Contemplation

blue lights hang in this space I call mine.

I have traversed the day foot following foot building nkt my home now, but my life. The path has bent and woven through rough terrain and smooth

and now I am back to the still pond looking at aged reflections of those I used to know some

I do not recognize. I wonder how wide swaths of my life were so easily forgotten but they say your brain can only hold so much and

files what you dont need away.

I feel as if I need all of it all of those memories that grew into me today

but of course they are so much chaff now more days behind than ahead and I can only move onwards into a construct as I go future.

I keep my love near me in white feathers pennies and dimes in odd places at odd times

I need no other.

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Home at last

For the last two months ive been living in a construction zone. You’ve shared the story of the reconstruction of my camper and my life and youve been so uplifting to me. The new is….

I’ve finished the other end. The end I had to reframe. Here it is.

Its bigger than the place I had been sleeping for the last two months, and I have my breakfast nook and table now.

The whole place seems bigger. There is all kinds of storage space for my books and dishes and food. It was such a joy to have someplace to sit and write tonight instead of going to a restaurant like Arbys. Such a joy to play music and sit comfortably and write, and read. I also found my Himalayan salt lamp, which casts a warm glow through thr whole place.

This is my home. It is insulated properly. All the dead wood is gone, replaced by new 2 x2 studs. It has new curtains and as I go along it will have new rugs, new wall hangings, and continue to change along with me. It is the first home I’ve ever owned.

I love my tiny home and I live in the best place on earth.

I am really home. I am home within myself, I am whole within myself; I need no one, because I am complete inside myself, but choose to be involved in this thing called life.

Life is a wonderful thing. If we blink, we miss it. I go to the water and spend my days gazing at the vastness of it and know I am exactly where I am meant to be. I am blessed.

The bench is framed and done!!!

Ive been showing you for weeks the bench on the end and today I got the tools I needed and the wood screws to do it up right–the top photo is what it looks like finished and the bottom are the original cushions before I covered them. The cushions pull out into a full size bed.

Happy Labor Day weekend from America!

Im so happy! I did this myself!!

Doors and windows oh my soul!

The door was next on the agenda today. I have had an unprecedented two days off in a row. I slept in. I woke up. I saw that door. And that was it.

The door had ripped paneling all along the bottom. I considered taking out the whole panel and buying a new piece. Then I remembered the great success of that hole in the ceiling I fixed and I thought why not? Except this time foam insulation wasn’t going to work because I couldn’t get a piece in the hole. I reached for the blue can of Great Stuff for Windows and Doors. I probably should have used the red can for gaps and cracks but this stuff worked pretty well!

Now. You have to be prepared to use the whole can when you initially use it because it can be self sealing, if allowed to dry in the tube sprayer. So if you only use a little and put the can away, you’re not going to be able to use the rest of it. Put down newspapers because you don’t want this stuff on your carpet or linoleum.

I sprayed it in the hole in the bottom of the door where I could see daylight in the frame. The outer shell of the door was in one piece so thats why this worked well. Had there been a hole all the way through the door I would not have been able to use the spray foam.

It sets up in about 15 minutes which is pretty quick . Don’t worry about if it poofs out. When it dries you can cut off the excess flush with the window or door. Here’s what it ended up looking like. I ended up spraying a second layer to get it all filled evenly. I trimmed the excess the second time.

It filled in the hole pretty well. And the outer shell on the door held it all. You can see why shoving a piece of foam insulation would not have worked well. I topped off this layer of foam until it filled the space evenly.

Then I got out my magic peel and stick laminate! (You knew that was coming!) That stuff is like duct tape. You can fix anything with it! An hour later, this was the finished product:

It isn’t perfect, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that no cold wind or snow will be getting into my tiny home this winter! I love the way it turned out. You can’t tell the laminate from the original paneling!

I also used the spray foam between the insulation I put on the wall:

Again, not perfect. Trimmed the excess and it worked just fine. I’m ready to cover it up with new paneling or fabric.

To celebrate the day’s work I bought red leaf mini lights on a string which made it look very festive! The more I do on this camper the happier it feels! It is home. I can’t wait to decorate it for fall.

To all my followers: thank you!

