A Pilgrimage to the Familiar

 

Every September for the past several years, Gary and I, along with our good friends, Meredith and Ray, make our way to Monhegan Island in Maine. It is a place that I have written about before. Ten miles off the shore, Monhegan is an island inhabited by artists and writers in the summer months, some of whom fell in love with the island long ago and some, like me, who are relative newcomers. 

During the colder months the population dwindles down to about 45, the town water supply is shut off to protect pipes from freezing, most business shut down or depend on the honor system. I have tried to imagine what it might be like to spend a winter there, hunkered down in a cozy cottage to focus on my writing. I wonder if I have what it takes to make it through the isolation and the cold. Would my fascination hold? I like to think so, and maybe some day Gary and I will try it out.

For now, we limit our visits to the "shoulder seasons" of June and September when the island is a bit less populated by day trippers and tourists. (Yes, I know I am technically a tourist too, but loving and spending time on Monhegan when she is a little less hospitable feels like it might win me some small concession in that department.) Remembering to bring my down coat in June, climbing into a full set of rain gear to walk out to the edge of Lobster cove's rocks in a storm, singing at a Jamboree lit by kerosene lights as the evening cools, are all gifts of this time of year.

September is beautiful there. Purple and yellow-gold flowers are in bloom. Migratory birds can be prolific, as can be the butterflies. Sunsets are amazing, and there is nothing like exhausting yourself out on the trails all day before coming back to the cottage to toast the sunset on the porch before settling in for a good meal and a cozy evening with friends.

As I prepared for this latest trip to Monhegan, a friend suggested that I consider it as a pilgrimage. The idea intrigued me. I thought it might deepen my experience in ways that simply showing up for a vacation would not. And so, I brought my journal along and committed to write in it every day. Most days I sketched as well, despite the fact that I really have no talent for that kind of art. ("I am an artist with words" I like to assert, "but not so much with any other methods.")

It felt like my time on Monhegan did go deeper in response to seeing it as a pilgrimage. I was less concerned with doing things and more content to simply be. It felt good to show up for each new day with an open mind, willing to let it unfold as it would. I found myself trusting that whatever happened, wherever I wandered, and whatever I did, would be just what the moment called for, and for the most part this is exactly how it felt. 

Coming home is always a melancholic experience. Leaving behind such a special place and such a golden time is not easy, but somehow when I left this time I felt more prepared for the re-entry back into my everyday life. It felt like I had gleaned what I needed to from my pilgrimage, and would be returning home a little more centered for the effort.

Old Treasure & New

I find it really difficult to sort out trash from treasure. Sure, I have heard Marie Kondo's suggestion that I hold each item to see if it sparks joy and only keep those that do, but sometimes the memories attached to things are so strong I can't decipher if there is joy in the mix or not. 

Recently our small town library had a yard sale. Folks set up tables and artfully displayed their wares, hoping someone would choose something they were ready to part with. My intention was to bring a whole carload of things that have been accumulating on our shelves over the past several years. As the day approached, it became obvious that I had not done the necessary weeding out work in preparation for the big event. Sure, I had a few boxes of things to offer, but truthfully, they barely scratched the surface of all that we would like to move along to a new home. 

In the midst of all that did not "move along", Gary and I did decide to bring a couch that has been a part of our lives for many years. It was gifted to us when some dear friends moved out of state several years ago. It wasn't really their style or our style either, but it came with the story of our friendship and some good memories. In my office at the local college, it offered a safe space for students to sit while engaged in wonderful conversations during the years Gary and I worked there. We brought it back to our house when the college closed, but it never really seemed at home here. It's formal airs seemed daintily at odds with our overstuffed couch, pine tables and braided rug.

It is so much easier to part with the things that hold a place in our hearts if we see them transferred safely into someone else's appreciative hands. This is exactly what happened when we brought the couch to the library's yard sale. I did some research to figure out an appropriate asking price, and soon a young family came over, exclaiming about the color, the style, and how it was just right for their home. When I told the woman who the former owners were, she was thrilled, telling me that our friend's book was her favorite childhood companion. As we were talking her daughter came and plunked herself down on the couch, settling in comfortably. It seemed the decision was made; the couch chose its new family just as clearly as they had chosen it.

Where Does the Time Go?

 

Time is such a slippery element of our lives. When I was working, somehow I accomplished everything necessary at home while also managing to carry on a full time job. Now that I am retired, I often get to the end of a day and find myself wondering, "what just happened here!?" The days pass weirdly slowly, but in what should be the opposite, they also go by in a blur, with less accomplished than I had hoped for at their dawning.

