It Shouldn’t Be This Hard

18 Jun 2025 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Portugal, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

It’s a snippet from my latest vision board, before I knew what was developing on the horizon, back when unsettledness simmered just below the surface. It was preparing me, oblivious me, for the challenges ahead.

And here I am, sitting at my daughter’s monster kitchen island where the internet flows unhindered to my ancient HP.

The service here is vastly unlike at home, where I depend upon my Android’s moody hotspot to keep me connected. And when I’ve exhausted the 50 gigabytes of high speed, which I can do in less than a week, I’m suddenly cut off. Just like that. I have no television. No computer. I’m reduced to my phone’s data, using the tiny screen for movies and the minuscule keyboard for writing my books, my blogs, writing anything for that matter. Frustrating is too gentle a word for the inner rage.

There are options…

I can drive 45 minutes to the public library in Grand Rapids and use its wifi connection. I’ve haunted the place lately. The broad expanses of glass overlooking the Mississippi River and the soaring, beamed ceiling offer a stunning venue.

Or I could sit at any coffee shop, brewery, cafe, probably even Dairy Queen in that bustling town, and connect. I don’t want to appear ungrateful. It’s just that I would so much rather skip the inconvenience of the hour-and-a-half round trip and work from home.

When I imagined this week in Minneapolis, caring for Velo, the cat, who was not invited to accompany the family on vacation, I believed their dependable wifi would allow me to zip through the final steps of making my just-published book available for purchase to all my blog readers in no time. I’d design an Author’s Page, add some links, and presto! Done!

Reality can be such a downer.

Somehow, don’t ask me how, in an attempt to toggle a new page, I managed to mangle the website. It took hours to fix the mess. I made it private while I worked to redeem the wreckage so none of my subscribers (you) would witness my ineptitude. In my defense, WordPress is NOT the easiest platform to navigate. Come to find out, I couldn’t even accomplish the private part properly. Suddenly, my stats were climbing. People were accessing the site regardless of my frantic efforts to deter them.

Throughout the process, Velo probably heard words that aren’t allowed in this household, where my seven-year-old grandsons are strongly discouraged from voicing playground expletives. But my pressure valve sputters like a boiling teakettle when agitation mounts, and it’s crudely audible when I’m alone. Velo doesn’t count.

I persisted. At last my Author Page on https://writingforselfdiscovery.com/ went live. The cloud picture I chose to headline the site reflects my emotional landscape of the past several weeks, signifying the other thing that’s been harder than it should be.

The term, ungrounded, doesn’t do justice to my degree of inner chaos. Ever since Portugal, I’ve been out of sync with myself. I’ve gone through the motions of someone rooted to a place, trying to make it true. I created a huge flower bed, transplanted perennials, and bought a weed eater. I dug up oak seedlings and sowed them in my yard along with baby white pines. All the while, a thousand miles away and shimmering like a mirage, my new life was taking shape.

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I’m moving…again. It will be a radical shift, almost as jarring and liberating as the transition to Bali in 2012. This time it’s Minnesota to South Carolina, Midwest to eastern seaboard, Scandinavian brogue to southern drawl, country to city. It may be temporary – a blip on the landscape lasting a few months. Time will tell.

But what if…

What if I love it? What if it feels right? What if I’m needed? Wanted there? No wonder my head is a cloudy fog. But firm on the ground beneath is the certainty. Whatever this is, it’s what I want. It’s a leap into the unknown, and it’s just that kind of leap that, for me, makes life worth living.

All Good Things Must End

03 Mar 2025 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Portugal, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

Did I just write that? It must be a reflection of the book I’m reading, The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch. Described as an intellectual thriller, it is ponderously philosophical, groan, but I have sympathy for the hero, a 58-year-old divorced, frustrated wannabe writer.

