Indian Summer

"I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don't notice it."  Alice Walker "The Color Purple" 


One of the greatest joys of living in New England is the change of seasons. I look forward to the magic that each new time of year brings. In part, I think this isn't so much of a case of disliking the current time as it is an eagerness for what comes next. It's great fun to pull out my sweaters every Fall...just as it's a great relief to put them away every summer.


My father, a lifelong Northeast resident, enjoyed our move to California...up to a point. The first few years, I think he managed to "suffer through" being a Santa Barbara resident. However, the bloom was off the Banksia rose (and the orange blossoms, hyacinth and nasturtium), when he bought (and wore) a t-shirt that said "Just another sh%*^y day in Paradise". Other people might have found that statement to be witty and ironic. Dad was dead serious. He missed the snow. He daydreamed about Autumn leaves, Nor'easters and waking up to the crunch of first frost on the lawn.


This year, however, I'm soaking up every bit of the glorious Indian Summer weather. I'm basking in the glow of hazy, breezy afternoon sun. I'm finding incredible peace in just celebrating October temperatures in the 70's. Why? There is just so much unknown on the horizon. In less than one week I'll be in Arizona, consulting with a new neurological specialist. I've run through my meager medical options here and must head to a center that can offer me help, answers and a plan of action. So, I find myself with a lack of enthusiasm for the changing seasons this year. I still love Fall. But I just want to hang onto the present, pleasant days I'm having now.


As exciting as it is to take out that box of warm clothes, I realize how much time I've wasted looking too far ahead. For now, I'm content to just remain utterly thankful for Indian Summer. It's as if I've been given a reminder to stop and notice "the color purple"...especially if that color comes with a glass of iced tea next to the hammock.

Happiness in Balance

“Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.”   ~ Thomas Merton 


Tonight will bring in the first official day of Summer. I have to admit; I'm a much bigger fan of the first day of Summer than I am of the first day of Winter. Here in Maine, our weather is governed not by a calendar, but by our windows. What we see happening outside tells us which season it is. Snow isn't unheard of in late October, nor is it unreasonable in April. To people in southern areas, this would be a travesty in Autumn and Spring. Frankly, it's just a normal part of life at my home. Because our Summer season is so very short, our celebrations are all the more meaningful up here. We try to embrace and hold onto each moment of warm weather, every trip to the beach and all the memories will keep us warm all winter long.


Because I was so unwell this past Winter (and since Spring is a stealth season, much of Spring, too), I have to admit that I was looking forward to today's  'annual summer kick off beach' excursion even more than usual. There is something about digging my toes in the sand, listening to the waves on the shore and smelling the salt air that just makes me happy. The feel of sunshine on my cheeks, a lovely picnic lunch and a good book is honestly all I need to feel completely at peace. And yet, if it wasn't for the lousy way this winter had gone, I wonder if I'd truly appreciate how magical today was? Would I feel the same amount of appreciation for a simple day on the ocean, if I hadn't been in and out of the hospital? Would I smile, just hearing my daughter laugh with her friends, if my house hadn't been empty and hollow all winter?


I wish I could say that I'd have the exact same amount of joy, on the first day of Summer, if I lived in a warm climate, but I'm not entirely sure that would be the case. Without the dark, there is no light. I imagine that it would be very exciting for a while. The ability to eat on the deck every night would be wonderful. The giggles rising up from the bonfire, as my kids make S'moes with their friends most nights, would be heart-warming. The idea that I could sip my coffee in the sunshine each morning would be pretty delicious. And yet, I know myself well enough to realize that I might take each one of these summer favorites for granted before long. As healing and delightful as I find the sunshine right now, I can just as easily imagine that I could stop noticing it if I had it in spades every day. Why? Because there are times I fail to appreciate living at the ocean. Not long ago, my husband and I were walking our dog along the cove and ran into a very nice family from inland Virginia. They wondered if we just were in awe, every single day, about living in such a gorgeous place with such exceptional views. The fact is, we drive in and out of our neighborhood so many times every day that we don't often look up, as we're driving towards the ocean. Our brains are set to get into the garage as quickly as we can. 


Maybe it takes a certain amount of Winter before we can fully appreciate Summer. Maybe we have to be diagnosed with cancer before we stop and realize that life is miraculous. Maybe we have to be completely off kilter and out of balance in order to appreciate having a harmonious symmetry to our days.


