Turn Life Inside Out

03 Nov 2024 4 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Renovating the Hunting Shack, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , ,

When did the lights go on? The tectonic plates shift? When did the things that mattered so much yesterday become unimportant but everything else intensified? When did life turn inside out?

There were decades when I lived from the outside in.

When I obsessed about makeup, clothes, body shape, the color of my nail polish…

…when my legs and armpits still grew hair and I shaved it off…

…when I braided my girls’ long locks, chose their clothes, monitored their behavior so it reflected positively on me…

When I remember those times, I sigh and shake my head.

I spent years looking toward a future where things would be easier, better, safer, and numbed out to the present because most of it was either too mundane or too hard.

That changed when I turned sixty-two, took early retirement, and moved to Indonesia. I had to leave to save the only life I could save, as Mary Oliver so eloquently states in her poem, The Journey.

Every day was new, utterly different, and unpredictable. The present was a glorious place to be. I plunged in headfirst and submerged myself in the culture, the language, the food, and the kindness. I’d never known such joy.

I learned Indonesian by writing the English word on one side of an ice cream stick and the corresponding Indonesian word on the other. Then memorized. Memorized. Memorized.

But, the day I jumped on the back of the motorbike and wound up the mountain to AbangSongan to meet Ketut’s family, I was blindsided by the unfathomable poverty of his mountain village. It shocked me into awareness of the incredible privilege I took for granted as an American white woman.

And yet, those people were happy. They had their tight-knit family compounds, their hectares of land bestowed upon them by the king, and their Hindu rituals of daily prayers and offerings. Walking among them in humility that bordered on grief, a burning determination to make a difference bloomed in my conscience.

Gratitude for the Bali years knows no bounds. That’s where I became who I am. That’s where I began to live from the inside out, making choices from my heart that would benefit those less fortunate. I built a B&B and paid Ketut and his family to manage it. Ruamh Jelita – Beautiful House. When I left Bali, I gave it to them. They’re doing well.

I had become proactive in the moment rather than wasting time waiting for some unknown better place. I’d arrived. I was occupying my better place.

Even though I’m back in Minnesota now, I haven’t reverted to the old patterns of numbing out to the present and hoping for a better future. (Who knows how much future is left?) I’ve been on the mountaintop. The path slopes downhill from here. There will be stunning sunrises and joyous times along the way. I’m in excellent health so the end probably isn’t imminent. But I’ve learned how to inhabit my life. Engage with intention. Ponder the knottier questions, daring to dive into dreams trusting that I can manifest them because I have.

Envisioning a home

Living from the outside, from the shallow illusions of conformity to social norms, expectations (usually self-inflicted) and preconceptions of what should be, is a slow and tortuous soul-death. I would remind you, whoever you are, whether you’re in the prime of life or closing in on old age, we get one shot at this. As far as we know, nobody has returned from the Great Beyond for a re-do.

I urge you, make the necessary corrections now. Don’t waste another minute. Grab hold of your own life and become who you are…from the inside out.

Make WHAT Iconic?

24 Sep 2024 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in vision board, wisdom, Writing Tags: , ,

I’ve ignored the upper right quadrant of my Vision Board. It seemed too big. It held a command, and I typically don’t take kindly to commands. Requests – all day every day – but demands? No. 

There it stood, in upper case letters, shouting at me. My eyes avoided looking there and wandered instead through less bossy areas where my autonomy felt respected. 

But, as with everything on those tattle-tale boards, yesterday I knew the time had come. I needed to address the goblin lurking in the corner. I fixed my gaze on the words:

MAKE IT ICONIC

and let them mash around in my brain for a bit.

What did it mean? Make WHAT iconic? The day? My writing? Conversation? And how is iconic defined? I checked out Miriam Webster and the Urban Dictionary and decided that for my purposes, iconic means something outstanding in its category. 

My thoughts immediately came to rest on my house. In the category of hunting shacks, it’s beyond exceptional. I took a look at my three immediate neighbors and the daily interactions we share. How we came together in this remote corner of northern Minnesota and contribute so beneficially to each other’s well-being is nothing short of extraordinary.

