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.

Call of the Wild

It’s back…that recurring and sometimes annoying desire to live in the country.  When I really think about it this wish has been ongoing for much of my adult life-it flares up now and then before I kick it under the bed.  You could say that my coming to Maine 20 years ago was the first acknowledgement, leaving Dallas, a city of a million people, to move to Monmouth, population 3,000.  But even then we lived right in the middle of the tiny downtown, across the street from the post office.

What I have dreamed of, all these years, is a 19^th century farmhouse with a barn surrounded by several acres of fields and woods.  A stream bordering the property. A sunny garden space, some berry bushes and a few fruit trees. Chickens.  A cozy house with a woodstove that feels like home.  About half an hour drive to a small city. No mortgage.

Superficially you might think that I’m a city girl.  I love snobby cultural institutions such as art museums, symphonies and lecture series. In the past 20 years, though, I’ve discovered that I can do pretty well making my own culture-a few examples are my Proust group, my project with Bill of listening to all of the Beethoven string quartets, our own foreign movie festivals and many dinner parties with interesting company.  And of course there’s the New York Times.  I find periodic trips to a city gratifying and quite satisfactory, where I soak up all the culture I can muster before happily returning home.

Over the course of our time in Maine we’ve looked at several places just like the above.  Different reasons popped up not to take the plunge-bad timing, lack of courage, or just plain disagreement.

Well, I can dream, can’t I?