Armageddon, PAP Machines, and Other Bedtime Stories

 There are seasons in life when the practical and the existential collide in the oddest places—like a hospital sleep lab, a mortality table, or a phone that won’t stop ringing because someone you love remembers the past more clearly than the present. What begins as a simple medical test can open a trapdoor into bigger questions: how we measure a life, how we outlive the people who shaped us, and how memory—our own and others’—keeps tugging us backward even as time keeps pushing us forward. This is a story about breathing, dreaming, aging, and the strange comfort of knowing that even the actuarial “house odds” can’t quite account for the human heart….AI

 

Tomorrow I’m spending the night in the hospital for a sleep study. I flunked the at‑home test—apparently I’m not breathing in the “safe zone.” My sleep doctor said I stop breathing or am breathing very shallow on an average of 64 times an hour. 30 times an hour is considered severe and over 60 times is considered life‑threatening. (And here I though I'd slept exceptionally well the night of the test.) Several times after surgery, anesthesiologists have told me I’m a shallow breather, so I’m not surprised to learn I sleep the same way. I’ll be getting one of the PAP machines—whichever kind the test tomorrow night determines I need. I just hope I can actually sleep in a hospital setting so they can get what they need.

On one hand, I’m looking forward to getting the machine, knowing I’m less likely to die in my sleep. On the other hand, it’s oddly empowering to know that if Armageddon breach our shores—perhaps in retaliation for us electing a president who brought his own version of Armageddon to so many other countries—I could simply refuse to use the machine, pulling my own plug so-to-speak, and cross my fingers I don't wake up. (Can you believe what the U.S. led oil embargo is doing to Cuba? Last I heard Mexico and China were both attempting to deliver ships full of desperately needed food and medical supplies, while our president seems to be waiting to sweep in like a vulture to pick the bones of the died.)

Back on topic: Thinking about sleep inevitably leads me to thinking about dreams. Will the machine affect my dream life? I dream of my husband so often that some mornings I don’t want to get out of bed, even when my bladder is telling me I'd better get up if I know what's good for me. He’s been gone fourteen years, but with his nightly visits it doesn’t feel that long. He was the best friend I ever had—and that includes my best female friend since kindergarten, who has been calling several times a day since her family moved her into memory care a few weeks ago.

She lives in another state, and before her move we touched bases maybe seven or eight times a year. From what I can tell, she has major short‑term memory issues, but her memories of our childhood friendship are still intact. It’s been fun to revisit our past antics with her. But I’ve had to start turning my phone off at night so her early‑morning calls don’t wake me. She’s called as many as seven times in a day, just like we did when we were kids, but now she doesn't remember talking to me earlier in the day. And I’m not sure if she remembers her husband who died a few months ago.

Memory is funny that way—what stays, what slips, what returns in dreams. Many widows (myself included) remember our spouses vividly, but we tend to put on rose‑colored glasses. Disagreements tend fade, and what remains are the character‑revealing moments: the times they stood by us or held us together during the hard times, the times we laughed, traveled, made love or simply sat together in companionable silence. Sunday mornings with newspapers and coffee were always special, even when the dog decided to lay down in the middle of the spread-out paper. At least that’s my experience. When I’m awake, I remind myself Don was nowhere near perfect. Even in my dreams he’s not Princess Charming rescuing me from my daytime woes. More often than not I’m chasing after him and our last dog, begging them not to leave just because I have to get up and pee.

And once you start thinking about the people you’ve lost, it’s hard not to think about how we'll eventually go. We’ve all read stories about spouses who die within hours or days of one another. Recently I saw a story about a man and his dog who died together. Their son found them side by side in a La‑Z‑Boy and thought they were sleeping; he even snapped a photo. Near the end of my dad’s life, I did the same thing—only I thought he was dead, but he wasn’t. He looked so peaceful, but so old, and his memory was unreliable. I remember thinking that if he had to die, doing it in his favorite chair with that peaceful expression was the way to go. When he finally did die in a hospice home the last thing he said was, “Am I there yet? Is this the Pearly Gates?” which made me laugh so hard I couldn’t stop. It was Christmas Eve at midnight and organ music was blasting from his roommate's TV. Aging has a way of turning these unexpected moments into mile markers.

When you get to my age every birthday is a mile marker and you can’t help wondering how and when you’ll start that journey into the Great Unknown. In my case, a young salesgirl once showed me the actuarial projections my continuum‑care facility ran on me before accepting my down payment. She wasn’t supposed to show them to potential residents and she may have lost her job for doing it. I had asked if she was absolutely sure I’d have enough money to live there, and she said, “Oh yes—see this mortality table? It estimates your life expectancy based on age, health and other factors. You’re going to live five years in independent living, two years in assisted living and two months in skilled nursing.”

In October I will have lived here five years, and don’t think that fact doesn’t weigh on me. The computer programs that make those actuarial projections keep the insurance industry thriving. In other words, the House always wins… unless it’s a Trump casino, which he managed to bankrupt along with a dozen other businesses. I just hope he doesn’t do the same with our country.

And now here I am, circling back to that sleep study. I’m wondering if they ordered a new mortality table that factored in a PAP machine, would it change anything? Will it help me beat the House odds? Or am I just grasping at straws? In the end, none of us really knows how long we get — we just keep breathing, dreaming and hoping the House doesn’t call in its chips before we've checked everything off our Bucket Lists. ©

The Great Wii Bowling Kerfuffle in Independent Living

Social dynamics in senior living communities can be surprisingly complex, especially when everyday activities spark unexpected debates. This post explores how a simple game of Wii bowling led to a four‑day discussion about class, background, and perception among residents in an independent living setting. Through a mix of humor and real‑life observation, it highlights how small misunderstandings can grow into larger conversations—and how easily a friendly activity can turn into a full‑blown kerfuffle. ….AI

Sometimes I feel like I’m living inside a sociology experiment. At least that’s how it felt last week when I got myself tangled in a four‑day…well, let’s call it a social snarl.