And my children, my three daughters, every single one of them, OMG! Iconic!

My travels have been iconic. Friendships with people from every corner of the world. Iconic. 

As my mind wandered back over the years I saw that nothing about me or my path has been anything less than outside the box. Some was iconically tragic. I didn’t do just every day, humdrum dreadful. When I went to the shadow side, I went all the way down. But I recovered and always found a way back to solid ground.

Like the ah-hah when solving a riddle, it landed with a flash. MAKE IT ICONIC wasn’t a directive for the future. It was a commentary on the been there, done that of the past. The energy of the board wanted me to reflect and realize the incredible wealth of experiences that populate my memories.

I’m guessing, with my sun in Capricorn and centuries of marauding Viking ancestors in my DNA, I might struggle to be ordinary. It’s only been since retirement that I completely escaped the chokehold of expectation. Nobody forced it on me. Well… Maybe Mom… “Sit like a lady.” “Don’t hold hands with a boy in public or people will wonder what you do in private!” Okay. Yes. I was held to my mother’s Victorian moral standards and somewhat terrified of disappointing my parents which I managed to do fairly regularly. 

There are things we can control. Other things are part of our genetic programming, giving us a predisposition to tameness or wildness, acceptance or disruption, passivity or aggression, friendliness or reclusiveness, optimism or pessimism, book smarts or street smarts. Some of us have to work harder to be socially acceptable than others.

When we stop working so hard, when what people think no longer holds sway, we become who we are. And when we live our truth, iconic happens.

The Incredible Joy of Not Giving a Damn!

10 Aug 2024 22 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, grannys landing, technology, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

My level of frustration at this exact moment in time is off the freaking charts!

In the past week, hours evaporated while I:

tried to change my cellular service provider

tried to connect to my new cell phone hotspot

tried to connect my Roku to the elusive hotspot

tried to connect my TV to Roku

tried to connect my computer to my printer using my new hotspot

tried to…oh crap…tried unsuccessfully to keep from bellowing obscenities…

It’s a good thing I live alone…

I thought I was tech-savvy. Seems that was yesterday. Things change at the speed of light…or is there something faster now? I wouldn’t doubt it. 

Is it a function of age? If I were, say, 40, would I automatically have the necessary skills? Or six years old perhaps? My twin grandsons grasp technology better than I do.

Perhaps I’m past my use-by date. I haven’t expired, but I’m beginning to decay. 

The other day I was visiting with a group of women, all seventy-plus. Our conversation began innocently enough, talking about the books we’d been reading, the TV series we were hooked on. As we warmed up to each other, we moved from the abstract to the intimate, how advancing years have made us less tolerant of discomfort in any form, especially clothing. Specifically, bras.  

From pre-teen to middle age, I didn’t think twice about harnessing up with underwires to support my abundance. The silhouette was most important so I tolerated the metallic uplifting and powered on. 

Then came Bali. Every cremation, wedding, and ceremonial event, required a sarong, a lace kabaya, and an undergarment so constricting from cinched waist to hoisted breasts that breathing was no longer involuntary. The Mona Lisa.

Ngusaba Tegen was the worst. We suited up by the hundreds and walked the gravel road in high-heeled flip-flops to gather outside the temple. Row upon row of offerings made by the men of the village, hung suspended awaiting the blessing of the priests. And so did we – wait. Women and children sat on the ground literally for hours.

Imagine ninety-degree heat, air chewable with humidity. You’re dressed in a tightly wound sarong, legs folded sideways underneath you with the Mona Lisa corset shoving your breasts up under your chin. 

Balinese women don’t squirm. They don’t sweat. They just gossip happily, a child in their lap, an arm around the shoulder of the friend they’re chatting to. Hair perfect. Makeup exquisite. And in the midst of them is me, swiping at the moisture dripping off my chin, tugging at the sarong that threatens to unwrap, yanking down on the creeping corset that wants to pop my breasts out of the low-cut neckline of the itchy kebaya, all the while smiling, trying to appear, well, Balinese…cool, calm, composed.

