Category: Home

Motley Crue Mantra

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Captured
I am homesick. There. I said it. Home. Sick. Sick for Home. Home. Home. There’s not a soul alive who can connect the dots and understand where I’m coming from right now. This ache started slower than slow. So slow I didn’t even notice it until now. Where I want to be isn’t a location on a map. Doesn’t have coordinates to guide anyone anywhere, especially me. I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I can’t, so I won’t.
After a Sunday conversation with my mother I felt the stars start to align. The universe started to right itself, because that same day someone else said “Let’s go to The Island this summer.” Kisa looked at me and smiled. That was coincidence enough. I couldn’t have dropped all other plans fast enough – even if I tried. Doesn’t matter what was on my plate, what had priority previously. All bets are off at the mention of home home home. In the case of San Diego, well, let’s just say that’s not taking up so much of my plate anymore…kinda pushed to one side…but we’re still going.

Now we have a house lined up. The dates are set, the check is set to be in the mail. I can already picture the porch. I get dibs on the hammock. A great sunset and even better glass of redred wine. Mine, all mine. Let’s have a feast of laughter. Feed me lobster on the rocks. After I’ve had my fill then, and only then, rock me to sleep by the salt salt sea. I’m ready. I’m on my way, home sweet home.

Seasick

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I want to say see you next year. I want to say maybe next time. I want to make promises I know I can’t keep. Life isn’t fair and Mother Nature is a cruel mistress. Next year my better half gets the call. I know what he will say. I know what he deserves to say. We aren’t going anywhere. It’s our turn to stay put. His family derves a merry christmas delivered on the right day, too.
I cannot make promises I shouldn’t keep. I cannot be unfair to my partner for life.
But, but, but. Know this – I was ready for you. I was ready to come back to you. For this first time in 15 years I was prepared to face all the haunts and hells of yesteryear. Just because it isn’t happening this year doesn’t mean I won’t be ready some other time. I will face you and I will win. Seasick or not, I will succeed.

working it not

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What do you do when the heart goes one way and the mind wanders another? When is right really right and wrong isn’t totally out of the question? One eye on the weather, one heart waiting for disappointment to crest so it can begin to ebb away. Subside. Anticipated sorry is worse than anything I could bring on myself.
The tide of bad timing is fast approaching. Try as I may I want to dodge it, duck under it, let it crash over my head and then let it move on without me. To say we have been planning this all year would be a lie. No plan, just the remembrance of a promise. We said we would be there. We assumed we would. We wanted to. Seriously. The promises broken would break my heart. When I say I want to go home it’s not for the sake of space. It’s not about the place. It’s never been about the place.
 

Port

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I dreamed again of sailing away. I don’t know why cruise ships are my reoccurring objects of choice. Where am I going? Why can’t I stay?

Last night we argued about going, staying, returning. We weren’t really fighting, but rather frustrated. We weren’t angry just refusing to be audibly agreeable. There was no comfort in compromise because we wouldn’t come to it. Not without confrontation. Certainly not out loud. I know I say one thing and mean another weeks later. I know what I say is true for the moment the words are uttered. I know I frustrate you as much I frustrate me & myself. I know it sounds like lying when I change my mind to suit my heart.
When I said I didn’t want you there and that I would be happier without you that wasn’t a lie. Not at that moment it wasn’t. At that moment miserable me didn’t want to deal with unreasonable you. My understanding wasn’t adequate when arguing with you. Facing facts is hard when fixated on fantasy.

Today is a different story. I want us to sail away. Together. Let’s take that journey the best way we know how. Our plans are scattered, seat-of-our-pants as they say. Who cares? Coming. Going. Staying. Let’s play it by heart and see what happens.

