From time to time, I stumble upon a book that leaves an indelible mark. The Signature of all Things, The Ibis Trilogy (three books), Krakatoa, and many others. I’ve kept a record of everything I’ve read since 2019. There are 195 books on that list.
The latest is The Salt Line by Elizabeth Spencer. You know how you breeze through some novels without really thinking. Others keep you suspended on the edge of your chair, gut churning, not wanting to know what happens but needing closure.
Then there is that lofty genre appropriately called literary fiction. It is the brilliant crafting of sentences, the complexity of characters, and the thematic depth of a plot that commands consistent attention, or you find yourself going back several pages to pick up where you lost the trail.
The Salt Line is an exquisite work of that genre. It’s difficult to call anything similar to mind. I’ve rarely found myself paying attention to every word because there were no extras. No fluff. To follow the intricacies of the narrative, I couldn’t skim. The characters were multifaceted to the extent that my loyalties shifted as the author developed and expanded upon their personalities.
Arnie Carrington, the protagonist, is a former professor and 1960s campus radical. After Hurricane Camille devastated the coast between Biloxi, Mississippi, and Gulfport, he is eager to rebuild and attract new business to the area. The characters in The Salt Line are busy reckoning with old ghosts, liberating repressed passions, and figuring out life after trauma.
True to the genre, Spencer doesn’t offer neatly tied-up endings for the individuals in her story. It is more about the unfolding of their journeys. None of them remains unchanged.
In that way, it mirrors us. We, too, are changed by the paths we take and the choices we make. Some of us are intentional about who we are and where we want to go. Our goal is clear, and the steps to achieve it are orderly and systematic. Others of us are dreamers. We sense adventure and trust destiny to show us the way. And there are the lost souls who wander without a goal and without a dream, allowing life to happen to them. All types find representation in The Salt Line. Perhaps you’ll see yourself there.
There’s a song, Fall Down as the Rain, that my daughter, Jessa, sang at my father’s funeral with Dan, her partner, who was also the guitarist. It’s about the seasons of life and the inevitable beauty of death. Today, that song has been playing in my head. I’ve turned myself around yet again.
………………………….
I wanted to write. I needed to write. But I was hopelessly uninspired until I started reading Unreasonable Hospitality.
The book tells the story of a restaurateur in New York City who wanted his restaurant to be extraordinary; the best in the world. The first year, at the annual awards ceremony for the fifty best restaurants, his was number 50. He agonized over how he could improve his game. The chef was exceptional, and the food was already exquisitely gourmet. He decided he would focus on the guest experience, upping the ante to provide unreasonable hospitality to his patrons. And if they were to be treated to the ultimate in service and graciousness, the staff would also deserve to be deeply respected and appreciated.
He devised a plan and implemented it. The following year, his restaurant was voted number one.
Reading his story made me aware that the events of the past few weeks have jettisoned my life into the realm of the extraordinary once again. Suddenly, I wanted to write about it, to tell anyone who would listen about this sudden, wild, and spontaneous adventure that came out of nowhere.
Take right now, for instance. I’m sitting in a 4th-floor, luxury apartment overlooking the coastal lowlands of South Carolina. At high tide, the view from my balcony looks like this.
Low tide drains those sparkling pools.
This is a trial run, a test to see if a permanent move here is viable for me. I’ve been three winters and almost four summers in the remote northland of Minnesota, where my neighbors are my sister, brother-in-law, and an old friend of the family who moved there shortly after I did. Acres of field and forest stretch between our little community and the next house.
I fell asleep to the lonely wailing of coyotes and woke up in an alternate universe – turned myself around again.
When I landed in Charleston, my daughter whisked me across two bridges into the town of Mt. Pleasant and this complex of 224 units. I instantly had new neighbors. From the balcony, I could watch bikinis worn by tanned, toned, young bodies strolling to the pool, and slow-shuffling gray heads walking their shihtzus and corgies. Instead of the mile-long, dead-end dirt road to my little cottage on the farm, Ben Sawyer Boulevard, with its non-stop beach traffic, hummed day and night.
