It’s the sky, the sea, the wild wind, the clouds, the dazzle of sunlight on water.
It’s the flirty Italian men. (Oh! You have no idea! They are unstoppable!)
It’s my cozy perch high on the cliffs and the cushy chair by French doors – did I mention French doors – overlooking endless stretches of water. The Mediterranean.
My house faces east. The house of the rising sun. (I love that song.)
I didn’t come for the sunbaked Roman holiday. I came to scratch the itch in my soul. To answer the question: Was it really as good as I remember? And even while asking I know the answer.
Why did this place lodge in my being when there were so many others that could have?
I’ve been to Norway. I have family there. It’s rugged and fabulous.
There’s a Swedish town, Simrishamn, on the Baltic Sea. It’s an artist’s hideaway. Bougainvillea vines heavy with blossoms climb the walls of pastel-colored houses. Smiling, white-skinned people that look very much like me walk cobblestone streets and live in those houses. Fishing boats dot the harbor, bobbing, bobbing.
In Lucerne, Switzerland, the air is so clean it smells like snow. (Have you smelled snow? It’s a rush of cold in your nostrils that that has no scent, only sensation.)
What about Paris? London? Budapest? Luxembourg?
Canada?
Mexico?
Puerto Rico?
The Caribbean?
This morning I watched dawn break through dark skies. It was holier than prayer. When the wind whipped the sea to froth, tears dribbled down my cheeks and my heart filled with passionate thanks.
It was here, only here, that called me back.
Italy nourishes every part of me. My fascination with other cultures loves the deep dive into this country’s past. Many of the world’s great artists, mathematicians, politicians, musicians, explorers, architects, philosophers, and writers were Italian. What fostered those minds? What foundations were laid to support genius across such a broad spectrum of disciplines?
Refined rubs shoulders with rustic here. Wild is countered by tamed. Tradition butts heads with progress – who wins – while grapes, and olives, and lemons continue to grow.
And the food? I’m not exactly a foodie. In fact I’m the antithesis of food focused. But give me woodfired pizza and a glass of Primitivo di Manduria from the Puglia region and you will be my new best friend forever.
I shouldn’t have done that. It’s too blustery and wet to go out. All I have in the fridge right now is a tin of those Danish butter cookies, one egg, a little bread and a tiny lump of mozzarella…oh. But wait. There’s still half a bottle of wine. I’ll be just fine.
When you have a lover, every sense is heightened, every sight, sound, and scent floods your heart with joy.
I have two such paramours. They exist on opposite sides of the world. Bali was my first. We met in 2010. I was besotted. We’ve been together for eight enchanting years and my passion is stronger today than ever. But another has haunted me. I’ve wondered, imagined, desired, refrained…
until now.
When we were introduced I wasn’t free. I hid my heart and left. But I couldn’t forget the force of that energy, the longing to explore, to learn, to cast caution to the wind.
At seventy I’ve returned. It’s like yesterday, but the intensity of feeling is ten-thousand times stronger. Perhaps because now I know what I want and I don’t compromise. Perhaps because Bali has been a kind and gentle companion and is there to go home to. Perhaps because I know time is short and life is a gift that mustn’t be squandered.
I’m inviting you along to share this adventure. Meet my Italian lover. Like Bali, this one is also a place…
Praiano, on the Amalfi Coast of Italy.
The cliffs, the clouds – around every hairpin turn is a vista of excruciating beauty.I was in jetlag haze – maybe this is Vico Equense, or Sorrento, or Positano, or…? All of the towns we passed are jewels along the road to Praiano.When I was here before it was high season. This road was bumper-to-bumper traffic. What a difference in February.These views take my breath away.The architecture, ancient walls, stairways…be still my heart!Nicola, my Airbnb host, unlocked the blue gate at the street and we started up the steps…112 steps to be exact – to my front door. There’s no other way in…or out…112 steps…!The view over Praiano and the Mediterranean from my terrace. The stuff of dreams! The two-storey blue building in the center of this photo is the nearest market. I needed food and met Angela, the owner. I asked if she had eggs. She thought she had eggs… “Please wait,” she said and ran out the door. In a moment she returned with 3 eggs. She’s delightful! I’ve found a new friend. What do you do when you arrive in Italy after 30 hours of travel? Night is as seductive as day.
So what do you think? Is this one a keeper? It’s going to be an amazing month! Best of all, with lovers like this, no one gets jealous!
I careened into 2020 out of control. That’s how the energy of the new decade felt. I couldn’t focus, didn’t want to write, looked for distractions to keep me too busy to think. There’s a word used by my British friends that seems to fit. Scatty.
