I’ve been in Prythian with Rhysand and Feyre, a place of dark forces and magic. I feel pretty comfortable there. It’s not perfect. There are good queens and winged lords, bad queens and weak mortals, bonded mates and jilted lovers. The intensity grips me, pulls me in. Reality blurs until I’m more in that world than my own.
In that realm, power struggles exist at all levels, evil intrigue, political plotting, betrayals, romance. I’m not a fan of endless torrid love scenes, but when the tension has been building for 500 pages, skillfully interwoven with battles, near deaths, jealousies, and treachery, when you’ve lived in the minds, hearts, and bodies of the characters for that long, sharing their doubts, longings, insecurities, hopes, fantasies, fears and wildest dreams, and when the writer spins a fresh twist on the oldest reproductive act known to humanity…uffdah! Sizzle!
This author, Sarah Maas, has written a series of five books, big, thick, juicy fantasies. For most of my life, I never read that genre. I liked stories set in places I’d heard of, historical fiction, mystery, memoir, action, romance, women’s fiction, literary fiction, anything as long as real people were doing real things. Then came The Hunger Games, dystopian science fiction, and Steig Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a crime fiction thriller, and I was hooked. I couldn’t get enough. Magical realism, fantasy, science fiction, suspense, thriller! Bring it on!
But back to Prythian…have you ever been so engrossed in a movie that when the screen goes dark and you step outside into the light of day it’s almost like, No, please, I don’t want to leave Never Never Land. That’s how reading these books is for me. I’m there, and not merely watching. I become Feyre, the slain mortal resurrected and fated to be the bonded mate of the High Lord Rhysand, with magic to equal his.
So when I hear, “Mom, can you meet the kids’ buses today?” and realize I’m in South Carolina, visiting my dazzling, grown, human daughter, two irresistible granddaughters, and a son-in-law whose looks resemble the High Lord himself, it takes a few moments to orient to my alternative universe. I’m here to help them pack and move into their new home a few blocks away, and I’m totally on task with that!
But, the Prythian Court of Mist and Fury lingers on the periphery. The veil separating the two worlds seems gossamer thin, and when my energy dissipates, I escape into those pages of enchantment where I’m no longer bound by my seventy-five-year-old body. I can winnow from here to anywhere in the blink of an eye and recharge my magic.
And it is…magic. The power to imagine a thing into reality is nothing less than sorcery. Can I manifest Prythian, Feyre, Rhyland, and the Court of Mist and Fury? Hell, yes! When I’m immersed in the story it’s real for me and I exist nowhere else. Isn’t that interesting? So I ask again…What is real?
In case I’ve piqued your interest, these are the titles of the five-book series by author, Sarah J. Maas:
A Court of Thorns and Roses
A Court of Mist and Fury
A Court of Wings and Ruin
A Court of Frost and Starlight
A Court of Silver Flames
I’ve just started the third book, A Court of Wings and Ruin. I love that it connects immediately with the ending of book two. My daughter said she needed a break after the intensity of the first two. Not me! I’m a glutton for thrills! Not that I need any vicarious risk or drama. There’s plenty of that in my REAL life!
My mother-in-law (#3) was a unique human – at times scary. She had numerous, unforgettable quips, but the one that has been top-of-mind most recently was the simple directive, Love expresses itself in service.
I’m not 100% certain that she knew what love was, but she absolutely knew how to enveigle people into her service. (You will see that word again!)
It’s been four weeks since I left the serenity of my cozy little house in backwoods Minnesota, and set out to express my love in precisely her way.
First was a week at my youngest daughter’s home, catsitting, while they chased the eclipse. The twins caught it, by the way, somewhere in Arkansas.
From Minneapolis, I flew to Connecticut, where my middle daughter and her husband, had just purchased a home. We could all see the potential, but blimey! The only thing it had going for it was potential.
I found my rhythm tearing out carpet that had been walked on, spilled on, lived on for 40 years and (my guess) had never been cleaned. Matted, brown trails led from room to room. Dents and divets indicated where every piece of furniture once stood and most likely had never been moved.
How did I know the age of this disgusting floor covering? The treasure below told the tale. Under that foul wrap lay immaculate, gleaming, never-been-touched hardwood floors. The entire, 3,000 sq. ft. house, with the exception of the tiled kitchen, entry, and baths, had fully finished red oak hardwood.
Fiendishly, I worked with my son-in-law, ripping out carpet and pad, crowbarring the tack strips, yanking staples, expressing my love.
From there, I flew to Isle of Palms, South Carolina, with my daughter and granddaughters, to care for the girls for four days while Mom went to Napa for a friend’s 40th birthday. (Why don’t my friends celebrate birthdays in Napa? Just saying…)
Then, back to Connecticut to express more love.
So, here I am, solo in CT, holding down the fort, meeting with junk-hauling professionals, yard cleanup artisans, and a bevy of realtors since my family has decided they prefer Isle of Palms and want to sell this property ASAP.
You know what? I’m so proud of them. They listened to their hearts. They weren’t afraid to do a 360° and admit that this was a mistake. And I tagged along for the wild ‘n’ crazy ride. What a privilege.
In a few more days, I’ll be heading back to IOP for another childcare gig and some relaxing beach time, while Mom flies to Captiva for work.
