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!

Haunted by the Past

04 Oct 2023 15 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, Italy, Mexico, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags:

Wind charges through yellowing trees snatching leaves in its turbulent wake. It howls of storms coming, blasting through my southern windows flung wide on this 82-degree day. A few determined Asian Beetles cling to the screens momentarily, then are ripped away in the gale. Good riddance. Yesterday was just as hot with NO wind. Thousands of those nasty insects swarmed the doors and windows, finding their way into the house.

But moving on…

Fall in Minnesota is predictable in its unpredictability. Today we sweat; tomorrow it snows. Any atmospheric conditions that prevail are less aberration than expectation. My weather app says rain for the next four days. That should wipe the trees of any leaves the wind has missed.

I’m in a pensive mood. Several days ago, I received an email from an old friend from the writers’ group in Bali. Steve was the glue, the force of nature that held the group together and maintained order when egos clashed, and trust me, no one has more volatile egos than writers critiquing other writers.

Steve sent the email to others in the group, and over the past few days they have responded with updates about their published works. One just landed a three-book contract. It was thrilling to hear of their successes.

But…

All I could report were a few frivolous poems and periodic posts to my blog. Emotions rippled through me. I suddenly missed ‘the group’ terribly, the people, the camaraderie, the challenge to constantly improve, and the writing. How I missed the thrill of creating on the page.

Boohoo. Poor me. What have I done since our last meeting in 2019? Why haven’t I written if I love writing so much?

Well, first there was the month in Italy on the Amalfi Coast. Fabulous!

Then two years of Covid and monkey infestation in Bali. Devastating.

Then there was a nine-month adventure in Mexico. Delightful!

And then…

I moved to The Family Farm and it’s been nonstop physical labor for the past year. Joyfully productive and exhausting.

Choices.

I made them.

Well, except for Covid. I didn’t choose Covid, and I didn’t choose not to write. During that time, fighting monkeys and trying to maintain a shred of sanity, I was mentally and emotionally incapable of writing.

Steve’s email and the responses from those who were my peers have inspired me. I’ve located the draft of Nettle Creek. I know if I start rereading it, I’ll start rewriting it, marking changes in red on every page. My pensive mood will pass. I’ll be hooked and obsessed with writing again.

So here I am. The construction on my garage/loft/deck/entryway addition isn’t finished, but I have hired help to do the work. Bear has moved into his ‘project’, so there’s no need for me there. I have free time for the first time since coming here.

It’s sitting there, staring at me, daring me to pick it up. Nettle Creek: a fictionalized story of this very area: rural northern Minnesota. When I began writing the saga of Stella, I had no idea I would be returning here, that I would complete the novel on site.

Freakishly synchronistic.

Did I just say complete the novel? Okay, but not quite yet. Short days and long nights loom on the horizon. Right now, though, October’s Bright Blue Weather beckons me outside, tempts me to collect wild turkey feathers, harvest cattail bouquets, and breathe in the dusky scents of autumn.

But winter’s coming…

Am I isolated? Deprived? Lonely?

12 Aug 2023 18 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, Mexico, Poetry, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

When I imagined moving to remote northern Minnesota, I wondered if I’d feel isolated, deprived of friends, even lonely.

I knew my house would be mere steps from my sister’s home, but she has her husband and her dog to keep her company. From emailing faithfully back and forth every day through the covid years, it was clear that she was happy with her routines and content with her life. But as we mused together about my move here she seemed eager and excited. She told me about her vision for a community on the farm and said my coming would be the first step in manifesting it.

In many ways, Gwen and I are as different as peas are from turnips, yet we share similar interests. We both love to read and write poetry and enjoy sewing projects, although she’s a true artist while I’m an impatient, just-get-it-done-and-get-on-with-life imposter. She bakes the tried and true recipes we grew up with. I like flavors of Asia, India, the Middle East, and Italy (who doesn’t like Italian food) and I experiment with those dishes. She’s addicted to chocolate. I can’t stop eating salty popcorn. She hates to travel. I crave it. In a nutshell, our differences keep us interested and curious about each other.

