up when I sang songs I had written. I didn’t forget any chords or lyrics, at least not any more than I usually do. Everything was right where I left it, waiting for my return. By the third song, my husband was cracking a “family-friendly” joke about something I said, reminding me that our stage banter isn’t something you can rehearse. It’s just who we are.

From the outside, it may look the same, but everything has changed.

As I climb back into the saddle, I realize I’m on a different trail. When I was studying tai chi, I learned to ride the horse in the direction it’s already going—to move with it instead of trying to force it where I think it should go.

These past few months have been a practice in what that really means. Less obligation and more invitation. Less squeezing. More trust.

For the past three weeks, my paddleboard has been leaning against the back of the camper, inflated and ready to go. I could carry it to the water in a matter of minutes.

But I hesitate.

When I walk down to the water in the morning, I see an increasing number of jellyfish just beneath the surface. They’re tending to the business of survival, finding something to eat and trying not to be eaten themselves.

Of course, whenever the topic of swimming or paddling in the ocean comes up, a shark fin appears from out of nowhere. A couple of weeks ago, the small town of Crisfield even showed Jaws at an outdoor movie night on the waterfront. I never considered Jaws family entertainment, but I’m a bit behind the times when it comes to movie ratings.

I don’t like to give my mind any suggestions of things to think about when I get in the water, and sharks are one of them. But lately, an unassuming sea nettle, actually a lot of them, have kept me on dry ground.

I asked the ranger at the state park about them. He said there were two types commonly seen this time of year: a Moon Jelly, harmless because of its short tentacles, and a sea nettle, with an unmistakable sting. They roll in when the water warms up.

The name Sea Nettle should have been my first clue. In Tennessee, I used to forage the herb stinging nettle for tea, with gloves on, of course. It has wonderful healing properties.

A few days later, a fellow camper was sharing her day with me, and she told me her husband had been stung on the forearms by a jellyfish while pulling a crab pot into his kayak. I shared this with the ranger, and he said it got tangled in the rope and probably didn’t survive. He didn’t comment on the guy who got stung at all, just the bad fortune of the Sea Nettle.

So after observing them for several weeks, my curiosity finally got the best of me, and I paid a visit to the all-knowing Oz, who goes by AI these days. I wanted to know what gifts this creature brings to the world. I learned the moon jelly helps the oyster population by eating its tiny predator cousins. The nettles provide food for the sea turtles, and so the circle of life continues. That’s all I needed to know.

But was this knowledge enough to get me in the water? No. I don’t willingly subject myself to the possibility of being stung.

Even though I am quite confident on my paddle board and don’t plan on making any big splashes, I can’t say for certain. Although I doubt Jaws would be lurking in the shallow brackish waters of the marshes, there are a lot of other variables: dodging a greenhead fly, riding the wake of a passing boat, or a sudden gale. Plus, I don’t want to cause any injury to a sea nettle or a moon jelly with my paddle.

So I’ve been asking myself: Is it fear or wisdom? Earlier in the week I watched a three-year-old experience the beach, laughing as the waves knocked him off his feet. He wasn’t looking at what was under the surface. He was completely absorbed in the joy of the waves.

So maybe I will find a way to share the water with the jellies before we leave. Or maybe I’ll wait until they move on to different waters.

Fear can keep us from living fully, clouding our minds with endless what-ifs. But sometimes it’s simply asking us to pay attention. Not a contradiction, a gift.

Learning to read the tides of life.

While writing this morning, the song One Less Thing came to mind—a reminder that our minds are awfully good at inventing worst-case scenarios. If you’d like to hear it, it’s on Bandcamp.

Nature has a way of restoring perspective.

It reminds me that life has never revolved around my plans.

A few days ago, we took a short drive to Assateague Island, Maryland, a familiar destination over the years that holds many memories.

The last time we were here was two years ago. As I walked the beach with the cool Atlantic washing over my feet, I noticed the empty bench on the dunes. I have a picture of my mom sitting on that very bench two years ago. Amidst the stunning sky and ocean views, my heart ached from the memory.

I wrote the song While I Was Waiting in that same spot.

The salt air has a soothing effect. Even as I slept next to the open window in the van, each slight breeze washed over me like a cool blanket of comfort. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore lulled me to sleep.

I’ve lived on both coasts and watched the sun rise over the Atlantic and set over the Pacific and in the spaces in between, including deserts, mountains, and cornfields. No matter where you are on the earth, the sunsets and sunrises that frame each day and night are always spectacular.

I could go on and on about sunrises and sunsets, but this morning, I’m thinking about wild things. Remember the book Where the Wild Things Are? It’s still one of my favorites.

As human beings, we have an inner drive to tame things—to make them more like us. We want people and animals to think like us, behave like us, and believe like us. All in an effort to tame the unpredictable.

However, I’ve also learned that what first appears wild and unruly usually has something to teach me.

The gift isn’t in changing it, but in seeing it as it is.

When I was young, I would walk out to the field with a bucket of grain to catch horses. The sound of the bucket made them come running, and it could get out of control in a hurry. More than once, I tossed the bucket of grain and let them work it out themselves. One day, as I was walking back to the corral with the horses following me, one of them bit me in the back. There isn’t much skin on my back to grab, but that horse still left a grapefruit-sized bruise.

In all kinds of coexistence, there are bound to be some clashes. When I was walking Dennis through the campground at the oceanfront state park early the other morning, a yearling boldly approached us. We said a quick hello and kept walking. “Don’t make eye contact,” I whispered to Dennis. He must have instinctively known, because he didn’t.

Sometimes the greatest lessons come from watching and listening instead of trying to change what is whole. After all, I am ever the student in this school of life. Watch and learn.

When I lived on the family farm in Tennessee, I shared the land with two herds of wild horses who had been born there and never touched by human hands. Each herd had a ruling stallion, and every year their leadership was tested by a younger stallion. When these herds challenged each other, they would run up the quarter-mile stretch of the hollow at full speed to meet the other herd. You could hear them coming before they came into sight. You could even feel the vibration on the ground. It was spectacular to witness and brought chills and awe at the power of nature in the wild.

A friend recently responded to an email regarding the violent storms that have been hammering the Lake of the Ozarks. She said, “The weather zigs, and we zag.” Her words made me smile.

Yes, sometimes life zigs.

We zag.

Wild things don’t need fixing. They simply need to be respected.

Waiting, watching, feeling, believing. Every day we have the opportunity to see the world with love, gratitude, and awe, and leave enough room for wild things to be exactly what they were created to be.

Come along for the journey. I’d be honored to meet you in your inbox each week.

Today, my grandson turns seven.

A month after I turned seven, I started second grade at Los Cerritos Elementary School in Tustin, California. My teacher was Ms. Spivey. I loved school, soaking it all up like a sponge. The world was full of possibility and wonder.

Now, I get to watch another seven-year-old discover the world. Being a grandparent is pure joy. I guess that’s why they call it “grand.” It's a chance to experience the wonder of childhood all over again, only this time without feeling like you have to get everything right.