I was scatty.
Normally, my actions are intentional. I’m calm, well organized, emotionally stable, disciplined, and self-motivated. I set achievable goals and bask in an overall sense of well-being. In the months leading up to 2020 the person that used to embody those attributes went missing.
I felt like a stranger in my own skin.
I couldn’t put a sentence on paper to save my soul, nor did I want to. All that interested me was getting together with friends. Hikes, lunch dates, meetups for coffee, any excuse to be with people would do. I no longer needed long hours alone to recharge. For the first time in my life, people energized me.
I kept waiting for the phase to pass. I made excuses for myself: I was overstimulated from my trip to the States, out-of-town visitors needed my attention, it was just a bad case of writer’s block. Soon, I thought, the old me would be back and life as I’d known it would resume.
But it didn’t.
One morning, a personality test popped up on my phone. Before I was fully awake I’d engaged. Instead of multiple choice, I was told to identify the pictures that most closely answered each of the questions. I found myself sinking into the situation each image represented, feeling the truth in my body.
When my answers were tallied I viewed the graph in amazement. I’d scored a whopping 92% in extraversion which, the results explained, reflected how energetically I engaged with the outside world.
On the one hand, I felt seen. My unusual behavior was validated. By some twist of nature I’d become an extrovert.
On the other hand, it freaked me out.
Grasping for clues, I searched my journal entries and a pattern emerged. My desire going into 2020 was for honest communication, greater authenticity, and to be fully and unapologetically who I am. I’d been thinking about it, journaling about it, talking about it, and meditating on it. My intentions had been broadcast to the Universe in multiple ways, many times a day.
What I hadn’t done was imagine what that would look like in real life. I hadn’t expected a rewiring of my nervous system, or that I would become a social animal enjoying the company of the pack at least as much if not more than my solitary cave. I’d made assumptions based on old programming not realizing that the authentic me was a different creature entirely.
As I come to terms with my updated self and accept the mildly schizophrenic sensations that have accompanied this transformation, I’m in awe of the formidable power of intention. I’m also aware of how unskillfully I used that power. I imagined a slight tweak to my personality. But the words, to be fully and unapologetically who I am, that I unleashed to the cosmos, were not about tweaking. In essence I used a jackhammer to pound a nail.
I wish I could describe how it feels to be so abruptly and thoroughly changed. Everything I do is a new experience even though I know I’ve done it hundreds of times before. Sometimes I’m surprised by what I say though as soon as I’ve spoken I know it’s my truth. It’s like someone else has incarnated in my body and claimed it for their own yet this alien other is more authentically who I’ve always been.
It’s spooky, thrilling and disturbingly new, and slowly, very slowly, I’m starting to write again.
Muddling works for mojitos and mint juleps but it isn’t great for the mind. In fact it’s dreadful to feel at loose ends, directionless, lacking purpose. It can drag a person down.
For the past two months I’ve hosted a colony of ants under my skin. You may know the feeling. My body insisted on a constant state of motion, demanding long walks in excruciating 90°F (32°C) heat. I’d come home red-faced, drenched in sweat, ripping off clothes as I bee-lined for the shower.
For years I’ve guarded my solitude. Too much socializing drained me – at least that’s the story I told myself. Now I was the one organizing get-togethers, entertaining out-of-town guests, making any excuse I could conjure to keep myself busy.
Countless times I opened my computer, stared at the novel I’d been writing, and wondered where I’d found all those words. Two minutes, three, squinting, reading a few lines. Then I’d shake my head, hit the power-off button and message a friend or two to meet for lunch.
Distraction was the name of the game and I was winning.
During one of those get-togethers, the topic of vision boards came up. It seems my friends also felt anchorless. We agreed to meet at my house and see if we could muster clarity with the cut-and-paste approach. I found old issues of Vanity Fair and a National Geographic at the Smile Shop – Ubud’s Goodwill-type donation store – and snatched them up. Years ago in the States I had stacks of Architectural Digest, Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Elle, House Beautiful, and Country Living. But not here. Finding six dusty, ripped, moth-eaten magazines was like striking gold.
On the appointed day we gathered at the dining table with paints, pencils, markers, scissors, glue, and the ratty magazines. Pages turned. Nobody spoke. The air hung heavy and still with the intensity of our concentration. I hadn’t a clue what I was hoping to accomplish. But every-now-and-then a picture jumped out at me. Or a word leaped off the page. Soon I was snipping feverishly with a collection growing beside me.
We did well, but after forty-five minutes the silent focus was unsustainable.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
My friends looked up, dazed. “Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Let’s go eat.”