When I get home, it will almost be summer in Minnesota. Lilacs blooming. Gardens sprouting.
I’ll return to continue my own house project: a new front door, carpeting in the loft (installing, not ripping out).
And I’ll take my turn hosting occasional dinners with the other three codgers in our little elder enclave. When we’re sitting around my table satiated, another of my mother-in-law’s epic quotes will be running through my head:
Lord, spare me please the dinner guest, who, when I’m simply dead for rest, enveigles me against my wishes, to get right up and do the dishes!
………….
In 1992, Gary Chapman published a book, The Five Love Languages, where he outlined the following means of expressing affection:
Receiving gifts
Words of affirmation
Physical touch
Quality time
Acts of service
and suggested that individuals tend to lean more strongly toward one of these, and that is their unique love language. He went on to say that we tend to express our love for others in the same language that we receive love. But to strengthen the relationship bond, it’s important to pay attention and learn the love language that is specific to them.
For me…
I don’t need gifts
I know when I’ve done a good job, so I don’t need words of affirmation
And physical touch…just shake my hand, OK?
But quality time and acts of service – yes, please! And if I’m totally honest, like my scary mother-in-law, acts of service heads my list.
It’s 2024. That, in itself, is a wonderment to me. It’s a big number. When I thought in terms of my life span, I didn’t think of the year two thousand twenty-four. I thought maybe I’d live into my nineties, but the corresponding date never entered my mind. I’ll be 80 in 2030, ninety in 2040. Okay. I’m going to talk about something else.
My house.
The new addition was a knee-jerk reaction to the horrors of last winter. Chipping ice off my car because the doors were frozen shut. Shoveling it out of six-foot snowdrifts. I didn’t ever want a repeat of that. So…
…a garage.
One thing leads to another. If I were going to the trouble and expense of building a garage, I should make the most of it. At the very least, I also needed an entryway where guests’ boots and coats could be shed before entering my very small house. And maybe I could capture some of the attic for living space.
At this very moment, my Prius is tucked securely away from inclement weather, safe and sound. I’ve sheetrocked the entryway and loft, and today I spent several hours mudding the seams.
But when I look at those spaces, I don’t see gray drywall with white spots and stripes.
I see a daybed with a pop-up trundle to accommodate guests. There are comfy chairs and a stunning 9 X 12 rug. Perched above the stairs overlooking the entryway is a desk with a papyrus painting in a sleek black frame hanging on the wall above it.
I’ve already chosen the rug, the daybed, and the chairs. They’re waiting in my Amazon cart. I’ve sourced mattresses. Daily, I scour Facebook Marketplace and Craigslist for other furnishings…
…like a desk…
I found it last week on Marketplace, in North Branch, Minnesota. I’m typing this post on its impeccable wood top, sitting in the adorable chair that came with it. My very small house is filling up with accessories for my unfinished loft. But that’s what happens with visualizing what I want. It manifests! And the Universe doesn’t care about timelines. It just gives me what I ask for.
As my house becomes a part of me (or I a part of it) I feel myself settling into my life. So much changed so fast for so long that, even though my body arrived in Minnesota, my heart was scattered over thousands of miles. I’ve come to accept the fact that it always will be. I have loves, many loves, in Bali, in San Miguel de Allende, in Priano, Italy, in Doha, Qatar, in Spain, Germany, Iceland, Norway, in Montara, California, Isle of Palms, South Carolina, and all over Minnesota. Those people are precious to me and distance won’t change that.
But the hard physical work that has been my reality for the past year-and-a-half, kept me focused in the present. I needed the effects of sweat and exhaustion, and the vision of a ‘forever home’ here in the far north, to ground me. And, fortunately for me, I’ve never been one to cling to what is past.
Tonight, my brother-in-law asked me what I’ll do when the work is done. Only recently have I allowed myself to entertain thoughts about that. It seemed so remote. But now there’s a faint glimmer at the end of the tunnel. Gwen spoke up. “You’ll write!” I do have an unfinished novel, Nettle Creek, to complete. And there’s a local book club I’ve been invited to join. My yard needs flowers. I’d like to continue to study Spanish. And travel? Do I still have gypsy feet? Time will tell.
Meanwhile, it’s 2024. A potent year. I’m 74 and will never be younger than I am right now. Whatever is left undone in my heart, needs to be addressed. But, oh! What a privilege to have a home!
It’s been a month since my last post. Time flies. What a cliche, but nevertheless, how true.
For fifteen of the past thirty days, I was in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. It was a good time of the year to be away from northern Minnesota. Spring melt had turned frozen ground into gooey mud. Extra humidity from thawing snow made 32 degrees feel bone chilling.
Isle of Palms had none of that. I wore sandals and strolled barefoot on the beach.
The trip, planned months ago, was to be a vacation for me plus three days of childcare with my granddaughters. Joy had a work conference in Florida and Kellen was going with her, an opportunity for the two of them to get away while Granny Sherry covered the home front with Hadley, almost 7, and Delaney, almost 4.
Had I known then what I know now…
Let’s just say right up front that I summoned the wherewithal to survive. It wasn’t the girls. They were angels! Seriously. What a tribute to their parents.
No. It was their schedule.
