Remembering, When It's Gone

The breeze, with its sounds of leaves brushing past other leaves, played its fall melody. Such a glorious song. Leaves floated down, like red and yellow notes descending on a page of music. I felt like I was in church. Not the church of Sunday sermons and crowds. Rather, the quiet of a church in mid-day, when no one is there. Just the hush and the colored light streaming from the stained glass windows. 

It got me to thinking about one of my favorite topics, the cycles of the seasons, the metaphors of life. How there is this last remarkable display of colors--that final push of what is left. How, during the winters of life, it can be hard to remember the potential a living thing holds. 

I had been listening to Sarah Bareilles's new song, "You Used to be Mine," from her musical score for the Broadway-bound show, Waitress. The woman at the song's center has lost herself, has forgotten all the vibrancy she used to hold. The winters of her life piled high and hard. There is one stanza that really hit me:

It's not what I asked for/ sometimes life, just slips in through a backdoor/ and carves out a person and makes you believe it's all true/ now, I've got you.

Give it a listen here.

I can't imagine there is a person who has not felt the same, at one time or another. That sense of losing your best self, the spirit that sustains you. Yes, there are people who manage to have a tighter hold on that, but I have learned that they, too, have periods when they lose their colors. 

To some degree, starting this blog was my attempt to get back to the part of myself that drew energy from the harmony in the world around me. Taking pictures, celebrating the glory of a walk in quiet woods, thinking about the poetry in life, listening to music that resonates, connecting with the people who matter most and also appreciate those things--all of this helps give meaning to my footsteps on this earth. All of this is creates the rhythm for my beating heart.

As I walk upon these remnants of the past seasons, I hear the music that lifts me, I feel the breeze that strokes my cheek, and I recognize I have a desire to see what is next. 

Stonington, Deer Isle, Maine

Thirty-two years ago, I left my childhood home on the edge of the Great Plains and drove, solo, to Maine. You see, as long as I could remember wanting to live somewhere other than where I grew up, I had wanted to live in New England. My parents had honeymooned there. They were Easterners (I was born in NJ), and I saw how my mom pined for the trees and familiarity of the East. We often vacationed there in a rental cabin on the Jersey shore. My love for the ocean came early. Family pictures at the beach during those vacations are often missing me. I was in the water. 

That love never left. I grew up knowing that I wanted to live near the Atlantic (something about the depth of blue in the water in the late afternoon, when the sun was behind us--it's the opposite on the West coast). The colonial architecture and history of New England, as well as the pictures of autumn leaves, enticed me. So, with a potential teaching job on the horizon, I packed my Chevy Cavalier over a weekend and off I went. 

Lots of living has happened since then. Some dreams filled, some not, and some have changed. However, one thing that I do manage to do is get to the ocean. Kayaking has brought me even closer and led me to this exquisite place on Maine's northeastern coast--Deer Isle/Stonington. No more words. As you look at these pictures, be sure to imagine smelling salt air and rosa rugosa. This place is saturated with those aromas.

It is possible to melt into this. 

Summer Nights and Screened Porches

It is the start of summer--officially. One of the places that brings me contentment, especially at the end of a work day is my tiny, screened, front-porch. It's hidden from most eyes by the lilac, hydrangea, and blackberry bushes. The evening air is cool, but not cold. The evening sounds surround me, muffled and soft. Birds, occasional cars, the faint voices of neighbors, the distant barking of a dog. If I listen really hard, I think I can hear the peepers down by the river. 

The drink in my hand is an unsweetened ice tea, clear and cold, with a slice of lemon for brightness. I do some focused listening. For a minute, I'll focus on any bird sounds--or one bird to another. Then, I'll focus on human sounds, then back to birds. After five minutes of this, I am at ease. The guitar comes out of the case. It's timbre, mellow, in the best way. I'll sing, because no one can hear me. Joy tip-toes back into my soul.

Summers are short here, which makes this time on this small, screened porch all the more sacred.