Is It Patience? Or just Waiting…

20 Jan 2026 5 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, meditation, Poetry, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , ,

The dark house of waiting

There are many who would say, Who cares? I guess that’s the difference between a philosopher and pragmatist; someone who loves to ponder the deeper questions or one who is more concerned with practical results.

While living in Codgerville next door to my sister on the family farm, she constantly told me, Have patience, Sherry!

Unfortunately, I’m not wired that way. I want what I want now. Or better still, yesterday. And yet, I am very good at waiting.

I suddenly felt the need to unpack the two words which seem to have similar meanings but different realities.

Patience is the act of submission to a construct . It is the capacity to tolerate delay without becoming angry. It is calm self-restraint. One’s ability to be patient is partially influenced by the genetics affecting brain function and temperament which provide a predisposition toward self-control. But one’s capacity for patience also depends heavily on life choices and experience. It is a learnable life skill.

For me, the path from thinking to doing is short and direct. If it’s doable, let’s do it and get it done. My sister, unlike me, inherited the patience genes.

Have patience, Sherry.

Oh, come on, let’s DO IT, Gwen!

It takes incredible energy, a serious act of the will for me to restrain from executing immediately on whatever it is I’ve decided to do.

On the other hand, I have perfected waiting.

To wait intentionally, you must be unafraid of time, unafraid of doing nothing. If you wait without expectation, without worrying about what comes next – if waiting is a meditation, a practice, a prayer, then waiting is the most important thing you will ever do. It becomes sacred idleness in which the purpose for your life unfolds effortlessly before you.

I wrote that paragraph as a poem in January, 2013. The rainy season had descended upon Bali early that year. Daily, a thunderous pounding deluge kept me inside the house I was renting at the time. Unlike the airy, light-filled home I built later, this one brooded. Surrounded by dense jungle, very little light entered. I escaped as often as possible to walk the streets of Ubud and park myself in coffee shops to write. During those dark monsoon months, a prisoner of the weather, I perfected the art of waiting.

Waiting, in its pure form, isn’t engaging in distractions. You don’t get to suddenly decide to bake bread, or put together a puzzle, or text a neighbor. I am distressed at how distracted the world has gotten. Nobody takes time to just wait. Nobody bothers to ask the deep questions and pause a while in silence for the answers. How do they know if they’re on the right path? If their life choices came from the wisdom within them or a trigger-response to outside influences?

It took me years to become unafraid of time. To ask the questions and listen for answers. But once I did, I finally understood what made me happy. I discovered who I was. I learned to live, not merely survive.

A Typically Hazardous Experience

10 Jan 2026 14 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in adventure, meditation, Uncategorized, wisdom Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Out of curiosity, I Googled the definition of adventure. I’ve described various times of my life in that way without ever looking up the word to see what it actually meant. It surprised me. An unusual and exciting, typically hazardous experience or activity. Exciting…yes. Unusual…yes. But typically hazardous? No! No! No! Until now, that is. My latest adventure into the Twilight Zone of post stroke reality, merits that description.

But as well as being a wild and crazy ride, this event has provided an in-depth learning experience. For instance, did you know that the average body contains over 60,000 miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries? And that of those 60,000, the brain lays claim to 400. That’s 400 miles of potential hazard just waiting to happen. It was in one of those tiniest roadways, a random capillary on the right side of the parietal lobe, where my latest adventure began.

That was three weeks ago, and I already told you in a previous blog all about the incident itself. Today, however, I did my full yoga workout (except the headstand – just a little skittish about my head these days) and meditated. Yoga and meditation along with medication, help to stabilize blood pressure. Then, around lunch time, there was a quick rap on the door. A large box containing an exercise bicycle sat there. I dragged it in. It needed assembly, of course, and the directions suggested two adults.

Hogwash!

An hour later it was done.

Then, because this is South Carolina, and it’s a 75-degree day in January, I went out on the balcony to catch a few rays.

Being the stubborn, Capricornian goat that I am, I’m committed to coming out of this ordeal stronger, healthier, and more fit than I’ve ever been. The body has a miraculous ability to heal itself. And I find this amazing: while I was having my adventure, aka stroke, brain cells surrounding the obstructed area were being starved of oxygen and dying. That sent the brain’s resident immune cells and white blood cells charging to the injured area to do cleanup. They cleared away dead cell debris and toxins, prepping the compromised area for repair. Then the healthy part of the brain kicked in creating detours around the damaged places and picked up the slack in the functions previously managed by the injured tissue.