I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you for reading and following. That is such a compliment and I am humbled and grateful because you chose to follow me. Thank you for sharing my site with your friends on Facebook and Pinterest and Twitter and Tumblr and Google+.

Bless you all. You are all my tribe.

A writer or a dreamer?

I never seem to write enough or as beautifully as I would like to. I am listening to the sounds of the night while a soft breeze creeps in through my window. A lone cicada scrapes away as if hoping for a reply. I have Kate Rusby playing in the background; her album Ghost mirrors what I feel soul-wise and I feel stranded here and the world is strange to me as I carve out a life in this familiar yet unfamiliar place that is my home. The largest freshwater lake in the world is my heart, my mother, my world. It is she I have returned home to, her song I’ve heard in my heart.

Endlessly, like the sea she stretches onwards meeting the sky at the far eastern horizon in a blue line. Like the sea she has her moods and in her worst moods she has brought mighty ships down to her deepst depths. This lake that doesn’t give up her dead due to the extreme cold temperatures is unpredictable and I am hopelessly in love with her and have been since I was a child.

I wonder what life i am making for myself. It is easy to give myself over to my gypsy soul and be flamboyant and read tarot cards in public and do whatever jobs come up. I wonder vaguely if this is responsible –adult–and then I quail inside. My inner child rebels. She has had quite enough of being responsible and adulting as they call it now–she wants to play and blow soap bubbles with their rainbows undulating and shining in wet stripes as they are formed out of the breath of my lungs in that curious plastic loop and set free. It is a mini act of Creation, an imitation of the sacred act.

It is starting not to matter if I ever have a career. I have failed most miserably in this endeavor. I tried to have one and it was cut short by pay cuts and circumstance and maybe fate. I have never recovered it despite hundreds of resumes sent out. The collective no that is the silence of prospective employers never responding to my applications resounds.

And so I write. I write my story day by day for me, to prove I existed, I exist, I live, to spite mortality perhaps. My life is a homage to the man I loved and it has not been wasted. I have traveled the world. I have raised two beautiful sons. I am mother, sister, aunt. I am no ones lover, but perhaps that has been by unconscious choice since Jerry died; though we were never married, never acknowledged publicly, there we lived in a bubble for a moment where we found each other, understanding and kinship. Is it less for never having been a public thing or embraced in a togetherness all could see?

To me it is not less. I do not grieve less than the widow of 47 years. I am often breathless by the pain of it at odd moments, just when I feel I am healed at last, I’m over it. You never get over it. Ever. It just becomes bearable until it is not. Then you cry and feel and crumple and begin again tomorrow.

I wonder if I will ever love like that again, have a soulmate like that again. A kindred spirit. I soldier on. I open myself to meet others. It curiously doesn’t happen, the meeting new people along with possible bonding. Maybe I am so powerful I am stopping a new love from happening because I am not over this. Maybe I am not desirable. Maybe I’ve had the only love I will ever have.

These thoughts swirl around in my head as I go on with my life and improve my camper and myself. I wander over the lake shore daily, no longer questioning what is on the other side. Sometimes I feel as if I am staring across mortality as if my life stretches interminably ahead, and I cannot see what will come, and I am overwhelmed by having to live so long . It seems empty to live without someone who loves me back I can look after.

I shake myself out of this blue state. I read Joyce Carol Oates’ memoir A Widow’s Story and I relate. And then I remember I am less than a widow. I loved a man who never married me or dated me or anything. I loved a man who spent hours picking my brain and talking with me and confiding in me, who made me laugh and who enjoyed giving me things to read and watch and listen to. I loved a man who dated others while we wrote back and forth over the years, while I dated and married another. I loved a man who is now dead, having never married who died alone in bed, and only his books, a Masters thesis, my memories and a headstone are testament to his existence. And one photograph.

I am less than a widow. My love was invisible. Perhaps not to him, but to the world. What am I who feels a widows pain but am not a widow? I feel somehow wrong as if my love was wrong, as if it belongs nowhere, as if it should not exist.

Yet I loved and still do. I wish to love again and I fear I will not and I fear I will not be loved. I am most alone but content in that slowness, curiously enough. I live day by day awkwardly, fumbling, in my hometown that is unfamiliar and familiar.

