Capturing the Scent of Well-Being

I am a part of a writing group that receives prompts each month from the librarian on Monhegan Island, a place that I return to twice yearly, and find soothing to my sense of well-being. In June, Mia asked us to send scents to each other. Most of us, despite good intentions, did not manage to do this.

 But the idea of the prompt took hold of me, and while I was sitting in Gull Cove, one of my favorite places on the island, I was inspired to write about a scent that pursues me, and that I, in turn, pursue. I was nestled in a crevice in the great rocks that overlook the ocean there, comfortably supported by the warm rock, cooled by the wind, and energized by the nearby crashing waves.

It is subtle here - not as pronounced as I have experienced its cousins in other places. You have to breathe deeply, and it only comes to you at the very tail end of your breath - a small tease inviting you to try again to more fully capture its essence. 

But each breath can only do so much, can only bring in air until your lungs are full, then, no more. And no matter how deep, no matter how prolonged and drawn out, no matter how fast or painstakingly slow, each breath can only offer that almost imperceptible jewel - the elusively subtle sea-salt air that is particular to Monhegan. 

It is so different from the scents of Cape Cod that hit as you drive over the Sagamore, or the boisterous boardwalk-infused sea air of the Jersey Shore or even of Florida’s sun-baked beaches. Monhegan’s sea air is more retiring, unwilling to flaunt itself, and in its rarity, all the more precious. 

Wishing I could capture it on a cotton ball or in a paper cup, or send it to myself in an envelope marked “Special Delivery”, I take another breath, in the hopes that I might be able call this scent to mind when I return home.

A Centering Place

Whenever I am at home in Vermont, I like to make a daily trek to this little stream that runs behind our house. Sometimes I carry a stick of incense, but I always bring a little bit of well water from our tap as I make my way along the wooded path my feet have created over the years. When I arrive at the stream, I offer a prayer of gratitude for the beauty of the day - whether sunny or rainy, warm or cold, and for the gifts that life brings to me. Sometimes this is a highlight of my day - recognizing the simple gift of being alive and able to take in the beauty and sources of wonder evident all around me.

Once my prayers are done and observations of all there is to be grateful for feel complete, I settle in at the edge of the stream and watch the water flow for a while. If I am feeling off, unsettled in any way, spending time with the stream helps. As the water flows, my frayed nerves calm down. The waters refresh and soothe me, clearing my mind of chatter and worries. I like to imagine the water washing my cares away, carrying them down stream and out to the sea where they are diluted into the vastness of the ocean.

This ritual grounds me in the place that I call home. It helps me to feel more centered, especially when facing challenges or dealing with worries. The picture above shows the spot where the water pools and some incense burns over it. You may be able to sense the peace and calm of this place through my words, but it is even more likely that you are calling to mind a place that offers this sense of centeredness for you. I encourage you to go there whether in person or through your memories, and let your heart be at home for a while today.

Like a Butterfly

When Gary and I stopped in Virginia to spend a week with Sarah and Kyle, their neighbors, Debby and her daughter Callie invited us to come over and learn how to work with stained glass. During the pandemic, they had set up an entire studio in their home so they had everything we would need to try it out. When we arrived to take them up on their offer, Sarah and I were entranced by all of the beautiful and unique stained glass pieces displayed throughout their home.

Downstairs in the workshop, we each chose a simple pattern to work with - a butterfly for me and a hummingbird for Sarah. Our hosts assured us that if we caught on, and they were sure we would, that next time we could make something more interesting and complicated. Speaking for myself, this project was just the right amount of complicated for my first attempt, and the process itself certainly proved to be plenty interesting!

With our patterns in hand, we looked through several rainbows worth of colors to find just the right ones to match the finished products in our imaginations. We cut the glass carefully using special tools, and then sanded the edges of each piece with a grinder. This was the first aspect of the process that worked on me like a meditation. Holding tiny pieces of glass up to the grinder as the machine spun, my attention was transfixed as I watched for the moment when each edge perfectly fit my pattern. 

Once they had been ground just right, Callie showed me how to apply a special metal tape around each piece. Some more grinding was in order as I refit the pieces together with the tape in place. Once the tape was secure, it was time to solder the pieces together. This turned out to be yet another opportunity for mindful focus as it was tricky to get the solder to lay down smoothly with no bumps or sharp spots.

