Saying Goodbye

Dear Readers:

It is time to say farewell to Lost in Maine.  After moving to Maryland last fall, both the title and idea don't seem right.  The 131 posts helped me sort out many things over the past few years, the biggest being that I truly found my adult self in the beautiful state of Maine.

After 22 years there it's on to another adventure on the Eastern Shore.  Yes, I miss Maine, but have no regrets-this is where we are meant to be at this time in our lives. And of course I am still ruminating over life and my part in it, so I invite you to check out my new blog Mockingbird Journal.  I hope to have it up and running in the next few days.

Thank you for the many thoughtful comments I've received. I feel sad, saying goodbye, but it's time to move on.

With love,

Julia

Quiet Mystery

It has been a wild few months...endless unpacking, lengthy lists of minutiae, too many new experiences to count.  Truthfully, there have been times when I wasn't sure I'd make it to the next day.  But here we are, happily, on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

Although I have tried to continue my contemplative practice each morning, I confess to taking shortcuts at times.  That hasn't done me any good.  My spinning mind just whirls ever faster and the day gets off to a frantic start.

The photo above is from a nearby walking trail near our house.  It's a perk we didn't know about when we bought this place.  Since I've yet to get a piano studio together I try to take this walk several afternoons a week.  It has become a touchstone for me and I call it my River Monastery.

Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing
their colored clothes; caps and bells.

                   And then
once more the quiet mystery
is present to me, the throng's clamor
recedes: the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed One, You still,
hour by hour sustain it.

"Primary Wonder" by Denise Levertov

Leaving Maine

Exactly one month ago we said goodbye to our beloved Maine and began our trek to Maryland, slightly over 700 miles away. For several weeks we'd been packing non-stop.  Oodles of trips to Goodwill, the dump and Home Depot for boxes, wrapping paper and tape. We couldn't have done it without Pamela and Sarah, who packed the never-ending kitchen, and Debbie, who adeptly crated up the prints and paintings.

A couple of days previously my dear friend Christie flew to Maine from Connecticut in order to drive my car, loaded with plants, garden statuary, booze and anything else we couldn't put on the truck. What a gift!  It meant that Bill and I didn't have to drive the 700 miles in tandem. She stopped for a few days in her home of Stamford, then brought the car on to Maryland.  

I've had my piano moved many, many times and I honestly don't want to count them.  Even though it strikes fear in my heart, it is actually an interesting process.  The 3 legs are carefully removed as the piano is turned on its side.  The piano is then wrapped in blankets and strapped to a special piano board.  These movers also put shrink wrap around it as an extra measure of protection.  Above you'll see the piano coming out the front door and down the steps.  The three guys were straining, grunting and huffing, to be sure.

After the movers left we walked around the house one last time, picking up a few forgotten things and saying goodbye.  I think we were suffering from a mild case of shock...bone tired and emotionally worn out, we sat on the front steps and took this photo.

As we were leaving, a friend that we hadn't seen for years dropped by, having no idea of our plans. He walked into the empty, echoing house, and all I could manage was Paul, you have caught us at a very odd time. I hope he forgave my lack of hospitality and inability to make small talk.

We are in Centreville now, reversing the packing process.  All in all we are doing well and longing to feel settled.

Boundary Days

I feel neither here nor there… as if I’m crossing from one life to another.

This is my last week at St. Saviour’s and it’s a hard one. So many goodbyes, so many “lasts.”  Last choir rehearsal, last Sunday service, last contemplative prayer group, last time to play the instrument that I know so well, and on and on.

In the midst of these boundary days we took a short trip to Grand Manan, a Canadian island in New Brunswick.  It was a chance to rest, be quiet and gather our wits before the final farewells and packing.  Coming back into Maine, at the border crossing, I just fell apart when the guard said “Welcome home.”

In two short weeks we will be on our way to Maryland and a new life.  We have a new house and I have already begun to choose music for my new job.  I wonder what it will feel like on that side where it’s too late to turn back.

