Had I Known Then What I Know Now…

18 May 2023 4 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in grannys landing, love, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

It’s been a month since my last post. Time flies. What a cliche, but nevertheless, how true.

For fifteen of the past thirty days, I was in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. It was a good time of the year to be away from northern Minnesota. Spring melt had turned frozen ground into gooey mud. Extra humidity from thawing snow made 32 degrees feel bone chilling.

Isle of Palms had none of that. I wore sandals and strolled barefoot on the beach.

The trip, planned months ago, was to be a vacation for me plus three days of childcare with my granddaughters. Joy had a work conference in Florida and Kellen was going with her, an opportunity for the two of them to get away while Granny Sherry covered the home front with Hadley, almost 7, and Delaney, almost 4.

Had I known then what I know now…

Let’s just say right up front that I summoned the wherewithal to survive. It wasn’t the girls. They were angels! Seriously. What a tribute to their parents.

No. It was their schedule.

I’m thinking back to 1955 when I went to kindergarten. By then, my sister was three, and my brother was one. Our neighbors had teenage kids. They collected me on their way to the bus stop and walked me back after school. Dad left for work early in our only car. Mom stayed home.

Fast forward sixty-eight years to Isle of Palms…

5:30 a.m
My alarm goes off. I stumble out of bed, wash my face, and dress for the day.

6:00 a.m.
Delaney pops out of her room, all smiles and chatter, with Ellie, her much-loved, stuffed elephant. She has dressed herself, and she’s hungry. This is the tree-year-old! I put waffles in front of her.

6:10 a.m.
I enter Hadley’s room with a cheery, “Good morning, sweetheart, time to rise and shine.” Nothing. She sleeps on the top bunk. I climb the ladder and pat the blankets until I locate a leg. Gently massaging that body part, I say, “Time to get up, Hadley.” In a somnabulent state, she arrives in the kitchen.

6:25 a.m.
I have Hadley’s lunch packed and her backpack with the requisite water bottle waiting by the door. While she eats, I brush tangles out of her hair and secure a ponytail. Her clothes are on the counter, chosen the night before. Now, with significant encouragement on my part, she dresses.

6:35 a.m.
Delaney is ready, shoes on, with Ellie in tow. Hadley straps on her backpack, and the three of us walk one block to the bus stop.

6:40 a.m.
Hadley’s on the bus. Delaney and I return to the house. She plays ‘teacher’ while I have my first cup of coffee and load breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.

Delaney’s make-believe classroom

7:15 a.m.
I brush Delaney’s hair ever-so-gently to avoid shrieks of “OWWWW!” Then, contrary to all logic, she insists on a freakishly tight ponytail. I check for any possible clothing adjustments, she’s three, after all. But this fashionista takes after her mother…impeccable.

7:30 a.m.
Delaney stuffs Ellie into her backpack, and we’re out the door.

7:55 a.m.
We arrive at Delaney’s school in Mt. Pleasant and join the queue behind a line of other cars.

8:00 a.m.
The school door opens. Teachers stream out and head for the waiting cars to gather the kids.

8:30 a.m.
Back at the house, I pour my second cup of coffee and collapse on the couch.

I could take the next three hours off. But clean laundry needs folding and dirty clothes mysteriously multiplied overnight. I start the washer. Toys are strewn everywhere throughout the house. There are piles of beach sand on the rug by the front door.

Hadley’s fort

My mother kept a spotless, orderly home. I can’t relax surrounded by clutter. The three ‘free’ hours evaporate.

11:30 a.m.
I drive back to Delaney’s school and fall in line with the other cars moving slowly to receive our children.

12:00 noon
Lunch. Delaney requests playtime before her nap. I say twenty minutes and set the timer.

2:15 p.m.
There are very few things that remove the sunshine from Delaney’s soul, but being awakened early from sleep is one of them. Hadley gets off the bus at 2:30 and we have to be there to collect her. I coax Miss Grumpypants out of slumber while slipping her shoes on. This time, we take the golf cart to the bus stop.

That schedule alone would have been plenty. But there were after-school activities, a promised gelato run, tutoring, gymnastics, a four-year-old friend’s birthday party, music in the park…

Joy and Kellen came home with a new agenda. A house had come on the market in Connecticut, and would I mind watching the girls while they flew there to see it? Of course, I can do that!

