The Psychological Circus Leaves Town

30 Jan 2024 5 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in food, grannys landing, Mexico, Renovating the Hunting Shack, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There’s a candle flickering on my left. On my right, Elon Musk, with the tips of prayer hands at his chin, stares from the cover of his life story. The dregs of winter loom sunless and drab through the window in front of my desk.

Internet is sketchy on days like this. But I can breathe again.

The past three weeks have been a race to get my loft space guest-ready. That meant mudding, taping, sanding, and painting non-stop to hit the January 25th deadline of the lunchtime arrival of Jessa and Dan.

A paper and pen list with each task and its to-be-completed date posted on my refrigerator in plain sight was my archaic method for achieving an on-time finish; that and the vision in my head. I could see it, the colorful patchwork quilt on the bed. The Tiffany-type lamp glowing. A cozy seating area by the flickering (electric) fireplace, and the new rug.

It would be a push. I knew that. But when I want something badly enough, Driven is my middle name.

Gwen helped the first day.

She placed the mesh tape over all the joints between the sheets of drywall. Then, she went home. For the next few days, I slathered joint compound (mud) over the tape, wielding a smoothing tool with a twelve-inch blade, determined to have learned from my ignorant first attempts at mudding a year ago.

The ceiling of the loft slopes from seven feet at the highest point, down to about three feet ten inches at the outside wall. For some of the work I squatted and ducked. For some, I stood. And for about one-third of it, I needed a ladder. Then, just to be sure I got a full calisthenic workout, every few minutes I bent to set down the mud and pick up the screw gun.

There’s a sweet spot for sheetrock screws that requires just the right amount of pressure so they come to rest slightly below the surface of the drywall. When done well, the mud smoothes over them and they completely disappear. Many of them needed an extra zap to sink them to the proper depth. I was meticulous. I wanted to get as close to perfection as an amateur possibly could,

My energy held out for about three hours every morning. Then, right shoulder, elbow, and wrist aching, I’d stop for lunch and rest. Rarely did I have what it took to go back to it the same day. To keep going, I counseled myself, Just a little longer, Sherry. Then you won’t have to do this part again tomorrow. Or I bargained, One more hour now and you can quit early tomorrow.

When I finally crossed mudding off the list, I thought the worst was over. How soon we forget. Sanding created woes of its own. Smoothing the walls wasn’t bad, but the ceiling was another story. Powdery dust fell into my eyes. I tried goggles. In seconds, they were coated and I could see nothing. Every wrinkle in my face was a ghostly line of white. The shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints that sustained the brutal workout of mudding, were now challenged in new ways. Oh! And did I mention my neck? All that cranking my head back to look upward as dust mixed with tears and mud oozed out of my eyes, meant a nightly dose of ibuprofen to ease the pain and let me sleep.

Then morning would come again!

When sanding was complete, every surface in my house sported a layer of grit. I knew there was no point in cleaning until I’d wiped down the walls, ceiling, and floor of the loft, and that had to happen before I could paint.

Neighbor Bear told me to check in with him, suggesting that he might have some things I could use. I left the dust and strolled over to his house. He moved into his unfinished residence on September 30th and was still unpacking boxes. In the process he’d come across paint (about 90 gallons of various colors) and painting supplies. He sent me home with rollers, brushes, trays, and eight gallons of random satin, gloss, and eggshell. There were various shades of white, a cream, two browns, and something called amber glow which turned out to be blaze orange. It was the 22nd. I had three days left.

As soon as I got back to the house, I wiped down the walls and ceiling of the loft and entryway with damp cloths. Then mopped the floor. Puffy little clouds no longer accompanied each footstep. Once that was done, I tackled the main living area, vacuumed the upholstery and the rug, dusted the top, sides, and insides of the furniture, and scrubbed the floor. I’d forgotten what clean felt like.

I should have stopped to rest, but I was running out of time. I knew the next day meant a run to town to get groceries, a 70-mile round trip, and prepping meals for my guests. So, I broke open the first can of white and began. I rolled the walls, then up and down the ladder for the ceiling, on hands and knees with the paintbrush for the plywood floor in the entryway, and with the roller again to cover the rough chipboard floor in the loft.

Three things kept me psyched up enough to face each grueling day:

  1. Crossing completed tasks off the list
  2. Visualizing the finished project
  3. Wanting to please my guests

On the 24th, Gwen brought over their queen-size air bed, a magnificent thing that inflates itself. By evening, the loft was a charming guestroom. I messaged Jessa: I’m ready for you tomorrow! Within moments, she answered: Mom! Were coming on the 28th, not tomorrow!

