Time Stood Still

He opened the choke, pulled the cord
it took a few times
before we were headed down
the pond
slowly,
he trolled for fish
through the no-wake zone.

The stern
was loaded with gear,
fishing poles,
tackle boxes
with sinkers, bobbers
and the latest and greatest
lures,
the bow was weighted down
with a canvas bag loaded with
books, magazines
a journal,
water,
snacks
sunscreen and natural bug repellent-
ready for the long haul.

Once in the open water

the boat sped passed
islands
rounded mountains ahead
evergreens shadowed,
we motored along
the outboard robbing
our sense of hearing,
sights heightened
thick trees as far as we could see
on either side of the water.

We headed in the direction of the beach
mounded with bits of pink granite,
he killed the engine in a cove across the way,
water lilies dotted the area
a warm breeze lifted the sweet scent,
he dressed his line with a worm,
flicked the pole,
the line reaching,
the boat drifted
and he paddled us
into the perfect position
where he swore he was going to
catch a fish,
while I snapped photos of the lilies,
read, journaled
leaned my back against the bow,
watching my husband
so happy
the sun shining on us,
as time
stood still.

Home

Winter clothes crowd my suit case,
I fully expected to walk along the beach
scarf wrapped
warming,
my boots sinking
deep into the sand,
but
instead,
I walked barefooted,
closing my eyes
pretending it was summer.

Whenever I visit home
I walk the beaches
where as a kid
I dug deep holes
until they pooled with water,
collected shells and sand dollars,
the expanse of ocean stretching to the
thin horizon line,
I imagined
floating out
to sea.


I am drawn to the sea.
Here I am home.

Off News

Life is overwhelming
enough,
I am off news,
but I caught glimpses
of PBS News
at a friend's house
the other night
and
learned about the bomb.

Fox News blares
while I get my car
serviced,
the more I try
to avoid listening
the more I hear-
strange thing.

This morning
I talked with a kindergartener
about chickadees and
hardwood trees
as we meandered
through the forest
with every student
and
adult
in my school
celebrating Earth Day
Arbor Day
beginning the day with
a hike.

I am off news
preferring the views of the
world
from a 6 year old perspective,
I like it that way.

Control and Order

The image begins to sharpen.
Before adjusting the lens
everything is a blur.
I see the little yellow birds feeding furiously.

For months now,
since shortly after Jerry's death
I have observed the living-
collecting data such as bird sightings and weather.

I thought that recorded observations would provide answers,
but instead
it prompts more questions.

Noisy jays visit one day and not the next,
this morning goldfinches perch
for the first time ever, feeding
while speckled starlings cling to the worn suet bag
and cooing mourning doves feed on the ground.

Carefully, I record the date,
the birds,
the temperature
and the weather.
I last filled the feeder yesterday.
Control and order
I realize
are really illusions.

My Island Guru

Living here on this
Island for nearly 40 years,
I still don't know which mountain is which.
You knew.
I didn't have to remember.
I had you.

I carried the notion
That you would
Live
Forever.
The ageless,
The tireless
Workhorse.

This summer
I will
Climb each
Summit,
And with each step,
I will remember you,
My Island Guru.

Post Script:  My husband and I purchased, renovated and opened the second B and B in Bar Harbor in 1984 and named it The Cove Farm Inn.  Bed and Breakfasts  were the rage.  It was the perfect fit for my husband.  As a native of Bar Harbor, he explored every nook and cranny of the island from the time he was a young boy until this past summer of 2016.  He shared his passion of MDI and Acadia National Park with the guests we welcomed from all over the world. He was referred to as "The Island Guru."  Visitors returned year after year.

Just What Is Going On?

I gently peel back the curtain, carefully revealing the light of day. A frenzy of jays are on the ground and on the platform feeder gorging.  A lone chickadee flits from branch to twig waiting a turn.  A couple of mourning doves feed on the mounds of seed that have fallen to the ground,  the result of the fights between flocks and the gulping appetite of aggressive jays.  A lone crow, slight compared to the thickness of the ravens who visited a few days ago is perched high in the craggy apple tree. Simultaneously a downy woodpecker flutters for space on the suet, the bigger hairy woodpecker gave notice and makes room. It is as entertaining as watching a three-ring circus. For three months, I have kept a log weather and of activity at the feeder.  For three months I have never witnessed a mix of birds feeding at once, always jays with jays, chickadees with chickadees and titmouse alone with their own kind.  Just what is going on?

For days we have been anticipating a big winter storm with nearly two feet of snow.  I think the birds are getting ready.  Keith Carson, our local weatherman says we are "going to be crushed!" I can't wait.

Take It All In

Take time to stop and notice.