Grandson Zev visited recently, with his parents, and it was a confirmation of our plans to move closer to them.  Thank you, Spirit.

Looking Down on Life

Yesterday I saw my life from the window of an airplane.

For a couple of months now Bill and I have been in the throes of an agonizing decision.…in the fall we are moving to the Eastern Shore of Maryland in order to be closer to Emily and her family.

Last week I was in Tennessee for a church musician’s conference, the one I attend every summer, and my return flight included a transfer at Washington-Reagan airport.  I have flown into and out of this airport so many times that I know exactly where to sit for the best views.  I was in that very seat yesterday, 7F, and watched the usual landmarks pass by - the Capital, National Cathedral, Georgetown University and such.  As we got to the outskirts of the city I returned to reading my book until a few minutes later I looked out the window again and we were crossing the sparkling Chesapeake Bay and its scary bridge. My eyes followed the highway across Kent Island until it turned north towards Centreville, where I will begin work in October. I was seeing my future.

Perhaps I’ve just never noticed, but I don’t remember flying that particular route before. I truly had a bird’s eye view of our new hometown and the surrounding area of farms, fields and woods. It felt like serendipity, seeing where we are moving from that vantage point, and it gave me a tremendous sense of confidence and a feeling that all would be well.

And then…as is customary the plane flew along the coast of Maine, up to Damariscotta before turning inland across the central part of the state.  I have lived here for many years and know the geography well…I recognized Popham Beach, the famous bridge over the Penobscot River at Bucksport and the road I traveled for many an organ lesson.  As we made our way north towards Bangor I could see the paradise of Mount Desert Island in the far distance, a scene of indescribable beauty. My life of the past 22 years passed before me and I both grieved and rejoiced… the passage of time was staring me in the face, yet my heart was filled with joy at the memory of friends, music and natural beauty.

Dear, dear Maine…I will miss you. And Maryland?  I think we will get along very well.

Wearing a Cross

For my recent 60^th birthday I wanted something more than the usual sweater or blouse from my mother. I wanted a keepsake, something to treasure, from her. And so I decided on a cross pendant.  While in Texas last month to celebrate the big day, she and I went to the James Avery store and had a wonderful time looking at the many possibilities, trying a few on, and ultimately choosing what’s called the Serenity Cross.  It is very simple and lovely, with a tiny dove in the middle.

If you’ve been reading this blog for long you’ll know that I am a Christian, but not the born-again, salvation thru Jesus’ death, all others go to hell kind.  I call myself a Christian because I try to use Christ as a model for compassion and love, an ideal of which I fall far short.

When I was at my Shalem residency in March several of the other students and I began a conversation about wearing a cross.  It began with my admiring one that a friend was wearing and her confession that she usually felt awkward doing so.  I admitted the same and then our rationales began:  people will think we’re evangelicals or theologically conservative (not that there’s anything wrong with that; only in our minds); it might be misinterpreted as a fashion statement (yes! remember Madonna’s huge crosses draping her scantily clad body?); or, my faith is private, I don’t need to parade it.

These rationales left us both feeling empty and we began instead to talk about why we might wear a cross: to remind us of our guide, to ground us, to not be ashamed of our faith, to open conversations.  So at that point Pattie and I made a pact to wear a cross at least once a week.  Over the next few days two other women joined us in this agreement and now a therapist, a general in the Army, a former editor and a church musician are all wearing a cross every week.

I have a pretty gold Celtic cross that I bought in Ireland a few years ago, as well as a couple of others given to me as gifts.  But as a way of honoring this commitment as well as my significant birthday I wanted a new one, bought just for these occasions.  And I have my keepsake and treasure, from my dear mother.

Sixty

Early yesterday morning, as I walked outside with Prudy, I was greeted by a trio of birds enthusiastically singing a birthday greeting. Only a few hours before I had become sixty years old.

