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.
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!
“…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.
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!
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.
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.
Those two words more than any others have defined the past twelve years of my life. Make that thirty years. I was in my forties when I began to consciously focus on figuring out who I was and what I wanted.
I bungled it big time at first.
Because, at forty, I had deeply ingrained beliefs that worked against me. Identifying those subconscious dictators and changing the stories took a very long time.
Growth and change will always be my modus operandi, and the most recent development in that neverending saga happened on Valentine’s Day. I moved into my new home.
Gwen, W, and I loaded my earthly belongings into the back of the ‘Gator’ and bumped through the trees, a distance of about half a city block, from their house to mine. In moments, we had created an insignificant little pile of stuff on the floor just inside my door. I was home.
The house was far from finished but I knew I’d get more accomplished faster if I was living with the inconveniences day after day. Cabinet doors were painted but not hung. I didn’t have countertops. There was no cooktop or oven. I did have a microwave, a refrigerator, a Mr. Coffee, and massive motivation to get the rest done!
There were hurdles.
The countertop I ordered through Home Depot arrived broken in half. I reordered. Again it arrived, in their words, damanged beyond use. Three times I waited for a whole one to come. The third also arrived in pieces. I gave up and bought an unfinished birch butcher block slab. After immersing myself in DIY videos, I sanded, sealed, stained, and polyurethaned it hoping my inexperience wouldn’t be too obvious.
Cabinet doors went on fairly easily. The handles didn’t! I measured, leveled, drilled, and agonized. In the end, they looked great. Nobody ever needs to know where wood putty and paint mask the mistakes.
Then, the stove arrived. Don’t get me started! It was a brand new Kitchenaid range and I nearly burned the house down trying to convert it from natural gas to LP. It took Shanna, a brilliant technician from S & D Appliance in Brainerd, to whip it into working order.
………
Today, as I sit at my dining island writing this, every nook and cranny has a tale to tell. I know this house from the outside in. My sweat and blood stain its 2 x 4s. Choice expletives still echo from the rafters, reminding me that demoralizing setbacks are momentary and dogged determination yields bounteous rewards.
When there were things I couldn’t do myself (and there were many) Gwen and W came with the tools and expertise to make it happen. They have at least as much time, energy, and frustration invested in my home as I have. They remain an essential, much loved, and deeply appreciated part of my new life.
I wish I could give you an in-person tour of my sanctuary. But I’m here and you, my friends, are scattered all over the world. So photos will have to suffice for now. Here is my tiny home with industrial farmhouse decor at Granny’s Landing on the shores of Fantasy Bay.
Please, come in…
To the right of the front door, a black hall tree serves as a place to hang guests’ coats, with additional storage below the seat. Between that and the sofa is a forced-air furnace that keeps me toasty and oh so happy these cold, winter days.
My walls, ceilings, and draperies are white. The floor is weathered gray. A monster sofa with sleeper bed tucked inside is the color of oatmeal. That monochromatic palette gives me the opportunity to accent with bright colors. I love the handmade braided rug from India and the two throw pillows from Mexico. The black mining cart coffee table and the wire ceiling fan lend themselves to an industrial theme. The bamboo runner on the dining island is from Bali, as is the bowl with batik wooden balls on the chest. The hand-embroidered wool runner was my very first purchase in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I bought it at the Tuesday Market from the woman who made it. I treasure these collected bits and pieces.
Continuing around the room, we arrive at the kitchen. It’s a compact space adequate for my needs. I wanted a counter-height dining table and this set checked all the boxes. I chose the rich, mahogany stain for the cabinet countertops to mimic the dark wooden surface of the dining island.
The refrigerator cubby accommodates a rolling metal shelf unit for additional storage. Part of the yet-to-be-completed task list is a cabinet over the refrigerator. Patience! Good things come to those who wait I’m told. And note the container suspended from the wire rack. That’s a space-saving hanging trash can I found on the Temu shopping website. Hiding under the shelves is a bucket for compost. My recyclables go into separate bags stashed out of sight.
As we turn the corner, a magnificent, 7-foot handmade oak chest holds the TV, all my clothing, and miscellaneous necessities like drawing tablets, magic markers, paint, glue, you know…stuff. The chest was made by the father of a dear friend and has been sitting, abandoned, in Gwen and W’s unheated storage barn for ten or more years. It’s impeccably made. Nancy’s father was a gifted craftsman, and this chest withstood freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing over and over again to emerge in my home, unscathed.
Let’s swing momentarily past the bathroom door to the red chest. I found it on Facebook Marketplace for $25. It was a TV cabinet but now it holds my winter jackets, mittens, hats, a yoga mat, and a sewing machine. Anywhere my eyes come to rest, there are gifts from friends and family and tokens of remembrance from travels.
