A breeze off the river sent chilly fingers through my thin shirt. I’d walked to the first stop of my morning stroll, the Charity Thrift Shop, bought a book, then hurried back to the house for another layer. Now amply fortified, I set out to find the one fabric shop in Ferragudo. At least, I hoped it had fabric.
As soon as I turned away from the river, the incline veered steeply up, and my pace slowed proportionally.
A sewing machine on a sign suggested that might be the place I was looking for.
Stop #2.
I stepped into a hive of whirring needles and saw a note: Alterations, posted by the cash register. A young woman slid from behind her machine and hurried toward me. For the next few minutes, we earnestly and unintelligibly burbled at each other until she whipped out her phone and typed in, Please tell me what you want, and handed it to me.
Do you have small piecesof fabric for sale? I typed back.
Come and speak to the manager at noon, she replied,
Thank you. I said, and left. Dead end.
I continued my uphill climb, craning my neck to gaze at the whitewashed walls of The Palms, streaching heavenward. Later, I googled and learned that The Palms – Ferragudo is a private “closed condominium” providing peace, tranquility, and security to its privileged owners.
As I read the description, it was abundantly clear that my privilege was of some lesser variety than what was required to live there. I moved on.
The Palms was the summit. It was all downhill from there. And yet, there remained no shortage of charming gateways, stairways, and pavered roadways to delight the eye.
Destination #3
Club Nau on the beach. A sign at the roundabout directed me up another hill. This one offered views of a different nature.
And suddenly, I was at the top with sand, sea, and sky arrayed in splendor below.
Down the steps and left on the boardwalk brought me to the beachy vibe of Club Nau.
For a blissful hour, the ocean whispered secrets, sailboats, like giant white birds, skimmed the surface, and cranes circled, cawing and mewling overhead.
The panorama of peace played out while I sipped my blackberry SPARKLING CIDER! That’s the name I couldn’t remember in the video! Sparkling cider.
The slow meander home showed me the back side of the castle and weather-and water-sculpted rock formations.
A row of fisherman’s huts huddled against the cliff.
And I soaked it all in like a giant, starving sponge.
Getting old is worth it to have these magical days of falling wider, higher, and ever more deeply in love.
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 iswhere 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:
Ten Secrets to a Life Fully Lived
Journaling the Subconscious
Don’t Hold on to What You Can’t Have
Manifest the Impossible
Then a few stories:
Why Five Marriages Failed
The Moment That Set Me Free
Terror Over Oaxaca
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 know it’s way, way too early, but I’ve been bitten by the Christmas bug and have started a frenzied accumulation of holiday decor.
Why now, I ask myself. Why at this particular point in my life have I suddenly become obsessed with Christmas? It has nothing to do with religion – I am far more Buddhist in my practices than anything else. But as darkness descends earlier, and daylight hides under a pallor of gray clouds, I’ve developed a voracious hunger for color and sparkle.
I blame this early obsession partly on the closure of Highway 169 through Aitkin, my familiar trail to the Twin Cities, and partly on Family Pathways Thrift Stores. On my recent trips to Minneapolis to see grandsons, I was forced to take Highway 65. Who knew that route was litered with golden thrifting opportunities right on the road in plain sight?
Bargain shopping is an addiction and I will not, under any circumstances, resist the urge to stop and peruse for treasures. The fact that I always find something wonderful feeds the demon.
I wasn’t familiar with Family Pathways Thrift, so when the sign appeared requiring a simple left turn at the light, my pulse quickened.
Just inside the door was a winter wonderland. Oh, my! Wreaths and garlands, baubles, trees, and ribbons, elves, candles, reindeer, strings of lights…a Cornucopia of Christmas paraphernalia, and I was hooked. Doomed. Thrilled!
I made a haul, got in the car, and twenty miles down the road, there! Could it be? Another Family Pathways!
Of course, I stopped and spent two more hours of sheer shopping bliss. If anything, there was even more abundance at that location.
