The Friendship Challenge

06 Oct 2024 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Mexico, The Farm, vision board, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

My Vision Board strikes again!

We need special people in our lives. When I moved to Bali, I didn’t know a soul. After a few inquiries online, I located a writers group (Steve Castley, Ubud Writers) and was invited to join their exclusive circle. I lived and breathed for those bi-monthly get-togethers.

I loved the comradery, but as writing critics, they were ‘Minnesota nice’ to the extreme. Coming from the brutally honest cutthroat feedback I was used to,  I had to choke down their compliments like too-sweet cough syrup. But I was the newbie trying to fit in.

After several meetings, I spoke up. “I know you have a rule that only positive feedback is allowed, and I respect that. But I want to grow as a writer. You have my permission to rip my work to shreds. Give me some real help, please!”

Silence fell like doom over the group. Then someone said, “Same for me.” Then, “Me too!”

Looking back, I wonder if I was the catalyst for the transformation that took place. One-by-one, people dropped out. Those who remained were hard-core and committed to the craft. I’d found my tribe.

When I moved to San Miguel de Allende, I knew one person, ReAnn Scott. She happened to be the connector-type with hundreds of contacts. There was no writers group, but there were rooftop parties, happy-hour meet-ups, and rumicub game days. Friendships bloomed.

Then, I landed here in the heart of the Midwest. Two years passed as I focused every ounce of energy on creating a place to live. I had my sister and brother-in-law and a smattering of relatives nearby. Bear, an old family friend, moved in next door. There was no lack of social interaction. But every-so-often, I’d find myself wondering how I could make new acquaintances. Everyone had been here for generations. As I recalled, they were good for a brief ‘hello’ before turning back to their comfortable familiars.

I’m not remarkably outgoing. I can summon up the necessary mojo when circumstances warrant it. But I’m quite thrilled with my own company most of the time.

And yet, when wind whistles across barren fields and clouds race each other in a frenzy to block the sun, nothing feels cheerier than a pot of steaming coffee with a friend.

When I learned that a traveling library visited the nearby community center every other Thursday, I was curious. Don’t get me wrong. There is no shortage of reading material in the codger community. Gwen and W’s library is a cornucopia of murder, mystery, and sci-fi. I have full access.

Bear’s new bookshelves bristle with war, history, and philosophy.

It would take several lifetimes to wade through all that literature.

So, books aside, I mostly wanted to know who would show up for a literary event.

My sister agreed to go with me that first time. As we entered, we were greeted with warm Hellos and Good mornings. There was a long table holding bins of books. Beyond that were two more tables. Around one, eight men chatted and drank coffee. A cluster of women were seated at the other, also deep in conversation. One of them pointed us to the coffee pot and gathered two more chairs so we could join them. Books, obviously, were an afterthought, an excuse for a neighborhood meetup.

The Bookmobile has become an important entry on my calendar. It holds great promise as a source of friendships. The challenge to find like-minded people no longer feels daunting. Oh! And there’s an added bonus: I can go online and order any book I want. It will be delivered to me via the Bookmobile on the following Thursday.

There is something about the ease of that service that feels luxurious. Indulgent. And the genuine inclusivity of the women, so unexpected, sends warmth radiating straight to my heart.

I should have known when the Universe whispered, the Farm, just as years before it had whispered, Bali, then, San Miguel, I could proceed with confidence. Friendships would come, the path would appear, and I could trust the unfolding.

Make WHAT Iconic?

24 Sep 2024 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in vision board, wisdom, Writing Tags: , ,

I’ve ignored the upper right quadrant of my Vision Board. It seemed too big. It held a command, and I typically don’t take kindly to commands. Requests – all day every day – but demands? No. 

There it stood, in upper case letters, shouting at me. My eyes avoided looking there and wandered instead through less bossy areas where my autonomy felt respected. 

But, as with everything on those tattle-tale boards, yesterday I knew the time had come. I needed to address the goblin lurking in the corner. I fixed my gaze on the words:

MAKE IT ICONIC

and let them mash around in my brain for a bit.

What did it mean? Make WHAT iconic? The day? My writing? Conversation? And how is iconic defined? I checked out Miriam Webster and the Urban Dictionary and decided that for my purposes, iconic means something outstanding in its category. 

My thoughts immediately came to rest on my house. In the category of hunting shacks, it’s beyond exceptional. I took a look at my three immediate neighbors and the daily interactions we share. How we came together in this remote corner of northern Minnesota and contribute so beneficially to each other’s well-being is nothing short of extraordinary.

And my children, my three daughters, every single one of them, OMG! Iconic!

My travels have been iconic. Friendships with people from every corner of the world. Iconic. 