Like most people who make the turn into this new decade I cannot believe it's so.  How did we get so old?  My friends and I laugh and commiserate over the rapid passage of time, shaking our heads and insisting there must be some mistake.

But amidst the celebrations, cards, gifts and even jokes, I have noticed something lurking deep inside. It took me awhile to figure it out- I really wasn't feeling over-the-hill, in fact I feel pretty darn good, so why a bit of darkness, of anxiety?

The answer is that I sense, for the first time, the finiteness of life. Yes, of course we all know that we will die, but something about turning sixty has convinced me that my life really is finite. That's the idea that is causing me some problems, not the gray hair or occasional memory slips.  There's going to be an end.

My choices of how to make the most of my years are beckoning and weighing my heart down.  And now I must dig deeply into the accumulated wisdom from sixty years of my wonderful life.

Quiet

It is a quiet day; I am on a weekend silent retreat in the midst of the final residency for my contemplative prayer class.  The hours of silence are a gift-a gift of rest, of breath, of prayer, of the awareness of Being.

In the midst of this gift I struggle to say no to the ever-present to-do list which lurks around the edges of my consciousness.  NO.

Quietness

Inside this new love, die.

Your way begins on the other side.

Become the sky.

Take an ax to the prison wall.

Escape.

Walk out like someone

suddenly born into color.

Do it now.

You're covered with thick cloud.

Slide out the side. Die,

and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign

that you have died.

Your old life was a frantic running

from silence.

The speechless full moon

comes out now.

                                 Rumi

Snowshoes

As you might have gathered from my previous post, we are having a lot of snow in Maine.  A LOT. So this morning, tired of fighting the slippery roads into work, I decided to give myself a day off. After breakfast I said to Bill want to go snowshoeing today? He cleared his throat, hemmed and hawed a bit, and finally out came I was afraid you might say that.

Coming from Texas, I have not been a natural at winter sports.  Downhill skiing was hardly possible since I fell at the top of the chair lift every time.  Cross-country skiing wasn't much better-I still fell and those long skis became tangled and I could not get up.  Both embarrassing situations that I was not eager to repeat very often. But snowshoeing...that's a different story. First of all, I don't fall. The shoes are wide and sturdy and they grip the snow just right.  Years ago I was absolutely thrilled to find that here is a winter sport that I can manage and enjoy.

When we first moved to Maine over 20 years ago Bill bought a set of 1930's era snowshoes for me at an antique store.  He had to do a lot of work to make them usable and they were a treasured gift. Most people now use more modern snowshoes made out of aluminum, but these are truly beautiful, make a pretty track and work very well for me. I have cherished them for years.

Living on the coast our snow totals are often not what they are in interior Maine and there have been some years I did not snowshoe.  But this year?  Just perfect.  So what was the problem?  Bill had given away my snowshoes to a neighbor boy down the street who helps us mow our yard. I bet you can imagine my response to that...and now you see the result in the photo above...reunited with my snowshoes.

Surviving the Blizzard

Smart cat, our Toulouse, sitting on the radiator while the snow piles up on the window behind him. Actually, we are taking his lead, although our radiator is a cozy woodstove.

Incarnation

May you enter into the Christmas liturgies with some joy in the Incarnation.  This was how my advisor in the Shalem Institute program signed his recent email in response to my request for extra time to write a paper.  It stopped me dead in my tracks….joy was the absolute last thing I was experiencing.

Every December is difficult for a church musician.  There are so many expectations, extra services, needy church members, sick or out-of town choristers, weather problems…the list goes on and on.  Although I don’t understand why, this December was particularly hard for me.  Musically things went very well, but I just ran out of steam. Joy at the coming of God to earth?  Maybe next year.

