Stay out of the sun, they said. It causes wrinkles.Protect your skin. But tropical beaches beckoned, and I stretched on warm sands soaking in radiance, not caring about a distant future I may not survive to see.
“The single engine Cessna crashed in the mountains surrounding Oaxaca. The pilot and passenger were killed instantly.”
“A motorbike skidded off the cliff on Mount Batur. Neither driver nor passenger survived.”
“A woman walking the blind curves on the Amalfi coast highway was hit and killed by a speeding car.”
None of that happened. It could have because I was the passenger in both scenarios, and I was the woman walking. But the plane didn’t crash. The motorbike didn’t skid. And the car didn’t even come close.
Instead, I survived to grow wrinkles with memories of a life lived to the brim, adventures, risks, and wondrous moments of sheer magic because the exciting present was far more important to me than an unknown future.
Had I avoided Waikiki beach, the intercontinental flights in that small plane, the exhilarating motorbike rides through the mountains of Bali, and the enchantment of the Amalfi coast, what would I have now?
Wrinkles, because they would have come with age whether I’d lived my wild or not. And what are wrinkles without memories to accompany them?
Just wrinkles.
However, my advice to my daughters:
●Wear sunscreen.
●Avoid tropical beaches.
●Fly only in large commercial aircraft.
●Don’t ever get on the back of a motorbike,
and…
●In Praiano on the Amalfi coast, stick to the stairs!
When did the lights go on? The tectonic plates shift? When did the things that mattered so much yesterday become unimportant but everything else intensified? When did life turn inside out?
There were decades when I lived from the outside in.
When I obsessed about makeup, clothes, body shape, the color of my nail polish…
…when my legs and armpits still grew hair and I shaved it off…
…when I braided my girls’ long locks, chose their clothes, monitored their behavior so it reflected positively on me…
When I remember those times, I sigh and shake my head.
I spent years looking toward a future where things would be easier, better, safer, and numbed out to the present because most of it was either too mundane or too hard.
That changed when I turned sixty-two, took early retirement, and moved to Indonesia. I had to leave to save the only life I could save, as Mary Oliver so eloquently states in her poem, The Journey.
Every day was new, utterly different, and unpredictable. The present was a glorious place to be. I plunged in headfirst and submerged myself in the culture, the language, the food, and the kindness. I’d never known such joy.
I learned Indonesian by writing the English word on one side of an ice cream stick and the corresponding Indonesian word on the other. Then memorized. Memorized. Memorized.
But, the day I jumped on the back of the motorbike and wound up the mountain to AbangSongan to meet Ketut’s family, I was blindsided by the unfathomable poverty of his mountain village. It shocked me into awareness of the incredible privilege I took for granted as an American white woman.
And yet, those people were happy. They had their tight-knit family compounds, their hectares of land bestowed upon them by the king, and their Hindu rituals of daily prayers and offerings. Walking among them in humility that bordered on grief, a burning determination to make a difference bloomed in my conscience.
Gratitude for the Bali years knows no bounds. That’s where I became who I am. That’s where I began to live from the inside out, making choices from my heart that would benefit those less fortunate. I built a B&B and paid Ketut and his family to manage it. Ruamh Jelita – Beautiful House. When I left Bali, I gave it to them. They’re doing well.
I had become proactive in the moment rather than wasting time waiting for some unknown better place. I’d arrived. I was occupying my better place.
Even though I’m back in Minnesota now, I haven’t reverted to the old patterns of numbing out to the present and hoping for a better future. (Who knows how much future is left?) I’ve been on the mountaintop. The path slopes downhill from here. There will be stunning sunrises and joyous times along the way. I’m in excellent health so the end probably isn’t imminent. But I’ve learned how to inhabit my life. Engage with intention. Ponder the knottier questions, daring to dive into dreams trusting that I can manifest them because I have.