As my mind wandered back over the years I saw that nothing about me or my path has been anything less than outside the box. Some was iconically tragic. I didn’t do just every day, humdrum dreadful. When I went to the shadow side, I went all the way down. But I recovered and always found a way back to solid ground.

Like the ah-hah when solving a riddle, it landed with a flash. MAKE IT ICONIC wasn’t a directive for the future. It was a commentary on the been there, done that of the past. The energy of the board wanted me to reflect and realize the incredible wealth of experiences that populate my memories.

I’m guessing, with my sun in Capricorn and centuries of marauding Viking ancestors in my DNA, I might struggle to be ordinary. It’s only been since retirement that I completely escaped the chokehold of expectation. Nobody forced it on me. Well… Maybe Mom… “Sit like a lady.” “Don’t hold hands with a boy in public or people will wonder what you do in private!” Okay. Yes. I was held to my mother’s Victorian moral standards and somewhat terrified of disappointing my parents which I managed to do fairly regularly. 

There are things we can control. Other things are part of our genetic programming, giving us a predisposition to tameness or wildness, acceptance or disruption, passivity or aggression, friendliness or reclusiveness, optimism or pessimism, book smarts or street smarts. Some of us have to work harder to be socially acceptable than others.

When we stop working so hard, when what people think no longer holds sway, we become who we are. And when we live our truth, iconic happens.

The Discipline of Contentment

14 Sep 2024 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in meditation, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

Have you noticed that some people seem to exist in a continuous state of contentment? They wear a smile and glow with sheer goodness. I have a daughter and sister like that.

Me? I have to work at it. There are moments when I’m relaxed and at peace with all things. But they are fleeting and rare.

Yesterday, I finished yoga and settled into meditation.

I’ve found that the Universe knows a lot more than I do, and when I take time to ask and listen, the answers are there. After a few deep breaths, shutting out the chatter and distraction of hundreds of cacophonous crows squawking joyously in the grain field, I was ready. I didn’t have to wait. “What’s next?” popped out of the cobwebby corners and lit up my frontal lobe.

It had only been one day since Sis and I hauled the last load of construction debris to the dump.

The house was finished. The yard was spotlessly clean. The garage finally had room for the car.

Had life ended, or was it about to begin?

It’s no wonder, What next? was uppermost in my mind.

I sat there, curious about what revelations would come forth. Then these words appeared hovering in the dark place behind my eyes: the discipline of acceptance. They faded and were followed by these: the discipline of contentment. That was it. I offered gratitude and put away my mala beads from Bali and the amber ring from San Miguel de Allende, talismans that aid my journies into the mysterious beyond.

Throughout the day, I fixated on the cryptic messages. Never before had I equated discipline with acceptance or contentment. Those ideas were meaty mind food, and that night I fell asleep still chewing on them.

In the moody fog of morning, I pulled out my journal and began a rehash of activities of the previous day. But instead of what I did and how I did it, my pen took over. THE DISCIPLINE OF ACCEPTANCE, it wrote in all caps. You are responsible for everything about your life. Wisdom tumbled out faster than I could write. But I caught the essence as follows.

Rather than seeking someone else to blame for imperfections in your life, turn the spotlight on yourself. Blame is toxic. It creates resentment, even hatred, and the result can make you physically ill. If you can say instead, ‘This is what is. This is my body now. These are the circumstances I am faced with. I will not point the finger or blame anyone else. I accept this as it is at this moment and I will do what it takes to overcome my pain and displeasure around the situation.’ If you can say that and do that, you are ready to unpack your emotions and take responsibility.

I admit that I feel angry, but anger is counterproductive. It doesn’t serve me. I choose not to be angry.

I feel grief. Grief is an acceptable and warranted emotion. I will allow grief to run its course.

I feel depressed. I know that turning my focus to healthy lifestyle choices like walking, singing, writing, painting, drawing, exercising, and meditating, will serve to lessen the despondency. I choose to take action.

What acceptance DOESN’T MEAN…

It doesn’t mean you stop trying to change the circumstances. Acceptance is moment by moment. This is what is right now, and this is what I need to do to improve the situation. Acceptance is not giving up. It’s a choice not to wallow.

When you choose the discipline of acceptance you recover control over your thoughts, your emotions, and your life. The grim elephant sitting on your chest, filling your heart with heaviness and dread, moves on. It cannot remain where it isn’t allowed.

When acceptance has been achieved – that state of resigned endurance, “Okay, this is what it is until it isn’t,” you move on to the discipline of contentment.

Contentment is the higher calling, perhaps the highest state of being we mere mortals can hope to achieve. It’s easier to be content when everything is going smoothly. But to be content, say, when your elderly parent requires more and more of your time; when your finances take a dive and leave you struggling; when health issues arise; when your child is unhappy – contentment in the face of difficulty is a challenge. But it is not insurmountable.

