It Shouldn’t Be This Hard

18 Jun 2025 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Portugal, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

It’s a snippet from my latest vision board, before I knew what was developing on the horizon, back when unsettledness simmered just below the surface. It was preparing me, oblivious me, for the challenges ahead.

And here I am, sitting at my daughter’s monster kitchen island where the internet flows unhindered to my ancient HP.

The service here is vastly unlike at home, where I depend upon my Android’s moody hotspot to keep me connected. And when I’ve exhausted the 50 gigabytes of high speed, which I can do in less than a week, I’m suddenly cut off. Just like that. I have no television. No computer. I’m reduced to my phone’s data, using the tiny screen for movies and the minuscule keyboard for writing my books, my blogs, writing anything for that matter. Frustrating is too gentle a word for the inner rage.

There are options…

I can drive 45 minutes to the public library in Grand Rapids and use its wifi connection. I’ve haunted the place lately. The broad expanses of glass overlooking the Mississippi River and the soaring, beamed ceiling offer a stunning venue.

Or I could sit at any coffee shop, brewery, cafe, probably even Dairy Queen in that bustling town, and connect. I don’t want to appear ungrateful. It’s just that I would so much rather skip the inconvenience of the hour-and-a-half round trip and work from home.

When I imagined this week in Minneapolis, caring for Velo, the cat, who was not invited to accompany the family on vacation, I believed their dependable wifi would allow me to zip through the final steps of making my just-published book available for purchase to all my blog readers in no time. I’d design an Author’s Page, add some links, and presto! Done!

Reality can be such a downer.

Somehow, don’t ask me how, in an attempt to toggle a new page, I managed to mangle the website. It took hours to fix the mess. I made it private while I worked to redeem the wreckage so none of my subscribers (you) would witness my ineptitude. In my defense, WordPress is NOT the easiest platform to navigate. Come to find out, I couldn’t even accomplish the private part properly. Suddenly, my stats were climbing. People were accessing the site regardless of my frantic efforts to deter them.

Throughout the process, Velo probably heard words that aren’t allowed in this household, where my seven-year-old grandsons are strongly discouraged from voicing playground expletives. But my pressure valve sputters like a boiling teakettle when agitation mounts, and it’s crudely audible when I’m alone. Velo doesn’t count.

I persisted. At last my Author Page on https://writingforselfdiscovery.com/ went live. The cloud picture I chose to headline the site reflects my emotional landscape of the past several weeks, signifying the other thing that’s been harder than it should be.

The term, ungrounded, doesn’t do justice to my degree of inner chaos. Ever since Portugal, I’ve been out of sync with myself. I’ve gone through the motions of someone rooted to a place, trying to make it true. I created a huge flower bed, transplanted perennials, and bought a weed eater. I dug up oak seedlings and sowed them in my yard along with baby white pines. All the while, a thousand miles away and shimmering like a mirage, my new life was taking shape.

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I’m moving…again. It will be a radical shift, almost as jarring and liberating as the transition to Bali in 2012. This time it’s Minnesota to South Carolina, Midwest to eastern seaboard, Scandinavian brogue to southern drawl, country to city. It may be temporary – a blip on the landscape lasting a few months. Time will tell.

But what if…

What if I love it? What if it feels right? What if I’m needed? Wanted there? No wonder my head is a cloudy fog. But firm on the ground beneath is the certainty. Whatever this is, it’s what I want. It’s a leap into the unknown, and it’s just that kind of leap that, for me, makes life worth living.

Resurrection

14 May 2025 4 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, grannys landing, Portugal, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

It takes time.

Resurrection came slowly. After six weeks in Isle of Palms on the heels of three weeks in Portugal, Minnesota in mid-March was a desolate homecoming. Crusty brown patches of leftover snow and leafless trees stark against a brooding sky, replaced boundless beaches, ocean breezes, and unrepentant sunshine.

I’d escaped nine weeks of winter. Gentle weather and emerald-green palms had lulled me into believing it was spring everywhere, and indeed it was. But the season looked different as my Uber driver inched me through messy construction and stop-and-go traffic on the Minneapolis, south-494 loop.