Whatever the celebrations will bring this Summer, I promise myself to strive for balance...to appreciate the small things as much as I do the grand ones, and to seek out quiet for every period of revelry. Maybe, this way, I'll just be able to spread out my sense of equity.

The Power of Beauty, Time and Perspective

Do I love you because you're beautiful,
Or are you beautiful because I love you?
~Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, Cinderella


I have always been a sun worshiper. I have reveled in the summer months. I've spent countless hours at the beach, allowing my feet to tickle their way through the top layer of hot, silky sand down to the cooler, submersed floor below, as if they had a mind of their own searching for buried treasure. Every poolside beckoned me and I used to spend immeasurable moments reading, laughing and talking before inching my way into the water. I've loved being on boats, and feeling the wind upon my face. I've even just happily wallowed in sunshine in my own yard,  gently rocking in the hammock, one foot trailing on the ground.


This love aside, something has obviously changed greatly for me: the way I look. I am thankful for the DNA that blessed me with a somewhat pleasant appearance. I never needed to make major changes or have dramatic makeovers. I was always self-conscious about my thighs, but then again, so are many women. I am one of those people, however, that genuinely enjoys eating healthfully and exercising, so staying in shape was second nature to me. The passage of time made its way across my face, but I was thankful for that bit...it allowed me to see the lessons I've learned. My "smile lines" were even a badge of honor, showing others that I had laughed far more than I had cried.


Following this most recent cancer surgery, my body has been left damaged. My scars are evident. My body's defense against this invasiveness of the surgery was to send "helper cells" to different spots around the trauma, leaving me with pronounced, but highly uneven, puffiness. I lost approximately 1/3 of my lower abdominal muscle, in which the malignant tumor has insinuated itself. One would think that this would make me concave. But, instead, it's as if the area is in rebellion at losing part of itself. My face is changed...more tired, older, careworn. My hair, still short from the biopsy, gave me nothing to 'hide behind'. My confidence in my appearance is at an all time low. I remain thankful at being here, but fearful and exhausted.


I had resigned myself to spending the rest of my life in "modest mom" bathing suits...the kind you'd see on older ladies who also sport flowered bathing caps. Both my own mother and my teenage daughter encouraged me not to change the way I approach my love of sunshine. They insisted I wear the same bathing suits I've always worn, and that, should I hide myself away in layers of spandex, it's as if the cancer has won regardless of my surgery's outcome. While in Arizona in March, I blissfully sat out by my mom's pool...no one seeing me but family. It was heavenly to feel the sun on my skin after such a long winter of pain, recovery and fear. I was slightly encouraged in the way I looked, and just that hint of a tan I gained made me feel much more like the 'old me'. 


So, bikini packed, I headed to Florida last week. My son was moving out of his apartment and getting ready to head home for the summer. I flew down to help him get everything organized and settled. In between trips to the UPS store and phone calls to the movers, I did have a couple of blessed afternoons by the hotel pool. For the first time since my surgery, I sat out in a bikini in front of strangers. 


Friends, it did not go well. There was a 20-something couple, drinks in hand, who saw me walk by as I neared the pool steps and snickered at me behind their hands. They'd look up and laugh a little more. This hurt me tremendously. My face flushed with shame and all my insecurities came rushing back, hurtling like a runaway stagecoach. My urge was to flee and hide indoors. Who was I kidding? I looked like a Frankenstein-ian experiment gone horribly wrong. I am a 45 year old lusus naturae. What was I thinking, wearing a bikini? And then, just before I grabbed my towel and ran for the safety of the pool house, I stopped. I took a couple of deep, measured breaths. Then I continued on my journey towards the pool steps. But, before I walked into the water, I turned and looked at the very young, very foolish pair who were laughing, and said, "Beautiful day, isn't it?".


And so it was.

If you can't stand the heat....

Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it. ~Russel Baker

There is nothing quite like painfully hot summer days to have even the most outdoorsy of folks daydreaming about winter. When the temperatures rise well into the 90's and the humidity is close to 100%, the thought of shoveling snow doesn't seem quite as wretched as it did in reality. Here in Maine, few spaces are air conditioned. We begin to reminisce anything that will bring cooler thoughts to mind. In the old days of life in "Vacationland", entire families would leave their homes in Philadelphia, New York and Boston to move to Maine to escape the heat of even warmer cities. There were entire towns that were summer communities that had their own churches, recreation centers, town halls and post offices. These spots would close down completely from Labor Day until Memorial Day, when they'd be reopened, reawakened and re-energized as city dwellers fled the oppressive, and painful, heat to the fresher air in Maine.