A few weeks ago my sister called to ask if Gary and I wanted to join them for a long weekend in the Finger Lakes. Sue and Mike wanted to check out some of the many wineries in the area, and had found a cabin on Cayuga Lake that had a beach for swimming as well as paddle boards and kayaks that we could use to explore the lake. My gut response was, "Oh no, we can't do that. It is coming up too fast. We don't have time enough to plan." But I took a breath, as I am learning to do thanks to several years of mindfulness practice, and asked myself, "well, why not?"

A week later, having made arrangements for our cats to be cared for in our absence, we loaded up the car and took off for the adventure.

What amazed me about those days was that there seemed to be enough time to reconnect in a meaningful way with my sister and her husband, as well as to relax and enjoy the cabin and lake. We sat on the dock to watch the sunrise, sang songs around the campfire with the folks at the cabin next door, we paddle boarded north one day and south the next, and swam for a while when we were hot and tired. We even saw a golden eagle when we were paddling, and a brilliant rainbow stretching from the sky down to the other shore after a storm. Somehow we also had plenty of time to hike to a waterfall in one of the famous gorges, and took in more than six wineries, breweries, or distilleries over the course of our time there.

When we got back home, I was slightly bewildered by all of the exceptionally fun things we managed to accomplish in such a brief time. "How did time stretch so far?" I don't have an answer, but maybe it has something to do with truly being present in each moment as best we could. All I do know is that I am going to keep practicing. Maybe I'll get even better at it, and learn how to stretch out the rest of my life in some amazing ways?

Everyday Rarities

I walked out onto our deck the other day and noticed Ayla, our black and white cat, staring reverentially at the sliding glass door. I turned to see what had caught her attention and was greeted by this Walking Stick. I watched it with much the same reverential attention as Ayla, turning to my cat to make eye contact with her and let her know I appreciated that we were sharing a special moment together.

As we watched, the insect kept crawling across the glass, onto the wood siding, and eventually across the whole side of the house. He was up pretty high, and I worried that he might fall, but I couldn't do anything about that, except to send him my good wishes and prayers for a safe journey. When he turned the corner I walked around to the other side of our house, but could not find him again. 

When I looked up Walking Sticks to learn a little bit about them, I was surprised to discover that they are not at all rare, but they are masters at disguising themselves. People who make it their business to know about them claim that these insects are probably right in front of our eyes quite often. They are so good at blending in with actual sticks, trees, and leaves that we can look right at them without ever seeing them.

Those of you who know me, will understand how this idea tickled me. I am fond of the fact that we can glean wisdom from the world around us if we will only take the time and make the effort to open our eyes, ears, and minds. It is all too easy to miss the gifts of each and every moment of our lives when we are caught up in the busyness of all there is to do. We take ourselves pretty seriously, and so it can be difficult to slow down and notice what can seem to be insignificant details.

We like to think that a cursory glance can tell us enough about a place, a person, an article, or anything, really. But the truth is that taking our time to really look, and to ponder, giving ourselves enough time to discern the difference between a twig and an insect for instance, is a deeply meaningful way to make our way through a moment, a day, a lifetime.

and off he goes...

 

Be Here Now

 

There is such a profusion of beauty in the natural world. The other day Gary and I took a hike on Endless Brook Trail, which is near our home in Vermont. We came upon these flowers at the beginning of the trail. They arrested my attention, as the person who planted and tends them was most likely hoping they would, and I am grateful for that. All too often I plunge from one thing to the next, checking things off of my "To Do" list as I turn my attention to the next thing on said list.

These flowers stopped me in my tracks (tracks that were heading rather quickly and single-mindedly to the summit of the trail), and I am glad they did. They reminded me that it is not just the summit that is of value. The means by which we get to the goal of our climb matters too. In this case, the trail itself and everything it contained was worth noticing. For instance, the name of the trail comes from the brook that runs along it for awhile. The water goes underground for long stretches and then pops up again so it seems to be endless.

As a result of slowing down, Gary and I took in the beauty of these flowers and all of the bees, butterflies and other insects who were visiting them as well. A little further on, we saw a frog in the pond, well-camouflaged among the lily pads he was resting on. Every few steps along the trail, mushrooms of various wild colors caught our attention. They ranged in hue from pale white to yellow, from orange to bright red, and from the tiniest perceptible dot to saucer-size platters scattered among the leaves, roots and ferns.

Of course, we did reach the lookout at the top of the hill after a good while climbing, and the view was nice to take in. Gary and I sat on a fallen tree in what little shade we could find and munched on snacks of walnuts and red grapes along with sips of refreshing water as we looked out over Lake Saint Catherine. Far below we saw boats circling lazily, and above them, some raptors cruising the skies.

