Grandma Doss, as usual, said she didn’t need any gifts for her birthday.  But this was her 80^th and we wanted to do something special for her.  I knew she didn’t need any more “stuff”, but wanted to some way thank her for all she meant to us growing up.

As I reminisced about growing up with Grandma living right in our house, I started thinking about all the things we went over to “Grandma’s Place” for.  My father had built our house when I was five years old and when we moved in, so did Grandma.  She lived in the apartment over the garage.  To get to her house from ours, we simply went through a door across from the first floor bathroom—and that door was never locked.  Behind that door, we could have whatever we wanted. We rarely knocked.  We walked in quietly, asked her politely, and she told us where to get whatever it was we needed—unless we weren’t tall enough to reach it, in which case she got up from her well-worn spot on the end of her couch to fetch it for us.

Permission was always granted easily, but we knew to ask for it anyway.  Grandma’s voice, made gravelly by years of cigarette smoking, was still soft and sweet as she always responded to our requests with, “Of course you can.  You know you don’t have to ask.”  But we knew we did.

If I needed loose leaf paper upon which to do my homework, I knew exactly where to get it.  In her dark, carpeted bedroom I opened the left side door of the secretary and reached up to take my sheets off the first shelf.  If Mom was out of Q-tips, or band-aids, Grandma always had a ready supply in her hall closet.  If our family stapler was MIA, we could always borrow Grandma’s, but only after assuring her we’d return it.  We knew if we didn’t, she would come hunt us down for it within the next hour.

I decided to make a list of all the items I wanted to thank Grandma for giving to me and letting me borrow in my times of need over the years.  I then e-mailed my four siblings and asked them to send me a list of all the things they wanted to thank Grandma for.  I was delighted to read the responses and learned of the individual things Grandma did for each of us.  She was my sister Meg’s alarm clock.  Every morning, at that agreed upon time, Grandma would walk over to our side of the house and in a loud whisper call up the stairs to see if Margaret was awake.  Meg was also was the recipient of homemade school lunches that were the envy of all her friends.  Each school night Grandma would ask Meg what she wanted for lunch. The next morning, by the time Meg came down the stairs, her lunch was sitting in a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter.  If it was peanut butter and jelly, Grandma put peanut butter on both slices of bread so the jelly wouldn’t seep through by lunch time.  Grandma’s sandwiches were so picture perfect that Margaret always had offers from her classmates to buy them, but she never sold them—they were priceless.

I compiled the list, typed it up, and printed it out on a purple bordered sheet of paper.  I titled it “Thank you for…” and then listed all the things my siblings and I had remembered from the course of our childhoods.  I then framed it and wrapped it.  Grandma loved it and it was passed around to everyone at her party.  After that, it took up a place of honor on the window sill of her large bay window in front of all her plants.

When Grandma died a few years later, Dad took the list and had a bronze replica made of it, which now graces the back of Grandma’s tombstone.

My brother eventually moved into the apartment over the garage, turning it into his bachelor pad but still keeping that framed list on the sill of the bay window.

After my brother bought a house and moved out, Meg moved into the apartment. When I go home to visit and find, when cooking, that Mom is out of a certain spice, I head over to Meg’s Place. The tradition is carried on.

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Meg now shares the apartment with her fiancé , who, next Saturday, will become her husband:)

 

I knew this one would make a bit of a splash…I thank the editor of Busted Halo (Barbara Wheeler) for publishing it last week.

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I have a confession to make: I don’t go to church on Sundays. Nor any other day for that matter.

Click here to read more.

“Do you consider yourself an introvert or an extrovert?” he asked me. We met just three hours earlier, and already our conversation had covered religion and poverty, our life stories, and now personal reflection. But this happens all the time when I get in a conversation with the unconventional-traveler types: in this case, a couchsurfer. This guy would sleep on my pull-out couch tonight, and continue on his way the next morning.  I would probably never see him again, and that, I believe, is what drives travelers to waste no time getting into the deeper conversations.

