 There are a few things that never fail to boost my spirits. One of them is October light shining through fall foliage. Another is when someone tells me I’ve done something well.
Why should they matter, those overt acknowledgements of admiration or appreciation? Maybe because none of us really knows how we are received by others. We try our best, most of the time. We hope we’re doing okay, but many of us are plagued with uncertainty. Self-doubt, given time to propagate, can be overpowering. I’ve been a hospice volunteer for two and half years. One of my clients had dementia, so it was hard to know how much affect my visits had. I sang and chatted and read poems. I was a one-woman improv show, and it could be discouraging. I couldn’t help wondering, do my efforts make any difference? After my fourth visit, the client’s spouse said to me, “I don’t know if anyone’s said anything to you, but you’re great at this. [Client] really perks up when you’re here.” I was transformed by the simple comment. To know our endeavors matter…helps a lot. It reminded me that I need to share my admiration for the spouse’s never-ending daily efforts in return. Every time. It will never hurt. And maybe I need to share my appreciation for my own spouse, and my friends, and the cashier at the grocery store, and the gas station attendant who always offers a nice smile and friendly greeting. Maybe we should look for opportunities to spread the wealth of those little boosts every chance we get. What a nice meal you made. This place looks great. Wow, you’ve been working hard. You were so kind today. You are so talented. I can tell you put time into that. Thanks – you've made such a difference. You are not alone. I see you. It’s worth saying out loud.
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 How many of us, given the chance, would choose to return to our high school days? I don’t know about you, but I certainly was not my best self at 17, nor my happiest. And yet…I recently spent a weekend away with a group of eight high school girlfriends, our third weekend together in three years! Had our full complement been there, we would have been ten. If you’d told me when I was a teenager that I would be planning getaway weekends in my 60s with this group of ten women, I would have laughed. No way, my introverted, self-conscious, overly judgmental teen self would have thought. Back then, I would have fretted over who was better friends with whom, over where I fit on the popularity spectrum (not high), over what they’d all think of me, my clothes, and every word I spoke. Not any more. Thanks to Darrel’s inspiration and organization, a monthly Zoom get-together was launched during the isolated period of the pandemic. The group soon expanded and stuck at 10. What we all found in each other was a gift we wanted to cultivate, so we stuck with it. Once you’ve reached your 60s, all those adolescent preoccupations (well, almost all) have lost their power. I wasn’t capable of seeing into other people clearly as a teen, I was too absorbed in looking inside myself. At 64, I find in this group of contemporary women a world of riches – a wealth of life experiences, honest vulnerabilities, shared compassion, and a treasure trove of stories, triumphant, tragic, and enlightening. It seems we have all learned to see each other’s humanity and buoy each other up. Some of these women I hadn’t been in touch with for decades. There’s so much to learn from each other’s stories, and from sharing our own. But there’s also that other thing – that layer of our past where we overlap. These are women who shared kindergarten class, who went to the Strawberry Festival during middle school, who wore those awful gymsuits and flew off the hump-a-jump in Mrs. Meredith’s gym class, who painted “Class of ‘78” on The Rock, who devoured giant deli sandwiches at The Little Store, who finagled fake student id cards to buy beer at 16, who had Mr. Lipkin for Latin, who stayed up all night after the senior musical. Even if we didn’t do all these things together, they inhabit our mutually remembered spaces. Isn’t it funny how, when you’re with someone you knew in your youth, you see them as you knew them? During our most recent weekend gathering, we walked around the extraordinary grounds of the Glenstone Museum. I caught myself feeling I was with a bunch of 17-year-old contemporaries. It was startling to suddenly register the truth of our graying hair and wrinkled necks. Whoa. We got old! But our young selves are still in there. That’s what it means to hang out with old friends, or new friends that you knew when you were young. You are reminded of that youthful self who emerges more readily with this crowd than in the courtroom or the boardroom or the classroom. There’s this one silhouette picture from the weekend that stands out for me: A group of us saw ourselves in shadow on the floor of a sunken monument, and we automatically struck whimsical poses. There we are. We could be any age, animated by our shared history and our shared present, shadows of who we were and who we are and who we may still become. Thanks for the good times, ladies. Last week I hiked a tiny piece of the Appalachian Trail, the part that through-hikers thrill to reach at the end of their 2100-mile trek as they begin their final ascent up Mount Katahdin. For us, it was only a short hike up, about as far as Katahdin’s ankle. We climbed just over a mile up the Hunt Trail to Katahdin Falls, then came back down. It was marvelous.