After living on the other side of the world for so many years with no deadlines and few responsibilities, taking care of those two, pecious beings  challenged me to the max. Their hugs and sweetness melted my heart. I felt needed and appreciated. But that schedule…OMG!

When Joy and Kellen had taken care of business and were back at home, there were delightful hours at the beach.

We strolled through opulent neighborhoods, and I oogled the unfamiliar architecture of elevated island homes.

Joy took me on a tour of historic Charleston.

We enjoyed the best sushi I’ve ever eaten at a little place called 167 Raw.

Chatting with the sushi chefs

Another day, I took myself to Shem Creek Park and wandered the network of boardwalks over miles of wetlands along the Intracoastal Waterway.

In my 20s, I lived in North Carolina for a year. The landscape was similar. Memories resurrected.

What an adventure! I loved every exhausting minute. Saying goodbye was easier knowing that they’re all coming to visit me in August and, as I’ve already noted, time flies.

I returned to the shy green of northern Minnesota spring, to snowless fields and singing birds, to my cozy cottage at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay…and slept…and slept…and slept…

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.

Is is true? Am I dreaming? Pinch me!

30 Mar 2023 20 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, grannys landing, love, meditation, Mexico, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Growth and change.

Those two words more than any others have defined the past twelve years of my life. Make that thirty years. I was in my forties when I began to consciously focus on figuring out who I was and what I wanted.

I bungled it big time at first.

Because, at forty, I had deeply ingrained beliefs that worked against me. Identifying those subconscious dictators and changing the stories took a very long time.

Growth and change will always be my modus operandi, and the most recent development in that neverending saga happened on Valentine’s Day. I moved into my new home.

Gwen, W, and I loaded my earthly belongings into the back of the ‘Gator’ and bumped through the trees, a distance of about half a city block, from their house to mine. In moments, we had created an insignificant little pile of stuff on the floor just inside my door. I was home.

The house was far from finished but I knew I’d get more accomplished faster if I was living with the inconveniences day after day. Cabinet doors were painted but not hung. I didn’t have countertops. There was no cooktop or oven. I did have a microwave, a refrigerator, a Mr. Coffee, and massive motivation to get the rest done!

There were hurdles.

The countertop I ordered through Home Depot arrived broken in half. I reordered. Again it arrived, in their words, damanged beyond use. Three times I waited for a whole one to come. The third also arrived in pieces. I gave up and bought an unfinished birch butcher block slab. After immersing myself in DIY videos, I sanded, sealed, stained, and polyurethaned it hoping my inexperience wouldn’t be too obvious.

Cabinet doors went on fairly easily. The handles didn’t! I measured, leveled, drilled, and agonized. In the end, they looked great. Nobody ever needs to know where wood putty and paint mask the mistakes.

Then, the stove arrived. Don’t get me started! It was a brand new Kitchenaid range and I nearly burned the house down trying to convert it from natural gas to LP. It took Shanna, a brilliant technician from S & D Appliance in Brainerd, to whip it into working order.

………

Today, as I sit at my dining island writing this, every nook and cranny has a tale to tell. I know this house from the outside in. My sweat and blood stain its 2 x 4s. Choice expletives still echo from the rafters, reminding me that demoralizing setbacks are momentary and dogged determination yields bounteous rewards.

When there were things I couldn’t do myself (and there were many) Gwen and W came with the tools and expertise to make it happen. They have at least as much time, energy, and frustration invested in my home as I have. They remain an essential, much loved, and deeply appreciated part of my new life.

I wish I could give you an in-person tour of my sanctuary. But I’m here and you, my friends, are scattered all over the world. So photos will have to suffice for now. Here is my tiny home with industrial farmhouse decor at Granny’s Landing on the shores of Fantasy Bay.

Please, come in…

To the right of the front door, a black hall tree serves as a place to hang guests’ coats, with additional storage below the seat. Between that and the sofa is a forced-air furnace that keeps me toasty and oh so happy these cold, winter days.