I’m almost embarrassed to say, but I made a third stop. Heritage Thrift. I mean…it was RIGHT THERE! I could not in good conscience bypass it. I found a pair of beautiful leather boots, a sweater, scarf, and gloves.
What is usually a 3-hour trip from my house to my daughter’s, that day took 7 hours.
I never shop retail. Boring! I much prefer to be surprised. And I always get 3 or 4 times more for the dollars spent. Plus, the items I find are unique and special, like I said, treasures.
Thrifting isn’t for everyone. My daughters have made that perfectly clear. But it’s a harmless hobby, and I like the idea that I’m part of the recycling circle. When I’ve finished with the things I aquire that others have donated, I turn around and donate them again.
This last trip back from the Cities, 169 was open. Before I started home, I Googled Family Pathways and, sure enough, two of the towns I’d pass through had stores. Unlike my Hwy 65 route, I’d have to leave the highway. Did I care? Is the Pope Catholic?
Needless to say, I’m set for the holidays. As of today, my lighted, 6′ tree stands sentinel on the deck.
Is it terribly gauche of me not to wait until after Thanksgiving? Or at least until it snows?
My sister says her cilantro plants are starting to grow again. They’re outside! Who knows, snow may be a thing of the past. I’m not waiting.
“…This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year’s threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath, the door of a vanished house left ajar…” Margaret Atwood
We celebrated last night.
In the northland, days slowly shrink away until sunset is complete by 4:30 in the afternoon.
For me, Winter Solstice is a sacred time. After living for ten years 8 degrees south of the equator, where the sun rises at 6:30 a.m., and sets at 6:30 p.m. 365 days a year, the vast differences in the length of daylight from summer to winter here, the spring to fall cycles of birth and death, the drama of all that, must be given a place.
I was immersed in Balinese culture. I felt first-hand the power of their rituals, their honoring of nature, their acknowledgment of unseen energies, their deep respect for the animate and inanimate, and I changed.
Or perhaps something dormant within me woke up. My shamanic Viking ancestors knew what the Balinese know.
Until then, I was skimming the surface, living a half-life, unaware of what I was missing. When I broke the surface and plunged into the realms of the unseen, everything magnified, especially my capacity for joy.
Once that metaphysical line has been breached, there’s no going back.
So last night, we four codgers channeled our ancestral energy. We paid homage to the darkness and welcomed back the light with fire, drumming, and feasting. Individually, we let go of worn-out beliefs that no longer serve us, making room for new growth.
We had a blast, ok? We challenged our stuffy, Scandinavian comfort zones. We stepped outside the boundaries of the same old same old. We honored the past and welcomed the future. We ushered in the light.
Then we feasted on colorless food true to our Norwegian and Swedish roots. Lutefisk with melted butter, potato/parsnip/pear soup with walnut/garlic/parsley garnish, and lefse. The peas and cranberry sauce added a festive pop. And bread pudding for dessert made a sweet finish to a magical night.
The car is tucked into its new garage space. The doors are finished and ready to be hung. It’s supposed to be warmer on Wednesday; a southwest wind. We’ll do it then.
The entryway and loft are insulated. Outlets and switches wired. All of my lighting fixtures have arrived. Today, I’ll do the math to determine how much sheetrock I need, and the next time the truck goes to town, I’ll go with it. We’ll bring back a load.
Then why am I morose?
It could be the landscape. I look out on a collage of grays and dirty browns. Snow-drops swirl in the bitter air. The tiny dots of white don’t yet qualify as snowflakes. Minnesota is at its least attractive after leaves have fallen and before a veil of white descends from the skies and blankets everything.
But I know it’s not that.
It’s the fact that I can’t let go of the ambitious dream to build an entrance from the garage into the house with stairs ascending to the loft. I scheduled that into my work plan. I bought a Diamond Pier, and we pounded it into the solid clay dirt. It will support the corner of the room that houses the stairway. But these are things I can’t do alone, and I have no control over the time others are willing to devote to my project.
