When did the lights go on? The tectonic plates shift? When did the things that mattered so much yesterday become unimportant but everything else intensified? When did life turn inside out?
There were decades when I lived from the outside in.
When I obsessed about makeup, clothes, body shape, the color of my nail polish…
…when my legs and armpits still grew hair and I shaved it off…
…when I braided my girls’ long locks, chose their clothes, monitored their behavior so it reflected positively on me…
When I remember those times, I sigh and shake my head.
I spent years looking toward a future where things would be easier, better, safer, and numbed out to the present because most of it was either too mundane or too hard.
That changed when I turned sixty-two, took early retirement, and moved to Indonesia. I had to leave to save the only life I could save, as Mary Oliver so eloquently states in her poem, The Journey.
Every day was new, utterly different, and unpredictable. The present was a glorious place to be. I plunged in headfirst and submerged myself in the culture, the language, the food, and the kindness. I’d never known such joy.
I learned Indonesian by writing the English word on one side of an ice cream stick and the corresponding Indonesian word on the other. Then memorized. Memorized. Memorized.
But, the day I jumped on the back of the motorbike and wound up the mountain to AbangSongan to meet Ketut’s family, I was blindsided by the unfathomable poverty of his mountain village. It shocked me into awareness of the incredible privilege I took for granted as an American white woman.
And yet, those people were happy. They had their tight-knit family compounds, their hectares of land bestowed upon them by the king, and their Hindu rituals of daily prayers and offerings. Walking among them in humility that bordered on grief, a burning determination to make a difference bloomed in my conscience.
Gratitude for the Bali years knows no bounds. That’s where I became who I am. That’s where I began to live from the inside out, making choices from my heart that would benefit those less fortunate. I built a B&B and paid Ketut and his family to manage it. Ruamh Jelita – Beautiful House. When I left Bali, I gave it to them. They’re doing well.
I had become proactive in the moment rather than wasting time waiting for some unknown better place. I’d arrived. I was occupying my better place.
Even though I’m back in Minnesota now, I haven’t reverted to the old patterns of numbing out to the present and hoping for a better future. (Who knows how much future is left?) I’ve been on the mountaintop. The path slopes downhill from here. There will be stunning sunrises and joyous times along the way. I’m in excellent health so the end probably isn’t imminent. But I’ve learned how to inhabit my life. Engage with intention. Ponder the knottier questions, daring to dive into dreams trusting that I can manifest them because I have.
Envisioning a home
Living from the outside, from the shallow illusions of conformity to social norms, expectations (usually self-inflicted) and preconceptions of what should be, is a slow and tortuous soul-death. I would remind you, whoever you are, whether you’re in the prime of life or closing in on old age, we get one shot at this. As far as we know, nobody has returned from the Great Beyond for a re-do.
I urge you, make the necessary corrections now. Don’t waste another minute. Grab hold of your own life and become who you are…from the inside out.
I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately. None of us asked for it, but after nine months, give or take, we’re thrust naked into this world, helpless. Absolutely and utterly helpless. We would not survive without someone to tend to our every need. What is that, a parasite? No, a parasite feeds on its host. I looked it up. It’s a word I’d never heard. Human babies or any infants that cannot care for themselves right out of the gate are called altricialyoung. Those that pop out already self-sufficient are precocial young. (Is that where precocious comes from?)
Those were the second and third new words I learned today. The first was Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar. That’s a mouthful.
Not that any of that matters, but I do love words, especially when they’re strung together poetically. Those brilliant writers who construct sentences in unique ways to make me feel like I’m right there are heroes to me. It’s the difference between writing, He was angry, as a statement, or, His face turned a shade redder, his fists clenched, and every word that spewed out was laced with venom. The first rendition is boring. In the second, I can see this mad soul and feel his fury.
See how easily I squirrel down a rabbit hole? I was talking about life, right?
For two years, mine has been synonymous with hard, physical work. I hadn’t realized until now how desperately I needed that distraction. Back-breaking labor brought healing magic as the trauma-angst of Covid slowly seeped out of my nervous system.
Building a house required skills I didn’t have. Designing it was easy. Second nature. But making the vision become reality with lumber and screws? Way beyond my pay grade! But I had help, patient teachers, and a few not-so-patient ones. I learned a lot. The end product is far from perfect, but it’s mine. And the sense of accomplishment? Off the charts.