When I was raising my own kids, I tried so hard. I wanted them to have every experience I thought would help them grow. I didn’t want them to miss out on anything.

The thing is, when we’re raising kids, we don’t have it all figured out. We are young ourselves, making it up as we go along—trying to make ends meet, get them to practices and meetings, help them with science fair projects and 4-H record books.

Sometimes I wonder if I could have relaxed a little more.

My mom wasn't much different. She always found a way to scrape together the money so we could do all the things our friends were doing—skiing, band, 4-H, cheerleading, and whatever else caught our imagination.

I’ve come to understand that every season of parenting has its own gifts. I loved being a mom, and now getting to be a grandparent feels like a reward. The best part is that I get to simply enjoy my grandchildren, while their parents are in the trenches doing all the hard work daily life requires—keeping schedules, buying groceries, team uniforms, school supplies, and figuring out homework assignments.

If I could wish anything for my grandkids, it would be to stay curious. To be kind. To dream big. And to know they are loved no matter what.

Years ago, I wrote these words. They're still what I hope for every child.

When I came for a visit a couple of months ago, my grandson said he wanted to be a builder like his dad. That made me smile. Children naturally want to be like the people they admire most. So I sent him a LEGO ship. Building a boat seemed like a pretty good place to start, especially one that actually floats.

As I was writing this, I remembered a spring break we shared in Fort Worth. Coming from the Colorado mountains, where winter still had a firm grip, the kids and their parents were all dreaming of sunshine and swimming pools. But the weather had other plans. Typical spring.

There was a glorious day of sunshine before the storms rolled in and the temperatures dropped. It reminded me of the spring breaks we took when I was growing up. We always headed to California expecting warm, sunny beaches and hoping to come home with a great tan. It rarely worked out that way.

That Texas trip inspired me to write Spring Break Blues.

I love this photo of my grandson because his face says it all. He was disappointed that spring break wasn’t turning out the way he’d imagined. We’ve all felt that way.

I hope he learns early that life is full of sunny days and stormy ones. Things don’t always go according to plan, but somehow they have a way of working out. The sun comes back. Smiles return. Today’s disappointment becomes tomorrow’s story.

If all goes according to plan, this August we’ll climb aboard the Pirate Ship at Lake of the Ozarks. I can’t wait. Who knows what the weather will do. Either way, I know we’ll come home with another great story.

Happy seventh birthday! You have so much to look forward to.

Hello,

As another full moon comes and goes, I’m grateful for another month of gathering small moments. Paying attention to what keeps circling back to me—beauty, stories, music, new places, and the people walking this earth alongside me.

From boat rides, bike rides, long walks, and lots of raking, there has been a lot of movement, which my body is thanking me for.

There’s something deeply satisfying about preparing a place for someone else. I’ve always loved doing that at home, but I never thought about it at a campsite until now. As camp hosts, my husband and I clean out firepits and rake the gravel so it looks like no one has been there. Mickey has even created a signature sweep with the rake, leaving tracks in the shape of a circle around the firepit. 😁

We’ve also picked up some tips about where to find the best clams and the biggest crabs. Yesterday, a camper dropped off some fresh oysters for him to enjoy.

For me, I’ve found my eight-layer slice of heaven in a Smith Island chocolate cake with white buttercream frosting that transported me back to my favorite childhood birthday cake. The cakes date back to the 1800’s, when women on the island would send them with their husbands on the autumn oyster harvest.

The things I gather along the way are all connected, a perpetual web woven from the things I love. I don’t always know where they’re leading, but I’m learning to trust the thread. It always seems to lead me to the beauty that’s been there all along.

Listen on Bandcamp 🎶 It’s About A Place

A month of Sundays—looking back over the moments that stayed

As another full moon rises, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for reading, for sharing this journey with me, and for making this little corner of the world feel like a community. If you’d like to support my writing and help me continue telling these stories each week, you’re warmly invited to become a paid subscriber. Whether you read quietly from afar or choose to support this work, I’m grateful you’re here.

Happy Strawberry Moon. 🌕

Trisha

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Earlier this week, while we were exploring the small town of Crisfield, Maryland, turning over rocks to see what we could find, my husband and I found ourselves at the city dock where three boats were being loaded with supplies. I approached the biggest boat, the Courtney Thomas, and asked the man leaning against the rail if this was the mail boat to Tangier Island. “Yes, it is,” he said.

We had read about the mail boat in the book Chesapeake Requiem. I asked if we could ride along, and he said, “Sure.” He told us the boat leaves every day at 12:30 p.m., except for Sundays, and for $35 per person, we could squeeze in between the boxes or take a seat in the passenger cabin below. We introduced ourselves. He said his name was James. I could see the wheels turning in Mickey’s head when he asked, “Are you Oo…?” James finished Mickey’s sentence with, “Yes, Ooker is my nickname.”

Mickey said, “You are in the book we are reading.” Ooker knew the book. He also told us about a documentary he is featured in called “Be Here, Stay Here.”

We almost got on the boat right then, but since we had already been bumming around town for a few hours, we decided to make a fresh start on Wednesday.

We got there early and watched trucks back in, one after the other, with plywood, 2 x 4s, bags of concrete, cases of water, a child’s bicycle, and finally a U.S. Postal Service truck stacked with Amazon boxes. It felt like Christmas.

The last truck to unload was full of produce. One by one, they loaded watermelons and cantaloupes onto a raised portion of the bridge deck. A local woman inquired about buying one of the small watermelons, and the produce man said they were nine dollars each. She passed.

We found a place to sit on the foredeck, leaning our backs against the captain’s helm—a first-class seat if there ever was one—and at 12:30 on the minute, we pulled away from the dock.

The boat easily bounced along the waves with the helm providing just enough shelter from the wind. After losing more than one hat off the side of a boat, I took it off and held on to it.

When Tangier Island came into view, the first thing I noticed was the church steeple, a landmark that had guided many a sailor into the cove.

As we got closer, the crab shanties began to come into view with docks in various states of disrepair, weathered and beaten from the relentless pounding of gale-force winds and water.

Our captain masterfully parked the boat in a place that didn’t look deep enough or wide enough for a skiff. We climbed off the boat and made our way through a maze of golf carts with islanders anxiously awaiting their packages.

We had no idea where to go, so we walked down a narrow street until we saw a sign for Lorrainne’s Seafood with an open sign in the window.

We had two and a half hours until we could catch a ride back with another boat making a daily run to Crisfield. There were no signs for the “City Dock,” but a man who had missed the boat before assured us that he was at the right dock. Speaking from experience, he said, “You don’t want to miss the boat.” Mickey ran over to the first dock, where a couple of women were sitting on cinderblocks, to let them know they needed to come to the other dock.

The man proved to be right, as the Elizabeth Joy II pulled up to the dock five minutes before 4 p.m. It was already loaded with bushels of crabs and boxes of oysters harvested that day. We climbed into the boat along with a handful of others and sat on a bench. There were also a few patio chairs stacked up if you could find a place to put one.