Knitting a Memory

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Here’s what I remember. She would be standing behind the counter, knitting with four needles. Knitting in a round. Wristers for the men, mittens for the women. Knitting, always knitting. The yarn was never one solid color. She would ring up grocery orders, peer at prices through grandma glasses. Tally balances in a fine, spidery hand. Smoking and gossiping with the fishermen. Back when smoking was something to do. Her raspy laugh echoing through the aisles. A fixture among the groceries. She was just a little thing but such a huge presence!
Christmas mittens. Those mittens knitted all year long would show up under the tree in December. Always with a dollar hidden in one. It was as much a tradition as Seacoast Mission. mom’s oranges and Jingle Bells before Santa. For some reason I always got shades of green. How she knew my growing hands from year to year I’ll never know. I’ve kept them still.
Sitting on top of wharf hill, watching the day trippers disembark from the boat. Always full of witty comments and guess who arrived today? She knew everyone’s story, everyone’s comings and goings. She saw it all and knew us all from the hill.
She died last month. I just got word today. Common sense says it was time. Nature has it’s unstoppable course. She was ancient when I was a kid. Nevertheless, I thought she would live forever. Whenever her mittens warm my hands her memory will always warm my heart. Thanks, Reet.

Christmas Waiting To Happen

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I want a real tree for Christmas – the smell of pine and cinnamon – traipsing through along the trails.
I want sequined soldiers and candy cane horses – twisting and shining on the limbs.
I want pastries warmed on the back of the stove – nothing sweet to catch fire.
I want my mother’s sweet potato casserole – you peel the potatoes, I’ll cut the apples.
I want giggling children excited by sleigh bells and flashlights – silly stories and big eyes.
I want warm blankets and fuzzy slippers to lose my toes in.
I want Silent Night sung by candlelight – a community drawn together by acceptance.
I want shadowy outlines of horses by dawn – their imaginary hoofbeats running over frozen ground, steam rising from flared nostrils.
I want to watch the winter surf with kisa by my side – my hand in his pocket, fingertips numb.
I want to count down the days – may they fly – by advent calendar of yesteryear.
To be HomeHome again. I’ll be there.

Is It Any Wonder?

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We’ve started to talk about Thanksgiving. They talk. I listen. I find this time of year tiresome. Who goes where and for how long? Can we split up the time? Can we avoid the time? What is the time? My mother-in-law is stressing about keeping the kid. Defiantly announcing, “I get the kid.” Okay. Definitely. Two years ago I brought up having a “schedule,” some sort of flow chart to keep our obligations straight. Somehow it became a discussion about something else entirely.
We have never had a holiday, just the two of us. I’ve never cooked a twelve part meal with only him in mind. Turkey, (garlic) mashed potatoes, cajun sweet potatoes (with pecans), that green bean casserole, cranberry sauce (homemade), creamy pearl onions, stuffing (two kinds), honey wheat rolls, the gravy I don’t touch, three kinds of pies… There’s always been someone else. Or a few someone elses. Not that I don’t mind family. I just miss him.

It’s insane how much we try to divvy up family time. Time with his family – both sides- time with mine. What about the other in-laws? Where’s their time? Everyone wants a piece. Who gets the turn this year? Well, where were we last year? We’ve never hosted Christmas, nor have we started our own (private) traditions because we haven’t been here. My kitchen remains cold because we’re always cooking somewhere else. I’m about ready to sell my serving ware.
This year I may not even bother with the ornaments, the decorations, or even the tree since we won’t be here…again. I was in such the spirit last year that I put everything up….only to have it sit silent while we went somewhere else.

Here’s my wish for the holidays. I want my home away from home to be so warm that I feel like I’m where the heart is and I’m happy to be there. Regardless of where that is.
 