As of this week, the inside is finished and fully furnished. It’s a home that so completely reflects me that a mini-explosion of joy hits me every time I walk through the door. I made every choice. The main living area is neutral with bursts of color in the rugs and accessories. Windows face east, south, and west with sweeping views of meadows and marshlands. Light and bright, it vibrates happy energy.
This past year, I added a garage, deck, entryway, and a 14’ x 22’ loft room with a moody vibe. Browns and grays provide a backdrop for warm bronze, terra cotta, and gold. It’s a private place where reading, writing, and solid, eight-hour sleeping, flourish.
I need both spaces, the upbeat and the shadows. In my loft I feel grounded, nurtured, safe. In the livingroom/kitchen I’m bouyant, lighter-than-air.
And now, I suddenly have free time. There are no undone tasks looming like goblins in my psyche. I’m free to live.
It’s no wonder, then, that I’ve been thinking about life – where it’s taken me, what I’ve learned, and how I want to spend the years I have left. I say years, but there are no guarantees. That knowledge drives my thoughts as well. It’s almost as though building the house was a brief detour from my trajectory. I put writing on hold. Travel on hold. Even thinking was suspended.
And now, I’m feeling my way back. The only thing I’m sure of is my delight in this place. My sense of well-being here. The scent of fresh-cut hay. The sounds of my cousin’s tractor pulling the baler leaving giant tootsie-roll mounds in the field. Raucous honking of Canadian geese flying south.
I’m in no rush to do anything. Maybe it’s time to rest, to revel in this peace, to enjoy my surroundings with no pressing urge to explore beyond my front yard. How unlike me. Could I have achieved contentment? Maybe this is Nirvana – neither suffering nor desire, just peace, tranquility, joy, enlightenment…hmmm…enlightenment… Okay, not quite there yet, but I can see it from here!
I get this way when a big project nears completion. It’s not that there’s nothing left to do. Baseboards haven’t been installed. The entryway waits for the new front door before floor covering can be put in. There are hundreds of little details.
I’m macro. Details are micro. It takes a mighty surge of determination, a decision of the will for me to focus on small stuff.
Under these circumstances, I procrastinate. Any excuse not to address the work is easier than summoning the energy to do it. But that creates anxiety, guilt, shame…a wicked cycle.
I know myself. There’s something else going on, a subconscious roadblock that requires attention. Journaling, stream-of-consciousness writing, and meditation are tools for working through what hinders. A brisk walk or yoga workout might be enough to beat the funk.
But when I want a broader scope, I create a vision board.
My latest effort produced a massive collage of pictures with words and exclamations superimposed upon them. And there, dead center, to the right of Comin Home, to the left of Rule over what you write, below the single word, Alone, and above the question, Where do we go from here, Becoming Small commanded attention.
I framed my creation and hung it in the bathroom directly in front of the toilet where I would have uninterrupted time to gaze and ponder. Sitting there, I obsessed about becoming small.
Since Covid and my departure from Bali, I’ve felt diminished. Living in Indonesia made me interesting. Thousands of people around the globe read my blog posts. A few even came to Bali to seek me out. During my ten years there I learned the language and immersed myself in a vastly different culture steeped in animism and Balinese Hinduism.
When Covid descended, so did monkeys. Lockdown was taken seriously on the island. We could not leave our homes. Food was ordered. Cash was left in an envelope at the gate where the deliverer could pick it up and deposit bags of groceries in exchange.
Monkeys from the nearby Monkey Forrest Sanctuary had no such restrictions. Soon hoards of them invaded homes wreaking havoc, stealing whatever wasn’t nailed down, sending clay tiles crashing to earth as they skirmished on my rooftop.
To avoid mass destruction, I was ever-vigilant, poised, and ready to close windows and slam doors or the beasts would be inside. Several times a day they screeched their arrival, mothers clinging to their babies, large males charging the door and showing their teeth. Aggressive. Dangerous. Monkey trauma fried my nervous system. But without them, it would have been much more difficult to shed the ego and become small.
When I started noticing my thoughts and feelings again, I was in northern Minnesota, remodeling a derelict hunting shack on the family farm. I’d shoved Bali, COVID-19, and monkeys into a dark corner of the past and blocked them from my mind.