Lola, a hot day up north, the lighthouse clock, and the contact paper that saved my world

I had a day off. I tried not to look at the bench bed that needs fixing. Instead I took a deep breath and went outside. I went out to a place with Wi-Fi and I did some of my contracted writing that I do for a blog a friend of mine has for his business. Four hours later, work completed, I went to my storage and put some items up for sale. When I was finished with that, I got some corn starch so I could thicken the chicken chili I had thrown together in the Crock Pot the night before. I got some contact paper for a dollar at the dollar store because the wall behind the stove in my tiny camper was old paneling and it had little screw holes in it and I didn’t feel like tearing it out from behind the hood and having to buy a whole new piece of paneling. I don’t have a lot of money. Getting back on my feet and all.

I then vacuumed out Lola. I named the camper Lola. Lola needs love. Not huge amounts. Just little loves as we all do. She was all clean and spic and span when I got done vacuuming and wiping down the cupboards. She seemed like she felt better. So did I. I had felt cluttered and flustered about that bench framing project and about not getting the big stuff accomplished like the skirting.

I was still looking at that big construction project in the corner and worried that I wasn’t getting anything done. As I’m cleaning.

Here’s the chicken chili.

So my mind was taken up by that bench bed I needed to frame most of the day. I went and got another curtain for the window that didn’t have a curtain.

I put the contact paper up on that plain white paneling behind the stove. Bought a battery for my lighthouse clock. Its Lake Superior. Lighthouses are a thing here. I love them. I drove to the cemetery to visit someone I love and cleaned off his headstone.

This is the after shot of the wall behind the stove after I put the contact paper up. Plain white wall before.

Then I realized how wrapped up I’d been on the big project I hadn’t noticed what a big difference the little things I’d done all day made. I got a lot done. I got work done. I got work done on my home….a few improvements that to me made a big difference. What do you think of what I’ve done?

The camper smelled good from my chicken chili bubbling in the pot. My floor was clean. My clock was ticking away in a homey fashion. My curtains made the place look more like the gypsy caravan I was going for, and I felt good being in my Lola camper. I felt at home. Home.

Saturday, in which I do absolutely nothing

Saturday is always been a fun day to me, and so I hope you enjoy your Saturday and the rest of your weekend, I remember to stop and take a look at the little things once in awhile. The little things are important, and often the most beautiful.

Freedom

Today is the first day of utter independence on anyone other than myself. I have a camper. In my last entry I was a little disgusted with the economic conditions that put me in a camper. I was a little scared about living full time in a camper particularly in the wintertime. The encouragement I received in the comments helped clarify my mixed thoughts and I realize now I have been handed what people say they want but find so difficult to have because they are chained to a mortgage or a job they hate or five thousand other reasons why they cannot live in a freer, more minimalist manner.

I have been planning how to fix up my camper and decorate it, and it definitely needs a few things.

1. A good coat of paint on the outside.

2. Foam blown insulation just to make sure I don’t turn into a frozen corpse this winter.

3. A couple panels replaced for cosmetic reasons.

4. A mini refrigerator.

I have unloaded a lot of things and my storage is not full, but I do have insurance in the form of some very nice furniture I got fairly inexpensively that I can sell if I need more money. I have a good enough job. So this is what I have done.

1. I created a budget that allows for some wiggle room but not much.

2. I donate plasma for a little savings and it makes me feel good to help people too.

3. I write on a weekly basis for a rat trap blog called the British Rat Trap Company. Most of the blog entries on there I have written. You guessed it. The owner sells Fenn traps from England. He is from England originally. It is great fun for me to write and a good little side income. It is different but part of a plan to do what I love and I love to write.

4. I made a short list of supplies I would need to fix my camper. I’m so glad the exterior is tight and waterproofed.

5. Today I went swimming in my lake to celebrate my new lifestyle. (Lake Superior if you are new to my blog). I spent 25 years longing for this place I call home, and now I am here. This is the best benefit of all. I can go to the lakeshore anytime for free. People spend thousands to come stay here for a summer and I can be here for free.

I realize I have also been given a great opportunity, a gift as you will as a writer, to share my adventures in my caravan with all of you so I will take you through my year to come living this way and hopefully see the blessings in what I call “tiny living.”