Contentment comes on the heels of acceptance and is laced with gratitude. It requires a shift away from the negatives to focus on all the good that still exists for you. Choosing contentment requires mastery of the mind, agency over thoughts, flexibility to enact change, a heart of gratitude, and above all, an unwavering belief that your goals are worth fighting for – that your life, in spite of and because of, is worth living.

Opening That Can Of Squirmies

06 Sep 2024 15 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

I watched Fixer Upper, enthralled as Chip and Jo Gaines renovated old houses. Then Magnolia, Joanna’s magazine, arrived on the scene with inspiring interior design ideas, delicious recipes, and pertinent articles. It’s one of the only periodicals besides Astronomy magazine I read cover to cover. (A nice right brain, left brain balance, wouldn’t you say?)

Magnolia’s summer 2024 edition has a story at the end: Chip Gets the Last Word. He talks about loving the demolition process in old houses, but not necessarily for the thrill of destruction. For him, he says, it’s more about discovery, the potential to uncover a treasure beneath the scarred and often ugly surface. At the end he writes, Maybe we’re all built to break things open, then to build ourselves back up again. That way we never fully lose the pieces that make us whole.

You know me, I embrace going deep, and, boy! Oh, boy! His essay sent me hurtling to the depths of my psychological past in search of those pieces. The hard work of my construction project enabled me to avoid opening that can of squirmies. But something lurked in the shadows, and now that the work was done there were no more excuses. Time to address the skeleton in the closet…the elephant in the room. The article was timely.

Breaking things open in the subconscious isn’t easy. Stuff gets buried, especially painful or shameful episodes in our personal history. It isn’t like taking a sledgehammer to a wall. But when something triggers an undesirable response, it’s a cue to investigate the why, to sift through layers of avoidance, denial, deflection, delusion, and figure it out so we can heal. So we can recover the pieces that make us whole.

I’m dealing with one of those avoidance/denial things right now, a very old pattern that I don’t want to repeat. Full disclosure. Here goes!

I’m restless. I have uprooted my life over and over again to seek new thrills, new horizons, new challenges. I know this about myself yet I’ve been unable to put that demon to death. Where did it come from, the inability to stay satisfied? The insatiable need for something more?

I’ll admit at the moment I’m afraid. I’ve created an idyllic place to retire. It’s taken perseverance, time, energy, creativity, inspiration, and dogged persistence to get here. And now…

it’s finished.

Will that itchiness that makes me squirm in my own skin return? Will what I’ve created be enough? Can I settle for peace, ease, the warmth of family, stability, a predictable life?

Here’s what I learned as I backpedaled through childhood. Work was praised. Accomplishments were rewarded. Travel was idealized. Expectations were high. I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday holding mother’s hand as we walked out of the classroom on the last day of kindergarten. At the door, my teacher stopped us. “Sherry, I expect great things from you,” she said. I was six years old.

I expect great things from you. What does that even mean?

She was my first teacher. The voice of authority. I respected her, performed at my best for her, lived and breathed for her approval. And I’ve never stopped.

That’s it, isn’t it?

Part of me got stuck at six years old. My entire life, I was still trying to please her, never quite satisfied with my accomplishments, always chasing the elusive expectation of greatness.

If I’d been a different sort of child, her statement might have passed right over me. But I was a serious little girl, hungry for affirmation. I had to win every race, ace the tests, be the best.

She couldn’t have known the heavy burden she lay on my shoulders that day. How her words burned into my soul and shaped my life.

At seventy-four-almost-five, I shouldn’t be worrying that this isn’t enough. Holding my breath hoping it is. Feeling a bubble of panic prickling my chest as I envision the future. I know what I want and I have it. All the boxes are checked. That’s a first for me. And, Oh! My! God! It’s scary!

A Bizarre Thing Called Life

03 Sep 2024 32 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Renovating the Hunting Shack, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , ,

I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately. None of us asked for it, but after nine months, give or take, we’re thrust naked into this world, helpless. Absolutely and utterly helpless. We would not survive without someone to tend to our every need. What is that, a parasite? No, a parasite feeds on its host. I looked it up. It’s a word I’d never heard. Human babies or any infants that cannot care for themselves right out of the gate are called altricial young. Those that pop out already self-sufficient are precocial young. (Is that where precocious comes from?)

Those were the second and third new words I learned today. The first was Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar. That’s a mouthful.

Not that any of that matters, but I do love words, especially when they’re strung together poetically. Those brilliant writers who construct sentences in unique ways to make me feel like I’m right there are heroes to me. It’s the difference between writing, He was angry, as a statement, or, His face turned a shade redder, his fists clenched, and every word that spewed out was laced with venom. The first rendition is boring. In the second, I can see this mad soul and feel his fury.