The thing is, this part can wait until spring. I’ve already resigned myself to that fact. But I haven’t quite let go. I want it too much.
Letting go.
I let go of my children as they reached adulthood and found their own paths. I moved over forty times, letting go of homes that I loved. I let go of partners when it became more painful to remain. I let go of friends when distance created too much space between us. I let go of youth. I let go of beauty. I made peace with the loss of my parents.
And salt.
A random blood pressure check about a week ago horrified me. Holy crapola! What happened? A quick scan online of the causes of high blood pressure and I had my answer. Salt. Some people are sweet lovers. My Waterloo is salt, tons of it on a giant bowl of popcorn that I eat at night, by myself, watching my latest TV series addiction.
In the grocery store, I started checking labels for sodium. OMG! I had no idea. Not only was I eating my daily allowance in that bowl of popcorn, I was OD-ing throughout the day on everything else. I made a vow to radically reduce my intake. In doing so, I let go of food having flavor. Eating isn’t much fun anymore. Popcorn with no salt, and no-salt butter, is foul! I hope my tastebuds will adjust. They haven’t yet. But I’ve gotten my bloodpressure down to the low 120s, and that was the goal.
Rachel Gordon, MA, MED, writes in her blog, Humble Warrior Therapy: …the practice of non-attachment – of letting go of our ego’s constant grasping and clinging – helps alleviate our suffering and increase peace of mind. Non-attachment doesn’t imply that we let go of our plans, pursuits or goals; rather, we practice changing the energy or tone of our pursuits, focusing on the journey rather than the destination.
Life is letting go.
And letting go is redirecting energy and focus. I can do this. Needless to say, I’ve had practice. There are a thousand other things that deserve my attention. Yes, there’s sheetrock, mudding, and taping, paint, and flooring. But Winter Solstice is coming. Then Christmas. And Valentine’s Day. And Spring Equinox. And Easter…
There are cookies to frost, a tree to trim, lefse to bake, and rituals to be performed. By the time all of that has been accomplished, the snow will be gone. The ground will have thawed. We won’t be bundled in multiple layers of clothing just to keep from freezing to death.
The journey will have brought me into right timing. Then…
We will build it.
Non-attachment. This is the life-skill to master. So much suffering can be avoided if we learn to focus on the journey. And, as we reach the destination, we finally let go of life itself.
Snow came in sticky, wet abundance, frosting the trees and shrouding the world in silent white. It was magical, like sitting in a snow globe as the inches piled up. First three…
Then seven more…
then another eight…
It happened fast and I found myself caught between awe and overwhelm. It was intimidating, an all-encompassing blanket that changed the colorful landscape into a monochromatic composition overnight. On cloudy days it was cozy. On sunny days, every crystalline flake reflected dazzling bursts of light.
Holidays approached. Nostalgic aromas of gingerbread cookies and lefse filled the air. My sister sends dozens of home-baked gifts to relatives every year. When it was time to frost and decorate her creations, W and I pitched in.
Mind you, these are only the gingerbread cookies. She made thumbprints, several varieties of spritz, date pinwheels, bourbon balls, pineapple tartlets, chocolate covered peanut butter balls, turtles, three kinds of biscotti, and I know I’m forgetting some. Years of collected decorations appeared throughout the house. Their giant philodendron, aptly named Phil, sported a string of twinkle lights and transformed into a Christmas tree.
All that happened while I hung insulation, sheetrocked around all those beautiful windows, and mudded, taped, and sanded as though my life depended upon it…because it kind of does.
And then…
This:
Temperatures plunged to minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit. I went out to shovel and start my car. When I finally chipped away enough ice to open the door and get inside, the battery was dead. But it didn’t really matter because the fuel line on W’s snowplow tractor was also frozen. Without plowing the road, none of us was going anywhere.
