The Worth of Persistance

Oh, what a mean storm, the pelting

snow erased the view ahead.

I was weary and worried.

I could turn back, succumb

to anger that this journey

had turned hard and a bit frightening,

give up on seeing any good

in trying to proceed forward.

I looked, again, through the gauzy shroud

of weather, as the snow draped me.

And, in the midst of all that anxiety I saw

the stunning beauty of the chaos,

the marvel of this place of whitened woods and water,

the gentle bend in the path ahead. Everything stilled,

in that way that comforts,

the confident stillness that comes with knowing

that persisting is more than worth it.

The remnants of 2017's storms lie scattered on the road behind us. Those storms provided the inspiration for the poem. They didn't just whip through my world, they ripped through the lives of many I know and love. Well, we made it through, tattered, but upright. 

Some of those storms, continue to build on the horizon of 2018. My country is under siege from a ridiculous leader and his crew. Whatever your political views, they are the antithesis of guardians of democracy. At least we have the elections later this year to try to snuff out the coarse winds that blew him into our lives. They say light always comes after the dark; my nephew reminded me that the Renaissance followed the Dark Ages. We have some hard work ahead to make that happen.

There are clear spots, where a new view can take hold. Here is an interesting candidate for Kentucky, a female, former fighter pilot. There is Beto O'Rourke from El Paso, who is running against Ted Cruz. There were wonderful victories for good at the end of the year--the Virginia elections; Doug Jones winning the Alabama senate seat; and the fact that so many conscientious conservatives are calling out the President and his cronies on a regular basis: Steve Schmidt, Nicole Wallace, Mike Murphy, Jennifer Rubin, Brett Stephens, David Jolly, and Charlie Sykes, to name a few. They give me hope. We need opposing views with a willingness to find compromise. There's the #MeToo and #Timesup movements. There was the Women's March which was an international phenomena. 

On a personal note, this summer we were able to surprise my mom by all gathering in Omaha for her 80th birthday, and it was the best time. She was completely, utterly stunned. "It's like a dream." My nephew graduated from high school, despite severe anxiety issues. He strode across the stage with his arms up in the air and the peace sign on his fingers. Or, maybe it was "V" for victory. Either way, it was a glorious moment. 

Also, this summer, I found a lump in my breast. It was early stage carcinoma. My lumpectomy and radiation went fairly smoothly and I am grateful. 

The "stunning beauty of the chaos," is there if we let ourselves see it. And, persisting is always worth it.

Protected Places

I woke today, to the news of the people who formed a human chain in order to save swimmers drowning in a riptide, yesterday, off the shore of Panama City, FL. With all the partisan fighting and generalized social depression making people want to isolate from the rest of the world, close off from incoming immigrants and refugees, and hunker down--to what, I don't know--a story like this redeems and renews my faith in the ability of people to put their personal welfare aside for the sake of others: 

“To see people from different races and genders come into action to help TOTAL strangers is absolutely amazing to see!! People who didn’t even know each other went HAND IN HAND IN A LINE, into the water to try and reach them. Pause and just IMAGINE that.” Jessica Simmons, one of the rescuers.

"Pause and just IMAGINE that." I can and I will store that away for future times when I feel disheartened. 

There are lone individuals, also taking action to make the world, or at least our country, better. Brent Rose visited the 27 National Monuments on the chopping block of our new President. His effort led to more than 2,000,000 people sending in personal comments to try to save them. Monumental action by one lone man. 

My husband and I spent the Fourth of July in a precious place, kayaking from island to island, part of the Maine Island Trail. These islands are either purchased by the Maine Island Trail Association, or private owners permit public usage of their island to people wanting to explore and treasure these special places. It was a gorgeous day, a rarity this summer, and as we paddled up to various pocket beaches, we were greeted by the smell of wild rosa rugosa and a visual plethora of daisies, wild lilies, and the white and pink blooms of the rugosa. 

This, the access to this protected place, is what rewards us for living here. Maine is not the easiest place, climate-wise, to inhabit. It is not the lengthy cold winters that bother me, it is the drabby, rain-drenched days and weeks that fray the rather fragile threads of my mood. The worst of those wet, battle-ship-gray days are in spring. We do not have spring here, not like other places. We have "mud season" and it is not pretty. The fact that mud season seeps in right after a long winter, leads to a condition known here as "woods crazy." Meaning people have been holed up too long, isolated by the elements, and become desperate for change. 

On this day, mud season and drenched days were no where on the horizon of my mind. Just sun, crushed shells, brine and sweet-scented wildflowers were all I could see. I breathe deeper here. Any tension melts and is swept aside. 

The houses of Stonington village appear as beads against the neckline of spruce hills of the mainland. Gulls cry and terns dive. Sails are billowed. And, I am healed. My spirit bouyed, by this protected place. 

Refueling

Yesterday, we had a wonderful day skiing at a small, family ski mountain in northern Maine called Big Rock. It was warm and sunny and I skied better than I ever have. It was the way I would want to start this "stay-cation". It's been a long winter, my Maineiacheart has been troubled by the political landscape, and I have been fairly busy, for me, at work. The adage, "Parents, put your oxygen masks on first before assisting your children," is apt. You can't be sharp if you are worn down. You can’t help others if you can’t catch your own breath. Therefore, though it costs me (I am self-employed and have no paid vacation leave), I decided to take the week to myself. 

On the way to skiing, we passed the viewing spots for Maine's icon, Mt. Katahdin. It's an unusual mountain, in that it rises abruptly from fairly level ground. There are a few smaller mountains to its north and west, but it is basically alone, with a long, snow-clad summit. I decided that I would use the next day to drive up north of it and just enjoy empty roads and woods. I brought the dogs, so they wouldn't be penned inside all day. 

First stop was Ash Hill in Patten. 

North side of Katahdin from Ash Hill, Patten, ME.

Standing, camera in hand, feeling small in relation to all that was around me, I could relax, submit to this giant beauty. So much of my days, lately, seem to be wrought with frustration and fear, embarrassment and worry. I keep railing at the political reality we are in and there is no relief. I cannot control the fact that the people of my country, people I actually care about, put a rube into leadership of the most economic and militarily powerful country in the world. I track all the misdeeds as if by staying on top of all of it, I might prevent some catastrophe. As if, by knowing everything that is happening I can keep the cancer from spreading. Talk about dreams of grandiosity. This song's chorus rings true to my psyche, right now.

Buddhist say that clinging is the root of unhappiness, and they are right. I am not just clinging. I am screaming and muckling on and wasting so much energy thinking that somehow I can rein in the forces at play. It is clear that I want to find a way to stay engaged, awake, and active but I don't want that effort to overtake me. This is a marathon. This is climbing Mt. Everest. It is important to know when to move, when to conserve energy, and when to pack it in.  

Which, brings me here, where the sky is wide and the landscape slows my beating heart.

Patten and Sherman, Maine have an Amish community. Occasionally, as I made my way north and west on Rt. 11, I passed clotheslines flapping with primary-colored shirts and dresses and buggies with their horses. This is ideal country for them. The land is inexpensive, the communities are relatively conservative, and the Amish can be left alone to live as they desire. 

Out here, in this expanse of wilderness, I am stilled. My cheeks chill with the wind. I am present. All that chaos and neurosis gets swept away. I am reminded that this is what gives me the energy to go forward.

As I continued down Rt. 159, the calm remained. I am grateful for making something of this day. There's a little more fuel in my tank.

East Branch Penobscot River