We chatted in the back garden of a nearby cafe that happened to have two-for-one happy-hour cocktails. And what luck! My favorite drink of all time was on offer: frozen mojitos. I wasn’t born during the depression but there’s something about two-for-one anything that makes it immoral to have just one. I had two frozen mojitos and a to-die-for roasted-veggie salad.
After whiling away a few more hours at the restaurant, my friends left promising they’d work on their projects at home. I felt the mellowing effect of my drinks but was strangely energized and eager to see if the stack of cut-outs had a common theme. Would a direction emerge? Had my subconscious or a bevy of capricious Bali spirits come out of hiding to help me choose those words and pictures?
I’m not a crafty person. Normally I’d devise any excuse to avoid this kind of activity. But as I arranged the images that same laser-like focus returned. Body, mind, and spirit engaged and I saw myself reflected in pictures and words that validated the very essence of who I am. It didn’t spell out in a sentence, Sherry, do this, yet the message was unmistakable.
You know the feeling when you’re telling someone your deepest truth and they get it? I felt like that looking at my board. A bubble of joy that made me laugh. A sense of relief that I’d worked through the fog and could see the way ahead. And gratitude. Gratitude for friends. Gratitude for the simplicity of a vision board to help gain self-knowledge. And gratitude for this place where energies abound to support the inner journey.
Yesterday I woke up cranky. Perhaps a smidge beyond cranky. The usual start-the-day-right rituals, wash face, make coffee, journal, do yoga, meditate made it as far as the journal. By the time I’d written a few sentences trying to get to the source of my dire mood I was so antsy and agitated I couldn’t sit still.
That state is rare for me – like once-every-twenty-years rare – and the usual methods of dealing with small irritations weren’t working.
I got up from my journaling chair and paced. It felt as though the house couldn’t contain all my roiling, boiling energy. I had to escape. I grabbed my phone and sent a quick message to Ketut. Do you have plans today?
The reply was instant. No plans.You have?
I’m stressed. I want wind in my face. I want adventure.
Ok. What time?
Now.
One of the many things I love about the Balinese people is their passion for gossip. We’d barely straddled the motorbike when Ketut said, Why you have stress? I was only too happy to vent my wrath to the back of his helmet, yelling my grievances: drought, heat, politics, monkeys, my friend with cancer. He nodded his understanding while navigating the insane Ubud traffic. When I stopped for breath he asked more questions plumbing for details, anything juicy.
It was during one of those breathing moments that I realized what was happening. I was speaking Indonesian and the vocabulary to describe emotions, frustrations, the craziness I was feeling wasn’t translating well from English. The words I pulled in to communicate my bizarre state of mind changed the story. My rant sounded silly, even to myself. I wondered how Ketut was hearing it. The image of a naughty child in full-on tantrum mode flashed before me and I exploded into laughter.
Ketut’s helmeted head swiveled as he ventured a curious glance over his shoulder.
Ya? You okay? That made me laugh harder. Was I okay?
Okay? I repeated, my heart pumping pure gratitude for this friend. Yes. I’m finished now. No more complaining. Thank you for listening. It’s your turn, Ketut. How do you feel today? Is your family good? Is your garden planted?
I knew what he would say – could have mouthed the words with him: Ya. Good. Same same. There was a pause as landscapes I hadn’t noticed to this point rushed past. I sucked lungs full of clean air and feasted on the glorious greens of paddies and jungle – and waited.
I’ve learned a bit about Ketut over the years. He’s a great listener but given the opportunity he’ll tell me just about anything. I was hopeful. Then, Maybe I borrow cow, he said and the floodgates opened.
We sailed along climbing steadily toward the rice terraces of Sidemen. I sat back, clear-headed, relaxed and content to listen to Ketut’s happy prattle.
From the precipitous roadside I caught glimpses of farms spread like patchwork far below, and Mt. Agung ringed in clouds. Our destination was Warung Uma Anyar, a rooftop cafe perched on the mountain with sweeping vistas of terraces, paddies, and jungled foothills. The memory of that view had prompted my urge to flee Ubud and we were getting close.
An hour-and-a-half after leaving home we pulled off the road. There it was: the chalkboard sign out front, the smiling owner, and the sinful cup of Nescafe with fake cream and processed white sugar that I’d been craving.
Crispy kerupuk, peanuts still hot from the roasting pan, and chemical-laden coffee. Heaven! Ketut took a minute to answer emails and I morphed into a vegetative state of bliss.
Mount Agung in the background almost obscured by clouds
We snacked on peanuts and crisps and basked in the immensity of solitude. Then the food came. I’d ordered vegetable soup picturing something like the canned Campbell’s we used to have growing up and couldn’t have been more pleased when the Warung Uma version arrived.