Suddenly, the reality of WINTER in Minnesota hit me. Sherry, this is your life for at least four more months. Can you do this? Of course, I can do it. I gutted out two years of Covid lockdown in Bali, besieged daily by foraging monkeys. I CAN DO ANYTHING. But can I do it happily?
Every winter?
For the rest of my life?
Whoa! Back up! Let’s stay in the moment!
Last night we, my sister, brother-in-law, and I celebrated winter solstice. I found a guided meditation by Julian Jenkens. We sat in candlelight, listening, musing, contemplating, and, nudged by his wise words, probing our souls. We spent the following two or three hours in deep philosophical conversations, dining on Gwen’s heavenly lasagne, W’s garden salad, and garlic toast, accompanied by a bottle of Josh Cabernet. It was a feast befitting such a night.
Today, blustery winds are blowing the newest, fluffiest snow into drifts. Forty-five-mile-per-hour gusts are predicted to last through tomorrow. My best-laid-plans to visit Jenny’s family in Minneapolis for Christmas may be postponed. But the gifts are wrapped and ready.
Meanwhile, invitations are pouring in. If we can get out of the driveway, there are Christmas Eve festivities at Uncle John’s two miles away. Dinner is on the agenda for Christmas day with old neighbors who became dear friends.
This is how I grew up. This is what I left behind and have now returned to. It hasn’t changed.
But I have. One of the questions posed last night was, What beliefs can you let go that no longer serve you? As the candles burned down, I let go of the, I hate winter story. It’s time to embrace and embody the fullness of who I am, a child of the snow, born in January, a Capricorn.
According to Molly Hall, on Liveabout dot com, I’m the crone, the elder who lives with the specter of death and knows that winter is coming and prepares for it. How perfect is that?!
This will be my first holiday season in a country that celebrates Christmas since 2012. That’s not to say Bali didn’t splash out with balloon Santas and glitzy trees. It did. Staff in the grocery stores donned elf hats, and Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer blasted over sound systems. Those dear people did it for us, the ex-pats. Their Hindu beliefs welcomed others with grace and hospitality.
Now, contrary to every impulse I’ve had since fleeing the deep north eleven years ago, I’m back.
It’s a joy having family close, and an adventure as I create a home for myself thirty miles from the nearest Home Depot. A friend asked me how many houses I rehabbed when I was flipping real estate. I tallied them on my fingers, at least ten. I loved it. but I worked with Fred Roth, a brilliant contractor, and all I did was paint when he’d finished everything else. In Bali, I remodeled an old house with the help of a Balinese crew that showed up with their wives and children every day for nearly nine months. I lived in one of the old bedrooms all the while and did none of the work myself.
This is a different story. My brother-in-law, sister, and I are the commander and crew and it’s an awakening. My appreciation for the professional help I’ve had in the past has grown exponentially. I had no idea.
Then along came the tiny house with all of its sullied potential.
This is how it looked when I first saw it in May.
It was on a property adjacent to the family farm. The house had been given to my cousin and the property owners wanted the eyesore gone.
Enterprising sister, Gwen, and persuasive brother-in-law, W, talked to cousin John on my behalf and I was gifted the house. (He said he didn’t have time to move it so if I could get that done it was mine.) I’m still pinching myself to make sure I’m not stuck in episode 99 of a fantasy series.
For several weeks in June, I stayed with Gwen and W and we built a foundation. Then I returned to Mexico to spend a few last weeks with precous new friends, Elaine, Diane, Barbara, and Patricia, and say goodbyes.
In August, I left San Miguel de Allende behind and made the permanent move north. After several companies quoted the job, I hired Leighton Movers to relocate the house to Granny’s Landing. Watching Leighton at work with a benign smile that never left his face and moves as smooth as a dancer’s was a thrill. When the house was loaded and creaked to a start, I stopped breathing.
After the first corner with ditches on both sides, which Leighton executed with flair, https://youtu.be/sxJyeFb6goc I exhaled, stopped sweating bullets, and mentally moved into my new home.
