Why Stop Now?

16 Aug 2026 Comments Off on Why Stop Now?

by writingforselfdiscovery in adventure, South Carolina Lowcountry

I remember telling myself in Bali that I was lonesome, but not lonely. Here, in Charleston, I’m not lonesome. But from time to time, I feel lonely. My daughter and granddaughters are just across the bridge in Mt. Pleasant, and I see them regularly. But in my day-to-day life, even though I’m surrounded by other lovely people my age in this building built specifically for seniors, they’re still strangers.

That’s changing, though. I have several female acquaintances. We stop and chat in passing. One sprightly gentleman, and several not-so-spry ones, greet me with a smile of recognition when I see them coming or going. But it’s not every day, and frankly, it’s not enough.

I’ve never described myself as extroverted or gregarious. But I’m not a hermit, either. For the most part, I like the company of others as long as it’s on my terms. That means by invitation. Don’t just show up at my door unannounced, like the pest control guy did yesterday. There’s a monthly calendar of events, and Pest Control was on it. But with six floors and 77 apartments, there was no telling when he would arrive at mine. So when vigorous pounding interrupted my daily workout routine, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

When he saw me in my yoga clothes, the PC guy apologized for waking me. (In this case, PC stands for Pest Control, not politically correct.) The nerve! He thought my cropped T-shirt and form-fitting capris were pajamas. For goodness’ sake, it was 9:30 a.m. I’d been up for hours. I grumpily mumbled that I was yoga-ing, not sleeping, as he stepped over my mat and did what he’d come to do.

So, there’s the pest control guy and the monthly inspection crew that makes sure residents aren’t hoarding or living in filth. Those provide human interaction for a few minutes, two days per month. Uh-huh. Two days.

But recently, I heard a commotion progressing down my long corridor. The Beach Boys’ Surfin’ USA was playing loudly, punctuated by peals of laughter. I imagined someone’s teenage grandkids had come to visit. But then the music was at my door, accompanied by a series of solid raps. I sprang to my feet and flung it open. There stood the three angels who keep this place running like clockwork. Matt was pushing a cooler full of soft drinks and invited me to help myself. “Do you have root beer?” I asked. He bent down and fished out a Barq’s. Then they were on their merry way, and I was once again ensconced in my own silence

So, in the absence of anything else, I write. I’m twenty chapters into my latest novel. I call it a love quadrangle murder mystery, and I just killed the first suspect. He deserved it, despicable vermin that he was. But now I’m stuck. I have an outline of sorts, and I’m attempting to follow it. But sometimes a character goes rogue. With no warning, he veers off in a different direction than I’d planned. It’s always much better than the plot I’d sketched out, but it ruins the outlined sequence of events, and I’m shuttled back to square one to figure out what’s next.

That happened about an hour ago, and although stuck, the writing bug was still biting me. I hadn’t posted to my blog for a long time. Immersion in a fictional world is far more interesting than reality these days. But I pulled up Writing for Self-Discovery and opened a blank page just in case a spark of inspiration would ignite.

And there you have it. Who’d have thought I’d end up in the heart of downtown Charleston, South Carolina? Surely not I. From backwoods Minnesota, surrounded by fields and forests, I landed in the King Street hustle-bustle of tourist-central. But then, who’d have thought I’d roost in rural Minnesota after San Miguel de Allende? And what about SMA, Mexico, after Ubud, Bali?

Does the story end here? If it does, I’m okay with that. But there have been so many unexpected twists and turns on this journey; all bets are off. I’ve learned how to say goodbye in six languages; why stop now?

A Typically Hazardous Experience

10 Jan 2026 14 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in adventure, meditation, Uncategorized, wisdom Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Out of curiosity, I Googled the definition of adventure. I’ve described various times of my life in that way without ever looking up the word to see what it actually meant. It surprised me. An unusual and exciting, typically hazardous experience or activity. Exciting…yes. Unusual…yes. But typically hazardous? No! No! No! Until now, that is. My latest adventure into the Twilight Zone of post stroke reality, merits that description.

But as well as being a wild and crazy ride, this event has provided an in-depth learning experience. For instance, did you know that the average body contains over 60,000 miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries? And that of those 60,000, the brain lays claim to 400. That’s 400 miles of potential hazard just waiting to happen. It was in one of those tiniest roadways, a random capillary on the right side of the parietal lobe, where my latest adventure began.

That was three weeks ago, and I already told you in a previous blog all about the incident itself. Today, however, I did my full yoga workout (except the headstand – just a little skittish about my head these days) and meditated. Yoga and meditation along with medication, help to stabilize blood pressure. Then, around lunch time, there was a quick rap on the door. A large box containing an exercise bicycle sat there. I dragged it in. It needed assembly, of course, and the directions suggested two adults.

Hogwash!

An hour later it was done.

Then, because this is South Carolina, and it’s a 75-degree day in January, I went out on the balcony to catch a few rays.

Being the stubborn, Capricornian goat that I am, I’m committed to coming out of this ordeal stronger, healthier, and more fit than I’ve ever been. The body has a miraculous ability to heal itself. And I find this amazing: while I was having my adventure, aka stroke, brain cells surrounding the obstructed area were being starved of oxygen and dying. That sent the brain’s resident immune cells and white blood cells charging to the injured area to do cleanup. They cleared away dead cell debris and toxins, prepping the compromised area for repair. Then the healthy part of the brain kicked in creating detours around the damaged places and picked up the slack in the functions previously managed by the injured tissue.

Nearby, surviving neurons worked overtime to form new connections and neural circuits, effectively rewiring the brain. In support of their effort, the brain generated new neurons from stem cells, and those migrated to the site of the injury. All hands on deck, right? Finally, the formation of new blood vessels helped restore blood flow and provided oxygen and nutrients to the area surrounding the core damage aiding in the survival of vulnerable neurons.

And now it’s my turn. As it happens, the brain’s self-repair process is highly dependent on activity and consistent, repetitive practices. Hence, the bicycle. Oh, and did I mention crochet? I tried it once, years ago, and made a pathetic mess of it. But, to make those gimpy fingers on my left hand behave as they should, I’m trying again, forcing them to manipulate the tiny strand of yarn while my right hand jabs the crochet hook in, out, around, and through.

Then there’s typing. Talk about repetitive movements for the fingers! You should have seen those lefties when I first put them back on a keyboard. A) they were numb so they couldn’t feel the keys, and B) they were spastic, indifferent to the commands I sent them. But we kept at it, and I’m delighted to say they’re fully functioning again, good as new.

Too Much Information?

If you don’t know me by now… Great old song, and true. But you do know me. You know that I share life’s ups and downs with you and try to find the growth potential and see the bright side in every circumstance. Unfortunately, there are horrendous things happening in this country now that make that difficult. But it’s more important than ever, that sane people stand together and resist in any way we can the powers that are allowing atrocities to be committed at our very doorstep. Like the brain, we need to clean up the destruction, clear away the debris, and prepare our country for healing.

Meanwhile, I am grateful for life, for a body that heals, and for all who have reached out to me with kindness and positivity during this typically hazardous and challenging ADVENTURE!

Live Dangerously, He Said

31 Dec 2025 33 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!