It Shouldn’t Be This Hard

18 Jun 2025 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Portugal, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

It’s a snippet from my latest vision board, before I knew what was developing on the horizon, back when unsettledness simmered just below the surface. It was preparing me, oblivious me, for the challenges ahead.

And here I am, sitting at my daughter’s monster kitchen island where the internet flows unhindered to my ancient HP.

The service here is vastly unlike at home, where I depend upon my Android’s moody hotspot to keep me connected. And when I’ve exhausted the 50 gigabytes of high speed, which I can do in less than a week, I’m suddenly cut off. Just like that. I have no television. No computer. I’m reduced to my phone’s data, using the tiny screen for movies and the minuscule keyboard for writing my books, my blogs, writing anything for that matter. Frustrating is too gentle a word for the inner rage.

There are options…

I can drive 45 minutes to the public library in Grand Rapids and use its wifi connection. I’ve haunted the place lately. The broad expanses of glass overlooking the Mississippi River and the soaring, beamed ceiling offer a stunning venue.

Or I could sit at any coffee shop, brewery, cafe, probably even Dairy Queen in that bustling town, and connect. I don’t want to appear ungrateful. It’s just that I would so much rather skip the inconvenience of the hour-and-a-half round trip and work from home.

When I imagined this week in Minneapolis, caring for Velo, the cat, who was not invited to accompany the family on vacation, I believed their dependable wifi would allow me to zip through the final steps of making my just-published book available for purchase to all my blog readers in no time. I’d design an Author’s Page, add some links, and presto! Done!

Reality can be such a downer.

Somehow, don’t ask me how, in an attempt to toggle a new page, I managed to mangle the website. It took hours to fix the mess. I made it private while I worked to redeem the wreckage so none of my subscribers (you) would witness my ineptitude. In my defense, WordPress is NOT the easiest platform to navigate. Come to find out, I couldn’t even accomplish the private part properly. Suddenly, my stats were climbing. People were accessing the site regardless of my frantic efforts to deter them.

Throughout the process, Velo probably heard words that aren’t allowed in this household, where my seven-year-old grandsons are strongly discouraged from voicing playground expletives. But my pressure valve sputters like a boiling teakettle when agitation mounts, and it’s crudely audible when I’m alone. Velo doesn’t count.

I persisted. At last my Author Page on https://writingforselfdiscovery.com/ went live. The cloud picture I chose to headline the site reflects my emotional landscape of the past several weeks, signifying the other thing that’s been harder than it should be.

The term, ungrounded, doesn’t do justice to my degree of inner chaos. Ever since Portugal, I’ve been out of sync with myself. I’ve gone through the motions of someone rooted to a place, trying to make it true. I created a huge flower bed, transplanted perennials, and bought a weed eater. I dug up oak seedlings and sowed them in my yard along with baby white pines. All the while, a thousand miles away and shimmering like a mirage, my new life was taking shape.

20250513_1845177616054903191700491

I’m moving…again. It will be a radical shift, almost as jarring and liberating as the transition to Bali in 2012. This time it’s Minnesota to South Carolina, Midwest to eastern seaboard, Scandinavian brogue to southern drawl, country to city. It may be temporary – a blip on the landscape lasting a few months. Time will tell.

But what if…

What if I love it? What if it feels right? What if I’m needed? Wanted there? No wonder my head is a cloudy fog. But firm on the ground beneath is the certainty. Whatever this is, it’s what I want. It’s a leap into the unknown, and it’s just that kind of leap that, for me, makes life worth living.

Resurrection

14 May 2025 4 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, grannys landing, Portugal, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

It takes time.

Resurrection came slowly. After six weeks in Isle of Palms on the heels of three weeks in Portugal, Minnesota in mid-March was a desolate homecoming. Crusty brown patches of leftover snow and leafless trees stark against a brooding sky, replaced boundless beaches, ocean breezes, and unrepentant sunshine.