I’m thinking back to 1955 when I went to kindergarten. By then, my sister was three, and my brother was one. Our neighbors had teenage kids. They collected me on their way to the bus stop and walked me back after school. Dad left for work early in our only car. Mom stayed home.
Fast forward sixty-eight years to Isle of Palms…
5:30 a.m My alarm goes off. I stumble out of bed, wash my face, and dress for the day.
6:00 a.m. Delaney pops out of her room, all smiles and chatter, with Ellie, her much-loved, stuffed elephant. She has dressed herself, and she’s hungry. This is the tree-year-old! I put waffles in front of her.
6:10 a.m. I enter Hadley’s room with a cheery, “Good morning, sweetheart, time to rise and shine.” Nothing. She sleeps on the top bunk. I climb the ladder and pat the blankets until I locate a leg. Gently massaging that body part, I say, “Time to get up, Hadley.” In a somnabulent state, she arrives in the kitchen.
6:25 a.m. I have Hadley’s lunch packed and her backpack with the requisite water bottle waiting by the door. While she eats, I brush tangles out of her hair and secure a ponytail. Her clothes are on the counter, chosen the night before. Now, with significant encouragement on my part, she dresses.
6:35 a.m. Delaney is ready, shoes on, with Ellie in tow. Hadley straps on her backpack, and the three of us walk one block to the bus stop.
6:40 a.m. Hadley’s on the bus. Delaney and I return to the house. She plays ‘teacher’ while I have my first cup of coffee and load breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.
Delaney’s make-believe classroom
7:15 a.m. I brush Delaney’s hair ever-so-gently to avoid shrieks of “OWWWW!” Then, contrary to all logic, she insists on a freakishly tight ponytail. I check for any possible clothing adjustments, she’s three, after all. But this fashionista takes after her mother…impeccable.
7:30 a.m. Delaney stuffs Ellie into her backpack, and we’re out the door.
7:55 a.m. We arrive at Delaney’s school in Mt. Pleasant and join the queue behind a line of other cars.
8:00 a.m. The school door opens. Teachers stream out and head for the waiting cars to gather the kids.
8:30 a.m. Back at the house, I pour my second cup of coffee and collapse on the couch.
I could take the next three hours off. But clean laundry needs folding and dirty clothes mysteriously multiplied overnight. I start the washer. Toys are strewn everywhere throughout the house. There are piles of beach sand on the rug by the front door.
Hadley’s fort
My mother kept a spotless, orderly home. I can’t relax surrounded by clutter. The three ‘free’ hours evaporate.
11:30 a.m. I drive back to Delaney’s school and fall in line with the other cars moving slowly to receive our children.
12:00 noon Lunch. Delaney requests playtime before her nap. I say twenty minutes and set the timer.
2:15 p.m. There are very few things that remove the sunshine from Delaney’s soul, but being awakened early from sleep is one of them. Hadley gets off the bus at 2:30 and we have to be there to collect her. I coax Miss Grumpypants out of slumber while slipping her shoes on. This time, we take the golf cart to the bus stop.
That schedule alone would have been plenty. But there were after-school activities, a promised gelato run, tutoring, gymnastics, a four-year-old friend’s birthday party, music in the park…
Joy and Kellen came home with a new agenda. A house had come on the market in Connecticut, and would I mind watching the girls while they flew there to see it? Of course, I can do that!
After living on the other side of the world for so many years with no deadlines and few responsibilities, taking care of those two, pecious beings challenged me to the max. Their hugs and sweetness melted my heart. I felt needed and appreciated. But that schedule…OMG!
When Joy and Kellen had taken care of business and were back at home, there were delightful hours at the beach.
We strolled through opulent neighborhoods, and I oogled the unfamiliar architecture of elevated island homes.
Joy took me on a tour of historic Charleston.
We enjoyed the best sushi I’ve ever eaten at a little place called 167 Raw.
In my 20s, I lived in North Carolina for a year. The landscape was similar. Memories resurrected.
What an adventure! I loved every exhausting minute. Saying goodbye was easier knowing that they’re all coming to visit me in August and, as I’ve already noted, time flies.
I returned to the shy green of northern Minnesota spring, to snowless fields and singing birds, to my cozy cottage at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay…and slept…and slept…and slept…
Those two words more than any others have defined the past twelve years of my life. Make that thirty years. I was in my forties when I began to consciously focus on figuring out who I was and what I wanted.
I bungled it big time at first.
Because, at forty, I had deeply ingrained beliefs that worked against me. Identifying those subconscious dictators and changing the stories took a very long time.
Growth and change will always be my modus operandi, and the most recent development in that neverending saga happened on Valentine’s Day. I moved into my new home.
Gwen, W, and I loaded my earthly belongings into the back of the ‘Gator’ and bumped through the trees, a distance of about half a city block, from their house to mine. In moments, we had created an insignificant little pile of stuff on the floor just inside my door. I was home.
The house was far from finished but I knew I’d get more accomplished faster if I was living with the inconveniences day after day. Cabinet doors were painted but not hung. I didn’t have countertops. There was no cooktop or oven. I did have a microwave, a refrigerator, a Mr. Coffee, and massive motivation to get the rest done!
There were hurdles.