I’m revisiting old prejudices. Whatever I had against air-conditioning in the past is passé. With the heat and humidity hovering in the nineties 24/7, AC moves from nice to necessary! I’ll acclimate. It just takes time. But I will say this: it beats nine months of Minnesota winter any way you slice it!
Despite sucking soupy salt air into my lungs with each breath, I love it here! Everything is easy and accessible. The Publix grocery store is a few blocks away. There’s a Mexican restaurant even closer with superb spicy margaritas! And the amenities available to residents are unreal. There’s a pool, a fitness gym, a yoga studio, a conference area, work stations, a lounge, and a whole corral of bicycles to use whenever the spirit moves. A beautiful courtyard on the 2nd floor of my building screams PARTY TIME!!!
Valet trash pickup comes to my door, and a package delivery service, FETCH, does too. There’s a free shuttle to the beach… I don’t know… does it sound a little too good to be true?
But here I am, and it IS true. All of it.
The apartment doubles as my daughter’s office. I’ll have the added benefit of seeing her and my granddaughters regularly. That’s what kicks this into the ultra-extraordinary category. If I make this permanent, I’ll get to be here. With them.
None of it was planned. I didn’t see it coming. But Uranus moved into Gemini on July 7th, where it will remain until November 7th, and as the renowned astrologer, Steven Forrest says, The shock of the unexpected will be everywhere, in the headlines and in your own life.
It’s only August 1st. There are three more months of potential shocking unexpectedness. One could get dizzy with all this turning around!
You blew me away with your responses! What great suggestions you all made! I’ve taken your advice and have been busy rewriting and expanding to the next few chapters. Once again, critics have at it! Please!
I do have a few specific questions.
1) I’ve written in a very informal style, incorporating comments from my everyday life. Is that working?
2) The information isn’t new, but my goal is to present it in an engaging way. Is that working?
If you could respond to those and then freely voice all other thoughts, criticisms, and advice, I’d be thrilled! Here goes round two!
Don’t Hold On To What You Can’t Have
CHAPTER 1
Grasping, clinging, and telling myself lies compromised my happiness long past the use-by date. So where do I get off asking you not to hold on to what you can’t have? How do I dare offer advice when I personally screwed up so brilliantly?
If I had an imposter syndrome, that would shut me down. But impostering isn’t one of my issues. How do you measure what has been learned over decades? Here I am, a seventy-something who fudging knows a bit from living it. I’ve laughed, loved, failed, and yet come out on the other side vigorous and vim-full of…well…you decide.
I want to talk about letting go because it’s sticky, and tricky, and one of the most important keys to happiness. There are times when it’s necessary to sever all bonds, and other times when subtly loosening the grip does the job.
But it’s knowing, isn’t it? Knowing who we are, what we need, what we want. Knowing when enough is enough and too little is too painful.
Socrates, one of the great philosophers of all time, is credited with saying, Know thyself. He also said that self-knowledge is a philosophical commandment that can help people avoid mistakes in their relationships and careers.
Philosophical commandment! Holy ravioli! What does that even mean?
Ravioli – I’m starving. Time for lunch. More later.
CHAPTER 2
Okay, I’ve given it some thought. Let’s reduce philosophical commandment, to a less lofty-sounding but equally valid expression. Let’s call it the guiding rule. Self-knowledge is the guiding rule that helps people avoid mistakes in their relationships and careers. When it’s spelled out that way…so logical…right?
Until I read the iconic book by Kathleen A. Brehony, Awakening at Midlife, I had not devoted one iota of bandwidth to pondering those essential questions about myself. I was living on autopilot, numb, checked out.
Sadly, we can’t flick a button to light up our awareness. Learning who we are is a process; if it hasn’t been part of the daily regimen to date, there’ll be some catching up to do.
I was in my fifties with four failed marriages and a felony conviction to my credit (or debit) when I began to ask Who am I? Fortunately, the conviction was overturned on appeal, but I’m just saying, I was a late bloomer at the awareness table. And, I hate to admit this, but even after I began the process of self-discovery, I married and divorced one more time. Breaking old patterns is a bitch.