Since I wanted my butterfly to have black edges, the last part of the process was to coat the cooled solder with a patina, let it set overnight and then buff it into a nice shine. Saying a grateful "goodbye" along with deep appreciation for Callie and Debby's patient teaching, I was excited to bring my butterfly home.

I learned more than the basic skills of working with stained glass during the hours I spent bringing my butterfly into being. As I said, it was a meditative experience in many ways because so much of the process required patiently shaping and reshaping each tiny piece of glass until all of the pieces fit together just right. It was a deep teaching about the importance of paying attention to detail and of the value of each and every part of the larger whole, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant it was. Every little piece of glass mattered. Paying careful attention at every stage of the process made a difference in the butterfly and in me.

Henry David Thoreau wrote, “Happiness is like a butterfly, the more you chase it, the more it will evade you, but if you notice the other things around you, it will gently come and sit on your shoulder.” As I was learning how to work with stained glass, a deep sense of contentment settled on me. It came to me as an unexpected gift that I had not even thought to pursue. 

My completed butterfly in a sunny window at home in Vermont. 

(I took this last picture, but all of the previous ones were taken by my daughter, Sarah Colletti.)

...And Every One, Unique

Gary and I arrived at one of our favorite beaches at low tide the other day. The sheer quantity of shells caught my breath. Searching for shells under normal conditions, when they are scattered sparsely across the wide sandy landscape, is one thing. It becomes something very different when you are confronted with such an abundance of riches. 

You may have noticed that when you are looking for shells on a beach, it is the rare ones that capture your attention. Shells seem to lose their cache' when surrounded by seemingly thousands of lookalikes. Ironically, and sadly to my mind, this is true even of colorful and intriguingly shaped ones. 

To counteract this, I find that I want to appreciate each shell for itself, for the beauty it offers in the pattern of color that sweeps across it, or the unique design of the material from which it is formed. This became more of a possibility for me today when we again arrived at the beach at low tide. Instead of setting up my fitness device to start measuring steps as I usually do, I made the conscious decision not to think of this as a form of exercise. 

I simply started walking. Actually, I started wandering down the shoreline where the waves were receding. As one does in meditation, I cultivated a soft gaze. I was not actively looking for anything, I was simply opening myself up to the time and place, availing myself of the opportunity to take in whatever caught my attention. 

As I walked, I felt peaceful. I didn't feel the need to rush or to arrive at some particular destination. The shells shone up at me from the sand, and I felt like I really saw each one. I noticed colors and shapes. I stopped often to pick up a shell that seemed especially interesting so that I could feel its texture. Some were brittle and paper thin, which others had what seemed to be years worth of accumulation built up on the original shell. Some were intact while others were mere fragments of their former selves, having been pounded by the relentless waves tossing them up on the shore and drawing them back into the water over and over again.

The uniqueness of each shell reminded me of the value of seeing myself and others as I was learning to see and appreciate the shells, as unique and beautiful. This is true even if we are a bit brittle or broken at times. That soft gaze I spoke of at the beginning of my walk, the one I learned in meditation, helps me look at myself and others with the eyes of the heart rather than just in physical terms. This is probably the best gift we can give each other. It is also a pretty amazing gift we can give to ourselves, to see and recognize the unique beauty we bring to the world around us.

Practicing Presence: A Consideration of Loyalties

Gary and I are spending a couple of months in Florida this winter, staying in the condo that my parents left to us. As a person who has lived in the Northeast all of her life, it feels strange to be in the land of sunshine and warmth while my friends and neighbors back home are shoveling snow. When we used to visit my parents here for a week or so, it always felt like I was cheating on Vermont, engaging in a clandestine affair with the warm sunshine and welcoming ocean. No matter how difficult it might have been, going back home to the snow and cold always seemed like it was the right thing to do.

My attitude shifted the January we returned to the Albany, NY airport after a huge snowstorm. Stumbling off the plane as we entered the chilly terminal, we were in shock after having worn shorts and swim suits for a week. Before going any further, we stopped to pull several layers of clothing out of our luggage as insulation against the cold air. 

A little while later, the shuttle dropped us off in long term parking where we trudged through several inches of snow in our sneakers. Our car was barely visible. Having forgotten to bring the proper equipment, we scrounged around and seized on an empty Christmas cookie tin to scoop the snow off of the car. This was followed up by scraping the windshield with credit cards in order to create a window of visibility. Driving home that night, we questioned our loyalty to the "frozen tundra" as my former mother-in-law used to refer to it. 