Nearby, surviving neurons worked overtime to form new connections and neural circuits, effectively rewiring the brain. In support of their effort, the brain generated new neurons from stem cells, and those migrated to the site of the injury. All hands on deck, right? Finally, the formation of new blood vessels helped restore blood flow and provided oxygen and nutrients to the area surrounding the core damage aiding in the survival of vulnerable neurons.

And now it’s my turn. As it happens, the brain’s self-repair process is highly dependent on activity and consistent, repetitive practices. Hence, the bicycle. Oh, and did I mention crochet? I tried it once, years ago, and made a pathetic mess of it. But, to make those gimpy fingers on my left hand behave as they should, I’m trying again, forcing them to manipulate the tiny strand of yarn while my right hand jabs the crochet hook in, out, around, and through.

Then there’s typing. Talk about repetitive movements for the fingers! You should have seen those lefties when I first put them back on a keyboard. A) they were numb so they couldn’t feel the keys, and B) they were spastic, indifferent to the commands I sent them. But we kept at it, and I’m delighted to say they’re fully functioning again, good as new.

Too Much Information?

If you don’t know me by now… Great old song, and true. But you do know me. You know that I share life’s ups and downs with you and try to find the growth potential and see the bright side in every circumstance. Unfortunately, there are horrendous things happening in this country now that make that difficult. But it’s more important than ever, that sane people stand together and resist in any way we can the powers that are allowing atrocities to be committed at our very doorstep. Like the brain, we need to clean up the destruction, clear away the debris, and prepare our country for healing.

Meanwhile, I am grateful for life, for a body that heals, and for all who have reached out to me with kindness and positivity during this typically hazardous and challenging ADVENTURE!

Live Dangerously, He Said

31 Dec 2025 30 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in adventure, Holidays, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

You might ask why anyone would take that approach to life. The great German philosopher Frederick Nietzsche, (1844-1900) was not looked upon kindly by his peers in 1800s Germany. Don’t forget he’s also the one who proclaimed, “God is dead!” Not a popular position when taken literally. But Frederick did not mean it literally, whereas, the following quote, he did.

“The secret of the greatest fruitfulness and greatest enjoyment is to live dangerously.”

I relate absolutely and completely to that compelling directive. I don’t believe he was talking about recklessness or ignoring the generally accepted moral principles of the times. I think it was more about exploring one’s curiosity, stepping outside the familiar, and refusing to live small.

But after I survived a terrifying incident on the 19th of December, I am forced to revise my methods of dangerous living. At 1:00 p.m. on that day, I was shopping for Christmas gifts. Suddenly, I felt detached from my body, my legs went wobbly and I gripped the shopping cart as I stumbled toward the exit doors. Once outside I crouched, my back against the rough brick wall of the stores’ exterior and tried to calm my racing thoughts and wildly beating heart.

About 30 minutes prior to this event, I had eaten one of Culver’s decadent concrete mixers. It was the smallest size they sell but due to a very rigid system of fairness at this particular Culver’s, there were not one, but two heath bars crumbled into that already criminally sweet concoction. I wondered if somehow t was experiencing a massive sugar rush that would pass if I just gave it time.

It didn’t pass. When I got home, legs still refusing to walk in a balanced and mannerly way, I went straight to bed.

My daughter was concerned. Shouldn’t we take you to a doctor? I’m a person who has always been exceptionally healthy. Every wound or illness I’ve had previously, with time, healed on its own. I was counting on that. Then my oldest daughter called. When she heard my symptoms she said, Mom’s having a stroke. Get her to the ER, NOW!

A new adventure had commenced.

My blood pressure, when I was admitted and a literal army of medical professionals tore into me, was 256/109. I shouldn’t be alive.

But I am.

It has been 12 days since reality took that unforeseen turn. Other than a little numbness in my left hand with fingers that have an unwillingness to cooperate at times, and the tendency to tire quickly, I am back to normal.