On the flip side, my transformation is a testimony to the fact that it’s never too late. Are you listening? It is never ever too late.
Uncovering who we are is an exciting journey. I didn’t know I was a writer. Didn’t know I loved solitude. Didn’t know how much I needed adventures, challenges, experiences, and an out-of-the-box reality. It gives me goosebumps to write this, to remember how lost to myself I was.
When we don’t know ourselves, we’re vulnerable. Instead of choosing what will feed and nurture us in healthy ways, we run the risk of falling prey to opposite energies. That’s what I meant when I said I was on autopilot. I let life happen to me rather than making informed choices to determine my fate. Self-knowledge = informed choices = a higher potential for happiness and success.
What does all this have to do with holding on or letting go? Everything. Yup. Absolutely everything.
Okay, it’s 32 degrees Fahrenheit, as warm as it’s going to get today, and it’s already closing in on 2 p.m. I need to get my walk in before dark. In the frozen tundra of northern Minnesota, winter brings nighttime virtually on the heels of sunrise. I need to catch while catch can – back soon!
CHAPTER 3
It’s a quarter to eight in the morning and still dark. In honor of all that’s true and holy, I’m letting go of my need for sunlight and embracing the gloom. To my point – I’m choosing not to hold onto what I can’t have right now. I’ll practice patience. That’s a good place to start. I’ll loosen my vise-like grip on the desire for a bright and beautiful day knowing that if I’m patient, that day will come. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, and if I check my weather app, maybe not for a week. But it will come. So, Sherry, give up your infantile whining already!
Patience isn’t always a virtue. It’s good to have patience for something over which you have no control. Like the weather, for instance. But in circumstances where your needs aren’t getting met…. Here’s where you have to know yourself. If you don’t know what you need, you don’t know when you’re not getting it. To be a healthy human, you must know when action is required to make a change for your well-being.
So let’s help you get to know you.
After I read that life-changing Awakening book, I set out on my journey of self-knowing. I made a list of things I love. Not people. Not pets. Things. One of them was sunlight through French doors. Really! That’s random. But it’s something I love. My list went on for pages and pages. I found myself returning to it throughout the days as another ‘love’ popped to mind.
What a simple task, right? But, by becoming aware of the things I loved, I was able to give myself more of that. I immediately weeded out of my life the things I didn’t love. Itchy clothing, stinky candles, lumpy pillows…. You get the drift!
#1 – Make a list of the things you love
When I well and truly couldn’t think of another thing I loved, I asked myself, What do you want that you don’t have? I quickly realized I’d opened Pandora’s Box – a real can of worms. My day-to-day was a shallow shell of shoulds. I was trying to fit into a mold of imagined expectations – what I thought others wanted of me – that had no resemblance to the life I desired. I remember thinking, I’m just marking time, waiting to die.
I panicked. I’m not kidding. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. My breath came fast and shallow. The room faded in and out of focus. I was cemented into a job, a house, a marriage, a community, an entire life that belonged to someone else.
We stuff this information so deep…we tell ourselves stories to support the lies…we deny, deny, deny, that anything’s wrong and put on a show of the perfect family, the perfect marriage, the perfect employee, the perfect wife, when all the while we are perfectly miserable.
If our reality is dreadfully out of alignment with our heart, it will require great courage to take the steps necessary to shift it. As I viewed my list of woes, my first thought was, no way. There is no way out. My second thought was, But this is unsustainable. I’m just marking time. I have to find a way.
According to the Constitution of the United States, the pursuit of happiness is our inalienable right. Deep down I felt that. I hated what I had to do yet I knew I deserved better than a robotic, disengaged existence. But, Oh! My! Where to begin?
And there are times, like now, when my heart says, Keep writing, and my body says, It’s noon! For god’s love, stop and eat breakfast!
‐———-
After breakfast, I did a new vision board.
After lunch, I walked with my sister in a marshmallow world.