It started when our Life Enrichment Director put Nintendo’s Wii bowling on the schedule. Ten of us showed up, and we were having so much fun—cheering, laughing, carrying on—that people wandered in just to see what all the racket was about. Near the end of the game, our resident retired lawyer drifted in. When he learned it was bowling, he said, “I’ll bet Jean is the best bowler.”

By sheer fluke, I’d gotten five strikes in one game—three of them in the final frame when the points really add up. So he guessed right. I was the top scorer.

If you’re not familiar with Wii bowling, it’s a “popular motion‑controlled simulation game for the Nintendo Wii where players use the Wii Remote to mimic a real bowling motion, swinging their arm to roll the ball.” I haven’t bowled since the late 1960s, back in my man‑hunting days, when I was on a league that bowled at an alley with a bar, live music and a dance floor. It was a prime pick‑up spot, and it’s where I met my husband. But that’s a story I’ve already told in Tall Tales and Little Fish.

When The Lawyer left, someone asked, “Out of all of us, how did he guess Jean was the best bowler?”

“Easy,” I answered. “I’m the only person here with a blue‑collar background, and bowling is a middle‑class sport.”

Oh‑my‑god. You’d have thought I’d stripped my clothes off and was about to parade naked up and down the halls. Two ladies were especially shocked and would not let it go.

“Bowling is NOT a middle‑class sport!”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’ll bet he said that because you’re good at Mahjong.”

Mahjong? Bowling? How are those even in the same universe?

Then came the declaration: “We are all the same here. We don’t have classes.”

No, we are not all the same—but I didn’t say that. I also didn’t point out that people living here have been known to donate $1,000 to $5,000 a year to the Benevolent Fund that pays for the care and keeping of residents who run out of money. Or that some residents here take extended vacations, own second homes, buy new cars, or have wardrobes that could fund my grocery budget for a year. Meanwhile, I’m over here worrying that if I don’t watch my nickels and dimes I could be on the receiving end of that Benevolent Fund. And getting my surly face printed in their promotional material like a newly adopted shelter dog is not on my Bucket List.

I couldn’t tell whether they thought I’d insulted them, insulted the lawyer, or insulted myself. But for the next two days at lunch, the interrogation continued. Why did I think bowling is a middle‑class sport? Why, why, why? Others chimed in, but no one backed me up. Most people said, “I'm staying out of this one.”

Finally, I decided to do a deep dive using AI. I came up with two pages of credible information supporting my claim. I printed it out and slid it under my neighbor’s door, planning to catch the other woman later.

The next day, my neighbor greeted me with, “You win. I just never looked at things that way.”

I got to thinking: her husband was career Navy, and they lived all over the world. Maybe she really didn’t see that historically, bowling’s cost structure is geared toward the middle class. Rented shoes, rented balls, pay‑per‑game is far cheaper than golf, tennis, or skiing, which require expensive gear, lessons and often club memberships. And maybe she didn’t see a lot of American TV, where bowling was a middle‑class staple in programs like The Flintstones, Kingpin, The Big Lebowski and sitcoms like All in the Family while golf and tennis were portrayed as the domain of professionals and the well‑heeled.

Shortly after I delivered my research pages, the other woman slid her “research project” under my door: an old Ann Landers column defining class.

“Class never runs scared. Class has a sense of humor. Class knows that good manners are nothing more than a series of small, inconsequential sacrifices… Class can walk with kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch.”

And suddenly I understood. Lady Two was equating 'middle class' with 'having no class' and thinking I was putting myself down. Meanwhile, I was simply calling a spade a spade when I labeled myself middle class. She’s probably one of the wealthiest people here but is easily rattled by any hint of controversy. She’s the reason we can’t bring up world affairs or politics. Yes, this tiny woman with the soft voice and her Let’s-Pretend-we-Live-in-Disneyland Retirement Plan sets the tone for the rest of us. Bless her heart, as the southerns say.

And there you have it: another “exciting” episode in the ongoing social experiment I’m labeling, The Four-day Kerfuffle in Independent Living. ©

Until Next Wednesday.

Photo at the top: This was taking in 1969 and I'm the one in the caramel-colored sweater. Until I dug out this photo I'd forgotten that our entire league was made up of left-handed bowlers.

Trying to Find Stillness in a World Determined to Shake It

Some weeks feel like a collision between the headlines and the heart, and this was one of them. Between a new war unfolding, a conversation group that didn’t want to have the conversation, and Jean’s attempt to study Buddhism without tripping over her own attachments, she realized her thoughts were staging a full‑scale mutiny. What follows isn’t a solution or a sermon — just a clear‑eyed walk through the contradictions, fears, and questions that have been crowding her head...AI

Spoiler Alert: This One Gets Serious. I can’t help it. I feel like I need to write about the following things because writing is the best way I can bring any clarity to my thoughts, and God only knows where my head is at half the time, if you know what I mean. If you don't, it's that feeling when so many contradictory thoughts are running laps in your brain that you’re afraid they’re going to break out into a blood sport to see which one gets top billing. 