The combination of Gwen, work on my house, and writing, would have been enough. But…

My sister and W have been established in the community for decades. Gwen worked in school administration until she retired and W is the township supervisor (has been for years) and makes it his business to know everyone. They host coffee for various friends or family members at least once a week and folks in these parts are quick to reciprocate so they also get invited for coffee about once a week. The thing is, we’re considered a unit: Gwen, W, and I, so I’m included in all of it. As a result, I feel the need to pull my weight and serve up something delectable with steaming cups of joe for those same people on a regular basis.

Then there are my children and grandchildren…

family weddings, graduations, funerals…

people who are curious about my tiny house and the addition I’m putting on…

old school friends…

and friends from my years in Minneapolis that I haven’t seen since I moved to Bali in 2012.

Suddenly, I find myself on the opposite side of loneliness, adjusting to more socializing than I’ve ever in my life experienced before.

What I didn’t know about this chapter could fill a library.

Take, for instance, the garden. Gwen and W have a spreadsheet laying out the location and number of rows for each vegetable. They order seeds in December and plant them in flats that sit under grow lights by a bank of southern windows until it’s warm enough to move them to the greenhouse. As soon as the earth is dry enough, W tills the plot and rakes it smooth. Planting begins when the snow melts and the threat of frost is over.

I was lulled into thinking gardening was easy this spring when the planting went fast and felt effortless. Then, I was gone for several weeks babysitting for grandchildren so I missed most of the weeding, watering, and tending. But the garden grew without me, and now it’s harvest time.

There’s no keeping up with it! Beans – experts recommend picking them twice a day. How many beans can three people eat? The raspberries are just as prolific.

And cucumbers – Gwen’s been pickling and jars line up like a platoon of soldiers. Tomatoes are ripening, and so is the corn. Carrots will soon be big enough to pick and preserve. There are a hundred garlic bulbs drying on a wire rack in the garage.

I’m so far out of my league with the garden. I want to help, but my questions must annoy the heck out of my patient sister and brother-in-law.

“Is that a weed?”

“Is this ripe?”

I really am that clueless.

Nonetheless, gardening is a communal effort in many respects and adds to the social-ness of life here.

Bear’s arrival brought a new dimension to the group dynamic. He was a history major and there’s nothing he doesn’t know about the rise and fall of empires, wars, the dates of plagues, the migration of people over the face of the earth…and music. He has thousands of vinyl records and remembers all the heavy metal groups from the sixties onward. He’s witty, inquisitive, and a willing participant in our nightly deep philosophical discussions.

Yes, nightly.

The four of us gather at 5 p.m. every evening to replay the events of the day, philosophize, plan what needs to be accomplished on the morrow, and enjoy our beverages of choice. Bear likes flavored sparkling water. The Klarbrunn brand is his current favorite. Gwen and W drink pinot grigio. I’m hooked on Smirnoff’s Spicy Tamarind Vodka over ice.

If you want to try it, fill a glass to the brim with ice cubes, then pour a shot over them. Let it sit for 15 minutes so some of the ice melts diluting the vodka just a bit. If you don’t, you’ll wish you had. It’s an acquired taste, one that I developed in Mexico. I was fortunate enough to find a liquor store in Grand Rapids that sells it. They had one bottle. Now, they stock at least five or more at all times. I think I started something.

A year ago, on August 19th, I left Mexico and landed in Minnesota to stay. I love my view over fields unobstructed by anything manmade. Before, I valued the fact that I could walk wherever I needed to go. Now, groceries, building supplies, toilet paper, and everything else, require a forty-five-minute trip one way. I’ve grown to appreciate the zen-ness of that drive on the Great River Road, snaking along the Mississippi,

navigating ninety-degree corners around fields of corn, rye, and alfalfa. I have to go slow to avoid deer popping out of the woods in front of me, or wild turkeys clustered around something dead on the pavement.

As much as I’m physically here, my mind still swirls in the surreal elsewhere of multiple realities. I messaged Ketut, in Bali, to wish him a happy birthday. Selamat ulang tahun, Bapak Ketut. Sudah potong kuenya? He answered that he did not have a birthday cake because his birthday fell on the celebration of Kuningan, and there were already many offerings of sweets. My mind’s eye saw graceful penjors arching over the streets, and women in their see-through lace tops and satin sashes, carrying towering offerings on their heads.

