Don’t Hide Your Wild says Punk Granny in Holey Jeans

23 May 2024 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, grannys landing, lockdown, meditation, Mexico, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

I’ve been wearing leggings for at least fifteen years. Nothing is more comfortable than the forgiving stretch paired with long tops that cover sagging buttocks and hide a thickening waistline. I had silky-thin ones for summer, bulky, fleece-lined ones for winter, and everything in between. I was set for life. 

On April 9th, I left Minnesota to spend several weeks with family. I wish I could say for certain what happened when my flight crossed into the Eastern Time Zone. All I know is that my perspective shifted. I saw myself differently. 

I like to consult the stars at pivotal points. 

The eclipse in early April seemed an appropriate time to do that. The results shocked me. Supposedly, I was about to experience a profound transformation that would make me question everything I believed about myself. 

I’m a person who journals for self-discovery, meditates, and digs deep into the workings of the subconscious. I value self-awareness, and mindfulness practices contribute to that knowledge. My initial reaction was, No way. I know who I am and I like who I am. Full stop. End of discussion. 

I landed at LaGuardia and booked a Lyft to Weston, CT. A few minutes into the trip, the driver missed an exit. We were in New York City rush hour. Traffic was at a standstill and all I could see in any direction were the roofs of vehicles reflecting sunlight like shards of brass. That added another hour to a trip that was already an hour and a half. I had ample time to reflect on the astrologer’s prediction and the spacey sensation that some part of me was slowly dissolving.

That night, I took off my leggings, stuffed them into the bowels of my carry-on, and sensed the end of an era. I donned work jeans and a flannel shirt, clothing I’ve become intimately familiar with over the past two years of house construction, and buried myself in the physicality of hard work. 

For the next six weeks, I shuttled back and forth between Connecticut and South Carolina, depending upon where I was most useful. CT meant doing whatever I could to assist my son-in-law with renovations to a newly purchased property. In SC I entertained my granddaughters while Mom traveled for business. 

The first time I left CT for Isle of Palms, SC, I pulled on a pair of dressy white jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt, the only articles of clothing I brought that weren’t legging-related or work grunge. 

The following day I went shopping.

Whatever had clicked into place as I flew eastward, was actualized as I tried on fashionable, wide-leg carpenter’s pants, cargo capris, and holey jeans. I found bottoms first, then looked for shirts, the antithesis of flowy, to go with them. I was becoming the visual apparition of my revised inner essence. 

Wide-leg pants symbolized elegance and liberation in the 1930s. Cargo pants originated in Britain in 1938. Wearing jeans became a statement of youth rebellion in the 1950s after James Dean popularized them in the movie: Rebel Without a Cause. These fashions today are a remake of those vintage items. Torn clothing surfaced with angry youth during the British punk movement as the disenfranchised pounded hard rock music with lyrics rejecting mainstream corporate mass culture and its values. Their ripped jeans symbolized freedom of expression and individual non-conformity 

Since retirement, I’ve worn myself inside out. Whatever me wants expression, that persona is reflected in my apparel.

For the first few years in Bali, I gravitated toward lacey blouses and flouncy skirts, as far from business attire as possible. Then I moved on to capri leggings and flowy tops. When I landed in Mexico, after surviving COVID lockdown in Indonesia, the tables piled high with clothing at Tuesday Market drew me like a kid to a cookie jar. Bewitched by the sheer volume, the mass, the heaps of everything imaginable and unimaginable as far as the eye could see, I bought whatever caught my fancy, discarding most of it when I returned to the States a year later.

Mexico was a breath, a long inhale between COVID trauma and whatever might be next for me. 

Upon my return to the place I was born, the only thing that made sense was work. I threw myself into resurrecting a derelict cabin, turning it into a habitable dwelling next door to my sister’s home on the family farm. I felt most authentic in shabby work clothes that required no thought. 

However, this time coming home to Minnesota was much different. The skeptics who thought I wouldn’t stay in this remote place, no longer whispered their doubts. With a lot of help I’ve created a house I love that incorporates everything I’ve ever wanted in a dwelling. (Granted, free labor came with shaking heads and rolled eyes at my outside-the-box ideas.) But this community of family, old friends, and new acquaintances are rugged individualists. My renegade heart is accepted here and becomes more liberated with each passing year. 

Finding one’s true self isn’t a one-time thing. I’ve had many iterations, some authentic, a few not. Whenever I felt pressure to conform to accepted standards, I hid my wilder side. Looking back, I shouldn’t have. It came out anyway but in a dark, destructive manner. Had I allowed my soul free expression, I believe I could have avoided forty-five years in a half-life of shadows.

But that’s hindsight, always 20/20. Now, I’m the punk granny in holey jeans spouting wisdom for the Gen Xs, Millennials, and Gen Zers trailing behind me. It’s the age-old, Do what I say, not what I’ve done, advice. No matter your age, if you’re reading this it’s not too late! Do yourself a favor: don’t hide your wild!