That was basically the itinerary for the whole visit—wandering down narrow streets, reading a couple of historical markers, and looking at homes, churches, old boats gone ashore, and lots of headstones. I think it is safe to say there are more dead residents on the island than living.

I love to walk through neighborhoods of all kinds. People’s homes are an outward expression of themselves, the paint colors, the flowers, and the entrance. If you came up to my front door, you would find out a whole lot about me by just taking a look around.

But on Tangier Island, I almost felt like I was intruding—a stranger walking their roads, peering into their lives as if they were part of a museum exhibit. It reminded me of people I met in Guatemala after mudslides and earthquakes destroyed their homes. They didn't talk about leaving. They picked up the pieces and rebuilt the life they'd always known.

The future has always been uncertain, and Tangier Island is no exception. Many scientists believe much of Tangier Island could become uninhabitable within the coming decades because of erosion, sea-level rise, and sinking land.

Moment by moment, they are living their lives—getting up early, harvesting crabs and oysters, raising families, and teaching a new generation how to navigate a boat on the Chesapeake Bay and beyond.

Years ago, after a house concert in Pennsylvania, a friend challenged me. “Everyone writes songs about people who leave. I want you to write a song about someone who stays.”

I did.

Bumping across the Chesapeake that afternoon, I realized I’d been writing about the people of Tangier Island long before I ever set foot there.

There are always those who leave and those who stay.

A few miles out, Captain Allen Parks told his twelve-year-old son Jacob to take the wheel of the Elizabeth Joy II. Elizabeth is Allen’s wife’s name, and Joy is his mother’s name. Jacob is learning the family business. As it turns out, that night I found another short video, Tangier Island: The Heart of the Chesapeake," that just happened to have interviews with Allen and Jacob. One minute I’m watching them on the boat, and the next on YouTube. Synchronicity.

The best reason to take a trip out to Tangier Island is to eat lunch. Hands down, it was the best and freshest crab cake sandwich I’ve ever had, served on plain bread with chips—no frills. For all I know, the waterman who brought in the morning’s catch was sitting at the corner table. Mickey had the softshell crab. He agrees.

Tangier Island reminded me that the richest places aren’t always the ones with the biggest attractions. They’re the places where people are still living the only life they’ve ever known—a home that isn’t simply where they live, but where they’ve chosen to stay.

But there is still one claim to fame that deserves to go down in history.

Congratulations! You did it! The World’s Best Crab Cake Sandwich!

Since it’s Father’s Day and the Summer Solstice, I thought I would honor both in today’s post with something old, a story about my dad, and something new, an excerpt from a chapter in the book that is slowly coming into being.

I think the title is What a Song Knows, but it might be something different.

The chapter is called Cowgirl Dreams and Cowboy Fathers. Here is what it looks like today.

Cowgirl Dreams and Cowboy Fathers
Worlds apart aren’t as far as they seem.

My heroes have always been cowboys, which is why it made perfect sense that I wanted to grow up to be a cowgirl. Not a cowboy sweetheart—a cowgirl. A riding, roping, singing cowgirl.

This dream started to take shape in fourth grade, when we moved away from the concrete sidewalks of the California suburbs to the sagebrush trails of the Colorado mountains. One of the first things my mom did, before she even had a job, was buy us all horses. Before my California tan had faded, I had a new pair of cowboy boots, a pearl snap western shirt, and a horse named Big Red. The only thing I was missing was a belt with my name written on the back. That would come later. I’m sure there must have been a cowgirl-sized ten-gallon hat written on my wish list of essential accessories as well.

But let’s not put the cowgirl before the horse. In this little girl’s dream, the horse came first. I learned about the legendary pony "Wildfire" in a song. That’s when I first knew I wanted to be a cowgirl with fancy boots and a real pony.

My cowgirl dreams waxed and waned with time. I learned to rope and ride, to pull the flank on a bucking bronc, ride a cloverleaf pattern, and eventually ended up a cowboy sweetheart to a rodeo cowboy. I guess it was part of the cowgirl package I signed up for when I was nine.

But I couldn’t hold my own in the arena next to the real cowgirls, mostly because I didn’t want to ride that pony fast. I wanted to take the scenic route—the one with birds, rocks, and cliff-top overlooks. So instead, I found something else to do during the long days spent at the arena; I became a rodeo secretary. The boot fit, so to speak. I literally had a bird’s eye view of all the action from the crow’s nest, which is what they call the rodeo office, a small shed perched above the bucking chutes. I got to watch my sons, nieces, and nephews compete. Plus, I was able to spend some quality time with the horses after the rodeo–a win-win, for this cowgirl wannabe.

My dad was a cowboy. At least that's what I believed when I saw a photograph. He was wearing a cowboy hat and boots with “Love to Patricia, From Dad” written across the front in black marker, a smiley face inside the capital D. I don’t have a photo of the two of us together. My parents divorced before I started kindergarten, and my mom moved her three girls more than two thousand miles away. Still, I gathered enough pieces—photographs, stories, and songs—to imagine what a cowboy father might have been.

Much of this information came from my grandmother, a Good Sam card-carrying, motorhome-traveling, opinionated, silver-haired boss lady. She kept in touch with my dad and made several trips to see him. When she came back, she always brought me a few things—pieces of his mother’s pewter and china, old, tiny, leather-bound grammar books, ones made to be held by small hands, and photographs. In another well-worn photograph, he’s sitting tall in the saddle on an equally tall horse, seventeen hands tall. It was all the proof I needed to believe he was a real cowboy.

I saved these pictures and keepsakes, knowing that someday, they would help complete the jigsaw puzzle of my father.

Over the years, I gathered more evidence to support my cowboy father theory. The fact that my mom was offered a teaching job in a small Colorado mountain town smack dab in the middle of my dad’s old stomping grounds wasn’t lost on me. It didn’t take long before a few old cowboys connected the dots of my last name and couldn’t wait to tell me a tall tale or two about my legendary father to a captive audience of one. 

I heard about the time he skied down a snow-covered highway for miles, slaloming off of snowbanks while being pulled by a rope attached to the bumper of a pickup truck. I learned about the small herd of cattle he purchased and branded with his own Flying B branding iron. They would tell these stories with a twinkle in their eyes and a smile, reliving some of the best good old days they’d ever had.

Somewhere along the way, I decided that if my father were a true cowboy, it would make him proud if his daughter followed in his muddy boot prints. Looking back, I can see that my dad had a lot to do with my cowgirl dreams. After all, most of what I knew about him came through stories, songs, and photographs.

My inheritance didn’t come in diamonds or gold. It came in the form of a song. His favorite song was "Mama’s Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys." I sang it at his memorial. That was the dad I knew. The one who wore faded Levi’s and drove an old pickup truck. Through a song, I found a way to get to know him.

I’ve heard it said that a father-daughter bond is a blueprint for the future. For a long time, I told myself it didn’t matter that he wasn’t around. I knew who he was through a song, and I was okay with that.