The bold, macabre design on the vodka bottle transports me to San Miguel de Allende. Once again I’m on Elaine’s rooftop with my friends watching men, women, and children, in frightening Day-of-the-Dead costumes, dancing as they parade along the street below.

A steaming bowl of pasta, and I’m back in Praiano, the village on a cliff where you climb a thousand stairsteps to go anywhere.

I remember my hosts, Nicola and fabulous Felicia with deep fondness. How I miss them. And Signore Piccoletto, serving his tiramisu at Saghir Restaurant, will forever remain in my heart.

There’s no loneliness here on the farm, only the sadly-sweet memory of friends I’ve left behind. Helen Keller is credited with saying, Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all. I signed up for the daring adventure, and, oh! baby! What a ride.

The Projects

13 Jul 2023 8 Comments

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

When I began writingforselfdiscovery.com I was doing just that – writing to figure out who I was. I still journal every morning, and sometimes I’m surprised by revelations. But self-discovery is no longer the focus, and writing has taken a back seat to manual labor…The Projects.

After leaving Bali, in Indonesia, then San Miguel de Allende, in Mexico, I needed a place to live. Transforming a dilapidated hunting shack into my home sweet home took hundreds of backbreaking hours. Even though I may have actually worked only five out of twenty-four each day, there was no way I had energy left to write.  Whoever I was, or whatever I was becoming, had to happen without me pestering and probing it with words.

Even after I moved into my new home on Valentine’s Day, there were a thousand and one finishing details: butcherblock countertops to sand, seal, and stain, shelves to hang, curtains to make, and towel bars to install.

Then there was the matter of the antique rocking chair disintegrating in my sister’s garage.

I needed a chair and she suggested I take that one. Neither of us could remember where it came from, but she knew it had been in the old farmhouse here when we were kids and had come with us in 1955 when we moved to Grand Rapids.

Gwen offered to help me ‘fix it up’ and found spongy foam for the seat and back in her sewing supplies. I screwed and glued, tightening the wiggly arms and legs, then painted the frame black.

While we worked together, I was motivated. But spring was upon us, and gardening is Gwen’s priority. Her attention was instantly and permanently diverted away from the chair. I draped a scarf over it and used it in its half-baked state while I procrastinated.

A rocking chair alone does not fulfill my definition of comfort. Something to elevate the feet is essential. I scoured the internet for a pouf or an ottoman spending hours scanning every conceivable option, but nothing grabbed me.

One day, wandering through outbuildings on the property, I happened to stumble over a wooden box with a hinged lid and dragged it home. A piece of paper inside said, Libby Township, in faded black ink. Some sharp-toothed critter had gnawed through a bottom corner and a network of webs cluttered with the carcasses of dead insects, crisscrossed each other inside. A mysterious ragged opening punctured the lid. Nonetheless, I knew it was perfect. That evening, after I’d scoured it clean, sanded off the tooth marks, and prepped it for paint, I showed it to my brother-in-law. “Oh! You found the old Libby Township ballot box. That’s government property, you know…” I reminded him that possession is 9/10ths of the law and it was mine now.

Transforming that eyesore into a functional footstool was far less daunting than trying to figure out how to upholster the rocking chair. I turned my attention toward restoring it. Within a day or so, it was finished.

Around that time, Bear joined our community.

He arrived with a motor home that would be his temporary quarters while he turned the old dairy barn into a primary residence.

Perhaps you’re sensing a theme here…hunting shack, dairy barn…

He swore he wanted to do it himself, W swore he wouldn’t help him, and I swore I wouldn’t lift a finger if anyone so much as mentioned sheetrock. Of course, it was all bluster and bluff. Now Bear’s domicile is underway, and we’re all committed to seeing it materialize.

After a morning of leveling his floor on my hands and knees, I came home to that naked rocking chair, mocking me. Suddenly, I couldn’t tolerate it. The rest of my house was finished and every single decision I’d made thrilled me. Feverishly, I set to work. By that evening, the seat was done and I’d cut a pattern for the back. 

At sunrise the following day, I was once again leveling the milk house floor on my knees, covered in sand.

When my body couldn’t take another minute, I hurried home to the chair and finished the back.