The pull to engage

With the sea, 

Birds aloft trees calling.

Engage 

Breathe

Take it all in.

It is time to stop and notice

The way your hand

Feels in mine,

The shuffle of your step

Weighty in winter boots

Yet quick

Purposeful.

It is just us

Walking by the sea, 

The forest thick

Birds flitter

And sing

Nearby.

Stop and notice.

Breathe,

And take it all in.

Learning to Walk

Tufts of soft brown grass shoot through the mounds of snow as I trudge through  the deep on a wooded path made anew with white snow. For thirty years I've walked this wooded dirt road watching rain water carve into the earth, a pond disappear and one day running into the path of a coyote who wasn't frightened, but went to higher ground staring as we walked on.

My trainer says take different routes, try different workouts; you don't want to get bored. Yet, I walk the same path a few times a week, month after month. Some things remain the same. I find comfort and feel grounded in constancy day after day. However this path is a microcosm of static. Some days the waterfall is deafening whereas other days in the heat of the summer it is bone dry and with cold temperatures now within days it will be frozen and silent. I watch green ferns turn brown and wind blown trees once viable rot.

I walk this path reassured that there is an undercurrent of constancy in my life. I walk this path also knowing that change is a constant. Both notions fill me with hope.

Balancing

These days we are all seeking comfort.  Early this morning as I crept down the hall, I noticed nestled in the crook of the tree just outside the window, a squirrel.  His torso hugged low to the tree, his front legs outstretched with his chin resting.  Peaceful, that is until moments after I noticed him; he sensed potential danger.  From the slumbering perch, he was ready to leap, ears twitching and it appeared he was trembling.  I watched him leap to a nearby tree trunk, pause and leap again.  The leaves quaked under his weight.  I turned and went about my day wondering if he was really ever fully at ease or in a state of comfort.  

Soon after the squirrel incident, I made my way through the house and outside to be near the birds and foliage.  The sun still in that in-between state of warmth and heat filled the backyard with light.  In this place, I find comfort.  Closing my eyes I say a prayer, notice my breath and then begin to draw.

Next door, I hear someone yelling commands in Spanish.  The John Deer is zipping through the small patch of green. Someone else revs up the grass trimmer, then a leaf blower.  The succession of noise assaults the quiet.  My comfort is disturbed.  Like the squirrel I must be ready for disturbances that may prick my state of calm.  Isn’t it all about strategizing a balance of inner peace and inner strength?  In this day, both are important.

Urgings

As a child my daily routine included long walks along the brook that led me deep into the woods near my house.  There was a constancy in the forest.  While the level of the brook changed with the rains, a fat log, smoothed through years bridged Shaw’s hill where we sledded in the winter with the path that led to Indian Cliff.  Once on the opposite bank, I held my arms up and shimmied through a thorny stand of bushes thinking that maybe this time I would emerge unscathed. This opened into a field with a defined path that may have once been a gravel road.  Likely it served purpose to the one lone farm house within my vision; an intrusion that seemed to loom over me, as I turned my face toward the woods. Indian Cliff afforded an exhilarating rush of water, a near waterfall, more woods that if you walked far enough led to encroaching housing developments. Most time was spent near the water or exploring woods nearby.

As a child I listened.  I listened to the birds, to the crickets and to the rush of water.  But most importantly, I listened to myself. I listened to the nudges.  I listened to the urgings.  Go to the woods. Feed yourself with the earth. Inhale the intoxicating powers that surround you. I need to find that freedom to listen again. To go.  Be.

Paradise

The appearance of the cruise ships in Frenchman's Bay marks the beginning of summer.  (That and the black flies. Reports are that they are thick.) This morning we shared the shore path with a few tourists who stopped now and again to take photos.  I wondered if after all these years if I still viewed this place like a wide-eyed tourist.  Most days I think I do. Sometimes I stop walking and just gawk. Struck by the ever-changing beauty.

My adult children have moved away at one point in their lives, but have all returned home; to this. They are drawn to the diverse beauty-the sea, islands, mountains and lakes.  We have it all. Paradise.

noticing

The gravel shifted under my weight as I kicked a few pebbles and heard them scatter.  The road ahead seemed long and uphill.  I only had fifteen short minutes to walk during my lunch break. Inhaling I smelled the evergreens that lined the drive.  Infused with calm, I began to notice the woods, the different shades of green and the ferns once tight now unfurled.  Then. This.  I stopped. Wild strawberry blossoms. Soon the petals will give way to sweet little berries that stain my fingers with fragrance that lingers. My step lightened as I was transported to the empty lot next door to my childhood home where I discovered the tiny blossoms hidden under the brambles, impatiently waiting for fruit.