After that wintry re-entry ordeal it was not that big of a jump for us to consider spending more time in Florida once I retired. We listed to ourselves and any skeptical friends all of the reasons for our escape - Gary's neuropathy was much better in the heat, I could swim every day, we could write in peace and quiet, and we both knew we would be recharged by walking on the beach which was no more than five minutes away.

Being in Florida, I can say that all of our reasons for coming have played out as well as we hoped. There is an ease that comes from being in an environment that does not threaten you with freezing temperatures or blizzards. The basic warmth, regular opportunities to swim and our proximity to the ocean for daily walks have all contributed to a real feeling of being welcomed here. Sure, we miss our friends. We miss our home in Vermont and the beauty of her wintery landscapes. We miss our sweet cats and the cozy wood fires that heat our house, but we are assured by conversations with friends and texts from our house sitter that these will all be waiting for us when we return. 

Do I feel guilty about escaping the cold? Well, maybe a little, but honestly not nearly as much as I thought I might. This is causing a bit of an identity crisis for me because I like to think of myself as a hardy Vermonter. It is kind of confusing to find myself so comfortable and even complacent with the life we are crafting in Florida. I am starting to feel like I might have a split personality - one being the kind of person who hauls in firewood and walks outside every day no matter how cold it gets, and the other being a relaxed connoisseur of sunshiny warmth and ocean waves. 

This might be confusing, but I also am starting to think that it is just fine.

For years my mindfulness practices have attempted to convince me that being fully present in the here and now is important. I have always found this ability to be elusive, as my mind keeps wandering here and there worrying about what I might be missing out on, when I am attempting to meditate. Mindfulness teachers encourage me to cultivate the ability of being content wherever I find myself, no matter where that is. 

Is it possible, then, that what I am experiencing is a bit of that mindful feeling of presence?  Is it possible that my being content here in Florida, even while knowing I will also be happy in Vermont is an example of mindfulness in real life? I sure hope so. I would love to think that all of those hours of meditation practice are finally paying off.

In Situ

When the sun came out after a cloudy morning, I decided to take a walk. I love to feel the winds blowing and watch the leaves float through the skies. As I walked a variety of leaves of all colors and conditions caught my attention. Some drifted down to the dirt road, while others caught along the side of the road, landing on piles of their older neighbors. The phrase "in situ" came to me. It means "situated in the original place". 

I thought it would be interesting to take pictures of the leaves exactly where they fell, even if that meant a background of dirt and rocks or decaying brown vegetation. I found it meditative to walk along noticing but not moving anything as I recorded the truth of what was. Often the sunlight cast interesting shadows and patterns of light on the leaves, or the wind blew offering a new perspective in the moment.

As usual, what was going on outside of me caused me to reflect on my interior workings as well. How do I fit into my surroundings? What kind of contrasts do the colors, light and shadow create around me and within me? What does "in situ" mean for me as I feel my way into the next phase of my life? I don't have answers, although I enjoy writing as a way to explore thought-provoking questions. And maybe it is like the leaves I photographed today. Maybe each background against which we find ourselves offers a new perspective? Maybe there is something I can glean from each place in which I find myself, whether that's walking along the road, on my couch with a cat on my lap as I meditate, kneeling in the garden planting garlic, driving to town with NPR on the radio or sitting with the sun on my shoulder as I type out some thoughts?

 

Rainy Day Respite

It's a rainy day in late August. Despite the fact that there is much I had hoped to accomplish today, I find it important in this moment to just sit here sipping my tea. The raindrops slipping down my window in their slow, steady way remind me that not everything needs to happen quickly.

Sometimes I need an excuse, like the rain, to stop, to sit, to rest a bit. It seems strange that I often don't just give that gift of time to myself. Some of us need the choice to be wrested from our hands before finally breathing a sigh of relief and pausing our frantic busy-ness.

I meditate each day and have been for years now. The funny thing, though, is how some days I hear the ending gong of my meditation exercise only to realize I have been thinking of other things the entire time. It is really difficult to slow ourselves down, and even if we manage to stop the outer activity for awhile, our brains tend to keep right on plowing ahead with thoughts, plans and worries.

With the rain, I give myself permission to read a little longer than usual, getting caught up in the world of my latest book. Joseph Campbell once said reading a book for pleasure is like giving the mind a much-needed vacation. I wholeheartedly agree. Some of us have minds that are too busy to relax on their own. Reading gives our persistently anxious minds a chance to rest. For me, reading is a cozy rainy day for the mind.