Envisioning a home
Living from the outside, from the shallow illusions of conformity to social norms, expectations (usually self-inflicted) and preconceptions of what should be, is a slow and tortuous soul-death. I would remind you, whoever you are, whether you’re in the prime of life or closing in on old age, we get one shot at this. As far as we know, nobody has returned from the Great Beyond for a re-do.
I urge you, make the necessary corrections now. Don’t waste another minute. Grab hold of your own life and become who you are…from the inside out.
We need special people in our lives. When I moved to Bali, I didn’t know a soul. After a few inquiries online, I located a writers group (Steve Castley, Ubud Writers) and was invited to join their exclusive circle. I lived and breathed for those bi-monthly get-togethers.
I loved the comradery, but as writing critics, they were ‘Minnesota nice’ to the extreme. Coming from the brutally honest cutthroat feedback I was used to, I had to choke down their compliments like too-sweet cough syrup. But I was the newbie trying to fit in.
After several meetings, I spoke up. “I know you have a rule that only positive feedback is allowed, and I respect that. But I want to grow as a writer. You have my permission to rip my work to shreds. Give me some real help, please!”
Silence fell like doom over the group. Then someone said, “Same for me.” Then, “Me too!”
Looking back, I wonder if I was the catalyst for the transformation that took place. One-by-one, people dropped out. Those who remained were hard-core and committed to the craft. I’d found my tribe.
When I moved to San Miguel de Allende, I knew one person, ReAnn Scott. She happened to be the connector-type with hundreds of contacts. There was no writers group, but there were rooftop parties, happy-hour meet-ups, and rumicub game days. Friendships bloomed.
Then, I landed here in the heart of the Midwest. Two years passed as I focused every ounce of energy on creating a place to live. I had my sister and brother-in-law and a smattering of relatives nearby. Bear, an old family friend, moved in next door. There was no lack of social interaction. But every-so-often, I’d find myself wondering how I could make new acquaintances. Everyone had been here for generations. As I recalled, they were good for a brief ‘hello’ before turning back to their comfortable familiars.
I’m not remarkably outgoing. I can summon up the necessary mojo when circumstances warrant it. But I’m quite thrilled with my own company most of the time.
And yet, when wind whistles across barren fields and clouds race each other in a frenzy to block the sun, nothing feels cheerier than a pot of steaming coffee with a friend.
When I learned that a traveling library visited the nearby community center every other Thursday, I was curious. Don’t get me wrong. There is no shortage of reading material in the codger community. Gwen and W’s library is a cornucopia of murder, mystery, and sci-fi. I have full access.
Bear’s new bookshelves bristle with war, history, and philosophy.
It would take several lifetimes to wade through all that literature.
So, books aside, I mostly wanted to know who would show up for a literary event.
My sister agreed to go with me that first time. As we entered, we were greeted with warm Hellos and Good mornings. There was a long table holding bins of books. Beyond that were two more tables. Around one, eight men chatted and drank coffee. A cluster of women were seated at the other, also deep in conversation. One of them pointed us to the coffee pot and gathered two more chairs so we could join them. Books, obviously, were an afterthought, an excuse for a neighborhood meetup.
The Bookmobile has become an important entry on my calendar. It holds great promise as a source of friendships. The challenge to find like-minded people no longer feels daunting. Oh! And there’s an added bonus: I can go online and order any book I want. It will be delivered to me via the Bookmobile on the following Thursday.
There is something about the ease of that service that feels luxurious. Indulgent. And the genuine inclusivity of the women, so unexpected, sends warmth radiating straight to my heart.
I should have known when the Universe whispered, the Farm, just as years before it had whispered, Bali, then, San Miguel, I could proceed with confidence. Friendships would come, the path would appear, and I could trust the unfolding.
My level of frustration at this exact moment in time is off the freaking charts!
In the past week, hours evaporated while I:
tried to change my cellular service provider
tried to connect to my new cell phone hotspot
tried to connect my Roku to the elusive hotspot
tried to connect my TV to Roku
tried to connect my computer to my printer using my new hotspot
tried to…oh crap…tried unsuccessfully to keep from bellowing obscenities…
It’s a good thing I live alone…
I thought I was tech-savvy. Seems that was yesterday. Things change at the speed of light…or is there something faster now? I wouldn’t doubt it.