I’d escaped nine weeks of winter. Gentle weather and emerald-green palms had lulled me into believing it was spring everywhere, and indeed it was. But the season looked different as my Uber driver inched me through messy construction and stop-and-go traffic on the Minneapolis, south-494 loop.

My mood plummeted.

It wasn’t just the landscape. I was exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally.

The next morning, I loaded luggage smelling of saltwater and dead fish into the back of my Prius and began the three-hour drive north toward home.

Home. Who am I? Home? Where is home?

I arrived, unpacked, and for days did nothing but stare at the monochromatic fields, forests, and sky, spread out in stark reality around me. I couldn’t connect.  Disoriented, mildly depressed, listless, I wondered why I had ever moved to this barren wasteland.

One week passed…two…same old same old.

Around week three, I woke up one morning fully myself. Oh! Where have you been my blue-eyed…daughter? The rising sun dribbled pink-golden light over puffy clouds.

I heard birds. And was that a hint of green – the slightest wash of color in the treetops?

Something took hold of me then, some dormant gene from ancestors long dead. Dirt. I wanted my hands in dirt. A passion to dig and plant and grow stuff overwhelmed me. And where was last-year’s hummingbird feeder? Surely, those tiny beasts would need extra fuel until the flowers bloomed.

Once again, my life had purpose.

I dragged six-by-six beams left over from my construction project to create a planter along the west wall of the house.

My brother-in-law brought three tractor-loads of manure-rich soil and dumped them into that prepared space. Gwen had hostas, and seeds for cosmos, calendula, and cilantro. Sweating and grunting, we dug up the hostas and transferred them to my yard.

Aunt Joyce offered lilies-of-the-valley, irises, and sedum. Yes, please. Thank you!

Then it was Mother’s Day. When I opened my g-mail inbox that morning, there was a sweet note from my youngest daughter and a gift card to Target, where she manages engineers in the IT department.

Yesterday, I spent it. I’ve wanted a weed-whacker forever, and now I own one. Target’s best. (Target’s only!) It required assembly. I can put together Wayfair furniture with my eyes closed. But a machine? We’ll find out my level of mechanical competency when I do its test run today.

I don’t recognize this incarnation of myself, but it feels right. Or, as is always the case with me, it feels right now. There’s no undercurrent of restlessness, no urge to be somewhere else. For the moment, I’m content to beautify and occupy my little corner of the world.

But…

Come November, all bets are off. Winter in Minnesota is not my happy place. I’m thinking Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Costa Rica…or…come to think of it…saya rindu Bali.

Countdown to Portugal

03 Feb 2025 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, Shopping, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

Oh! I will slip the snowy bonds of Earth
And dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ll climb…

That isn’t quite how John Gillespie Mcgee begins his poem, High Flight I took liberties with the wording based on my circumstances. But in a few days, I will escape dreary Minnesota winter and fly to Portugal for three weeks.

My whole body tingles! A friend I met in Bali spent seven weeks of Covid in a house in Ferragudo in the Algarve region. Now she’s there again and I’ll be renting a room from her for my stay.

From the house, it’s a 7-minute walk to the beach. It won’t be swimming weather. The Atlantic seems to always be cold, and Portugal registers temperatures between 55° and 65° this time of year. But that’s perfect for meandering the endless coastline with sand in my toes.

A few days ago, I was researching the area and found a river cruise up the Arvade to one of the many vineyards in the region. I couldn’t book it fast enough! The tour of the vines, a premier wine tasting with a charcuterie board of local cheeses, meats, and sausages, and a visit to the barrel room, not to mention the 1 1/2-hour boat ride there, and another 1 1/2-hour back sounds absolutely divine. As I said, my whole body tingles!

I’ve decided this will be a trip of unlimited creativity. I packed a set of 72 pens that have a fine point at one end and a brush at the other.

I have my mixed media tablet ready for sketching.

My passport has been updated, my universal plug works all over the world, and the little book of passwords – I can’t forget that. I also bought new pens for journaling. You can never have too many pens!

I’ll have a carry-on and a backpack. I like to travel light.

My friend works at a thrift shop there. I can only imagine the kind of damage I’ll do to my Euros at that place.

