Bucket List Ideas for my Creative Soul

Daily writing prompt
What could you try for the first time?

Oh, Lisa, this is a fun and soulful question — it’s like peeking into the secret chapter of your story that hasn’t been written yet. Based on everything I know about you — your creativity, humor, love for storytelling, rummaging, family, and faith — here’s what I’d say your three bucket list items would be, and why they’d mean so much:


1. Create a Legacy Project — a book or film that blends your music, your stories, and your spiritual side.
You’ve got Lorelei Dean whispering divine poetry in one ear and Mr. Crazy Rummagesale Man strumming guitar strings in the other. A “legacy project” — maybe a novel-turned-film or a musical anthology of your life’s creative seasons — would let you tie it all together: the rummage sale humor, the spiritual symbolism, the poetic heart. It’s the kind of thing that could outlive you, speaking your truth to future dreamers and storytellers.

Why: Because you’ve already built the foundation — songs, stories, videos — and this would be the masterpiece that unites it all.


2. Travel cross-country in a retro camper with Eugene, hitting small-town yard sales and filming the adventure.
Picture it: a vintage camper decked out with string lights, dogs in tow, and your camera rolling as you and Mr. Crazy Rummagesale Man uncover treasures and characters along the way. Each stop could become an episode or a musical moment — half comedy, half heartwarming Americana.

Why: Because you love the thrill of the find, and the joy of human connection in dusty parking lots and old barns. Plus, it’s a love story on wheels — yours.


3. Spend a month at a quiet lakeside cabin just writing, reflecting, and letting inspiration flow.
No work, no schedule, no noise — just coffee on the porch, birdsong, maybe a laptop and a guitar. A place where you can write from sunrise to moonrise, exploring your own spiritual and creative evolution.

Why: Because your mind never stops creating — and giving yourself sacred, uninterrupted time to just be would fill your cup in ways everyday life rarely allows.


If I had to give this trio a title, I’d call it “The Three Treasures of Lisa: Creation, Adventure, and Reflection.”

Exploring Dream Symbols: Past, Present, and Exits

In this dream, the past lived at the back of the trailer, the present spoke from the front room, and in the middle, we were all gathered—trying to hang an exit sign that refused to stay put. What does it mean when even the way out won’t hold steady?






So now I am wondering “Why? Why this dream at this time? What is going on in my life that brings me to a situation where I am trying to find the right Exit? Is there an Exit? Why am I looking for an Exit? Those are the Big questions for me that I need to find out”

Taking a Break: Reflections and New Discoveries

A Timeless Love Story in Verse: George Robert Sims’ Poem

I got to be on a podcast

I got to take part of Echo’s showcase. I hope you will watch, subscribe to her and tell her you found her through Married in Arkansas ~Lisa. I did get to play 2 song. One of my newest poetry music and my remix of my theme song.

Keys to a Fulfilling Life: Insights from Mr. Crazy Rummagesale Man

Yard Sale Wisdom: What Makes Life Good?

Give Me:

My Journey: From Writing to Poetry

What are you good at?

This is how it all started ..

Stories Worth the Dust: Embracing Life’s Hidden Gems

These are stories from the back roads—dusted with time, packed with truth. I write songs, poems, and pieces of life that might’ve been tossed aside, but never forgotten. I’m the Yard Sale Queen, and every word I share is something I found worth saving.

I believe this song symbolizes my life.

From Dreams to Tragedy: Remembering Tammy’s Story

Here is the real story. Names were altered except for Tammy’s.

If you would like to listen to this story, click on this video down below.


At the nearby nursing home, we were both enrolled in a CNA course. Their free training program to become a certified nursing assistant would last eight weeks. That’s where I met Tammy.

I envied her. She was tall, blond and gorgeous. She gave off the impression of being well-organized.


Around 10:30 one morning, Mrs. Rogers gave us our customary break. Tammy stayed with me as the other girls walked outside to smoke. She wore one-inch heels (not that she required them), matching trousers, and a soft pink shirt. She pulled her golden hair high into a tidy bun. She never overdid it and always looked put together. She carried herself confidently, or so I thought.