The countertop I ordered through Home Depot arrived broken in half. I reordered. Again it arrived, in their words, damanged beyond use. Three times I waited for a whole one to come. The third also arrived in pieces. I gave up and bought an unfinished birch butcher block slab. After immersing myself in DIY videos, I sanded, sealed, stained, and polyurethaned it hoping my inexperience wouldn’t be too obvious.
Cabinet doors went on fairly easily. The handles didn’t! I measured, leveled, drilled, and agonized. In the end, they looked great. Nobody ever needs to know where wood putty and paint mask the mistakes.
Then, the stove arrived. Don’t get me started! It was a brand new Kitchenaid range and I nearly burned the house down trying to convert it from natural gas to LP. It took Shanna, a brilliant technician from S & D Appliance in Brainerd, to whip it into working order.
………
Today, as I sit at my dining island writing this, every nook and cranny has a tale to tell. I know this house from the outside in. My sweat and blood stain its 2 x 4s. Choice expletives still echo from the rafters, reminding me that demoralizing setbacks are momentary and dogged determination yields bounteous rewards.
When there were things I couldn’t do myself (and there were many) Gwen and W came with the tools and expertise to make it happen. They have at least as much time, energy, and frustration invested in my home as I have. They remain an essential, much loved, and deeply appreciated part of my new life.
I wish I could give you an in-person tour of my sanctuary. But I’m here and you, my friends, are scattered all over the world. So photos will have to suffice for now. Here is my tiny home with industrial farmhouse decor at Granny’s Landing on the shores of Fantasy Bay.
Please, come in…
To the right of the front door, a black hall tree serves as a place to hang guests’ coats, with additional storage below the seat. Between that and the sofa is a forced-air furnace that keeps me toasty and oh so happy these cold, winter days.
My walls, ceilings, and draperies are white. The floor is weathered gray. A monster sofa with sleeper bed tucked inside is the color of oatmeal. That monochromatic palette gives me the opportunity to accent with bright colors. I love the handmade braided rug from India and the two throw pillows from Mexico. The black mining cart coffee table and the wire ceiling fan lend themselves to an industrial theme. The bamboo runner on the dining island is from Bali, as is the bowl with batik wooden balls on the chest. The hand-embroidered wool runner was my very first purchase in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I bought it at the Tuesday Market from the woman who made it. I treasure these collected bits and pieces.
Continuing around the room, we arrive at the kitchen. It’s a compact space adequate for my needs. I wanted a counter-height dining table and this set checked all the boxes. I chose the rich, mahogany stain for the cabinet countertops to mimic the dark wooden surface of the dining island.
The refrigerator cubby accommodates a rolling metal shelf unit for additional storage. Part of the yet-to-be-completed task list is a cabinet over the refrigerator. Patience! Good things come to those who wait I’m told. And note the container suspended from the wire rack. That’s a space-saving hanging trash can I found on the Temu shopping website. Hiding under the shelves is a bucket for compost. My recyclables go into separate bags stashed out of sight.
As we turn the corner, a magnificent, 7-foot handmade oak chest holds the TV, all my clothing, and miscellaneous necessities like drawing tablets, magic markers, paint, glue, you know…stuff. The chest was made by the father of a dear friend and has been sitting, abandoned, in Gwen and W’s unheated storage barn for ten or more years. It’s impeccably made. Nancy’s father was a gifted craftsman, and this chest withstood freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing over and over again to emerge in my home, unscathed.
Let’s swing momentarily past the bathroom door to the red chest. I found it on Facebook Marketplace for $25. It was a TV cabinet but now it holds my winter jackets, mittens, hats, a yoga mat, and a sewing machine. Anywhere my eyes come to rest, there are gifts from friends and family and tokens of remembrance from travels.
Everything delights me.
At the onset, I promised myself I’d have nothing in my home that made me cringe. At first, the glaring proof of my mudding, taping, and sheetrocking ineptitude embarrassed me. Now when people say, “You could cover that up with texture…” I say, “That IS texture.” It gets a laugh. And now, it feels intentional, part of the magic of a derelict hunting shack transformed but still hinting at what it once was.
Let’s proceed through the bathroom door…
This room is just plain fun. All of my plumbing drains live under the shower. That required some wild creativity. Fortunately, the ceilings in this tiny house are 8 1/2 feet high – not the standard 8 feet – so we had an extra 6 inches to work with. The shower tower soars a lofty 20 inches off the floor. To access it, I needed a large, sturdy platform and steps.
The black metal and wood staircase slides under the platform when not in use. I made the cushion and the shade from a quilt set purchased from Ophelia and Company through the Wayfair website. The two throw pillows came with it!
I’m equally thrilled and dumbfounded by the ease of shopping online. The towel bars, TP holder, and the hangers supporting the shade, are industrial pipes. A thin, black metal frame around the mirror and black wire cages for the old-fashioned exposed light bulbs add to the edgy-ness that is softened by the Parisian print fabrics. The Eiffel Tower is the epitome of industry. A wrought iron lattice structure on the Champ de Mars, “…it was the symbol of technological prowess at the end of the 19th Century…a defining moment of the industrial era.” (https://www.toureiffel.paris).
There is a caveat to shopping online, however. 99.9999% of the time the products require assembly.