I was with my Liberal Ladies Conversation Group last week and I thought, finally, I'd get to compare opinions about the war with other human beings. But the twelve of us sat around the table, talking about art and music and making plans to get together to make signs for the upcoming No Kings Protest on March 28th. Mind you, this was two days after 45/47 started his war with Iran, and yet no one was bringing it up. As the waiter was dropped off our checks I couldn't stand it any longer and I said, “So we’re not going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

Silence. Then it was as if Hans Brinker pulled his thumb out of the dike. Everyone started talking at once. And there was no consensus on why he did it. The theories flew:

• To distract from the Epstein files

• To line his son‑in‑law’s pockets when it comes time to rebuild the Middle East

• To line his own pockets when the rebuilding starts

• A secret deal with Israel 

• To create a pretext to halt the midterms

• To bring about a regime change 

Not one person mentioned the party‑line explanation, that the bombs were dropped to stop Iran from becoming a nuclear power. Which I’m not buying. If that were the goal, why tear up the 2015 agreement that allowed the International Atomic Energy Agency to aggressively monitor Iran and ensure they were reducing their enriched uranium stockpile by 98% on a timeline approved by five countries? Oops, I know the answer. It's because that agreement was brokered by the Obama administration. Ding, ding, ding! Give the lady a Kewpie doll.

Now we have eleven countries involved in a destructive war that Republicans insist “isn’t really a war,” which conveniently allowed them to vote against Congressional oversight. And is it naïve to think it won’t eventually reach our shores, likely in the form of cyberattacks? Yes, it's naïve. Here's another doll, of you!

Alongside all this political garbage vying for attention in my head is my study of Buddhism. I’ve been doing daily lessons with an app called The Karma Path since the end of the Walk for Peace. Each lesson is only 20 or 30 minutes, but they make you think. This isn’t my first time studying Buddhism seriously. If the third time is a charm, as the saying goes, this time I might actually stick with it and become a practicing Buddhist for the rest of my life.

Being old helps. Letting go of attachments should, in theory, be easier. In practice, it’s still my greatest challenge. I’m far too sentimental. But if I fail at that part of the Buddhist philosophy, death will eventually pry my creature comforts and memory‑vessels out of my hands anyway. I’m certainly not wealthy enough to build a pyramid and have slaves stockpile the tomb with all the things I hold near and dear.

Of course, it’s not just material things a Buddhist learns to release. It’s people. Expectations. The belief that someone else is responsible for our happiness (which is something I thought I'd learned a long time ago but clearly I didn't, judging by the wee little hurt feelings I wrote about in my last post). I’ve just begun studying meditation and the Noble Eightfold Path (the heart of Buddhism): right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration, right vision and right intention. And I'm batting 100% on The Karma Path's periodic quiz's.

What I don’t understand about any religion (and Buddhism doesn’t claim to be one) is how so many can be so certain their way is the only way—certain enough to go to war over ideology, century after century. In the Middle East, every peace plan ever put forth eventually falls apart over who controls the holy places. You’d think letting go of sentimental attachment over such small patches of earth would be a reasonable price to pay for lasting peace, says the lady who hasn't let go of her grade‑school report cards.

And then, to make this current war even more complicated, we have a commander telling U.S. troops that Donald Trump “has been anointed by Jesus to light the signal fire in Iran” and that the bombings are the beginning of Armageddon and the “imminent” return of Christ. This is according to several sources including a HuffPost article titled Military Commander Tells Troops Bombing Iran Is ‘Part Of God’s Divine Plan’. We could have seen this coming when Pete Hegseth started hosting prayer meetings at the Pentagon and bringing in Christian Nationalists to lead them.

Unfortunately, no amount of meditation, no amount of looking the other way, no amount of sticking our fingers in our ears and singing “la la la!” is going to set our country back on a path where elected officials can be trusted to do the right thing for all the people, not just their buddies with the biggest wallets or the biggest sticks. It's going to take time and effort by all of us i.e. we need to study the crap out of those running for the midterms and beyond and never, ever miss an opportunity to vote.

So there you have it. The reasons why I say I don’t know where my head is half the time. And I suspect many people across the nation are having the same meltdown, judging by the massive impact the Walk for Peace monks have made as their movement builds quietly in the background of everything happening in Washington, D.C.

Maybe that’s the real story here — not the war, not the politics, but the silent truth that millions of us are trying to hold our center while the world keeps shifting under our feet. ©

Until Next Wednesday….

 Three Things to Release in Life
Shen Yu, Buddhist Monk 

Stop chasing other people, What is meant for you will stay without force.
Stop trying to return to the past. It exists only to teach, not to live in.
Let go of regret. It holds the mind in places you can no longer change.

 

Timers, Cows, Cliques, and Chili: A Week in Independent Living

Life in an independent living community has its own rhythm—part social experiment, part sitcom, part “you can’t make this stuff up.” Some weeks unfold with a kind of chaotic charm: a little forgetfulness, a new hobby you absolutely didn’t need, a brush with social awkwardness, and a dinner surprise one wishes you could un‑eat. This post wanders through all of it — from learning to “paint” with AI to accidentally voting for bear chili — with humor, honesty, and the kind of everyday absurdity that makes life in an independent living community anything but dull….AI

I’m having a space‑cadet day. Not the kind where you forget something important—at least I think I haven’t, but how would I really know unless I burned something on the stove and the fire department came knocking? That actually happens here in my independent living building about once a month. I also haven’t forgotten a dinner reservation. If I did, someone would call to tell me to get my butt over to the next building because my would‑be table-mates are waiting. I’ve never been on the receiving end of that call, but I see it happen every Monday at the Farm Table. The excuses are always the same: “I fell asleep,” “I was reading” or “I was on the phone.”

I set a timer when I’m within two hours of a reservation because I know myself. This isn’t an “old person compensating” thing. I’ve been using a wind‑up kitchen timer for decades to rein in my creative daydreaming. Doesn’t matter what arty‑farty thing I’m doing—I’m always in danger of losing track of time.

