The car is tucked into its new garage space. The doors are finished and ready to be hung. It’s supposed to be warmer on Wednesday; a southwest wind. We’ll do it then.
The entryway and loft are insulated. Outlets and switches wired. All of my lighting fixtures have arrived. Today, I’ll do the math to determine how much sheetrock I need, and the next time the truck goes to town, I’ll go with it. We’ll bring back a load.
Then why am I morose?
It could be the landscape. I look out on a collage of grays and dirty browns. Snow-drops swirl in the bitter air. The tiny dots of white don’t yet qualify as snowflakes. Minnesota is at its least attractive after leaves have fallen and before a veil of white descends from the skies and blankets everything.
But I know it’s not that.
It’s the fact that I can’t let go of the ambitious dream to build an entrance from the garage into the house with stairs ascending to the loft. I scheduled that into my work plan. I bought a Diamond Pier, and we pounded it into the solid clay dirt. It will support the corner of the room that houses the stairway. But these are things I can’t do alone, and I have no control over the time others are willing to devote to my project.
The thing is, this part can wait until spring. I’ve already resigned myself to that fact. But I haven’t quite let go. I want it too much.
Letting go.
I let go of my children as they reached adulthood and found their own paths. I moved over forty times, letting go of homes that I loved. I let go of partners when it became more painful to remain. I let go of friends when distance created too much space between us. I let go of youth. I let go of beauty. I made peace with the loss of my parents.
And salt.
A random blood pressure check about a week ago horrified me. Holy crapola! What happened? A quick scan online of the causes of high blood pressure and I had my answer. Salt. Some people are sweet lovers. My Waterloo is salt, tons of it on a giant bowl of popcorn that I eat at night, by myself, watching my latest TV series addiction.
In the grocery store, I started checking labels for sodium. OMG! I had no idea. Not only was I eating my daily allowance in that bowl of popcorn, I was OD-ing throughout the day on everything else. I made a vow to radically reduce my intake. In doing so, I let go of food having flavor. Eating isn’t much fun anymore. Popcorn with no salt, and no-salt butter, is foul! I hope my tastebuds will adjust. They haven’t yet. But I’ve gotten my bloodpressure down to the low 120s, and that was the goal.
Rachel Gordon, MA, MED, writes in her blog, Humble Warrior Therapy: …the practice of non-attachment – of letting go of our ego’s constant grasping and clinging – helps alleviate our suffering and increase peace of mind. Non-attachment doesn’t imply that we let go of our plans, pursuits or goals; rather, we practice changing the energy or tone of our pursuits, focusing on the journey rather than the destination.
Life is letting go.
And letting go is redirecting energy and focus. I can do this. Needless to say, I’ve had practice. There are a thousand other things that deserve my attention. Yes, there’s sheetrock, mudding, and taping, paint, and flooring. But Winter Solstice is coming. Then Christmas. And Valentine’s Day. And Spring Equinox. And Easter…
There are cookies to frost, a tree to trim, lefse to bake, and rituals to be performed. By the time all of that has been accomplished, the snow will be gone. The ground will have thawed. We won’t be bundled in multiple layers of clothing just to keep from freezing to death.
The journey will have brought me into right timing. Then…
We will build it.
Non-attachment. This is the life-skill to master. So much suffering can be avoided if we learn to focus on the journey. And, as we reach the destination, we finally let go of life itself.
Wind charges through yellowing trees snatching leaves in its turbulent wake. It howls of storms coming, blasting through my southern windows flung wide on this 82-degree day. A few determined Asian Beetles cling to the screens momentarily, then are ripped away in the gale. Good riddance. Yesterday was just as hot with NO wind. Thousands of those nasty insects swarmed the doors and windows, finding their way into the house.
But moving on…
Fall in Minnesota is predictable in its unpredictability. Today we sweat; tomorrow it snows. Any atmospheric conditions that prevail are less aberration than expectation. My weather app says rain for the next four days. That should wipe the trees of any leaves the wind has missed.