A Project to Die For

01 Feb 2023 10 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, grannys landing, pandemic, Shopping, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Some days the excitement buoys me up, motivates me, inspires the energy to do things no 73-year-old woman in her right mind would touch. Here I am in the deep freeze of northern Minnesota, working physically harder than I’ve ever worked before, manifesting yet another dream.

I’ve been retired for twelve years. I finished building my house in Bali in 2015.

Wait.

That’s not true.

The skilled Balinese crew, men and women, created a stunning residence while I watched. I may have painted a wall, but other than designing the structure and the space, engaging myself in actual labor was against the law. I was required to pay Balinese workers to do it.

My home there was spacious and light-filled. It looked over a river valley dotted with tiled roofs, rust-red against jungle green. I could hear my neighbors chatting and laughing and I drooled over the scents wafting from their cooking.

Then, of course, Covid happened. I told that story in this post https://wordpress.com/post/writingforselfdiscovery.com/22362. If you care to go there with me, click the link.

Because of the pandemic, I hadn’t seen my children and grandchildren for two years. The pang of missing them sat in my body like wet cement. In September 2021, I was finally, fully vaccinated. I flew to the U.S. and reconnected with family. When it came time to catch the return flight to Bali, I couldn’t. Waves of memories of monkey trauma and loneliness wracked my nervous system.

I haven’t gone back.

Instead, I’ve spent the last 6 months in northern Minnesota on the family farm building another home. This time I’m fully engaged in the physical process. My body is regularly taxed to its limits and beyond. Working with my sister and brother-in-law, I’ve dug trenches for electrical cable, installed insulation, screwed sheetrock to the walls then mudded, taped, and sanded…

…sanding is nasty business!

I’ve foamed gaps, caulked crown and base moldings (up and down, up and down, up and down the ladder) and, with the immense help of my tireless sis and bro-in-law, laid laminate flooring all the while repeating the mantra…My body aches but not my heart.

Some days I used every ounce of willpower to make myself work, dreading the rigors of the task I’d left unfinished. What I judged would take a week, often took three or more.

Each phase of the project melted into the next, but plumbing was an ongoing puzzle. I have no well and my sleek, Separett composting toilet needs no septic system. A 50 gallon tank under the sink is the source of water. My brother-in-law mulled, sketched, erased, and watched one how-to video after another to come up with a workable system. He’s been installing it with the help of my sister while I marvel. I’ve seen lesser works of art in the MoMA and I told them so.

Then my sofa came and changed everything. It was softness in a harsh, backbreaking world of work. It was the beacon of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel, the promise that one day in the not-too-distant future I would live in comfort here.

Each time I set a move-in goal, the date arrived and passed. I’ve quit doing that. It will be when it will be – could I hope for Valentine’s Day???!!!

Building this house has become a project to live for. It’s made my body strong. I know my home from the studs to the electrical face plates and everything in-between – a more intimate relationship than I’ve ever had with anything alive or inanimate.

Now…

The fun begins. I get to shop for things I love that will enhance my 399 sq. ft. home. That will be so much more satisfying than the fortune I’ve spent on lumber, electrical wire, screws, and nails. I couldn’t believe the price of nails! Home Depot has been the go-to destination for all my purchases for months. I’m so ready for a change.

And for those who wonder how I’m faring in the deep freeze of a northern Minnesota winter after tropical Bali?

The experience surprised me. All I knew from living and working in Minneapolis pre-retirement, were endless months of dirty sepia. Here, 200 miles farther north, unbroken white undulates across open fields and meets a frosted black treeline. Soundless. Boundless. Reflecting the sky as it did this morning….

At minus thirty degrees, I dress for the weather and brave the cold.

It’s an adventure in a culture far different than Hindu Bali, a culture of rural farming and Scandinavian roots. It feels distantly familiar but mostly new since the last close contact I had with it was over half a century ago. The people have changed. I’ve changed. But the place has not. This farm was my father’s joy. His sweet energy permeates the land. It’s good to be here. Very, very good.

Season’s Greetings and News from Granny’s Landing

06 Dec 2022 23 Comments

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

This will be my first holiday season in a country that celebrates Christmas since 2012. That’s not to say Bali didn’t splash out with balloon Santas and glitzy trees. It did. Staff in the grocery stores donned elf hats, and Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer blasted over sound systems. Those dear people did it for us, the ex-pats. Their Hindu beliefs welcomed others with grace and hospitality.

Now, contrary to every impulse I’ve had since fleeing the deep north eleven years ago, I’m back.

It’s a joy having family close, and an adventure as I create a home for myself thirty miles from the nearest Home Depot. A friend asked me how many houses I rehabbed when I was flipping real estate. I tallied them on my fingers, at least ten. I loved it. but I worked with Fred Roth, a brilliant contractor, and all I did was paint when he’d finished everything else. In Bali, I remodeled an old house with the help of a Balinese crew that showed up with their wives and children every day for nearly nine months. I lived in one of the old bedrooms all the while and did none of the work myself.