My delight must have been evident because the man who delivered the colorful dish beamed and told us he’d worked in a big hotel for nine years. It was owned by an American and featured a Thai restaurant. He’d learned to cook everything on their menu. Then bankroot, he said.
The meal proved as tasty as it looked. Ketut and I lingered over it, chatting about the tawon that appeared to be building a nest in the roof. Ketut asked what tawon was in English. Maybe bee? I said. Or hornet? A quick consultation with Google pegged it a wasp. When we couldn’t scrape another morsel off our plates, a young man appeared to clear the table.
Bali people eat 15 minutes, Ketut said. We already eat two hours! But he seemed to approve the slower pace. When I observed he hadn’t ordered his usual Coca Cola and would he like one now, he smiled and nodded. Okay, he said.
While he enjoyed his sugary hit of extra caffeine, I studied the map. Let’s go home a different way. See? I showed him the phone. If we turn here, we can cross over to Sidemen village and take the other road. He asked me to put it on my phone. I plugged in the route and we headed off, waving goodbye to our host and promising to come back soon.
The warung was still in sight when Google sprang into action issuing orders. Right turn one-hundred meters, left turn one point five kilometers. The paved two-lane road narrowed to one lane. Left turn six-hundred meters. The asphalt was old here. Chunks were missing and what remained was potholed and lumpy.
We bumped along. A little farther on even the patchy asphalt disappeared. Then we were climbing again. The single lane became a trail of eroded, rocky gravel. We rounded a switchback. I gasped and grabbed Ketut’s shoulders. The way ahead was a vertical plunge to another sharp turn a long, long way below. My terrified croak, I’ll walk! was swallowed by the crunch of wheels grinding into the gravel. Good view, Ketut said as we started down. I shut my eyes.
By some stroke of fate (or Ketut’s expertise) we made it to the bottom, rounded the hairpin curve intact, and trundled on. The trail now was the width of a motorbike tire, a mere depression in the grass.
And then…
We’d been following Google’s instructions all the way. The map on the phone showed the road leading to a river. We were there. Water rushed wide and brown in front of us. Rice paddies stretched in all directions. But that was all. No more road. No bridge. This isn’t Sidemen village, I said.
Maybe Google not understand Bali, Ketut answered.
Definitely doesn’t understand Bali, I agreed.
We stood a few more dazed minutes. Then without a word, Ketut turned the bike around and I climbed back on. The impossible hill wasn’t as bad going up.
It was a magnificent day – the perfect adventure. There was not one single bit of it, not one fraction of a moment that I wish had been different. The wind in my face, the beauty, the terror, the food, the fiasco, and best of all, the friend who listened.
*Note: The ‘tantrum photo’ at the beginning of this post was taken by Sharon Lyon. Thanks, Sharon, for the worst photo anyone has EVER taken of me!
The end of my U.S. visit approaches. I’m nursing a Cubano and munching almond biscotti at Soul Grind, a cool coffee shop atop the cliffs at Linda Mar Beach while Dan braves the 7:30 a.m. surf in the fog.
Why anyone would want to risk that cold, wild ocean to catch a wave for five seconds is beyond me. But he’s an early bird and I couldn’t resist the offer to hang out for a few hours in that artisan coffee shop while he matched wits with the Pacific.
But backing up…
I left Bali at 11:00 p.m. on August 29th and touched down in New York City 36 hours later. It’s a brutal flight that leaves me brain dead and thirteen time zones out of sync with my sleep patterns – not a good combo for meeting the high expectations of Hadley Sophia, my 3 ½ year old granddaughter, whose energy could power the whole of New York City, and seeing her new sister, Delaney Mae, for the first time.
For nine wild and wonderful days Joy, Kellen, Hadley and Delaney entertained me at their cabin in Pennsylvania. We watched deer munching in the lawn and eagles soaring over the lake while we contemplated new exterior paint colors for the house and garage.
The serenity of the setting brought balance to their insanely busy lives. Despite the fact that Joy was on maternity leave, she was in the throes of interviewing for a new job. During my stay she accepted an offer from a company headquartered in Paris. I was thrilled to be on hand to experience the beginning of this next chapter for their family.
Whoever gets me fresh off the plane from Bali gets a zombie with a defunct brain. It isn’t fair, but it’s the truth.
Jetlag subsided about the time I left New York.
I caught my Sun Country flight to Minnesota at Liberty International Airport in Newark, New Jersey where my carry-on was thoroughly searched. The sketchy item turned out to be a bag of coffee beans from Tana Toraja, a mountainous region on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi. In my opinion, Torajan coffee is the best in the world and I always try to bring some of those fragrant beans as gifts. I held my breath as the official scanned, sniffed, and swabbed the package. Finally, he allowed it through and I boarded the plane.