After the walk, I worked on chapter 4! Now I await your feedback!
I’m sailing into the New Year more pumped than I’ve been in a long time. There’s my upcoming trip to Portugal in February…can’t wait! But something else has me jazzed to near bursting.
It all began when I stumbled upon a podcast. I’ve been toying with self-publishing for a long time, so I was researching that possibility when up popped Matt Rudnitsky. I’d never heard of him, but I listened, and it was like, Yeah! This is it. This is what’s been missing in my writing life.
He not only addressed self-publishing, he presented the whole package: when to write, how to write, what to write, and how to engage others in your process, especially if you’ve been blogging (I have) and have a social media following no matter how small (I do). The more he talked, the more he revolutionized my writing preconceptions.
I found every aspect of his process compelling but was especially intrigued when he said we need to involve our followers in the creation process. I thought, Oh, here iswhere beta readers come in. But no, Matt wants us to test the market before we even start writing our book, to request feedback on the title and storyline to see if anyone is interested in reading what we are about to write, and keep them in the loop all the way to the finish.
Many of you have been following my blog since 2012. You have been loyal companions, affirming me and feeding my ego.
Here’s where that ends!
Going forward, for those who are willing, I want to write short, punchy books and I need brutal honesty. If you don’t like what I’ve put before you, please say so and tell me why. If parts resonate and other parts don’t, I need to know so I can revise and rewrite and make it better. I want no holds barred, people! When we’ve reached the place where it’s as good as it’s going to get, I’ll self-publish on Amazon and see what happens.
I have no expectations that my work will be a blockbuster success. I’m more interested in the process and engagement with those of you willing to join me on this adventure that feels like it could last the rest of my life.
I’ve missed the writers’ group in Bali terribly. I haven’t felt much like writing since I left the island. That was October 2021. With my astrological chart promising a fresh start, it feels like permission to charge full speed ahead. With the possibility of a little help from my friends, I feel the potential for a new-agey community of savvy literature lovers who will be gritty and tough with their feedback.
So…what are we waiting for? Are you willing to be my writers’ group and tell me the hard truths? Can we give it a test run? Matt says these books must include only the interesting parts to be successful. No fluff. We must write passionately about what we know, lessons learned, and stories of lived experiences.
These are some titles I jotted down of things I’d like to write about. I’d love to hear which ones, if any, resonate with you.
First, some How To ideas:
Ten Secrets to a Life Fully Lived
Journaling the Subconscious
Don’t Hold on to What You Can’t Have
Manifest the Impossible
Then a few stories:
Why Five Marriages Failed
The Moment That Set Me Free
Terror Over Oaxaca
It Wasn’t Supposed to End Like This
When I start writing the book with the title that gets the most votes, I’ll ask for input from page one to the cover design. The Bali writers’ group held me accountable, and their honest feedback pushed me to improve. Out here in the wilds of northern Minnesota, there’s no way to duplicate those weekly get-togethers I so looked forward to. But maybe there’s hope for a digital support system that includes you. I’m eager to find out.
Enough said for now. Please email me your responses at bronson.sherry@gmail.com or in the comment section of this blog or on Facebook Messenger.
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.
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!
Lady Mary Montgomerie Currie (1843 – 1905) is credited with coining that phrase. For someone as impatient as I am, waiting is an excruciating concept. Maybe in her era, it was easier. But in the past two years of waiting to get vaccinated, waiting to see loved ones, waiting to get boosted, waiting to unmask, waiting, waiting, waiting, the idea has lost its charm.
Many times while I was growing up, Dad cautioned me saying, “Don’t push the river, Sherry.” In other words, slow down and wait. My issue with patience has a long history.
I’m telling you this because, for the past few weeks I’ve been scanning sites like Upwork and Indeed, looking for an opportunity to put my love of writing to work for pay. I knew exactly what I didn’t want and it seemed all of the jobs posted fell into that category. Time passed and I started to think maybe I should forget my preferences and apply for something less than perfect.
But Dad’s words came back to taunt me. Don’t push the river.