I’m in a pensive mood. Several days ago, I received an email from an old friend from the writers’ group in Bali. Steve was the glue, the force of nature that held the group together and maintained order when egos clashed, and trust me, no one has more volatile egos than writers critiquing other writers.
Steve sent the email to others in the group, and over the past few days they have responded with updates about their published works. One just landed a three-book contract. It was thrilling to hear of their successes.
But…
All I could report were a few frivolous poems and periodic posts to my blog. Emotions rippled through me. I suddenly missed ‘the group’ terribly, the people, the camaraderie, the challenge to constantly improve, and the writing. How I missed the thrill of creating on the page.
Boohoo. Poor me. What have I done since our last meeting in 2019? Why haven’t I written if I love writing so much?
Well, first there was the month in Italy on the Amalfi Coast. Fabulous!
Then two years of Covid and monkey infestation in Bali. Devastating.
Then there was a nine-month adventure in Mexico. Delightful!
And then…
I moved to The Family Farm and it’s been nonstop physical labor for the past year. Joyfully productive and exhausting.
Choices.
I made them.
Well, except for Covid. I didn’t choose Covid, and I didn’t choose not to write. During that time, fighting monkeys and trying to maintain a shred of sanity, I was mentally and emotionally incapable of writing.
Steve’s email and the responses from those who were my peers have inspired me. I’ve located the draft of Nettle Creek. I know if I start rereading it, I’ll start rewriting it, marking changes in red on every page. My pensive mood will pass. I’ll be hooked and obsessed with writing again.
So here I am. The construction on my garage/loft/deck/entryway addition isn’t finished, but I have hired help to do the work. Bear has moved into his ‘project’, so there’s no need for me there. I have free time for the first time since coming here.
It’s sitting there, staring at me, daring me to pick it up. Nettle Creek: a fictionalized story of this very area: rural northern Minnesota. When I began writing the saga of Stella, I had no idea I would be returning here, that I would complete the novel on site.
Freakishly synchronistic.
Did I just say complete the novel? Okay, but not quite yet. Short days and long nights loom on the horizon. Right now, though, October’s Bright Blue Weather beckons me outside, tempts me to collect wild turkey feathers, harvest cattail bouquets, and breathe in the dusky scents of autumn.
Why has moving here, thirty miles from the nearest grocery store, nearest hardware store, nearest fast food restaurant, or Dairy Queen, made my life busier and more social than ever before?
I’m not complaining, but this isn’t exactly what I’d planned. I expected vast quantities of downtime to write, reflect, and daydream. I imagined isolation and a touch of loneliness now and then, solitary walks, and, okay, I’ll admit it, boredom.
How much wronger could I have been?! I think I’ve maxed out the wrongness scale.
So here’s the latest from Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay.
Let’s start with mornings. They’re glorious. So stunning, in fact, that after taking this shot through my kitchen window, I ran outside in bare feet and jammies, climbed the ladder to my under-construction loft, and took another.
In jaw-dropping awe, I stood for many minutes, transfixed as the sun cleared the horizon.
Thirty minutes later, I was in Bear’s barn renovation, insullating the walls.
Construction is an ongoing theme. My garage/entryway/deck/loft addition is progressing.
Today, I sat under open rafters, imagining stairs, windows, a rug, as a lone cloud sprinkled a few cooling drops on my sweaty-hot head.
Did I say hot? Yesterday, it hit 103 degrees! The only thing hotter than the sun was the inside of my house. Even the sunflowers were wilting.
But that’s Minnesota. Extremes. It suits me.
On the social front, we have our community ‘meeting’ every evening at five o’clock. Whoever hosts provides appetizers. We plan our work for the coming day, moan, and groan over the latest political outrages, share poetry we’ve written, or ponder the meaning of life. Sometimes, someone has a deep, philosophical question, like, If time is a construct of man, is reality a neverendingnow?We keep ourselves entertained.