This is a different story. My brother-in-law, sister, and I are the commander and crew and it’s an awakening. My appreciation for the professional help I’ve had in the past has grown exponentially. I had no idea.

Then along came the tiny house with all of its sullied potential.

This is how it looked when I first saw it in May.

It was on a property adjacent to the family farm. The house had been given to my cousin and the property owners wanted the eyesore gone.

Enterprising sister, Gwen, and persuasive brother-in-law, W, talked to cousin John on my behalf and I was gifted the house. (He said he didn’t have time to move it so if I could get that done it was mine.) I’m still pinching myself to make sure I’m not stuck in episode 99 of a fantasy series.

For several weeks in June, I stayed with Gwen and W and we built a foundation. Then I returned to Mexico to spend a few last weeks with precous new friends, Elaine, Diane, Barbara, and Patricia, and say goodbyes.

In August, I left San Miguel de Allende behind and made the permanent move north. After several companies quoted the job, I hired Leighton Movers to relocate the house to Granny’s Landing. Watching Leighton at work with a benign smile that never left his face and moves as smooth as a dancer’s was a thrill. When the house was loaded and creaked to a start, I stopped breathing.

After the first corner with ditches on both sides, which Leighton executed with flair, https://youtu.be/sxJyeFb6goc I exhaled, stopped sweating bullets, and mentally moved into my new home.

That was then. I was naive. I hired help, waited for weeks and they didn’t show up. Finally, the Lofty and Dante team came and framed my front windows. Glorious light poured in.

For a gasp-worthy fee, electricity was trenched from the closest pole to a pedestal near the house. I won’t have a well or septic system in my semi-off grid tiny house, but electricity was a non-negotiable must. When the electric company left, we still had to bring the cable to the house in a 4-foot deep ditch. It was an endless, grueling day.

That’s when I knew for sure I was no longer seventeen.

I’ve never done such physically demanding work. Ever. A new mantra sustained me: My body hurts but not my heart. It was painfully true.

The piddly stuff seemed endless, and so un-visible. I tried to imagine my after-finished-house life here and drew a blank. But step-by-step, progress happened. Jack-of-all-trades, W, wired for electricity and it passed inspection – a major accomplishment. My expectations for a move-in date fluctuated, ratcheting down, and down, and down again. There were shadowy moments when I almost questioned my decision. But they were fleeting and quickly banished.

In November I took a much-needed break and went to Minneapolis for the twins’ birthday. Haircuts for the boys at Floyds in Uptown was a festive event. Mom and Dad asked them how they wanted their hair cut. Rowan went into great detail describing the front, back, and sides that translated into something suspiciously like a mohawk. Mom and Dad exchanged glances. Remy was quick and to the point: very, very short.

When all was done the boys were happy and I’d developed a severe case of boot envy! On the way home, we stopped for treats at Glam Doll Bakery. A terrible name but I drool remembering the sugar ‘n’ spice of my sweet potato-filled doughnut.

Seeing my east coast granddaughters when the snow is neck-deep in Minnesota is something I’m really looking forward to!

Back at the farm, the house awaited my return and the dreaded sheetrocking process. Young(er) neighbors, Kent and Bruce, came to help with the ceiling – a brutal task but they made it look easy. W used his head. In the three days following, Gwen, W, and I finished the walls.

The putsy job of drywalling the window wells was all mine. I’ve been chipping away at it, measuring, cutting, cussing, and screwing. Suddenly the shabby, tiny-house shell was transformed into something I could imagine inhabiting with great pleasure for the rest of my life.

Now we’re at the place I’ve been waiting for: the fun stuff. Packed solid under my hide-a-bed at Gwen and W’s, are light fixtures, faucets, a tankless electric water heater, the kitchen sink. I kid you not, my new kitchen sink is under my bed. In their garage, a ten-foot countertop, refrigerator, cabinets, the bathroom vanity, and my composting toilet await installation. A couch will be delivered before Christmas and hopefully, there’ll be a finished floor to put it on. So many details. But my vision is manifesting and I’m thrilled.

The gratitude I feel for my sister and her husband overwhelms me. They’ve shared their tools, knowledge, time, energy, food, resources, and their home with me for over three months without a single argument or cross word passing between us. That, in itself, is miraculous. House-speak dominates our happy-hour conversations every evening. And they continue to show up for me. With kindness. Smiling. Going so far above and beyond they could be orbiting the moon.

As I wrap up this tale, fat snowflakes tumble out of a moody, gray sky. Dark trees at the edge of the field scribble a jagged horizon line. An antique clock from the Southern Pacific Train Depot in Santa Barbara, California tick-tocks the minutes and I’m aware of time slipping by. But I’m where I want to be, doing what I want to do, soaking up family vibes. In the weeks between now and the end of the year, there’ll be cookie frosting, tree decorating, lefse baking, and cozy get-togethers. It’s a familiar feeling as I relive memories of growing up Scandinavian. And someday soon, I’ll be welcoming friends to coffee at Granny’s Landing. Won’t you join me?

I wish you big dreams and the courage to manifest them.

Happy holidays!