Direction

“If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.” -- Lao Tsu

There is a famous road sign, here in Maine, that has been photographed more than any other attraction. It has had more pictures published than either Mount Katahdin or Cadillac Mountain, more than the famous Kittery Lighthouse and more than the picturesque harbors dotting the Maine coast. On this sign, on a rural road in inland, non-touristy Maine, lists the destinations of many of Maine's creatively named towns. From Norway to China and Sweden to Mexico, the sign post is legendary in its level of fame. People travel from all over just to have their picture taken next to it. It's appeared on magazine covers, in movies, on book jackets and used metaphorically by philosophers from all over New England. Why? Because, despite its campy, almost burlesque, appeal, it still represents a fixed point between many destinations. The goofiness of the names aside, this sign shows what direction you need to go, very clearly, to reach your destination.

At one time or another, I believe we've all wanted a road sign like this one. We have come to a place in our lives in which we haven't known which path to take. We have been confused over a possible move, a potential new direction in our careers, a relationship that might (or might not) be going to the next level. We have wondered if this is the right time to have or adopt a child, to purchase a home or to sell one. We have sat the crossroads, legs folded underneath us, and gazed in both directions...or in some cases, down multiple avenues. We have paused, uncertain, not knowing which route is the one that's best for us.

There are two schools on thought about these moments of intersection and turning point: the first is that, whichever road you find yourself taking, it will ultimately lead you to towards your fate, your karma, your destination that you are meant to have. In this mindset, the road we take doesn't matter. We will still learn the lessons whether we take the lane by the beach, or the hiking trail through the mountains...that both roads will eventually end up at the same end spot. We can choose to backpack around Europe for a few years, and then go to graduate school. Or, we can apply right away. But, with the passage of time, we'll be where our destiny lies at the end of the 'game'.

The other philosophy, when we find ourselves standing still and staring up at the signpost that points in multiple directions, is that every decision comes with it a consequence. Through that consequence, you will be proceeding, not in a linear fashion, but one that resembles more of a spiderweb or maze. Each choice, even the tiny ones such as, where to go for coffee, represent forks, diversions and can forever change the way our life unfolds. We will never truly understand that 'what might have been' end points because the forks aren't massive and arbitrary, they are small and our course changes every moment. The consequence that follows each decision will change our fate, change our direction and change our life. This isn't to say that we are unable to make course corrections, but even the correction itself can lead us on a completely new, untrod path. This philosophy leaves more to the journey's importance itself....rather than coming to the destination. In this way of thinking, the journey itself can take any number of twists, turns, sidesteps, backwards leaps, forward lunges. The end destination will be different based upon any of these diversions. But, that end isn't important....it what you do along the way that matters.

As for me, my own beliefs lie somewhere in the middle. I have had moments in which I've felt shivers down spine, simply understanding that no matter where I made have made enormous mistakes in my life, I'm still working the road that I'm meant to traverse. I look at the times I've chosen the easy route---with sunshine and roses, and this has led me straight into the dark, gloomy, rocky places that I've tried to avoid. On the other hand, I've seen what small, random chance can do to changing how I feel about my place in the world. I can see how unimportant goals I'd set for myself years ago are now. I can see how serendipity has played a role in my own path changes; I was at a dinner party, 12 years ago, when a girlfriend asked me to please join her in going to a yoga class the next day. I couldn't imagine doing yoga. I was more of an aerobics junkie at the time. But I chose to join my friend, Tammie in a class that would change the direction of my life. I fell in love with yoga, and ultimately went through yoga instructor training. Tammie went back to running marathons. What wasn't even a blip on Tammie's radar of her life journey, turned mine upside down in a wonderful way. It's difficult for me to imagine my ending up on the same path, without the consequence following a small change of plan.

As I stand at yet another crossroads, looking down the wide, but dark, road of having both of my children out of the house, I can't help but wonder about the future. I worry about all the actions I've taken up to this point. I have anxiety about if the choices I've made, and the curve balls life has thrown, have prepared me for the next turn up ahead. I debate endlessly if there are parts of my life I should have done differently. I know, however, that none of this internal conflict is going to make a difference in the way the future unfolds. I don't have a sign post that says "Empty nest: Left 4 miles" or "Next career: Right 26 miles". I can't plunk myself down in a fork in the road and try to peek out into the future. I can't climb a hill and then decide which looks like the most fortuitous route. I just have to pick a path and get onto it...with my whole heart.

Rock, paper, scissors, anyone?