The flight to Minneapolis was memorable for two reasons: first, it was distressingly turbulent, and second, I sat beside a fascinating young man who plays flamenco guitar professionally and lives in Spain. He entertained me for three-and-a-half hours. Several times as he was describing the history of the dance he broke into song. Yes, right there on Sun Country Airlines in the midst of lurching, bucking, nausea-inducing turbulence, he sang to me!
My seatmate was also a skilled conversationalist – a rarity these days. In fact we became intimate old friends over those few hours together. Then, in spite of the ‘bumpy air,’ we landed safely. I raced off in one direction to collect my luggage and he disappeared in another. In minutes Jenny, my youngest daughter, pulled up at the curb and the second phase of my U.S. journey began.
She knows me! Our first outing was a nearby Mexican restaurant that featured – you guessed it – Nachos!
They were every bit as delicious as they looked.
Jenny and Kennen’s twins are twenty-two months old now and absolutely irresistible! They just started daycare and Jenny began a new job so this household, too, was in the midst of transition.
Rowan, left, and Remy, right, are identical yet their personalities are solely their own. For several days they burst into tears every time they saw me. But finally I was accepted. After that, if I wanted to solve a problem, Remy was my man on the scene. If in-depth conversation was called for, Rowan was quick to oblige. It’s fascinating how quickly my grandchildren became who they are. It took me sixty years and I’m still working on it!
For this photo the boys must have been sleeping. Jenny and Kennen grab every opportunity to chill out during naps for a few moments of ‘alone together’ time.
When I planned the trip to meet Delaney Mae during Joy’s maternity leave I didn’t know I’d be saying goodbye to Mom at the same time.
She was ninety-one and had been ready to join Dad since his passing three-and-a-half years ago. She’d continued to engage with the community at the assisted living facility where she had her own apartment, but old age regularly took her friends and she was tired of funerals. On August 9th, she died in her sleep.
My sister took care of our mother as she slowly lost the ability to drive, manage her own finances, and a million other details that required Gwen’s assistance. Now as she planned the memorial service, she assigned me only one job. I was to find the urn for Mom’s ashes. It gave me purpose. When I saw the cowrie-shell basket in one of my favorite shops in Ubud, I knew Mom would approve.
Gwen wanted an outdoor service on the banks of the Mississippi at a site about a quarter mile from the riverside home where we grew up. At first it sounded like a lovely idea. But as the date approached, I remembered September weather in Minnesota. It can snow. In my worst imaginings I saw us huddled under the pavilion with icy sleet blowing in our faces.
On the phone with my sister I ventured a tentative question, “Gwen, what’s plan B? I mean in case it storms?” With no hesitation whatsoever, she said, “No plan B. We’re at the river rain or shine.” She paused for a heartbeat then added, “The weather will be perfect.”
I experienced a moment of irritation. September. Minnesota. Outside. No plan B. But as quickly as it came, I let it go. Gwen was the one on the front lines. She was handling everything while I was still in Bali, and all she’d asked of me was to find the urn.
Of course the date came and it was a stellar, perfect Minnesota fall day. Somehow Gwen knew.
It was also one of the most overwhelming days of my life. At Dad’s service, Mom was front-and-center. She was the recipient of all the well-wishes, reminiscences, and tears. This time it was me, the eldest child, and it was wonderful. Old neighbors I hadn’t seen for 40 or 50 years came up to tell me how much they loved my mother. While I was hugging one guest I’d see the next familiar face approaching. Typically I avoid large crowds and prefer intimate gatherings. But that day I channeled my mother. She loved socializing and the bigger the group, the better.
Then it was over. I spent the night with Gwen at her home reading sympathy cards, remembering our shared childhood from our own unique perspectives.
The time in Minnesota evaporated, and once again I found myself on Sun Country, this time headed for California.
The trip south was smooth with no scintillating seatmates, just a quiet young man on my left reading Margaret Atwood’s Surfacing, and a serious young woman on my right with a book entitled Strong Mothers, Strong Sons, by Meg Meeker. I was sandwiched between them for four hours and thirty minutes with nothing to read, nothing to watch, and nothing to eat on that bare-bones, economy flight. I had only a pad of paper and a pen. So I wrote.
Jessa, my oldest daughter, and her partner Dan, met me at the airport. They also know what I like and a quick stop at El Gran Amigo restaurant produced dinner: take-out nachos! (Plus a burrito, refried beans, guacamole, wine and salsa.)