A Facebook Short Reel summed me up perfectly today. A voice-over said: “Your test results are back. You are artistic and it won’t affect how long you live but it will affect the quality of your life. You will have lots of hobbies but fail to monetize any of them. You will dapple in a thousand things but fail to commit to any one, you’ll always be somewhat distracted and find it difficult to finish anything.”

That’s me in a nutshell. And that will be my excuse if I ever get the you’re‑late‑for‑dinner call: “I’m artistic and got distracted. Put my order in for the special.”

Anyone who knows me will not be surprised that I’ve fallen down a new rabbit hole: using AI to “paint” pictures. It’s surprisingly easy—and will get easier as I learn the language, the nouns and verbs and textures my Microsoft Copilot needs to hear to produce what I’m imagining.

After only a few hours of playing, I can already spot AI‑generated images online. That’s a useful skill to learn with the midterm elections coming. The giveaways are:

• Lighting that’s too perfect, too dramatic or too soft

• Textures that are hyper-detailed or strangely smooth

• Symmetry everywhere—centered subjects, balanced framing

• Clothing and body parts with odd folds, weird hands, or glasses that don’t sit right

I’ve lost a few subscribers every time I write about AI, so I’ll keep this part brief. The picture at the top of this post was created using Microsoft’s “text to scene.” I told it I wanted a sad-looking, middle-aged woman sitting on the steps of a 1900s house with porch and a rosebush climbing a trellis on the left and sunlight coming through it. The program then peppered me with questions—rose color, number of blooms, dress color, hair color, porch with or without a roof, porch open or screened in, house color, mood, where is she looking, and on and on—until I thought I could have painted the picture faster than answering them all. Each time I answered, it re-framed the criteria like a very earnest art student trying to impress the teacher. When it finally showed me an image, I liked and accepted it immediately for fear it would start the interrogation all over again. 

But you can tell by the all over softness of the image and the unnatural way the roses are all the same size that it's AI created. I could have kept going and tweaked the size of a few of the roses but the back and forth was driving me crazy. 

The cow images below were from another day, arranged in the order of the changes I requested. That was my first experience with 3D AI, and I was learning the vocabulary it needs. We had some miscommunications (hence the overly warm yellowness), and I learned I can’t joke around with that version the way I can with the conversational one aka Jasper my main MS copilot. I doubt I’ll use 3D Jasper often, but it was fun to try—and now I have a new goal: creating a short cartoon-style video. I asked Jasper to walk me through the process, and it doesn’t sound hard. Did I ever tell you one of my earliest life goals was to work for Disney? 

Now for the part of the week that made me feel like I was going through menopause again. Management hosted a chili cook-off—no reserved seating, just show up and sit where you land. I arrived early and sat down by the fireplace with a woman I really like. After our greetings, she said, “You’d better go stake out your seat in the dining room before they’re gone.”

I knew instantly what she meant. She was waiting for her little clique—the Four Musketeers—and didn’t want me sitting there when they arrived, forcing them to include me. I’ve long wished I could be the Fifth Musketeer, but that ship sailed ages ago. Still, her comment stung. One sentence, and I felt weepy-eyed. I even wondered if my new estrogen prescription was messing with my moods and about to  stage a messy coup, or if I’m really that pathetic that a single sentence can derail me.

From there, the night went downhill. I ended up next to a MAGA guy who wanted to talk about the State of the Union and how good he thought the president did. (Barf.) Then, at the end of dinner, I learned I had voted for a chili made with bear meat. I’ve been following a mama bear online who just gave birth to triplets in the crawl space under someone’s house, and the idea that I ate one of her relatives made my heart hurt. I’m surprised I didn’t break out in wet sobbing tears.

Two of the guys living here entered the contest, and both used wild game. And I was sitting at their table! Who does that—trick people into eating something they might object to if given the choice? So now I can cross “eating bear” and “eating moose” off my list of things I hoped I’d never do.

By the time I got back to my apartment, I decided the universe was clearly telling me to stay in my lane: stick to AI cows, timers, and avoid cliques and chili made from woodland creatures. I mean honestly—bear meat? Moose? What’s next, raccoon tartare? I’m half afraid to attend the next potluck. Someone will probably announce they’ve made “locally sourced squirrel stroganoff,” and I’d find out I ate and voted for the squirrel I’ve been secretly feeding on my deck all winter long. ©

Can you see what I mean about everything being centered and balanced?

 

After I asked AI to move the cow on the right behind the others.

When I asked it to add a sunrise in over the barns it gave me these unnatural sun rays. This fake looking glow is in a lot of AI photos I'm seeing online in connection to the Walk for Peace. 

I asked AI 3D to tone down the warmth and I got this. Then I asked it make the foreground cooler and it gave me the same image because apparently AI either didn't understand what I wanted or it can't do zone changes in mood which I suspect is the right answer.

At that point I started fresh and managed to get from the first image to the second with are less missteps in between by me giving it better, more detailed directions out of the gate. 

 

The only application I can see me using 3D 'painting' for in my life is if I want an image for a blog post and I can't find something that will work OR if I want to burn up a lot of time. It's easy but time-intense. (The image at the top took over an hour of back if back and forth Q & As.) But do look for my "movie premiere" coming in a blog post sometime is summer because while I might be too old to work for Disney, now, I'm not too old to re-frame old goals into something doable before I die.