See how easily I squirrel down a rabbit hole? I was talking about life, right?

For two years, mine has been synonymous with hard, physical work. I hadn’t realized until now how desperately I needed that distraction. Back-breaking labor brought healing magic as the trauma-angst of Covid slowly seeped out of my nervous system.

Building a house required skills I didn’t have. Designing it was easy. Second nature. But making the vision become reality with lumber and screws? Way beyond my pay grade! But I had help, patient teachers, and a few not-so-patient ones. I learned a lot. The end product is far from perfect, but it’s mine. And the sense of accomplishment? Off the charts.

As of this week, the inside is finished and fully furnished. It’s a home that so completely reflects me that a mini-explosion of joy hits me every time I walk through the door. I made every choice. The main living area is neutral with bursts of color in the rugs and accessories. Windows face east, south, and west with sweeping views of meadows and marshlands. Light and bright, it vibrates happy energy.

This past year, I added a garage, deck, entryway, and a 14’ x 22’ loft room with a moody vibe. Browns and grays provide a backdrop for warm bronze, terra cotta, and gold. It’s a private place where reading, writing, and solid, eight-hour sleeping, flourish.

I need both spaces, the upbeat and the shadows. In my loft I feel grounded, nurtured, safe. In the livingroom/kitchen I’m bouyant, lighter-than-air.

And now, I suddenly have free time. There are no undone tasks looming like goblins in my psyche. I’m free to live.

It’s no wonder, then, that I’ve been thinking about life – where it’s taken me, what I’ve learned, and how I want to spend the years I have left. I say years, but there are no guarantees. That knowledge drives my thoughts as well. It’s almost as though building the house was a brief detour from my trajectory. I put writing on hold. Travel on hold. Even thinking was suspended.

And now, I’m feeling my way back. The only thing I’m sure of is my delight in this place. My sense of well-being here. The scent of fresh-cut hay. The sounds of my cousin’s tractor pulling the baler leaving giant tootsie-roll mounds in the field. Raucous honking of Canadian geese flying south.

I’m in no rush to do anything. Maybe it’s time to rest, to revel in this peace, to enjoy my surroundings with no pressing urge to explore beyond my front yard. How unlike me. Could I have achieved contentment? Maybe this is Nirvana – neither suffering nor desire, just peace, tranquility, joy, enlightenment…hmmm…enlightenment… Okay, not quite there yet, but I can see it from here!

The Incredible Joy of Not Giving a Damn!

10 Aug 2024 22 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, grannys landing, technology, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

My level of frustration at this exact moment in time is off the freaking charts!

In the past week, hours evaporated while I:

tried to change my cellular service provider

tried to connect to my new cell phone hotspot

tried to connect my Roku to the elusive hotspot

tried to connect my TV to Roku

tried to connect my computer to my printer using my new hotspot

tried to…oh crap…tried unsuccessfully to keep from bellowing obscenities…

It’s a good thing I live alone…

I thought I was tech-savvy. Seems that was yesterday. Things change at the speed of light…or is there something faster now? I wouldn’t doubt it. 

Is it a function of age? If I were, say, 40, would I automatically have the necessary skills? Or six years old perhaps? My twin grandsons grasp technology better than I do.

Perhaps I’m past my use-by date. I haven’t expired, but I’m beginning to decay. 

The other day I was visiting with a group of women, all seventy-plus. Our conversation began innocently enough, talking about the books we’d been reading, the TV series we were hooked on. As we warmed up to each other, we moved from the abstract to the intimate, how advancing years have made us less tolerant of discomfort in any form, especially clothing. Specifically, bras.  

From pre-teen to middle age, I didn’t think twice about harnessing up with underwires to support my abundance. The silhouette was most important so I tolerated the metallic uplifting and powered on. 

Then came Bali. Every cremation, wedding, and ceremonial event, required a sarong, a lace kabaya, and an undergarment so constricting from cinched waist to hoisted breasts that breathing was no longer involuntary. The Mona Lisa.

Ngusaba Tegen was the worst. We suited up by the hundreds and walked the gravel road in high-heeled flip-flops to gather outside the temple. Row upon row of offerings made by the men of the village, hung suspended awaiting the blessing of the priests. And so did we – wait. Women and children sat on the ground literally for hours.

Imagine ninety-degree heat, air chewable with humidity. You’re dressed in a tightly wound sarong, legs folded sideways underneath you with the Mona Lisa corset shoving your breasts up under your chin. 

Balinese women don’t squirm. They don’t sweat. They just gossip happily, a child in their lap, an arm around the shoulder of the friend they’re chatting to. Hair perfect. Makeup exquisite. And in the midst of them is me, swiping at the moisture dripping off my chin, tugging at the sarong that threatens to unwrap, yanking down on the creeping corset that wants to pop my breasts out of the low-cut neckline of the itchy kebaya, all the while smiling, trying to appear, well, Balinese…cool, calm, composed.