Day three was a repeat of one and two, but that afternoon I made a detachable seat cushion and the chair was done. All it needed was an accent pillow. I remembered an Ecuadorian weaving on a bag I’d harvested from a friend’s Goodwill castoffs. The colorful, somewhat abstract design would make the perfect accessory. I found the bag and repurposed the woven panel.

Could it be any cuter? What a transformation.

Meanwhile, I was busy scheming with my drafting pencils. Winter had beaten my little car to near death and I wanted a shelter for it. But not just a garage. I also needed an entryway for my house, a deck, and a 14 x 20-foot loft space over the garage. A girl can dream.

As I write, Lofty and Gene are outside, sawing and pounding. The foundation is in, and my vision is taking shape.

Sometimes, I think I should start a writers’ group like the one I loved in Bali. Then my aunt texts and invites me for coffee. Or I should join the local book club. My daughter calls, and I fly to South Carolina to babysit. Another daughter calls, and I drive to Minneapolis to mind their house and the cat while they vacation in Croatia. I ask myself, Were the writers’ group and the bookclub of the past simply a way to fill the void I’d created by being far from family? Do I want or need those diversions now?

The questions are moot. I chose family and a community where we pitch in and help each other. I still love to write, and some future day I may entertain a writers’ group or a book club. But right now, it’s time to pull on my work clothes and make myself available for The Project next door.

 

Figuring it out – Life on Fantasy Bay

08 Jun 2023 14 Comments

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

I wanted to title this post, Settling in on Fantasy Bay, but that was a tad too optimistic. It’s not quite where I’m at.

When I moved back to the family farm of my childhood, I wondered what life here would be like as an adult. Where would I fit in? I couldn’t conjure a scenario. Nothing felt familiar.

To be fair, I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. From the moment I arrived, I focused all my energy on the shell of an abandoned hunting shack, hoping to magically turn it into a home.

I put my body through nine months of physical hell, climbing up and down ladders, crawling on my knees, scooting on my butt, pounding nails, lifting and dragging plywood, sheetrock, flooring, siding, and falling into bed at night, utterly spent.

For six of those months, I lived next door with my sister and brother-in-law, who were on site beside me, doing even more of what I was doing every single day.

We worked through fall, but as the veggies in the extensive garden matured, there were days devoted to the harvest. Our trio picked, cleaned, chopped, canned, and froze, all the carrots, beans, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, onions, kale, corn, apples, raspberries, and strawberries. Occasionally, a relative or friend would come by for coffee. At those times, work ceased for a blissful couple of hours.

Then weather turned bitter. The garden froze. It was back to the house project and more of the same until finally…

I had heat. The walls and ceilings were sheetrocked and painted. There was a composting toilet, a fifty-gallon water tank, and enough plumbing to supply water from there to the bathroom sink. I had a fridge, a microwave, a rug, and a massive sleeper sofa.

Valentine’s Day dawned with a celebratory move into my new home. There were kitchen cabinets but no countertops, little by way of furnishings, and no stove. As I occupied the space, energy shifted. Now I was on my own clock. The unfinished pieces demanded attention, but I could easily procrastinate. I began to imagine a gentler life.

I soldiered slowly on. W uninstalled the ineffective, tankless water heater and replaced it with a 2.5 gallon tank model that delivered H-O-T water!

He put in the shower.

I bought unfinished butcherblock countertops, sanded, stained, and polyurethaned the heck out of them.

W installed those and the kitchen sink. My stove was delivered.

If you will recall, I have no well. By trial and error, I perfected the method of carrying water in one-gallon milk jugs, twenty at a time, from their house, to fill my under-the-sink container, something I’ll be doing once every two weeks until the end of time.

More furniture arrived, and Gwen helped me assemble it. The counter-height table and stools went together like a dream. She’s much better at following directions than I am. But the ungainly hall tree challenged our skills and our patience to the max.

Just as I began to relax into the cushy refinement of a job well done…

And just as I began to picture a life of ease…

The Bear arrived.

No…. If you’re thinking along the lines of my monkey nightmares in Bali, this was not that. Bear is a long-time family friend affectionately nicknamed for his resemblance in stature to that animal. Years ago, he bought twenty acres of this farm with the intent of retiring here. That time had come.