My walls, ceilings, and draperies are white. The floor is weathered gray. A monster sofa with sleeper bed tucked inside is the color of oatmeal. That monochromatic palette gives me the opportunity to accent with bright colors. I love the handmade braided rug from India and the two throw pillows from Mexico. The black mining cart coffee table and the wire ceiling fan lend themselves to an industrial theme. The bamboo runner on the dining island is from Bali, as is the bowl with batik wooden balls on the chest. The hand-embroidered wool runner was my very first purchase in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I bought it at the Tuesday Market from the woman who made it. I treasure these collected bits and pieces.

Continuing around the room, we arrive at the kitchen. It’s a compact space adequate for my needs. I wanted a counter-height dining table and this set checked all the boxes. I chose the rich, mahogany stain for the cabinet countertops to mimic the dark wooden surface of the dining island.

The refrigerator cubby accommodates a rolling metal shelf unit for additional storage. Part of the yet-to-be-completed task list is a cabinet over the refrigerator. Patience! Good things come to those who wait I’m told. And note the container suspended from the wire rack. That’s a space-saving hanging trash can I found on the Temu shopping website. Hiding under the shelves is a bucket for compost. My recyclables go into separate bags stashed out of sight.

As we turn the corner, a magnificent, 7-foot handmade oak chest holds the TV, all my clothing, and miscellaneous necessities like drawing tablets, magic markers, paint, glue, you know…stuff. The chest was made by the father of a dear friend and has been sitting, abandoned, in Gwen and W’s unheated storage barn for ten or more years. It’s impeccably made. Nancy’s father was a gifted craftsman, and this chest withstood freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing over and over again to emerge in my home, unscathed.

Let’s swing momentarily past the bathroom door to the red chest. I found it on Facebook Marketplace for $25. It was a TV cabinet but now it holds my winter jackets, mittens, hats, a yoga mat, and a sewing machine. Anywhere my eyes come to rest, there are gifts from friends and family and tokens of remembrance from travels.

Everything delights me.

At the onset, I promised myself I’d have nothing in my home that made me cringe. At first, the glaring proof of my mudding, taping, and sheetrocking ineptitude embarrassed me. Now when people say, “You could cover that up with texture…” I say, “That IS texture.” It gets a laugh. And now, it feels intentional, part of the magic of a derelict hunting shack transformed but still hinting at what it once was.

Let’s proceed through the bathroom door…

This room is just plain fun. All of my plumbing drains live under the shower. That required some wild creativity. Fortunately, the ceilings in this tiny house are 8 1/2 feet high – not the standard 8 feet – so we had an extra 6 inches to work with. The shower tower soars a lofty 20 inches off the floor. To access it, I needed a large, sturdy platform and steps.

The black metal and wood staircase slides under the platform when not in use. I made the cushion and the shade from a quilt set purchased from Ophelia and Company through the Wayfair website. The two throw pillows came with it!

I’m equally thrilled and dumbfounded by the ease of shopping online. The towel bars, TP holder, and the hangers supporting the shade, are industrial pipes. A thin, black metal frame around the mirror and black wire cages for the old-fashioned exposed light bulbs add to the edgy-ness that is softened by the Parisian print fabrics. The Eiffel Tower is the epitome of industry. A wrought iron lattice structure on the Champ de Mars, “…it was the symbol of technological prowess at the end of the 19th Century…a defining moment of the industrial era.” (https://www.toureiffel.paris).

There is a caveat to shopping online, however. 99.9999% of the time the products require assembly.

Gwen helped me with the sliding barn door for the bathroom and the island table and stools.

When the hall tree came in boxes weighing more than we could lift together, we attacked that project with the confidence borne of ignorance and two successful prequels. Gwen can figure anything out. Really. But anyone watching us fight with that massive cabinet would have doubted it would ever hold together. W offered his help and we nearly bit his head off. He disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. As you can see from the photos, we did it. But no more. Neither of us wants to tackle anything like that again. Ever.

In the meantime, I was remembering how to sew.

The bathroom accessories were a great way to engage with the machine and practice. Gwen said it was like riding a bike – you never forget. Ummm, well, sort of. I was super happy that the instruction booklet was included.