That was then. I was naive. I hired help, waited for weeks and they didn’t show up. Finally, the Lofty and Dante team came and framed my front windows. Glorious light poured in.
For a gasp-worthy fee, electricity was trenched from the closest pole to a pedestal near the house. I won’t have a well or septic system in my semi-off grid tiny house, but electricity was a non-negotiable must. When the electric company left, we still had to bring the cable to the house in a 4-foot deep ditch. It was an endless, grueling day.
That’s when I knew for sure I was no longer seventeen.
I’ve never done such physically demanding work. Ever. A new mantra sustained me: My body hurts but not my heart. It was painfully true.
The piddly stuff seemed endless, and so un-visible. I tried to imagine my after-finished-house life here and drew a blank. But step-by-step, progress happened. Jack-of-all-trades, W, wired for electricity and it passed inspection – a major accomplishment. My expectations for a move-in date fluctuated, ratcheting down, and down, and down again. There were shadowy moments when I almost questioned my decision. But they were fleeting and quickly banished.
In November I took a much-needed break and went to Minneapolis for the twins’ birthday. Haircuts for the boys at Floyds in Uptown was a festive event. Mom and Dad asked them how they wanted their hair cut. Rowan went into great detail describing the front, back, and sides that translated into something suspiciously like a mohawk. Mom and Dad exchanged glances. Remy was quick and to the point: very, very short.
When all was done the boys were happy and I’d developed a severe case of boot envy! On the way home, we stopped for treats at Glam Doll Bakery. A terrible name but I drool remembering the sugar ‘n’ spice of my sweet potato-filled doughnut.
Seeing my east coast granddaughters when the snow is neck-deep in Minnesota is something I’m really looking forward to!
Back at the farm, the house awaited my return and the dreaded sheetrocking process. Young(er) neighbors, Kent and Bruce, came to help with the ceiling – a brutal task but they made it look easy. W used his head. In the three days following, Gwen, W, and I finished the walls.
The putsy job of drywalling the window wells was all mine. I’ve been chipping away at it, measuring, cutting, cussing, and screwing. Suddenly the shabby, tiny-house shell was transformed into something I could imagine inhabiting with great pleasure for the rest of my life.
Now we’re at the place I’ve been waiting for: the fun stuff. Packed solid under my hide-a-bed at Gwen and W’s, are light fixtures, faucets, a tankless electric water heater, the kitchen sink. I kid you not, my new kitchen sink is under my bed. In their garage, a ten-foot countertop, refrigerator, cabinets, the bathroom vanity, and my composting toilet await installation. A couch will be delivered before Christmas and hopefully, there’ll be a finished floor to put it on. So many details. But my vision is manifesting and I’m thrilled.
The gratitude I feel for my sister and her husband overwhelms me. They’ve shared their tools, knowledge, time, energy, food, resources, and their home with me for over three months without a single argument or cross word passing between us. That, in itself, is miraculous. House-speak dominates our happy-hour conversations every evening. And they continue to show up for me. With kindness. Smiling. Going so far above and beyond they could be orbiting the moon.
As I wrap up this tale, fat snowflakes tumble out of a moody, gray sky. Dark trees at the edge of the field scribble a jagged horizon line. An antique clock from the Southern Pacific Train Depot in Santa Barbara, California tick-tocks the minutes and I’m aware of time slipping by. But I’m where I want to be, doing what I want to do, soaking up family vibes. In the weeks between now and the end of the year, there’ll be cookie frosting, tree decorating, lefse baking, and cozy get-togethers. It’s a familiar feeling as I relive memories of growing up Scandinavian. And someday soon, I’ll be welcoming friends to coffee at Granny’s Landing. Won’t you join me?
I wish you big dreams and the courage to manifest them.
We’re three days in. Already your energy feels hopeful.
2022 A new dawn. A new day.
Photo credits Alamy 2C52HKF
2020 and 2021 brought a harsh reckoning…a world reset. None of us is the same person we were at the end of 2019. Life as we knew it came to an abrupt halt and we’ve been scrambling ever since.