Is it any wonder that here at Granny’s Landing in the middle of idyllic nowhere, I’ve burned my bras along with my bridges? After fifty years enslaved to the silhouette, I refuse to have my torso squeezed up or down, in or out. My breasts swing freely, like balloons full of pudding. There’s nothing sexy about them. The jokes about old ladies are too true to be funny. 

Right?

I used to care. I’ve thought about that. Why did I care? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I was motivated by sheer vanity. I wanted to look good for me. Makeup. Perms. High heels. Mini skirts. Underwires. How much of that do I still do? Zip. Zilch. Nada. I’m over myself. Now, all I care about is comfort. 

It’s wonderful! So liberating! Intoxicating! The incredible joy of not giving a damn. 

And just so you know, somehow I managed to facilitate the new cellular service install and connect to the hotspot. As if by magic, the Roku talks to the TV and my computer works. The printer…no amount of begging, pleading, cajoling, or cursing, has succeeded so far. It remains disconnected to frustrate me yet again another day.

The Space Between

20 Jul 2024 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Feminism, vision board Tags: , , , , ,

What faces you when you’re on the throne? I’m serious, what is literally in the space directly in front of you? What do you gaze upon multiple times daily doing what natural urges require?

In my private chamber, the Vision Board occupies that place. It’s four feet eight inches from my eyeball to the center of that informative piece of art. I measured. My visits provide ample time to peruse its content, mull over its many meanings, stew, and ponder.

Be who you are, Be where you are, compelled my first attempt to share revelations gleaned from the Board in a post, Becoming Small. Satisfied with my conclusions, I moved on to, The Space Between. That phrase was glued beside the image of two very old women smoking cigarettes and wearing vintage wedding gowns. Beneath them were the words, the future, and as old as time.

First I asked myself, The space between what? Staring at me were those two ancient broads. I had the uneasy premonition that I was seeing my future. So the space was the present. The now. The time existing between the past and the future.

But I couldn’t leave that alone. How big is that space, I wondered?

A wise woman once told me that the present is the only time we have in which to create. I would change that to say, the present is the only time we have period. Our minds can dwell on the past. We can imagine the future, but our physical being cannot be in either of those places. We are only in the present.

Who thinks about these things? I should have been born in the era of Socrates, Aristotle, Plato. I’d have fit right in disguised as a man. The female philosophers came later:

  • Hypatia of Alexandria: An early female philosopher who worked in astronomy and mathematics
  • Heloise of Argenteuil: A French philosopher from around 1100–1164 who advocated for adequate education for nuns
  • St. Hildegard of Bingen: Lived from 1098–1179
  • Catherine of Siena: Lived from 1347–1380
  • Christine de Pizan: Lived from 1364–c. 1430
  • Moderata Fonte: Lived from 1555–1592 and was a critic of religion and feminist
  • Tullia d’Aragona: Lived from c. 1510–1556 and was known for her intellectual conversations

Who’s heard of any of them? Ok. A subject for another day – sometime in the future!

Back to the questions at hand: How long is the present? Is it measured in conscious time, from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep? For the sake of sanity, I think I’ve always thought of it that way. I plan what I’ll do today. Yesterday’s gone, tomorrow is yet to come, so…

My literal brain wasn’t having it. No, Sherry. Think. The present is the most infinitesimally small unit of measurable time, a zeptosecond, one trillionth of a billionth of a second. Like it or not, everything else is past or future.

But… (I argued) I move from one zeptosecond to the next… Explain that! If I’m always in the present then my present isn’t the smallest measure, it’s unlimited, until death I depart. I thought about it for a minute. Both the logical and the imaginative sides of my brain seemed delighted with that explanation.

Whew! Glad that’s settled. What a relief. I’m not bound by the zeptosecond. I have unlimited time to create. That’s good news because I want to write another novel. And I want to live long enough to see the one I already wrote, Nettle Creek, picked up by a publisher. Hopefully, there’ll be enough space between for all that and so much more.