When I first moved into the house, I tiptoed around feeling light-headed and giddy in the space, not quite believing it was my home, wondering what to do now that the major jobs were done. I didn’t know how I fit…where would I sit to write? Which side of the sink would hold dirty dishes? How many people could I comfortably entertain? I felt guilty curling up on my luxurious couch with a book. Surely there must be something I should be doing…

Those feelings weren’t surprising after ten months of constant, often back-breaking labor.

One morning about a week ago, I woke up grounded. Since then I’ve been my old self, journaling, yoga-ing, meditating, drawing, and daydreaming. Ah, yes. Daydreaming. Not of new vistas or grand schemes. I’m dreaming of a simple life in this community of old friends. Of planting and harvesting. Of being present with the seasons. Of contemplating death, not in a morbid sense, but with curiousity, aware that it awaits, and knowing that when it comes I’ll be ready. I have lived…I am living…fully and joyfully!

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?!

Door to the Future

16 Nov 2022 9 Comments

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

The wooden sign hung on the wall in the bathroom hallway and ingrained its message into the fiber of my being from the time I could read until I left home at eighteen.

Standing with legs crossed and butt cheeks clenched, waiting for a sibling to flush and unlock the door, I committed its words to memory:

On every visit home over the years the little plaque was still there to remind me. 

When had that message been more pertinent?

My seventieth birthday brought with it a paradigm shift of proportions not seen before in many lifetimes – perhaps ever. Foundations were rattled. Belief systems challenged. Trust in the order of things was upended.

For me, it felt like being stuck in the center of a bowl of lime jello. I could move a little and see fuzzy shapes through the green haze. But my hands had nothing to grasp. I couldn’t get out. I was forced to be with myself.

In the pressure cooker of Covid, the flames intensified under anything left on the back burner to deal with later. Later, was at hand. Emotions, the closeted things I hadn’t wanted to look at, were storming the gates.

Grant me the serenity…

Stoic Capricorn knows how to stuff it, move on, and don’t look back. That can work for a long time and it did. It took me on a glorious Bali adventure. It allowed me to compartmentalize the trade-offs – seeing family perhaps only once a year for a few weeks and living the dream in paradise the rest of the time.

 But plague ravaged the earth and everything changed. All at once, I was restricted. I couldn’t just hop a plane back to the States. Vaccinations wouldn’t be available to ex-pats for many months and to fly I needed proof that I’d had them.

Life, as I’d known it in the village of Ubud, disappeared overnight. Locked down without the distractions of friends and fun, the walls of defense cracked. Feelings tumbled out, messy, tangled, unruly, demanding attention.

Accept the things I cannot change…

Weeks and months dragged on. I wrote, meditated, did yoga, journaled. “What’s next?” I asked the Universe and the All-Knowing said, Take time to reflect. Having nothing but time, I did as directed. Slowly, like waiting for a Minnesota winter to end, I dug through my psyche, dusted shadows off neglected data, deleted old stuff, and upgraded the system.

I Zoomed with family. As soon as we finished and the screen went dark, so did I. I’d cook something. Take a solitary walk. Bury my nose in a book. And sob.

I learned a long time ago that nothing changes until I know what I want. It was easier to know what I didn’t want. I didn’t want the coronavirus. I didn’t want isolation. I didn’t want to live with fear. I didn’t want to miss my family. But the Universe doesn’t respond to negatives so I remained stuck in the jello.

What I needed was a want big enough to dream about, to energize me, to propel me toward a goal.  

Courage to change the things I can…

What could I change? What did my heart long for? I sank onto my meditation pillow, raised my hands to offer gratitude for the many blessings I still had in my life when a voice resounded in my ear so loud and clear it made me jump. What are you doing here?

In Minneapolis, 2009, bored and miserable, I’d asked myself that same question. My answer had been immediate and shocking: “Just marking time waiting to die.”

I’d come full circle. If I was honest with myself, I’d felt the rumblings of impending transition for the past two years. But a new dream hadn’t taken shape and there was nothing to do but wait for it. There is no forcing the door to the future.

The shift in energy, however, was undeniable, and the tug toward children and grandchildren grew to an overwhelming ache.

The vaccine was eventually offered to foreigners. I got my first dose and was given a date for the second. There was, as yet, no big dream, but I knew I had to connect with my family and I hoped if I took that step forward, light would shine on the path ahead.

