A Tribute

The County-Jerry and Rex (year unknown)

Travelinma is 10 years old today.  Ten years ago, my friend Jeff Kirlin encouraged me to begin a photoblog.  He had started one and was having lots of fun.  Having just returned to Maine following my first trip to Costa Rica, I had a slew of really great shots. Exotic location plus perfect lighting equals engaging photography, right?  So, on May 7, 2007 I posted a guest photo of a questzal taken with my camera (Panasonic-pocket type) by Ricardo the guide that led us into the Rain Forest on a search for the bird and other creatures that showed up like a sloth.

I had thought of myself as a writer until sometime in high school when the
English teacher marred by piece with a red pen. He offered little encouragement and frankly, I was a bit angry and discouraged. My image of myself as a writer was tentative. In college, my professor Jay Hoar who was a Civil War buff and writer helped me as we wrote volumes and read and read. When my twins were two, Jerry supported me in applying to Stonecoast Writing Retreat.  Lasting a week or two, that experience changed my life.  At that point, I hadn't done much writing beyond professional pieces like IEP and Assessment Reports as part of my teaching job until my youngest brood could fend for themselves.  Again encouragement from a friend Lynn Bonsey led me to the Maine Writer's and Publishers Alliance and my mentor, Susan Hand-Shetterly.  Without nudges, Travelinma would not exist as it is today.

For a long time, I continued to photograph my life, but the desire to marry image and words gnawed at they thirst to express myself in ways beyond photography.  Travelinma chronicles family-in good times and in challenging moments.  Travelinma seeks answers.  Travelinma shows the evolution of a woman who rediscovers herself with every new day.  Travelinma supports those dealing with loss.  Travelinma shows the frailty and the uncertainty of life, as well as the possibilities.  Travelinma records love.

Travelinma is likely to outlive me. Just think of that! Depending upon the technological format that my grandchildren will encounter, it is possible that they will learn about their grandparents and their aunts and uncles living during this time.  On that day in May a decade ago, never did I imagine that a blog, my blog would mean so much.

Happy 10th birthday to my creation, Travelinma.

is there presence in absence?

Her absence is the sky, spread over everything. -CS Lewis

We didn't have long to get use to the brevity of Jerry's life.  A week maybe.  Even then, we all thought that the "ox of a man" that he was would somehow pull through.

Still through the news, I tried hard to stay positive and in the present.  Now and again, while still in Boston, I would wonder through our house in my head, anticipating the emptiness, the pain.  I could not bear to dwell there for long.

It is true that I feel the absence of my husband in the home that he built and the house we raised our children.  Yet, I also feel peace.  I am drawn here.   It is familiar.  It represents my life.

Like Lewis felt his wife's absence in everything and everywhere, I feel Jerry's absence where ever I am. I carry it with me whether I am in the car, roaming the halls of the high school or running into the grocery store for fruit and milk.  His absence presents itself as a nagging, constant dull ache in the center of my heart.  I am reminded of him while I am cutting fruit, baking bread or making the morning coffee.  He is constantly on my mind whether I am brushing my teeth, putting on make-up or sweeping the floor.

I feel his absence all the time.  Does this pain I carry thwart my ability to feel his presence? Or do I feel his presence in his absence?

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.

A Full Bed

Ready for sleep, I see my bed is already full where one dog sometimes two, and three cats sleep.  With a sickly sweet tone I say, "Move over." Waiting a second for any sign of movement, I decide to turn down the covers and slide into bed anyway. Inch by inch I push my way with my legs into my own bed. I am teetering between the bed and the floor. "Impossible," I yell into the air and more gruffly order, "Move!" Nothing. I slip my hands under Rex's body and with all my strength I roll him over so I can get just a little room to sleep on my side in MY bed. Once I am fully on the bed, I realize that my 50 pound dog is on the top of the blankets and I can't cover to get cozy. Finally, I order him off the bed and quickly pull up the covers, my movements quick and jerky because I fear that I won't be settled  before he hops into bed again. This always ends with a chuckle.

The funny thing is this scenario plays much the same most nights, but it takes me by surprise each time it happens. A curious thing!

my room

Months passed before I realized the florescent stars that our son strategically placed about the room, twinkle above my head.  Each night I slip into bed, lay my head on the pillow and say a prayer or two with my eyes closed.  What else have I missed in the darkness?
  
Early mornings when the room fills with sun, three  cats  routinely lounge on the bed, doze and wake to watch the birds light on the feeder.  Every plant in the house is pushed against the south-facing window.  The red geranium is in bloom, a few petals loosened and lay on a leaf.   Narcissus bulbs forced propped against small rocks in antique pottery stand tall and green with a delicate array of white flowers.  Books are piled near the bed. Another stack sits near a chair, close to the window.  Here, I  watch the birds feed, read or sip tea. I sew.  I knit.   I write.  I contemplate life. I pray here.