I don’t know how our wires got crossed. I looked back in my messages and nowhere did I find any dates at all. But what a gift, three whole days to rest! The psychological circus that had kept me going for the preceeding weeks, quietly rolled out of town.

When they arrived twenty minutes early on the 28th, homemade Loaded Vegetable and Barley Soup was simmering on the stove. Creamy butter sat ready to be slathered on Mexican bolillos, and Gwen’s cranberry-apple galette waited in the wings for dessert. Tucked in the fridge for the evening meal, four potatoes lay scrubbed and ready for baking, and a side of peas. There were sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella with bay leaves for Caprese salad. A whole chicken stuffed with lemons and cloves of garlic, would become Lemon Garlic Chicken done on the rotisserie in the air fryer.

Between lunch and happy hour, we traipsed next door to Gwens to bake lefse. The equipment was set up and ready. Gwen gave a quick tutorial, and the rolling began. It was Jessa’s special request to revisit that ancestral ritual from her childhood and no wonder. She’s a pro! She rolled each round to a perfect transluscent circle, ‘like Grandpa used to do,’ she said. Somehow, Dan’s Scandinavian background didn’t give him the same leg-up. The dough stuck to his rolling pin, and when he did manage to get one ready for the griddle, it resembled the shape of a turnip, or Africa. Fortunately, he could laugh along with us, and his tasted just as good as the perfectly formed ones.

It was a wonderful visit, but the joy of having them here reached its apex when they hugged me goodnight and disappeared into their private loft room with the fireplace flickering on the freshly painted and almost perfectly smooth walls and ceiling.

Home is where…???

21 Nov 2012 5 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I think she said the 21st floor. Their apartment in Manhattan, just off Times Square, has a twenty-four hour doorman and a gleaming…GLEAMING marble floored lobby bigger and shinier than a skating rink. I took the express ground transport from LaGuardia Airport to Port Authority Bus Terminal and she met me there, all smiles, hugs, and anticipation. Joy. So aptly named.

I’m in New York for Thanksgiving and a long overdue visit. We walk the few blocks to their apartment talking non-stop and I don’t realize we have taken the elevator until the doors slide open. Joy shows me the  room she has prepared so beautifully for my stay and I immediately go to the window overlooking…OMG!

I gasp and take an involuntary step backward. It’s a long way down. They are in a penthouse apartment and the rooftop garden is directly above. She takes me up for a look. It is surreal. We can see the Statue of Liberty, the Hudson River, and Times Square. The lights from thousands of windows shimmer and dance. I’m suddenly dizzy.

Contrast. I have come from the tropical village of Ubud where my view includes infinite shades of green by day and velvet darkness at night, to the sensory overload of New York. Instead of the frogs, crickets and geckos singing me to sleep, the hum of traffic and an occasional siren lull me into slumber. I awaken, not to roosters crowing, but to blue skies, sunshine and honking horns. In spite of the altitude and my terror of heights, I’ve had an amazing sleep and can’t wait to get going. Joy has plans for the day.

We start out on foot toward the Hudson River. The Intrepid is docked there and the space shuttle Enterprise is now a permanent part of the exhibit on the immense aircraft carrier.

We do some power shopping and wind up at the Eataly for lunch. It is sensory overload! From the fruit stands to the endless varieties of artisan breads, the scents, sounds, and colors are a feast all by  themselves.

Joy has a Roasted Beet Salad and I order the Tuscan Bean Soup. Then we share. Delicious! Fortified, we continue on to check out tickets for Wicked on Broadway. A man playing a saxophone really really well, prompts Joy to trot over and make a financial donation to his effort.

And then we are in Time’s Square. It is a jaw-dropping spectacle no matter how many times I see it.

It’s Tuesday. What are all these people doing on the street? Shouldn’t they be at work somewhere? Unbelievable! Joy reminds me that it is Thanksgiving week and there are thousands of tourists here for the Macy’s parade.

About the time my feet go numb, we are home. Kellen arrives a few minutes later with bags of ingredients that will be essential for Thanksgiving dinner. After eating way too much of Joy’s killer lasagne, we curl up to watch a movie. It is a perfect end to a fabulous day. And in spite of the glaring contrasts, there are similarities that make me feel almost at home. For instance, diversity. People of every ethnicity are plentiful. Languages other than English are spoken everywhere. There are snarly traffic jams and crazy drivers but I didn’t see a single motorbike…not one.

And, come to think of it, there were no offerings to step over on the sidewalks, and no fragrant incense wafting through the air. Nobody offered us transport. There were no sarongs for sale. I didn’t see a single woman carrying a basket on her head. And there were no monkeys in the street. Grover, Cookie Monster, Mini Mouse, and Batman made an appearance, but not a single monkey.

