Just Another Dreary Day

16 Jan 2025 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in food, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Icy dervishes whirl across the field outside the window. My weather app describes today as dreary. Seriously? How about cloudy? Knowing there will be an absence of light is enough information. Cloudy states a fact. Dreary assumes a negative emotional response. Not everyone finds an overcast day dull, bleak, lifeless, and depressing. Maybe I welcome this sunless day to curl up with a book or chop and sauté in a brightly lit kitchen, filling the house with the nurturing aromas of a hearty soup. Just stick to the facts, AI. Don’t tell me how I should feel.

The first time dreary popped up on my app, I chuckled. I was used to seeing cloudy, mostly cloudy, intermittent clouds, and snow. Clear days here in the far north aren’t designated sunny, they’re just called cold. The new word felt like a whimsical departure from the norm and made me smile. But today’s dreary followed a long string of overcast and cloudy days. My first reaction was, “Go away!” (Like the nursery rhyme: Rain, rain, go away, come again another day, little Sherry wants to play…) My light-deprived inner child was annoyed.

So, I was already in a pissy mood even before getting out of bed.

After journaling in front of my cozy fireplace and pivoting to a more positive mindset, I decided to spend the day cooking.

Mom used to make Italian Wedding Soup. I’d found a recipe online and skimmed it for my shopping list and purchased the ingredients. But true to form, I’d neglected to read the details.

Remembering how delicious it was, I decided to make a double batch and set to it, mixing Italian sausage and ground beef, egg, breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, and onion. When it was the desired consistency, I glanced at the instructions and did a double-take.

Form the mixture into about 40 – 1/2-inch wide – meatballs. 

One-half inch wide? The size of marbles? Forty?You’ve got to be kidding! For the next hour, I sat rolling sticky blobs into teeny-weeny balls that more accurately approached 3/4 of an inch wide. I filled a 15 x 20 cookie sheet with 108 meaty marbles.

All that effort and half the mixture still remained in the bowl. I shoved the pan in the oven and made an executive decision. The rest would be four times the size of those wee nuggets.

The minis were done in minutes. I left them to cool while I prepared their jumbo siblings. That went much more quickly. But, when I tried to turn the oven back on to bake them, nothing happened. After two years of cooking, my forty-pound propane tank had run out of gas. The line from a Seinfeld episode screamed in my head: No soup for you!

I put the sheet of large raw meatballs in the freezer and went outside to unhook the propane tank and load it in my trunk for the next trip to town. The not-so-dreary day got worse. The tank was frozen fast in place. It wouldn’t budge. I wrapped my arms around it and tugged. I wedged myself between it and the house and pushed. I cursed it in Spanish, Indonesian, and English and kicked it forgetting I had metal ice cleats on my boots. No damage was done, they only marred it a bit cosmetically. In the end, the tank won and I quit.

After the frustrations of the morning, a warm blanket and a good book sounded like heaven. I cuddled in and fell instantly to sleep.

Today was to be mostly cloudy but warmer, according to my app. Mid-afternoon, armed with a bag of Ice Melt Salt and a quart of boiling water, I once again went on the offensive with the tank. I tucked salt around the base and doused it with hot water. At first, it didn’t appear to be working. But then… there was a slight jiggle when I tugged. With renewed vigor I grabbed it. Back and forth, back and forth, I rocked that baby loose. Success!

Tomorrow is predicted to be above freezing followed by four days of cold. I’ve positioned a cement block over the frozen spot and the freshly filled tank will sit atop that from now on. Problem solved.

In the midst of all this, I had a Human Design reading. It was a birthday gift from my daughters. Among other things, I discovered that I am an Experiential Learner. Is that a polite way of saying I have to f*** it up first before I get it right? That would explain a lot!

I hope you’re keeping warm and there are no drearies on your weather app.

Fast or Slow…Just Go

07 Mar 2024 9 Comments

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

I woke up out of sync. It was five o’clock, my normal wake-up time. But from the moment I opened my eyes, no, even before I opened my eyes, the day felt empty.

