“…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!
It’s almost in the rearview mirror – this never-to-be-forgotten year. Even though turning over the date on the calendar won’t change reality, there’s something about ditching the double 2-0 that feels hopeful.
I’m not setting out to bash what we’ve gone through the last ten plus months. A microscopic virus has accomplished what monarchs, armies, and governments never could. Overnight it brought life as we knew it to a screeching halt.
I want to acknowledge and honor the significance of all of it. Once. Then it’s face forward utilizing what I’ve learned in preparation for a very different future.
So what were my lessons of 2020?
Number one with fifty exclamation points:
I need people
Boy, oh boy! Do I need people! A deep-seated belief that I’m a loner, perfectly happy to entertain myself for days on end, ended when that became my reality. But it’s not just people. It’s friends who care, who are committed to being there for each other – give-and-receive relationships that spring from the heart and don’t disappear when times get tough. Living alone with neither a partner nor pets, these friendship connections have kept me sane.
Number two could be listed shoulder-to-shoulder with number one, it’s that important:
I need ritual
I have to know there’s something to wake up for, something to occupy the beginning hours of the day. Fortunately, that routine was already in place, it just became longer, and vital. First, I journal with coffee. When I realized coffee was adding nervous energy that exacerbated anxiety I switched to ginger tea. Journaling finished, I do a yoga workout to hypnotizing hang drum music. After that, relaxed and soothed, I sit in meditation. By then I’m starving and ready to mindfully savor every bite of breakfast.
I need to move my body
Yoga’s great, but a walk gets me out of the house and out of my head into the empty sidewalks of Ubud. Sometimes I stop at Circle K even though I don’t really need anything, just to say a few words to another human. Sometimes it’s the library. The disorganized shelves of used books for sale are like hunting for treasure in a sea of trashy romance, but it passes time.
I need sunshine’s vitamin D
Rainy season came and cloudy days along with it. I wasn’t getting out as much and my thoughts grew steadily darker. It dawned on me one bright morning that I no doubt lacked vitamin D, a mood elevator delivered naturally via sunshine. I was out the door in a hot minute. That day I walked four miles and felt almost euphoric. Now I’m more cognizant of the shift toward depression and avail myself of stabilizing sunlight whenever that golden ball appears. It works like magic.
I need purpose
This one’s tricky. From my arrival in Bali in March 2012, until I returned from Italy in March 2020 and found the island in lockdown, my purpose and single-minded focus was writing. I wrote two novels, a memoir, poetry, this blog, and an occasional short story. My entire life centered around writing and writers’ groups. Literally, overnight all desire to write vanished. I’m still trying to figure out why. But whatever motivated me prior to Covid was suddenly as utterly absent as my non-existent sex drive. Months passed and I regularly engaged in other projects, cooking projects, sewing projects, puzzles, and a plastic-bag-flag project. But I’ve found nothing to replace the all-consuming passion I once had for writing.
I need adventure
Perhaps some people get their excitement fix from movies or TV. I’ve never developed the habit. For me, it has to be an embodied experience. Go there, do that! But in my Covid-altered state, I forgot that I could jump on the back of Ketut’s motorbike and take off for favorite haunts or discover new ones. Even a bike tour of the backroads surrounding Ubud is adventure enough to scratch that itch for days. Now that I’ve remembered what pure joy it is to ride, it’s become part of the survival plan.
I need hope
We all need hope – a belief that 2021 will be better. But I’ve let go of the fantasy that there will be a return to what was. After flailing about for the first few months of the pandemic it began to sink in how destructive and broken the old ways were. Some were already obvious. Others have come boldly to the forefront to blatantly challenge history as contrived by and for the privileged few. In spite of the chaos, loss, and irreversible damage, Covid has pushed a massive reset button. For that, I am deeply and truly grateful.
Tomorrow is the 31st here in Bali. Fireworks and parties are banned and I can’t say I’m sorry. On this night in the past, Ubud has sounded like a war zone until three or four a.m. Instead of tossing sleeplessly for hours, tomorrow, in the silence, I’ll pay my respects to 2020 for the things it’s taught me. Then I’ll burn the calendar – a letting-go ritual signifying endings. I’ll bring out the fresh, new one with the number prominently displayed at the top. 2021. I’ll crank up the music to that iconic song from the Broadway play, Hair, This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, Age of Aquarius…
I told people I wasn’t doing anything. Wasn’t going anywhere. Would stay home and think happy thoughts and that was absolutely my intention. Then a get-together scheduled for December 21st had to be moved. How about the morning of the 24th? Christmas Eve Day? Does that work?
Well..I wasnt’ going to…but…sure. That works.
It turned into a psuedo white-elephant-gift-exchange, great coffee, and lots of laughs. Santa appeared out of nowhere, and carols played non-stop.
Warm and fuzzy inside I walked home with a gentle breeze cooling my face – one of Bali’s stellar-weather days – glad that I’d had Christmas Eve morning with good friends.
I’d barely gotten inside the house when my phone beeped a Whatsapp message. It was my neighbor next door inviting me to an impromptu lunch – if I didn’t already have plans for Christmas tomorrow. The complexion of my solitary holiday was changing fast.
I’d love to!
The high-octane energy of a family with a young child is a whole different ball game from the gray-haired gatherings I’m used to. But who can resist a five-year-old dynamo on pink roller skates?
We were well entertained and the meal of four-hour Balinese green beans, chicken betutu, cream-cheese mashed potatoes, and homemade frosted Christmas cookies was magnificent. The wine didn’t hurt either.
All that and a mystery guest. I finally got to meet a person I’ve been hearing about for years and if anything, the glowing reports were too humble. He’s one of those down-to-earth, funny, sincere, fascinating VIPs that you just wouldn’t expect to run into at your neighbor’s spur-of-the-moment Christmas lunch.