I’ve climbed the iconic Mount Katahdin several times, and there’s no denying it is an unforgettable edifice of a mountain to summit, and not just because of the memorable pain of descending staircases for a week afterwards. It is a looming giant, a mega-dinosaur with scrabbly ridges along its spine that you traverse all above tree line, a breathtaking behemoth. But now that I’m in my 60s, I’m less excited to have my breath taken away. I’d just as soon hang on to it while I still have it. Katahdin Falls is a gorgeous destination, and how refreshing not to feel the looming of nine more miles of climb and descent. We had ample time to get back to our tent site at Katahdin Stream campground for lunch, then drive up the road to walk the loop around the glorious Daicey Pond. I’d been to Baxter State Park so many times with a blinder-focus on Katahdin’s Baxter Peak. The park is so much more, and it was wonderful to discover a few more gems that I’ve been missing all these years. I talked to a couple of park rangers who admitted that their favorite park hike is not Katahdin. For one of them it’s Double Top, for the other, Owl. Why? “Because you can’t see Katahdin from Katahdin,” they both said. From the summits of nearby peaks, you get to marvel at the view of one of the most impressive mountains in the country. You can’t do that if you’re standing on Katahdin. Our recent trip included no mountaintops, but it had the advantage of avoiding the after-pain. On our second day we hiked to Big and Little Niagara Falls – yes Baxter has its own Niagaras! Full immersion in forest flora and the soothing song of water, rushing and tumbling its way down rocky inclines, with time to savor it. Sometimes off the beaten path is exactly what you need. *For more not-Katahdin gems, explore South Branch Pond, North Brother, Hamlin Peak, Blueberry Knoll, Basin Pond, Chimney Pond. Worth the trip!   After a week on Rachel Field’s beloved island off the coast of Maine, I’m inspired to share once again her timeless poem of island magic, with some illustrations… If Once You Have Slept On An Island If once you have slept on an island You'll never be quite the same; You may look as you looked the day before And go by the same old name,  You may bustle about in street and shop You may sit at home and sew, But you'll see blue water and wheeling gulls Wherever your feet may go.  You may chat with the neighbors of this and that And close to your fire keep, But you'll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell And tides beat through your sleep.  Oh you won't know why and you can't say how Such a change upon you came, But once you have slept on an island, You'll never be quite the same.   My granddaughter, Fiona, four and a half, has officially grown out of her beloved Elsa dress, a costume based on the Disney heroine of Frozen. Her mom, my daughter Nellie, reported that the dress was retired to a closet some months ago, but recently came out again for Lucy. Little sister Lucy, going on two, now fits nicely into the Elsa dress, wears it floor-length and twirls about the room. For a long time – a year? two? more? – Fiona wore that dress perpetually: to the store, to bed, to daycare, for meals, for playtime, hiking, snowy outings, beach walks, you name it. It was the first thing into her suitcase when packing for weekends away. Her parents resisted briefly, then decided it best to choose other battles. The Elsa dress made morning dressing simpler, after all. (see blog 11/28/21) The first time Lucy wore the dress, Nellie told me, she watched Fiona from behind. Fiona, head cocked, contemplative, gazed as Lucy swirled around the room. “I loved that dress,” she said with unusual sentiment. Nellie felt a heart flutter. The second time Lucy wore the dress, Fiona went quiet again, watching her little sister twirl in the ragged blue costume. “Mommy, why is my brain making my eyes water?” she said, baffled by this inexplicable phenomenon. “Stop it, brain!” Oh my dear child. Why does this story make my eyes water? Stop it, brain.  My oldest grandchild is now 4 ½, and she delights me endlessly, notwithstanding the tantrums. The tantrums are understandable. It’s hard to imagine, at 63, the overwhelming brainwork of being 4. The world is an ocean of mystery, and you are at sea, floating, swimming, sailing, floundering. Language is a magical tool, and you’re only just beginning to understand how to use it, which must mean brain burnout from time to time. It also means that sometimes you come up with great wisdom, unfettered by convention.
Nellie said something to Fiona about imagining a boat. “I have two pairs of eyes,” says Fiona. “You do?” “Yes, sometimes I see with my other eyes.” “Where are they?” asks Mom. Fiona opens her mouth and points inside. Then she says, “no,” thinks for a second, and points to her forehead. “What do you see with those eyes?” asks Mom. “You said boat, and I can see a boat up here,” says Fiona, pointing to her forehead again. “Unicorn. See, I said unicorn, and I saw a unicorn.” Nellie marvels at this unfolding of thought. “My brain talks to me,” says Fiona. “My brain is pretty cool.” Indeed it is. Getting cooler by the minute.  It's all my fault. On March 19th (top photo), I put my snowshoes away in the attic. I was lulled into resignation by a long stretch of springlike weather. On March 21 (bottom photo), morning brought a six-inch carpet of white, blowing in billows. For those of you impatient for warm weather - sorry! But I confess I was thrilled. I am a cool weather person, and I love snow. I felt cheated of snow this winter, so spring brought us a nice little compensation gift.