I felt microscopic in that remote farming community. Invisible. Meanwhile, I had a worthy distraction: 400 square feet of raw potential to turn into a habitable dwelling.
For the next year, I replaced whoever I had been with a focused robotic workaholic. Manual labor day in and day out kept me mentally occupied and physically exhausted.
When my tiny home approached completion, rather than rejoice that the work was done, I envisioned an addition with a garage, deck, entryway, and a 14 x 20 loft room. I wasted no time making it happen. I wasn’t ready to relax and thread my way into a social fabric that was still so foreign to me.
When the addition neared its final stages, I found myself mentally scratching at possibilities for the next big thing. But staring at me from the wall was the vision board. With fascination and dread, I sensed that becoming small was vital to my well-being.
Architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe operated on the principle that: less is more. He was persuaded that simplicity brought greater satisfaction than complexity and excess. I started down that path in 2012 when I relieved myself of my belongings and moved to Bali. The freedom was intoxicating. Unmitigated joy moved in where ‘stuff’ had been.
Since then, I’ve acquired only things that delight me; items I would never tire of seeing every day. My new home is furnished with treasures. The decor is unique. The main house radiates bright colors and light. It mirrors that side of me that is upbeat, optimistic, and happy. The loft addition is a reflection of my inner landscape: a moody mix of pattern and shadow. I love and need both spaces. My total living area is 780 sq. ft. It feels huge.
But becoming small intentionally, called for a hard reset.
When the French press I’d ordered to replace the ancient Mr. Coffee maker arrived, my knee-jerk response was, It’s too small. As soon as that thought surfaced, the word small set off mental alarms. The vision board flashed before me. I was thrown into a process of reimagining morning coffee in a lesser but more powerful way. I have a set of unused espresso mugs that served as art on my kitchen shelves. What if I used them? Historically, I made miserably weak coffee and polished off a full pot. Wouldn’t it be fun to brew it espresso-strength in my new, 12 oz. press then sip it slowly from one of those mini-mugs?
Excited, I unplugged Mr. Coffee, scrubbed him clean, and set him aside to be used exclusively for guests.
The next morning I couldn’t wait to experiment. The result was even better than I’d imagined. I closed my eyes dreamily inhaling the fragrant steam and losing myself in the intense, rich flavor. I added a decadent splash of cream. The too-small French press revolutionized my morning ritual.
I’m finding other ways becoming small enhances my life. Eating, for instance. My gut is so much happier when I feed it less more often. I enjoy the taste of one dish at a time rather than laboring through a plate full of competing textures and flavors. Replenished frequently, my energy level remains consistent, emotions stable, and mental acuity sharp.
I have more time for self-indulgence. One of the best features of a small home is easy maintenance. Anything that takes me away from life’s pleasures is unwelcome, and cleaning is not high on my love-to-do list. It takes thirty minutes, max, to have my place gleaming. Then I’m free to engage in other pursuits guilt-free.
When a designer friend saw my drawings for the layout of the interior of this house early on, he voiced concern. Where’s your storage? he wanted to know. My response was that I had nothing to store. It was 99% true. The 1% I own that does require storage is a result of Minnesota weather. Extremes in temperature make two completely different wardrobes essential. In summer, there has to be a place to hide winter clothes, jackets, boots, hats, mittens, and multiple scarves. In winter, summer clothing gets stashed. But one large suitcase and my smaller carry-on handle all of it. They tuck into a curtained cubby above the refrigerator.
So, as my Aussie friends in Bali would say, Done and dusted!
Now that I’m acing the small bit, another shred of wisdom seems to be spying on me from the vision board, vying for attention. ‘Be’ true to who you are, true to where you are.
I’ve spent the last decade being true to who I am. But true to where you are? Huh! I have no idea what that means. This should be interesting.
There’s a candle flickering on my left. On my right, Elon Musk, with the tips of prayer hands at his chin, stares from the cover of his life story. The dregs of winter loom sunless and drab through the window in front of my desk.
Internet is sketchy on days like this. But I can breathe again.
The past three weeks have been a race to get my loft space guest-ready. That meant mudding, taping, sanding, and painting non-stop to hit the January 25th deadline of the lunchtime arrival of Jessa and Dan.