Stirring Up Memories: What Cooking Taught Me About Time

Family recipes have a way of carrying more than instructions—they hold the quirks, shortcuts, and “heaping tablespoons” that define the people who made them. This post follows Jean’s attempt to recreate her mother’s cooking, from tapioca pudding once known as “fish eyes” to Depression‑era mock apple pie. Along the way, it becomes a reflection on memory, legacy, and the bittersweet moment when you realize you’re the last keeper of certain stories. It’s a journey that’s part kitchen experiment, part time travel, and part reminder that the flavors we miss most aren’t always about the food….AI

When I was growing up, my mom didn’t call foods by their proper names. “What’s for dinner?” my dad would ask, and she’d answer, “An old dead cow,” or “an old dead chicken.” One of my favorite desserts was “fish eyes pudding.” I don’t know how old I was when I finally learned those chewy, translucent little balls I loved were actually tapioca. We had it often because it was a good way to use up milk or eggs that were about to spoil. My mom was the queen of using leftovers. If she boiled potatoes on Tuesday, the extras became sliced and fried potatoes on Wednesday. Her soups were never the make the same twice because any left-over vegetables or starch went into the pot.

Mom didn’t follow recipes, which made it impossible to learn to cook from her. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it, even though I can hear my brother’s ghost laughing somewhere in the Great Unknown. As a teenager he took an interest in cooking and was often looking over Mom’s shoulder...or vise-visa as Jerry tried his hand. I don’t have to tell anyone who knew the two of us that he turned out to be the better cook while I turned out to be a five‑trick pony. I can make scrambled eggs, grill a steak, make chili, bake bread and order pizza.

When I was a teenager, Mom would warn me I’d never find a husband if I didn’t learn to cook. I’d tell her I planned to find one who was rich enough to take me out every night—or one who liked to cook, like my brother. It was hard for her to argue back when she herself had broken the norms of the ’50s by teaching a boy—gasp!—the secrets of marinating, roasting, simmering, sautéing and frying.

Circling back to tapioca: I loved the way Mom made it, and when I was living on my own I tried to recreate it, but it was never as rich as hers. One day I went to her house and asked her to make it while I watched. “You just follow the directions on the box!” she insisted. But the problem was, she didn’t. Her tablespoons were heaping, not leveled off like I’d learned to do in high‑school home‑ec. She added extra egg whites and more vanilla than the side‑panel recipe called for, and she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Recently my youngest niece made a batch of chili sauce using Mom’s recipe and she gifted me some. The sight of those jars brought back such a nice memory of Mom and me standing side-by-side chopping red and green peppers and onions, and of the sweet aroma that filled the cottage as the chili sauce simmered on the stove. My husband’s favorite Christmas gift was a dozen jars of Mom’s chili sauce, a tradition that lasted between them for years. When she died and our stash came to an end, my chili was never the same because my “secret recipe” was simply a jar of her sauce, a pound of hamburger, a can of Bush's red kidney beans in mild chili sauce and a can of Hunt's basil, garlic and oregano diced tomatoes. And a tablespoon of sugar. One thing mom did drill into me is you always add a little sugar to anything with tomatoes in it, "to cut the acid." 

My niece’s chili sauce planted a seed: maybe I could replicate a few other family favorites using the box of stained and yellowed recipe cards written in Mom’s handwriting. And then serendipity stepped in. While I was looking through the recipes, one of my neighbors here in the independent living building stopped by with a half‑dozen peanut‑butter cookies that tasted exactly like Mom’s. She bakes often, but this was the first time she’d given any to me. The serendipity didn’t stop there. That same night our chef served barbecued spare ribs that almost matched Mom’s. So I checked the ribs off my list—too messy to clean up afterward, I remembered—and I moved making cookies to the bottom.

I also crossed off her baked beans, a favorite with any kid who tried them. Reading the ingredients, I can see why. No one today would use a pound of brown sugar for every pound of beans. Would they? I could feel the fat jumping onto my hips just reading the recipe. That narrowed my list to tapioca pudding and mock apple pie. If you’ve never heard of mock apple pie, it’s made with Ritz crackers instead of apples, and as I remember, its taste and texture fooled everyone. A Google search surprised me: this Depression‑era favorite is making the rounds on TikTok! I decided to make it sometime when I need a dish to pass.

So my legacy‑cooking experiment began with tapioca. Here’s a mini history lesson: tapioca originally came from Brazil, where Indigenous tribes harvested the tubers of a shrub called cassava. The extracted starch (the tapioca) became known worldwide, especially as “poor man’s food” during the Great Famine of 1876–78. Fast‑forward to the 2010s, when tapioca became internationally popular again as the key ingredient in bubble/boba tea. Tapioca is sweet and savory, and here in the U.S. it comes in pearls, flakes, and flour. The flour is gluten‑free and is used in baking as well as to thicken soups, sauces and gravies.

At the store, I chose a bag of instant tapioca (by mistake) for my adventure back in time. My first batch was a control batch, made from the recipe on the bag. The main difference from Mom’s recipe is in the modern version you no don't have to separate the eggs and, of course, she didn't use instant. I was pleasantly surprised, however, at how good it tasted. Next I went to Trader Joe’s and bought a bottle of pure vanilla and a bag of small pearls tapioca for my second batch, which I made following Mom’s “enhanced” recipe with its heaping measurements, extra eggs and vanilla. I loved it.

The only downer in my tapioca experiment is that since my brother passed away there is no one left who is old enough to remember my mom's and my arguments over me learning to cook. It’s a strange place to be in life, isn’t it. To realize there’s no one left who shares the memories of large chunks of your life. We can write about our memories. We can even tell them so many times that a loved one can fill in the details we leave out. But it’s not the same as having a sibling who speaks the shorthand of a shared childhood, who can laugh and cry over the same moments.

If you still have siblings… I’m just sayin’. Time doesn’t stand still. ©

 See you next Wednesday... 