Contemplation of a Habit

At this point of the early evening, there ain’t much left.  Like every other working woman; I’ve worked all day rushed to two medical appointments, went to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription, dropped a kid off, picked another up, wrote 750 words, made a gourmet meal and I now look forward to a walk in a bit to clear my head.  

Once I start the habit of walking, I wonder why I ever stopped.  The routine soothes as does the normal route of travel-along the shore path and through town.  For a stretch of two years, I walked everyday.  Nothing stopped me.  A little grouchy, there were days that my husband would offer to cook supper if I just went for a walk.  My hope in life is always renewed after a walk.

For weeks now, I have been thinking about going to the gym. The reality is that I am just content to walk outside.  I tend to walk the same route, starting in the same location, but taking an opposite direction each day.  The view remains the same, but from a different perspective.  The tide changes and the light varies with the weather. Boredom is never a threat.

Tonight as I walk the path that winds along the craggy shore, I will contemplate all the good that comes and proceed through the evening content and at peace.

Unfurl

After a long long winter, 

We turn toward

The sun

And unfurl,

Anew.

Paradise

Driving along the rolling hills between Bangor and Bucksport, I noticed green. Seconds later I got my first whiff of cut grass.  Near the road a man was on the slant of a hill pushing something. At first I thought it might be one of those grass seed spreaders or push fertilizer mechanisms.  The aroma that never seems to grow old confirmed that he was cutting his grass.  A few doors down, two elderly men were talking as one sat on a ride-on  mower while the other stood near.  They were either contemplating cutting the grass or just taking a break.

Driving along with my driver-side window opened; heightens my senses of smelling and hearing, whether it be the smell of freshly cut grass, the clam flats as I cross the bridge or the sound of cardinal song as he is perched atop the highest branch. These experiences help me to appreciate the ever-changing cycle of time. Truly, we live in paradise.

First Sighting

I stopped mid-sentence, leaving my daughter on the sidewalk as I walked on the grass inching closer and closer.  Bending my head this way and that I wanted to get the optimal view with the blue behind for the perfect image.  My first forsythia sighting is a big deal.  They don't stick around long enough for my liking, yet it is a sure sign of spring.

Birthing

Delicate bursts of new green

Proclaim

What was bare last week

Is now made new.

A  wooded path

Meanders

To a tiny cove with

Chiseled shore.

An early morning walk

Reveals

Changes

As this island births

Another season.

A Balance

                                                                                                Summer Babies

Peering through the glass pane from inside, I just stared.  Six deer grazed in our field. A typical sight, yet for some reason I kept watching.  Three of them began to run this way and that chasing each other much like dogs would.  The rest had moved further from our house intent on feeding.  Looking up from play the trio raced toward the others munching.  Playfulness aside, the six did what you expect deer to do-they ate.  I had no notion that deer play since their very survival depends upon food, yet they wisely balanced work and play. A lesson for all.

Google It

My grandmother hid under the bed during thunder storms.  My husband watches storms from the shelter of our porch.  I am somewhere in between, but I can easily imagine coaxing my grandmother to move over to make room for my quaking body under her twin bed.  Now it is pouring.  Moments ago I thought I heard a rumble.  My brain tripped to a notion of safety-devices off, stay away from open windows and don’t take a bath.  Don’t sit under a tree, don’t walk in an open field and don’t decide to take up golf. Don’t.  Don’t. Don’t.

I realize I don’t know the do’s. You would think that such a fear filled brain would be able to recite the steps in dealing with any natural disaster and man made one.  I don’t know what to do in the event of a tornado.  Head for the basement?  When do I stand at the threshold of a door relying on the strength of the frame to protect me?  I don’t know. Is that during an earthquake? Some people sit in empty bathtubs, don't they?  My father was the protector.  He clearly trained me in the “don’t do’s”, but failed to solidify the ‘ disaster do’s.”

I have not heard any more rumbles.  Perhaps it was an isolated thunder event in the distance?  Maybe it was a truck driving past, but then again maybe it was an earthquake? How do I prepare?  Maybe I will just “Google it.”

Blessings of the Earth

Thick clouds cast a gray shadow over the daylight hours.

Nonetheless, I am drawn to sipping my coffee outside on the deck. Expecting to sit in quiet, I am witness to frenzy. Birds fly overhead this way and that and a chorus from every direction competes for sound space. I stand; my eyes scan the ink black tree tops. Everything is a shadow.  The squawky jays do not escape my ear. The smaller birds perhaps sparrows flit from tree to tree.  My untrained ear is of no use.   I lean against the side of the house in wait.  Uncertain of what I am waiting for I close my eyes and just listen.  I am drawn to the outside and realize just how blessed I am on this Earth Day.