Even though Daisy is from Alabama, she was even more excited than I was to finally have a Maine snowstorm to play in. Her doggie zoomies created wild patterns of overlapping circles all over the yard. Since I didn't have my snowshoes handy, my track is just a furrow of trudging boots, but it was easy walking. This is the best snow - light, fluffy, you can blow it off the car, when you brush against a tree branch, cascades of sparkle drift around you on their way to the ground. This is late winter in Maine, and I'm basking in it. Who knows how long we will know it? In a few years we may have springs like the ones you associate with Virginia. How much of our identity is wrapped into our home climate? More than we realize, I think. Mainers are tough, rugged, resilient, able to face those infamous, unpredictable northeast storms with staunch resolve, with generosity to snowed-in neighbors without power. But what happens when all we get is a few little decorative snowfalls and a lovely, warm spring? Who will we be then? I guess we'll have to get better with ticks and invasive flora. I'd rather have snow. So maybe I'll try putting my snowshoes away early next year too.  Is it time to take the Christmas lights down yet? January can be a long month here at the 44th parallel. There’s still a lot of dark time, both morning and evening, and when it’s dark my inclination is to be thinking of bedtime, slowing down, curling up in my pajamas. One reason I don’t mind waiting until mid-December before we get our Christmas tree and string fairy lights in the living room is so that the lights don’t feel too overdone, once we hit mid-January. Today I had my first inkling of a thought: hmm. Maybe it’s time to put the holidays away…but why not leave the lights up a bit longer? They do use up a bit of power, but maybe they bestow even more. Maybe, in the lift those lights offer, they produce more positive energy than they consume. Maybe a little glow is just what I need to get through the long nights of January. I get a little draggy this time of year, especially during a January like this one - no snow sparkles under the sun; no snow brightens the darkness. There's more rain expected tomorrow; floods and wind damage are wreaking havoc around the state. We need to grasp at any little thing that lightens our load, our day, our spirits. They’re so small, those tiny lights, but they have a big oomph inside a droopy head and heart. I’ll keep the lights on, just a bit longer.  I remember this strange phenomenon. When I was a young mother steeped in infant care, day in and day out, my baby filled every crevice of my world, my thoughts, my preoccupations, my field of vision. Then someone offered to hold my child. They walked off a little distance, and I had a moment to look away. Turning back, I was startled to see how tiny she was, over there, away from me. How is it possible that this enormous presence is so insignificant in size? I think of that sometimes when I’m off adventuring with my husband. Not uncommonly, he finds his way to highpoints and vistas not exactly on the main path, so he appears to me as a tiny silhouette against a cavernous expanse of world, this effervescent man who has so prominently filled my universe for over 40 years. I admit it does give me pause. Seeing that my everything can quickly become an imperceivable speck is disconcerting, but it’s also a reality check. We are, each of us, almost nothing, really. It is a wondrous marvel that we are here at all, both feeling the immensity of our individual life experiences and occasionally catching a fleeting glimpse of eternity. It’s complicated, isn’t it? I want to cling to my life's treasures, and I want to fling my arms out and set everything free at the same time. When I see Jonathan as a tiny silhouette on the horizon, I feel a surge of…love? urgency? protectiveness? freedom? I am reminded to hold onto what is precious while it is near at hand, because eventually, we will all dissolve into the cavernous expanse of this extraordinary world. I will hold Jonathan’s hand and listen to his heartbeat, and I will celebrate when I chance to see him, far away, reaching out to touch the infinite sky.  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, but instead counting our blessings as we sit down to share a meal with my family, J and I are literally living a world of Castles in Spain. It’s an appropriate metaphor. J and I are in the midst of a dreamlike, monthlong exploration of Europe, currently making our way across the northernmost parts of Spain, east to west, getting lost, following our noses. Medieval villages dot the landscape, a tower here, an old walled city there, a monastery on a hill, an arched stone bridge leading into narrow, cobbled streets.
We have a lot to be thankful for. I’m thankful to have made my way into my 60s, to have the freedom, the means, and the time to travel (plus no covid restrictions and relative security in western Europe). I am thankful to meet so many people in different countries, in multiple languages (including hand gestures) who smile and help out and share a piece of their life with strangers. The world seems scary and despairing too often. When we live in the news and in social media, we miss out on the reassurance of human connection. Everywhere there are babies getting pushed in carriages, dogs trotting with their humans, cats sunning on doorsteps, children’s voices bubbling over the walls of playgrounds, people stopping for a drink, going to work, laughing, yelling into cell phones, meeting friends, stopping at crosswalks, tending to farm animals, waving hello. We have so much in common, no matter where we live. Traveling encourages the opening of boundaries, both internal and external. We’re getting opened up to the idea of dreaming again, dreaming of castles in Spain. I wish for all of you, friends, family, and passers-by, the luxury of dreaming, perhaps your own Castles in Spain. I wish you, too, the comforts of human connection – over a table laden with food, over a hot cup of coffee, on the street, on the subway, at the checkout counter. We are not as alone as we think, if we can find our way to open up and reach out. **Robin |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs. Archives
October 2024
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