Is it any wonder that here at Granny’s Landing in the middle of idyllic nowhere, I’ve burned my bras along with my bridges? After fifty years enslaved to the silhouette, I refuse to have my torso squeezed up or down, in or out. My breasts swing freely, like balloons full of pudding. There’s nothing sexy about them. The jokes about old ladies are too true to be funny. 

Right?

I used to care. I’ve thought about that. Why did I care? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I was motivated by sheer vanity. I wanted to look good for me. Makeup. Perms. High heels. Mini skirts. Underwires. How much of that do I still do? Zip. Zilch. Nada. I’m over myself. Now, all I care about is comfort. 

It’s wonderful! So liberating! Intoxicating! The incredible joy of not giving a damn. 

And just so you know, somehow I managed to facilitate the new cellular service install and connect to the hotspot. As if by magic, the Roku talks to the TV and my computer works. The printer…no amount of begging, pleading, cajoling, or cursing, has succeeded so far. It remains disconnected to frustrate me yet again another day.

The Space Between

20 Jul 2024 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Feminism, vision board Tags: , , , , ,

What faces you when you’re on the throne? I’m serious, what is literally in the space directly in front of you? What do you gaze upon multiple times daily doing what natural urges require?

In my private chamber, the Vision Board occupies that place. It’s four feet eight inches from my eyeball to the center of that informative piece of art. I measured. My visits provide ample time to peruse its content, mull over its many meanings, stew, and ponder.

Be who you are, Be where you are, compelled my first attempt to share revelations gleaned from the Board in a post, Becoming Small. Satisfied with my conclusions, I moved on to, The Space Between. That phrase was glued beside the image of two very old women smoking cigarettes and wearing vintage wedding gowns. Beneath them were the words, the future, and as old as time.

First I asked myself, The space between what? Staring at me were those two ancient broads. I had the uneasy premonition that I was seeing my future. So the space was the present. The now. The time existing between the past and the future.

But I couldn’t leave that alone. How big is that space, I wondered?

A wise woman once told me that the present is the only time we have in which to create. I would change that to say, the present is the only time we have period. Our minds can dwell on the past. We can imagine the future, but our physical being cannot be in either of those places. We are only in the present.

Who thinks about these things? I should have been born in the era of Socrates, Aristotle, Plato. I’d have fit right in disguised as a man. The female philosophers came later:

  • Hypatia of Alexandria: An early female philosopher who worked in astronomy and mathematics
  • Heloise of Argenteuil: A French philosopher from around 1100–1164 who advocated for adequate education for nuns
  • St. Hildegard of Bingen: Lived from 1098–1179
  • Catherine of Siena: Lived from 1347–1380
  • Christine de Pizan: Lived from 1364–c. 1430
  • Moderata Fonte: Lived from 1555–1592 and was a critic of religion and feminist
  • Tullia d’Aragona: Lived from c. 1510–1556 and was known for her intellectual conversations

Who’s heard of any of them? Ok. A subject for another day – sometime in the future!

Back to the questions at hand: How long is the present? Is it measured in conscious time, from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep? For the sake of sanity, I think I’ve always thought of it that way. I plan what I’ll do today. Yesterday’s gone, tomorrow is yet to come, so…

My literal brain wasn’t having it. No, Sherry. Think. The present is the most infinitesimally small unit of measurable time, a zeptosecond, one trillionth of a billionth of a second. Like it or not, everything else is past or future.

But… (I argued) I move from one zeptosecond to the next… Explain that! If I’m always in the present then my present isn’t the smallest measure, it’s unlimited, until death I depart. I thought about it for a minute. Both the logical and the imaginative sides of my brain seemed delighted with that explanation.

Whew! Glad that’s settled. What a relief. I’m not bound by the zeptosecond. I have unlimited time to create. That’s good news because I want to write another novel. And I want to live long enough to see the one I already wrote, Nettle Creek, picked up by a publisher. Hopefully, there’ll be enough space between for all that and so much more.

Whoops! Finding My Face – Completed Version!

10 Jul 2024 4 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized

I’ve been journaling almost daily for 25 years.

My bookcase is littered with binders full of lined notebook paper, covered with scribblings. There are beautifully bound journals, gifted to me, that contain periods of my life, cover to cover. A disintegrating, plastic pouch overflows with more pages…

Gwen and I were setting out on our usual walk this morning, Shall we go to the corn or the mailbox? The large corn fields are to the west, not planted this year. Too wet. But we still refer to that direction as the corn. To the east, the mailbox sits on the other side of the Great River Road at the end of what I consider the driveway, but it’s an actual numbered lane maintained by the township.