Then there was the garden. I planted one row of beans last spring. Gwen and W did the rest. All summer, they tended to weeds and watering while I went to South Carolina to visit granddaughters, then to Minneapolis to tend my grandsons. I showed up again just in time for harvest and the canning, freezing, and pickling processes.
Somewhere along the way, I decided to brew kombucha. Random? Not really. It’s a healthy alternative to my Spicy Tamarind Vodka fixation, a drink I was introduced to in Mexico.
Amazon had everything I needed. The brewing jar came from CraftaBrew.com with instructions and a cloth cover. An amber-colored, live scoby starter from poseymom.com and cardamom-flavored Ahmad black tea arrived, and I was in business.
Now I wait.
Isn’t it gorgeous? I can start tasting it after seven days. If I like the flavor, I’ll bottle it then, or l can let it ferment longer for a tangier version.
It’s getting late. I’ll wrap this up. But just now, the moon…
When I imagined moving to remote northern Minnesota, I wondered if I’d feel isolated, deprived of friends, even lonely.
I knew my house would be mere steps from my sister’s home, but she has her husband and her dog to keep her company. From emailing faithfully back and forth every day through the covid years, it was clear that she was happy with her routines and content with her life. But as we mused together about my move here she seemed eager and excited. She told me about her vision for a community on the farm and said my coming would be the first step in manifesting it.
In many ways, Gwen and I are as different as peas are from turnips, yet we share similar interests. We both love to read and write poetry and enjoy sewing projects, although she’s a true artist while I’m an impatient, just-get-it-done-and-get-on-with-life imposter. She bakes the tried and true recipes we grew up with. I like flavors of Asia, India, the Middle East, and Italy (who doesn’t like Italian food) and I experiment with those dishes. She’s addicted to chocolate. I can’t stop eating salty popcorn. She hates to travel. I crave it. In a nutshell, our differences keep us interested and curious about each other.
The combination of Gwen, work on my house, and writing, would have been enough. But…
My sister and W have been established in the community for decades. Gwen worked in school administration until she retired and W is the township supervisor (has been for years) and makes it his business to know everyone. They host coffee for various friends or family members at least once a week and folks in these parts are quick to reciprocate so they also get invited for coffee about once a week. The thing is, we’re considered a unit: Gwen, W, and I, so I’m included in all of it. As a result, I feel the need to pull my weight and serve up something delectable with steaming cups of joe for those same people on a regular basis.
Then there are my children and grandchildren…
family weddings, graduations, funerals…
people who are curious about my tiny house and the addition I’m putting on…
old school friends…
and friends from my years in Minneapolis that I haven’t seen since I moved to Bali in 2012.
Suddenly, I find myself on the opposite side of loneliness, adjusting to more socializing than I’ve ever in my life experienced before.
What I didn’t know about this chapter could fill a library.
Take, for instance, the garden. Gwen and W have a spreadsheet laying out the location and number of rows for each vegetable. They order seeds in December and plant them in flats that sit under grow lights by a bank of southern windows until it’s warm enough to move them to the greenhouse. As soon as the earth is dry enough, W tills the plot and rakes it smooth. Planting begins when the snow melts and the threat of frost is over.
I was lulled into thinking gardening was easy this spring when the planting went fast and felt effortless. Then, I was gone for several weeks babysitting for grandchildren so I missed most of the weeding, watering, and tending. But the garden grew without me, and now it’s harvest time.
There’s no keeping up with it! Beans – experts recommend picking them twice a day. How many beans can three people eat? The raspberries are just as prolific.
And cucumbers – Gwen’s been pickling and jars line up like a platoon of soldiers. Tomatoes are ripening, and so is the corn. Carrots will soon be big enough to pick and preserve. There are a hundred garlic bulbs drying on a wire rack in the garage.
I’m so far out of my league with the garden. I want to help, but my questions must annoy the heck out of my patient sister and brother-in-law.
“Is that a weed?”
“Is this ripe?”
I really am that clueless.
Nonetheless, gardening is a communal effort in many respects and adds to the social-ness of life here.