There are many languages but good food communicates love more clearly than words. When a meal is purposely served because it’s known to be one’s favorite, the heart is nourished along with the body.
Since my arrival, Jessa, Dan, and I have hiked miles of frothy coastline, rested on white sand beaches, marveled at circling hawks, and driven on roads through eucalyptus-scented mountains. We had devilishly decadent ice cream doused with TCHO chocolate in Golden Gate Park after an exceptional dinner purchased from The Breads of India food truck and eaten on a park bench.
I’ve taken hundreds of photos as they’ve introduced me to Linda Mar Beach, Big Beach, Bean Hollow, Maverick Beach, Little Beach, Pescadero Beach, Montara Beach. I know I’ve forgotten some. Each was more breathtaking than the one before it. I’ve been saturated with beauty.
Today there’s down time. A little while ago, I sent Ketut a photo of Jessa and Dan’s patio.
He responded by snapping a picture of my garden in Bali.
Ketut wrote on the photo: Here this morning a little rain only one time.
And suddenly I’m lonesome.
I’m a traveler and a homebody, a mother who is no longer a daughter. I’ve loved seeing family and getting a close-up glimpse into their busy lives. I miss them when we’re apart and I’ve started planning the next visit. But I have a different life on the other side of the world that I can only silence for a while and it’s beginning to whisper me home.
You know you have a Pluto soul when your evolutionary astrologer reveals that tidbit of terrifying information during a birth chart reading. She says it matter-of-factly, then adds, Oh, and by the way, the god of the hell realm also opposes your Venus and resides in your fifth house of sexuality, creativity, and…children.
I had my first reading when I was sixty. It was a telephone session. The person didn’t know anything about me. After an hour of listening with my jaw hanging, the dear woman said, and I quote, “Sherry, if you don’t change the direction of your life now, you’re nailing your coffin shut.”
It was harsh but she got my attention. I took her advice to heart and two years later, when my divorce was final, I retired and moved to Bali. It was as though I’d been bound and gagged my entire life and now the fetters were off. Every day was an adventure. Everything was new. I was in love with life, in love with Indonesia, and a bit more in love with myself than I’d dreamed possible.
I’d lived abroad for three years when, at sixty-five, I had my second reading. It was from this practitioner that I learned how significantly Pluto figured in my chart. With Pluto opposing Venus, she told me, it was almost impossible to have a successful romantic relationship. By that time I’d accumulated a distressing number of failed marriages.
To complicate matters, Pluto sat conjunct my moon. I had to find healthy ways to feed my shadow otherwise it would manifest catastrophe and dysfunction. The dark is so much a part of you, she said with an earnest, concerned look, if you don’t get enough excitement in your life in positive ways, you’ll create your own destructive chaos. Ouch. I won’t even go into how that tendency haunted my past. But nurtured appropriately, she assured me, your shadow is the truth teller. It can be a powerful ally.
I found much of that necessary nurture on the Island of the Gods. Bali, a paradise of sunlight and smiles, knows how to honor the darkness. It isn’t dusted off, polished, and shoved under the rug. Death is on display. Gamelan pounds in frenzied discordant percussion as sweating men carry the tower and bull to the cremation site. Smoke layers over the town while the body burns. On New Year’s Eve, monsters parade the streets enticing evil spirits to enter them. Ritual trance dance, ceremonial cleansing, shaman healers, black magic – they’re all just business-as-usual here – Pluto soul-food. Perfect for me. And the perfect place to write.
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I noticed, however, that Pluto didn’t fully appreciate the need for quiet in my writing life. It’s a silent, solitary business and I spend many hours inside my head with imaginary characters of my own devising. This morning, try as I might I couldn’t focus. Lead-gray clouds poured rain. So I burned incense, turned on lights, did yoga and meditated, drank coffee, but restless itchiness persisted. Pluto grumbled. As torrents pelted down, the noise provided a rare opportunity. I scanned YouTube, hooked up my sound booster, and blasted, really blasted, music.
Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, Pluto seemed to say. I followed up with Leonard Cohen: “You Want it Darker,” “The Traitor,” “The Waltz.” So I waltzed, spinning through the house, one two three, one two three, one two three, whirling and dipping and letting go. Cathartic. I feasted on sound for three solid hours and sated my Plutonian appetite.
Evolutionary astrologers don’t mess around. When my second reading was finished I was stunned. How could she know me so well? She told me things about myself that hadn’t been clear, even to me, until she spoke them. I felt affirmed, seen and understood.
Beyond that, she showed me what still hung on from my karmic past, the snares that continued to trip me up, the tendencies that seemed to repeat in a never-ending loop. And she gave direction for the way ahead, the path of evolution to my highest, happiest, most fulfilled self.