When that happens, it has nothing at all to do with the day. It’s something I’ve encountered at various times throughout my life. A feeling of immense futility, worthlessness, and hopelessness, casts a dark shadow over my normally upbeat nature. I would guess it’s depression, and my empathy goes out to those who struggle daily with that affliction.

Usually, though, after I drink several cups of coffee, journal, go through my yoga routine, and meditate, the blues have faded and I’m fired up for the day. Not this day, though. It wasn’t happening.

So I did five Spanish lessons on Duolingo, something certain to banish the doldrums.

That didn’t work either, and to make it worse, the house was full of golden light. It’s been overcast and dreary for weeks, but today, the brilliance hurt my eyes. Had it been cloudy, I could have given myself permission to curl up with a book, reading and napping my way through the hours. But, no. The sun demanded action. I could not be found wasting a rare sunny day.

I thought of all the things I could do. All the things that needed doing. I had zero motivation for any of them. Itchy pressure kept building inside until I exploded. “Okay! I’ve got to get out of this house!”

I knew how deceptive early March sunshine can be in Minnesota. The trees outside my windows weren’t doing the salsa, more like a slow waltz, but they were moving so I dressed accordingly: jeans over leggings, layers under a down jacket, lined boots, a hat that covers the ears, and warm gloves.

I’d barely closed the door behind me when Freya, my sister’s German Shepherd, came bounding to greet me.

After sufficient petting, scratching of ears, and a game of tag, I set a course, and she took the lead.

The wind blew crisp in my face as we headed south through the field along the border of the marsh. I strode at a brisk clip while Freya pounced on imaginary critters and slurped water through holes in the patchy ice. At the corner, we veered west following the tree line. Ah. No wind here. Squirrels and birds tempted my canine companion as she zig-zagged in and out of the woods chasing them.

We crossed my sister’s forty acres, then our friend’s twenty. I stumbled upon a boneyard for dead equipment, a rotting wagon, and a few other long-abandoned odds and ends.

At one time, this was all Dad’s land. Had these once been his? My mind raced backward. This is where we lived when I was born seventy-four years ago. Even after we bought the house on the Mississippi River in Grand Rapids, we kept the farm. Summers were spent here making hay until I graduated from high school and left home.

Goosebumps prickled my arms. No wonder I sometimes woke up disoriented. I’ve come full circle. After living on the other side of the world, I’m back where I began. I’m probably as old as that wagon. I shook off the déjà vu and continued my journey.

Beyond a ditch, lay my cousin’s cornfield. He’d harvested last fall, cutting and removing the stalks leaving ridges of bare dirt now softening into mud. The water in the ditch was frozen, so I slid down the bank, skidded to the other side, and turned south.

By the time I’d circumnavigated the fields of several farms and found the road again, I arrived back at my own front door. Suddenly, it seemed like the perfect moment to wash windows. I abhor washing windows! I can tolerate streaks and dirt for months without feeling a single pang of guilt. I grabbed cleaning solution, old newspapers saved for just this purpose, a six-foot ladder, and got to work.

By the time I finished, it was noon. I’d spent all morning outside in the fresh air and sunshine. Far from feeling tired, happy endorphins pinged through me. I heated a bowl of chicken chili and decided it wouldn’t hurt to sit still for a while and write.

The moral of this story is pretty obvious: When those itchy, pointless, hopeless times come, don’t be confined by four walls. As hard as it is, get dressed and get out. Walk. Breathe. Explore. You may not have acres of field, swamp, and forest, but you have something. Maybe it’s sidewalks and skyscrapers, a community rec center, a mall, or a park. Whatever it is, just go. Move your energy. Fast or slow it doesn’t matter.

Just go.

Out With the Old, In With the New, and All That Jazz

09 Jan 2024 16 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Italy, love, Mexico, Renovating the Hunting Shack, wisdom Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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!