And yet, I am not. I’ve been warned that for the next 30 days the likelihood of a second occurrence is high, and if that should happen, it would be worse. Images float through my mind of drool trickling from the corner of my mouth as I slump in a wheelchair, blanket tucked around me, in a convalescent home somewhere.

I feel soul-crushingly vulnerable along with many other emotions that defy expression. And yet, some corner of me recognizes this as an opportunity, a challenge to recreate myself and my life once again. The doctors tell me I will make a full recovery. It may take a few more weeks to regain sensation and dexterity in my left hand, but it will return. I may require more rest than I used to, but I’m well aware that I’ve been pushing my body to accomplish more than it should for years.

This was a wake up call. And knowing my stubborn self, nothing short of a major come-to-Jesus would have forced me into the necessary changes. So here I am, staring my 76th birthday in the face, and the full impact of 2026 dead ahead. Hmmmm… Maybe I shouldn’t have said it quite that way…

Happy New Year, friends! Eat healthy, drink in moderation, get out to stretch those legs daily, and keep your dear ones near.

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.

Lucky To Be Alive And Only Slightly Fractured

08 Mar 2025 13 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Portugal, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

It was a long and perilous journey home.

First, there was the 3-hour bus ride from Ferragudo. I’d booked the B & B Airport Hotel for my overnight stay in Lisbon before the morning flight to Philadelphia. I didn’t know what to expect from that choice of lodging but was favorably impressed. It was spotlessly clean, modern, and friendly.

Uber picked me up at 7:30 the next morning and whisked me to Departures. I was at my gate with plenty of time to spare until boarding.

Once on the plane, I found my window seat. There was an empty one between me and the gentleman sitting next to the aisle. The row in front of us had a mother and baby, a little boy in the center, and a chic older woman in front of me by the window.

Note: This will be important later.

We took off on time. In-flight food service began immediately. We were plied with meals three times during the 7 1/2- hour trip over the Atlantic. I watched the movie Conclave because I had just read the book. It followed the plot well.

About an hour before our descent into Philly, the pilot announced that the flight attendants would be collecting all unwanted leftovers and passengers should use the restrooms if needed because in 30 minutes, the seatbelt sign would go on, and we were strongly encouraged to remain in our seats for the remainder of the flight. Some turbulence was expected.

The clouds were serene as we approached our destination.

But as we began to descend through them, the plane went into spasms. It shook and rattled. There was a sickening slide to the left, a jerk upward, a weightless moment as it dropped into a hole in the air, then a slip sideways to the right. Bump, rattle, slip, slide, dodge, dip, repeat. We passengers were like ice cubes in a cocktail shaker damned to an eternity of chaotic mixing. It went on and on and on with no relief.

Just as life-size buildings began to appear indicating we’d almost reached the ground, still shaking furiously, the engines kicked in and roared us skyward, back through the clouds, to impossible calm once again.

The intercom crackled. The pilot spoke. Sorry about the delayed landing, folks. We didn’t like what we saw down there. We’ve been rerouted to a runway better suited to our needs.

After 30 minutes of smooth sailing high above, we started downward again. I wouldn’t have believed it could be worse, but…

We entered the second hell. There was a frantic shuffling search for barf bags followed by the unmistakable stench of people losing their lunch.

All at once, the little boy in the middle of the row in front of me, projectile vomited on his mother and baby brother. Then, swinging his head to the right, he sprayed the backs of the seats in front of him, the TV screens, and finally, the lovely lady by the window.

Keep in mind that we’re still in the cocktail shaker. Flight attendants staggered and stumbled down the aisle with napkins, towels, and garbage bags. Mom, holding baby, tried to mop up the damage. Lady by the window attempted to comfort the distraught little boy while wiping the mess off her clothes. The gentleman in my aisle tucked his nose down his shirt.

Somehow…some way…at some point, the pilots connected with the runway. The plane was like a skier slaloming down a mountain: blown by the wind to one side, overcorrecting and careening to the opposite edge, then skidding back, caught by the wind again. We tore along at hideous speed. Braking to slow down wasn’t an option.

We did finally stop. The shouting and applause sounded like a superbowl touchdown. Worse than drunken sailors, we staggered out of the plane, grateful to be alive.

My email notification was beeping. The connecting flight for that afternoon was canceled. All planes at Philadelphia were grounded.