In a level of excitement resembling mine when I first laid eyes on my hunting shack, he looked at the falling down barn on the property and visualized paradise.

Knowing I could never directly repay the hundreds of volunteer hours Gwen and W spent helping me (karma doesn’t necessarily operate that way) I set to work helping Bear with his dream. The universe had seen fit to bring a remodeling project as daunting in scope as mine. Once again, I was crawling on my knees, scooting on my butt, lifting and dragging rotted plywood and dank insulation to twenty-yard dumpsters, putting my aged body through physical hell, paying back.

Meanwhile, I’m getting clear about what life at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay will look like. In fact, one word pretty well sums it up:

Projects.

And just to make certain there’s no shortage of energy-sucking, back-breaking tasks, I’ve started an addition to my tiny house: a garage, entryway, and deck. Home Depot delivered the first load of materials last week. (Click the link below to watch the video)

https://photos.app.goo.gl/UvMD1mbCCp6c99jt8

Gone forever is the relaxed, sedentary, writer’s life that was my existence in Bali. This chapter is about pushing physical limits, laughing in the face of the seventy-three year old in the mirror who thought she’d retired.

But it’s also about community – being a contributing part of something vital, something bigger than I am. Learning new skills. Getting filthy sweaty dirty and not caring what I look like.

I’ve peeled back a whole new layer of self-discovery revealing the rest of who I am: physically strong, capable, gritty, and unadorned…

In Bali, I discovered true happiness.

Here…

I’ve found freedom.

A Naughty Tease

17 Apr 2023 9 Comments

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

For three glorious days, the earth sucked up snow as fast as the sun could melt it. We walked outside in sweatshirts ditching heavy jackets, hats, mittens, and boots. Buoyant, joyous, we scoured the roadside for signs of flowers. I picked pussywillows. Temperatures climbed to the seventies.

Yesterday, it rained all day. Any traces of winter that had lingered were gone. Wet-dirt scent, reminiscent of plowing and weeding, triggered nostalgic farm memories.

Today, a blizzard whipped horizontally past my windows dropping a white shroud over yesterday’s Spring.

This is Minnesota.

The nastiness outside gives me permission to light candles, cuddle in slouchy clothes, and do as close to nothing as possible. By nothing, I mean nothing that resembles work. Gazing at the blustering snow, reading, writing, pondering…these are acceptable pastimes for a day like today.

So I’m pondering…pondering the impact of the different environments I’ve experienced over the past twelve years.

In Ubud, Bali, eight degrees south of the equator, day and night were virtually equal parts dark and light – sunrise at 6:30 a.m. and sunset at 6:30 p.m. It varied by several minutes over the course of a year, but not much. Nestled in the foothills of volcanic Mt. Agung, the landscape was perpetually green and the air dripped humidity with two seasons: rainy and not quite so rainy. Balanced. Predictable. Easy. I never grew tired of the eternal youth of Bali, the jungle foliage, the sensory overload of sight, sound, and smell, and the kind, hospitable Balinese people.

Photo credit: Sharon Lyon

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, was the color of sand, except when the jacarandas bloomed bathing the city in violet. At twenty-one degrees north of the equator, and 6,135 feet above sea level, SMA was high and dry. The sun baked down during the day but come January and February, there was a bite to the evening air. The architecture, the people, the food, the mountaintop vistas, were extraordinary. But I found I didn’t resonate with the desert aesthetic, and I was never entirely certain that my presence was welcomed by the locals or merely tolerated.

Now I’m 46.7 degrees north of the equator and approximately 1,200 feet above sea level. I’m surrounded by family. I don’t need to wonder if I’m welcome. It’s a far different story, and so is the climate. I’d just gotten comfortable with summer when the leaves went crimson and left the trees naked. I blinked and the world turned white overnight. Snow accumulated in epic proportions, shifting and drifting, swirling whorls around the pines. Nights descended earlier and darkness delayed morning. Focused on getting my house habitable, months passed. Sometimes, I’d stop and marvel at the crystalline purity of blinding, bridal white.

Then, without warning, it was gone. In its place, brown remains of dead vegetation, nude, gray branches, and sticky, oozing, mud met the eyes as far as they could see.

Now, three days later….it’s back! Whiteness. Winter. Everywhere.