What I was actually thinking when I wrote that title is that my trip is coming to a close. It’s a bittersweet, in-between time, still here physically but already gone mentally. I catch the bus from Ferragudo to Lisbon tomorrow morning. My bag is packed, waiting by the door. There will be one last night in a hotel near the airport, then, several time zones and an ocean later, home.

I’ve done everything I’d hoped to and a whole lot more. I even had a dental issue dealt with for $73 that was going to cost over $500 in the U.S. That savings affords me another round-trip flight somewhere. I’m already imagining my next adventure.

But right now, I’m sitting on the upper terrace in a dreamy, reflective mood, bathed with sunshine softened by fluffy clouds. 

The cats were here first, but they don’t tolerate company, so I have the entire space to myself.

What I know about who I am has been confirmed over these past twenty days. I am a solitary soul who enjoys the companionship of friends but has no capacity for the vulnerability required of intimate partnership. And I’m OK with that. There is vast freedom, no unmet expectations, and whatever shoulds or shouldn’ts exist, are self-inflicted.

That said, I love the comradery of a shared meal, a morning stroll, an evening movie, which is what I’ve experienced here. The best of all worlds.

This fishing village on the Atlantic coast has been a sweet respite from Minnesota snow and brutal cold. I’ve missed the diversity of cultures, languages, and attitudes afforded by travel. And there’s something about palm trees in February that makes me very, very happy!

But I’m ready now. I’ve had my fix. Until next time…adeus e obrigado, Portugal!

Countdown to Portugal

03 Feb 2025 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, Shopping, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

Oh! I will slip the snowy bonds of Earth
And dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ll climb…

That isn’t quite how John Gillespie Mcgee begins his poem, High Flight I took liberties with the wording based on my circumstances. But in a few days, I will escape dreary Minnesota winter and fly to Portugal for three weeks.

My whole body tingles! A friend I met in Bali spent seven weeks of Covid in a house in Ferragudo in the Algarve region. Now she’s there again and I’ll be renting a room from her for my stay.

From the house, it’s a 7-minute walk to the beach. It won’t be swimming weather. The Atlantic seems to always be cold, and Portugal registers temperatures between 55° and 65° this time of year. But that’s perfect for meandering the endless coastline with sand in my toes.

A few days ago, I was researching the area and found a river cruise up the Arvade to one of the many vineyards in the region. I couldn’t book it fast enough! The tour of the vines, a premier wine tasting with a charcuterie board of local cheeses, meats, and sausages, and a visit to the barrel room, not to mention the 1 1/2-hour boat ride there, and another 1 1/2-hour back sounds absolutely divine. As I said, my whole body tingles!

I’ve decided this will be a trip of unlimited creativity. I packed a set of 72 pens that have a fine point at one end and a brush at the other.

I have my mixed media tablet ready for sketching.

My passport has been updated, my universal plug works all over the world, and the little book of passwords – I can’t forget that. I also bought new pens for journaling. You can never have too many pens!

I’ll have a carry-on and a backpack. I like to travel light.

My friend works at a thrift shop there. I can only imagine the kind of damage I’ll do to my Euros at that place.

As beautiful as the snowcovered Minnesota landscape is, after the initial rapturous day or two, I seek alternatives: friends in warm places, open escape routes, and as soon as something manifests…

…it’s Gone Baby Gone!

A Naughty Tease

17 Apr 2023 9 Comments

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

For three glorious days, the earth sucked up snow as fast as the sun could melt it. We walked outside in sweatshirts ditching heavy jackets, hats, mittens, and boots. Buoyant, joyous, we scoured the roadside for signs of flowers. I picked pussywillows. Temperatures climbed to the seventies.

Yesterday, it rained all day. Any traces of winter that had lingered were gone. Wet-dirt scent, reminiscent of plowing and weeding, triggered nostalgic farm memories.

Today, a blizzard whipped horizontally past my windows dropping a white shroud over yesterday’s Spring.

This is Minnesota.