By the time I got the chance to know him, unbeknownst to me, we were about out of time. I was making frequent trips from Colorado to Nashville to write songs and attend workshops. I sent him an email to let him know I would be coming to Tennessee, and that I had time on Tuesday to get together. I never heard back. When the day came, a friend generously offered me his car, and I made the two-hour drive to Fayetteville, Tennessee. When I pulled off the highway onto the dirt road that led to his farm, he was standing at the gate waiting. Earlier that morning, I had wavered on whether I would follow through with the visit. When I saw him standing there, I wondered how long he would have waited.

Whether he meant to or not, he gave me a song—just like the song said he would. I wrote "Perfect Strangers" after that visit. I’m told he listened to it on repeat through his computer speakers.

I’ve had years to think about what I would say
When I met you face-to-face
But now those words have faded away

Time doesn’t wait, didn’t save my place
It’s here, and now I see that fate has made no mistake
You close the gate, and I drive away

—Perfect Strangers

Even when I didn’t know what to say, I could find words through a song. Two years later, on a hot July evening, I was sitting in the backyard of my rental home in East Nashville, Tennessee, watching the storm clouds roll in, when I checked my voicemail and heard my stepmom telling me that Dad had passed. The first words that came to mind were, “I’ll bet he’s skiing right now,” which became the song "Christmas in July."

I’ll bet he’s skiing right now.
Cold air blowing up the back of his jacket
Flying fast down the side of some mountain
In his leather gloves and his cowboy hat

True to the song, he didn’t leave me rich. But I did get his long fingers, slender build, and boisterous laugh. My younger sister got his blue eyes.

And what became of Wildfire?  Well, my dad doesn’t get all the credit for my cowgirl dreams. Wildfire is still alive and well in the nine-year-old girl in my heart. Every time I hear a hoot owl, I think of Wildfire— coming for me so we can go and go.

I might end up riding into the sunset after all, as real cowgirls do. And if that happens, you can be sure that I’ll be wearing my boots—and singing a cowgirl song.

The Summer Solstice marks the longest day of the year. It reminds me that light has a way of lingering, as do stories and songs.

Life has suddenly shifted down into a slower gear. Instead of holding a bass guitar in my hands, I’m using a rake and a broom to make things look pretty.

It’s a pivot into something unknown, different, and filled with wonder.

My husband and I volunteered to be Camp Hosts at Janes Island State Park in Crisfield, Maryland. It just so happens that this relatively hidden gem on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay is also known as the “Crab Capital.” I’m pretty sure my husband secretly manifested this in his dreams.

On a typical day, we meet up at the Ranger office to get a list of all the sites with campers leaving and the new ones coming in. We split up the sites with the other hosts, then jump in a John Deere mule and get them ready for new guests.

I’m enjoying putting out the welcome mat for others to take a break from their busy lives and enjoy the bountiful gifts of Mother Earth amidst towering Loblolly Pines and water that soothes the soul.

Yesterday, we ventured out into the inland marshes of the Tangier Sound on the Chesapeake Bay, with Debbie seated between us in the canoe. The water was relatively calm, other than the wakes of a few passing boats and a slight headwind. We made it there and back with nothing more than a few sore muscles to show for it. Although they didn’t find any clams, it was still a lovely way to spend the afternoon.

You would think that after two decades of working together on stage, in the studio, building amps, and various other projects, my husband and I would seamlessly know how to work together, especially when paddling a canoe. But there’s just no way to get around it; we think differently.

For example, when rowing a boat, I think there should be a pause now and then to take in the scenery. But all I heard yesterday was “Don’t stop rowing…[ever].”

This isn’t the first time we’ve attempted to navigate a canoe together. The last time was down the beautiful Jack’s Fork River in Missouri.

Here’s how it went.

Our voyage began on a lazy river with a slow-moving current. We navigated around a few logs and low-hanging branches without any trouble. As the water began to move a little faster, Mickey sat in the back of the canoe, barking orders on what I should do with my paddle—I had a few ideas of my own. As we came around a bend, some kids were playing in the water, and our canoe was headed straight for them.

A boy, maybe about 12 years old, turned around just in time to see us coming, barely escaping the impending shipwreck. He grabbed the front of the canoe and pushed it back into the river. The current quickly pulled us downstream, backward.

To avoid getting clotheslined by a low-hanging branch, Mickey reached up and grabbed hold of the branch. When he did, the canoe flipped over.

Yesterday’s outing wasn’t nearly as dramatic, but still, I’ve concluded that separate boats might be the key to a lasting marriage.

The campground sits along a canal where I can wave to passing boaters from Adirondack chairs spaced out along the water’s edge. From our campsite, I watch children riding their bikes round and round the loops, pulling each other over by mimicking siren sounds with their mouths—trying adult life on for size.

I love being part of the welcoming committee. We offer a clean fire-pit and a groomed site. It’s kind of like Motel 6 leaving the light on, but without the light. After all, this campground is working on becoming certified as an International Dark Sky Park. I recently learned that almost eighty percent of the world’s population lives under sky glow, where artificial lights create an aura. I also know that light pollution can negatively impact wildlife, especially the fireflies, as well as human health.

My biggest concern about this gig was the bugs. We are in the marshlands of the bay. It’s their turf. Thankfully I’m learning a few things, such as what to wear that won’t make me quite as enticing. Deer flies are attracted to dark colors. I do find it amusing that the Camp Hosts are provided with dark brown vests and a dark brown ball cap. Hmmm. Maybe it’s an inside joke.

Today, the winds came to keep the bugs at bay. I’ll admit, sometimes it’s hard to find good things to say about the wind, but today, I’m singing its praises. Early this morning, I sat in the “Best Seat in the Park.” The song Sitting on the Dock of the Bay came and joined me. We sang, and watched a few fish jump, while the tide rolled away.

I’m glad the speed limit is only six miles per hour here. That feels about right.

One of my favorite things about a road trip is the pre-dawn starts, where an hour or two into the drive, the sun begins to rise. The sunrise is a spectacular event every day, but there’s something about driving towards the sun that feels like an intentional, much-anticipated rendezvous—an exciting open-armed reunion with an embrace and a “Hello again, my friend! What shall we do with this brand new day?”

This morning finds me in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, Mickey’s hometown. Our home on wheels is set up in a friend’s driveway—surrounded by big trees, and thirty-eight acres of lush fields and rolling hills, everything freshly watered by a passing thunderstorm last night.

Windshield time is therapeutic, especially from the passenger seat. Usually, I carry my weight with the driving responsibilities. But, since I have been recovering from a nasty virus I picked up a couple of weeks ago, I had an excused absence from my turn behind the wheel.

Travel is always an adventure, like walking on a high wire without a safety net—anything can happen. A big world of fast-moving eighteen-wheelers, surprise potholes, and road construction lane changes, which confuse the GPS.