We agreed on the mailbox and headed into the sun which was already midheaven and ferocious. Did you hear from anybody? That’s the question that brings us to a recounting of anything that’s happened since our five o’clock social hour the night before. No detail is too boring or mundane to be shared. It’s all of interest.

This morning my sister mentioned an article she’d read in the New York Times, about a woman who had a dream and then wrote it as a children’s story. As it goes, a little girl is fascinated by everyone’s face but can’t find her own. She experiences triumphs and tragedies in her search which, to my recollection, ends successfully. But I was deep into processing by then – relating it to my life, my writing for self-discovery, a search for my face.

The timing had particular significance. Yesterday, going through old photos triggered questions about what else I’d been doing at those times. I found journal entries that corresponded with the pictures and…I shouldn’t have gone there.

Good grief! Was that me? Was my life that dismal? I mean, I didn’t write it as dismal. I wrote it as fact, this is what’s going on. But, OMG! The pain it brings me now, remembering. I didn’t know how to be a wife. I didn’t know what I needed in a partner. Ever. That didn’t stop me from marrying, though. Five times.

I’ve realized that childhood trauma, my mother’s long illness, and near death, left me damaged. Unwilling, perhaps unable, to trust anyone but myself.

That revelation was just one of many that became clear as I journaled over the years. Self-discovery isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s easy to accept the gallant side, the brilliant decisions, the selfless gestures. Chuckle. But when dredging up the subconscious, when shadows loom large revealing jealousy, pettiness, ego, and various and sundry fears growl from the gloom, do I really want to see that reflected in my face?

The better we know ourselves, inside-out, the better equipped we are to manifest our genius and manage the darkness. Awareness is key, and willingness is essential. We’re programmed to default to our faults. They’re the comfortable familiar. Effortless. The high road requires intention and energy.

Perhaps faults is the wrong word. Proclivities, maybe? An inherent inclination toward something objectionable…it looks good on the surface. Your intentions are honorable. But it’s a habitual reaction that, at its core isn’t healthy for you. Unless you look for those goblins and annihilate them, they will run your life.

For example, from my own hidden closet, leaving was my default. I had no capacity for persevering in a relationship to work things out. My intention was never to hurt people, but the by-product of unawareness often harms more than just ourselves. Once I recognized the pattern and was determined to fix it, I’d divorced my fifth husband. There’s no going back, of course, and I sensed the damages from my past that informed the urge to leave were irreparable. My solution, then, was the only humane choice: remain alone.

Etched into my aging face are the successes and failures of a fully lived life. Smile lines far outnumber the frown furrows.

It isn’t finished though. The longer I live, the more grizzled and real (like The Velveteen Rabbit) I become. I find I don’t dread the image in the mirror. The changes fascinate me. There’s a story for every wrinkle, a rich history that’s every bit as epic as War and Peace.

Becoming Small

06 Jul 2024 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, lockdown, Renovating the Hunting Shack, The Farm, Writing Tags: , ,

Antsy, distracted, hyped up but directionless…

I get this way when a big project nears completion. It’s not that there’s nothing left to do. Baseboards haven’t been installed. The entryway waits for the new front door before floor covering can be put in. There are hundreds of little details. 

I’m macro. Details are micro. It takes a mighty surge of determination, a decision of the will for me to focus on small stuff. 

Under these circumstances, I procrastinate. Any excuse not to address the work is easier than summoning the energy to do it. But that creates anxiety, guilt, shame…a wicked cycle.

I know myself. There’s something else going on, a subconscious roadblock that requires attention. Journaling, stream-of-consciousness writing, and meditation are tools for working through what hinders. A brisk walk or yoga workout might be enough to beat the funk. 

But when I want a broader scope, I create a vision board.

My latest effort produced a massive collage of pictures with words and exclamations superimposed upon them. And there, dead center, to the right of Comin Home, to the left of Rule over what you write, below the single word, Alone, and above the question, Where do we go from here, Becoming Small commanded attention.

I framed my creation and hung it in the bathroom directly in front of the toilet where I would have uninterrupted time to gaze and ponder. Sitting there, I obsessed about becoming small. 

Since Covid and my departure from Bali, I’ve felt diminished. Living in Indonesia made me interesting. Thousands of people around the globe read my blog posts. A few even came to Bali to seek me out. During my ten years there I learned the language and immersed myself in a vastly different culture steeped in animism and Balinese Hinduism. 

When Covid descended, so did monkeys. Lockdown was taken seriously on the island. We could not leave our homes. Food was ordered. Cash was left in an envelope at the gate where the deliverer could pick it up and deposit bags of groceries in exchange.