My mood plummeted.

It wasn’t just the landscape. I was exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally.

The next morning, I loaded luggage smelling of saltwater and dead fish into the back of my Prius and began the three-hour drive north toward home.

Home. Who am I? Home? Where is home?

I arrived, unpacked, and for days did nothing but stare at the monochromatic fields, forests, and sky, spread out in stark reality around me. I couldn’t connect.  Disoriented, mildly depressed, listless, I wondered why I had ever moved to this barren wasteland.

One week passed…two…same old same old.

Around week three, I woke up one morning fully myself. Oh! Where have you been my blue-eyed…daughter? The rising sun dribbled pink-golden light over puffy clouds.

I heard birds. And was that a hint of green – the slightest wash of color in the treetops?

Something took hold of me then, some dormant gene from ancestors long dead. Dirt. I wanted my hands in dirt. A passion to dig and plant and grow stuff overwhelmed me. And where was last-year’s hummingbird feeder? Surely, those tiny beasts would need extra fuel until the flowers bloomed.

Once again, my life had purpose.

I dragged six-by-six beams left over from my construction project to create a planter along the west wall of the house.

My brother-in-law brought three tractor-loads of manure-rich soil and dumped them into that prepared space. Gwen had hostas, and seeds for cosmos, calendula, and cilantro. Sweating and grunting, we dug up the hostas and transferred them to my yard.

Aunt Joyce offered lilies-of-the-valley, irises, and sedum. Yes, please. Thank you!

Then it was Mother’s Day. When I opened my g-mail inbox that morning, there was a sweet note from my youngest daughter and a gift card to Target, where she manages engineers in the IT department.

Yesterday, I spent it. I’ve wanted a weed-whacker forever, and now I own one. Target’s best. (Target’s only!) It required assembly. I can put together Wayfair furniture with my eyes closed. But a machine? We’ll find out my level of mechanical competency when I do its test run today.

I don’t recognize this incarnation of myself, but it feels right. Or, as is always the case with me, it feels right now. There’s no undercurrent of restlessness, no urge to be somewhere else. For the moment, I’m content to beautify and occupy my little corner of the world.

But…

Come November, all bets are off. Winter in Minnesota is not my happy place. I’m thinking Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Costa Rica…or…come to think of it…saya rindu Bali.

In An Airport Somewhere

25 Jan 2025 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in food, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

I’ve been in airports. Lots of airports. And quite a number of them many times. Singapore’s Changi began to feel like my second home since I almost always had a long layover there on my trips to and from Bali.

Changi Airport

So, when I try to remember where I had my first taste of liver pâté, all I can say is that it was in an airport somewhere. Charles DeGaulle in Paris would make sense since a French chef in Normandy is credited with creating that robustly earthy treat. But maybe it was Heathrow. Best guess, it was somewhere in Europe.

I’ve intentionally purchased liverwurst a few times, just for that memorable flavor. But it’s a shabby substitute.

My cousin with a PhD. from the University of Minnesota raises cows, pigs, llamas, chickens, goats, and sheep on her farm nearby. My sister recently bought the meat of a whole lamb from her. I overheard Gwen saying that she was going to cook the liver for her dog. 

“You’re what? No way! May I have it? Please?” I begged.

“Really? Sure. Take the kidneys, too.”

At home, I googled liver recipes, and there it was, Old World Lamb Liver Pâté.

So today I made the most mouth-wateringly delicious pâté…no, really, it’s divine! I only had to substitute Greek yogurt for cream and dried herbs for fresh ones. It was ridiculously easy.

I served it with crackers when the Codgers arrived for 5 o’clock social hour. As finicky and judgmental as they are (all of them are gourmet cooks) they agreed it was edible, even tasty in small doses. At 250 calories per serving, small is the sensible portion!