And then, something happened…at the last of the Christmas Eve services, late at night, I unexpectedly saw the Incarnation in the soloist who sang off key. And then I saw it in the intrepid choir members, singing their hearts out way past their bedtime.  During the sermon, as I was gazing at the beautiful poinsettias and candles, I took my husband’s hand and saw it in his patience and kindness to me.  I looked further into the congregation, some weary, some merry, and yes, I saw the spirit of God in each and every one. The stress and non-stop schedule of the past few weeks began to melt away and I felt joy.

And the next day, Baby Zev arrived for a visit. As I wrapped my arms around him I saw clearly… Incarnation.

The embodiment of a deity or spirit in some earthly form.  Thank you, Winston, for urging me to find joy in this season.

A Personal Advent

For most of the western world the Christmas season is in full swing.  Decorations, music and ads have been appearing since Halloween and the frenzy of holiday shopping was encouraged by Black Friday, Small-Store Saturday, Cyber Monday and even Giving Tuesday, of all things.  Many folks lament this commercialization, as do I, and I try not to be a part of it. 

Many years ago, full of loneliness and confusion after a divorce, I was headed home across north Texas on Christmas Eve.  The radio was playing- there were precious few stations to choose from- and of all things I heard the hymn O Come, O Come Emmanuel for the first time.  At that moment I fell head-over-heels in love with Advent.

Growing up as a Southern Baptist I’d never even heard the term Advent, much less observed it as a holy season.  There was nary a single Advent hymn in our hymnal at that time and the church Christmas tree and poinsettias went up the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  This idea of waiting, of expectation and hope, filled a need in my soul, and still does.  Now a church musician and an Episcopalian, Advent has become my favorite sacred season.  No church decorations or Christmas carols until after the fourth Sunday of Advent for us, just the way I like it.  And twenty-four Advent hymns, yes, that’s correct, twenty-four.

I am feeling this season more profoundly than ever this year because I believe that I am in the midst of a personal Advent, one that will likely last for months or even a few years.  As I approach my 60^th birthday, as my church continues to struggle, as my new grandson grows and changes daily, and as my husband enters a new stage, we must decide where we want to make our life.  Do we stay in Maine, which has become our comfortable home, or do we move closer to family, to share our lives with theirs more fully? It is a decision which should not be forced and which I am confidant will be revealed, in due season.  In the meantime, we wait.

O come, thou Wisdom from on high,

who orderest all things mightily;

to us the path of knowledge show,

and teach us in her ways to go.

                                      Latin, ca. 9^th century

Contemplation

What is there beyond knowing that keeps 

calling to me? I can't

turn in any direction

but it's there. I don't mean

the leaves' grip and shine or even the thrush's

silk song, but the far-off

fires, for example,

of the stars, heaven's slowly turning

theatre of light, or the wind

playful with its breath;

or time that's always rushing forward,

or standing still

in the same-what shall I say-

moment.

What I know

I could put into a pack

as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it

on one shoulder,

important and honorable, but so small!

While everything else continues, unexplained

and unexplainable. How wonderful it is

to follow a thought quietly

to its logical end.

I have done this a few times.

But mostly I just stand in the dark field,

in the middle of the world, breathing

in and out.  Life so far doesn't have any other name

but breath and light, wind and rain.

If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.

I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of the grass and the weeds.

What Is There Beyond Knowing (Mary Oliver)

Grandmothering

A few weeks ago I spent several precious days with my grandson, who is 6-months old today. It's true what they say: grandparenting is special indeed.  I confess that I used to silently roll my eyes when friends would enthuse about their grandchildren and think to myself something like Oh, get a life!  I try to remember those feelings as I pull out my iphone with its hundreds of photos of Zev to show to anyone who asks.

My first assignment on the recent trip was to take care of baby while Emily had her haircut.  The 3 of us took the Metro downtown and Zev and I went to the American Art Museum while Emily was at the hairdresser.  And boy was he fussy!. He did not want to be in the stroller and his piercing cries in the atrium drew many dark looks.  He did, however, enjoy being in my arms and looking around at the art.  All in all, though, not an auspicious beginning for my grandson-sitting days.