The nastiness outside gives me permission to light candles, cuddle in slouchy clothes, and do as close to nothing as possible. By nothing, I mean nothing that resembles work. Gazing at the blustering snow, reading, writing, pondering…these are acceptable pastimes for a day like today.

So I’m pondering…pondering the impact of the different environments I’ve experienced over the past twelve years.

In Ubud, Bali, eight degrees south of the equator, day and night were virtually equal parts dark and light – sunrise at 6:30 a.m. and sunset at 6:30 p.m. It varied by several minutes over the course of a year, but not much. Nestled in the foothills of volcanic Mt. Agung, the landscape was perpetually green and the air dripped humidity with two seasons: rainy and not quite so rainy. Balanced. Predictable. Easy. I never grew tired of the eternal youth of Bali, the jungle foliage, the sensory overload of sight, sound, and smell, and the kind, hospitable Balinese people.

Photo credit: Sharon Lyon

San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, was the color of sand, except when the jacarandas bloomed bathing the city in violet. At twenty-one degrees north of the equator, and 6,135 feet above sea level, SMA was high and dry. The sun baked down during the day but come January and February, there was a bite to the evening air. The architecture, the people, the food, the mountaintop vistas, were extraordinary. But I found I didn’t resonate with the desert aesthetic, and I was never entirely certain that my presence was welcomed by the locals or merely tolerated.

Now I’m 46.7 degrees north of the equator and approximately 1,200 feet above sea level. I’m surrounded by family. I don’t need to wonder if I’m welcome. It’s a far different story, and so is the climate. I’d just gotten comfortable with summer when the leaves went crimson and left the trees naked. I blinked and the world turned white overnight. Snow accumulated in epic proportions, shifting and drifting, swirling whorls around the pines. Nights descended earlier and darkness delayed morning. Focused on getting my house habitable, months passed. Sometimes, I’d stop and marvel at the crystalline purity of blinding, bridal white.

Then, without warning, it was gone. In its place, brown remains of dead vegetation, nude, gray branches, and sticky, oozing, mud met the eyes as far as they could see.

Now, three days later….it’s back! Whiteness. Winter. Everywhere.

I’m glad I’ve experienced other climates and the customs and cultures they spawned. Bali felt young. San Miguel was ancient. Here, cycling through the seasons, I’m in touch with the passage of time: birth, growth, aging, death. I feel aligned and in tune with the reality of life’s terminal nature. It makes me more introspective than I already am – makes me treasure my time on this planet more than I already do, makes me grateful for every experience, blissful or traumatic, that contributed to the unusual path I’ve walked.

And…it makes me hungry! There’s something about cold and snow that generates a ravenous appetite! Out of necessity, I’m learning how to cook. I sort of knew the basics, once upon a time. But this climate requires more than tofu and salad. The body here needs starch and protein, fat, and sugar in quantities I haven’t seen on my plate in decades.

It’s an adjustment. Everything is. But if there’s one thing I have in spades, it’s flexibility. If there’s another thing, it’s determination to thrive where I’m planted. So now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to go cook something.

Is it a Winter Wonderland or has Hell Frozen Over?

22 Dec 2022 10 Comments

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

Snow came in sticky, wet abundance, frosting the trees and shrouding the world in silent white. It was magical, like sitting in a snow globe as the inches piled up. First three…

Then seven more…

then another eight…

It happened fast and I found myself caught between awe and overwhelm. It was intimidating, an all-encompassing blanket that changed the colorful landscape into a monochromatic composition overnight. On cloudy days it was cozy. On sunny days, every crystalline flake reflected dazzling bursts of light.

Holidays approached. Nostalgic aromas of gingerbread cookies and lefse filled the air. My sister sends dozens of home-baked gifts to relatives every year. When it was time to frost and decorate her creations, W and I pitched in.