Gwen helped me with the sliding barn door for the bathroom and the island table and stools.
When the hall tree came in boxes weighing more than we could lift together, we attacked that project with the confidence borne of ignorance and two successful prequels. Gwen can figure anything out. Really. But anyone watching us fight with that massive cabinet would have doubted it would ever hold together. W offered his help and we nearly bit his head off. He disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. As you can see from the photos, we did it. But no more. Neither of us wants to tackle anything like that again. Ever.
In the meantime, I was remembering how to sew.
The bathroom accessories were a great way to engage with the machine and practice. Gwen said it was like riding a bike – you never forget. Ummm, well, sort of. I was super happy that the instruction booklet was included.
When I first moved into the house, I tiptoed around feeling light-headed and giddy in the space, not quite believing it was my home, wondering what to do now that the major jobs were done. I didn’t know how I fit…where would I sit to write? Which side of the sink would hold dirty dishes? How many people could I comfortably entertain? I felt guilty curling up on my luxurious couch with a book. Surely there must be something I should be doing…
Those feelings weren’t surprising after ten months of constant, often back-breaking labor.
One morning about a week ago, I woke up grounded. Since then I’ve been my old self, journaling, yoga-ing, meditating, drawing, and daydreaming. Ah, yes. Daydreaming. Not of new vistas or grand schemes. I’m dreaming of a simple life in this community of old friends. Of planting and harvesting. Of being present with the seasons. Of contemplating death, not in a morbid sense, but with curiousity, aware that it awaits, and knowing that when it comes I’ll be ready. I have lived…I am living…fully and joyfully!
Wind hurls shards of ice over undulant waves of snow.
Brooding skies usher in gray days without sun.
Monochrome world rests, void of life save for the tracks of wild turkeys, foxes, and a lone wolf.
Deep, profound, stillness.
Deep
Profound
Stillness
My love for this place is an ache.
At five, maybe six, I helped Dad plant a windbreak, the seedling pines that now soar thirty to forty feet. Their tips touch the clouds.
Back then, it was called Willow Island Farm, and I climbed the graceful trees that gave it that name. Hopefully, I aged better than they did…decayed stumps…a few sprawling branches.
I’ve moved more than 45 times in my life. Vagabond. Gypsy. Restless maybe. But also curious. What’s it like over there? Are the people kind? Happy? What stories do they tell? What gods do they worship? I was told that people are people – basically the same no matter where you go. That isn’t true. Brilliantly unique and endlessly fascinating, humans reflect their culture, their climate, their geography, and their belief systems.
Balinese are nothing like Australians. Aussies are vastly different from Italians. Italians are as unlike Norwegians as Chianti is to Aquavit. But how magnificent. I love them all.
So where am I going with this? Good question. Sometimes I write because my head cannot contain the abundance of my heart. For instance, right now it’s 6:46 a.m. Look at that sky! I’ve been gifted another glorious morning. A splendid new dawn. My throat constricts and tears burn behind my eyelids. It’s -18° F out there with a high of 7° expected today. This is winter in northern Minnesota and I came back.
It’s about choices and consequences. Connections to people and places. Belonging.
The long-time residents of this area are tough and willing to help one another. Community sustains itself through connection…shared abundance…shared work…shared life experience…winter!
People have welcomed me because of their memories of my parents, because of their love for my sister, and because of the helping hand my brother-in-law has extended time and time again to so many over the years. And, I suppose, because they’re curious. Who is this woman who left so long ago and now returns late in life? Why here? Why now?
For eleven years, I was defined by where I was. It was an exciting, exotic persona. Shedding that skin leaves me naked, a blank canvas. I no longer have the urge or feel the need, to be unique. No, that’s not quite right…I am, by nature, unique. But I’m ready to be a part of this culture that is in ways so familiar and yet so foreign. I want to approach the people here with as much curiosity as I carried with me to other lands. I want to know them, not only for the ways we’re different but also for our similarities. I want to engage and blend and discover my place and purpose. But most of all, I want to spend the time I have left near family.
——-
During the past six months, my energy has been consumed by house construction. There was little time for reflection and less time for writing. Exhaustion was a permanent state of being.
On Valentine’s Day, I moved into a not-quite-finished home. There’s still work to be done. My shower tower (raised because all the plumbing is housed beneath it) needs steps. The kitchen begs for a countertop, a sink, and shelves in the corner for dishes. Oh…and dishes…I’ll need those, too!
It never ends. But now, there’s a little more time to think, to feel, and to remember how delightful it is just to be.
Soon I’ll share the after pictures of the magical home that has emerged from the love and sweat that Gwen, W, and I have poured into it. Just another week or two and the finishing touches will be photo-worthy. And so will I, stronger and more resilient, with a host of new skills I didn’t know I needed.
Don’t mess with this Granny!
But I will never, NOT EVER, tape and mud sheetrock again!
My nervous system is recalibrating. I don’t wake up to monkeys screaming at dawn. Ketut says they’re still there. Every day. Many.
I loved Bali. No other place has ever captured my heart and soul like that mysterious island did. No other human has shown me such kindness or giggled as contagiously as Ketut did, and still does, but from a great distance now. Life, however, moves on. Circumstances change. As Willie Nelson so eloquently put it, Shit happens.