The 1.4-pound liver made a large batch. But Google said it freezes well. So that’s where it is now,  a year’s supply of Old World Lamb Liver Pâté, frozen in my fridge. Every guest that passes through my doorway will get a taste. But don’t let that deter you. I do want visitors…really, I do! 🤢

A Winter’s Day in Codgerville

28 Dec 2024 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in grannys landing, The Farm, Writing Tags: , , ,

Guilt crawls over me like a damp shadow. I haven’t cleaned the house, haven’t cooked, haven’t called the kids. Since listening to the podcast that revolutionized my world, I’ve been doing nothing but writing, or thinking about writing, or rewriting what I’ve already written.

I stared at the numbers on the scale this morning certain they must be wrong. I couldn’t have gained five pounds this week. There must be old batteries in that lying piece-of-crap. I replaced them and the numbers got worse.

That’s what I get for writing. It’s a sedentary, and for me, addicting endeavor. I can sit from sunup to long past midnight, engrossed and tuned out to everything but the story unfolding in my head. I used to forget to eat. Obviously, not anymore.

I should message my sister. Walk? Now? Mailbox? Cryptic, but she’ll respond immediately with something like, Yes! 15 min. Corn. The mailbox is east on 578th Lane. The field that once had acres of cornstalks is west. It’s a little bit farther to the mailbox. We do the corn on lower energy days when we’ve already expended significant outputs on household tasks.

I send the message.

Walk? Mailbox?

Her: No! Drive. Not a nice day!

Me: No need. I’m walking. I need the exercise. I’ll get the mail.

Her: Wait. It’s icy on the road. I’ll walk with you in the field. Trudge, that is.

Me: I’m happy to wait. What time?

Her: Now is good.

Me:

We went and I’m back. It took a little convincing for her to abandon the field-trudging idea. My sister is lovely. Stubborn and lovely. So we walked on the road to the mailbox in slushy snow.

Here’s a photo from yesterday.

This is today, 37°F, not good for snow. It’s 3:00 p.m. With the moisture-laden atmosphere, half ice, half mist, it’s already getting dark. The sun will set at four-thirty.

I was going through a journal from 2011 and found a metaphor I’d written on one such day as this before I left for Bali. Spring is a comma. Summer and fall are sentences. Winter is the boring novel that never ends.

I’m in a different headspace in 2024 than I was in 2011. Way different. Winter in Minnesota now feels like permission to hibernate, and at almost seventy-five years old, I’m so ready for the slow-down that this season brings…after Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve, that is. Even here in Codgerville, we hit those at a gallop.

After I vacuumed, dusted, and shook the rugs I read for a while, The Singularity is Near, by Ray Kurzweil. It’s a fascinating book about the exponential growth of AI. The singularity, as I understand it, is when biological intelligence and artificial intelligence merge. Terrifying but inevitable. He’s also written another book. The Singularity is Nearer. I don’t recommend either one unless you’re a happy dystopian and cozy with the thought of nanobots cavorting through your capillaries.

Now the candles are burning, there’s a wintery fireplace scene with soft music playing on the TV.

Soon, my three Codger neighbors will appear for 5 o’clock social hour. We’ll discuss the disturbing article that appeared in the Aitkin Independent Age newspaper, catch up on who heard what from whom, and, if somebody says something that triggers it, we’ll spontaneously burst into song – a tune from the 60’s no doubt.

Oh! Excuse me. They’re at the door.

The Friendship Challenge

06 Oct 2024 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Mexico, The Farm, vision board, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

My Vision Board strikes again!

We need special people in our lives. When I moved to Bali, I didn’t know a soul. After a few inquiries online, I located a writers group (Steve Castley, Ubud Writers) and was invited to join their exclusive circle. I lived and breathed for those bi-monthly get-togethers.

I loved the comradery, but as writing critics, they were ‘Minnesota nice’ to the extreme. Coming from the brutally honest cutthroat feedback I was used to,  I had to choke down their compliments like too-sweet cough syrup. But I was the newbie trying to fit in.

After several meetings, I spoke up. “I know you have a rule that only positive feedback is allowed, and I respect that. But I want to grow as a writer. You have my permission to rip my work to shreds. Give me some real help, please!”