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!

As the Light Returns

22 Dec 2023 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, food, Holidays, Solstice, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

“…This is the solstice, the still point
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
the year’s threshold
and unlocking, where the past
lets go of and becomes the future;
the place of caught breath, the door
of a vanished house left ajar…” Margaret Atwood

We celebrated last night.

In the northland, days slowly shrink away until sunset is complete by 4:30 in the afternoon.

For me, Winter Solstice is a sacred time. After living for ten years 8 degrees south of the equator, where the sun rises at 6:30 a.m., and sets at 6:30 p.m. 365 days a year, the vast differences in the length of daylight from summer to winter here, the spring to fall cycles of birth and death, the drama of all that, must be given a place.

I was immersed in Balinese culture. I felt first-hand the power of their rituals, their honoring of nature, their acknowledgment of unseen energies, their deep respect for the animate and inanimate, and I changed.

Or perhaps something dormant within me woke up. My shamanic Viking ancestors knew what the Balinese know.

Until then, I was skimming the surface, living a half-life, unaware of what I was missing. When I broke the surface and plunged into the realms of the unseen, everything magnified, especially my capacity for joy.

Once that metaphysical line has been breached, there’s no going back.

So last night, we four codgers channeled our ancestral energy. We paid homage to the darkness and welcomed back the light with fire, drumming, and feasting. Individually, we let go of worn-out beliefs that no longer serve us, making room for new growth.

We had a blast, ok? We challenged our stuffy, Scandinavian comfort zones. We stepped outside the boundaries of the same old same old. We honored the past and welcomed the future. We ushered in the light.

Then we feasted on colorless food true to our Norwegian and Swedish roots. Lutefisk with melted butter, potato/parsnip/pear soup with walnut/garlic/parsley garnish, and lefse. The peas and cranberry sauce added a festive pop. And bread pudding for dessert made a sweet finish to a magical night.

JUST UNDER THE WIRE!

01 Nov 2023 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Renovating the Hunting Shack, The Farm Tags: , , , ,

It’s November first. The day after Hallowe’en. And there’s snow on the ground.

In Northern Minnesota, that’s not terribly unusual. But it feels early this year, somehow. Maybe because my addition isn’t quite ready. It’s been a slow grind, but that’s what you get when the guys working on it are perfectionists. Every corner is square. Every stud and joist bristles with long, golden screws. A herd of elephants could dance on the roof. It’s a work of art, truly, and I’m thrilled…thrilled…trying to be thrilled…

I’ve been uncharacteristically patient with the process. I think it’s because these guys show up when they say they’re going to. They call if they’ll be late. Or early, which is more often the case. They are stunning human beings and I’m fortunate to have found them out here at the end of nowhere.

But that’s why my progress blog posts have been few and far between. Perfectionism. Finally, today I feel like their work is almost done. And mine is about to begin.

Remember when I said I would NEVER sheetrock, or mud and tape again? Uh-huh. Never say never. I’ll be eating my words in another few days after the electrical wiring is finished. Not only do I no longer care what I said, I’m actually excited to get going on the inside of the house. In February it will have been one year since I moved into my renovated hunting shack. This addition will almost double the size of my space which is currently 400 sq. ft. I’m adding an additional 320 sq. ft. inside. That will feel downright cavernous!

I’m not sure where I left you. Was there a roof yet? I don’t think so. Ah! There it is – September 4th. Half the roof joists were up. That’s it. Skeletal.

Oh. And there was still crap all over the yard.

In October, I started to believe, almost, that we could hit our goal. The roof went on. Then shingles.

Temperatures started edging downward. In late October, all the debris in the yard was relocated to the garage or the dump.

Windows went in – a bonus since the guys had originally said that particular feature could wait until Spring.

I’m glad I have the pictures. They convince me that, in reality, much progress has been made. For months, it felt like a never-ending symphony of hammering and sawing.