Everything delights me.
At the onset, I promised myself I’d have nothing in my home that made me cringe. At first, the glaring proof of my mudding, taping, and sheetrocking ineptitude embarrassed me. Now when people say, “You could cover that up with texture…” I say, “That IS texture.” It gets a laugh. And now, it feels intentional, part of the magic of a derelict hunting shack transformed but still hinting at what it once was.
Let’s proceed through the bathroom door…
This room is just plain fun. All of my plumbing drains live under the shower. That required some wild creativity. Fortunately, the ceilings in this tiny house are 8 1/2 feet high – not the standard 8 feet – so we had an extra 6 inches to work with. The shower tower soars a lofty 20 inches off the floor. To access it, I needed a large, sturdy platform and steps.
The black metal and wood staircase slides under the platform when not in use. I made the cushion and the shade from a quilt set purchased from Ophelia and Company through the Wayfair website. The two throw pillows came with it!
I’m equally thrilled and dumbfounded by the ease of shopping online. The towel bars, TP holder, and the hangers supporting the shade, are industrial pipes. A thin, black metal frame around the mirror and black wire cages for the old-fashioned exposed light bulbs add to the edgy-ness that is softened by the Parisian print fabrics. The Eiffel Tower is the epitome of industry. A wrought iron lattice structure on the Champ de Mars, “…it was the symbol of technological prowess at the end of the 19th Century…a defining moment of the industrial era.” (https://www.toureiffel.paris).
There is a caveat to shopping online, however. 99.9999% of the time the products require assembly.
Gwen helped me with the sliding barn door for the bathroom and the island table and stools.
When the hall tree came in boxes weighing more than we could lift together, we attacked that project with the confidence borne of ignorance and two successful prequels. Gwen can figure anything out. Really. But anyone watching us fight with that massive cabinet would have doubted it would ever hold together. W offered his help and we nearly bit his head off. He disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. As you can see from the photos, we did it. But no more. Neither of us wants to tackle anything like that again. Ever.
In the meantime, I was remembering how to sew.
The bathroom accessories were a great way to engage with the machine and practice. Gwen said it was like riding a bike – you never forget. Ummm, well, sort of. I was super happy that the instruction booklet was included.
When I first moved into the house, I tiptoed around feeling light-headed and giddy in the space, not quite believing it was my home, wondering what to do now that the major jobs were done. I didn’t know how I fit…where would I sit to write? Which side of the sink would hold dirty dishes? How many people could I comfortably entertain? I felt guilty curling up on my luxurious couch with a book. Surely there must be something I should be doing…
Those feelings weren’t surprising after ten months of constant, often back-breaking labor.
One morning about a week ago, I woke up grounded. Since then I’ve been my old self, journaling, yoga-ing, meditating, drawing, and daydreaming. Ah, yes. Daydreaming. Not of new vistas or grand schemes. I’m dreaming of a simple life in this community of old friends. Of planting and harvesting. Of being present with the seasons. Of contemplating death, not in a morbid sense, but with curiousity, aware that it awaits, and knowing that when it comes I’ll be ready. I have lived…I am living…fully and joyfully!
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.
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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!
After living in dense communities near pulsing commerce and throbbing nightlife in both Bali and Mexico, I could only theorize about peace. Quiet, for me, was closing all doors and windows against noise seepage and turning on Leonard Cohen.
What would it be like at Granny’s Landing with a mile-long gravel road to reach the blacktop, and the closest neighbor also that far away? What about the twenty-minute drive separating me from the nearest town, Palisade, MN, population 167, with a church, a gas station, and the local pub? I couldn’t imagine it.
Now that I’m here, my understanding of quiet has been radically redefined.
Deep and profound, the hush stretches unbroken across fields to the horizon. Sun-soaked or moon drenched, it envelops my senses and holds me in a womb-like embrace. Jangled synapses in my over-taxed nervous system relax. Sometimes crickets, sometimes the rattling bugle calls of cranes passing overhead, remind me that other life exists.
Actually, that’s not quite true about the distant neighbor. My sister’s front door is a short stroll from mine – like half a city block at most. But Gwen and W are family. They occupy a completely different category.
I’m staying with them while my dwelling takes shape and they’ll be my main social scene in the years ahead. We have extended morning coffee and hash over the latest breaking news. At five o’clock witching hour, we convene on their screened porch to recap the day’s events. Wine flows and our conversation morphs into deep philosophical discussions while sunset outlines the treetops in gold.
Wonderful family! They know what needs to be done, how to do it, and who to call if they don’t. They have a seemingly endless supply of saws, drills, hammers of all sizes, and motivation to get my house built. (I would, too, if I were hosting me!)