So we pick up the scraps and move on, a little battered, a little shaken up, but still hopeful that the path will open before us and the sun will shine again.
It’s important, though, especially for those of us who are optimists, to feel the feelings. Everything is not always sunny-side-up and we need to let grief in where it belongs.
When I landed in the U.S. I was numb. Reuniting with family after two years should have been bliss. I had expectations. It would be a love-fest – joyous – thrilling. My heart experienced it that way but my mind was in a state of utter overwhelm. I remember almost nothing of that time with my children and grandchildren.
My nervous system was in dire need of a reset.
The past five months in Mexico have been healing. The joys and sorrows of life are played out in the streets. There seem to be no taboos. One day they’re dancing and drumming with wild abandon. The next day brings a procession so somber and reverent the beholder hardly dares breathe. Battles, revenge, love, craziness. People in costumes depicting angels, demons, and everything in between. Effigies of personas non grata hung over the streets and blown to smitherines. My energies merge with theirs and I’m purged and cleansed.
Writing used to occupy my free time. I could sit for twelve hours at a stretch, so absorbed in the story I’d forget to eat.
I don’t know if it’s the altitude, the weather, or the tectonic shifting within my own being, but here in Mexico, my body wants to move. It refuses to sit still. It’s all I can do to bribe it into a chair long enough to hammer out a blog post.
So in-between delightful visits from friends who view my current proximity to the U.S. as a much less arduous undertaking than a trip to Bali, I seek projects.
The patio set on my roof frustrated me. The Acapulco-style table was missing its round glass insert. If mine ever had one, it was long gone. The rubber-string top was worthless if I wanted to set my coffee cup or glass of wine on it. I didn’t want a glass top anyway. I preferred a statement table, something that would express with color and design what stirred in my heart and didn’t yet have words.
Roberto, my landlady’s son, supplied a round piece of plywood.
I borrowed a brush from Martin, the handyman.
There is a Sherwin Williams paint store down the street. I stopped in and bought a can of black, a can of white, and a can of marine varnish – a product Dad used years ago to protect an antique coffee table he refinished. To this day it doesn’t have a scratch on it. An art supply shop had tubes of red, green, and gold and the smaller brushes I needed for details. I was ready.
For some reason, I decided to use a sponge rather than Martin’s new brush to apply the white base coat. I shook the can vigorously and pried it open with a tool that was not made for that purpose. In minutes my tabletop was white.
I took the sponge to the kitchen sink and squeezed it under running water. It was at that moment I realized I had not purchased acrylic paint. A sticky, oily, white substance covered my skin and the faucet. Panic. I grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed to no avail. By now my hands looked like the face of a Parisian mime.
Stop, Sherry. Think.
Nail polish remover? I didn’t have any. I quit polishing my nails around month number six of Covid lockdown in Bali.
Rubbing alcohol? Worth a try. But anything I touched was going to be slathered in white. I slapped my palms down on two pieces of newspaper. It stuck like glue. I found the bottle of rubbing alcohol and gave my poor hands a liberal dousing. It didn’t work on the paint but the paper disintegrated.
Now what?
Martin had been painting recently. There might be turpentine in his supplies. I applied fresh newspaper and ran downstairs. The storage cabinet was full of bottles all labeled in Spanish. One looked promising, diluyente de pintura. Dilute the paint? Thinner perhaps? Back at the kitchen sink, I poured and scrubbed, poured and scrubbed, poured…. Were my hands a slightly pinker shade of pale? There had to be something that worked better than this.
Newspaper refreshed once again, I hurried back downstairs and paged more carefully through the confusing labels. Solvente de poliuretano? Polyurethane solvent? Now we’re talking! Back up the steps, two at a time. I poured a small amount of the liquid into a cup and dribbled it on my hands. This time paint came off when I scrubbed. Jackpot! I picked up the cup for another splash of miracle juice and WHOOPS! My magic paint remover had dissolved the bottom of the cup and solvent was running over my polyurethaned concrete countertop!
I don’t want to crash the climax for you, but there is a happy ending to this story. I grabbed a rag and swabbed down the counter. No harm done. The solvent removed most of the paint from my hands but a residue clung to my cuticles creating interesting half-moon shapes that framed the fingernails for weeks.
It took each coat of oil paint three days to cure and there were multiple coats. After the basic white, I taped squares and painted them black.
When that dried, I taped over those black squares and painted another layer of black to create a checkerboard pattern. The black paint bled into the white squares under the tape. Wiggly edges looked like the scribblings of a toddler, not at all the crisp, professional masterpiece I’d envisioned. The quickest fix: sandpaper for a distressed finish. It worked.
Adding the artistic touches was a treat. The flowers, slightly transparent, allowed a shadow of the black and white to show through. Touches of metallic gold added a sprinkle of sparkle to catch the light.
The project that I’d hoped to finish in three days took three weeks because I assumed I was buying acrylic paint. I didn’t ask for a water-based product so why would I assume? If I were in the U.S. I would have specified exactly what I wanted. Sometimes my ignorance astounds me.
The important thing, though, is the finished product, a hard surface where I can securely park my morning coffee cup or evening wine glass.