As a summer resident growing up, I vividly remember the long drive up from New York, smack in the middle 'hump' of my mother's car, sandwiched between my cousins. This trip seemed to take forever, as we played endless games of "ABC goes by" and License plate state bingo. The monotony was broken up by midnight stops at the old L.L. Bean building, which was (as it is now) open 24 hours a day, 365 days per year. My cousins and I would run around, trying out every tent, inhaling that particular rubbery smell that would forever associate itself with a hot summer night to each of us. I recall the magic we expected to happen, as we crossed over the Piscataqua River Bridge, just knowing that summer's official start began as we traveled that span of road between New Hampshire and Maine. The rest of the summer would be spent sailing, playing on the beach, exploring islands, going for long walks, stuffing ourselves with seafood and covering our many mosquito bites with pink calamine lotion. I can relive the days of going to drive in movies and trying to find the right balance of staying cool....if we had the windows rolled up, we roasted like a family of lobsters. If we kept them down, we were swarmed by marauding packs of insidious black flies, all of whom had been informed that we were 'from away', and therefore, tastier.

Life takes turns and twists that we could never have predicted in childhood. As a full time Maine resident for almost two decades, I now feel the heat of summer bearing down upon me, heavy and wretched. The humidity saps my strength and makes me forget why I fantasize about July in January. Remembering is a funny thing; we believe that the air was cooler when we were kids, just as we forget how depressing ice storms can be. We seem to remember what we want to recollect when it suits us. We also seem to forget the positives of any situation when our minds are waxing poetic on another train of thought. We find ourselves mired in mental muck, and in doing so, we allow precious moments to slip through our fingers as they are happening.

This summer, I'm trying something a little bit different.I'm attempting to drink in the ever present warmth, as I would a cool drink that will melt if I leave it aside for too long. I'm trying to appreciate even the "dog days", knowing that the heat has the ability to free me from worrying about heating bills, finding warm coats and the size of our wood pile. I'm investigating new recipes for summer meals, and trying them out at dinner time, which I'm serving on the deck. I'm reminding myself how wonderful the humidity is for my skin...which gets so dry in winter. All in all, I've chosen to live by Celia Thaxter's words, "There shall be an eternal summer in a grateful heart". Instead of cursing the heat, I'm embracing it. The fascinating part is that once I've gotten over complaining about how sticky the air is, I discover that I can actually feel a cool breeze.

Surprises on the Beach

love builds up the broken wall and straightens the crooked path.love keeps the stars in the firmament and imposes rhythm on the ocean tides each of us is created of it and i suspect each of us was created for it”-- Dr. Maya Angelou

I feel incredibly blessed to have lived at the beach in coastal Maine for the past 19 years. Despite the fact that I spent summers here in Maine growing up, I never thought I'd be a year 'round resident as an adult. I can remember playing on Maine's rocky coast with my cousins from the moment the sun would come up each morning, until long after it had set in the evening. The three of us would play never ending games of tag, we'd build forts using drift wood, we would have contests to see who could find the most sea glass and we would play endless games of "pretend". The beach would be a castle, being attacked by a dragon one moment, and a campground for pirates the next. It would transform into a house, a ship and an airplane within our imaginary world. Maine beaches are, for the most part, not like beaches most people imagine....they're craggy inlets bearing thousands of stones, with tidal pools holding their own miniature ecosystems. They aren't the same sand beaches one would see in California, Florida or Hawaii. They're more rugged, more austere and more remote. They're romantic, ever changing and full of surprises. My own children have found sea whelks, crabs, mussels, clams, rocks from every possible classification, and even bits of Maine life...a lobster buoy that floated away from its mooring, a perfectly polished mother of pearl shell, a bit of old shard pottery. They've watched the progress of a small hermit crab moving out of one shell and into another. The Maine beaches are always filled with the unexpected.

Our neighborhood is fairly new one, by New England standards. Once part of a much larger estate, the lots were subdivided and the ring surrounding our private cove was build slowly over a thirty year period. None of the houses are similar to one another, and each one has its own flavor and style. Over time, the houses have often changed hands and become summer homes for people who want to escape the humidity in Boston, Philadelphia and New York. It's not a 'tight' neighborhood in which everyone knows one another well. People tend to come and go with the seasons and have specific agendas for their homes and their own priorities. As a result, many of us simply aren't familiar with our neighbors. As the only house that currently has children on the street, I have often felt the need to 'shush' my kids when they've played outside, trying to respect the privacy of our retired neighbors. It hasn't always been easy to keep street hockey balls, and various toys, from sailing over the fence line into another yard. I have had to apologize for pink trees, due to my son's paint ball gun. It has been a constant challenge to find the balance between neighborhood peace and allowing my kids to 'be kids'.