A paper and pen list with each task and its to-be-completed date posted on my refrigerator in plain sight was my archaic method for achieving an on-time finish; that and the vision in my head. I could see it, the colorful patchwork quilt on the bed. The Tiffany-type lamp glowing. A cozy seating area by the flickering (electric) fireplace, and the new rug.
It would be a push. I knew that. But when I want something badly enough, Driven is my middle name.
Gwen helped the first day.
She placed the mesh tape over all the joints between the sheets of drywall. Then, she went home. For the next few days, I slathered joint compound (mud) over the tape, wielding a smoothing tool with a twelve-inch blade, determined to have learned from my ignorant first attempts at mudding a year ago.
The ceiling of the loft slopes from seven feet at the highest point, down to about three feet ten inches at the outside wall. For some of the work I squatted and ducked. For some, I stood. And for about one-third of it, I needed a ladder. Then, just to be sure I got a full calisthenic workout, every few minutes I bent to set down the mud and pick up the screw gun.
There’s a sweet spot for sheetrock screws that requires just the right amount of pressure so they come to rest slightly below the surface of the drywall. When done well, the mud smoothes over them and they completely disappear. Many of them needed an extra zap to sink them to the proper depth. I was meticulous. I wanted to get as close to perfection as an amateur possibly could,
My energy held out for about three hours every morning. Then, right shoulder, elbow, and wrist aching, I’d stop for lunch and rest. Rarely did I have what it took to go back to it the same day. To keep going, I counseled myself, Just a little longer, Sherry. Then you won’t have to do this part again tomorrow. Or I bargained, One more hour now and you can quit early tomorrow.
When I finally crossed mudding off the list, I thought the worst was over. How soon we forget. Sanding created woes of its own. Smoothing the walls wasn’t bad, but the ceiling was another story. Powdery dust fell into my eyes. I tried goggles. In seconds, they were coated and I could see nothing. Every wrinkle in my face was a ghostly line of white. The shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints that sustained the brutal workout of mudding, were now challenged in new ways. Oh! And did I mention my neck? All that cranking my head back to look upward as dust mixed with tears and mud oozed out of my eyes, meant a nightly dose of ibuprofen to ease the pain and let me sleep.
Then morning would come again!
When sanding was complete, every surface in my house sported a layer of grit. I knew there was no point in cleaning until I’d wiped down the walls, ceiling, and floor of the loft, and that had to happen before I could paint.
Neighbor Bear told me to check in with him, suggesting that he might have some things I could use. I left the dust and strolled over to his house. He moved into his unfinished residence on September 30th and was still unpacking boxes. In the process he’d come across paint (about 90 gallons of various colors) and painting supplies. He sent me home with rollers, brushes, trays, and eight gallons of random satin, gloss, and eggshell. There were various shades of white, a cream, two browns, and something called amber glow which turned out to be blaze orange. It was the 22nd. I had three days left.
As soon as I got back to the house, I wiped down the walls and ceiling of the loft and entryway with damp cloths. Then mopped the floor. Puffy little clouds no longer accompanied each footstep. Once that was done, I tackled the main living area, vacuumed the upholstery and the rug, dusted the top, sides, and insides of the furniture, and scrubbed the floor. I’d forgotten what clean felt like.
I should have stopped to rest, but I was running out of time. I knew the next day meant a run to town to get groceries, a 70-mile round trip, and prepping meals for my guests. So, I broke open the first can of white and began. I rolled the walls, then up and down the ladder for the ceiling, on hands and knees with the paintbrush for the plywood floor in the entryway, and with the roller again to cover the rough chipboard floor in the loft.
Three things kept me psyched up enough to face each grueling day:
Crossing completed tasks off the list
Visualizing the finished project
Wanting to please my guests
On the 24th, Gwen brought over their queen-size air bed, a magnificent thing that inflates itself. By evening, the loft was a charming guestroom. I messaged Jessa: I’m ready for you tomorrow! Within moments, she answered: Mom! Were coming on the 28th, not tomorrow!
I don’t know how our wires got crossed. I looked back in my messages and nowhere did I find any dates at all. But what a gift, three whole days to rest! The psychological circus that had kept me going for the preceeding weeks, quietly rolled out of town.