While I was writing this, they’ve been out there, hard at work. At one point, they ran out of Tyvek. “Can’t you use the tarpaper left from the roof?” Hmm. Yes, they could.

At 2:00 there was a knock. “Come out and take a look.” I scrambled into my winter jacket and boots.

They’re done! It’s November first, and they’ve got me ‘tucked in’ for the winter!

We took care of accounting details, and then I waved goodbye. “See you next spring, guys!” That’s when the real door will be installed and the siding attached. But for now, they’ve made it ready for me to start the interior work.

For the next half-hour, I picked up bits of shingles, tarpaper scraps, and wood chips, and organized the garage.

Then…

I pulled my little white Prius inside, sheltered from all that is to come.

My insides feel all tickly. It took from May until now, but my vision has manifested. Okay, there are a few things left to do, but the big stuff is done. And as I said, my Prius, the instigator of all this effort, now shares my home. I won’t be shoveling it out of six-foot snowbanks ever again!

Haunted by the Past

04 Oct 2023 15 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, Italy, Mexico, The Farm, wisdom, Writing Tags:

Wind charges through yellowing trees snatching leaves in its turbulent wake. It howls of storms coming, blasting through my southern windows flung wide on this 82-degree day. A few determined Asian Beetles cling to the screens momentarily, then are ripped away in the gale. Good riddance. Yesterday was just as hot with NO wind. Thousands of those nasty insects swarmed the doors and windows, finding their way into the house.

But moving on…

Fall in Minnesota is predictable in its unpredictability. Today we sweat; tomorrow it snows. Any atmospheric conditions that prevail are less aberration than expectation. My weather app says rain for the next four days. That should wipe the trees of any leaves the wind has missed.

I’m in a pensive mood. Several days ago, I received an email from an old friend from the writers’ group in Bali. Steve was the glue, the force of nature that held the group together and maintained order when egos clashed, and trust me, no one has more volatile egos than writers critiquing other writers.

Steve sent the email to others in the group, and over the past few days they have responded with updates about their published works. One just landed a three-book contract. It was thrilling to hear of their successes.

But…

All I could report were a few frivolous poems and periodic posts to my blog. Emotions rippled through me. I suddenly missed ‘the group’ terribly, the people, the camaraderie, the challenge to constantly improve, and the writing. How I missed the thrill of creating on the page.

Boohoo. Poor me. What have I done since our last meeting in 2019? Why haven’t I written if I love writing so much?

Well, first there was the month in Italy on the Amalfi Coast. Fabulous!

Then two years of Covid and monkey infestation in Bali. Devastating.

Then there was a nine-month adventure in Mexico. Delightful!

And then…

I moved to The Family Farm and it’s been nonstop physical labor for the past year. Joyfully productive and exhausting.

Choices.

I made them.

Well, except for Covid. I didn’t choose Covid, and I didn’t choose not to write. During that time, fighting monkeys and trying to maintain a shred of sanity, I was mentally and emotionally incapable of writing.

Steve’s email and the responses from those who were my peers have inspired me. I’ve located the draft of Nettle Creek. I know if I start rereading it, I’ll start rewriting it, marking changes in red on every page. My pensive mood will pass. I’ll be hooked and obsessed with writing again.

So here I am. The construction on my garage/loft/deck/entryway addition isn’t finished, but I have hired help to do the work. Bear has moved into his ‘project’, so there’s no need for me there. I have free time for the first time since coming here.

It’s sitting there, staring at me, daring me to pick it up. Nettle Creek: a fictionalized story of this very area: rural northern Minnesota. When I began writing the saga of Stella, I had no idea I would be returning here, that I would complete the novel on site.

Freakishly synchronistic.

Did I just say complete the novel? Okay, but not quite yet. Short days and long nights loom on the horizon. Right now, though, October’s Bright Blue Weather beckons me outside, tempts me to collect wild turkey feathers, harvest cattail bouquets, and breathe in the dusky scents of autumn.

But winter’s coming…

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.

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