I didn’t really know the answer to his question. So I tried to figure it out in his presence. “When I was little I was definitely an introvert — shy and quiet.” I thought back to those days of hiding out in my bedroom with a book or a craft project, convinced I was adopted.  How else could I explain how I ended up with four siblings who were like pinballs — shooting around all over the house? Those pictures of my mother in a hospital bed holding a newborn that was supposedly me? Staged.

I moved forward to my early twenties. “I took the Myers-Briggs in college. That said I was an introvert.  But I think I was on the border. Now that I think about it, what’s the real definition of the difference between the two?”

He smiled. I had apparently asked the right question to the right person. “Introverts have gotten a bad rap,” he explained. “People think introverts don’t want to talk to anybody. But that’s not it. It’s where you get your energy from. If you get your energy from being alone, doing solitary things, you’re an introvert. If you get your energy from being with groups of people, you’re an extrovert. I asked because you seem to float pretty easily between the two.”

I took this as a compliment and thought  back to a boyfriend’s father telling me I was great “conversationalist.” Then, I remembered a party my company held for our clients back when I lived in Boston. I had been with the company just a few weeks and knew hardly anyone, so I grabbed a glass of wine and started chatting with people. Then I excused myself to get some food, and sat down next time at a completely different table, easily making conversation with whomever I met. I continued on that way for hours. The next day my boss said she thought I talked to more people that night than any of the other employees.

But where is it that I get my energy? I thought of the mornings I used to wake up and write for hours without realizing where the time went. The days I spent in bed reading a  book I couldn’t put down. How much I loved cooking, my music blaring as I danced from fridge to stove to countertop. An introvert. Definitely. It all made sense.

Yes, I love to teach. And help people declutter. And I can hold my own at a party where I know no one. But then there are the days I spend roaming art galleries alone. Or entire cities. I’m the one who took off for Europe alone after college.  I wanted someone to go with me, but all my friends had taken 9-5 jobs with only two weeks off. Extroverts might then choose to go with a tour company, or not go at all. Introverts choose to go it alone.

This doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy spending time with others. Quite the contrary. But it certainly explains why I feel so run down when my week is booked with commitments. It’s much harder to hold sacred the time you book with just yourself. But this weekend I managed to do it. And that is why you, my wonderful readers, are seeing this blog post right now. 

 

Our new pope decided he preferred a two-room suite to the 12-room apartment his predecessors have occupied since the early 1900s. He cited reasons of simplicity and community. Simplicity is making news, but it’s not a new concept. Jesus inspired his followers to leave everything behind and, “Come, follow me.” But I don’t think Peter walked away from a 4,000-square-foot home with full closets. Are you inspired by Pope Francis’ choice? Or just looking for a way to bring a little more simplicity to your life?

Click here for more.

There he was again, up ahead of me on the trail, walking his bicycle, his backpack fastened to its seat. I had seen him a few times over the last week but never once did I see him actually riding that bicycle.

Click here to read more.

(I’ve gotten a bit behind on linking my bustedhalo.com posts to this site, so here’s one that was published a couple weeks ago.)

I’ve gotten a bit behind on linking my bustedhalo.com posts to this site, so here’s one that was published a couple weeks ago:

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Not too long after I returned from walking the 500-mile Camino to Santiago my mother said, “Your brother-in-law is very impressed.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He gave you three days.”

“Three days? He didn’t think I’d make it past three days?”

Click here to read more. 

She came up to me at the end of class, congratulated me on how well I’d done, and then said, “I have a personal question for you.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Are you dating someone? Or married? Or single?”

“I’m single,” I said, realizing where this was going.

“Well, I promise you I was paying attention to what you were teaching, but I couldn’t help thinking the whole time that you would be good for James.  He rents from me. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Thirty-six.”

“Oh, good.  He’s thirty-four. Would you….” She stumbled a bit over what to do next, but I knew how this went.  After all, I’d been in this same position just three weeks before. And told her as much.

I handed her my card and said, “Feel free to give him my contact information, and tell him he’s welcome to call me.”