As beautiful as the snowcovered Minnesota landscape is, after the initial rapturous day or two, I seek alternatives: friends in warm places, open escape routes, and as soon as something manifests…

…it’s Gone Baby Gone!

My One Big Idea for 2025

23 Dec 2024 23 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Holidays, Writing Tags: , , , , , , ,

Happy Holidays to all!

I’m sailing into the New Year more pumped than I’ve been in a long time. There’s my upcoming trip to Portugal in February…can’t wait! But something else has me jazzed to near bursting.

It all began when I stumbled upon a podcast. I’ve been toying with self-publishing for a long time, so I was researching that possibility when up popped Matt Rudnitsky. I’d never heard of him, but I listened, and it was like, Yeah! This is it. This is what’s been missing in my writing life.

He not only addressed self-publishing, he presented the whole package: when to write, how to write, what to write, and how to engage others in your process, especially if you’ve been blogging (I have) and have a social media following no matter how small (I do). The more he talked, the more he revolutionized my writing preconceptions.

I found every aspect of his process compelling but was especially intrigued when he said we need to involve our followers in the creation process. I thought, Oh, here is where beta readers come in. But no, Matt wants us to test the market before we even start writing our book, to request feedback on the title and storyline to see if anyone is interested in reading what we are about to write, and keep them in the loop all the way to the finish.

Many of you have been following my blog since 2012. You have been loyal companions, affirming me and feeding my ego.

Here’s where that ends!

Going forward, for those who are willing, I want to write short, punchy books and I need brutal honesty. If you don’t like what I’ve put before you, please say so and tell me why. If parts resonate and other parts don’t, I need to know so I can revise and rewrite and make it better. I want no holds barred, people! When we’ve reached the place where it’s as good as it’s going to get, I’ll self-publish on Amazon and see what happens.

I have no expectations that my work will be a blockbuster success. I’m more interested in the process and engagement with those of you willing to join me on this adventure that feels like it could last the rest of my life.

I’ve missed the writers’ group in Bali terribly. I haven’t felt much like writing since I left the island. That was October 2021. With my astrological chart promising a fresh start, it feels like permission to charge full speed ahead. With the possibility of a little help from my friends, I feel the potential for a new-agey community of savvy literature lovers who will be gritty and tough with their feedback.

So…what are we waiting for? Are you willing to be my writers’ group and tell me the hard truths? Can we give it a test run? Matt says these books must include only the interesting parts to be successful. No fluff. We must write passionately about what we know, lessons learned, and stories of lived experiences. 

These are some titles I jotted down of things I’d like to write about. I’d love to hear which ones, if any, resonate with you.

First, some How To ideas:

  1. Ten Secrets to a Life Fully Lived
  2. Journaling the Subconscious
  3. Don’t Hold on to What You Can’t Have
  4. Manifest the Impossible

Then a few stories:

  1. Why Five Marriages Failed
  2. The Moment That Set Me Free
  3. Terror Over Oaxaca
  4. It Wasn’t Supposed to End Like This

When I start writing the book with the title that gets the most votes, I’ll ask for input from page one to the cover design. The Bali writers’ group held me accountable, and their honest feedback pushed me to improve. Out here in the wilds of northern Minnesota, there’s no way to duplicate those weekly get-togethers I so looked forward to. But maybe there’s hope for a digital support system that includes you. I’m eager to find out.

Enough said for now. Please email me your responses at bronson.sherry@gmail.com or in the comment section of this blog or on Facebook Messenger.

I have butterflies!

In Defense of Wrinkles

30 Nov 2024 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Italy, Mexico, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , ,

Stay out of the sun, they said. It causes wrinkles. Protect your skin. But tropical beaches beckoned, and I stretched on warm sands soaking in radiance, not caring about a distant future I may not survive to see.

“The single engine Cessna crashed in the mountains surrounding Oaxaca. The pilot and passenger were killed instantly.”

“A motorbike skidded off the cliff on Mount Batur. Neither driver nor passenger survived.”