Mind you, these are only the gingerbread cookies. She made thumbprints, several varieties of spritz, date pinwheels, bourbon balls, pineapple tartlets, chocolate covered peanut butter balls, turtles, three kinds of biscotti, and I know I’m forgetting some. Years of collected decorations appeared throughout the house. Their giant philodendron, aptly named Phil, sported a string of twinkle lights and transformed into a Christmas tree.

All that happened while I hung insulation, sheetrocked around all those beautiful windows, and mudded, taped, and sanded as though my life depended upon it…because it kind of does.

And then…

This:

Temperatures plunged to minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit. I went out to shovel and start my car. When I finally chipped away enough ice to open the door and get inside, the battery was dead. But it didn’t really matter because the fuel line on W’s snowplow tractor was also frozen. Without plowing the road, none of us was going anywhere.

Suddenly, the reality of WINTER in Minnesota hit me. Sherry, this is your life for at least four more months. Can you do this? Of course, I can do it. I gutted out two years of Covid lockdown in Bali, besieged daily by foraging monkeys. I CAN DO ANYTHING. But can I do it happily?

Every winter?

For the rest of my life?

Whoa! Back up! Let’s stay in the moment!

Last night we, my sister, brother-in-law, and I celebrated winter solstice. I found a guided meditation by Julian Jenkens. We sat in candlelight, listening, musing, contemplating, and, nudged by his wise words, probing our souls. We spent the following two or three hours in deep philosophical conversations, dining on Gwen’s heavenly lasagne, W’s garden salad, and garlic toast, accompanied by a bottle of Josh Cabernet. It was a feast befitting such a night.

Today, blustery winds are blowing the newest, fluffiest snow into drifts. Forty-five-mile-per-hour gusts are predicted to last through tomorrow. My best-laid-plans to visit Jenny’s family in Minneapolis for Christmas may be postponed. But the gifts are wrapped and ready.

Meanwhile, invitations are pouring in. If we can get out of the driveway, there are Christmas Eve festivities at Uncle John’s two miles away. Dinner is on the agenda for Christmas day with old neighbors who became dear friends.

This is how I grew up. This is what I left behind and have now returned to. It hasn’t changed.

But I have. One of the questions posed last night was, What beliefs can you let go that no longer serve you? As the candles burned down, I let go of the, I hate winter story. It’s time to embrace and embody the fullness of who I am, a child of the snow, born in January, a Capricorn.

According to Molly Hall, on Liveabout dot com, I’m the crone, the elder who lives with the specter of death and knows that winter is coming and prepares for it. How perfect is that?!

When Memories Replace Movement – What do I want?

31 Jan 2018 28 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Uncategorized, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , ,

 

This morning I’m looking out a frosty window at a world as far removed from my tropical home as it could possibly be and I’m pondering a question that I answered six years ago:

What do I want?

Moving to Bali was a fabulous decision then. There were no grandchildren. One daughter lived on the West Coast, one on the East Coast, and one in the Midwest. None had married.

Everything changes. I’m here in Minnesota in the dead of winter because my youngest just gave birth to twin boys. Eighteen months ago I was in New York to meet my first granddaughter. All three of my children are beautifully partnered now and their lives have taken on new dimensions. They’ve indicated that my physical presence (more often and prolonged than it has been) is very much desired. They want me to be an integral part of their lives. What a beguiling draw that is.

Yet my love of Bali hasn’t diminished. If anything it’s deeper now than ever. I have an intimate circle of friends. I’ve created a life around writing that nurtures me as does the warm climate. I love the exotic landscapes, the thunderous rains, the balmy winters and the Balinese families that have claimed me as their own. The two scenarios couldn’t be more different or compelling.

There’s a ‘knottier’ question though, and I suspect I’ll resolve my dilemma as I reach conclusions about this:

At the end of life, what will I regret NOT doing?

That’s the game changer and it’s a tough one. The unknowns are problematic. There are no guarantees. Anything can happen at any time to alter circumstances. There’s a haunting sense of carpe diem. Time is running out but there’s no way of knowing how much is left.