I made the circuit from California, to Minnesota, to Pennsylvania, basking, wallowing, and delighting in joyous reunions. I’d booked a round-trip ticket when I left Bali. Now it was time to catch my return flight. I’d left everything there, a beautiful home, dear friends, a life. But the closer the time came to leave, dread filled my heart. I couldn’t go back. At the last minute, I detoured to Mexico.

It had been forty-six years since I’d been in that country, but I knew people there. I quickly acclimated and yet the big dream, the overarching want eluded me. Until I realized…

…and wisdom to know…

Family was the force tugging at me. Roots. Familiarity. A foundation that wasn’t continuously shifting. I wanted accessibility to loved ones without crossing an ocean or needing a passport. Mexico was still too far away. There was only one place that checked all the boxes: the family farm.

I arrived in northern Minnesota in late August to begin the rest of my life. It was an idyllic autumn. The weather was perfect. Leaves changed and held their colors as tamaracks turned golden. Work on my 400-square-foot tiny house progressed.

And then…

It snowed.

As I stare out the window at a landscape gone white and gray, I’m once again flooded with emotions hooked into memories that sent me fleeing the north country years ago. Tangled up with those feelings are others that speak to my soul. I am winter’s child grown old. I’ve come home to embrace what I rejected in my youth, peace, stillness, mortality, and the cold, dark nights between November and June. Unwritten stories whirl in my head. Plots twist through my dreams. I’m excited about the future. I’m excited about the present. My heart and mind are primed to plug into the resilience of my Norse ancestors. My body will adjust!

Meanwhile, I want to paint a plaque to hang outside my bathroom door. It will go something like this: Grant me the serenity…

Reality Check

17 Oct 2022 8 Comments

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

It was inevitable, the rude lurch into winter. Overnight, rich-scented fall days brilliant with color turned ashen gray. Cold blew in. Icey snow fell. The honeymoon ended.

I’d been floating on a magic carpet of dreamy-eyed familial love, deluding myself into thinking the splendid sun-filled days and warm moony nights were the way it would be forever-and-ever-amen. I was enmeshed in the rigors of remodeling, gardening, and harvesting. I basked in the company of my sunny-side-up sister and brother-in-law.

Yesterday, they left for Texas. They’ll be gone a week.

I’ve never known quiet as deep as the soundlessness that descended with their leaving. This morning I tried to meditate. I’d neglected the practice for the past two months. As I settled into position, the roaring in my head drowned out the silence. It was unreal. I thought I’d hear a deep, profound, nothing. But the clamor in my brain was worse than the traffic on the corner of Cjon. Valle del Maiz and Salida a Queretaro where I lived in San Miguel. I learned to tune out the cars and buses there, but getting past the mental babble that had taken the place of real noise proved to be a thousand times tougher.

So I sat. And waited. And focused on no thought, empty mind.

Quiet eventually came, then a dawning realization of the very different world I’ve landed in.

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia, and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, were coveted tourist destinations. Both had thriving communities of ex-pats. Entertainment, fine food, and friendly people spilled out of every doorway. The hustle-bustle of shops and markets, the parades, the fireworks, there was always something happening. Distractions of every nature awaited discovery. Whatever I needed or wanted was a quick walk from my door.

At Granny’s Landing, I’m surrounded by thousands of acres of hayfields and forests. There are zero ex-pats. The friendly people are my sister and brother-in-law and I’m staying with them until my house next door is finished. A walk to the mailbox is a mile round trip. The food is superb but we cook it. A deer leaping across the meadow is a distraction. So is Freya, the six-month-old German Shepherd that owns us. Shops and markets are a half-hour drive to Grand Rapids, a small town that boasts a Target, a Walmart, and a Home Depot. What more could anyone want?

Hard work is also a distraction and there has been plenty of that over the past couple of months.

Two days ago, winter blew in from the north bringing snow and freezing temperatures. I went into hibernation mode. Yesterday, all day, the wind howled. Tiny shards of ice ticked against the windows and I remembered why I left Minnesota.

I chose to return even though for years I swore I’d never live in the north again. There is no doubt in my mind that it was the right decision for me at this juncture in my life. But in meditation this morning, I was faced with questions: Who am I here? How do I want to spend my time? What will occupy me through endless months of winter?