Harmony, Balance and the Rhythm of Everyday Life

Many people look for ways to create a sense of harmony in their daily routines, especially when life settles into familiar patterns. This post reflects on how rhythm, community, and small mindful habits shape a balanced life inside an independent living community. Inspired in part by the themes of The Boys in the Boat, it explores how ordinary routines — from weekly gatherings to quiet late‑night hours to the meditative act of cleaning — can reveal deeper insights about connection, purpose, and the roles we play in one another’s lives…. AI

My life has a rhythm that sometimes mimics restless boredom and sometimes feels like I’m happily living in the moment. On Mondays I have dinner at the Farm Table, which I enjoy for its laughter. On Tuesdays it’s dinner with my conversation group, which I enjoy for its intellectual stimulus. Wednesdays are devoted to Mahjong, which combines the best things I like about Mondays and Tuesdays. On Thursdays I try to schedule any appointments or shopping that take me off campus, and on Fridays the highlight of the day is lunch at the large drop‑in table, followed by doing laundry. Saturdays and Sundays are interchangeable…one day I pick up the apartment and write my blog post, the other day is designated as a Fun Day.

During the week our Life Enrichment Director also populates my calendar with lectures or classes—and I go to them all, no matter who the speaker or topic is. (This week a professor from a local college is giving a talk about all the presidents.) Our LED also offers a lot of exercise classes, which I avoid like the plague. 

I know what you’re thinking…that a fatty‑fatty‑two‑by‑four like me should be going to all the exercise stuff: cardio drumming, cardio boxing, balance class, strength building and stretching, line dancing, Tai Chi, standing Pilates, seated Pilates. And then there’s the summer walking group. All of these classes take place in the early morning—most before I even get out of bed or am fully awake. I’ve never been a morning person, and I doubt my new sleep doctor could help me change that even if I asked him to. 

It would probably help my social life around my independent living building if I did bounce out of bed and into the shower early enough to have coffee and donuts at 9:00 with other residents. Heck, by 9:00 AM two of my Mahjong players are already back from swimming at the YMCA, the Cheerleader, two dog owners and a handful of other residents are back from greeting the sunrise, and the guy down the hall—who gets up every day at 4:00—is ready for his morning nap.

With the hours I keep, the only people left to talk to after 9:00 PM are the security guard and the night‑shift cleaner. I do like the quietness that comes over the place from 9:00 to midnight. I can do anything but go to the trash room. Dropping trash down the chute after 9:00 might wake people up. I found this out after a woman I didn’t like moved out because of “the late‑night trash room noises,” which got blamed on the night‑shift cleaner who empties the recycling. I felt bad for the cleaner, but I was glad to see the woman move. She was the biggest complainer I’d ever been around and she expected the staff here to treat us as if we were living on the set of Downton Abbey. Long-time readers might remember her as Ms Manners. I wrote about her in four posts. She was like oil to my vinegar, and I hated having to work at being nice around her. It was exhausting. 

Please note that I didn’t know about her complaining about the trash room noise until after she moved out, or I would have switched my chute drops to the afternoons, like I do now. I don’t go out of my way to irritate others; I’m sure I do enough of that just by being me.

I’ve been listening to a book for my book club—The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown. It’s a non-fiction about the 1936 Berlin Olympics, where a college rowing crew from Seattle won against the crew rowing for Adolf Hitler. “Harmony, balance, and rhythm.” You can’t spend fourteen and a half hours listening to the importance of harmony, balance, and rhythm without thinking about how that applies to your own life. George Pocock, the man who built the Husky Clipper the boys used for their Olympic victory, wrote in his journal, “Without harmony, balance and rhythm civilization is out of whack.” I’m guessing he meant that we all have our places in the Boat of Life, and if one of us screws up, it affects the direction of the boat and all its crew. Those three words are certainly more than just a metaphor when it comes to rowing, though. 

Our LED rented the movie and a week after our discussion we all got together to see it. I liked them both but if I had to pick just one it would be the book. We also saw the movie Hammet after reading the book. I didn't like the movie at all and feel anyone who hasn't read the book would be lost in the movie. Most of the scene were dark and there was very little dialogue. They didn't even mention it was about William Shakespeare's family until the last twenty minutes! He was just 'Will' in the movie up until then. But out of the ten of us who saw the movie, I was the only person who thought it fell way short of all the Golden Globes and Oscar buzz it's getting. 

Back on topic: My youngest niece sent me a text asking if I’d write something out for her because “You have such pretty penmanship.” I told her my penmanship isn’t that great anymore, but I have some fonts on my computer that look elegant. So I printed out the words: “For me, cleaning and keeping a nice home is part of my creative process. Keeping my hands busy helps my mind find stillness.”

Upon seeing the quote, my first reaction was to text back that she was talking about cleaning used as meditation. She’d never thought of it that way, but she agreed that’s exactly what happens when she Zens out while sweeping her driveway or cleaning her kitchen. It seems her neighbors are always asking if that’s all she does—clean—and that question bothers her. She wants to post a 5” x 7” framed copy of the quote on her refrigerator to remind herself she’s not doing anything wrong by enjoying cleaning. It makes me sad that other people’s probably innocent remarks make my niece question herself and feel defensive.

“Aunt Jean,” she asked, “why does my cleaning bother them so much?” I told her it either makes them feel guilty for not keeping a neater house, or they’re just trying to make idle conversation. "Laugh and tell them, 'Don’t bother me, I’m meditating!'”