Fussy or not, those few days were happily spent together-bath time, silly playtime, bedtime routine, an occasional bottle-just getting to know each other better.  And, of course, the first piano lesson.

Your Nana loves you, Baby Zev.

Season's End

After several weeks of an extraordinary display of fall colors, our trees are now shedding their leaves as winter approaches.  The dark and the cold are just around the corner.  Our garden produced admirably this year, except for the summer squash.  Have you ever even heard of summer squash not producing?  Well, ours were a wipe-out and I didn't once open my entirely squash cookbook.

Bill is the vegetable gardener and I am the cook and preserver.  His specialty is garlic and about 60 heads of the Russian variety are stored for soups, stews, stir-fries, you name it.  We even send some to appreciative friends in California.  And then there are the tomatoes-cherries, slicing and Romas.

This batch is ready to be made into pasta sauce, which I freeze.  It makes a wonderful meal on a cold winter's eve.  Bill gets his yearly quota of bacon with day after day of BLT's and eats the cherries right from the bush.  Me? Well, I only like my tomatoes cooked-that's too bad, but I've tried and it just doesn't work.

This is my first ever batch of ratatouille, made from our tomatoes and garlic, with squash, onions and eggplant from the farmers' market.  Yum.

And then of course there is the basil.  This year I made three recipes of pesto and socked it away in the freezer.  It will last until the spring if I'm careful.  My favorite way to use it is as a topping for salmon or white fish.  You can even buy less expensive frozen fish if you prepare it this way and it tastes great.

We still have many carrots and beets in the garden and they only get sweeter as the fall progresses. And we have a bumper crop of arugula, which loves cool weather-twice I've taken it to choir rehearsal and given away bunches and bunches.

How lucky we are- a bounty from our garden to sustain us during the cold, frozen winter months.

Respite

Earlier this month, after weeks of house guests and performances, Bill and I boarded a ferry in Blacks Harbour, New Brunswick, for an hour-and-a-half ride to Grand Manan Island. Although one can see its majestic tall cliffs from the coast of Maine it is actually part of Canada. The area is home to many species of birds, whales, seals and the like. About twenty miles long, Grand Manan was once a thriving hub of fishermen and dulce harvesters.  But now the two thousand or so hospitable and friendly inhabitants just try to get by however they can.

The east side of the island is mostly beach and marsh.  Our simple housekeeping cottage looked out over a scene much like the above.  We had happy hour on a bench near the water every evening and watched the ferry come and go.

We explored by car and foot for two days, ate simply and rested.  There are many spectacular hiking trails, an interesting museum and a few shops.  It was exactly what I needed.

Each time I come back from a vacation such as this (even though it was short) I wonder why do I work so much?  The simple answer is we need the money for recurring living expenses and retirement.  And I keep trying to figure out how to lower those expenses so that I can have more time. I want that desperately yet there's no easy answer.

We are planning a return trip to Grand Manan next summer, for a week.

Untethered

The beautiful Maine summer is beginning to wind down- the shadows are long, the evenings cool, and I can no longer begin my after dinner walk at 7:30. The gardening I hoped to accomplish, the hikes I wanted to take, swimming in a lake, cleaning out the attic…most of that is still undone.  I am tired, travel weary and a bit untethered.

Despite my love of seeing the world I am a homebody at heart.  My favorite evenings are spent with my husband quietly reading, watching a movie, knitting or listening to music with a dog by my side and two cats stretched out nearby.  There has been a pitiful lack of these evenings this summer.  I likewise cherish rainy days and the chance to clean out a closet or organize my recipes or, heaven forbid, crawl into bed with a good book. But this summer I have been on the road or practicing or working or...

I am not necessarily complaining, just noticing…in many ways it has been a stellar season.  An inspiring American Guild of Organists convention in Boston, time with family and friends in Dallas, recharging my church music batteries at the Episcopal Musicians Conference in TN, accompanying Poulenc’s Gloria for the Mount Desert Summer Chorale, a recital of organ duets and solos with my friend Ellen.