And it was a river, a veritable flood of opportunities to ghostwrite blogs, research and write articles for insurance companies, prepare SEO content for websites, and perform other feats that required a technical aptitude I didn’t have and didn’t want to learn. Every day I scrolled through columns of new postings looking for something less soul-crushing than Search Engine Optimization.
So I waited. I did. Impatiently tapping my fingers and twiddling my thumbs, hoping my good thing would come to me.
About two weeks ago, there it was. Featuring Fabulous, a new online magazine for women ages thirty to sixty was looking for writers. I read their mission statement and drooled. The categories for articles they wanted (except perhaps the one labeled Sex and Relationships) were topics I could write about with ease and confidence.
Featuring FabulousLogo
My heart hammered with that mixture of oh-my-god-this-is-it-don’t-get-your-hopes-up as I filled out the application and hit SEND.
Several days later, an email appeared from the magazine inviting me to pitch an idea for an article. I was elated for about a nanosecond. Then the self-talk kicked in. They probably send this to everybody who applies. It’s a great way to narrow the playing field.I have to be unique, present something out-of-the-box, get their attention.
I wrote the piece first, just to be certain I could put flesh on my thoughts, then pitched it sending a sample paragraph and three potential titles. The response came quickly: Sounds good, please submit. That was followed by a request to fill out their payment info form.
I immediately pitched another story. Again I was invited to submit and encouraged to keep sending my ideas. So I made my third query. Within five minutes I was asked to send that one as well. That’s three out of three in less than a week.
My first story has been published. You can find it here. And if you’re a woman between thirty and sixty, or a man who likes articles written for women, or you’re interested in supporting a new magazine, go ahead and sign up for it. It’s free.
I’m thrilled to have this opportunity and I’m in love with words again. It’s been a long, dry, covid-induced writing coma, but I’m waking up and the future holds a shiny promise of more good things to come.
In early Covid days, with Bali completely locked down, I did qigong, yoga, and surfed the net for workouts. I had to keep my body moving to manage the trauma. I couldn’t concentrate. The only thing I could focus on was movement.
That lasted about two months. Then I started writing again – and sat.
I sat through the last six months of 2020 and the first six months of 2021. Here we are in July and I’m a blob. Granted I’m a flexible, strong blob thanks to my continued dedication to yoga, But even though I haven’t gained weight, my flesh has settled into a new arrangement. I’m totally shapeless from my sagging seventy-one-year-old boobs to my flat buttocks.
It’s not that I can’t hit the pavement and hike around Ubud. I don’t have to battle tourists. There’s no traffic. The air is unpolluted. But I’m not one of those who can walk aimlessly just for the sake of walking. I need a purpose – a goal.
Without somewhere to walk to, I can’t make myself do it.
A week ago, as I was staring off into a sky puffed with cottonball clouds, I heard a sound that has become so familiar over the years it’s part of the morning music. My neighbor was jumping rope. He’s as faithful to his routine as I am to yoga, but that’s where all similarity ends. He’s ripped. His calves are knotted with muscle and there’s not an ounce of unnecessary flesh anywhere. Okay, he’s fifty, and he’s been doing this forever. But the light went on for me as his rope slapped the floor.
Faster than you can say Amazon, I was online with the Indonesian counterpart to that mega-store searching for jump ropes. There were choices. Some were plastic tubes with flashing lights. Others came in glow-in-the-dark colors. I settled on utilitarian black with ball-bearings in the handles, guaranteed to make the rope turn with a mere flick of the wrists. I put it in my cart and clicked the buy button. A message flashed on the screen. You need two more items. I puzzled over that for half a second. The rope probably didn’t cost enough to warrant shipping. It was about $5.
There isn’t an English language option on this site so rather than confuse myself, I added two more jump ropes to my basket. This time the order went through. Delivery July 6th.
They arrived yesterday, July 1st. I love that about Lazada – they under-represent and over-perform.
The ropes were long enough to accommodate an eight-foot supermodel, but they were adjustable. I spent the afternoon customizing one of them to my 5′ 2″ height, then tucked it beside my workout clothes and promised myself I’d start tomorrow.