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.

True Love

My husband built me a bridge to span
Across rushing water
Barren and silent in summer,
Thinning ice in spring,
The stream swells
To overflowing.


He strung a hand hold of
Ropes up the muddy banking
So I could scramble
Alone
Up
And scale
Down
Without a slip.


This walk
Gave us both peace
Any season,
Roots twist like veins
Along the path
Leading to the wide open field,
Where Rex
His ears lay flat
Runs at full tilt.
Woods edge the field
Rex leads the way,
Through the forest,
Blueberry barrens and blow-downs.

A remembrance of true love,
A wooden bridge
Spans a stream,
Waiting for me to cross.

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.

Home

How would my life be today if I never left?  

“Are you ever coming back?” my father asked after I told him that I got a teaching job in Bar Harbor.  I felt pretty lucky really.  Most of my friends who graduated with degrees in education were working in retail or banks.  Jobs in the field were scarce.  It was either move to Virginia to teach or move within my own state.

“Course, I’ll be back.  ‘Teach for a couple of years and then apply down here.  Ya, I’ll be back.” I replied.

My parents visited me in Bar Harbor.  I had been there only a few weeks, but somehow everywhere we went one of the twelve people I knew surfaced.  It gave the illusion that I knew everyone.  Truthfully, my world was two compacted spheres:  school and home.  Home had become a third floor apartment.  A one bedroom.  Upon first glance it was all I needed.  

I became lonely except for the times that I ventured down the steep set of stairs and into the living room to watch TV with the landlord and his family.  Soon I was apple picking at Merrill’s or eating a burger at Jordan’s. Slowly, my life expanded. Bar Harbor became home.

Today I sit in my mother’s kitchen.  I can venture into the living room where my father and I watched countless Red Sox games.  I can stand in the exact spot when I told him I would be back.  Regrets?  I have none.  Living in the same state bestowed me with the gift of coming home and caring for my parents when they really needed me.  

I love my husband.  I love my children.  My job.  The island where we live.  Most of all, I love the fact that there are two places that I can call home.  I am blessed to return to both.

mother earth

Come to think of it, when I was a child I spent much of my time close to the ground or in the trees. Alone. The draw for me in my neighborhood was an expanse of land referred to as Shaw's Hill.  At the edge  was a big estate lined with a thick stand of lilacs that created a natural boundary between the two properties; one manicured and the other wild, overgrown fields and hills leading to the creek and forest.  I spent days on the wild side attempting to fly kites, picking wild berries or sliding down the hill on waxed cardboard or toboggans. Summer days my mother would send me out to pick huckleberries or wild strawberries.  Once my cup was filled, I would lie on my back and watch the cloud formation; lost in the promise that the clouds would move and change. Other times I would just walk randomly through the field and when it felt right, lie on my back. With time I would shift to my side and open my eyes to ants and other creatures as I peered through the tall grass.

The sandy beaches near my home provided another place to connect.  Here the weight of my body was supported by the tiny grains. Comfort was gained from the soft breeze and constant shift of the sea. I was always at peace near the sea with sand between my toes.  It seems that when I was young, instinctually knew what I needed; drifting off to Shaw's Hill or the beach when I needed quiet renewal.

Now, I walk through fields and into the woods and crouch low under the tree branches.  Here I find a soft bed of pine needles and I rest looking up into the blackness of bare branches that nearly obstruct the sky.  I share this space with deer and other creatures. I am surrounded by sea here on this beloved island and I seek refuge taking long walks as the sea collides with the land or is calm and still. Clearly, I am drawn to the earth, the sea and the sky. Mother Earth provides.

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.

Escape Route

Any distraction will do.  I watch the tea bag float on top of the water. Deciding it needs to be immersed to steep, I lift it out of the water and plunge it forcefully into the water over and over until it sinks.  I am nervous. I swallow and listen, but I don’t want to hear.  None of the possibilities are good. Uncertain I can face this, I begin to imagine that I am walking through the woods.  The fog is low and heavy.  Pausing, I listen.  Peepers are near.  I walk toward the sound to forget.  Reality breathes; beckons me to return.

Coming Back

It has been a long long winter.  Too much time spent in my head.  Thinking.  My brain has been stretched and manipulated to a degree that it is worn out. Tired like an old rubber band fraying around the edges.  

The woods beckon me to venture into the dark where the moss come alive, emerald green. A path leads to high ground where  the blueberry barrens begin to buzz.  Life comes back slowly.  A pace all its’ own.  This is where I begin to unfurl. Life comes back slowly. Of this I am certain.