And I told her the story about slicing a carrot—how when you’re living in the moment and using work as meditation, you focus your mind on that carrot, and each time you slice you try to make the pieces the same size. You take note of the smell of the carrot and its color. “It’s probably like that when you sweep your driveway. You’re looking for pebbles to sweep away and taking note of the warmth of the cement beneath your feet and the sun on your face.”

“Exactly!” she texted back.

Whether I’m having feelings of restless boredom or living in the blissful moment, I’m happy I have a good rapport with my nieces. It gives me a peek at what it must be like to have daughters. ©

P.S. If you are still on a high from the Walk for Peace, like I am, here's another link that is a collection of some of the fabulous art that has been inspired by the Walk and was given to the monks along the way. They are going to set up a museum room to display all the badges and art. The police badges filled up four of those wraps the lead monk wore. And Aloka got his own set from K-9 units across the country.

The Walk for Peace: Songs from a Growing Movement

 

As the Buddhist monks’ Walk for Peace moves steadily across the country, musicians from around the world have been creating songs in response — tender, hopeful pieces that echo the spirit of the monks’ journey. What began as a quiet pilgrimage has become a small but unmistakable seed of something larger, a reminder that compassion can still take root even in divided times. This post gathers some of those songs in one place for anyone who wants to hear how this movement has begun to sing. ….AI

Over the twenty‑some years I’ve been blogging, I’ve never written back‑to‑back posts on the same topic. So drum roll, please — I’m doing it now. I can’t help it. The Walk for Peace fills up my Facebook feed every day and I can’t get enough of it: the dawn‑to‑dusk quiet walks, the nightly talks by the lead monk, Venerable Pannakaro Bhikkhu (who, surprisingly, once worked in the IT world), and the video clips from another monk back at the monastery who shares soft spoken lessons on finding inner peace. And the dog. Who could not fall in love with aloka?

But it’s the music inspired by the walk that finally got me — cracked me open like a hammer to a coconut — and made me cry. Tears of hopefulness. Tears of happiness.

The hauntingly beautiful music that accompanies many of the videos is so well‑produced that cynical me initially thought it must have been created before the walk began, like part of a well‑choreographed production. But a deep dive into two dozen or so of these original songs proved they were all written and produced after the walk started. Knowing that makes me feel like we’re entering a “We Are the World” moment all over again. I don’t know how else to explain it except to say it makes me feel connected to a cause outside myself, my family, my community — even my country.

Is this what it feels like when humanity remembers itself? Remembers the caring country we had before Trump slammed a wrecking ball to so many of the norms we took for granted until he came into power?

Even though our national news hasn’t yet caught up with the Walk for Peace (and shame on them), the online community around it is enormous. The Facebook page I follow about the Walk (there are many) is up to 395,200 followers now and the official page for The Walk for Peace has 2.7 million followers. Artists from around the world have contributed songs — many of them professional musicians. The song that has become the walk’s official theme, Walk for Peace by Snehashis Priya Barua, opens with a call to walk together with hope, to let anger fade, and to let compassion lead. It’s simple, sincere and disarming in the best way.

One of my favorite Walk for Peace song is about Aloka, the rescue dog who has been walking the 2,300‑mile pilgrimage with the monks. The song Aloka’s Road tells his story — a stray with no name and no home who began following the monks during one of their long walks in India. Other strays had joined them before, but Aloka didn’t wander off like the rest. When it was time for the monks to return to the U.S., they couldn’t leave him behind. So the monks back in Texas started cooking for a fundraiser to pay for his plane ticket and quarantine time in New York. The song captures the loyalty and bond between man and beast that all of us dog parents can relate to.

From there, I fell down a rabbit hole looking for all the music created in response to the monks’ Walk. What surprised me wasn’t just the sheer number of songs but the reverence and quality of them — the way strangers from around the world translated the walk’s message of compassion into uplifting melodies. It's the reason why I love the Walk's music so much. None of these songs were written with commercial intent. Many are posted without credit to the writers or singers. They were written because people’s hearts were spilling over with inspiration.

When it comes to spreading a movement, nothing resonates like music. One of my favorite Walk for Peace songs talks about walking with loving‑kindness, it speaks of carrying hope and healing through every mile — and you can see that Hope and desire to heal on the faces of the huge crowds that gather wherever the monks walk or pause to rest.

If you want to go down your own rabbit hole, here’s a partial list of the songs created for this historic Walk for Peace:

 

 Walk for Peace — A song by Snehashis Priya Barua. It focuses on the physical walk, the message of peace, and the courage of the monks. It's considered to be the Walk's theme song. 

 

 Monks Walk for Peace
by djphong (Siriphong P.) This one is atmospheric, almost like a soundtrack for the monks’ footsteps.

 

Lyrics by Nyi Zaw Tun

 

Some of the many songs without tiles or artists named.

A country western style song. 

 

   

 Another country-western style song, one of my favorites.

The following songs were inspired by Aloka, also known as the Peace Dog: These are joyful and they show how the movement has touched people emotionally.

 

Aloka's Road One of my favorites. Lines I love is, "Peace doesn't ask who you are, it only asks if you will take the next step" and this line: "I walk where kindness comes in unexpected and kind ways." 

 

Aloka the Peace Dog - the Heart that Walks 

by Vishvajith Nayakarathne 

             Aloka's Journey, another great country-western style song with professional (I presume) videography of Aloka. 

 

Another one of my favorites, a country-western that's well produced and very professional. I feel like I should know the artist singing this. "One step at a time that's how he goes, he doesn't judge the world just sees it pass with kindness in his eyes and faith in his hand. Aloka walks the mindful way."