Is it a function of age? If I were, say, 40, would I automatically have the necessary skills? Or six years old perhaps? My twin grandsons grasp technology better than I do.
Perhaps I’m past my use-by date. I haven’t expired, but I’m beginning to decay.
The other day I was visiting with a group of women, all seventy-plus. Our conversation began innocently enough, talking about the books we’d been reading, the TV series we were hooked on. As we warmed up to each other, we moved from the abstract to the intimate, how advancing years have made us less tolerant of discomfort in any form, especially clothing. Specifically, bras.
From pre-teen to middle age, I didn’t think twice about harnessing up with underwires to support my abundance. The silhouette was most important so I tolerated the metallic uplifting and powered on.
Then came Bali. Every cremation, wedding, and ceremonial event, required a sarong, a lace kabaya, and an undergarment so constricting from cinched waist to hoisted breasts that breathing was no longer involuntary. The Mona Lisa.
Ngusaba Tegen was the worst. We suited up by the hundreds and walked the gravel road in high-heeled flip-flops to gather outside the temple. Row upon row of offerings made by the men of the village, hung suspended awaiting the blessing of the priests. And so did we – wait. Women and children sat on the ground literally for hours.
Imagine ninety-degree heat, air chewable with humidity. You’re dressed in a tightly wound sarong, legs folded sideways underneath you with the Mona Lisa corset shoving your breasts up under your chin.
Balinese women don’t squirm. They don’t sweat. They just gossip happily, a child in their lap, an arm around the shoulder of the friend they’re chatting to. Hair perfect. Makeup exquisite. And in the midst of them is me, swiping at the moisture dripping off my chin, tugging at the sarong that threatens to unwrap, yanking down on the creeping corset that wants to pop my breasts out of the low-cut neckline of the itchy kebaya, all the while smiling, trying to appear, well, Balinese…cool, calm, composed.
Is it any wonder that here at Granny’s Landing in the middle of idyllic nowhere, I’ve burned my bras along with my bridges? After fifty years enslaved to the silhouette, I refuse to have my torso squeezed up or down, in or out. My breasts swing freely, like balloons full of pudding. There’s nothing sexy about them. The jokes about old ladies are too true to be funny.
Right?
I used to care. I’ve thought about that. Why did I care? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I was motivated by sheer vanity. I wanted to look good for me. Makeup. Perms. High heels. Mini skirts. Underwires. How much of that do I still do? Zip. Zilch. Nada. I’m over myself. Now, all I care about is comfort.
It’s wonderful! So liberating! Intoxicating! The incredible joy of not giving a damn.
And just so you know, somehow I managed to facilitate the new cellular service install and connect to the hotspot. As if by magic, the Roku talks to the TV and my computer works. The printer…no amount of begging, pleading, cajoling, or cursing, has succeeded so far. It remains disconnected to frustrate me yet again another day.
It’s 2024. That, in itself, is a wonderment to me. It’s a big number. When I thought in terms of my life span, I didn’t think of the year two thousand twenty-four. I thought maybe I’d live into my nineties, but the corresponding date never entered my mind. I’ll be 80 in 2030, ninety in 2040. Okay. I’m going to talk about something else.
My house.
The new addition was a knee-jerk reaction to the horrors of last winter. Chipping ice off my car because the doors were frozen shut. Shoveling it out of six-foot snowdrifts. I didn’t ever want a repeat of that. So…
…a garage.
One thing leads to another. If I were going to the trouble and expense of building a garage, I should make the most of it. At the very least, I also needed an entryway where guests’ boots and coats could be shed before entering my very small house. And maybe I could capture some of the attic for living space.
At this very moment, my Prius is tucked securely away from inclement weather, safe and sound. I’ve sheetrocked the entryway and loft, and today I spent several hours mudding the seams.