Silence fell like doom over the group. Then someone said, “Same for me.” Then, “Me too!”

Looking back, I wonder if I was the catalyst for the transformation that took place. One-by-one, people dropped out. Those who remained were hard-core and committed to the craft. I’d found my tribe.

When I moved to San Miguel de Allende, I knew one person, ReAnn Scott. She happened to be the connector-type with hundreds of contacts. There was no writers group, but there were rooftop parties, happy-hour meet-ups, and rumicub game days. Friendships bloomed.

Then, I landed here in the heart of the Midwest. Two years passed as I focused every ounce of energy on creating a place to live. I had my sister and brother-in-law and a smattering of relatives nearby. Bear, an old family friend, moved in next door. There was no lack of social interaction. But every-so-often, I’d find myself wondering how I could make new acquaintances. Everyone had been here for generations. As I recalled, they were good for a brief ‘hello’ before turning back to their comfortable familiars.

I’m not remarkably outgoing. I can summon up the necessary mojo when circumstances warrant it. But I’m quite thrilled with my own company most of the time.

And yet, when wind whistles across barren fields and clouds race each other in a frenzy to block the sun, nothing feels cheerier than a pot of steaming coffee with a friend.

When I learned that a traveling library visited the nearby community center every other Thursday, I was curious. Don’t get me wrong. There is no shortage of reading material in the codger community. Gwen and W’s library is a cornucopia of murder, mystery, and sci-fi. I have full access.

Bear’s new bookshelves bristle with war, history, and philosophy.

It would take several lifetimes to wade through all that literature.

So, books aside, I mostly wanted to know who would show up for a literary event.

My sister agreed to go with me that first time. As we entered, we were greeted with warm Hellos and Good mornings. There was a long table holding bins of books. Beyond that were two more tables. Around one, eight men chatted and drank coffee. A cluster of women were seated at the other, also deep in conversation. One of them pointed us to the coffee pot and gathered two more chairs so we could join them. Books, obviously, were an afterthought, an excuse for a neighborhood meetup.

The Bookmobile has become an important entry on my calendar. It holds great promise as a source of friendships. The challenge to find like-minded people no longer feels daunting. Oh! And there’s an added bonus: I can go online and order any book I want. It will be delivered to me via the Bookmobile on the following Thursday.

There is something about the ease of that service that feels luxurious. Indulgent. And the genuine inclusivity of the women, so unexpected, sends warmth radiating straight to my heart.

I should have known when the Universe whispered, the Farm, just as years before it had whispered, Bali, then, San Miguel, I could proceed with confidence. Friendships would come, the path would appear, and I could trust the unfolding.

A Bizarre Thing Called Life

03 Sep 2024 32 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Renovating the Hunting Shack, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , ,

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 altricial young. 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!

Becoming Small

06 Jul 2024 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, lockdown, Renovating the Hunting Shack, The Farm, Writing Tags: , ,

Antsy, distracted, hyped up but directionless…

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.

Don’t Hide Your Wild says Punk Granny in Holey Jeans

23 May 2024 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, grannys landing, lockdown, meditation, Mexico, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

I’ve been wearing leggings for at least fifteen years. Nothing is more comfortable than the forgiving stretch paired with long tops that cover sagging buttocks and hide a thickening waistline. I had silky-thin ones for summer, bulky, fleece-lined ones for winter, and everything in between. I was set for life. 

On April 9th, I left Minnesota to spend several weeks with family. I wish I could say for certain what happened when my flight crossed into the Eastern Time Zone. All I know is that my perspective shifted. I saw myself differently. 

I like to consult the stars at pivotal points. 

The eclipse in early April seemed an appropriate time to do that. The results shocked me. Supposedly, I was about to experience a profound transformation that would make me question everything I believed about myself. 

I’m a person who journals for self-discovery, meditates, and digs deep into the workings of the subconscious. I value self-awareness, and mindfulness practices contribute to that knowledge. My initial reaction was, No way. I know who I am and I like who I am. Full stop. End of discussion. 

