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…
Guilt crawls over me like a damp shadow. I haven’t cleaned the house, haven’t cooked, haven’t called the kids. Since listening to the podcast that revolutionized my world, I’ve been doing nothing but writing, or thinking about writing, or rewriting what I’ve already written.
I stared at the numbers on the scale this morning certain they must be wrong. I couldn’t have gained five pounds this week. There must be old batteries in that lying piece-of-crap. I replaced them and the numbers got worse.
That’s what I get for writing. It’s a sedentary, and for me, addicting endeavor. I can sit from sunup to long past midnight, engrossed and tuned out to everything but the story unfolding in my head. I used to forget to eat. Obviously, not anymore.
I should message my sister. Walk? Now? Mailbox? Cryptic, but she’ll respond immediately with something like, Yes! 15 min. Corn. The mailbox is east on 578th Lane. The field that once had acres of cornstalks is west. It’s a little bit farther to the mailbox. We do the corn on lower energy days when we’ve already expended significant outputs on household tasks.
I send the message.
Walk? Mailbox?
Her: No! Drive. Not a nice day!
Me: No need. I’m walking. I need the exercise. I’ll get the mail.
Her: Wait. It’s icy on the road. I’ll walk with you in the field. Trudge, that is.
Me: I’m happy to wait. What time?
Her: Now is good.
Me:
We went and I’m back. It took a little convincing for her to abandon the field-trudging idea. My sister is lovely. Stubborn and lovely. So we walked on the road to the mailbox in slushy snow.
Here’s a photo from yesterday.
This is today, 37°F, not good for snow. It’s 3:00 p.m. With the moisture-laden atmosphere, half ice, half mist, it’s already getting dark. The sun will set at four-thirty.
I was going through a journal from 2011 and found a metaphor I’d written on one such day as this before I left for Bali. Spring is a comma. Summer and fall are sentences. Winter is the boring novel that never ends.
I’m in a different headspace in 2024 than I was in 2011. Way different. Winter in Minnesota now feels like permission to hibernate, and at almost seventy-five years old, I’m so ready for the slow-down that this season brings…after Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve, that is. Even here in Codgerville, we hit those at a gallop.
After I vacuumed, dusted, and shook the rugs I read for a while, The Singularity is Near, by Ray Kurzweil. It’s a fascinating book about the exponential growth of AI. The singularity, as I understand it, is when biological intelligence and artificial intelligence merge. Terrifying but inevitable. He’s also written another book. The Singularity is Nearer. I don’t recommend either one unless you’re a happy dystopian and cozy with the thought of nanobots cavorting through your capillaries.
Now the candles are burning, there’s a wintery fireplace scene with soft music playing on the TV.
Soon, my three Codger neighbors will appear for 5 o’clock social hour. We’ll discuss the disturbing article that appeared in the Aitkin Independent Age newspaper, catch up on who heard what from whom, and, if somebody says something that triggers it, we’ll spontaneously burst into song – a tune from the 60’s no doubt.
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.
Wind hurls shards of ice over undulant waves of snow.
Brooding skies usher in gray days without sun.
Monochrome world rests, void of life save for the tracks of wild turkeys, foxes, and a lone wolf.
Deep, profound, stillness.
Deep
Profound
Stillness
My love for this place is an ache.
At five, maybe six, I helped Dad plant a windbreak, the seedling pines that now soar thirty to forty feet. Their tips touch the clouds.
Back then, it was called Willow Island Farm, and I climbed the graceful trees that gave it that name. Hopefully, I aged better than they did…decayed stumps…a few sprawling branches.
I’ve moved more than 45 times in my life. Vagabond. Gypsy. Restless maybe. But also curious. What’s it like over there? Are the people kind? Happy? What stories do they tell? What gods do they worship? I was told that people are people – basically the same no matter where you go. That isn’t true. Brilliantly unique and endlessly fascinating, humans reflect their culture, their climate, their geography, and their belief systems.
Balinese are nothing like Australians. Aussies are vastly different from Italians. Italians are as unlike Norwegians as Chianti is to Aquavit. But how magnificent. I love them all.
So where am I going with this? Good question. Sometimes I write because my head cannot contain the abundance of my heart. For instance, right now it’s 6:46 a.m. Look at that sky! I’ve been gifted another glorious morning. A splendid new dawn. My throat constricts and tears burn behind my eyelids. It’s -18° F out there with a high of 7° expected today. This is winter in northern Minnesota and I came back.
It’s about choices and consequences. Connections to people and places. Belonging.
The long-time residents of this area are tough and willing to help one another. Community sustains itself through connection…shared abundance…shared work…shared life experience…winter!
People have welcomed me because of their memories of my parents, because of their love for my sister, and because of the helping hand my brother-in-law has extended time and time again to so many over the years. And, I suppose, because they’re curious. Who is this woman who left so long ago and now returns late in life? Why here? Why now?