But I don’t need to revisit the nightmare of the past two years.
A new dawn, a new day, and a new home. I’m settling in and embracing the differences. From a tropical island in Asia to the high desert of the Sierra Madre mountains in Mexico – how opposite could it be? I’ve exchanged hot and humid for cool and dry. That, and the altitude, required this shocked, very-soon-to-be 72-year-old body, to slow way down and recalibrate.
My Bali home…
My San Miguel de Allende home
It’s been a month already and, to my delight, I’m finding far more similarities between here and my Bali home of the past ten years, than differences. I’ve exchanged the practices of one devout people for the very different but equally devout rituals of another. Bali Hinduism is unique in that it is heavily influenced by ancient animism. Mexican Catholicism is also a blend. It retains flavors of Mayan, Aztec, Toltec, and other long-gone cultures.
It feels right to me to have a hint of those shamanic elements of the ancestors operating today. It fulfills a need to connect to a past where spirituality was an integral part of life, if not life itself. I’m also glad the decision-makers have been selective about which ceremonial activities to leave in the past – human sacrifice for instance – not a fan!
The Day of the Dead in Mexico and the march of the Ogoh-Ogohs on Nyepi in Bali – the wild clang and crash of gamelan orchestras accompanying the monster parade – feed my Plutonian shadow. Darkness is lured out of hiding. We’re face-to-face with the ‘other’ realm and perhaps confronted by our demons. It’s an invitation, an opportunity to look at our own dark underbelly and accept that part of ourselves. That wasn’t available to me in the U.S. Darkness was kept hidden until it came out sideways, unhealthy and destructive.
There are other similarities, the double lives, for instance. In Bali, a beautiful smile, gracious hospitality – a facade is applied for the tourists, the ex-pats, the foreigners in white skins. It’s like that here, too. I hate it. I can’t say it more bluntly than that. I’m studying Spanish with a frenzy, as though my life depends upon speaking the language, because the life I want, does.
Only when I learned Indonesian did I become privy to the reality of the lives of the Balinese, the nitty-gritty behind the smiles.
I’m hoping that’s the same here. A common language is a connector that opens doors. Only when we can communicate in a shared language are we able to trust ‘the other’ enough to speak our truths and our secrets.
I was ready for a change, but I also hoped that I wouldn’t have to sacrifice some of the daily things I loved about my life in Ubud like the Ibu (esteemed woman/mother) who had the fruit and veggie stand where I bought all my produce.
Imagine my delight when, lo and behold, there was Señora Petra’s tiny tienda not ten steps from my door. The Señora sells just about…no, not just about…she sells everything I need to survive out of her hole-in-the-wall space no bigger than an average American bathroom. Besides fruits and veggies, I get my cheese, eggs, yogurt, crispy corn tortillas (by the 30-count package) flour, sugar, salt, a few select homemade pastries, beer…
And yesterday, on a whim because a button fell off my favorite shirt, I asked if she had white thread for sewing. She cocked her head and grinned. From somewhere in the depths under the back of the counter, she extracted a plastic box and – I kid you not – there it was. Thread in an assortment of colors. She fingered them and pulled out a white one. My jaw dropped. (Yet another example of a time when I’ve been thankful for the mask!)
Ubud has two Western-type supermarkets. So does San Miguel and I’ve been to both of them. (There may be more but these are walking distance from me. SMA is a city. Ubud was a small town.) It only took that one trip to each of them to know that I’d only be going there when I want, not NEED, just WANT something like Italian seasoning or baking powder which I found yesterday at $10 USD for a bag of Red Mill brand – the only option. I nearly choked.
On the flip side, there are gigantic traditional markets where I wander, overwhelmed, dazed, enthralled. I’m the odd duck, very much in the minority, in the midst of hundreds of local people going about their ‘business as usual.’