One thing that is crystal clear is the necessity of a wardrobe adjustment. In Bali and San Miguel, I pretty much dressed up every time I left the house. It wasn’t unusual to see tourists in Ubud decked out to the nines. Young women paraded the perilous sidewalks in spike heels and frothy gowns. And there will never be anything as spectacular as a Balinese woman in full traditional regalia. The see-through lace kebaya over a tight-cinched Mona Lisa corset with the colorful silk batik sarong hugging every curve and sashed at the waist is a hard act to upstage in any culture.

In Mexico, the locals’ love of costume, whether white-painted skeleton faces or feathers and leather, made everyone else look tame.

That was then.

I’ve put away all but my simplest earrings. I feel overdressed wearing even those. I haven’t touched my lacey tops and flowy skirts – I may not ever again. To go outside today, I donned a vintage jacket W’s brother had when he worked in Denver for Continental Airlines. I added a blaze-orange stocking cap (a safety measure since bird hunting season has begun) over the scarf wrapped around my neck, head, and face for warmth. Ski mittens and felt-lined rubber boots completed the outfit. It wouldn’t matter if I wore this getup on the streets of Grand Rapids. I’d fit right in.

Then I stepped into the whipping wind in this 30-degree Fahrenheit world to walk the dog.

If I’m honest, I have to admit it’s a relief. I’m tired of noise, congestion, buildings, and traffic. My nervous system needs a rest. I like the androgynous anonymity of winter clothing. It allows me to go anywhere incognito. It’s bulky and forgiving if my stomach pooches out.

I’m being pared down to my core. What’s left will be the genuine essence of someone I tried very hard not to be. But now I can embrace her. I’ve lived fully. I’ve loved wholeheartedly. I’ve earned this peace.

Progress Report from Granny’s Landing

07 Sep 2022 13 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in 2022, Bali, grannys landing, Mexico, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

After living in dense communities near pulsing commerce and throbbing nightlife in both Bali and Mexico, I could only theorize about peace. Quiet, for me, was closing all doors and windows against noise seepage and turning on Leonard Cohen.

What would it be like at Granny’s Landing with a mile-long gravel road to reach the blacktop, and the closest neighbor also that far away? What about the twenty-minute drive separating me from the nearest town, Palisade, MN, population 167, with a church, a gas station, and the local pub? I couldn’t imagine it.

Now that I’m here, my understanding of quiet has been radically redefined.

Deep and profound, the hush stretches unbroken across fields to the horizon. Sun-soaked or moon drenched, it envelops my senses and holds me in a womb-like embrace. Jangled synapses in my over-taxed nervous system relax. Sometimes crickets, sometimes the rattling bugle calls of cranes passing overhead, remind me that other life exists.

Actually, that’s not quite true about the distant neighbor. My sister’s front door is a short stroll from mine – like half a city block at most. But Gwen and W are family. They occupy a completely different category.

I’m staying with them while my dwelling takes shape and they’ll be my main social scene in the years ahead. We have extended morning coffee and hash over the latest breaking news. At five o’clock witching hour, we convene on their screened porch to recap the day’s events. Wine flows and our conversation morphs into deep philosophical discussions while sunset outlines the treetops in gold.

Wonderful family! They know what needs to be done, how to do it, and who to call if they don’t. They have a seemingly endless supply of saws, drills, hammers of all sizes, and motivation to get my house built. (I would, too, if I were hosting me!)

But when it came to installing my new windows, we needed help. At 10:00 a.m. this morning, reinforcements appeared on the scene. A van and a car lumbered toward me, a mini-parade kicking up a trail of dust. My construction crew had arrived.

Lofty, his right-hand man, Dante, and Gene, whose role remains a bit of a mystery, unloaded an impressive stream of power tools, looked at my plans, and groaned. “You want six windows across the front here? And three more in this wall? Nine windows?”

Of course, I want nine windows. The view is spectacular. I love light. And I think I mentioned that number when I hired you to install them.

I didn’t say it, but I thought it. Instead, I asked if there was a problem with my drawings because the installation of all my windows appeared to work just fine on paper. The three of them studied the diagram again and agreed that it could be done. I left them to it for a few hours. When I returned, the southeast wall as I had first seen it like this…

had been transformed to this!