I’m glad I’ve experienced other climates and the customs and cultures they spawned. Bali felt young. San Miguel was ancient. Here, cycling through the seasons, I’m in touch with the passage of time: birth, growth, aging, death. I feel aligned and in tune with the reality of life’s terminal nature. It makes me more introspective than I already am – makes me treasure my time on this planet more than I already do, makes me grateful for every experience, blissful or traumatic, that contributed to the unusual path I’ve walked.

And…it makes me hungry! There’s something about cold and snow that generates a ravenous appetite! Out of necessity, I’m learning how to cook. I sort of knew the basics, once upon a time. But this climate requires more than tofu and salad. The body here needs starch and protein, fat, and sugar in quantities I haven’t seen on my plate in decades.

It’s an adjustment. Everything is. But if there’s one thing I have in spades, it’s flexibility. If there’s another thing, it’s determination to thrive where I’m planted. So now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to go cook something.

The Strong Survive!

24 Feb 2023 18 Comments

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

Winter.

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!

A Project to Die For

01 Feb 2023 10 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, grannys landing, pandemic, Shopping, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Some days the excitement buoys me up, motivates me, inspires the energy to do things no 73-year-old woman in her right mind would touch. Here I am in the deep freeze of northern Minnesota, working physically harder than I’ve ever worked before, manifesting yet another dream.

I’ve been retired for twelve years. I finished building my house in Bali in 2015.

Wait.

That’s not true.

The skilled Balinese crew, men and women, created a stunning residence while I watched. I may have painted a wall, but other than designing the structure and the space, engaging myself in actual labor was against the law. I was required to pay Balinese workers to do it.

My home there was spacious and light-filled. It looked over a river valley dotted with tiled roofs, rust-red against jungle green. I could hear my neighbors chatting and laughing and I drooled over the scents wafting from their cooking.

Then, of course, Covid happened. I told that story in this post https://wordpress.com/post/writingforselfdiscovery.com/22362. If you care to go there with me, click the link.

Because of the pandemic, I hadn’t seen my children and grandchildren for two years. The pang of missing them sat in my body like wet cement. In September 2021, I was finally, fully vaccinated. I flew to the U.S. and reconnected with family. When it came time to catch the return flight to Bali, I couldn’t. Waves of memories of monkey trauma and loneliness wracked my nervous system.

I haven’t gone back.

Instead, I’ve spent the last 6 months in northern Minnesota on the family farm building another home. This time I’m fully engaged in the physical process. My body is regularly taxed to its limits and beyond. Working with my sister and brother-in-law, I’ve dug trenches for electrical cable, installed insulation, screwed sheetrock to the walls then mudded, taped, and sanded…

…sanding is nasty business!

I’ve foamed gaps, caulked crown and base moldings (up and down, up and down, up and down the ladder) and, with the immense help of my tireless sis and bro-in-law, laid laminate flooring all the while repeating the mantra…My body aches but not my heart.

Some days I used every ounce of willpower to make myself work, dreading the rigors of the task I’d left unfinished. What I judged would take a week, often took three or more.

Each phase of the project melted into the next, but plumbing was an ongoing puzzle. I have no well and my sleek, Separett composting toilet needs no septic system. A 50 gallon tank under the sink is the source of water. My brother-in-law mulled, sketched, erased, and watched one how-to video after another to come up with a workable system. He’s been installing it with the help of my sister while I marvel. I’ve seen lesser works of art in the MoMA and I told them so.

Then my sofa came and changed everything. It was softness in a harsh, backbreaking world of work. It was the beacon of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel, the promise that one day in the not-too-distant future I would live in comfort here.

Each time I set a move-in goal, the date arrived and passed. I’ve quit doing that. It will be when it will be – could I hope for Valentine’s Day???!!!

Building this house has become a project to live for. It’s made my body strong. I know my home from the studs to the electrical face plates and everything in-between – a more intimate relationship than I’ve ever had with anything alive or inanimate.

Now…

The fun begins. I get to shop for things I love that will enhance my 399 sq. ft. home. That will be so much more satisfying than the fortune I’ve spent on lumber, electrical wire, screws, and nails. I couldn’t believe the price of nails! Home Depot has been the go-to destination for all my purchases for months. I’m so ready for a change.