The one aspect of neighborhood life in our cove that we all share is a mutual passion for our beach. We all enjoy it, and as it's so often deserted, we tend to feel very protective of our little slice of Maine heaven. Because I walk my dogs on the beach almost every day, I have come to know every boulder, every inlet, every landmark stone and every crevice quite well. I even have come to know where the best rocks for stepping on happen to be, so I don't twist my ankle as I walk. About a year ago, one large boulder, near the edge of the beach began to have mysterious designs on it that changed every few days. One day there might be a heart, created using bits of seaweed and drift wood. The next time I checked, I might have seen "Thanks" designed using mussel shells and tiny pebbles. Using materials found on our beach, I have spied the words "Faith", "Joy", "Hope", "Care" and simply a jolly "Hi!". Now, as I traverse my neighborhood on my daily dog walk, I smile more broadly at each of my neighbors. I can't help but wonder who the artistic communicator is with every "Good morning" I say. Is it the woman whose extraordinary garden has been photographed for many magazines? Is it the cranky gentleman who never smiles or says "hello" back...does he hide a secret soft side? Could it possibly be the elegant, but elderly, southern belle, who takes her constitutional strolls in heels and pearls daily? Since the words of blessing and greeting have begun appearing on the boulder at the beach edge, I've looked at my neighbors in an entirely new light. It has made me more patient, more understanding and more tolerant. I can't help but be fascinated by my speculation. It makes me think more gently of the neighbors who might complain about our dog getting out or our kids laughing outside at the bonfire at 10 PM. I can't help but speculate if the gruff exterior of one of these people hides the soul of a poet.

Yesterday, on Father's Day, I was missing my own father deeply. Though he passed away in 1998, I feel his presence with me. The feeling of mourning hasn't gone away. It's only been channeled into a way that I have learned to live with. It was because of my father, and his own love of Maine, that our family began summering here. Later, despite living in my mother's and my home state of California, we would continue to come to Maine as much as we possibly could. In all fairness, Mom and I weren't thrilled initially, but over time, we began to love Maine for all its beauty and solitude. When my father retired and my parents moved to Maine full time, it was natural for my husband and me to want to settle here too. In the years before my father's death, we had wonderful memories together, as he taught my own children about the magic of the Maine coast. As I was missing him yesterday, I took my German Shepherd for a stroll along the cove he loved so much. I sat down, and letting Mackenzie play in the waves, I looked out over the bay towards the islands we used to visit every summer. I felt closer to my dad that I had in a long time. With every breath in of the salty air, I could feel his spirit merge with my own. And yet, this being Maine, the sky grew black in a matter of moments and the rumble of distant thunder came rolling in over the mountains. I knew it was time to head back up to my house.

But, as I walked past the 'Message Boulder', I realized that it was blank for the first time in weeks. Without a thought of the impending storm, I methodically gathered my materials. Using a bit of crab shell, broken mussels and periwinkles, finding pebbles in an array of colors, as well as some pieces of driftwood and sea glass, I wrote I LOVE YOU DAD on the stone. The raindrops were just beginning to fall I finished up. Snapping the leash back on my dog, she and I raced up the path and down the street to the sanctuary of our house, myself laughing the whole way, and Mackenzie giving her excited Shepherd "Yip".

I can't help but wonder if my father could see my message to him...and if my imaginative word writing neighbor will appreciate my contribution. I can only hope so on both counts.

Momentary Mindfulness

Don't be fooled by the calendar. There are only as many days in the year as you make use of. ~Charles Richards

If there is one lesson from living in Maine that I've learned the most strongly, it is to appreciate the magical days of summer. Before I have time to settle into a pattern, the summer has passed and the cold is inching its way into our lives. The warmth, the longer hours of daylight, the influx of new people visiting and the beautiful rhythm of tree frogs, bellowing at night, all make up a tapestry of moments. When viewed together, each one of these individual experiences can create a collage of summer memories. I can remember feelings that accompagnied entire summers. Some years were happier than others. Some seemed full of activity. Others seemed downright decadet in their languidness. But, each summer tends to incorporate feelings as a whole, just as if I can take a jam jar, bottle that particular year, and write "Hectic" or "Boating" or "Travel" on its label. Summers take on personalities. I have heard friends and family members all say "Don't you remember that incredibly hot year?" or "Do you remember the summer we all got sick?". The days and weeks and months become an amalgam of feelings regarding those months between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