Only evolutionary astrology accomplishes that. Many say it’s better than years of therapy. I wouldn’t know. But I do know the information I received in those two readings gave me the motivation and the awareness necessary to change my life.
I’ve owned dogs, cats, hamsters, guinea pigs, parakeets. There was a cute white bunny one Easter. We named her Snowball. She grew to the size of a two-year-old and was just as needy.
I live blissfully alone. My pet-owning days left with the kids.
Almost.
The cicak is a common house lizard prevalent in tropical regions. They come out when I turn on the lights and slurp up any flying or creeping thing that crosses their path. We have an agreement: they occupy the wall and ceiling, I stay on the floor. It’s worked.
One night about a year ago I was hammering out an article intent upon finishing before bed. Lights were on, cicaks were feasting. Then the edge of my computer moved. For a split second the adrenaline rush, the accelerated heartbeat, the panic. A cicak, the tiniest I’d ever seen, crept into sight. He was no more than an inch from nose to tail. I watched him poke around for a bit. Then he disappeared and I went back to work.
Several minutes passed and I’d forgotten about him when something tickled my hand.
“No!” I said as the youngster proceeded to make his way up my arm. “No, no, no! This is NOT okay. Where’s your mother?”
He stopped and looked up at me, his round eyes shining pure lizard love.
On the terrace, I directed him to the floor, closed the door with him outside and went back to writing.
Tickle, tickle. It had been less than five minutes. He was crawling up my leg.
“Listen, Junior. This is creepy. Your reptilian brain isn’t capable of attachment and I’m not your mother.”
This time I went farther afield to abandon him. When I returned I shut down the computer and began my bedtime ritual. He found me.
Totally weirded-out, I hurried to the far edge of the garden and deposited him on a rock. In no uncertain terms, I told him we were finished. All night I kept waking up thinking he was crawling on my neck, my face. But he wasn’t. He was gone.
The other morning as I lay on my back in Shivasana, I noticed a teenaged cicak watching me from the rafters. How long had he been there? Motionless, he kept his vigil until I’d rolled up my mat. The next day he was there again. For three weeks I watched him watching me. “Coincidence,” I told myself. “He just happens to sit up there at this time of the morning. Or maybe he likes the music.” Shamanic Dream by Anugama, calming, meditative, and rhythmic is my go-to for yoga.
Our ritual continued. He was always there.
Then one afternoon in broad daylight – tickle, tickle. Teenage yoga buddy was making his way up my leg. “He’s lost,” I thought. “As soon as I stand up he’ll scamper away.” I stood. He clung. I stamped. He clung. I walk-ran to the garden. He clung. “I don’t do pets,” I told him. “I don’t do reptiles. Your brain cannot form attachments. Neither can mine. Don’t come back!”
He didn’t.
Whatever strange bonding instinct was at work there, I want no part of it. I’m committed to humans – they’re hard enough.
That was the question I asked myself as the calendar left 2010 and I turned sixty-one. My life wasn’t working. The numbers I scrawled in my journal every morning didn’t add up to an early retirement – more like no retirement – ever. Too many bills. Too much debt. Too little IRA.
As blizzards stormed through that January, the thought of another winter in Minnesota gave me cold sweats. It wasn’t just the sixteen-hour arctic darkness, or icey steets, or no parking so the plow could get through that I dreaded. Or snow snow and more snow, or shoveling off the roof, the driveway, the sidewalk, or frozen pipes, broken pipes, ankle-length down coat over layers of fleece, socks, boots, hats, mittens, heating bills, aching joints. It was all that and more that made it unbearable.
And…I…was…over…it.
So when the numbers didn’t add up to the right answer, I tried a different question. How much do I really need? That sentence hounded me. The truth stared me in the face. I needed very little and had way too much. The weight of my belongings crushed me. I was imprisoned by abundance.
I’m a Capricorn – a goat-like being with stubborn drive and dogged persistence toward a goal – the top of the mountain will do. Without that vision it’s a slippery slide into grumpy discontent. I was teetering perilously close to the pit. But one thing was clear: I had to purge possessions.
Was it easy to let go of prized belongings? Not the Ralph Lauren farmhouse table. I knew if I could part with that I could part with anything. So I took photos and put it on Craigslist. It sold within hours. I whirled and whooped in the space where it had been and paid off two-thirds of my credit card debt. I couldn’t get rid of the remaining treasures fast enough. By winter of 2011 everything I owned fit into three plastic bins and a suitcase.
