Maine and the Miracle of Being
When people hear I’ve been to Maine, several times, they often tell me how much they’ve always wanted to go themselves and are eager to hear what it’s like.
So. You know those calendars featuring scenes of New England? The white chapel with its bell tower set against a hillside of bedazzling fall foliage? Or the iconic lighthouse perched atop a craggy cliffside? Well, the pictures lie. The reality is even more drop-dead breathtaking.
Maine. With ninety percent of its land covered in forest, the state strikes me as dark and deeply mysterious, like the ocean that surrounds it to the south and east. And what an intrepid, enduring people, those Mainers. They remind me of how much we are shaped by our external environment.
One afternoon, my sister and I were eating lunch inside a restaurant overlooking Penobscot Bay. It was the only overcast day during that visit, winds gusting up to thirty miles per hour. We watched a woman in the distance walking briskly along the boardwalk, her hood cinched tightly around her head. Her arms were folded across her chest, fists tucked under her armpits. She had a fierce, defiant look on her face. I imagined her skin as tough as an elephant’s. Gleaming bright blue eyes with wrinkles fanning out from the corners like sunrays. A makeup-less, no-nonsense woman who had weathered, and been weathered by, the elements. Yet beautiful--intimidatingly so. She seemed to me Maine personified.
One of the things I find most refreshing during the two-hour drive from the airport along Route 1 is this: there’s not a single chain restaurant or strip mall. Only quaint gift shops, fresh produce stands, and down-home diners. I sense an originality and genuineness lacking in most suburbs. A sampling of what awaits.
Many years ago, my sister and three dear friends moved into a three-story Victorian in Rockland. When they first moved, the house was in terrible condition, long neglected and unloved. My sister and her extended family worked for months making repairs, painting the home’s exterior and interior in bold, primary colors, and planting an extensive garden. When they were done, a passerby stopped in front of their house, rolled down her window, and thanked them for fixing up the place. Other locals, upon seeing their inviting garden--complete with tables for al fresco dining, fountains, and trellises strung with lights--asked if they were a restaurant.
Inside the house, rooms are chock full of artwork, books, games, toys, crafts, stuffed animals—you name it. Many of these items have come from thrift stores and yard sales or from people who know that my sister and her friends will take in just about anything broken, discarded, or forsaken. Surprisingly, the house doesn’t feel cluttered. In fact, the total effect is nothing short of magical. When people enter the home, the hope is that they might see an item or a piece of art that will transport them to an earlier time, when they viewed the world through the open, imaginative eyes of a child. I am reminded of Joanne Harris’ Chocolat, how one woman, using her unique gifts, transformed her sleepy small town into a place filled with wonder and magic.
Two of my sister’s friends, a husband and wife, are full-time artists. One of the things I find most extraordinary about Robert and Su.Sane’s work is their approach to painting. They paint simultaneously on the same canvas, their work entirely driven by intuition. One makes a mark here, the other a mark there, and back and forth they go. In this way, or so it seems to me, the ego and the notion of “masculine” and “feminine” are transfigured in and through their art.
I’ve been buoyed over the years by my heartfelt conversations with my sister and her artist community, their invitation to persevere regardless of commercial success or outcome. After my visits, I always resolve to write more and care less about where it goes. To trust the voices that come to me and believe that what I’m writing is serving a purpose, even if it is only to feed, enlighten, and transform my own soul.
My trips to Maine also remind me of what a gift it is to be fed, to feed others. I often stay in a B & B a few blocks from my sister’s home. Each morning, I wake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, fried bacon, maple syrup, homemade breads, and scones. In the evenings, my sister and her friends, who all love to cook, insist on feeding me lavish dinners. Upon entering the door, after a day of writing and sightseeing, I am greeted by mouth-watering aromas: roasted vegetables, stewed cinnamon apples, or some other savory comfort dish.
We typically eat by candlelight. A bottle of red wine and mismatched bowls and platters set on a creatively appointed table. Soft music playing. This isn’t a staged production, something rolled out just for company. They dine like this all the time. Their hospitality inspires me to be more creative in my own weekly dinners and to pay their kindness forward, so that others might feel as pampered and loved in my house as I have felt in theirs.
Image source: culturehoney’s book review.
On one visit to Maine, my sister and I visited one of my sister’s favorite bookstores, the very cool Meetingbrook Bookshop and Bakery, housed in a small cape built in the 1700s located on Camden’s harbor. I was elated when I ran across a book by John O’Donohue. I had read his book Beauty the year before, and now that I’ve read Anam Cara (or soul friend), O’Donohue has become one of my favorite spiritual writers.
Here’s a passage from Anam Cara that seems to capture the sense of awe and gratitude I feel whenever I travel to Maine: “It is a strange and magical fact to be here, walking around in a body, to have a whole world within you and a world at your fingertips outside you. It is an immense privilege, and it is incredible that humans manage to forget the miracle of being here. . . . It is uncanny how social reality can deaden and numb us so that the mystical wonder of our lives goes totally unnoticed. We are here. We are wildly and dangerously free.”
Blog cover photo by Mercedes Mehling on Unsplash