Tomorrow arrived this morning.
My neighbor jumps non-stop for an hour. I decided I would set the timer for two minutes jumping, one minute resting, two minutes jumping etc. A nice, easy start. I spread my mat on the terrace, set the timer, and assumed position. Jumpjumpjumpjump – too fast.
I stopped, reset the timer, and started again. Jump…jump…jump…jump… Still too fast. One more reset. Jump………..jump……….jump……….
Heart pounding, I sat down to rest and revise my expectations.
After numerous stumbles and fumbled starts, I found a combination that worked – jump for thirty seconds and rest for 60. I kept that up as long as I could which today was about 15 minutes.
What a workout. I had no idea. And I also had no idea how little stamina I have. This rope has arrived just in time.
I’m not discouraged. It’s the kind of challenge that excites me. I don’t have to meet my neighbor’s level of endurance. OMG. Never in a million years! But I can and will keep at it until I can do two minutes non-stop without going into cardiac arrest.
There seems to be an added benefit. After that brief but intense exercise, the rest of the day I’ve been supercharged with energy and my mood is elevated in spite of the news that Bali is going into another lockdown July 3rd. The Delta variant has reached us and numbers of new cases have spiked from weeks of double digits to 311 today. That’s heartbreaking for the struggling economy and the millions out of work.
But the sad reality is, lockdown doesn’t actually change much of anything for me except physically meeting up with a friend in an outdoor restaurant. As of tomorrow, restaurants close to all but pick-up and delivery orders. Seventeen months later we’re back to square one. But I’ll tell you what… When this is over I’ll have the endurance of an ostrich.
**The ostrich runs at 30 miles per hour and has the endurance to keep it up for hours on end, thanks to theirremarkable anatomy that minimizes effort while running. Having evolved on the plains of Africa, they are well-accustomed to the heat as well.
I careened into 2020 out of control. That’s how the energy of the new decade felt. I couldn’t focus, didn’t want to write, looked for distractions to keep me too busy to think. There’s a word used by my British friends that seems to fit. Scatty.
I was scatty.
Normally, my actions are intentional. I’m calm, well organized, emotionally stable, disciplined, and self-motivated. I set achievable goals and bask in an overall sense of well-being. In the months leading up to 2020 the person that used to embody those attributes went missing.
I felt like a stranger in my own skin.
I couldn’t put a sentence on paper to save my soul, nor did I want to. All that interested me was getting together with friends. Hikes, lunch dates, meetups for coffee, any excuse to be with people would do. I no longer needed long hours alone to recharge. For the first time in my life, people energized me.
I kept waiting for the phase to pass. I made excuses for myself: I was overstimulated from my trip to the States, out-of-town visitors needed my attention, it was just a bad case of writer’s block. Soon, I thought, the old me would be back and life as I’d known it would resume.
But it didn’t.
One morning, a personality test popped up on my phone. Before I was fully awake I’d engaged. Instead of multiple choice, I was told to identify the pictures that most closely answered each of the questions. I found myself sinking into the situation each image represented, feeling the truth in my body.
When my answers were tallied I viewed the graph in amazement. I’d scored a whopping 92% in extraversion which, the results explained, reflected how energetically I engaged with the outside world.
On the one hand, I felt seen. My unusual behavior was validated. By some twist of nature I’d become an extrovert.
On the other hand, it freaked me out.
Grasping for clues, I searched my journal entries and a pattern emerged. My desire going into 2020 was for honest communication, greater authenticity, and to be fully and unapologetically who I am. I’d been thinking about it, journaling about it, talking about it, and meditating on it. My intentions had been broadcast to the Universe in multiple ways, many times a day.
What I hadn’t done was imagine what that would look like in real life. I hadn’t expected a rewiring of my nervous system, or that I would become a social animal enjoying the company of the pack at least as much if not more than my solitary cave. I’d made assumptions based on old programming not realizing that the authentic me was a different creature entirely.