But when it came to installing my new windows, we needed help. At 10:00 a.m. this morning, reinforcements appeared on the scene. A van and a car lumbered toward me, a mini-parade kicking up a trail of dust. My construction crew had arrived.
Lofty, his right-hand man, Dante, and Gene, whose role remains a bit of a mystery, unloaded an impressive stream of power tools, looked at my plans, and groaned. “You want six windows across the front here? And three more in this wall? Nine windows?”
Of course, I want nine windows. The view is spectacular. I love light. And I think I mentioned that number when I hired you to install them.
I didn’t say it, but I thought it. Instead, I asked if there was a problem with my drawings because the installation of all my windows appeared to work just fine on paper. The three of them studied the diagram again and agreed that it could be done. I left them to it for a few hours. When I returned, the southeast wall as I had first seen it like this…
had been transformed to this!
The vision I’ve carried in my dreams for months, inviting light and sky and the tranquility of pastoral views into my house, is manifesting.
I’m addicted to the Tuesday Market in San Miguel de Allende. It is total sensory overload.
Sights bedazzle in a profusion of color. Tables mounded with clothing, jumbles of shoes piled high, cascading vegetables, fruits, woven baskets, serapes, electronics, tools, cookware, candy, makeup, toys, wigs, and handbags. Caged birds, bunnies, chickens. Flowers, handmade furniture…
…and sounds, a low burble of voices like ocean waves in the background. Strolling guitarists. Vendors yelling, Barato! Barato! Barato! to a chorus of chirpings, cluckings, and an occasional cockadoodledoo.
In the midst of that: Food.
Señors and señoras mixing, patting, grilling, frying, chopping, creating scents that tantalize, luring me to checkered cloth-covered tables with my plate overflowing. The air is chewable. Its drool-worthy aromas permeate every pore until the last shred of resistance succumbs.
When this food touches the tongue, long-dormant taste buds explode. The sauces, salsas, moles, the unique mixtures of herbs and spices, and the freshness of every ingredient, have made Mexcian food legendary throughout the world.
Do Not Touch signs don’t exist at the Tuesday Market. I cannot resist running my hands over exquisitely embroidered linens, absorbing the soft textures through my fingertips.
There’s a smaller version of Tuesday’s Market every Sunday. Some of the football stadium-sized structures sit empty.
There’s less congestion and fewer choices which isn’t always a bad thing. I’ve become a fan.
Last Sunday I went early and headed to the tables where dozens of scarves had been dumped in heaps. I love scarves and it didn’t take long for the world to dissolve around me as I focused single-mindedly on the hunt.
At one point I removed the glasses I wear for distance and hooked them in the V-neck of my shirt to better see the patterns up close. A tiny voice whispered Those aren’t very secure, you could lose them. I ignored it and continued my fevered searching.
After paying for the two treasures I found, I started to walk away. The distance was blurry. I reached for my glasses.
Gone.
Dismay buzzed through me. I rummaged through my purse and dumped out the contents of my shopping bag. Nothing. I patted down the front of my shirt, looked under the tables where I’d been standing, and started frantically ripping into the piles of scarves. In a combination of mime and frustration, I told the vendor what had happened. He, too, dug in, helping me look. By then, there were other people at those tables on their own personal mission. After a futile ten minutes, I gave up and left for home.
My emotions ran the gamut. I was angry at myself. Due to leave Mexico in ten days, I needed those glasses to navigate the massive Dallas/Fort Worth airport. As near-sighted as I’d become, deciphering gate numbers on the overhead boards to find my connecting flight in one of five terminals would be impossible. A shiver of dread replaced anger and dismay.
The next moment, laughter.
Truth was, I hated those glasses. I’d gotten them in Bali and specified to the optician that I needed correction for distance. When I picked them up, the young woman was delighted to explain that she’d made certain the glasses were not too strong so I could still see to read while wearing them. I felt irritation bubbling up. I could read just fine without glasses. I wanted to see leaves on trees and faces on people a block away. But, in true Bali-style, I swallowed displeasure, smiled, paid, and thanked her.
My distance vision was improved only slightly, and the frames I had chosen because they were lightweight and virtually transparent, were flimsy. But the purpose was served. As I transferred flights at multiple airports on my trip back to the States from Bali, I could see well enough to decipher signage.
From the beginning, my intention had been to get new glasses in Mexico. But I’d put it off. Now, with just ten days until departure, my hand was forced.
The joke was on me.
A tickle of excitement replaced dread. I searched online for optical shops in San Miguel. One had five stars and ten great reviews but the only pictures were of cute glasses – none of the shop itself. They had a Facebook page. I pulled it up and sent a message explaining the situation, asking if it was possible to get glasses before I left.