So far, on this trip, as we were somewhere between Terre Haute and Indianapolis, the van started complaining. Now, in all honesty, I have spent my entire life traveling the two-lane highways on a wing and a prayer, if you will. A wagon train kind of adventure—older model, road-worn vehicles, with a tool-box within reach. I’ve been broke down in Florida, California, Oklahoma, Alabama, Tennessee, Missouri, Wyoming, Colorado—okay, pretty much every state I’ve ever been in. And in those times, I have met some amazing, kind-hearted people.

Exploring isn’t without a few bumps in the road—just ask Lewis and Clark. Life is risky business.

I’m always entertained by the fragments of songs that want to ride along.

These songs show up with a sense of humor, reassuring me that I am not alone. So as we were sputtering our way to Indianapolis and the Bottle Rockets song Indianapolis started playing in my mind, I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t really want to hear that song because you know, ‘the power of suggestion’, but it was there just the same.

As it turned out, the van just wanted off the interstate. So we headed a mile or so south and hung a left onto a trusty old Highway 40, which has seen many a traveler to their destination. There were no potholes, lots of beautiful scenery and old houses, and a lovely roadside restaurant with homemade potato salad and peanut-butter pie. As we sat on the outdoor patio that overlooked a small lake, I watched three different varieties of turtles pop their heads up and climb on the bank for a midday snack.

Although it was a much slower route, the van was happy, and a happy van is a happy life.

We found our way back to I-70 on the Ohio border, where it was smooth traveling again. Sorry, Indiana, we won’t be coming back this way again; lesson learned.

We typically don’t listen to music while we’re driving. For one reason, Mickey is always in an ongoing conversation with the van. They talk about things like the transmission, the oil pressure, and various hisses and whistles. Occasionally, he’ll ask me for some input: “Do you hear that?” To which I usually answer, “What?”

This is alright by me. I’m usually in my own conversation with song anyway—my mystery companion that joined the wagon train a while back. I talk about this phenomenon in the book that is working its way into existence. Here’s what I wrote:

Who is this mystery companion that comes from out of nowhere? How does it know when to show up? How does it know what my heart is feeling? Is it word association? Nostalgia? When I’m driving across Kansas and see the signs for Topeka, I subconsciously start humming Loretta Lynn’s One’s On The Way.

How does that happen? And what does this particular song want with me? Is it just hanging out on the outskirts of Topeka, waiting to hitch a ride? Do we have mutual friends?

As it turns out, we do.

The song was written by Shel Silverstein, poet, raconteur, and author of many children’s books. Shel used to come into a place called the Gold Rush in Nashville and order a drink from my friends Jack and Kyle, who were bartenders there back in the day. Although I never met Shel in person, I feel as if I know him through these stories and songs.

Although I spend much of my time without music playing, I’ll never tire of the companionship of a song. It comes and goes, whether or not I have a Bluetooth speaker turned on.

Songs speak not just of where we came from, but of how we go forward—companions walking beside us offering easy conversation and gentle guidance for the road ahead.

Earlier this week, I read that everyone is going through something, and that those somethings are all over the place. But in every “something,” there is a detour where the meaningful moments happen—moments that come with a little peanut-butter pie, a song, and sometimes even a turtle.

Hello again!

Today is the second full moon in one calendar month—a rare occurrence known as a blue moon. It also happens to be a Sunday, which is when I put out my weekly musing called My Sunday Best. It is also the last day of May.

I came upon the realization this morning, at four a.m., that all my ducks seem to have lined up in a row to pause and take in the wonder of this life, illuminated under a blue moon.

Between the two, there have been plenty of miles traveled and milestones celebrated.

For my grandkids, school’s out for the summer. I was lucky enough to be there for my oldest grandson’s last steps off the bus as a first grader. We celebrated for several days with ice cream, a movie, and lots of great conversations. He even schooled me—and his younger brother—on the finer points of basketball. It must have been fairly obvious that we needed some instruction.🏀

When the basketball got stuck in the hoop, I went looking for a long stick. Meanwhile, he took off his shoes and started throwing them at the hoop. It only took a few tosses before the ball—and both shoes—came back to earth.

Another source of joy has been watching my wildflowers bloom. They remind me that I, too, am in a constant state of unfolding. The more I pay attention, the more I notice the same truths expressed everywhere—in relationships, in the seasons of life, and in nature.

As above, so below. As within, so without. What’s blooming around us often mirrors what’s quietly blooming within us.

As I look around, I feel a sense of comfort in knowing that we are all doing life together, taking our best shot at leaving things a little better than they were, simply by being who we are, whether that’s a wildflower, a first-grade graduate with a basketball, or the one listening.

This month has been a reminder of the things that matter most to me: simplicity, nature, connection, and community—and following the thread of aliveness, wherever that may lead.

A Boy Named Jack

A month of Sundays—looking back over the moments that stayed with me and found their way into my weekly posts.

As this month comes to a close, a small note of gratitude: thank you for reading and for being part of this little corner of the world. If you would like to support this writing and help me continue showing up here each week, you’re warmly invited to become a paying subscriber. I’m grateful for your presence, whatever form it takes.

Happy blue moon 🌕

Trisha

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On my way to Iowa this past week, I listened to Anne Lamott’s Somehow: Thoughts on Love. I’ve read several books by Anne, but I absolutely love listening to her read her books to me. It’s like she’s riding in the passenger seat. I laugh out loud, smile, and nod my head in agreement as she and I drive down the highway.

In the book, she talks about a go-to practice she refers to as “a launch code when under attack.” It goes like this:

• Make a gratitude list

• Do my chores

• Be kind to myself

• Be of service

• Get outside

• Breathe

Here’s my take of an everyday kind of launch code.

Make a Gratitude List

This is easy. It’s how I start every day.

It almost always starts with the obvious, the little things that bring me joy: a cup of coffee, the sunrise, flowers, and birds.

This morning, after I got my cup of coffee and took the dogs outside, I came in to write. Since I never know what I’m going to write, I always start with a list of gratitudes. It’s the easiest way to get the words flowing because I don’t have to think. I just have to notice.

• Coffee that tastes especially good.

• The quietness of early morning.

• Cool air and dew on the grass.

• The colors of the sky last night when the sun dropped below the horizon.

• My two grandsons, each sleeping on a loveseat in the living room.

• A blank slate full of possibilities.

If you went through my journal, you would see that most days start with the same items: good coffee, still mornings, amazing sunrises, and love for the human beings and animals next to me.

Although I could probably just copy and paste, I don’t. For one thing, these lists are handwritten. And even though it may look like I’m repeating myself, no two mornings are the same.

Do My Chores

This is easy too.

It’s just basic survival skills: make the coffee, make breakfast, wash the dishes, start the laundry, check Dennis’s water bowl, etc.

There’s something comforting about chores. They anchor me in the present moment and remind me that life is made up of small acts repeated over and over again.

Be Kind to Myself

In Anne’s list, this is where chocolate comes in.

For me, it will probably be a hot fudge sundae from the ice cream shop down the street. Or soaking in lavender-infused bathwater.

I was only able to accomplish the bathtub part with the help of my six-and-a-half-year-old grandson, who patiently showed me how to turn on the faucet. I had already spent at least ten minutes trying to figure it out myself.