Space

Change isn’t so bad, is it?  My mother moved the furniture around every few months infusing a “brand new” perspective to each room.  I wasn’t married long when I tried this.  “What was wrong with the way we had it?” my husband asked, just a bit dazed as he walked through the door.  He dropped his lunch box and began to push the furniture around into position.  Each piece moved easily under his strength as though they were destined to remain in “their place.”

Fortunately, for my husband  our present home does not offer many options in the furniture moving department. (Gosh, maybe he designed it this way! I never gave it a thought until now.)  All of us dusted and cleaned.  We put unused items in storage and created areas of interest with photographs and mementoes. And yes, we did move a few pieces of furniture. Together, we created a space that is comfortable for family gatherings.  

We have lots of family gatherings-every chance we get and for any excuse.  Not only do our eight children attend, but there are also a few significant others that join in.  Sometimes it is pretty noisy in this great room with all the laughing and talking.  Often, I sit back in silence and just watch. And think, We’ve created quite a brood.

Not Your Typical Walk

Grit.  This word prompts much self-reflection.  Do I give up much too easily?  When I approach a task, do I have a preconceived notion about my abilities?  In a situation of survival would I tough it out or give up?

I had clawed over boulders bigger than my house.  My eyes remained straight ahead. I didn’t have the guts to glance over my shoulder to view the depth of the valley below.    Earlier in the day, my friend asked, “Do you want to go for a walk?” I tied my tennis shoes and we were off. I envisioned meandering through Acadia National Park's carriage paths-wide, suitable for bikes and horses. A walk.   Instead I dug my fingers into crevices in the rocks or anything that might provide a strong hold to move my body up the mountain. It had rained the night before and the trail was wet and slippery in spots.  Some transitions on the mountain provided iron rungs drilled into the face of the mountain-a vertical solid stone wall.  One of the problems was that the engineers placed the first rung at my five foot-two chest level. I had difficulty leveraging my foot in order to hoist my body onto the ladder.  It was only through grit and sheer determination that I was able to accomplish this feat.  The alternative was to proceed down the same way. I had fought my way up the sheer face of the Precipice.    Unfamiliar with this trail, I did not know if there was another way down.  My goal was to reach the top.  There was no giving up.

The Importance of Place and Time

There have been missed opportunities.  Storms have stacked up this winter one after another like bills, left in piles-expected, but not entirely embraced.  Out of shape, I am unsure that I can slog through the depths with snow shoes.  As I drive passed my favorite rolling hills with a perimeter of deep, magical woodland I long for those walks and Rex my dog gets excited. I feel guilty and recall a special day in April.

We decided to walk later in the afternoon when daylight stretched before us. Doggies in tow panting with noses smudging the car windows. Once at the field the dogs let loose running and zig zagging.  Trudging up the hill through the once tall grass pressed by winter weight, we sat. Then we lay on our backs.  Quiet.  Content.  Breathing. We squinted through the sun. Clouds filled the sky. We lost track of time.

A Study of the Horizon

Just a smudge separates sea from the sky. Each morning, I face the changing nature of the cove often prompting me to document through the truth of a lens.  The cove never remains the same, but is modified by the pull of the tide, the hue of the sky or the direction of the wind.  However, it is the horizon or lack thereof that is intriguing and draws me to stop, stare and ponder.  Some mornings, I squint through the gray matching sea to sky unable to discern the existence of a horizon.  I know that it is there.  Why the curiosity? Days that this line is distinct and thick like the mark of a fat primary crayon, I  still stare, awestruck.

Maiden Voyage

There is a certain allure to camping in your neighborhood.  Responsibilities at home prevented a trip away so we opted to stay nearby and play campers.  This weekend was the maiden voyage of our vintage Shasta camper that Jerry rescued from the strangling arms of a hunter who bore holes through the roof to accommodate a wood stove.  It was in bad shape. The weekend was a success with family and friends dropping in to visit.  The camp site brimmed with laughter, peaceful moments and good food.  I feel blessed.

Time

Summer stretched before me, expansive like the open field near my house.  The same place I would find little patches of wild strawberries early in the season, kneel before the ruby jewels, grasp each fruit and with a gentle pinch pop them into my mouth one by one.  The pads of my pointer and thumb would blush for days and smell of strawberries. 

Later in the summer, I would return and search for huckleberries and blueberries on the slant of the hill.  They were not plentiful and despite my best efforts, I would barely capture enough fruit to add to a muffin batter for the morning’s breakfast, but I didn’t care for summer was slow and there was always tomorrow.

Time is relative.  When I was young, time crawled at a snail’s pace.  Now, it is often a blur, however I can manipulate my perception of time by noting details and taking moments to recognize shape, shadow and hue of my surroundings slowing the pace. Mindfully, gratitude swells within me.  Those moments of contentment appear eternal.