Even though it was Sunday and the shop was closed, within minutes I had a response. Come at 12:00 tomorrow and your glasses will be ready by Friday. Overjoyed, I typed in, Please make that appointment for me. I will see you at noon tomorrow. Thank you!
Even though Google Maps said it was an eighteen-minute walk I left the house at 11:00 a.m. My over-eagerness got me to my destination forty-five minutes early. I stepped through the open doorway into a space no larger than a walk-in closet and stopped. The gray upholstery on the three chairs lined up just inside the door was stained. Dingy walls hid behind taped-on pictures, notices, and advertisements that fluttered gently on breezes from the open doorway. Placards, a mirror, and miscellaneous clutter occupied every inch of the L-shaped, display-case countertops.
I’d seen optical shops at Luciernaga Mall. They resembled Visionworks, or America’s Best Eyewear in the U.S., modern, bright, and clean. But, I’d learned in Bali that businesses catering to ex-pats mimicked the slick appearance a foreigner would find comforting with pricing to match. Those that served locals always had a different aesthetic and more personal service at a fraction of the price. I proceeded into the shop.
A man and woman were seated behind the counter eating lunch. The woman stood as I approached. I told her I was there for my 12:00 appointment. I could see the man hurriedly wrapping his food. No! I said. Please eat. I’m early.
There were shelves of frames on the wall opposite me. I had just enough time to visually decide which ones I would try on before the young woman motioned me to join them behind the counter. I squeezed along the narrow space between the display case and the shelves of frames to reach the 3′ X 5′ exam area. It was only then that I realized the optometrist was in a wheelchair.
He was thorough and meticulously professional. When the examinations were complete I was told my glasses would be ready after 5 p.m. on Friday. I floated home, buoyed by happiness and relief.
Two days later, I set out for the big Thursday Market planning to locate the scarf vendor and see if my old glasses had been discovered. As much as I disliked them, it wouldn’t hurt to have a spare pair.
I arrived at the right location only to find that now it was occupied by electronics. I wandered until I found a couple tending tables arranged in a horseshoe shape covered with mountains of scarves. It was an area at least five times larger than the one I’d visited on Sunday, but they weren’t the same vendors.
To make certain my dilemma would be understood, I’d written the details in Spanish on a scrap of paper. I fished it out and handed the note to the woman. She read it and explained to the man what it said. They exchanged a few words. She told me to wait and returned a few minutes later to say that I should come back next Sunday. Those vendors weren’t here today.
I’d done what I could. I turned my attention to the hunt.
I like to systematically work my way from one end of the tables to the other. In this case, I had about six heaping yards of scarves to peruse. I was deep into it when, digging underneath, I touched something that shouldn’t be there and pulled out a black vinyl wallet.
Heavy.
I unzipped it and caught my breath.
Money. Lots of money.
There was no one around except the vendor man, and he was seated with his back to me, looking the other direction.
I have to admit, my first thought was to tuck that bounty (I estimated it to be about $500 US) into my bag and head for home. But my gut squirmed threateningly at the thought of keeping cash that wasn’t mine.
Minutes ticked and my mind raced. Nobody had visited these tables since I’d arrived so the item had to have been lost before I came. It was a woman’s purse – if I turned it over to the man I could just about guarantee it would never find its rightful owner. By this time I’d secured it in my bag and was innocently studying scarves. I decided that whoever had lost it would undoubtedly be back. I’d hang out there, minding my own business but watching for anyone who looked frantic. That seemed the best bet.
Forty-five minutes later, I’d reached the far end. Other shoppers had come and gone but no one had asked about a lost purse. I decided to rummage back through and see if I’d missed a particularly exquisite specimen when the woman who had helped me with my note approached. She said something in Spanish. In response to my blank stare, she whipped out her phone and typed into Google Translate then handed it to me. Did you find my black purse with money in it?
It was hers!
I smiled and nodded as I opened my bag, and said, Si, tengo. Yes, I have it. A strange look crossed her face when I handed it to her. She thanked me and I turned back to finish my task.
As always, I’d acquired a greater supply than I intended to buy. I weeded out a few, debated over one, a bold lavender and cream stripe, then discarded it and handed the others with the correct number of pesos to the woman whose wallet I’d found. She took the money, put the scarves in my bag, then paused. Slowly, she turned to where I’d tossed my cast-offs. Before I quite knew what was happening, the lavender and cream was in my bag. A gift.
As I walked down the mountain toward home, I pondered the strange abundance, the extra scarf in exchange for a butt-load of money. Again, I felt revulsion, the squirmy-gut nausea that had washed over me at the thought of keeping the lost purse. Bad karma.
The energy of this outcome was pure, clean, guilt-free. Dark thoughts silenced, the right choice had been made and rewarded. I had an extra scarf.
writing for self-discovery 
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