On the way down, I stopped at the stream and took off my shoes, sitting with the water as it moved by, and watched the play of sunlight reflected from the water onto the bank across from me. Small fish swam near me, checking out my toes while some curious water creatures who looked like sticks with wiry appendages moved with jerks across the sandy bottom.

Ram Dass is known for his philosophy and book titled "Be Here Now". It is a phrase that I thought I understood when I was first introduced to it, but my earliest impression was just scratching the surface of its possible meanings. I like to think I am getting better at truly understanding it as time goes on. Days like this one, when I can reflect on so many small, interesting and beautiful things that captured my attention tell me I just might be getting closer to not just comprehending what it means to Be Here Now, but actually living it.

Floods

Vermont was in the national news recently due to the abundance of rain that has drenched our state. Roads, bridges, farms and homes have been damaged by the floods. In some cases they have been washed away. 

When the storms were just beginning, I had an appointment in a town that is about an hour north of my home. Listening to the weather reports and reports of the damage suffered by towns not too far from us, I was worried about making the drive. But I decided to go ahead, taking care to pay attention to any advice my smart phone or the Vermont Public reports might offer.

Gary and I drove north, through some pretty intense rain. The tire track lines in the roads were heavy with water, but not really overflowing. In fact, when we arrived at our destination, the rain was light and didn't even require an umbrella. Even so, we decided to keep our errands to the necessary, and headed home as soon as those were complete. The drive home was a little less rainy, but reports of road closures became the litany that accompanied us for the entire ride home.

We arrived home safely, somewhat shaken by the experience and especially by the reports that we heard of so much destruction. Several days of rain resulting in worse flooding than back when Irene hit Vermont, left us and our garden soggy, but fine.

Almost a week later, Gary and I were back in Middlebury, in the evening. We were drawn to the bridge right in the middle of town that goes over the Otter Creek. The water was high. It was forceful as it pushed against an island of trees that are usually not right in the middle of the flow. I took the picture above, sort of as a reality check, reminding me of the strength of those waters. Also reminding me of the fact that despite humankind's technological advancements, we are still subject to the very primal forces of nature.

My heart goes out to those whose lives and livelihoods have been upended by the recent floods. Any one of us could be in their shoes in the blink of an eye. Life is such a tenuous gift. We do well to live each day fully, and to support one another with kindness and healing acts of generosity.

 

Nothing To See Here!

The other morning I took a trail out to the northern end of the island on which I was spending some time. When I emerged from the tree covered trail onto what is labeled on the map as "Pebble Beach" two women were there already. One was sitting, looking out to sea but the other was curled up in a fetal position with her back to the water, her face tucked in and eyes determinedly shut. I couldn't help asking if she was alright.

"There is nothing here," she said, gesturing wildly with her arm without changing position. "I carried my painting supplies all this way and there is absolutely nothing here to see! Nothing worth painting, for sure!"

I looked around at the large, colorful rocks that make me think Pebble Beach was named by giants with a different sense of proportion than me. I looked at the shoreline where I could see some cottages hunkered down near the water's edge. I looked out at the small islands where I knew I would see seals if I was patient enough to wait for them to move. I looked at the sky and the water surface where ducks, gulls and cormorants lazed around, and I wondered how she could possibly think that there was nothing here to see. 

Her friend ventured a careful suggestion that she needed to look around, and I might have said what I was thinking out loud, "it helps to open your eyes, if you want to see anything." 

I walked away, to a place where I could get closer to the water, took off my sneakers and socks and settled in for awhile, soaking my feet and watching what was going on in the natural world. The water was bracingly cold, as it slipped over the kelp, moss-covered rocks and my feet in a way that soothed me and also woke up a lot of nerve endings. 

I felt bad for the woman who lay curled up with her eyes closed. She reminded me of how easy it is for us to shut ourselves off from joy if we are not willing to be open to simple pleasures and small joys. 

When I am having a bad day, an approach that helps me climb out of the doldrums is to pay closer attention to every little thing around me. I might go outside and encourage myself to look for something interesting, surprising or beautiful - a tiny yellow flower blooming in the driveway, an ant carrying a crumb leftover from Gary's and my breakfast, an orange butterfly flitting past, a bird singing or a chipmunk insistently chirping nearby. 

When I am in a funk, it is the little things that lift my spirits more than anything else. Mostly, it is the things I might not notice otherwise, the things it might be easy to pass over with barely a glance, declaring, "there's nothing to see here!" But my eyes tell me otherwise, especially when I keep them open, especially when I am willing to look beyond the surface and wait for the details of each place to emerge more clearly, to show themselves to me. That is when I recognize that there is plenty to see here, plenty to take in and appreciate, plenty of things that make the journey well worth my while.