But I feel a change coming...

Simple Summer Supper

On these sticky summer days I like to make a salad for supper.  And with our garden and local farmers market in full swing it's easy and healthy.  Last night I improvised on a recipe I'd seen on line and this is what I came up with:

Mediterranean Salad
serves two

several handfuls of mixed greens

one hard boiled egg

cucumber slices

avocado slices

red bell pepper
kalamata olives

one can of chickpeas, rinsed and drained

Arrange the above ingredients as you like (you can see my composed version above), drizzle with homemade balsamic vinaigrette and enjoy. Serve with a glass of dry red wine. Cantaloupe makes the perfect dessert.

Any salad ideas from you readers?

Early Summer

White peonies blooming along the porch

send out light

while the rest of the yard grows dim.

Outrageous flowers as big as human

heads! They're staggered

by their own luxuriance: I had

 to prop them up with stakes and twine.

The moist air intensifies their scent,

and the moon moves around the barn

to find out what it's coming from.

In the darkening June evening

I draw a blossom near, and bending close

search it as a woman searches

a loved one's face.

Peonies at Dusk, Jane Kenyon

Silence

For God alone my soul in silence waits;

From him comes my salvation.

(Psalm 62)

In the midst of getting to know my new grandson I attended a week-long residency for my class on contemplative prayer, offered by the Shalem Institute. To say that both these experiences were transformative is not exaggerating one bit. The miracle of new birth combined with a spiritual experience of great depth and meaning has given me a new lens through which to look at life.

Not knowing a single person or really what I was getting into, I was quite anxious about the residency, held at a retreat center west of Baltimore.  But when I walked into the first session I realized that the other 21 students felt just like me.  The anxiety lasted about 5 minutes-I quickly saw that we all spoke the same language.

Each day included a seminar on such topics as leadership, prayer forms and contemplative awareness. We met daily with a small peer group where we “practiced” leading a particular form of prayer and made and received comments from our leader and the other members. We shared good food together as well as walks by the meditation pond or on trails thru the surrounding woods. There was no hiding-we talked one-on-one and in larger groups about our deepest beliefs, hopes and disappointments.  And there was plenty of opportunity to be alone and quiet if one so desired.

In the midst of the residency there was a 36-hour period of total silence.  We still ate together, met in seminars (led by a leader who was talking) and even danced our hearts out.  But we were silent.  I relaxed into this time with myself, and truthfully, it was wonderful.  I noticed the ordinary and treasured the common.

I want to explain a bit about prayer forms-this has been new to me.  A prayer form is simply a way to help one grow closer to the Spirit and listen-it is similar to meditation, with the intent of drawing near to God.  The prayer forms serve as ways to help calm and clear a cluttered mind.  One can use a particular word, chant, icon or interior image.

In leading my peer group I chose to use thanksgiving as my prayer form. Reminding the group members of Paul’s admonition to be thankful in all things (1 Thessalonians 5:18) I asked them to say “thank you” to each thought that came into their minds, whether positive or negative, then to let it go.  Yes, it is easy to be grateful for the good in our lives, but what about the bad?  This prayer is not gratitude for the bad but a way of showing us that something good can come from a tragedy, a loss, a death.  But how can the death of a loved one contain anything to be thankful for, you might ask?  Perhaps your loved one was spared agonizing pain by dying or perhaps estranged family members drew closer. This is what is meant by thanksgiving in all things.

Returning to my everyday life after the residency was not easy.  Stacks of bills, piles of paper, flower beds full of weeds-all vying for my attention. Yet I am trying to carry this marvelous idea of contemplation with me as I live each day. I feel that I am on a bridge, leaving behind the tendency to control and demand and heading toward a profound sense of peace and acceptance.

My soul waits quietly for you

From you comes my deliverance

         (Zen-inspired translation of Psalm 62 by Norman Fischer)