After two celebratory days I didn’t want the fun to end. I suggested to Ketut that it was time for another motorbike adventure. My back took weeks to recover from the marathon ordeal I put it through three months ago, but a visit to the beaches south of Ubud wouldn’t be a taxing trip. I wanted to check out the rumors that there are actually people down there – visitors – domestic tourists – because in Ubud they’re rare as unicorns.
As with most outings, eating figures in at some point. For this trip I wanted to stop at Cantina Warung. It’s on a dirt road that dead-ends somewhere between Seminyak and Canggu, and it’s so close to the ocean you almost feel the salt-spray on your skin. We’d check out Sanur and Kuta beaches on the way and easily be back in Ubud before the predicted afternoon downpour.
There was no traffic as we approached Sanur. The bodies standing in the water were fishermen, not tourists. Ketut thought he saw one family that probably came from another part of Indonesia but the few people enjoying the sun and sand were local. I’d expected that. Sanur isn’t the hotspot for vacationing party-ers who want a nightlife.
We hopped back on the bike and continued our search. Traffic by the Mall Galleria was almost non-existent.
In Kuta and Seminyak the story was the same with a slightly different twist. Here there were no locals, just a smattering of visitors and miles of empty lounge chairs on the deserted beach. Were we too early? Were the partying people still in bed nursing hangovers? It was getting on toward noon – surely they’d be up by now – if indeed they were here at all.
On the bike again I hollered through my mask at the back of Ketut’s helmet. “This adventure’s making me hungry. Let’s get lunch.”
There are several restaurants in Bali that are so enchanting I just want to keep eating so I can sit there for hours guilt-free. Cantina Warung is one of those. A constant ocean breeze, the rumble of breakers rolling in, comfortable chairs…don’t ever underestimate the importance of cushy seating – it’s huge…and today there were people sunbathing. People swimming. People walking dogs. We’d finally found PEOPLE!
We settled in and ordered lunch. Ketut is predictible – fried chicken and coca-cola. I had the BBQ chicken burrito with fries and a mojito. Not sure why the french fries came garnished with herby greens. They were easy to remove. But I have to say, that chicken burrito with chunks of avocado, crunchy lettuce, a sweet-and-spicy barbecue sauce on the melt-in-your-mouth grilled poultry – oh my! I’m drooling just remembering.
We’d whiled away about an hour and a half when Ketut pointed to a sign that I’d ignored and said, “Look. Our table is reserved for eight people at four o’clock. We can stay three more hours.”
That’s when I ordered two cups with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in each, and a pot of coffee to pour over it. We stretched that out until about two o’clock when all of a sudden Ketut said, “Mungkin hujan di Ubud sekarang.” Whoops! In my idyllic reverie I’d completely forgotten about the afternoon rain I’d been hoping to avoid.
The ride home took us through Canggu. There was a lot more traffic there than we’d seen anywhere else. Shops and cafes were open. Perhaps what I’d heard was true, that Canggu is the hot spot right now. Hot may be too optimistic a word. A warm spot.
As we approached Ubud the road was wet. “Maybe rain is already finished,” Ketut said. Three minutes later we were pelted with huge sloppy drops.
“Do you have your plastic, Ketut?”
“Ya. You?”
“Ya.”
“You want to stop?”
“No.”
“Good.” He laughed.
How precious, memorable, and unexpectedly rich this holiday has been. I could have sat home and survived. I would have called it a fitting end for a year during which many of us have done little other than sit at home and survive. So I’m going to see my unplanned Christmas as a positive energetic shift, a vital lurch propelling us toward a brighter 2021.
Thanksgiving morning dawned, hot, muggy, and slightly overcast.
There was no planned outing with friends to a local restaurant for roasted stuffed turkey with all the trimmings. Such gatherings are discouraged for now, and to actually find a restaurant open, and not only open but serving turkey which is outrageously expensive to buy here…well…it just wasn’t going to happen.
I awoke with reasonably good intentions of accomplishing something, but a goal as fuzzy as that rarely gets much traction.
So I napped and read, read and napped, and thought about Thanksgivings past.
The table was set for ten or twelve. Before Dad said grace, and before digging into moist slices of turkey, candied sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and stuffing with gravy, we took turns telling what we were grateful for.
Between snoozes and the interesting story I was sort of reading, I rehearsed my current litany of blessings, see-sawing between past memories and present realities when suddenly… I had an overwhelming urge to sort through files. Trust me, this never happens. I knew I had to act and act fast or the notion would pass.
Soon the floor around me was littered with stacks of ‘keepers’ and ‘dumps.’
And then…
There it was. The packet of old photos Mom sent home with me when she was divesting herself of a lifetime of family history kept in picture albums. I’d never bothered to open it.
Oh, my! Ms. Bouffant 1969.
I was 19. How did I even get my hair to do that? I probably slept on giant brush rollers all night, then teased the curls into rats’ nests, smoothed the top and spray-lacquered it to the consistency of a bike helmet with Superhold Aqua Net. Remember Aqua Net? Superhold was purple.
I came across other shots equally as humiliating, but my pride will only allow one at a time.
As it happened, I actually accomplished quite a lot in spite of my very slow start. Eleven fat folders became four skinny ones. I found poems I’d forgotten I’d written and old diaries that jogged more memories.
So I wasn’t really alone for Thanksgiving. Old ghosts came back to remind me how truly grateful I am NOT to be living in the past. No matter how tough this Covid year has been, and no matter how uncertain the future seems at the moment, helmet hair and Aqua Net are forever behind me and that’s worth celebrating!
writing for self-discovery 
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