As I come to terms with my updated self and accept the mildly schizophrenic sensations that have accompanied this transformation, I’m in awe of the formidable power of intention. I’m also aware of how unskillfully I used that power. I imagined a slight tweak to my personality. But the words, to be fully and unapologetically who I am, that I unleashed to the cosmos, were not about tweaking. In essence I used a jackhammer to pound a nail.
I wish I could describe how it feels to be so abruptly and thoroughly changed. Everything I do is a new experience even though I know I’ve done it hundreds of times before. Sometimes I’m surprised by what I say though as soon as I’ve spoken I know it’s my truth. It’s like someone else has incarnated in my body and claimed it for their own yet this alien other is more authentically who I’ve always been.
It’s spooky, thrilling and disturbingly new, and slowly, very slowly, I’m starting to write again.
Muddling works for mojitos and mint juleps but it isn’t great for the mind. In fact it’s dreadful to feel at loose ends, directionless, lacking purpose. It can drag a person down.
For the past two months I’ve hosted a colony of ants under my skin. You may know the feeling. My body insisted on a constant state of motion, demanding long walks in excruciating 90°F (32°C) heat. I’d come home red-faced, drenched in sweat, ripping off clothes as I bee-lined for the shower.
For years I’ve guarded my solitude. Too much socializing drained me – at least that’s the story I told myself. Now I was the one organizing get-togethers, entertaining out-of-town guests, making any excuse I could conjure to keep myself busy.
Countless times I opened my computer, stared at the novel I’d been writing, and wondered where I’d found all those words. Two minutes, three, squinting, reading a few lines. Then I’d shake my head, hit the power-off button and message a friend or two to meet for lunch.
Distraction was the name of the game and I was winning.
During one of those get-togethers, the topic of vision boards came up. It seems my friends also felt anchorless. We agreed to meet at my house and see if we could muster clarity with the cut-and-paste approach. I found old issues of Vanity Fair and a National Geographic at the Smile Shop – Ubud’s Goodwill-type donation store – and snatched them up. Years ago in the States I had stacks of Architectural Digest, Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Elle, House Beautiful, and Country Living. But not here. Finding six dusty, ripped, moth-eaten magazines was like striking gold.
On the appointed day we gathered at the dining table with paints, pencils, markers, scissors, glue, and the ratty magazines. Pages turned. Nobody spoke. The air hung heavy and still with the intensity of our concentration. I hadn’t a clue what I was hoping to accomplish. But every-now-and-then a picture jumped out at me. Or a word leaped off the page. Soon I was snipping feverishly with a collection growing beside me.
We did well, but after forty-five minutes the silent focus was unsustainable.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
My friends looked up, dazed. “Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Let’s go eat.”
We chatted in the back garden of a nearby cafe that happened to have two-for-one happy-hour cocktails. And what luck! My favorite drink of all time was on offer: frozen mojitos. I wasn’t born during the depression but there’s something about two-for-one anything that makes it immoral to have just one. I had two frozen mojitos and a to-die-for roasted-veggie salad.
After whiling away a few more hours at the restaurant, my friends left promising they’d work on their projects at home. I felt the mellowing effect of my drinks but was strangely energized and eager to see if the stack of cut-outs had a common theme. Would a direction emerge? Had my subconscious or a bevy of capricious Bali spirits come out of hiding to help me choose those words and pictures?
I’m not a crafty person. Normally I’d devise any excuse to avoid this kind of activity. But as I arranged the images that same laser-like focus returned. Body, mind, and spirit engaged and I saw myself reflected in pictures and words that validated the very essence of who I am. It didn’t spell out in a sentence, Sherry, do this, yet the message was unmistakable.
You know the feeling when you’re telling someone your deepest truth and they get it? I felt like that looking at my board. A bubble of joy that made me laugh. A sense of relief that I’d worked through the fog and could see the way ahead. And gratitude. Gratitude for friends. Gratitude for the simplicity of a vision board to help gain self-knowledge. And gratitude for this place where energies abound to support the inner journey.
writing for self-discovery 
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