“A woman walking the blind curves on the Amalfi coast highway was hit and killed by a speeding car.”

None of that happened. It could have because I was the passenger in both scenarios, and I was the woman walking.  But the plane didn’t crash. The motorbike didn’t skid. And the car didn’t even come close.

Instead, I survived to grow wrinkles with memories of a life lived to the brim, adventures, risks, and wondrous moments of sheer magic because the exciting present was far more important to me than an unknown future.

Had I avoided Waikiki beach, the intercontinental flights in that small plane, the exhilarating motorbike rides through the mountains of Bali, and the enchantment of the Amalfi coast, what would I have now?

Wrinkles, because they would have come with age whether I’d lived my wild or not. And what are wrinkles without memories to accompany them?

Just wrinkles.

However, my advice to my daughters:

●Wear sunscreen.

●Avoid tropical beaches.

●Fly only in large commercial aircraft.

●Don’t ever get on the back of a motorbike,

and…

●In Praiano on the Amalfi coast, stick to the stairs!

Turn Life Inside Out

03 Nov 2024 4 Comments

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

When did the lights go on? The tectonic plates shift? When did the things that mattered so much yesterday become unimportant but everything else intensified? When did life turn inside out?

There were decades when I lived from the outside in.

When I obsessed about makeup, clothes, body shape, the color of my nail polish…

…when my legs and armpits still grew hair and I shaved it off…

…when I braided my girls’ long locks, chose their clothes, monitored their behavior so it reflected positively on me…

When I remember those times, I sigh and shake my head.

I spent years looking toward a future where things would be easier, better, safer, and numbed out to the present because most of it was either too mundane or too hard.

That changed when I turned sixty-two, took early retirement, and moved to Indonesia. I had to leave to save the only life I could save, as Mary Oliver so eloquently states in her poem, The Journey.

Every day was new, utterly different, and unpredictable. The present was a glorious place to be. I plunged in headfirst and submerged myself in the culture, the language, the food, and the kindness. I’d never known such joy.

I learned Indonesian by writing the English word on one side of an ice cream stick and the corresponding Indonesian word on the other. Then memorized. Memorized. Memorized.

But, the day I jumped on the back of the motorbike and wound up the mountain to AbangSongan to meet Ketut’s family, I was blindsided by the unfathomable poverty of his mountain village. It shocked me into awareness of the incredible privilege I took for granted as an American white woman.

And yet, those people were happy. They had their tight-knit family compounds, their hectares of land bestowed upon them by the king, and their Hindu rituals of daily prayers and offerings. Walking among them in humility that bordered on grief, a burning determination to make a difference bloomed in my conscience.

Gratitude for the Bali years knows no bounds. That’s where I became who I am. That’s where I began to live from the inside out, making choices from my heart that would benefit those less fortunate. I built a B&B and paid Ketut and his family to manage it. Ruamh Jelita – Beautiful House. When I left Bali, I gave it to them. They’re doing well.

I had become proactive in the moment rather than wasting time waiting for some unknown better place. I’d arrived. I was occupying my better place.

Even though I’m back in Minnesota now, I haven’t reverted to the old patterns of numbing out to the present and hoping for a better future. (Who knows how much future is left?) I’ve been on the mountaintop. The path slopes downhill from here. There will be stunning sunrises and joyous times along the way. I’m in excellent health so the end probably isn’t imminent. But I’ve learned how to inhabit my life. Engage with intention. Ponder the knottier questions, daring to dive into dreams trusting that I can manifest them because I have.

Envisioning a home

Living from the outside, from the shallow illusions of conformity to social norms, expectations (usually self-inflicted) and preconceptions of what should be, is a slow and tortuous soul-death. I would remind you, whoever you are, whether you’re in the prime of life or closing in on old age, we get one shot at this. As far as we know, nobody has returned from the Great Beyond for a re-do.

I urge you, make the necessary corrections now. Don’t waste another minute. Grab hold of your own life and become who you are…from the inside out.

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.

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.

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!

Previous Older Entries