The vision I’ve carried in my dreams for months, inviting light and sky and the tranquility of pastoral views into my house, is manifesting.

Moving the House to Granny’s Landing

28 Aug 2022 24 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in 2022, food, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

I tried to imagine the process. I lost sleep thinking of the ditches, the lumpy field, the mature hardwoods lining the road. I obsessed. Even if he managed all of that, how would Leighton, the mover, maneuver the house to fit exactly on its foundation? Had we made it the right size?

I wrote about building the foundation in Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay. Three, seventy-year-plus old farts (my sister, brother-in-law, and me) dug sixteen holes, five feet deep, and secured posts to support the platform that would hold the house. In a few hours, I’d know if our combined math skills had withstood the test of time.

Me: “How will we know if it’s square?”

Gwen: “If the lengths of the diagonals are the same, it’s square.”

Me: “How do you figure the length of a diagonal? Doesn’t it have something to do with the Pythagorean theorem?”

W: “Only on paper. Right now, all we need is this…” He whipped out the tape measure.

Me: “Oh”

I am beyond lucky and so grateful that these two have my back. They’ve done it all many times and have answers to questions I don’t even know enough to ask.

Wake-up coffee and breakfast were finished when W sounded the alert. “He’s here!” I glanced at the time: 9:00 a.m. Leighton said he’d come between nine and ten. I gave him an A+ for punctuality and raced out the door.

W and I jumped in the gator and took off while Gwen leashed four-month-old Freya, their German Shepherd puppy, and walked with her to the site of the action.

When we arrived, Leighton was already at work.

I took hours of videos and ran three phones out of battery power, but I’ll spare you most of them and cut to the chase. The adrenalin rush when the house started to move is impossible to describe.

His father moved their house when Leighton was a baby. That was his practice move. From then on, he was in the business. At an early age, Leighton became his right-hand man and inherited the company when his father passed. This professional guy had thirty-plus years in the business and it showed. His every move was fluid. It was clear he’d done this so often it was inscribed in muscle memory. He didn’t even have to think.

On his prior visits, Leighton assured us that the two, right-angle turns at ‘T’ intersections with deep ditches on three sides, were nothing to worry about. W had already spent hours clearing trees from the right-of-way and had a stack of potential firewood to prove it. But as the house approached the first corner, and the machine pulling it dipped in and out of the ditches, I’ll admit my mind went to scarey places.

After that first masterfully executed, impossible hairpin turn hauling two tons of house, I began to relax. From the beginning, Leighton had said, “No problem.” Sometimes my vivid imagination is a terrible thing. I obviously have trust issues. Maybe that’s typical for a woman who has spent most of her adult life depending solely upon herself. But this post isn’t about introspection or self-analysis so, back to the story.

The house trundled merrily down 578th Lane faster than it would have if I were driving. The massive tires absorbed every rut and bump in the gravel road. The house seemed to float

Lieghton polished off the second turn as elegantly as the first.

As he pulled the load across the field toward the platform, Uncle John and Aunt Joyce arrived to watch. My aunt and uncle never come empty-handed and this was no exception. We’d feast on their goodies when the work was done. I introduced them to Leighton, whose perpetual smile never wavered. He joked that his job was a spectator sport.

Up to that point, precision hadn’t exactly been necessary. Big beams, big wheels, big house…there was wiggle room. Now, there was a 20′ X 22′ foundation platform and a more-or-less 20′ X 22′ foot building to set on it.

Gwen, W, and I had measured as best we could, but winter frost heaved the ground under the house and it was torqued. One end sat for years approximately nine inches higher than the opposite end. I’d been assured it would even out once it was on its new, perfectly level foundation. But what if our measurements were off? What if – I was sweating.

I don’t think I fully believed any of this was really happening. I’d pictured it in my mind for months, but in my heart, I’d remained skeptical. As I watched, my home came to rest squarely on the platform, set down as delicately as a bone-china tea cup. Cheers went up from the peanut gallery while I swallowed the lump in my throat and fought tears.

It was perfect from the start to Aunt Joyce’s pizza-and-chocolate-chip-cookie finish. As the sun sank slowly in the west, there it sat, my house at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay.

Now it’s time to turn this abandoned hunting shack into a home…wish me luck!

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