When they arrived twenty minutes early on the 28th, homemade Loaded Vegetable and Barley Soup was simmering on the stove. Creamy butter sat ready to be slathered on Mexican bolillos, and Gwen’s cranberry-apple galette waited in the wings for dessert. Tucked in the fridge for the evening meal, four potatoes lay scrubbed and ready for baking, and a side of peas. There were sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella with bay leaves for Caprese salad. A whole chicken stuffed with lemons and cloves of garlic, would become Lemon Garlic Chicken done on the rotisserie in the air fryer.
Between lunch and happy hour, we traipsed next door to Gwens to bake lefse. The equipment was set up and ready. Gwen gave a quick tutorial, and the rolling began. It was Jessa’s special request to revisit that ancestral ritual from her childhood and no wonder. She’s a pro! She rolled each round to a perfect transluscent circle, ‘like Grandpa used to do,’ she said. Somehow, Dan’s Scandinavian background didn’t give him the same leg-up. The dough stuck to his rolling pin, and when he did manage to get one ready for the griddle, it resembled the shape of a turnip, or Africa. Fortunately, he could laugh along with us, and his tasted just as good as the perfectly formed ones.
It was a wonderful visit, but the joy of having them here reached its apex when they hugged me goodnight and disappeared into their private loft room with the fireplace flickering on the freshly painted and almost perfectly smooth walls and ceiling.
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 November first. The day after Hallowe’en. And there’s snow on the ground.
In Northern Minnesota, that’s not terribly unusual. But it feels early this year, somehow. Maybe because my addition isn’t quite ready. It’s been a slow grind, but that’s what you get when the guys working on it are perfectionists. Every corner is square. Every stud and joist bristles with long, golden screws. A herd of elephants could dance on the roof. It’s a work of art, truly, and I’m thrilled…thrilled…trying to be thrilled…
I’ve been uncharacteristically patient with the process. I think it’s because these guys show up when they say they’re going to. They call if they’ll be late. Or early, which is more often the case. They are stunning human beings and I’m fortunate to have found them out here at the end of nowhere.
But that’s why my progress blog posts have been few and far between. Perfectionism. Finally, today I feel like their work is almost done. And mine is about to begin.
Remember when I said I would NEVER sheetrock, or mud and tape again? Uh-huh. Never say never. I’ll be eating my words in another few days after the electrical wiring is finished. Not only do I no longer care what I said, I’m actually excited to get going on the inside of the house. In February it will have been one year since I moved into my renovated hunting shack. This addition will almost double the size of my space which is currently 400 sq. ft. I’m adding an additional 320 sq. ft. inside. That will feel downright cavernous!
I’m not sure where I left you. Was there a roof yet? I don’t think so. Ah! There it is – September 4th. Half the roof joists were up. That’s it. Skeletal.
Oh. And there was still crap all over the yard.
In October, I started to believe, almost, that we could hit our goal. The roof went on. Then shingles.
Temperatures started edging downward. In late October, all the debris in the yard was relocated to the garage or the dump.
Windows went in – a bonus since the guys had originally said that particular feature could wait until Spring.
I’m glad I have the pictures. They convince me that, in reality, much progress has been made. For months, it felt like a never-ending symphony of hammering and sawing.
While I was writing this, they’ve been out there, hard at work. At one point, they ran out of Tyvek. “Can’t you use the tarpaper left from the roof?” Hmm. Yes, they could.
At 2:00 there was a knock. “Come out and take a look.” I scrambled into my winter jacket and boots.
They’re done! It’s November first, and they’ve got me ‘tucked in’ for the winter!
We took care of accounting details, and then I waved goodbye. “See you next spring, guys!” That’s when the real door will be installed and the siding attached. But for now, they’ve made it ready for me to start the interior work.
For the next half-hour, I picked up bits of shingles, tarpaper scraps, and wood chips, and organized the garage.
Then…
I pulled my little white Prius inside, sheltered from all that is to come.
My insides feel all tickly. It took from May until now, but my vision has manifested. Okay, there are a few things left to do, but the big stuff is done. And as I said, my Prius, the instigator of all this effort, now shares my home. I won’t be shoveling it out of six-foot snowbanks ever again!
writing for self-discovery 
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