Bear’s arrival brought a new dimension to the group dynamic. He was a history major and there’s nothing he doesn’t know about the rise and fall of empires, wars, the dates of plagues, the migration of people over the face of the earth…and music. He has thousands of vinyl records and remembers all the heavy metal groups from the sixties onward. He’s witty, inquisitive, and a willing participant in our nightly deep philosophical discussions.
Yes, nightly.
The four of us gather at 5 p.m. every evening to replay the events of the day, philosophize, plan what needs to be accomplished on the morrow, and enjoy our beverages of choice. Bear likes flavored sparkling water. The Klarbrunn brand is his current favorite. Gwen and W drink pinot grigio. I’m hooked on Smirnoff’s Spicy Tamarind Vodka over ice.
If you want to try it, fill a glass to the brim with ice cubes, then pour a shot over them. Let it sit for 15 minutes so some of the ice melts diluting the vodka just a bit. If you don’t, you’ll wish you had. It’s an acquired taste, one that I developed in Mexico. I was fortunate enough to find a liquor store in Grand Rapids that sells it. They had one bottle. Now, they stock at least five or more at all times. I think I started something.
A year ago, on August 19th, I left Mexico and landed in Minnesota to stay. I love my view over fields unobstructed by anything manmade. Before, I valued the fact that I could walk wherever I needed to go. Now, groceries, building supplies, toilet paper, and everything else, require a forty-five-minute trip one way. I’ve grown to appreciate the zen-ness of that drive on the Great River Road, snaking along the Mississippi,
navigating ninety-degree corners around fields of corn, rye, and alfalfa. I have to go slow to avoid deer popping out of the woods in front of me, or wild turkeys clustered around something dead on the pavement.
As much as I’m physically here, my mind still swirls in the surreal elsewhere of multiple realities. I messaged Ketut, in Bali, to wish him a happy birthday. Selamat ulang tahun, Bapak Ketut. Sudah potong kuenya? He answered that he did not have a birthday cake because his birthday fell on the celebration of Kuningan, and there were already many offerings of sweets. My mind’s eye saw graceful penjors arching over the streets, and women in their see-through lace tops and satin sashes, carrying towering offerings on their heads.
The bold, macabre design on the vodka bottle transports me to San Miguel de Allende. Once again I’m on Elaine’s rooftop with my friends watching men, women, and children, in frightening Day-of-the-Dead costumes, dancing as they parade along the street below.
A steaming bowl of pasta, and I’m back in Praiano, the village on a cliff where you climb a thousand stairsteps to go anywhere.
I remember my hosts, Nicola and fabulous Felicia with deep fondness. How I miss them. And Signore Piccoletto, serving his tiramisu at Saghir Restaurant, will forever remain in my heart.
There’s no loneliness here on the farm, only the sadly-sweet memory of friends I’ve left behind. Helen Keller is credited with saying, Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all. I signed up for the daring adventure, and, oh! baby! What a ride.
When I began writingforselfdiscovery.com I was doing just that – writing to figure out who I was. I still journal every morning, and sometimes I’m surprised by revelations. But self-discovery is no longer the focus, and writing has taken a back seat to manual labor…The Projects.
After leaving Bali, in Indonesia, then San Miguel de Allende, in Mexico, I needed a place to live. Transforming a dilapidated hunting shack into my home sweet home took hundreds of backbreaking hours. Even though I may have actually worked only five out of twenty-four each day, there was no way I had energy left to write. Whoever I was, or whatever I was becoming, had to happen without me pestering and probing it with words.
Even after I moved into my new home on Valentine’s Day, there were a thousand and one finishing details: butcherblock countertops to sand, seal, and stain, shelves to hang, curtains to make, and towel bars to install.
Then there was the matter of the antique rocking chair disintegrating in my sister’s garage.
I needed a chair and she suggested I take that one. Neither of us could remember where it came from, but she knew it had been in the old farmhouse here when we were kids and had come with us in 1955 when we moved to Grand Rapids.