The County of the Pointed Firs

Years ago, I was at the beach with my friend, Kelley and all of our young children. We had a beautiful day for a picnic, and as the little ones scampered about our feet, picking up shells and sea glass (and too many small crabs for our comfort), Kelley and I had five minutes peace to talk about the books that had meant the most to us in our lives. Kelley's suggestion for a book she had loved was "The County of the Pointed Firs" by Sarah Orne Jewett. At the time, I was hooked on mystery novels, simply because solving a unexpected occurrence seemed to engage my brain more than playing play-doh with my toddlers. I picked up a copy of this novel, but it sat on my nightstand for years.


By the time my preschool addled mind was ready to engage in real literature once again, I remembered "The County of the Pointed Firs" and happily inhaled the story. The beautiful, moving, troubling and uplifting series of stories, linking the lives of Maine women in a remote, far northern town, "The County of Pointed Firs" described a Maine with which I'm unfamiliar. Living on the coast in a travel destination resort community, the Maine I experience daily, and the rural Maine of the late 19th century felt as they were two different places. The deprivation, the fear, the commitment to the land and the sacrifices of the women in this novel were as removed from my own life on the Maine coast, as life on another planet might be. I enjoyed this novel not only because of the exceptional narrative, but also because of the exquisite portrait painted of a specific place and time in Maine's history.

As I've reread this book many times, I was always struck by its description of a Maine of long ago. However, I have come to see that the Maine described in "The County of the Pointed Firs" is alive and well...and far to the north. My daughter was recently at a soccer camp in Presque Isle, Maine. This is nearly as far north as it's possible to go and still remain in the continental United States. My husband brought our daughter north, and I was scheduled to retrieve her when camp was over. Having never been north of Bangor, I had thought I'd been "north" as defined by my own landmarks. As comfortable as I am with driving to Boston or New York, the thought of traveling, for hundreds of miles, with nothing but woods around me was a little unsettling. I passed Bangor believing that I was leaving the gateway of civilization, as I knew it, behind me. I wasn't far from wrong.


For 2 hours of my five hour drive, I saw nothing but forest. The highway rolled on, and the cars became fewer. The miles ticked away and the small towns gave way to vast stretches of nothing but woods and streams. The villages themselves stopped having names. As I continued on my trek north, the roadside signs read notices like "Now Entering T-1 9-6". The hamlets were reduced to bearing numeric monikers. Although I've lived in Maine, off and on, for much of my life, I had never been this far away from the restaurants, shops, culture and people with which I was familiar. It felt as if I'd left this century altogether, and was entering a land forgotten by time completely. The magnitude of the sprawling ranges of pine trees and mountains was extraordinary. When I caught my first glimpse of Mt. Katahdin, I was overwhelmed. I felt exceptionally blessed to be at that very place, at that very moment.


As my drive continued, and I emerged on the far side side above the Maine North Woods, small towns began to take shape. They themselves look as they were living piece of history. Modern conveniences and amenities were nowhere to be seen: just hardworking farm families, eking out a living in an area that felt like no-man's land. Aroostook County doesn't feel like the more populated areas of Maine, but nor does it feel like Canada yet. The region contains its own stories, its own history and its own dynamic that is far different from the rest of New England. It struck me as being the very land, right out of Sarah Orne Jewett's "The County of the Pointed Firs", didn't feel as if it had changed bit since Jewett wrote the novel in the late 1800's.

My trip north was an inspiration. It showed me that hardy people can create thriving communities in harsh environments, but these people must depend upon each other in every way possible. It taught me that ways of life are still being preserved in our ever-shrinking global society. It humbled me to realize that there are people who would rather have peace and quiet and live off the land, than cable television and elegant restaurants. While I am honest enough with myself to know that this lifestyle is not within my comfort zone, the trip gave me a feeling of pride to live in such a state that embraces diversity of lifestyle choices. The thought of families keeping their land for generations, despite harsh winters and unpredictable summers, filled me with awe. It also made me understand that, despite living in the same state, the Maine in which I live, and "The County" are more complexly dissimilar than I had ever dreamed possible.

As I drove the long road home, I couldn't help but be reminded of Sarah Orne Jewett's words, "“In the life of each of us, there is a place as remote and islanded as the county, and that we choose to give to endless regret or secret happiness.'” I am filled with hope that I can choose happiness over regret. After seeing the tight knit communities to the north, I realize how much of who we are depends upon our choice of vision, and not of our own circumstances.