Because our brains tend to process memories with labels, too often we lose the individual memories of specific events. We can recollect ideas, moods and overtones, but too many times we fail to capture snaphots of exact moments of perfection. It is my own belief that by allowing these times to be filed along with everything else in our brains, we tend to lose them as "too much paperwork". Yet, without those specific instances of reflection, we are left of vague images that all blur together. This happens to people with the very best of memories. We can only 'store' so much before our minds move into overload. And yet, without creating a way to remember special events, how can be certain that they won't be lost entirely? Pictures do help, of course. But, far too often, photos become posed, and then posed again ("Sit NEXT to your sister...") and the spirit of the image you take will not be the spontaneous twinkling you were hoping to capture.


So, what can we do? We can begin by practicing mindfulness. Mindfuless is defined as a "mental state, characterized by calm awareness of one's body functions, feelings, content of consciousness, or consciousness itself." This doesn't mean we move away from the experience or the action itself. It simply requires us to look at each experience with appreciation. The gratitude might be about being with your friends or your children. It could emcompass the way the sunshine feels on your face early the morning. It bring an increased attention to the sand between your toes at the beach. Or, it could be simply a feeling of thankfulness...for being alive at this very moment in time. Mindfulness doesn't mean we have to move away from the world to sit in meditation for hours at a time. Mindfulness can be the gift of perception that all is truly well...regardless of the circumstances. We can teach our minds and our hearts to appraise and assess our current surroundings, to cultivate a memory by saying "I want to remember sitting on the porch like this..." and to cultivate moments of grace in our appreciation.


Much of the time, our singleness of thought can lead to mindfulness. Have you ever said to yourself,"This has been such a wonderful day...I want it to last forever!" That is a powerful emotion, and with that powerful emotion comes long lasting memory. I can remember, when I was very young, a parade I was in with my cousins. I was terribly nervous, because I had never been in a parade before, and I could barely recollect seeing one. However, my cousins' hometown of Belvedere, California was hosting a small parade one summer. I didn't know how to ride a 'two wheeler' yet, so my aunt Nancy pulled out the kids' tricycle for me. I can vividly recall decorating that little bike with ribbons and bows, and festooning it to try to resemble a float. I can remember wriggling with excitement as my cousin, Lori, did my hair, and as I anticipated the start of the festivities. I can still feel my 4 year old feet on the pedals, reminding myself to keep pedaling, no matter what, and not to stop before the big kids. I was so afraid of making a mistake, falling over or just embarrassing myself, that I kept whispering to myself "Pedal...you can do it...a little bit more...pedal...you can do it...this is a special day..." Because I talked myself through this event with such reasoning and intention, I can remember the parade with exceptional clarity. I have more vivid images of this one day than I do of the rest of the years surrounding this parade, despite our having photographs to commemorate them. Why? It's because, without knowing it, I was practicing mindfulness. I was creating a memory pattern that I would never forget.

We can use mindfulness to create memories of simple, every day pleasures. I can remember breathing in my new babies' scent from the tops of their little heads, and just taking in that exact moment of experience, knowing that they would never be one day old again. I can resurrect my feelings from my wedding day by thinking about how it felt to let go of my father's arm, and pick up Jeff's,at the front of the church. I can recreate what it felt like to be skipping by mother's side, holding her hand, as we walked down 5th Avenue in New York City, just by catching the whiff of hot pretzels. Often, we don't even realize we're practicing mindfulness to create a memory. It just happens. We see a particular shade of green, and we're reminded of our grandmother's house. We taste a piece of pie, and in an instant, we're transported to our best friend's kitchen. Mindfulness doesn't just capture our thoughts, it can recall all five of our senses at the moment of that something special occurred.

If you could pick, what would choose to remember? What feelings, what sights, what smells and what sounds would you take in? If you could pick 'a best day to last forever' memory, what would it be? Perhaps your moment is one you take out of our heart and cherish. Perhaps it's an experience yet to come. For many of us, it's a bit of both. We can appreciate the joy we felt in the past, while still feeling an exceptional sense of excitement about the moments that lie ahead of us...just waiting for us to experience them. But, when you do...tell yourself "Keep pedaling..." and treasure that moment in your heart.


Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. ~From the television show The Wonder Years