Gwen offered to help me ‘fix it up’ and found spongy foam for the seat and back in her sewing supplies. I screwed and glued, tightening the wiggly arms and legs, then painted the frame black.
While we worked together, I was motivated. But spring was upon us, and gardening is Gwen’s priority. Her attention was instantly and permanently diverted away from the chair. I draped a scarf over it and used it in its half-baked state while I procrastinated.
A rocking chair alone does not fulfill my definition of comfort. Something to elevate the feet is essential. I scoured the internet for a pouf or an ottoman spending hours scanning every conceivable option, but nothing grabbed me.
One day, wandering through outbuildings on the property, I happened to stumble over a wooden box with a hinged lid and dragged it home. A piece of paper inside said, Libby Township, in faded black ink. Some sharp-toothed critter had gnawed through a bottom corner and a network of webs cluttered with the carcasses of dead insects, crisscrossed each other inside. A mysterious ragged opening punctured the lid. Nonetheless, I knew it was perfect. That evening, after I’d scoured it clean, sanded off the tooth marks, and prepped it for paint, I showed it to my brother-in-law. “Oh! You found the old Libby Township ballot box. That’s government property, you know…” I reminded him that possession is 9/10ths of the law and it was mine now.
Transforming that eyesore into a functional footstool was far less daunting than trying to figure out how to upholster the rocking chair. I turned my attention toward restoring it. Within a day or so, it was finished.
Around that time, Bear joined our community.
He arrived with a motor home that would be his temporary quarters while he turned the old dairy barn into a primary residence.
Perhaps you’re sensing a theme here…hunting shack, dairy barn…
He swore he wanted to do it himself, W swore he wouldn’t help him, and I swore I wouldn’t lift a finger if anyone so much as mentioned sheetrock. Of course, it was all bluster and bluff. Now Bear’s domicile is underway, and we’re all committed to seeing it materialize.
After a morning of leveling his floor on my hands and knees, I came home to that naked rocking chair, mocking me. Suddenly, I couldn’t tolerate it. The rest of my house was finished and every single decision I’d made thrilled me. Feverishly, I set to work. By that evening, the seat was done and I’d cut a pattern for the back.
At sunrise the following day, I was once again leveling the milk house floor on my knees, covered in sand.
When my body couldn’t take another minute, I hurried home to the chair and finished the back.
Day three was a repeat of one and two, but that afternoon I made a detachable seat cushion and the chair was done. All it needed was an accent pillow. I remembered an Ecuadorian weaving on a bag I’d harvested from a friend’s Goodwill castoffs. The colorful, somewhat abstract design would make the perfect accessory. I found the bag and repurposed the woven panel.
Could it be any cuter? What a transformation.
Meanwhile, I was busy scheming with my drafting pencils. Winter had beaten my little car to near death and I wanted a shelter for it. But not just a garage. I also needed an entryway for my house, a deck, and a 14 x 20-foot loft space over the garage. A girl can dream.
As I write, Lofty and Gene are outside, sawing and pounding. The foundation is in, and my vision is taking shape.
Sometimes, I think I should start a writers’ group like the one I loved in Bali. Then my aunt texts and invites me for coffee. Or I should join the local book club. My daughter calls, and I fly to South Carolina to babysit. Another daughter calls, and I drive to Minneapolis to mind their house and the cat while they vacation in Croatia. I ask myself, Were the writers’ group and the bookclub of the past simply a way to fill the void I’d created by being far from family? Do I want or need those diversions now?
The questions are moot. I chose family and a community where we pitch in and help each other. I still love to write, and some future day I may entertain a writers’ group or a book club. But right now, it’s time to pull on my work clothes and make myself available for The Project next door.
I wanted to title this post, Settling in on Fantasy Bay, but that was a tad too optimistic. It’s not quite where I’m at.
When I moved back to the family farm of my childhood, I wondered what life here would be like as an adult. Where would I fit in? I couldn’t conjure a scenario. Nothing felt familiar.