Monkeys from the nearby Monkey Forrest Sanctuary had no such restrictions. Soon hoards of them invaded homes wreaking havoc, stealing whatever wasn’t nailed down, sending clay tiles crashing to earth as they skirmished on my rooftop. 

To avoid mass destruction, I was ever-vigilant, poised, and ready to close windows and slam doors or the beasts would be inside. Several times a day they screeched their arrival, mothers clinging to their babies, large males charging the door and showing their teeth. Aggressive. Dangerous. Monkey trauma fried my nervous system. But without them, it would have been much more difficult to shed the ego and become small.

When I started noticing my thoughts and feelings again, I was in northern Minnesota, remodeling a derelict hunting shack on the family farm. I’d shoved Bali, COVID-19, and monkeys into a dark corner of the past and blocked them from my mind.

I felt microscopic in that remote farming community. Invisible. Meanwhile, I had a worthy distraction: 400 square feet of raw potential to turn into a habitable dwelling. 

For the next year, I replaced whoever I had been with a focused robotic workaholic. Manual labor day in and day out kept me mentally occupied and physically exhausted.

When my tiny home approached completion, rather than rejoice that the work was done, I envisioned an addition with a garage, deck, entryway, and a 14 x 20 loft room. I wasted no time making it happen. I wasn’t ready to relax and thread my way into a social fabric that was still so foreign to me.

When the addition neared its final stages, I found myself mentally scratching at possibilities for the next big thing. But staring at me from the wall was the vision board. With fascination and dread, I sensed that becoming small was vital to my well-being. 

Architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe operated on the principle that: less is more. He was persuaded that simplicity brought greater satisfaction than complexity and excess. I started down that path in 2012 when I relieved myself of my belongings and moved to Bali. The freedom was intoxicating. Unmitigated joy moved in where ‘stuff’ had been.

Since then, I’ve acquired only things that delight me; items I would never tire of seeing every day. My new home is furnished with treasures. The decor is unique. The main house radiates bright colors and light. It mirrors that side of me that is upbeat, optimistic, and happy. The loft addition is a reflection of my inner landscape: a moody mix of pattern and shadow. I love and need both spaces. My total living area is 780 sq. ft. It feels huge. 

But becoming small intentionally, called for a hard reset. 

When the French press I’d ordered to replace the ancient Mr. Coffee maker arrived, my knee-jerk response was, It’s too small. As soon as that thought surfaced, the word small set off mental alarms. The vision board flashed before me. I was thrown into a process of reimagining morning coffee in a lesser but more powerful way. I have a set of unused espresso mugs that served as art on my kitchen shelves. What if I used them? Historically, I made miserably weak coffee and polished off a full pot. Wouldn’t it be fun to brew it espresso-strength in my new, 12 oz. press then sip it slowly from one of those mini-mugs? 

Excited, I unplugged Mr. Coffee, scrubbed him clean, and set him aside to be used exclusively for guests. 

The next morning I couldn’t wait to experiment. The result was even better than I’d imagined. I closed my eyes dreamily inhaling the fragrant steam and losing myself in the intense, rich flavor. I added a decadent splash of cream. The too-small French press revolutionized my morning ritual. 

I’m finding other ways becoming small enhances my life. Eating, for instance. My gut is so much happier when I feed it less more often. I enjoy the taste of one dish at a time rather than laboring through a plate full of competing textures and flavors. Replenished frequently, my energy level remains consistent, emotions stable, and mental acuity sharp.

I have more time for self-indulgence. One of the best features of a small home is easy maintenance. Anything that takes me away from life’s pleasures is unwelcome, and cleaning is not high on my love-to-do list. It takes thirty minutes, max, to have my place gleaming. Then I’m free to engage in other pursuits guilt-free.

When a designer friend saw my drawings for the layout of the interior of this house early on, he voiced concern. Where’s your storage? he wanted to know. My response was that I had nothing to store. It was 99% true. The 1% I own that does require storage is a result of Minnesota weather. Extremes in temperature make two completely different wardrobes essential. In summer, there has to be a place to hide winter clothes, jackets, boots, hats, mittens, and multiple scarves. In winter, summer clothing gets stashed. But one large suitcase and my smaller carry-on handle all of it. They tuck into a curtained cubby above the refrigerator.

So, as my Aussie friends in Bali would say, Done and dusted! 

Now that I’m acing the small bit, another shred of wisdom seems to be spying on me from the vision board, vying for attention. ‘Be’ true to who you are, true to where you are. 

I’ve spent the last decade being true to who I am. But true to where you are? Huh! I have no idea what that means. This should be interesting.