But when I look at those spaces, I don’t see gray drywall with white spots and stripes.
I see a daybed with a pop-up trundle to accommodate guests. There are comfy chairs and a stunning 9 X 12 rug. Perched above the stairs overlooking the entryway is a desk with a papyrus painting in a sleek black frame hanging on the wall above it.
I’ve already chosen the rug, the daybed, and the chairs. They’re waiting in my Amazon cart. I’ve sourced mattresses. Daily, I scour Facebook Marketplace and Craigslist for other furnishings…
…like a desk…
I found it last week on Marketplace, in North Branch, Minnesota. I’m typing this post on its impeccable wood top, sitting in the adorable chair that came with it. My very small house is filling up with accessories for my unfinished loft. But that’s what happens with visualizing what I want. It manifests! And the Universe doesn’t care about timelines. It just gives me what I ask for.
As my house becomes a part of me (or I a part of it) I feel myself settling into my life. So much changed so fast for so long that, even though my body arrived in Minnesota, my heart was scattered over thousands of miles. I’ve come to accept the fact that it always will be. I have loves, many loves, in Bali, in San Miguel de Allende, in Priano, Italy, in Doha, Qatar, in Spain, Germany, Iceland, Norway, in Montara, California, Isle of Palms, South Carolina, and all over Minnesota. Those people are precious to me and distance won’t change that.
But the hard physical work that has been my reality for the past year-and-a-half, kept me focused in the present. I needed the effects of sweat and exhaustion, and the vision of a ‘forever home’ here in the far north, to ground me. And, fortunately for me, I’ve never been one to cling to what is past.
Tonight, my brother-in-law asked me what I’ll do when the work is done. Only recently have I allowed myself to entertain thoughts about that. It seemed so remote. But now there’s a faint glimmer at the end of the tunnel. Gwen spoke up. “You’ll write!” I do have an unfinished novel, Nettle Creek, to complete. And there’s a local book club I’ve been invited to join. My yard needs flowers. I’d like to continue to study Spanish. And travel? Do I still have gypsy feet? Time will tell.
Meanwhile, it’s 2024. A potent year. I’m 74 and will never be younger than I am right now. Whatever is left undone in my heart, needs to be addressed. But, oh! What a privilege to have a home!
“…This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year’s threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath, the door of a vanished house left ajar…” Margaret Atwood
We celebrated last night.
In the northland, days slowly shrink away until sunset is complete by 4:30 in the afternoon.
For me, Winter Solstice is a sacred time. After living for ten years 8 degrees south of the equator, where the sun rises at 6:30 a.m., and sets at 6:30 p.m. 365 days a year, the vast differences in the length of daylight from summer to winter here, the spring to fall cycles of birth and death, the drama of all that, must be given a place.
I was immersed in Balinese culture. I felt first-hand the power of their rituals, their honoring of nature, their acknowledgment of unseen energies, their deep respect for the animate and inanimate, and I changed.
Or perhaps something dormant within me woke up. My shamanic Viking ancestors knew what the Balinese know.
Until then, I was skimming the surface, living a half-life, unaware of what I was missing. When I broke the surface and plunged into the realms of the unseen, everything magnified, especially my capacity for joy.
Once that metaphysical line has been breached, there’s no going back.
So last night, we four codgers channeled our ancestral energy. We paid homage to the darkness and welcomed back the light with fire, drumming, and feasting. Individually, we let go of worn-out beliefs that no longer serve us, making room for new growth.
We had a blast, ok? We challenged our stuffy, Scandinavian comfort zones. We stepped outside the boundaries of the same old same old. We honored the past and welcomed the future. We ushered in the light.
Then we feasted on colorless food true to our Norwegian and Swedish roots. Lutefisk with melted butter, potato/parsnip/pear soup with walnut/garlic/parsley garnish, and lefse. The peas and cranberry sauce added a festive pop. And bread pudding for dessert made a sweet finish to a magical night.
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.
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!
writing for self-discovery 
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