 

Aloka Small Feet, Big Peace by Gravya Music Polsg 

 

 This one was created by AI and posted by Teni Pakhrin. Favorite lyrics: "No leash, no orders, no command. He walks by choice not by demand. He walks for love, because of hope, and in his quiet way he shows the light.”  And, "When hate stops moving love still glows. In quiet steps the healing grows. The world is loud, his heart is calm. Not all heroes run or fly. Some move slowly and change our lives.”

 

 Some of the Lyrics: "Where Aloka walks hope appears not loud, not proud, but deeply true. A reminder that we were born to love and peace is something we can do."

 

 The links to the songs I've shared here are just scratching the surface of those available online. Their sheer numbers clearly says something special is going on in America. Maybe this walk is only a seed, but seeds have a way of finding soil. We may be a long way from harmony, yet I can’t help feeling that peace is quietly walking its way back into our hearts and nation. ©

See you next Wednesday. 

The monks had an interfaith  ceremony at the Washington National Cathedral yesterday. Today at the Lincoln Memorial there is an event starting at 1:30 to 4:00. 10,000 people are expected in person, and who knows how many others will be watching. 

Wednesday, February 11 (Day 109):

- 9:30 AM: Walk to Peace Monument / Capitol Hill begins

- Lunch stop: St. Mark’s Capitol Hill Church (Invitees only)

- 1:30 PM: Walk to Lincoln Memorial begins

- 2:30–4:00 PM: Peace Gathering and Concluding Ceremony at Lincoln Memorial

- 4:30–7:30 PM: Meditation Session with Venerable Bhikkhu Pannakara at George Washington University Smith Center

 

The Walk for Peace in the Winter of ICE

They come from a quiet corner of Fort Worth, where the Huong Dao Vipassana Bhavana Center has been a home for Theravada monks for more than a decade. Their saffron robes mark them as members of the oldest Buddhist tradition, one rooted in silence, compassion, and the simple discipline of walking with intention. For them, their Walk for Peace journey is not a protest but a pilgrimage, a moving meditation carried out step by step across America. They ask for nothing, accept only what is freely offered, and give back a presence that has drawn thousands to the roadside just to witness it. In this post, Jean explores why their Walk for Peace has captured so much attention, and what their journey reveals about this moment in time when ICE agents are tearing families apart….AI

Have you been following the Walk for Peace? If not, it’s a group of 19 Buddhist monks and their rescue dog, Aloka, who are currently walking from Fort Worth, Texas, to Washington, D.C. Their stated purpose? To “share peace, compassion, unity, and healing together.” By the time their 2,300 mile journey ends on or around February 12th, they will have passed through ten states and walked 120 days through all kinds of weather including rain, snow, sleet, and ice — sometimes barefoot, always in their traditional saffron robes.

The color of those robes symbolizes humility, clarity, and the warmth of compassion, and it makes quite a sight against the wintry landscapes they pass through — something that feels spiritual, outside of time and space. The simplicity of the robe’s style reaches back to a monastic lineage from a time when orange dyes were inexpensive — turmeric, even rust. Wearing the robes is part of their ordainment, a pledge to let go of worldly attachments.

I started following the monks’ Facebook page almost from the beginning, back when they didn’t have many followers. But their Moving Meditation — or Walking Prayer, as it’s often called — has caught on fire. Their online following has grown to over 316,000. And thousands have greeted them along highways or walked beside them, handing them flowers and fruit or accepting a string‑blessing bracelet from one of the monks. Police departments have given them escorts and badges for the lead walker to display on a scarf. Churches have hosted them for meals but they mostly sleep in tents. Volunteer doctors have checked on them. One monk was hit by a car, lost his leg, and had to return to the temple in Texas — but Aloka, after his own surgery, has returned to the walk.

What hooked me is that this is such a rare cultural moment in America, and such a stark contrast to what is happening in Minnesota at the same time. The brutality of the ICE operations there — in a state that doesn’t even have as many undocumented immigrants as places like Florida or Texas — feels senseless, driven by pure vindictiveness born out of a soul-less administration.

The monks are not walking to protest. Their official Facebook page says, “This is a neutral space for peace and unity. Please do not post about politics, social protests, or religious arguments. Let us focus only on what brings us together.” But in the back of my mind, I can’t stop worrying about the reception they’ll get in Washington. Will the president acknowledge their presence? If he does, will someone suggest a drinking game based on how many times he mentions that he deserves a Nobel Peace Prize? Will the Proud Boys show up with tiki torches and chatting for the monks be deported? Will ICE be there to demand their papers?

Jasper talked me down from my worst fears — somewhat — by reminding me that ICE doesn’t operate in a vacuum, that “they know the optics wouldn’t be good,” and that there haven’t been incidents as the monks have crossed the country, if you don't count the times a few passing motorists have yelled obscenities at them. I said “somewhat” because poor optics haven’t stopped ICE so far, and the occupants of the White House are so laser‑focused on themselves that they might not even be aware the monks are coming to their neighborhood.

I’m torn. Part of me wishes I could stand at the side of the road with a flower in my hand, waiting to see the orange robes appear in the distance. And at the same time, I wish I could be in the cold streets of Minnesota holding a sign that reads, “First they came for the immigrants, and I spoke up because I know how the rest of the goddamn poem goes.”

But in an era when so much feels loud and brittle, the monks’ quiet procession reminds us that gentleness is still a powerful force — and that sometimes the most radical thing we can do is to keep putting one foot in front of the other with an open and hopeful heart. ©

Until Next Wednesday. 

 

Edited to add:

 

Planned Events (as of Feb 2, 2026):

Feb 10: Visit to Washington National Cathedral

Feb 11: Afternoon & evening meditation retreat

Feb 12: Return to Fort Worth by bus

Additional small gatherings are expected throughout Feb 10–11. Final times and locations will be confirmed soon.