American Airlines booked me into a hotel and supplied a food voucher, then printed boarding passes that would get me to Minneapolis with a Chicago layover the next morning.

Waiting in the freezing, blustery wind for the hotel shuttle, I had an insightful conversation with a fellow survivor from my flight. He was on leave from his job in Pakistan, going home to see his family. After an hour and two phone calls to the hotel, the shuttle arrived.

The driver barreled down the freeway. The bus, rocked by gale-force winds, went into a skid then recovered. I turned to my new friend. Wouldn’t it be ironic, I began…

…if we survived the plane, but we’re killed in the shuttle bus? he finished. It felt good to laugh.

Now I’m safely home. It’s surreal, like only part of me has arrived, and some significant foundational piece is missing. I’m trying to remember my life here. What do I do? Do I have a purpose? I attempted to craft a grocery list. It was beyond me. 

I’m going to have to let myself be. Do nothing until the scattered pieces have reassembled, and I’m once again firmly earthbound.

I’m embracing this thought from a recent issue of the Magnolia magazine…

What if the response…is to just sit in it, to let ourselves settle into the discomfort of being still, and see what rises to the surface of our (finally) unoccupied minds. And what if…it is really just a chance to slow down, a chance to take a deep breath, and a chance to bring about much-needed clarity in a world that moves so very fast.

All Good Things Must End

03 Mar 2025 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Portugal, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

Did I just write that? It must be a reflection of the book I’m reading, The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch. Described as an intellectual thriller, it is ponderously philosophical, groan, but I have sympathy for the hero, a 58-year-old divorced, frustrated wannabe writer.

What I was actually thinking when I wrote that title is that my trip is coming to a close. It’s a bittersweet, in-between time, still here physically but already gone mentally. I catch the bus from Ferragudo to Lisbon tomorrow morning. My bag is packed, waiting by the door. There will be one last night in a hotel near the airport, then, several time zones and an ocean later, home.

I’ve done everything I’d hoped to and a whole lot more. I even had a dental issue dealt with for $73 that was going to cost over $500 in the U.S. That savings affords me another round-trip flight somewhere. I’m already imagining my next adventure.

But right now, I’m sitting on the upper terrace in a dreamy, reflective mood, bathed with sunshine softened by fluffy clouds. 

The cats were here first, but they don’t tolerate company, so I have the entire space to myself.

What I know about who I am has been confirmed over these past twenty days. I am a solitary soul who enjoys the companionship of friends but has no capacity for the vulnerability required of intimate partnership. And I’m OK with that. There is vast freedom, no unmet expectations, and whatever shoulds or shouldn’ts exist, are self-inflicted.

That said, I love the comradery of a shared meal, a morning stroll, an evening movie, which is what I’ve experienced here. The best of all worlds.

This fishing village on the Atlantic coast has been a sweet respite from Minnesota snow and brutal cold. I’ve missed the diversity of cultures, languages, and attitudes afforded by travel. And there’s something about palm trees in February that makes me very, very happy!

But I’m ready now. I’ve had my fix. Until next time…adeus e obrigado, Portugal!

Cruising the River to Vines and Wines

28 Feb 2025 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Portugal, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , ,

Holding a place at the very apex of my to-do list for Portugal was a river cruise to the Arvad vineyards. But the trip was touch-and-go, dependant upon the tides and the weather. At one point, I got a cancelation email.

Come Wednesday, the sun appeared, the tide flowed in, and YAY! It was on again. Let’s go!

Nine of us strapped into life preservers and trailed down the concrete steps of the pier into what appeared to be an old fishing boat. Later, as our captain extolled the beauty of the landscape, the history of the river, and pointed out the chimneys of dozens of derelict sardine factories, we learned that he used to be a fisherman, and this was iindeed his old fishing boat.

Speaking of chimneys, white cranes are plentiful in Ferragudo. Every single one of those towering columns boasts a toupee of twigs and grass, home to Mom and Pop Crane.

These birds have many sounds: caterwauling like cats in heat, raucously cawing like crows, and a loud clacking, a warning when another bird approaches. I captured one such event in the above video.

We chugged along in the boat for about 45 minutes, listening and learning, waving to other boats, enjoying the companionship of our group.

That’s our captain in the sunglasses.