Debt-free from sales of all the unnecessary excess I could afford to dream. Without the responsibility of stuff I could go anywhere. I’d vacationed in Bali several years earlier. As I journaled through that December, visions of terraced rice paddies and swaying palms floated through my mind. Could I retire early and move there? My 62nd birthday was a month away. On March 1, 2012, a week before the first Social Security check came, my plane touched down on the Island of the Gods.
I took some risks those first years – used every dime of savings to lease a parcel of land in the center of Ubud and renovate the old house that sat on it. I knew nothing about building in Bali but I drafted plans for a major overhal and the patient crew told me I’d drawn walls too high to sustain earthquakes. They would build them for me if I wanted, but just FYI. Back to the drawing board…literally! Finished, my new apartment was a hair shy of 500 sq. ft. and it was perfect.
There’s magic in small spaces. Since upkeep is minimal, I have time and energy to do all the things I love. I possess only items I want to look at because there’s no place to store anything else. I get fresh produce daily because my small fridge will accommodate only one day’s fruits and veggies. I eat simple meals because I don’t own a microwave or an oven. I save money because it’s less expensive to care for 500 sq. ft. than it is to maintain a mini-mansion.
That leap into the unknown has changed me. How could it not? I no longer have to cope with winter. I love my tiny house, my giant view, and the wild freedom to live life full throttle. But to get here…
I had to take that leap.
The custom teak table and chairs do dual duty: desk and dining. Behind the carved door is my only closet…gulp! The kitchen is compact and functional. I love the hand-carved apron and the hand-woven under-counter storage baskets. The dorm-size refrigerator tucks under the counter. The only other appliances are a blender and yogurt maker. During the day the doors slide open to give the breezes and butterflies free access. The daybed (original paint) was buried under logs and branches in the corner of Ketut’s family’s woodcarving shed. His father made it years ago for his growing family. I’d been looking all over Bali for exactly that! It’s my sofa. The queen-size bed faces east. I love waking up at 6:30 to the sunrise! Sometimes the first thing I do when I open my eyes is grab my camera.I’m standing in the shower to take this photo of my sweet 4′ x 6′ bathroom. The shower occupies the far end. The ceiling peaks at 20 feet and lends volume and beauty to the simple room.And my view over Ubud’s rooftops…to die for!
I woke up one morning twenty-nine years ago to an identity trauma – who was that middle-aged woman staring at me from my mirror?
The strangest part of the mid-life crisis is that it doesn’t creep up bit-by-bit allowing itself to be integrated gently. No. It slams, shocks, knocks upside the head with a stunning force that shouts: You’re old.
Until that morning I felt vibrant and sexy, very much alive. I hadn’t given aging a passing thought. That stymies me even now. How could I not have seen it coming? Proof of the process is everywhere – parents age, siblings age, movie stars age – my own children were aging. I had to have known that I wouldn’t escape the inevitable. Yet the shock of it flattened me.
Today a similar jolt brought me up short. It was a thought that loomed at the edge of other thoughts. It had dark borders and felt ominous so I ignored it as long as I could. When it saw it’s chance, it sprang and the impact of its message pierced me with slivers of dread.
Questions swirled. At what point will I no longer be taken seriously? When will my opinion be brushed over, my suggestions ignored, my point of view deemed irrelevant simply because others assume I’ve exceeded my use-by date?
I’m not talking about dementia or Alzheimers. People with those afflictions often lose their ability to think logically or communicate well. My concern is ageism – the stereotyping, prejudice, and discrimination against people on the basis of age alone. It hadn’t concerned me before. But as the idea wormed into my headspace today it felt just like that morning twenty-nine years ago when I saw myself for the first time at the far end of youth.
It has me thinking about how much I appreciate my deductive reasoning abilities. I enjoy having my words respected and my advice sought. I relish intelligent commentary, debate, and the rare witty comeback that I pull out of somewhere! I don’t want to be marginalized and set to boil dry on the back burner. Death would be preferable.
Why isn’t there an outcry against ageism in the media like there is for racism and sexism and gender bias? Why is discrimination on the basis of age accepted as normal? Possibly because it’s so commonplace. It’s such an automatic response that we’re unaware we’re doing it. I’m guilty. I’ve discounted the abilities of the elderly based solely on their white heads, but never again.
The realization has dawned that this kind of stereotyping could become my personal reality. That’s terrifying. Fortunately for me, I live in Bali where the culture honors oldies. If I hang exclusively with my Balinese friends I’m safe!
Seriously though, it’s time to rally. Babyboomers are 60 million strong. If we join forces and speak out against ageism, I guarantee we’ll be heard – white hair and all.
writing for self-discovery 
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