And for those who wonder how I’m faring in the deep freeze of a northern Minnesota winter after tropical Bali?

The experience surprised me. All I knew from living and working in Minneapolis pre-retirement, were endless months of dirty sepia. Here, 200 miles farther north, unbroken white undulates across open fields and meets a frosted black treeline. Soundless. Boundless. Reflecting the sky as it did this morning….

At minus thirty degrees, I dress for the weather and brave the cold.

It’s an adventure in a culture far different than Hindu Bali, a culture of rural farming and Scandinavian roots. It feels distantly familiar but mostly new since the last close contact I had with it was over half a century ago. The people have changed. I’ve changed. But the place has not. This farm was my father’s joy. His sweet energy permeates the land. It’s good to be here. Very, very good.

Is it a Winter Wonderland or has Hell Frozen Over?

22 Dec 2022 10 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in 2022, Bali, grannys landing, Holidays, lockdown, meditation, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

Snow came in sticky, wet abundance, frosting the trees and shrouding the world in silent white. It was magical, like sitting in a snow globe as the inches piled up. First three…

Then seven more…

then another eight…

It happened fast and I found myself caught between awe and overwhelm. It was intimidating, an all-encompassing blanket that changed the colorful landscape into a monochromatic composition overnight. On cloudy days it was cozy. On sunny days, every crystalline flake reflected dazzling bursts of light.

Holidays approached. Nostalgic aromas of gingerbread cookies and lefse filled the air. My sister sends dozens of home-baked gifts to relatives every year. When it was time to frost and decorate her creations, W and I pitched in.

Mind you, these are only the gingerbread cookies. She made thumbprints, several varieties of spritz, date pinwheels, bourbon balls, pineapple tartlets, chocolate covered peanut butter balls, turtles, three kinds of biscotti, and I know I’m forgetting some. Years of collected decorations appeared throughout the house. Their giant philodendron, aptly named Phil, sported a string of twinkle lights and transformed into a Christmas tree.

All that happened while I hung insulation, sheetrocked around all those beautiful windows, and mudded, taped, and sanded as though my life depended upon it…because it kind of does.

And then…

This:

Temperatures plunged to minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit. I went out to shovel and start my car. When I finally chipped away enough ice to open the door and get inside, the battery was dead. But it didn’t really matter because the fuel line on W’s snowplow tractor was also frozen. Without plowing the road, none of us was going anywhere.

Suddenly, the reality of WINTER in Minnesota hit me. Sherry, this is your life for at least four more months. Can you do this? Of course, I can do it. I gutted out two years of Covid lockdown in Bali, besieged daily by foraging monkeys. I CAN DO ANYTHING. But can I do it happily?

Every winter?

For the rest of my life?

Whoa! Back up! Let’s stay in the moment!

Last night we, my sister, brother-in-law, and I celebrated winter solstice. I found a guided meditation by Julian Jenkens. We sat in candlelight, listening, musing, contemplating, and, nudged by his wise words, probing our souls. We spent the following two or three hours in deep philosophical conversations, dining on Gwen’s heavenly lasagne, W’s garden salad, and garlic toast, accompanied by a bottle of Josh Cabernet. It was a feast befitting such a night.

Today, blustery winds are blowing the newest, fluffiest snow into drifts. Forty-five-mile-per-hour gusts are predicted to last through tomorrow. My best-laid-plans to visit Jenny’s family in Minneapolis for Christmas may be postponed. But the gifts are wrapped and ready.

Meanwhile, invitations are pouring in. If we can get out of the driveway, there are Christmas Eve festivities at Uncle John’s two miles away. Dinner is on the agenda for Christmas day with old neighbors who became dear friends.

This is how I grew up. This is what I left behind and have now returned to. It hasn’t changed.

But I have. One of the questions posed last night was, What beliefs can you let go that no longer serve you? As the candles burned down, I let go of the, I hate winter story. It’s time to embrace and embody the fullness of who I am, a child of the snow, born in January, a Capricorn.

According to Molly Hall, on Liveabout dot com, I’m the crone, the elder who lives with the specter of death and knows that winter is coming and prepares for it. How perfect is that?!

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