Six of the passengers were going to the town of Silves for a walking tour. A Dutch couple and I would be dropped at the Arvad winery and picked up after the Silves tour.

I’m behind the couple, disembarking. The golf cart driver from the vineyard is letting the captain know they are ready for us.

We waved the boat off and climbed into the golf cart. It jiggled and lurched up a washed-out gravel road. I tried to catch a few photos while hanging on for dear life.

We were met by the sommelier in an elegant setting on the terrace. He explained the layout of the vines, the soil, and the pruning, which is happening now. Then, led us to the barrel room.

The ceramic vats are made in Sicily. In themselves, they are flawless works of art.

Our host explained that the name Arvad means refuge. When Phoenicians brought wine-making to Potugal, they found refuge here from pirates.

The Arvad logo is shaped like a Phoenician clay amphora and that is what was used all those centuries ago to age the wine. Some were lined with pine pitch and resin. The majestic ceramic urns that line the walls of this barrel room lend a hint of their essence to the wines aged in them.

Then, it was time to taste. A Brazilian woman had come by car, so there were 4 of us. The couple had a table together, but the Brazilian woman and I each had one with our own loaded charcuterie boards, baskets of bread, olive oil, dishes of sea salt, and wine glasses.

We began. The whites were crisp and fresh. I could picture myself sitting in the shade on my deck on one of Minnesota’s suffocatingly hot, humid days, sipping a glass of this icy cold white. 

The rosé had an exciting, tingly quality. I’m not a fan of rosé in general, but I liked the way it slightly numbed my lips.

I was eager to taste the red from a dark-skinned grape called Negra Mole. I had done my research and expected a full-bodied, flavorful wine. But, no. It was also light and fresh. Bright, I guess, would be a good word. Not sulky or brooding like a cabernet sauvignon.

When I’d tasted four wines, generously poured, and eaten more of the treats than was wise, I went to explore the wine shop where our golf cart driver was on duty. Come to find out, there was a more robust red from the Negra Mole grape. I added a bottle of that variety to my bill.

Then it was back to the boat and home fast with the ebbing tide.

We’re approaching our pier by the white buildings.

What an unforgettable day. My journey is complete. Anything else from here on in is the cherry on top, and there’s always room for another cherry!

Dining With Maria In The Mountains

27 Feb 2025 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Portugal, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , ,

How much is too much fun?

Is it when there isn’t time enough left over to write about it? If so, I’ve been acing it in the I’m having too much fun department.

But this morning, it came to a screeching halt in a dentist office here in Ferragudo. I’d cracked a filling several months ago and had referrals from expats for this particular clinic. It’s an all-female practice which I instantly loved. The procedure was pain- free from start to finish, and the price…

Let’s back up.

The crack happened before I left Minnesota. I’d gotten it X-rayed with my usual dentist. The X-ray cost $136.00, and the quote for a replacement filling was $500. But I’d run out of time before my trip, so I decided to get it done in Portugal.

At my first appointment here in Ferragudo, they took X-rays and scheduled me for the procedure in two more days. When I went to the counter to pay for the X-ray, the receptionist who is fluent in English said, “No, of course you don’t pay. First consultation always is free.”

Gobsmacked, I left in a daze, wondering how on god’s green earth they survive.

Today, I lay in the dentist’s chair while she and her assistant carried on a nonstop conversation in Portuguese while drilling, pickaxing, and flushing my old filling out then installing a new one. It took an hour and fifteen minutes, and as I said, there was zero pain at any time.

When it was clear she had finished and I once again went to the counter to pay, I was told the bill was 70 Euros. At today’s exchange rate, that’s $73.00, 85% less than I would have paid at home. Somehow, that $73 pays for the X-rays, the time with the dentist, her assistant, the receptionist, their office space, furnishings, and the materials and equipment she used for the repairs to my tooth. 

How can the price difference be so vast?

Even though a visit to the dentist can hardly qualify as fun, saving that much money is very satisfying!

A trip to the mountain hideaway of our landlords, Maria and Jorge, however, was fun on every level.

Three days ago at 1:00 sharp, a car horn beeped outside the house. Grandpa (Maria’s father) had arrived to pick us up. ReAnn took the front seat, and I slid into the back with Pee, Grandpa’s terrier.