I want it all of course! I want to experience the joys of participating in the lives of my children and grandchildren. I want to continue my Bali adventure. There are still places in the world I want to see, and some I’ve seen that I want to revisit. I’m fortunate to have those options and the good health to pursue them…now. But most of all, when I approach that future time when memories replace movement and possibilities have reached the age limit, I want no regrets.

 

Do I have the right to IMAGINE you?

25 Sep 2016 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Uncategorized, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I wish I could speak with ironclad certainty about the right of fiction writers to portray anyone, from any culture, in any way we wish. In her opening address at the Brisbane Writers Festival, Lionel Shriver, a celebrated U.S. author, adamantly took that stance. Her argument appeared sound: the genre is fiction, therefore it’s made up, imaginary, and nobody should take offense.

I’ve pored over her speech and studied the uproar of commentary it incited. Do you remember the movie, Fargo, now a television series by the same name? The Coen Brothers created the film and billed it as a true story. Here was a movie about my state, my peeps, getting rave reviews. I couldn’t wait.

I’d heard it called scathing social satire, but that didn’t prepare me for the film’s insulting portrayal of people, dare I say it, like me. I couldn’t separate myself from the exaggerated Scandinavian backwoods brogue littered with you betcha, golly,and gee whiz. But the problem went beyond a personal affront. People all over the world watched it and formed an opinion of Minnesota, a state of hicks who talk funny and are a little stupid, but really, really, nice. Nobody sat beside them saying, “This is a farce, a parody, people there aren’t like that, seriously they’re not!” It was cultural appropriation at its box-office best.

We can’t help ourselves. We believe what we read, see, and hear in the media. If we don’t swallow it whole, there’s an impression left in our mental data banks that sticks.

So I had a problem when Ms. Shriver, from a position of white American privilege, told the rest of the world in so many words: Shame on you for feeling marginalized. This is fiction. It isn’t about you, it’s about the author’s freedom to IMAGINE you.

Is she right?

Don’t we all love story? What if the freedom to imagine and create is censored, given walls, boundaries, taboos?

I didn’t like my group being portrayed in an unflattering way. Who does? And yet I’m a creative writer and imagining is what I do. I invent unsavory characters as well as quirky, funny, bumbling, brilliant, and dull ones. I visualize them in skin: tanned, pale, olive, sallow, wrinkled, white, brown. I identify them ethnically, socially, culturally, and by their own, unique voice. I give them place and purpose and bring them to life. It’s never my intent to ridicule or malign others. But have I unwittingly done that by creating people who are nothing like me?

How I love getting lost in a book that someone else has imagined, living with those characters in their reality while momentarily escaping my own. And how I love to create story, allowing my normally serious mind to come out and play, to run with abandon waving my magic wand as my dreamed-up people populate the pages and live and breathe before my eyes.

It’s scary when I extrapolate the issues of cultural appropriation in fiction to various possible outcomes. What if we were banned from writing anything but what we have personally experienced? Memoir would be off limits unless the only character was me. As soon as I introduced another person, an ex-husband, mother-in-law, one of my children, and shined my prejudices upon them, whether in a positive or negative light, zap! Guilty!

The fact that literary festivals are springing up all over the world, and writers are being introduced cross-culturally to a degree never before possible, brings issues of sensitivity to the forefront. Years ago, when authors wrote for a small segment of the population: those who could afford to buy books and also knew how to read, this was a moot point. But now that events bring writers and readers together world-wide, and literacy rates are increasing, those who have been portrayed in ways that don’t ring true to what they believe about themselves, are speaking out.

I get an uneasy feeling in my gut when the word censorship is bandied about. As a writer I come down solidly on the uncensored side of the debate. As a human being who identifies with a specific place and a distinct heritage, I’m torn. Cultural appropriation is a valid issue and one that won’t resolve anytime soon. Pandora’s Box has been flung open and as we say in Minnesota, who knows where the chickens will come home to roost.