I landed at LaGuardia and booked a Lyft to Weston, CT. A few minutes into the trip, the driver missed an exit. We were in New York City rush hour. Traffic was at a standstill and all I could see in any direction were the roofs of vehicles reflecting sunlight like shards of brass. That added another hour to a trip that was already an hour and a half. I had ample time to reflect on the astrologer’s prediction and the spacey sensation that some part of me was slowly dissolving.

That night, I took off my leggings, stuffed them into the bowels of my carry-on, and sensed the end of an era. I donned work jeans and a flannel shirt, clothing I’ve become intimately familiar with over the past two years of house construction, and buried myself in the physicality of hard work. 

For the next six weeks, I shuttled back and forth between Connecticut and South Carolina, depending upon where I was most useful. CT meant doing whatever I could to assist my son-in-law with renovations to a newly purchased property. In SC I entertained my granddaughters while Mom traveled for business. 

The first time I left CT for Isle of Palms, SC, I pulled on a pair of dressy white jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt, the only articles of clothing I brought that weren’t legging-related or work grunge. 

The following day I went shopping.

Whatever had clicked into place as I flew eastward, was actualized as I tried on fashionable, wide-leg carpenter’s pants, cargo capris, and holey jeans. I found bottoms first, then looked for shirts, the antithesis of flowy, to go with them. I was becoming the visual apparition of my revised inner essence. 

Wide-leg pants symbolized elegance and liberation in the 1930s. Cargo pants originated in Britain in 1938. Wearing jeans became a statement of youth rebellion in the 1950s after James Dean popularized them in the movie: Rebel Without a Cause. These fashions today are a remake of those vintage items. Torn clothing surfaced with angry youth during the British punk movement as the disenfranchised pounded hard rock music with lyrics rejecting mainstream corporate mass culture and its values. Their ripped jeans symbolized freedom of expression and individual non-conformity 

Since retirement, I’ve worn myself inside out. Whatever me wants expression, that persona is reflected in my apparel.

For the first few years in Bali, I gravitated toward lacey blouses and flouncy skirts, as far from business attire as possible. Then I moved on to capri leggings and flowy tops. When I landed in Mexico, after surviving COVID lockdown in Indonesia, the tables piled high with clothing at Tuesday Market drew me like a kid to a cookie jar. Bewitched by the sheer volume, the mass, the heaps of everything imaginable and unimaginable as far as the eye could see, I bought whatever caught my fancy, discarding most of it when I returned to the States a year later.

Mexico was a breath, a long inhale between COVID trauma and whatever might be next for me. 

Upon my return to the place I was born, the only thing that made sense was work. I threw myself into resurrecting a derelict cabin, turning it into a habitable dwelling next door to my sister’s home on the family farm. I felt most authentic in shabby work clothes that required no thought. 

However, this time coming home to Minnesota was much different. The skeptics who thought I wouldn’t stay in this remote place, no longer whispered their doubts. With a lot of help I’ve created a house I love that incorporates everything I’ve ever wanted in a dwelling. (Granted, free labor came with shaking heads and rolled eyes at my outside-the-box ideas.) But this community of family, old friends, and new acquaintances are rugged individualists. My renegade heart is accepted here and becomes more liberated with each passing year. 

Finding one’s true self isn’t a one-time thing. I’ve had many iterations, some authentic, a few not. Whenever I felt pressure to conform to accepted standards, I hid my wilder side. Looking back, I shouldn’t have. It came out anyway but in a dark, destructive manner. Had I allowed my soul free expression, I believe I could have avoided forty-five years in a half-life of shadows.

But that’s hindsight, always 20/20. Now, I’m the punk granny in holey jeans spouting wisdom for the Gen Xs, Millennials, and Gen Zers trailing behind me. It’s the age-old, Do what I say, not what I’ve done, advice. No matter your age, if you’re reading this it’s not too late! Do yourself a favor: don’t hide your wild!