There are similar-but-different markets targeting tourists and ex-pats. I’ve visited a couple of those, too, just to see what’s there. It’s fun to look but I find them high-priced and glitzy. I’m happier in the markets with less ‘show.’ I’m not necessarily more comfortable, aware that my white skin radiates like a beacon and certain assumptions are made about me on that basis alone.
But I need that, too, to remind me of my privilege, my entitlement, my colonizing heritage that has wreaked destruction for centuries upon centuries.
How does one atone for that? It’s a question that weighs heavily and one I need to answer for myself.
So, “Hello, 2022,” from this new place, ten years into my ongoing adventure called RETIREMENT. I’m poised excitedly, hopefully, on your doorstep with so much to be grateful for, and so much to learn.
I’ve been in San Miguel de Allende for twenty-six days and I’m adjusting.
First, and most noticeably, there was the altitude. My home in Bali sat 650 feet above sea level. San Miguel perches at 6000 feet. I knew the climate would be different, but I didn’t realize what an impact it would make having my head in the clouds more literally than usual.
After three weeks, it was getting better. I didn’t feel feeble, huffing and puffing up the near-vertical streets, pausing to pant every third or fourth step. Tired, dizzy, headachy. Trying to fight the dread that I’d never feel strong and confident again. Just an old biddy past her used-by date. That had been in the back of my mind while my body tried to keep up with an insane social calendar. But, as I said, it was getting better.
I’ve made major moves in the past, but never to a place where I already knew people. Before, it was cold turkey, so to speak. I had to learn my way around. Take myself to places where I’d meet people and sift hopefully through the ones that turned up. It was a long process.
Here, the skids were greased for me before I stepped off the plane.
There came a point, though, where I needed to figure a few things out on my own. Like how far does the bus go in the opposite direction? The city buses that cost eight pesos (forty cents) per ride, stop right in front of my house. They come by every four minutes or less. I took this shot of the number eight from my balcony.
This one’s going into Centro, the hub of San Miguel. I usually walk in that direction because it’s downhill all the way. No huff/puffing when I’m working with gravity.
And I have a reason to go there frequently. I’ve grown fond of the Bonanza grocery just a few steps from the manicured trees and wrought iron benches of the jardin, a restful garden park. Bonanza has become a destination and I load up on all kinds of novel items plus a few recognizable ones. I know if I can carry my purchases a quarter of a block, the bus will whisk me back up the hill and dump me at my door.
I do mean dump!
I’m lucky if the driver stops. The door swings open about half a block away and I’d better have my pesos in his hand and my foot out the door when he slows down! Adrenalin rush! My motorbike rides in Bali had nothing on the San Miguel bus!
Señora Petra’s tiny shop is a few steps from my house. It has everything but you may have to dig a bit. The other day I walked in and looked around – you don’t walk around, there isn’t enough space. I wanted a watermelon but I didn’t see one. I know how to say, “Do you have a watermelon,” in Spanish so I asked. Petra bustled around the counter and dug to the bottom of the pineapples. Wallah! A watermelon!
Today was the day after Christmas – always in some ways a relief, and in others an anticlimax. I needed fruits, veggies, and eggs, and Petra’s was tempting, but I also needed a distraction.
It’s a beautiful day for a bus ride, I thought. I wonder how far the bus goes in the opposite direction? What if it goes all the way to that Costco-size grocery-plus-plus store, La Comer?I could wander in there for hours. With pesos in my pocket, I caught the number nine bus heading away from Centro and settled in for the ride.
The farthest I’d been in that direction was Tianguis, the gigantic traditional market.
There are six, or maybe eight, football-field-sized arched metal roofs that house this hodge-podge of delights from lightbulbs to live rabbits, not to mention heaped tables of clothing, shoes, and enough tortillas and enchiladas to feed the entire Mexican army. (Just a guess.) It’s full to exploding with vendors from near and far. Utterly overwhelming!