How does this strike you?
Have we gone over-the-top with cultural appropriation, politically correct, sensitivity issues? Or have we barely scratched the surface of a necessary heightened awareness of The Other. Please share your thoughts.

 

Thanksgiving on the Tundra!

29 Nov 2015 16 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Holidays, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

Minnesota is a long way from Bali, geographically, aesthetically, climatically, and philosophically. But it’s Thanksgiving, and my family made plans to come from the east coast, west coast, and Midwest to gather in Palisade, 150 miles (240 kilometers) south of the Canadian border, to be together.

I couldn’t miss that. Even though I made a vow never to return to Minnesota in the winter, Dad’s 93 and Mom’s 87 and there may not be too many more opportunities like this one.

I was the first to land in Minneapolis. Jessa and Dan’s cozy apartment felt like an oasis of comfort after thirty hours of travel. The next day Jenny and Kennen arrived from San Fransisco, and fast on their heels Joy and Kellen flew in from New York. We caravaned in two cars and converged at The Farm, my sister and brother-in-law’s home that is no longer a working farm, just a big house surrounded by nothing, thirty miles from nowhere, to bask in the warmth of family love.

Sis and bro had outfitted their huge loft, bunkhouse style, so the couples and I could all sleep comfortably, and somewhat privately, in that space. By the third night we knew the breathing patterns and little animal sounds of each sleeper. We also knew to stop the pendulum on the obnoxious clock at the bottom of the stairs.

By the time we rolled out of bed Thanksgiving morning, sis and bro were already into their 3rd cups of coffee and half-way through the New York Times crossword puzzle. A quick pow-wow and we received our marching orders. Joy had promised to make her from scratch French Onion Soup for lunch. P1100644

P1100643 The Gruyere, browned to perfection, the chunks of baguette dripping with rich broth, and onions sliced and sauteed to a transparent gold, set the stage for a day of feasting excellence.

Jenny had grandma time.

P1100659Then grandma, Jessa, and Jenny helped grandpa get settled at the table for lunch.

P1100640Mid afternoon someone suggested that we should have pie and coffee now. “We’re always too full after the big meal,” he said…I’m sure it was a he. At around 3 p.m. Gwen’s pumpkin, apple, and French silk pies appeared and we ate melt-in-your-mouth tender crusts with gooey fillings, groaning with pleasure.

After pie, everyone pitched in: many hands make light work! There was a harried hour of napkin folding, the artichoke, the pocket, the turkey tail until sis stepped in and said, “It’s like this…” and so it was, exactly like that, perfect pockets for lunch and perfect turkey tails for Thanksgiving dinner.

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THANKSGIVINGMy sister and my daughters are blessed with the cooking gene that skipped me. It was a gourmet Thanksgiving, Jenny’s beet salad with grapefruit, fresh basil, and feta cheese, Joy’s Butternut squash with sage hazelnut pesto, Jessa’s pureed cauliflower with garlic as a savory mashed potato substitute, and sis with three kinds of cranberries, traditional roast turkey and stuffing. Of course there were all the wines, beers, ales, and ciders to enhance the mood (that didn’t need enhancing) and accompany whatever food was being served.

And then it was over, too soon.

P1100670The girls and their guys loaded the cars and headed back to Minneapolis leaving me behind to spend a few more days with my parents, sis, and bro-in-law in the frozen tundra of the far north country.

 

Go Light on the Blues – A Family Gathering in Bali

22 Jan 2014 2 Comments

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

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Yesterday’s Gone

10 Dec 2012 9 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Holidays, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

There was a song, Emmylou Harris sang it, or maybe it was Chad and Jeremy. It’s one of my favorites and the chorus goes like this, “…but that was yesterday, and yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone.” Yesterday Minnesota was grey. Yesterday’s gone….