For eleven years, I was defined by where I was. It was an exciting, exotic persona. Shedding that skin leaves me naked, a blank canvas. I no longer have the urge or feel the need, to be unique. No, that’s not quite right…I am, by nature, unique. But I’m ready to be a part of this culture that is in ways so familiar and yet so foreign. I want to approach the people here with as much curiosity as I carried with me to other lands. I want to know them, not only for the ways we’re different but also for our similarities. I want to engage and blend and discover my place and purpose. But most of all, I want to spend the time I have left near family.
——-
During the past six months, my energy has been consumed by house construction. There was little time for reflection and less time for writing. Exhaustion was a permanent state of being.
On Valentine’s Day, I moved into a not-quite-finished home. There’s still work to be done. My shower tower (raised because all the plumbing is housed beneath it) needs steps. The kitchen begs for a countertop, a sink, and shelves in the corner for dishes. Oh…and dishes…I’ll need those, too!
It never ends. But now, there’s a little more time to think, to feel, and to remember how delightful it is just to be.
Soon I’ll share the after pictures of the magical home that has emerged from the love and sweat that Gwen, W, and I have poured into it. Just another week or two and the finishing touches will be photo-worthy. And so will I, stronger and more resilient, with a host of new skills I didn’t know I needed.
Don’t mess with this Granny!
But I will never, NOT EVER, tape and mud sheetrock again!
Before, in the dim short days of northern winter, I lighted candles, burned incense, and drowned myself in the comforts of mulled wine to warm my body and dull my mind. Night stretched on forever. I got up and went to work in the dark and came home in the dark after work was finished.
For this sun worshiper, the approach of winter solstice was a time of celebration and ritual almost superseding Christmas because it meant the tide had turned and each day would bring a minute or two more of delicious light.
Here in Bali, 8 degrees south of the equator, I’m in my happy place. December 21st marks the longest day of the year, and in my house of east-facing windows, morning enters with a blaze of light and heat. For two hours I move from one small shaded area to the next, avoiding the oven-baked brilliance pouring in and reflecting on my shiny tile floors.
I knew I needed coverings for all that glass, so Ketut and I spent many hours debating the wisdom of curtains or shades. Curtains, when pulled back and stacked would decrease my view, and when the volcanoes erupt and the house fills with dust for days on end, they would be filthy in no time. But the romance of pristine white draperies billowing in the breeze, despite their impracticality, was hard to let go. Serviceable bamboo blinds, however, could be raised to completely maintain the expanse of panorama and would be easy to whisk clean with the stiff, long-fibered brooms that grace every household on this island.
In the end, practicality and economy won out. The quote for draperies came in at around $300 so we proceeded to the place a little farther long the road that sells blinds. I sat on the floor of the shop with the animated owner shouting at me in rat-a-tat-tat Indonesian while Ketut stood by grinning, knowing that I understood maybe half of what was being said. When the man took a breath I shouted back at him, “Please speak slowly!” His startled look was followed by peals of laughter. “Where did you study Indonesian? You should get your money back!” he scolded, speaking slowly, one word at a time. After that the jokes flowed incessantly and the three of us laughed with tears rolling out of our eyes.
Somehow the business was transacted, what color, what size, how many, varnish or not, and a price established. “Does price include delivery and installation?” Ketut asked. To my utter astonishment, $60 US dollars would cover my 20′ run of 10′ high windows and that included everything. I asked when they would be ready, steeling myself for a wait of one month, maybe two.
“Today,” said my new friend.
“Today!” I squawked. “How is that even possible?” It was already 1:00 in the afternoon. “Can you do it tomorrow?” For the first time ever in my experience of ordering a custom product here in Bali, I negotiated more time.
We settled on 2:00 the following day depending upon rain. As luck would have it, the downpour began around noon. At one o’clock I heard “Hallooo? Hallooo?” And there he was, an hour early, drenched from dripping hair to water-logged jeans.
“You could have waited until later, maybe the rain will stop.”
“Maybe later I want to sleep,” he said in that same gruff, scolding voice. “For you, boss, I come now.” Okay, still joking. Ketut appeared and the measuring, eyeballing, and a flow of alternative solutions began. It’s the culture of group-think, and I’m always amazed at the creative ideas that emerge from these exchanges.
The next morning I awoke at sunrise to watch dawn filter through the new blinds. The transformation was sheer magic and I gazed enchanted as the sun gained intensity and heat but my space remained cool, serene, and 100% inhabitable.
How I love my nest in the clouds. What a thrill it is to awaken 365 days a year to the utter joy of place. Every piece of furniture, every decorative yet functional object, each color and finish delights me, and nothing, nothing at all has to be survived, endured through dark months of waiting for the light.
writing for self-discovery 
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