The contrasts make me think of the things I appreciate about Bali. I can marvel at all this phenomenal city has to offer. I can immerse myself in it and fully enjoy the experience. But I will always feel like a visitor. And even though it is my country, and the culture is familiar, and I have loved ones here, it has not called my name. No place but one has ever spoken to me. A little dot on the map on the other side of the world found me and I know it patiently awaits my return. Who could have guessed…?

Photo from the back of Ketut’s motorbike, waiting for the light to change.

Rumah Kita…way better than “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel!”

17 Jul 2012 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

If you haven’t seen The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, I highly recommend it. That and four other movies helped me pass the 26 hours en-route to paradise. It is one of those heart-grabbing tales that touches truth with humor and sensitivity. The movie evoked tears and laughter, both in abundance.

And now I’m back! I’m living in the house of my dreams,  in the place of my dreams, doing what I love. (Pinch me!) When I first saw these rooms filled with light from the 8′ windows on three sides, my first thought was If I ever have the chance to rent this house I’d take it in a heartbeat. I inquired and my name was added to the bottom of a long list of “hopefuls.”  In early June, about a month after returning to Minnesota, I found out my name had, by some miracle, risen to the top of that list. I could have the house for 4 months starting mid-July but had to decide in 24 hours. Although I pretended to weigh the pros and cons, the decision had been made months earlier when I first walked through the door.

Here is my 10′ x 25′ balcony overlooking treetops and rooftops.

My breakfast is served here, on the balcony, by Ketut, my ‘house helper.’ Just so you can be completely envious, this house comes with staff. There is a house manager and a house helper. Pasek, the manager, takes care of the financial affairs of the property and shops for food and other necessary supplies. Ketut’s job is to take care of me. He prepares and serves my breakfast, cleans daily, and changes the bed and bath linens every three days. He keeps the house filled with fresh flowers…truly filled…and tends the gardens. When I want tea, or coffee, or a blended fruit drink I simply request it and it appears with Ketut, on a tray, along with another fragrant bouquet. I am already spoiled beyond recovery!

The night I arrived it was approaching 2:45 a.m. and I had told them to expect me between 1 and 1:30 a.m. But I no sooner stepped out of the taxi and Ketut was beside me, all smiles, in his grey hoodie sweatshirt. He hoisted my HEAVY suitcase over his shoulder and off we went, winding down the narrow path that leads to Rumah Kita, my beautiful new home. As I turned in at the gate I glanced up. The upstairs shined like a beacon. We walked up the staircase to the private entrance and opened the door. Every light in the house was on, the white tile floors were spotless and glistening. And flowers…the perfume of frangipani and blooms of unknown species wrapped me in fragrance and welcomed me in.

Ketut made sure I was comfortable, told me he would see me in the morning, and left me to unpack. Yes, I’d been up for about 28 hours straight by then, but there is something about unpacking that grounds me. When I finally peeled back the blue quilted comforter on the bed it was approaching 4 a.m. But all I could do was gaze in awe out the windows at shadowy palms and a sky full of stars and laugh and laugh and laugh. I was home.

As promised, Ketut appeared in the garden below about 7:30 (sunrise is 6:30 and the roosters and I were up at the crack of dawn!) “Would you like your breakfast?” he called up to me. My stomach had been rumbling for several hours by then…”Yes! Please!” He flashed a big smile…”What would you like?” Uh oh! I didn’t realize I might have options…”What are my choices?” I asked. Come to find out, I just have to let him know and I can have anything I want. I settled on fruit, omelet, and coffee, took my journal out to the balcony, and within moments breakfast (and more flowers) appeared before me.

I dined in sheer bliss listening to the Bali morning noises that I love. The house is near the river and overlooks banana palms, coconut palms, and a profusion of flowering bushes and trees. Some of the sounds are different from the chorus of the rice paddies that had become so familiar during my last stay. I love them all!

And I am intrigued by what I am beginning to call the ‘bliss factor.’ There have been times when there were one or two aspects of my life that brought me happiness. I learned to focus on those and if you asked, I would have told you that I was happy. There have been times of tremendous stress and pain but still there was happiness.  Here I experience something else. When I step off the plane and feel the warm softness of the air, see the brown faces and white smiles, my heart leaps into my throat. Tears well in my eyes. I feel a blinding shock of joy explode in my heart. It is a sensation I’ve never experienced anywhere else. I can only call it bliss. Some people meditate for years to achieve this altered state. I simply step off the plane.

From the edge of my balcony….Bali night.