Don’t Hide Your Wild says Punk Granny in Holey Jeans

23 May 2024 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, grannys landing, lockdown, meditation, Mexico, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

I’ve been wearing leggings for at least fifteen years. Nothing is more comfortable than the forgiving stretch paired with long tops that cover sagging buttocks and hide a thickening waistline. I had silky-thin ones for summer, bulky, fleece-lined ones for winter, and everything in between. I was set for life. 

On April 9th, I left Minnesota to spend several weeks with family. I wish I could say for certain what happened when my flight crossed into the Eastern Time Zone. All I know is that my perspective shifted. I saw myself differently. 

I like to consult the stars at pivotal points. 

The eclipse in early April seemed an appropriate time to do that. The results shocked me. Supposedly, I was about to experience a profound transformation that would make me question everything I believed about myself. 

I’m a person who journals for self-discovery, meditates, and digs deep into the workings of the subconscious. I value self-awareness, and mindfulness practices contribute to that knowledge. My initial reaction was, No way. I know who I am and I like who I am. Full stop. End of discussion. 

I landed at LaGuardia and booked a Lyft to Weston, CT. A few minutes into the trip, the driver missed an exit. We were in New York City rush hour. Traffic was at a standstill and all I could see in any direction were the roofs of vehicles reflecting sunlight like shards of brass. That added another hour to a trip that was already an hour and a half. I had ample time to reflect on the astrologer’s prediction and the spacey sensation that some part of me was slowly dissolving.

That night, I took off my leggings, stuffed them into the bowels of my carry-on, and sensed the end of an era. I donned work jeans and a flannel shirt, clothing I’ve become intimately familiar with over the past two years of house construction, and buried myself in the physicality of hard work. 

For the next six weeks, I shuttled back and forth between Connecticut and South Carolina, depending upon where I was most useful. CT meant doing whatever I could to assist my son-in-law with renovations to a newly purchased property. In SC I entertained my granddaughters while Mom traveled for business. 

The first time I left CT for Isle of Palms, SC, I pulled on a pair of dressy white jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt, the only articles of clothing I brought that weren’t legging-related or work grunge. 

The following day I went shopping.

Whatever had clicked into place as I flew eastward, was actualized as I tried on fashionable, wide-leg carpenter’s pants, cargo capris, and holey jeans. I found bottoms first, then looked for shirts, the antithesis of flowy, to go with them. I was becoming the visual apparition of my revised inner essence. 

Wide-leg pants symbolized elegance and liberation in the 1930s. Cargo pants originated in Britain in 1938. Wearing jeans became a statement of youth rebellion in the 1950s after James Dean popularized them in the movie: Rebel Without a Cause. These fashions today are a remake of those vintage items. Torn clothing surfaced with angry youth during the British punk movement as the disenfranchised pounded hard rock music with lyrics rejecting mainstream corporate mass culture and its values. Their ripped jeans symbolized freedom of expression and individual non-conformity 

Since retirement, I’ve worn myself inside out. Whatever me wants expression, that persona is reflected in my apparel.

For the first few years in Bali, I gravitated toward lacey blouses and flouncy skirts, as far from business attire as possible. Then I moved on to capri leggings and flowy tops. When I landed in Mexico, after surviving COVID lockdown in Indonesia, the tables piled high with clothing at Tuesday Market drew me like a kid to a cookie jar. Bewitched by the sheer volume, the mass, the heaps of everything imaginable and unimaginable as far as the eye could see, I bought whatever caught my fancy, discarding most of it when I returned to the States a year later.

Mexico was a breath, a long inhale between COVID trauma and whatever might be next for me. 

Upon my return to the place I was born, the only thing that made sense was work. I threw myself into resurrecting a derelict cabin, turning it into a habitable dwelling next door to my sister’s home on the family farm. I felt most authentic in shabby work clothes that required no thought. 

However, this time coming home to Minnesota was much different. The skeptics who thought I wouldn’t stay in this remote place, no longer whispered their doubts. With a lot of help I’ve created a house I love that incorporates everything I’ve ever wanted in a dwelling. (Granted, free labor came with shaking heads and rolled eyes at my outside-the-box ideas.) But this community of family, old friends, and new acquaintances are rugged individualists. My renegade heart is accepted here and becomes more liberated with each passing year. 

Finding one’s true self isn’t a one-time thing. I’ve had many iterations, some authentic, a few not. Whenever I felt pressure to conform to accepted standards, I hid my wilder side. Looking back, I shouldn’t have. It came out anyway but in a dark, destructive manner. Had I allowed my soul free expression, I believe I could have avoided forty-five years in a half-life of shadows.

But that’s hindsight, always 20/20. Now, I’m the punk granny in holey jeans spouting wisdom for the Gen Xs, Millennials, and Gen Zers trailing behind me. It’s the age-old, Do what I say, not what I’ve done, advice. No matter your age, if you’re reading this it’s not too late! Do yourself a favor: don’t hide your wild!

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