Live Dangerously, He Said

31 Dec 2025 16 Comments

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

You might ask why anyone would take that approach to life. The great German philosopher Frederick Nietzsche, (1844-1900) was not looked upon kindly by his peers in 1800s Germany. Don’t forget he’s also the one who proclaimed, “God is dead!” Not a popular position when taken literally. But Frederick did not mean it literally, whereas, the following quote, he did.

“The secret of the greatest fruitfulness and greatest enjoyment is to live dangerously.”

I relate absolutely and completely to that compelling directive. I don’t believe he was talking about recklessness or ignoring the generally accepted moral principles of the times. I think it was more about exploring one’s curiosity, stepping outside the familiar, and refusing to live small.

But after I survived a terrifying incident on the 19th of December, I am forced to revise my methods of dangerous living. At 1:00 p.m. on that day, I was shopping for Christmas gifts. Suddenly, I felt detached from my body, my legs went wobbly and I gripped the shopping cart as I stumbled toward the exit doors. Once outside I crouched, my back against the rough brick wall of the stores’ exterior and tried to calm my racing thoughts and wildly beating heart.

About 30 minutes prior to this event, I had eaten one of Culver’s decadent concrete mixers. It was the smallest size they sell but due to a very rigid system of fairness at this particular Culver’s, there were not one, but two heath bars crumbled into that already criminally sweet concoction. I wondered if somehow t was experiencing a massive sugar rush that would pass if I just gave it time.

It didn’t pass. When I got home, legs still refusing to walk in a balanced and mannerly way, I went straight to bed.

My daughter was concerned. Shouldn’t we take you to a doctor? I’m a person who has always been exceptionally healthy. Every wound or illness I’ve had previously, with time, healed on its own. I was counting on that. Then my oldest daughter called. When she heard my symptoms she said, Mom’s having a stroke. Get her to the ER, NOW!

A new adventure had commenced.

My blood pressure, when I was admitted and a literal army of medical professionals tore into me, was 256/109. I shouldn’t be alive.

But I am.

It has been 12 days since reality took that unforeseen turn. Other than a little numbness in my left hand with fingers that have an unwillingness to cooperate at times, and the tendency to tire quickly, I am back to normal.

And yet, I am not. I’ve been warned that for the next 30 days the likelihood of a second occurrence is high, and if that should happen, it would be worse. Images float through my mind of drool trickling from the corner of my mouth as I slump in a wheelchair, blanket tucked around me, in a convalescent home somewhere.

I feel soul-crushingly vulnerable along with many other emotions that defy expression. And yet, some corner of me recognizes this as an opportunity, a challenge to recreate myself and my life once again. The doctors tell me I will make a full recovery. It may take a few more weeks to regain sensation and dexterity in my left hand, but it will return. I may require more rest than I used to, but I’m well aware that I’ve been pushing my body to accomplish more than it should for years.

This was a wake up call. And knowing my stubborn self, nothing short of a major come-to-Jesus would have forced me into the necessary changes. So here I am, staring my 76th birthday in the face, and the full impact of 2026 dead ahead. Hmmmm… Maybe I shouldn’t have said it quite that way…

Happy New Year, friends! Eat healthy, drink in moderation, get out to stretch those legs daily, and keep your dear ones near.

Kick Up The Fire!

12 Nov 2025 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in adventure, South Carolina Lowcountry Tags: , , ,

I never intended to move to South Carolina. My cottage on The Farm in northern Minnesota was supposed to be it, my cozy nest near family and elderly friends where I could retire from the world and just BE.

But true to the saying: Change is the only constant, and true to my wandering nature, what was supposed to just be, just isn’t.

My Achilles Heel, the Sirens’ call that, even at this advanced age I cannot resist, is a new horizon. It’s not a greener pasture. The pastures at home in Minnesota are emerald, unless they’re white. The irresistible urge, the inescapable force, is the unquenchable lust for adventure.

It’s not my fault. I inherited genes from Norwegian ancestors whose Viking ships were seen on distant shores as they explored new lands. For me, travel is not a choice. It’s an obsession, a drive so strong that even the slightest possibility of a new door opening has me packed and on my way.

That’s how it was when the opportunity to move here arose. Spontaneous is too slow a word for how quickly I zipped up my carry-on and said goodbye. I left everything behind: my house, my car, my social network, my life, and moved into an empty apartment on the fourth floor of a complex overlooking South Carolina’s Lowcountry.

I used to stare dreamily across fields of spring hay maturing to summer gold, watch V-shaped flights of geese honking their way south in the fall, then endure months of snow-covered everything. Here, the salt marshes present a thrilling new landscape. Atlantic Ocean tides, pulled by lunar threads, collect in ponds bordered by swaying cordgrass.

Snowy egrets float aloft, their long black legs and yellow feet skim the water as they hunt their prey. Then slowly, the moon departs. Sparkling pools become sand once more, and flocks of salt marsh sparrows peck industriously, probing the mud for food. So it goes, day after day, the ebb and flow of life.

Ben Sawyer Boulevard spans the distance from solid land here in Mt. Pleasant, across the marsh and the Intracoastal Waterway to Sullivan’s Island. A bridge swings open for boat traffic too tall to pass underneath.

Many times a day it disconnects us, halting traffic as some no-name barge lumbers through. There’s nothing more frustrating than showing up late for an appointment on the island because water traffic took precedence.

It’s one of the adjustments to a more laid-back, southern lifestyle. I take it in, processing, pondering. This transition has been all-consuming. I’m glad I’m here, deeply involved in the day-to-day of my daughter’s and granddaughters’ lives. But, trust me in this, there’s never a dull moment.

Vikings set out to conquer. Maybe I did, too – conquer loneliness, boredom, a sense of purposelessness – the terrifying thought that this was it, the end, the last chapter.

Here, there’s no chance that I’ll go gentle into that good night, not with the unleashed exuberance of my grands! Thanks anyway, Dylan Thomas. Philip Larkin’s poem captures my situation more aptly: Kick up the fire, and let the flames break loose!

Ah! The alarm I set is ringing. It’s reminding me that it’s time to pick the kids up from school. See what I mean? I have purpose!