We circled the complex. A few people got off, a few more got on. Then we were back on the highway, zooming toward my destination. At some point, the driver turned right and we were in an unfamiliar downtown area. That lasted a few minutes. Another right put us on narrow cobblestone streets that became narrower and less welcoming the farther we went. We’d just passed a rusted car covered in vines sitting on cement blocks when the bus pulled to the side and stopped. The driver got out. Bathroom break, I thought. I sat another minute or two then craned my head around to look behind me.
The bus was empty.
The driver reappeared, climbed back in, and stood facing me, hands on his hips. He said something which probably translated, “Where did you think you were going?”
“Is this the end? Are you staying here?” I asked, with appropriate gestures to indicate All she wrote? Curtains? No enchilada?
He gestured back and made me understand this was indeed the end of the line. I must have looked frantic because at that point he stuck his head out the window and motioned wildly. An identical bus rattled to a stop. My driver made a shooing motion at me, “Vamos! Vamos!” I shoved eight pesos at him hollering “Gracias! Muchas gracias!” and dashed to my salvation.
The new driver retraced the jaw-jarring trail back over cobblestone streets, circled the Tianguis Market, and brought me safely home. He even stopped for me to disembark. Mission accomplished. I found the end of the line and I have no need to go there again.
I ducked gratefully into Señora Petra’s shop and found everything I needed, including this beverage.
The idea seemed good at the time. But if you should ever run across it and wonder…unless you’re really keen on beer mixed with lime and, wait for it, way too much Tobasco sauce…don’t even think about it!
I’ve never admitted this to anyone but as Mother’s Day rolls around, I’m reminded of the strange disconnect I experienced as a mom. Maybe you can relate. Maybe not. Here’s the story.
As a young adult, motherhood wasn’t on my to-do list. I’d never given it much thought. Neither had my first husband. We were about three years into the marriage when his highschool sweetheart wound up pregnant. As it turned out, he was the father. I left him with her in Muskogee, Oklahoma – can’t say I was terribly disappointed to escape Muskogee or my philandering husband.
Children weren’t on the agenda three years later when I married again. But after a tumultuous six months we had a night of unprotected passion and…our divorce was final the day before my first daughter was born.
Six years later, married again, I gave birth to my second daughter near Alum Creek, Texas. My husband was an accountant for a company that laid oil pipelines, hence Texas. Two years after that, my third sweet girl arrived. By then we’d moved into the eye-blink town of Smithville.
My daughters are the joy of my life. As they were growing up, every year when Mother’s Day approached they went into giggling-hush-hush mode. Breakfast in bed was the highlight. I awoke to chocolate ice cream on Trix cereal one memorable morning.
But I promised a confession and here it is.
Every year it was the same. Amid the hubbub of my own household, I forgot that I also had a mother. It would hit me, perhaps the night before, or the morning of, and I’d panic that I hadn’t given a single thought to honoring that dear woman on her special day. It was too late to mail a card, but with a hurried personal call to the florist in my hometown who was a friend from school, and a Happy Mother’s Day Skype with Mom later in the day, I always covered my dilinquent tracks in time.
Mom passed a year and nine months ago. But it’s strange – as that day approaches and I see promos for flowers or gifts popping up on my phone, I forget that I’m a mother. All my thoughts are of her until one of the girls calls with a cheery, happy Mother’s Day Mamma, and I recall that I’m the matriarch now.
As a result of those chotic, childrearing years, I understand if my kids momentarily forget me. In Bali I’m a day ahead anyway and no one caring for toddlers can be expected to keep in mind the time zone variations of my reality on the other side of the globe. It’s a thrill and a joy whenever I hear from them.
Before I bid you a happy day and get on with mine, I want to mention how freeing and healthy it is to have no expectations. It’s the key to contentment. If you don’t expect something from someone, you won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t materialize. Unmet expectations are at the core of unhappiness.
Here’s wishing you a very happy Mother’s Day whether you hear from your offspring or not! Send your wishes to them first If they have children – jog their memory – remind them that you exist. They’re busy!
writing for self-discovery 
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