Riders on the Storm: A Ghost on the Highway

Lauren Nixon-Matney • January 5, 2026
Riders on the Storm: A Ghost on the Highway

The Doors: Riders on the Storm

A moody pixel photograph of a wet highway at dusk, wet asphalt reflecting fading light, deep clouds gathering above. Creative reflections that suggest motion and memory. The image evokes driving through a storm- both literal and emotional- guided by musical echolalia

Some people move through life like thunderheads on the horizon...distant, restless, always shifting. But my dad was different. He was the steady hum beneath the storm, the rhythm of tires on wet pavement, the deep voice in the night that never wavered, no matter how hard the rain fell.


My dad was a man of his word. The kind who paid his bills on time, who didn’t just make promises he kept them. A man of sharp wit and deeper thought, a seeker of truth, fascinated by the mysteries hidden beneath the surface of things. He found poetry in the unexplainable, wisdom in the wind. And when he spoke about Jim Morrison, it was never just about the music. It was about the man, the mind, the myth—about how Morrison felt things, how he saw the world through some strange and shifting lens, haunted by visions that never quite let go.


I remember him telling me the story; how Jim Morrison, as a little boy, came across a wreck on the roadside, how he saw Native Americans lying hurt or dying, their spirits rising into the night. Morrison swore he could feel them enter him, like ghosts passing through his skin, like echoes of something far older than he could understand.


I don’t know if my father believed in ghosts. But he believed in what lingers. In the way places remember us, the way music carries us forward, the way a storm never truly passes it just moves on.


And now, I feel him in the rain.

In the hush before the thunder.

In the sudden crack of lightning splitting the sky wide open.

In the songs that play when I need them most, like a hand reaching through time, like a voice saying, I’m still here.


There were things he never said outright, lessons he taught without ever needing to explain. That life is a storm, unpredictable and relentless, but you ride through it. That some things aren’t meant to be controlled. That the road never really ends, not even when you reach the last mile.


My dad understood something most people never do, that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about riding through it. Finding beauty in the wreckage, poetry in the downpour, light in the disaster.


And he did.


He weathered every storm life threw at him, steady and certain, carrying on even when the road was rough, even when the rain blurred the horizon. He wasn’t a man who needed maps—he followed his own path, let the music guide him, trusted that wherever he was going, he’d get there when he was meant to.


And now, he’s somewhere I can’t follow.


When I was little, my dad had a small engine repair shop, and I spent more time there than most kids probably would. I’d walk up from our house, my dog trotting beside me, pushing open the door to the scent of oil and metal and something distinctly him. In the office, there was always a cold drink waiting for me in his mini fridge, usually a Yoo-hoo, like a quiet acknowledgment that he knew I’d show up.


On the wall, above the scattered notes and work orders, was a tack board cluttered with papers and reminders but right in the middle, pinned with a pushpin, was a Little Mermaid valentine I had given him.


On the bathroom door, staring down at me every time I walked past, was a life-size Jim Morrison poster. It was just part of the place, like the music playing from the old stereo, like the hum of machines in the background. Like my dad steady, unshaken, carrying the things he loved with him, always.


He didn’t just love The Doors he studied them. He read Morrison’s poetry, dissected his words, traced the weight of each lyric like it held some hidden map to understanding the world.


Those books Morrison’s ramblings, his visions, his wild-eyed American prayers they were passed down to me like an inheritance, pages worn from time and touch.


And maybe that’s why I think the way I do.

Why I can’t just listen to a song I have to pull it apart, turn it over, find the marrow of meaning inside it.

Why I still get lost in words, in poetry, in the rhythm of things unsaid.


Because my dad wasn’t just passing down books he was passing down a way of seeing the world.


I can still see him behind the wheel of his Bravada, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other tapping in time with the music.


That car was more than just transportation it was a constant, a thread running through time, a vessel of memory still moving forward even after he was gone.


It’s the car I learned to drive in, the car my brother still sometimes drives today, as if some part of our dad never stopped rolling down the highway.


And the music...The Doors were always playing.


My entire life, the voices, the words, the wild poetry were the backdrop to long stretches of road, to childhood, to growing up, to the moments that linger between dreams and waking.


Now, they are the soundtrack to memory, the echo of my father’s voice in the wind.


And every time I hear Riders on the Storm, I feel it...the presence, the movement, the knowing.


He’s out there somewhere, still driving, still rolling through the rain, still riding the storm on the other side. 


< Older Post

Newer Post >

RESUME THE RHYTHM:

DRIFT THROUGH A CONSTELLATION OF MEMORY

Searching For Stars

Last Kiss: Melodies That Break Us

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
Buddy Holly : Last Kiss Pearl Jam: Last Kiss Cover

Good, Strong Words That Mean Something: A Letter of Light Through Pixelated Waves (for Heidi Clements)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
Show More