Up North—47.7°N 87.5°W

I was sitting with my cousin today in northern Wisconsin where we live and we hadn’t seen one another in twenty five years. She asked me why I came back home because she was curious. What brought me back? I knew right away what had brought me back. An ancient lake singing an ancient song to my soul, a lake old as the history of the earth itself. As the earth shifted over thousands of years and magma flowed, the treasures of the lake, its amethyst, iron and copper, as well as living treasures in the form of 80 species of fish, and forest and fauna slowly developed. Lake Superior is an ancient prehistoric valley filled with water. It is so deep–1,332 feet at its deepest point and an average depth of 500 feet. Human history is young in comparison to the ancient lake. Whispers of the past come to me:

Ochiptwe Gitchi Gamee (Ojibwa big sea water)

Lac Superieur (Upper Lake, French, 17th century)

Lake Superior (British Anglicized name, 1760’s–because they thought it larger and thus “Superior” to the rest of the Great Lakes).

It is the largest freshwater lake in the world by surface area. Nipigon country and the river of the same name in Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada, is a primary and largest inflow; there are over 200 rivers that feed it. It has the highest elevation of the five Great Lakes, and drains into Lake Huron via the St Mary’s River. These are the facts. But there is something more; something alive and vibrant and ancient and pure that sings on despite clashes with people and their desire to take from the land without giving back.

(Image from CBC.ca)

The lake has an aura of mystery about it, that morning mists illuminated by slow sunrises seem to magnify; home to wolves at Isle Royale, whose mournful cries are the song of this Great Lake’s spirit. For it does have a spirit; a strong one. Humanity has never conquered it. It has seen ice ages come and go and been the home to many peoples over many thousands of years; the Plano, who created dugout canoes and hunted caribou after the retreat of the glaciers in the last Ice Age, the Shield Archaic people, hunters and miners who developed trade networks, believed to be ancestors of the Ojibwa and the Cree; the Laurel people who developed seine net fishing, Algonquian people who hunted and fished, developed snow shoes and birch bark canoes, and tribes who have lived around the lake for 500 years before white Europeans came–Dakota, Fox, Menominee, Nipigon, Noquet, Gros Ventres, and Anishinaabe. Their pictographs can still be seen; humans the second hand of time; the lake, timeless.

The lake calls you home. No matter where you go or what you do. It calls to you.

I left home tethered to it; wandered around the world half-listening to the song of that great inland sea not realizing how fully it was a part of me.

Most of the towns that grew up on its shores describe bays and what treasures were found in them: Beaver Bay (prized for hats), Silver Bay, Taconite Harbor, Agate Bay; or portages when the French explorers came–Grand Portage, Little Marais, Grand Marais, or names of the many falls around the lake–Chippewa Falls, Eagle River Falls, Sturgeon Falls, Gooseberry Falls. The list goes on and on. There are many more falls than those pictured below:

There is much to write about as I listen to Superior’s song, a song that is the song of my life wrapped up in this place I carried with me to the other side of the world. It is a lake of stories and I will add mine to the ancient ones it holds.

We must begin with the Ancient Stories. They may be true for the truth is so often stranger than fiction. So the journey begins. In tandem this lake and I. Its voice tells me this story and I understand it. We must honor the spirit that lives within us even if it seems frightening for in that chaos of darkness and upheaval that lives inside of us is a path that if we are brave enough to walk it leads us into sacredness. My journey as well as the journey around the Lake is circular.

The Anishinabe tell of the great underwater lynx like creature who lives in the depths of Gitchigumi – the creature called Mishi Peshu or Mishipashoo. He is the ulitmate metaphor representing the power, mystery and innate danger that comes from these sacred waters. With razor like spikes on his back, the face of a lynx or panther, and the body of a sea serpent, this creature demanded respect. The Anishinabe offered tobacco and prayer to the creature spirit before they embarked out onto the waters in their canoes. The calm waters of Lake Superior can be quickly transformed into raging squalls and huge waves from the northern, north-eastern, and north-western gales that often suddenly crop up. These gales sweep over the open water, quickly picking up momentum and causing huge waves, some up to 40 feet high.

(Credit: Chi Manidoo)

There are many more stories and I will tell them to you. Look for more. Listen to the song as it unfolds.

Walk with me.