Fast or Slow…Just Go

07 Mar 2024 9 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I woke up out of sync. It was five o’clock, my normal wake-up time. But from the moment I opened my eyes, no, even before I opened my eyes, the day felt empty.

When that happens, it has nothing at all to do with the day. It’s something I’ve encountered at various times throughout my life. A feeling of immense futility, worthlessness, and hopelessness, casts a dark shadow over my normally upbeat nature. I would guess it’s depression, and my empathy goes out to those who struggle daily with that affliction.

Usually, though, after I drink several cups of coffee, journal, go through my yoga routine, and meditate, the blues have faded and I’m fired up for the day. Not this day, though. It wasn’t happening.

So I did five Spanish lessons on Duolingo, something certain to banish the doldrums.

That didn’t work either, and to make it worse, the house was full of golden light. It’s been overcast and dreary for weeks, but today, the brilliance hurt my eyes. Had it been cloudy, I could have given myself permission to curl up with a book, reading and napping my way through the hours. But, no. The sun demanded action. I could not be found wasting a rare sunny day.

I thought of all the things I could do. All the things that needed doing. I had zero motivation for any of them. Itchy pressure kept building inside until I exploded. “Okay! I’ve got to get out of this house!”

I knew how deceptive early March sunshine can be in Minnesota. The trees outside my windows weren’t doing the salsa, more like a slow waltz, but they were moving so I dressed accordingly: jeans over leggings, layers under a down jacket, lined boots, a hat that covers the ears, and warm gloves.

I’d barely closed the door behind me when Freya, my sister’s German Shepherd, came bounding to greet me.

After sufficient petting, scratching of ears, and a game of tag, I set a course, and she took the lead.

The wind blew crisp in my face as we headed south through the field along the border of the marsh. I strode at a brisk clip while Freya pounced on imaginary critters and slurped water through holes in the patchy ice. At the corner, we veered west following the tree line. Ah. No wind here. Squirrels and birds tempted my canine companion as she zig-zagged in and out of the woods chasing them.

We crossed my sister’s forty acres, then our friend’s twenty. I stumbled upon a boneyard for dead equipment, a rotting wagon, and a few other long-abandoned odds and ends.

At one time, this was all Dad’s land. Had these once been his? My mind raced backward. This is where we lived when I was born seventy-four years ago. Even after we bought the house on the Mississippi River in Grand Rapids, we kept the farm. Summers were spent here making hay until I graduated from high school and left home.

Goosebumps prickled my arms. No wonder I sometimes woke up disoriented. I’ve come full circle. After living on the other side of the world, I’m back where I began. I’m probably as old as that wagon. I shook off the déjà vu and continued my journey.

Beyond a ditch, lay my cousin’s cornfield. He’d harvested last fall, cutting and removing the stalks leaving ridges of bare dirt now softening into mud. The water in the ditch was frozen, so I slid down the bank, skidded to the other side, and turned south.

By the time I’d circumnavigated the fields of several farms and found the road again, I arrived back at my own front door. Suddenly, it seemed like the perfect moment to wash windows. I abhor washing windows! I can tolerate streaks and dirt for months without feeling a single pang of guilt. I grabbed cleaning solution, old newspapers saved for just this purpose, a six-foot ladder, and got to work.

By the time I finished, it was noon. I’d spent all morning outside in the fresh air and sunshine. Far from feeling tired, happy endorphins pinged through me. I heated a bowl of chicken chili and decided it wouldn’t hurt to sit still for a while and write.

The moral of this story is pretty obvious: When those itchy, pointless, hopeless times come, don’t be confined by four walls. As hard as it is, get dressed and get out. Walk. Breathe. Explore. You may not have acres of field, swamp, and forest, but you have something. Maybe it’s sidewalks and skyscrapers, a community rec center, a mall, or a park. Whatever it is, just go. Move your energy. Fast or slow it doesn’t matter.

Just go.

JUST UNDER THE WIRE!

01 Nov 2023 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Renovating the Hunting Shack, The Farm Tags: , , , ,

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!

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