Being kind to myself also looks like spending time with two inspiring, loving, and brilliant little people.

Be of Service

This is where Trisha’s Handywoman Services comes in. My daughter-in-law, among her many talents, is an exceptional list maker—a quality I deeply admire. Whenever I come for a visit, I don’t have to wonder how I can help; it’s written on a list on the side of the refrigerator.

I know the list isn’t meant for me, but it’s in plain sight, so I figure it’s fair game.

Plus, there are things on that list that I can do.

So, while my son and daughter-in-law have entrusted me with the care of their two boys, their dog, and their recently purchased home for a few days, I have done exactly what they said to do: make myself at home.

For me, that means tackling a few projects.

As I mentioned earlier, I can do stuff.

One item on the list was: remove kitchen overhead cabinets.

I knew what this meant because my daughter-in-law had shared a few of her house renovation ideas before they left.

For the first two days, I stared at the cabinets and wondered whether this was something I could do without causing any damage.

Eventually, curiosity and confidence won out. After all, I’ve spent much of my life as a carpenter’s assistant.

Check.

Get Outside

The past few days, getting outside has meant playing basketball.

I’ve never been particularly good with a ball. Thankfully, my grandsons are forgiving when it comes to my dribbling and shooting skills, or lack thereof. So far, they haven’t called me out yet for traveling.

Maybe it’s a grandma thing, but all of my grandkids have exceptional ball-handling skills. The follow-through is something coaches have talked about all my life—whether it’s a ball or a rope. They have it. Me? Not quite.

We also spent time walking the neighborhood, learning our way around this new town. Along the way, we discovered fresh eggs for sale—just a block away, stored in a cooler, and priced at three dollars a dozen. We also found ball fields, perfect for an impromptu game with a real pitching mound and bases.

And, perhaps most importantly, we located the library.

Everyone should always know where the nearest library is.

Breathe

Breath and movement are by-products of getting outside.

This week, that included jumping on the trampoline while a hose sprayer shot water up from underneath, and running back and forth on the basketball court.

The breath comes without effort when joy is involved.

Thanks to Anne, I have somewhat of a plan for today.

But first, we’re going to buy a basketball, which must have gotten lost in one of the past two moves.

Then off to a movie, which falls under being kind to ourselves.

My grandson already said, “Since it’s summer vacation, can I get a Pepsi at the movie?”

Done.

Sometimes a launch code is simpler than we think. It’s just a matter of following my bliss.

There’s a song about this ❤️ Listen to Follow My Bliss below or on
Bandcamp

Last night, a kind and generous friend took several of us out for a boat ride on Lake of the Ozarks. It was a Saturday night which is usually not the time to be on the lake dodging boats and navigating wakes. But it was much quieter than I expected. The weather was perfect. I didn’t need a jacket. I couldn’t help but think of my mom, she would have loved it—a handsome elderly gentleman, eighty-seven years old—at the helm of a very elegant Grady White boat, a boat you would see on the ocean. The captain told us there were about six of them at the lake.

I admired beautiful homes on the shore. At one sprawling mansion, a solitary man was enjoying his riches, with all the propane fires lit. I waved. I’m pretty sure he was a rock star. It seemed strange that no one else was in sight, maybe the party of fifty had yet to arrive. I’ll never know the real story, but I was entertained by my own version.

Wouldn’t it be nice? To have all the things? Maybe. But where does it end? There is always nicer things next door, just like the greener grass. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the beauty people created and designed. It made me smile.

But what stayed with me most, was the comment made by my private captain—who reminded me of my grandfather. He said we just have to get through the next 100 days. It took me a minute to realize what he was talking about and then it clicked, the days between Memorial Day and Labor Day—the full throttle days of summer vacation at the lake.

I grew up in resort areas in the mountains of Colorado. There were two distinct seasons to make money, summer and ski season, and for some, hunting season. The economy revolved around these limited days to collect tourist dollars. Shoulder season was anything in between, a little wiggle room to catch your breath. The days were numbered, with only so much time.

We’ve been numbering our days forever. My mom used to cross off days on her wall calendar, even before they were over.

So, what do I have planned for the next 100 days? Everything is uncertain. As a musician/entertainer, I’m used to booking the calendar a year in advance. Even certain campsites, like Assateague Island in Maryland had to be booked that far out as well. This is the first time in my life, that I can remember, I have an open calendar. Sure there are birthdays to celebrate scattered here and there, but what am I going to do with the next wild and precious 100 days?

Many of the things I would like to do are dependant on that old, outdated, limited, finicky thing I’ve had to count my entire life—money. But, what if that didn’t matter? What if I let life live through me instead of trying so hard to make it fit into the numbered boxes on the wall?

I think I already know what to do. Yesterday, when I was working on one of the chapters in my book, I remember something I had heard in the Gateless Writing Academy. It was to stay in the scene longer and to not be in too big a hurry to move to the next thing. This past week, I’ve been taking note of the smallest things that catch my eye and writing them down.

1. The thin luminescent petals of the flower that bloomed from my cactus.

2. The red of a woven scarf, next to the purple fringe of a dream catcher hanging in the window.

3. The feel of a soft piece of shag carpet under my bare feet.

4. The widening circle of new friends, and catching up with old friends.

That’s how I want to spend my next 100 days. Bending time by noticing the beauty, awe, and love that is right in front of me.

Listen to the song Bending Time on Bandcamp or below 😊

Growing up at 8,000 feet in the Colorado Rockies, Mother’s Day always meant a trip to Cold Springs Greenhouse to buy flowers.

The spring oasis sat several miles out of town, at the end of a dirt road. The greenhouse, established in 1960, specialized in cold-hardy petunias and pansies, tough enough to survive the unpredictable mountain weather. It was founded by a kind and gentle man who, for over sixty years, welcomed his customers every spring.

After a long winter, walking into the greenhouse felt almost holy. I can still remember breathing in the humid air, fragrant with the smell of damp soil and petunias of all colors stretched out in rows before me. Outside, the land was brown, with a few stubborn snowbanks holding out until the frozen ground thawed. Inside, spring was in full bloom.

In Missouri, I don’t have to limit my options to hardy mountain flowers that can withstand a July snowstorm. I can throw out any seeds, and unless a bird eats them, they will most likely sprout—a level of gardening success that tricks me into thinking I might have a green thumb after all.

It seems like flowers choose us. My grandmother tended to roses. My great-grandmother used to point out the tiny cat faces on Johnny Jump-ups. My favorite flower is a deep orange Mexican Daisy. I have left a trail of them in most of the places I have lived.

On the farm in Tennessee, up on the hill, there were remnants of an old rock chimney where a house once stood. Even though the house was long gone, daffodils still bloomed every spring. Year after year, they multiplied from the original bulbs someone planted long ago, outliving the people who pushed them into the soil.

Whoever planted these flowers never imagined they would one day bring joy to a fellow traveler generations later.