But even more special for me is the subtle message written in paint. Black and white checks represent the balance between darkness and light. Every Balinese Hindu male owns a black and white checked sarong and important statues are draped with checkered fabric for protection against dark spirits. Nothing says Bali to me like that pattern.
Vibrant red flowers are life itself – creativity, innovation, fire, passion, beauty.
Green is growth. Renewal. A calming, peaceful, dependable color.
And you might ask why I didn’t cluster the flowers in the middle? It would have created a more symmetrical balance. Science shows that symmetry is comfortable. Our minds don’t have to work to process symmetry. But asymmetry is more interesting and we engage longer with it. I’ve never been satisfied with comfortable. I like challenge, and the design I chose to paint reflects that truth.
My table says it all! It’s wonderful! My body had to move a lot to get those stories painted. But for the last three hours, it’s been perched on this chair, retelling the saga that’s already been told in color and pattern. And now it’s begging me to finish because it’s after midnight and this bird is not a night owl.
I’m grieving the loss of my beloved Bali, feeling it deeply, and that’s necessary. At the same time, I’m enjoying wonderful new friends in San Miguel and visits from dear old friends in the U.S. I don’t have all the answers but I know I’m in the right place for right now, and that’s all I need to know.
My last walk was ten miles through downtown San Miquel de Allende and ended with this steep climb – hundreds of steps – up to my home near the top of the mountain.
I’m feeling boundlessly grateful today for my robust immune system and the two AstraZeneca vaccines that strengthened that solid foundation. This is my seventh day of isolation. I have Covid.
At first I ‘knew’ it was ‘just a cold.’ It felt like every other cold I’ve ever had. But I quarantined myself while my daughters urged me to get tested. I sent out a request to my new friends here in San Miguel for a home test kit and one appeared. The very clear POSITIVE reading stunned me.
How could that be? It’s just a cold.
But it isn’t just. And now, seven days into the experience, I feel the difference. The coughing has passed. The fever’s gone. A raging strep-like sore throat has finally dissipated. My nose runs but the congestion was never extreme. My bronchial tubes and trachea remained clear. I had no problem breathing.
But what happened to that powerhouse of energy that used to propel me out of bed at 5:00 a.m. and keep me going like Napolean’s army until sundown and sweet sleep?
Gone without a trace.
I have no choice but to rest, which I haven’t done since leaving Bali three-and-a-half months ago. Of course, all this downtime brings with it hours upon hours to reflect on – well – seventy-two years of life, and be humbled. There were events I shouldn’t have survived physically. There were years when I could have been devastated emotionally. There were traumas that might have left unhealable wounds.
But none of that happened. Why?
As I reflect on that question, I see the faces of kindness at each fork in the road.
Kindness.
In the last seven days, confined at home, one after another of my new friends have messaged me,
“We’ve found a test kit. We’ll drop it by…”
“You must need groceries, Send us your list…”
“How are you feeling today? If you need anything…”
“If you need anything…”
“If you need anything…”
Kindness.
My daughters were relentless. They knew far more about the virus than I did and my cavalier approach brought out the mama-bear fury in each of them. I was scolded, educated, and reminded how much I was loved.
I’m a bit ashamed that I had to be knocked flat out to realize the unsustainable pace I’d set for myself. It isn’t like there weren’t gentle nudges along the way. (Falling off the pillow and conking my head, for example – not so gentle but definitely a nudge.) Then along came Covid making it physically impossible for me to push myself.
If there’s a lesson to be learned from this, that’s it. Will this time be the charm? Will I accept that I’m human, elderly, and have limitations? Oooo. That’s a tough one. I guess time will tell.
I’m not in hibernation, although the temperatures here in Pennsylvania warrant it. I awoke to a powdering of snow that has progressed to a blustery, biting wind. The forest floor, layered with fallen oak leaves, crunches underfoot. Fawn Lake isn’t frozen…but I am!
I left Bali on October 4th. After months of waiting, I was finally fully vaccinated and travel to the US seemed feasible.
Two years is a long time to be separated from family. After seven weeks and three different states, my ‘hug deficit’ has been replenished. It feels marvelous. I’m catching up with my grandchildren – all incredibly bright and adorable, of course – but also two years older than when I last saw them. Now, they all walk, talk, count, and ask baffling questions.
The oldest, already five, is in Kindergarten. Hadley freely shares the uncanny array of facts she stores in her head. Granny, did you know that koala bears are nocturnal? Owls can have a wingspan up to five feet.Did you know elephants can live seventy years and weigh ten tons? Granny, what’s a ton?
Questions…
I’ve felt change coming for some time but had no answers for what, when, where, or how. I’d hoped this trip would bring clarity. Originally, I’d planned to return to Indonesia the first week in December. As that time approaches, there are still no international flights direct to Bali. I’d have to quarantine in Jakarta. I don’t want to do that so…
After my visit with family here, I’m flying to Mexico to meet up with friends and enjoy the milder climate in San Miguel de Allende. There’s a built-in community waiting for me there. I can explore possibilities and wait until quarantine requirements at home are lifted.
Meanwhile….