To be fair, I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. From the moment I arrived, I focused all my energy on the shell of an abandoned hunting shack, hoping to magically turn it into a home.
I put my body through nine months of physical hell, climbing up and down ladders, crawling on my knees, scooting on my butt, pounding nails, lifting and dragging plywood, sheetrock, flooring, siding, and falling into bed at night, utterly spent.
For six of those months, I lived next door with my sister and brother-in-law, who were on site beside me, doing even more of what I was doing every single day.
We worked through fall, but as the veggies in the extensive garden matured, there were days devoted to the harvest. Our trio picked, cleaned, chopped, canned, and froze, all the carrots, beans, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, onions, kale, corn, apples, raspberries, and strawberries. Occasionally, a relative or friend would come by for coffee. At those times, work ceased for a blissful couple of hours.
Then weather turned bitter. The garden froze. It was back to the house project and more of the same until finally…
I had heat. The walls and ceilings were sheetrocked and painted. There was a composting toilet, a fifty-gallon water tank, and enough plumbing to supply water from there to the bathroom sink. I had a fridge, a microwave, a rug, and a massive sleeper sofa.
Valentine’s Day dawned with a celebratory move into my new home. There were kitchen cabinets but no countertops, little by way of furnishings, and no stove. As I occupied the space, energy shifted. Now I was on my own clock. The unfinished pieces demanded attention, but I could easily procrastinate. I began to imagine a gentler life.
I soldiered slowly on. W uninstalled the ineffective, tankless water heater and replaced it with a 2.5 gallon tank model that delivered H-O-T water!
He put in the shower.
I bought unfinished butcherblock countertops, sanded, stained, and polyurethaned the heck out of them.
W installed those and the kitchen sink. My stove was delivered.
If you will recall, I have no well. By trial and error, I perfected the method of carrying water in one-gallon milk jugs, twenty at a time, from their house, to fill my under-the-sink container, something I’ll be doing once every two weeks until the end of time.
More furniture arrived, and Gwen helped me assemble it. The counter-height table and stools went together like a dream. She’s much better at following directions than I am. But the ungainly hall tree challenged our skills and our patience to the max.
Just as I began to relax into the cushy refinement of a job well done…
And just as I began to picture a life of ease…
The Bear arrived.
No…. If you’re thinking along the lines of my monkey nightmares in Bali, this was not that. Bear is a long-time family friend affectionately nicknamed for his resemblance in stature to that animal. Years ago, he bought twenty acres of this farm with the intent of retiring here. That time had come.
In a level of excitement resembling mine when I first laid eyes on my hunting shack, he looked at the falling down barn on the property and visualized paradise.
Knowing I could never directly repay the hundreds of volunteer hours Gwen and W spent helping me (karma doesn’t necessarily operate that way) I set to work helping Bear with his dream. The universe had seen fit to bring a remodeling project as daunting in scope as mine. Once again, I was crawling on my knees, scooting on my butt, lifting and dragging rotted plywood and dank insulation to twenty-yard dumpsters, putting my aged body through physical hell, paying back.
Meanwhile, I’m getting clear about what life at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay will look like. In fact, one word pretty well sums it up:
Projects.
And just to make certain there’s no shortage of energy-sucking, back-breaking tasks, I’ve started an addition to my tiny house: a garage, entryway, and deck. Home Depot delivered the first load of materials last week. (Click the link below to watch the video)
Gone forever is the relaxed, sedentary, writer’s life that was my existence in Bali. This chapter is about pushing physical limits, laughing in the face of the seventy-three year old in the mirror who thought she’d retired.
But it’s also about community – being a contributing part of something vital, something bigger than I am. Learning new skills. Getting filthy sweaty dirty and not caring what I look like.
I’ve peeled back a whole new layer of self-discovery revealing the rest of who I am: physically strong, capable, gritty, and unadorned…
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.
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…
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.
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!
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!
writing for self-discovery 
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