This year, I decided that instead of feeding the bugs and squirrels with a vegetable garden, I would plant flowers and feed the pollinators instead. I started them from seed back in March, and they are just getting ready to bloom.

Flowers bring us beauty and hope, and invite us to seize the moment. They bloom where they are planted, soften our surroundings, and brighten ordinary days with color.

Flowers show me that beauty is always worth tending to, even if it’s temporary.

And when I put my hands into the dirt, I am reminded that I am part of something that lasts — the timeless tradition of cultivating beauty for someone else to find.

I don’t have anything in red. Except for a t-shirt my husband bought me at a cool Nashville vintage guitar shop. I should have worn it yesterday. If I did, it might not have been so obvious that I wasn’t from around here—Breaux Bridge, Louisiana that is.

It seems funny that would be my takeaway from the crawfish festival, but it’s what stood out the most—everyone was wearing red, crawfish red.

Red was my mom’s favorite color. I always thought it was a color I would wear when I got older, but I haven’t embraced it yet.

About forty years ago, I had a western red-checked shirt that I wore to a weekly square dance at a dude ranch in Colorado. That shirt would have fit right in.

Who would have known that a crusty prehistoric-looking creature with claws and covered in mud would inspire songs, children’s books, recipes, cookware, and gatherings of all kinds, including festivals.

At the risk of shaming myself, I will admit that I have never tried one, except mixed in étouffée, which is good no matter what is added.

Crawfish do look great on t-shirts—I was even tempted to buy a cute crawfish sleep set, or a pair of beaded crawfish earrings—but in real life they aren’t that adorable.

Yesterday, I watched a crawfish eating contest. The winner in the women’s division was a tiny rock-climbing instructor from California. She ate fourteen-plus pounds of crawfish in forty-five minutes. The winner of the men’s division ate over twenty-eight pounds. The standing record is fifty-five pounds. After watching that many crawfish consumed in less than an hour, I was curious to see how they would perform on the racetrack, which was happening next.

In preparation for the crawfish races, I watched kids bring their contestants to the starting line so they could get a number painted on their backs in White-Out. Most arrived in a plastic cup, one in a straw cowboy hat. As the contestants lined up, I could see how this was going to go, and it wasn’t going to be any Kentucky Derby—which, by the way, I did get to watch later while my husband and brother-in-law feasted on their trays of crawfish. That’s one race replay worth watching over and over. But back to the crawfish races, that weren’t. The crawfish had no intention of running anywhere, so I’m not sure how a winner was determined. I didn’t stay to watch.

I have a new respect for this tiny creature that brings multitudes together. As I stood shoulder to shoulder in a crowd wearing crawfish red, in the same muddy grass, listening to the same zydeco song, I was reminded that belonging doesn’t depend on where we started, but where we stand.

Next year, if I return, I’m going to wear red.

This past month, we took the entire month off. It was necessary. My husband Mickey’s back problems culminated in a moment where he was unable to stand, sit, or even hold a guitar.

So we did the only thing we could do—we took time off. It started with one gig, then two weeks, and soon it became two months.

We gave ourselves the gift of time.

Time to reset.

Time to heal.

Almost a year ago, we had made plans for a trip to Louisiana. We decided to give it a go and took our time—traveling shorter days and staying at state parks with wonderful walking trails.

So I’m spending this Full Flower Moon deep in Louisiana—a place that knows all about resilience and healing.

Lake Charles was devastated by two back-to-back hurricanes in 2020. Walking through the state park this past week, I see a story of resilience. The trees continue to grow with no promise of what the future holds. New leaves unfold. Flowers bloom. Alligators sit in stillness, and the land heals. The trees that survived not only stand as witnesses to what came before—but also to what is here now.

I’m grateful that healing doesn’t wait for all the conditions to be perfect. It just begins, little by little, day by day, and never in a hurry.

As the Byrds sang, there is a season, and a time for everything.

I would love to say I had planned ahead for a moment like this, but I didn’t.

So all I can do is take it day by day—like the hurricane-ravaged land that continues to hold and reveal so much beauty.

May this Flower Moon bring you moments of rest, resilience, and healing wherever you may be.

Each month when the full moon comes around, I find myself especially aware of how meaningful it is to be sharing this traveling season of writing and music with you. If these letters have been a companion to you, becoming a paid subscriber helps me continue offering them from the road. I’m grateful we’re walking through this season together.

Happy Full Moon! 🌕

Sing & Dance always,
Trisha

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Time spent in nature is a reset for the nervous system. I’m not just making that up. I know from experience, but I recently read that it’s a proven fact scientifically as well. I love it when something I believe just happens to be backed by science. I secretly smile and give myself a high five, saying, “I knew it!”

“When we connect to nature, we are connecting to the pulse, or resonance, of the earth, which was discovered by the physicist Winfried Schumann in 1952. The consequently named, Schumann resonance, a frequency of 7.83 hertz, is the exact same frequency as the alpha waves emitted from the human brain. In alpha state, we are more relaxed and our physiology becomes balanced.” The Longevity Formula by Avanti Kumar-Singh, MD

It’s not as much a need to be proven right, but a comfort in knowing that I didn’t just make it up. Even though everything has already been done under the sun, or so it’s said, I still believe there is always plenty of wiggle room to discover something new. New to me.

Like the pair of red-shouldered hawks I have been watching from the back porch of my friend Ronnie’s house. I’ve never witnessed a nesting pair of hawks this close. Every time I step out of our camper, which is parked in his driveway (hello Cousin Eddy), I look out to see what the hawks are up to. Sometimes they are on a nearby branch or heading out to work for a few hours. Always, though, they’re keeping an eye on the neighborhood. And probably on Dennis, the shaggy white dog who is in need of a haircut, as he sniffs around unknowingly at the trunk of their tree house—completely oblivious to that familiar someone is watching me feeling.

I love hawks. I grew up with them in Colorado and I can recognize their call as if it were calling my name. Maybe they are.

My Gibson guitar has red-tailed hawks etched into the double pickguards. To be perfectly honest, that was a deciding factor in buying the guitar. Like purchasing a bottle of wine because of the artwork. Yes, I’m that person.

Here’s what a red-shouldered hawk looks like. I couldn’t get a good photo with my iPhone, so I borrowed one, but I did find a feather at the base of the tree.

Thanks to author Terry Tempest Williams, I now have a new name for these moments that move me so deeply: a glorian.

Here’s the definition of a glorian in her words,

“These are not distant deities, but the holy ordinary, often-overlooked presences — animal, plant, memory, moment — that reveal our shared vulnerability and interconnectedness with the natural world. A Glorian can be an ant ferrying a blossom to its queen and as commonplace and startling as a night sky of stars. It is that moment when time stops and we are present to something so much larger than ourselves.” The Glorians: Visitations from the Holy Ordinary, Terry Temptest Williams

We are visiting our long-time friend Ronnie Frugé in Lake Charles, Louisiana. He made us red beans and rice last night for dinner—my favorite. He also happens to be a fantastic songwriter and musician, and has graced a few of my songs with his guitar playing more than once, including this song, Let it Flow

This week I saw the first fireflies of the season. They were twinkling in the bar ditches along the side of the road. I got home and announced, “The fireflies are here,” as if they were long-awaited guests coming to visit.