Emotionally, it’s a strange mix. I have amazing relationships in Bali, and a beautiful home that currently sits empty. (Does anyone out there want to start a new life on The Island of the Gods? Let me know!) Letting go is easier for me than most, but this feels hard. And yet, excitement bubbles in my chest imagining new challenges.
The bottom line crystallized with Covid. The uncertainty of the past two years brought reality home to roost. I can’t count on business as usual. The world came to a screeching halt almost overnight. Thinking there’d be time tomorrow for all the important things I’ve been putting off is a luxury in which I can no longer indulge.
It’s time to see the people I haven’t seen and tell them how much they mean to me.
It’s time to finish that last edit on my novel, Nettle Creek.
It’s time to admit that life is terminal and I’m closer to the end than the beginning.
It’s time to begin the next adventure – manifest the new dream.
The way ahead isn’t mapped. It’s a hard lesson for someone who wants her i’s dotted. I’m getting surprisingly adept at leaning into uncertainty and letting go of the need to see the whole picture – especially when there’s no other choice! There’s just enough light on the path for the next step and I’m taking it. Judging from past experience, when the time’s right there’ll be another glimmer of knowing…
It was 1981. I’d stopped in to see a friend, a strong, smart woman who had been married long enough to have three children – the oldest was four. She was large with striking looks, double the size of her husband, and she wore the pants. He was a sweetheart, mild-mannered, jovial, engaging. He adored her and took her bossing with a good-natured wink.
On this particular day our conversation turned to intimate themes. I can’t remember what triggered her statement, but I’ll never forget what she said.
“Sherry, love is a decision of the will.”
I felt as though I’d been gut-punched. I didn’t want to believe it. How cold. How unromantic. How, how, how…true?
I thought about the two of them, what an unlikely match they appeared to be. Was it a struggle for her? Was her morning mantra, I will love him today? Did she make that choice every single day, deliberately? Or was her comment in response to something I’d said? I hadn’t married the man of my dreams, but I didn’t want anyone to know that. It was all about the show, like my mother and our perfect family. But I felt safe with my friend. I might have let it slip that he was a disappointment – perhaps going so far as to say I no longer loved him.
Love is a decision of the will.
“You can’t mean that. Where’s the magic? What wife wants to have to will herself to love her husband? It shouldn’t be that hard.” At that time I was still trying to believe in happily-ever-after.
She didn’t smile. It was more of a raised eyebrow, you-poor-ignorant-child kind of look as she slowly nodded her head and sighed.
I ‘willed it’ with that husband for fifteen more years, long after any feelings of affection, any modicum of respect, any hope of change had withered. Her words gripped me with a force that commanded obedience and I obeyed.
Then one morning I woke up and chose not to love anymore.
There are two lessons here:
Words are powerful – what we say can change the trajectory of a person’s life, impact them emotionally for their betterment or their detriment, enhance or endanger their self-esteem, reverberate in their head forever
Strong statements must be tested – don’t swallow them whole even if someone you admire speaks them
Is love a decision of the will?
Forty years later, I’ve come to the conclusion that love is not one-size-fits-all.
For instance, there is nothing my girls could do that would ever stop my loving them. It isn’t possible. No matter what their feelings for me, no matter what their choices, no matter what, I will always love them. It’s unconditional. a response as involuntary as my heartbeat. It isn’t something I decided.
For everyone else, my love has an IF attached.
I’ll love a good friend IF they respect me, reciprocate my affection, and don’t misuse me.
Love for family members used to be automatic. I have to love you, you’re family. I no longer aspire to that belief. It takes a lot, but IF a relative won’t associate with me for whatever reason, I may choose not to love that person.
A partner?
Tricky, tricky, tricky. But I think I’ve learned a bit in my old age. Love cannot be based on a feeling. Romantic love is an illusion – a pleasant one – but an illusion nonetheless. It’s 70% hormones and 30% imagination and it’s unsustainable. Some of us can manipulate those percentages masterfully so imagination approaches 100%. It’s a story we tell ourselves to make believe things are better than they really are. It’s easier than admitting to a dysfunctional relationship. Easier than leaving.
We have to know ourselves well enough to understand what works for us and what doesn’t then negotiate the terms with our partner. There are those who have said:
I can love you IF we maintain separate homes. It works for them.
I can love you IF you will allow me the freedom to see other people.
I can love you IF I can spend one week a month away.
I can love you IF you give me $1000/week for whatever I want (Trust me – it happens.)
I can love you IF…
Then there are those precious ones who are so good to us that whatever they do that could be cause for annoyance is quickly forgiven and forgotten. Affection deepens with time. Trust grows. Love is easy. IF you are that good to me…
Love, then, is a compromise.
There’s more softness there. It suggests working together for the common good rather than one person’s steely-minded commitment not to hate. To me, a decision of the will says I will tolerate you, and that’s a beggarly substitute for love.
I don’t believe we can force ourselves to love. There has to be some element of love-ability which can be totally in the eye of the beholder and not visible to another soul, but it must exist.
These are my personal conclusions from a life lived with an abundance of misunderstanding around love. I very much enjoy deep philosophical discussions. Is love a decision of the will is a question ripe for exploration. You may wholeheartedly disagree with my point of view, and that’s wonderful. Let me hear your juiciest thoughts. Then I’ll decide whether or not I love you!
writing for self-discovery 
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