For the next 45 minutes, I white-knuckled the hand grip as the car maneuvered hairpin curves from valley up to mountaintop down to valley and up again.

When we arrived, I was given a tour of the cabin.

It’s one main room, a bathroom with a composting toilet and a shower that’s even more creative than mine, and stairs to a sleeping loft.

The meal was ready, and we dined in true European style, lingering for hours over wonderful food.

It began with bread, cheese, prosciutto, marmalade, and wine.

Then we had a stew of chicken, with chickpeas, carrots, and large slices of soup-soaked dense bread that did not disintegrate. Along with that dish were two kinds of baked sausages and chunks of pure fat.

I skipped the fat, but the rest was delicious! Maria explained.

After the main course, a basket of oranges appeared. They have 100 orange trees and a few olive trees on their property.

After oranges, Maria brought out a homemade sponge cake. Jorge served cappuccino, and we sipped a beautiful port wine to finish. 

Grandpa regaled us with stories. He often started with a question, for example, “Do you know how the Germans discovered American spies in the war?” We didn’t know. So he told us it was the way they used a fork when they ate, and he demonstrated the difference.

We discussed politics. They have strong opinions about the current state of affairs in the U.S.

They talked about their children and grandchildren, and so did we.

Grandpa was a civil engineer and designed airports. Jorge owns a construction company that builds houses and does renovations. Maria teaches chemistry. Their cabin was a roofless ruin before they decided to resurrect it. Grandpa has a 4-bedroom house in Ferragudo, and Maria and  Jorge have a big beautiful home there, too.

Then, it was time to pile into the car and head back before dark.

Grandpa decided to return a different way, so we had an extended tour of the countryside.

How lucky I am to be here reaping the benefits of ReAnn’s people connections and having so much fun!

And it continues. In my next post, I’ll tell you about yesterday, the river cruise to the vineyard and the most elegant wine tasting experience ever.

Portugal – By the River Arade

16 Feb 2025 6 Comments

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

My black shirt welcomes the rays of morning sun. I’ve come to the upper terrace to draw its potted plants and tropical trees, the rusted wire fence and stained plaster. A cat slinks by on the ledge above me, casting a furtive, golden-eyed glance over his shoulder to make sure I don’t see him. It’s another bright blue day in Ferragudo.

The village, a quintessential masterpiece of white and terracotta Mediterranean architecture, festoons the mountainside and embraces the river littered with anchored fishing boats. An ancient castle, brooding and watchful, guards the broad expanse of water where the Rio Arade spills into the sea.

I’m in love.

And enchanted by the slower pace, the friendly smiles, the flirty men who could never get away with their playful repartee where I’m from. He looks me in the eye. A hand rests casually on my shoulder. He points me in the right direction then says, “I show you. Not far,” and motions me to follow.

I’m in love.

Yesterday, I walked a mile to the big grocery store, Lidl. (Is it L-eye dl? Or Liddle? Or something that isn’t either of those? To my ear, the language sounds more Germanic than Romantic.) Just inside the entrance, one is accosted by breads – oh, the breads! I’m hopeless when presented with an array of artisan loaves, rustics, garlic-buttered baguettes, herb-infused rolls, and something that translates as bread of the gods. I have no shame, no resistance whatsoever. But I must be mindful of the load I will carry home on my back. One baguette and one irresistible nod to the dieties, then, with gourmet salad makings and a bottle of wine, my bag is full.

Today, lunch at a Thai restaurant in the square. The server made it clear that the Thai cook was on holiday, so we could not order from that menu. But tapas were available. I chose nachos. What could be tastier than beer with crisp tortilla chips, guacamole, beans, and – a scant hint of cheese if you looked hard enough – on a sun-drenched day in Portugal? The answer: two beers!

I’m in love.

And, I am privileged to be able to travel. I’m healthy, my mobility is balanced and sound, and my mind is functional. My finances are just enough to allow this indulgence, and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I am mesmerized by other cultures – thrilled to watch and learn – hungry for the joyous adventure of it all.

Sharing the magic with those of you who care to check in with me now and then is most satisfying, and your comments add to the pleasure. Thank you!

Now, for a sunshine fix on the terrace. I’m banking the rays knowing only too well what I’ll be returning to in a couple of weeks!

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