Why Stop Now?

16 Aug 2026 Comments Off on Why Stop Now?

by writingforselfdiscovery in adventure, South Carolina Lowcountry

I remember telling myself in Bali that I was lonesome, but not lonely. Here, in Charleston, I’m not lonesome. But from time to time, I feel lonely. My daughter and granddaughters are just across the bridge in Mt. Pleasant, and I see them regularly. But in my day-to-day life, even though I’m surrounded by other lovely people my age in this building built specifically for seniors, they’re still strangers.

That’s changing, though. I have several female acquaintances. We stop and chat in passing. One sprightly gentleman, and several not-so-spry ones, greet me with a smile of recognition when I see them coming or going. But it’s not every day, and frankly, it’s not enough.

I’ve never described myself as extroverted or gregarious. But I’m not a hermit, either. For the most part, I like the company of others as long as it’s on my terms. That means by invitation. Don’t just show up at my door unannounced, like the pest control guy did yesterday. There’s a monthly calendar of events, and Pest Control was on it. But with six floors and 77 apartments, there was no telling when he would arrive at mine. So when vigorous pounding interrupted my daily workout routine, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

When he saw me in my yoga clothes, the PC guy apologized for waking me. (In this case, PC stands for Pest Control, not politically correct.) The nerve! He thought my cropped T-shirt and form-fitting capris were pajamas. For goodness’ sake, it was 9:30 a.m. I’d been up for hours. I grumpily mumbled that I was yoga-ing, not sleeping, as he stepped over my mat and did what he’d come to do.

So, there’s the pest control guy and the monthly inspection crew that makes sure residents aren’t hoarding or living in filth. Those provide human interaction for a few minutes, two days per month. Uh-huh. Two days.

But recently, I heard a commotion progressing down my long corridor. The Beach Boys’ Surfin’ USA was playing loudly, punctuated by peals of laughter. I imagined someone’s teenage grandkids had come to visit. But then the music was at my door, accompanied by a series of solid raps. I sprang to my feet and flung it open. There stood the three angels who keep this place running like clockwork. Matt was pushing a cooler full of soft drinks and invited me to help myself. “Do you have root beer?” I asked. He bent down and fished out a Barq’s. Then they were on their merry way, and I was once again ensconced in my own silence

So, in the absence of anything else, I write. I’m twenty chapters into my latest novel. I call it a love quadrangle murder mystery, and I just killed the first suspect. He deserved it, despicable vermin that he was. But now I’m stuck. I have an outline of sorts, and I’m attempting to follow it. But sometimes a character goes rogue. With no warning, he veers off in a different direction than I’d planned. It’s always much better than the plot I’d sketched out, but it ruins the outlined sequence of events, and I’m shuttled back to square one to figure out what’s next.

That happened about an hour ago, and although stuck, the writing bug was still biting me. I hadn’t posted to my blog for a long time. Immersion in a fictional world is far more interesting than reality these days. But I pulled up Writing for Self-Discovery and opened a blank page just in case a spark of inspiration would ignite.

And there you have it. Who’d have thought I’d end up in the heart of downtown Charleston, South Carolina? Surely not I. From backwoods Minnesota, surrounded by fields and forests, I landed in the King Street hustle-bustle of tourist-central. But then, who’d have thought I’d roost in rural Minnesota after San Miguel de Allende? And what about SMA, Mexico, after Ubud, Bali?

Does the story end here? If it does, I’m okay with that. But there have been so many unexpected twists and turns on this journey; all bets are off. I’ve learned how to say goodbye in six languages; why stop now?

Kick Up The Fire!

12 Nov 2025 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in adventure, South Carolina Lowcountry Tags: , , ,

I never intended to move to South Carolina. My cottage on The Farm in northern Minnesota was supposed to be it, my cozy nest near family and elderly friends where I could retire from the world and just BE.

But true to the saying: Change is the only constant, and true to my wandering nature, what was supposed to just be, just isn’t.

My Achilles Heel, the Sirens’ call that, even at this advanced age I cannot resist, is a new horizon. It’s not a greener pasture. The pastures at home in Minnesota are emerald, unless they’re white. The irresistible urge, the inescapable force, is the unquenchable lust for adventure.

It’s not my fault. I inherited genes from Norwegian ancestors whose Viking ships were seen on distant shores as they explored new lands. For me, travel is not a choice. It’s an obsession, a drive so strong that even the slightest possibility of a new door opening has me packed and on my way.

That’s how it was when the opportunity to move here arose. Spontaneous is too slow a word for how quickly I zipped up my carry-on and said goodbye. I left everything behind: my house, my car, my social network, my life, and moved into an empty apartment on the fourth floor of a complex overlooking South Carolina’s Lowcountry.

I used to stare dreamily across fields of spring hay maturing to summer gold, watch V-shaped flights of geese honking their way south in the fall, then endure months of snow-covered everything. Here, the salt marshes present a thrilling new landscape. Atlantic Ocean tides, pulled by lunar threads, collect in ponds bordered by swaying cordgrass.

Snowy egrets float aloft, their long black legs and yellow feet skim the water as they hunt their prey. Then slowly, the moon departs. Sparkling pools become sand once more, and flocks of salt marsh sparrows peck industriously, probing the mud for food. So it goes, day after day, the ebb and flow of life.

Ben Sawyer Boulevard spans the distance from solid land here in Mt. Pleasant, across the marsh and the Intracoastal Waterway to Sullivan’s Island. A bridge swings open for boat traffic too tall to pass underneath.

Many times a day it disconnects us, halting traffic as some no-name barge lumbers through. There’s nothing more frustrating than showing up late for an appointment on the island because water traffic took precedence.

It’s one of the adjustments to a more laid-back, southern lifestyle. I take it in, processing, pondering. This transition has been all-consuming. I’m glad I’m here, deeply involved in the day-to-day of my daughter’s and granddaughters’ lives. But, trust me in this, there’s never a dull moment.

Vikings set out to conquer. Maybe I did, too – conquer loneliness, boredom, a sense of purposelessness – the terrifying thought that this was it, the end, the last chapter.

Here, there’s no chance that I’ll go gentle into that good night, not with the unleashed exuberance of my grands! Thanks anyway, Dylan Thomas. Philip Larkin’s poem captures my situation more aptly: Kick up the fire, and let the flames break loose!

Ah! The alarm I set is ringing. It’s reminding me that it’s time to pick the kids up from school. See what I mean? I have purpose!