The next day she called to see if I had plans for Easter, would I want to come to her place? I was sick and had already turned down two other invitations, so declined hers as well. She offered that she’d have me over another time. I wonder if this was her way of making the connection. I imagine not all men would jump at the chance to call a woman they’ve never met before to ask her out, sight unseen.  Though, now that I think about it, the one three weeks ago did just that.

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Maybe it’s because it’s spring. Or because I look like I’m in need of a good man. Or because my genes are too good not to pass on (yes, someone told me this.  I took it as a compliment). Whatever their reason, I’m fine with good-intentioned people expressing an interest in setting me up. I’ve heard dating is a numbers game. Just how many first dates does one need to go on is a question I wish I knew the answer to. 

“How were you able to take so much time off from work to hike the Camino?” a reader asked a few weeks ago.

The short answer is this: I resigned. However, you don’t have to leave your job behind in order to walk the Camino. If you’ve been thinking you’d like to take the journey to Spain to walk The Way, but are not sure you can take six weeks off, here are a few suggestions:

Click here to read more.

While unpacking, I came across a picture I’d drawn a few months ago. A small house.  A garden beside it. Two chairs facing each other, outside under a tree.

I stared at the picture. I’m in that house. 

Around the drawing I’d written phrases. As I read them, I couldn’t believe it.

 People will see my little house and say, ‘It’s so you!’ And it will be.

 There’s room for visitors inside.  They come. From near and far. Old friends and new. The old ones say, “I’ve never seen you this happy.” 

This is my attempt at a garden. It will truly be an “attempt.” 

 I’ll also have an outdoor seating area.  I’ll use it a lot, with my visitors especially, but it will also have a comfy cushioned chair where I write.  

 I had read many times about “visualizing” your future. I had never consciously tried it. The picture in front of me was something I did one day spur-of-the-moment, pulling out my markers and my poster-size post-its (since I can’t write on my walls). I was daydreaming about the tiny house I’d build one day.

As I pondered the images and words before me I noticed that nowhere had I written that I would build this place. And indeed I hadn’t. I had found it on craigslist just one week earlier.

I pulled up to it and tried to keep my feelings in check — I thought it was adorable but didn’t want to get my hopes up before I’d even walked in. But as I walked up to the door to meet the owners, I couldn’t help but hang my mouth open in amazement. I can see myself here. 

The owners took me through the front door and into the living room, and a great sense of calm came over me. This was it.

But you can’t make decisions so quickly, my rational side said. So I told the landlady I’d need to sleep on it.

I called Mom. I told her about the screened in porch and the babbling brook.”You know,” she said, “I only had one dream of your grandmother after she died. In it, she was rushing me through a small house to show me she now had what she’d always wanted: a screened in porch. And I think there was a brook beside it.”

An evening view from the porch into the bedroom.

I hung up the phone and called the landlady. It was mine.

I sent pictures to friends. Just as my drawing predicted, many of them said, “This is so you!” In just three days, I’ve had the visitors from near and far that I wrote about. The landlady has a garden just across the brook and said she’d be happy to teach me her gardening secrets. And that comfy chair for writing? It’s on the screened-in porch.

Until the weather warms up, this is where I have my morning tea.

The cabin has, in the past, been used as a vacation rental. The guestbook is filled with people professing their love for it, and for Asheville.

“My mother says a guestbook goes with a house,” I told the landlady, recalling the guestbook my parents inherited with their lakehouse.

“Oh, yes, I agree,” she said, encouraging me to continue it’s use. And I surely will. (Consider this your invitation.)

The pie safe in the living room…

The stained glass in the porch door.

Lift his beard to find a door lock.

The kitchen had no stove, but that wasn’t going to stop us. “We can just make a big salad,” Philipp said. We all agreed and off we went to the only market in town. Besides the lettuce, tomatoes, and onion we bought white asparagus, zucchini, and olives – things I had never put on salads back home. But I wasn’t home. I was in Spain, walking the Camino to Santiago and preparing dinner with people I’d met less than two weeks earlier — some of whom I’d spoken with for hours, others with whom I had not shared more than a smile.

Click here to read more.