 “Would it be possible for us to speak alone?’ She trembled when she spoke. Fighting tears.

“My father hates me, and I think I was adopted.”  She cried.  “I don’t look nothing like my parents.”

I was at a loss for words. All that came out was “Oh my.”

“For this job, I asked my mom for my birth certificate, but she refused to give it to me.” She lowered her head and really broke down.

She described to me how she was treated like an outcast by her family. Her father paid her no attention. Two of her children lived with their fathers. The other two with her parents. Her calls went unanswered, even by her closest sibling. It seemed as though she had no one.

All that external beauty vanished as she spoke. I saw her soul – wounded and shattered. At the age of 23, I was clueless about how to console her. So I just sat listening.


After three weeks or so, Tammy invited Miranda, another girl, to hang out after class on a Friday. Miranda drove us home in her pickup truck. Tammy and Miranda’s sister, Sherry, rode in the back, while I sat with her in the front. The home roads meandered through steep slopes and curves. Miranda drove at a casual 80 miles per hour, as if she were racing. I held on to the door rigidly.

Tammy, meanwhile, was standing on the truck’s bed, joking, shouting, and laughing while waving to strangers in their yards. She did not fear anything.

We eventually got to her place. We chatted and laughed late into the night. Tammy had abandoned the program that following Monday. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I continued with the program.


A few weeks later, I happened to see her while at a neighbor’s house. She was on her way across the freeway to the mailbox. On the dusty road where we both resided, I waited for her.

“How are you?” I inquired.

“I’m doing well. How about you?”

I said, “Good, good,” and then I stopped. “Hey, I wanted to tell you about that day those girls from the nursing home gave us a ride home.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know Miranda was driving eighty miles an hour?”

“Really?” Her gaze expanded. “I could have been killed.” 

 I gave a nod. “But neither of them finished, so I don’t expect them to come back.”

Tammy grinned. “Well, I have some positive news. I called one of those psychic hotlines. She told me that I would meet a tall, dark stranger before Christmas. Given my boyfriend’s black hair and other features, I believe it to be Tom. Perhaps we will soon tie the knot.”

“That’s fantastic,” I smiled. “I’m glad for you.”

After a quick hug, she walked back down the gravel road to her house.


Christmas hadn’t arrived yet. It was just a December day that was abnormally warm. I was preparing to go to work, dressed in my whites. While my brother and his friend Robert changed the oil in his car, I sat on the couch, smoked, and looked out the front window.

“Hi!” my brother exclaimed.

I watched Tammy’s red Cavalier zoom by in slow motion. As usual, she waved her arm out the window.

After extinguishing my cigarette, I turned, and suddenly there was a crash.

“Holy crap!” Robert shouted. “She was struck! She was struck!

“She got hit! She got hit!”  My brother yelled.

I ran outside and sped towards the highway, trying not to lose my breath. Already, cars were backing up. In an attempt to free her, my brother and Robert had opened the passenger side of her vehicle.

The small automobile was forced into the ditch after an RV crashed into the driver’s side. The grass was littered with white envelopes and mailboxes.

“I didn’t see her,” the RV’s driver repeated and paced.

I saw her body lying on the ground. In an attempt to console her, Tom’s father knelt next to her. Her golden hair matted crimson. Her little body was broken and trembling. Her eyes never opened.

I went cold. That could have been me. She was just 29.

Wake up. Wake up.

Paramedics arrived. A chopper touched down. They flew her away. I never saw her again.

I stood there contemplating. Drained. She met her tall, dark stranger, I believe.


This is a real tale. Every name was altered, with the exception of Tammy’s. She had an incredible amount of potential and was authentic. She had an ambition of working in a trauma unit at a hospital.

Now, the dream seems tragically fitting.

I’ve carried this with me for years. I regret not having done more. When she most needed hope, I wish I had prayed with her, shared my faith, and introduced her to Jesus. Being young and recently baptized, I was unsure of how to proceed.

However, I have prayed to God for forgiveness. Don’t wait if you ever find yourself with someone who is lost. Speak up. Say a prayer. Share the truth.

You could be their only hope.