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It snowed. Actually that is incorrect. It is snowing. Over a foot of heavy, wet, sticky stuff has accumulated and it’s still coming down. I’ll have to admit, there is something magical about the first snowfall, especially if it’s the kind, like this, that turns a drab leafless tree into a frosted confection. So I pour a steaming mug of coffee and sit down to watch. It is vastly more interesting than watching grass grow! A minute later I jump up and run for my camera. The cardinals have come out to play.

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This sweet boy thinks he’s hiding, but his glorious crimson feathers against the whiteness shout his presence. Lady cardinal is in the bush with him and the pair of them take great pleasure flitting from branch to branch kicking up snow dust.

But I have places to go and people to see in spite of the weather. In Bali, whether it’s July or December, I can slip on a sundress and a pair of sandals and I’m out the door. Today I warily approach my closet, dreading the clothing ritual dictated by this climate.  I pull on a high-necked shirt and tights. First layer…check! Now what? Before that question finds an answer my neck starts to itch under the fabric scrunched tightly around it. I rip off the turtleneck and scratch furiously. Okay, how about a dress with the tights? I find a long-sleeved, knit number and slip it on just as the skin on my legs, sausaged into the tights, begins to crawl. Hiking up the dress I frantically peel off the tights and slather a handful of lotion on each leg. I briefly contemplate calling with some inane excuse to cancel and chuck the whole affair. But by now I’ve worked up an agitated lather and I’ll be darned if I’m going to let a little snow rattle my cage! Off with the dress.

I finally manage to pull myself together. Then adding to my layered ensemble a jacket, gloves, scarf and boots, I head out the door. First stop, World Street Kitchen, a new restaurant in Uptown.

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World Street Kitchen Restaurant in Uptown, Minneapolis, MN

I lunch with Jessa and Dan, the quintessential Uptown pair suitably decked out in sensible garb. They treat me to the ‘Kitchen’s’ Crispy Tofu Burrito and I swear it tastes just like chicken. (All humor aside, it is to-die-for-delicious!) Then I treat them to a giant slice of double-layer-banana-cake-with-peanut-butter-cream-cheese-frosting. Exquisite!

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While we make happy eating noises, a snow-plow truck tries to keep ahead of the still accumulating fluff on the street outside.

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I’ve been invited to a Christmas production and my friends are picking me up at the restaurant. I’ve given them decent directions and they have just called to say they’re getting close. I zip up my jacket, wrap the scarf around my neck, pull on my gloves, say a quick ‘thank you and goodby,’ just as Dan spots a car slowing down. “There they are,” he says, and I race out the door. They have turned into the parking lot and I trot around the end of the building to see them slowly continuing on through the lot toward the alley. “Stop!” I yell, knowing full well they can’t possibly hear me. My trot becomes a fast jog as they turn into the alley and keep going. Now I’m in a flat out run, snow stinging my face, arms windmilling to keep my balance and boots slip-sliding on the icy tire tracks. “Sto000000p!” I yell again, and the car slides to an unsteady halt. They finally quit laughing and explain that they were afraid if they stopped they would get stuck. They apologize profusely for failing to notice my frantic pursuit.

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Getting stuck is a valid concern. We pick our way across town past several vehicles stranded in snowbanks and one sitting with its tail on the guard rail and its front bumper laying a few feet away. But the concert is worth the effort. The full orchestra and two choirs, probably numbering close to 200 voices, nearly lift me from my seat. I am struck by the contrasts of this reality. Here I am in the midst of a mighty throng of people who share my Scandinavian heritage. The music is complex, melodic, familiar. But I find myself scanning the crowd looking for someone…different. Then I see him. He’s short, hidden in the back row. Of that vast company he’s the only one.

In the mountaintop Balinese villages I am the oddity, the pale moonface in a chocolate sea. Tonight his mahogany skin fills a lonesome corner of my heart. I breathe a silent ‘thank you’ for family and friends, for music and snow, and for someone different who unknowingly made the night extra special.

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