I love watching them. It’s soothing to imagine them playing Marco Polo in the dark, saying, “Here I am.” Light is how they find each other.

In a way, it’s the same for human beings.

When people get lost, search and rescue teams look for the glimmer of a flare, a campfire, or the sun bouncing off a piece of metal. Whether it’s in a dark sea of violent waves or in the silence of a cave deep inside a mountain, light has a way of cutting through the clouds, the rocks, the cracks, the darkness.

The idea of daring sea rescues and flares came from a movie I watched earlier this week called The Guardian.

Two days ago, we lost electricity from powerful storms that knocked down trees and power lines. Losing power doesn’t affect us as much as some. Living in an RV, our lights run on a 12-volt battery.

I also had a percolator coffee pot nearby, which I could heat on a gas stove.

The only thing I didn’t have access to was water—something still evident in the sink full of dirty dishes.

If you happen to call today, I’ll be washing dishes, grateful to have my hands in warm soapy water.

It’s the little things.

We also happen to have a generator that started on the second pull, which came in handy for charging our phones. I’ll admit, I kept checking the radar on my weather app to see what was happening in the dark.

I’ve lived off-grid several times throughout my life, and it’s given me a keen awareness of how I use the precious resources of water and electricity. I still shut off the shower valve while I wash my hair and then turn it back on to rinse.

Although we did lose some meat we had in the freezer, we did not go without.

I was just a little more careful.

I did things differently.

I’ve never been afraid of the dark.

Not that it doesn’t bring my senses into a heightened state, especially if I’m trying to find my way through a room without stubbing my toe or bruising my shin on the coffee table.

But in the same way darkness heightens my awareness, it can equally calm my nervous system, shutting out the world like blankets in a childhood fort.

Dennis also finds comfort burrowed underneath blankets.

Sometimes total darkness is exactly what I need to recharge—a pitch black room and the hum of a fan.

Even the earth seems to quiet down and exhale when the sun drops and the temperatures fall.

Although the linemen didn’t take a break as they worked to restore the power around the clock, it still felt as if the pause button had been pushed.

As if the land had taken a breath to regroup.

But like the wildflower seeds poking up from the soil in the raised bed in my yard, I crave the warm nourishment of light.

And on days when dark clouds come between us, a magnet on my refrigerator reminds me that sometimes I have to make my own sunshine.

Much like the fireflies, the light inside each one of us still flickers, sending out a beacon for others to find, even in the darkest of times.

Today, I’m grateful for community, near and far.

When I first started writing these weekly posts, it was a practice for me, so I could keep the creative juices flowing.

But you are the reason I keep writing.

Now, we are making a life together, shining light back and forth, saying, “Here I am.”

Thank you.

I spent much of this past week in time out—of the best kind. My laptop stayed closed inside my travel tote while I worked on my listening skills. Which is why My Sunday Best is arriving on Monday.

I’ve always thought I was a good listener. I even said that in a song once. I’m a good listener, I’ve got all the time he needs (One More Dance.) But as it turns out, I needed a little brush-up.

Listening is intense work. It requires turning down the volume of my thoughts, which were turned up to eleven, so that I could hear what was being said.

At my sister’s house, I listened as my niece occasionally stuttered while she was trying to tell me something. Certain words trip her up. Almost always, my first inclination is to finish the word for her so she can get on with what she’s saying. But after doing that a few times, I held back. Even though I knew what she was trying to say, it was not my place to intervene. I had one job: to listen.

Every voice is meant to be heard. It’s so easy to interrupt the flow of communication with my own take on what is being said.

My grandchildren also had a lot to share with me, from Greek mythology to Sonic the Hedgehog, and lots in between. If I had to take a test on all-things Sonic, I’m still a bit confused about who is who, and who does what in the popular video game. But, I did a little homework and learned that Sonic can run faster than the speed of sound, so that is a start.

I listened to what my grandkids wanted to tell me, to what had been happening in my sister’s life, my son’s life, and the lives of other family members.

Everyone’s life is so busy and full of details, not to mention to-do lists and schedules.

I am grateful that we all had the time and space to catch up so to speak, although we both know there is no such thing. We all had so much to share. It was different from talking with them on the phone. There was no hurry. Plenty of time to pause, to see life from another person’s point of view.

My sister does an online art program with my niece every week called Let’s Do Art. I joined in as we mixed watercolor paints and each created our own version of a bunny. My artwork came in handy a couple of days later when I sat beside my grandson and he colored a picture of a bunny for his preschool homework. When he wasn’t looking, I poked a small clover flower into the mouth of the bunny—the instructions did say that the family could join in on this project.

As I packed up my things yesterday, I asked my grandson if he wanted me to leave my bunny art, or take it home. He yelled from the other room, “No, take it home.” His older brother quickly said that he would like to keep it. I love that each of them is so different and free to share what they do or don’t want.

I also had the best conversations with my son, unhurried and reflective. It was during these conversations that I realized how easy it is to bring my own experience into the conversation instead of just listening and seeing from his point of view. I thought I was a good listener, but I’ve decided that true listening is an art.

When I leave room for silence between words and pauses, the thoughts continue to develop more deeply without interruption. The story has room to unfold.

I find this to be true in writing as well. When I first start to write, it feels like I am just skimming the surface. But as I continue, the thoughts expand, opening space for other thoughts to join. One thing leads to another, and I end up on a journey that is fun, interesting, and always enlightening.

The same is true in a conversation, whichever side you are on. If you are the one speaking, telling a story, sharing a thought, a belief, or a feeling, if there is space, the story develops further. In hearing your own words, you learn something about yourself. To be on the listening side requires leaving the space empty and not interrupting it by filling it in with my own interpretation or experience. It’s only then that I truly start to see a different perspective.

I recently saw a reel on Instagram where Rodney Crowell mirrored his wife Claudia’s take on their Mexico vacation. She was off-camera, and as she told the story, he repeated every word. To me, it was a fascinating and fun way to “see” the other person by repeating their exact words.

Words are easy to take for granted. I realized this as I listened to my four-year-old grandson try out different words for size. And when I heard his older brother read, who is in first grade, I was floored.

Back when I learned to read, it was all about the mundane adventures of Dick and Jane in large print and simple sentences. And when I taught my sons to read, it was through books like Go-Dog-Go! and Green Eggs and Ham. But when my grandson read to me from his book about aliens and dinosaurs, sounding out difficult words such as “occasionally” and “analyze,” I was taken aback. Whenever he stumbled over an unfamiliar word, he worked at it until he got it right, and then repeated the paragraph with inflection and emotion—cementing the word into his growing vocabulary list.

Reading, listening, painting—stepping into the lives of family—didn’t cost anything but time and attention and reminded me once again that life is lived in the ordinary moments of just being together.

Being together, making here better—Making Here Better