This Old Life 10/29/05

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This is the time when I could use a drink. What is it that they say? Something to take the edge off…waking up to use the bathroom I find myself really awake as I lay back in bed. How do I get to this point? It happens all the time. I was dreaming of lip balm and Spoletos before. Why can’t I get back to slumber? How did I jump off the Sleep Express? Maybe it’s nerves. I’ll be meeting a bunch of new people today and I don’t think I brought enough makeup to put my best face forward. I pushed away a potential friend because the thought of that initial how-do-you-do terrified me. I’m not good at first impressions. If I could I’d have several first impressions. Like in the movie Groundhog Day. Until I get it right. Whoops! I stuttered. Let me go back to bed and try again. Ooops, I bumped your drink. Let me get back to you in 24 hours. Sorry! I mispronounced your name. Same time tomorrow? Until finally, finally my first impression is gracious and charming.
Insomnia leads to crawling around the internet. First stop, email and news of Natalie. Second stop, quick check of island life activity and photographs of heaven. Third stop, the sirsy message board to check the now grown silent chatter. Final stop, here. To confess my thoughts by the glow of the laptop and to wish for sips of icy cold limoncello….or maybe warm tuaca.

Donuts in Heaven

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caged.jpg

Grief is not confined to a date, or an anniversary marked on the calendar pages, and yet I am safer handling the details & confronting the stories after September. Funny how that works out. The birdman confronted me with a story: Your father, he shook his head…Your father was clinically dead at the wharf. Did you know that? I knew that. I’d heard it before from somewhere. Still, hearing it said outloud n o w, standing before me, made the words sound so much more serious. They echoed in my head. Clinically clinically dead dead dead. Birdman continued. They revived him. He waited for your family to get there. He waited. Waited. I pondered that statement, that detail. Waited. Wait! I was the last to get there. Does that mean he waited for me? Does that imply he held onto life for me? No. I don’t think so. I don’t think he held onto life for anyone but himself. He kept death at bay for himself and his life.

Mom relived The Day from her point of view – even though I didn’t ask her to. “I was making donuts for Mary. Your father said SaveMeOne. He’d have it when he got back. He worried about not having a cage on the boat. It was still dark. He was concerned about not being able to see the buoys. He mentioned it more than once, no cage. I listened on the radio because I never went back to bed.” She never went back to bed. I handled details and let the words wash over me. I washed them down with wine. While the sentences the words formed were not new to me I wasn’t used to hearing them from someone else’s mouth. We never talk about this. Clinically dead. She never went back to bed.

Later we looked at pictures. My grandmother, done up in ribbons and smiles, before life got hard. Too hard. Before she died. Did she wait for someone? Did she hang onto life and kept death at bay for the sake of someone else? I don’t think so. Much like my father, I think her life meant something to her and her alone. Her smile tells me so. I hope they get donuts in heaven.

Minimal

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Kisa took this picture of serenity while I wrestled with chaos. I was thinking about something my sister said and was arguing with her (vehemently) in my head. She wasn’t there but I could hear her voice. She has tried to direct my direction before. In the past I’ve come close to giving in, letting her guide me where she thinks I should be going. This time it’s a directive as simple as “you should say something” but the fear in my heart gives it complexity and chaos. So, while a sailboat sails silently over the seas I wrestled this stupid struggle to the ground. I felt as though I was winning… but before I could pin it and really claim victory the triumph was lost in self doubt. More confusion. Maybe she is right. That thought alone keeps me questioning. You should say something. So I do. Later, I do.

Here’s the thing: Confessions are like closets. You never know what’s behind their doors or how deep they’ll go. To say something is to open that door and wait for whatever comes out. Or what wants to enter in. I made a start by admitting to something small, miniscule. I opened a tiny confessional window instead of that big ugly door. Untrusting, I was testing the temperature of acceptance, if you will. I had a right to be worried. The reception was chilly. Borderline bitter cold. I offered up an open window and it was slammed shut with “oh…that’s not what happened!” An exclamation of denial in a condescending tone to something in my life, lived by me, myself & moi. You’re telling me my confession is clueless. You’re telling me my memory is all wrong despite my living it. You can’t get much colder than that. If I could raise the dead and make them speak I would prop her up and make her tell you how it happened. Someone to back me up. Someone to say that’s how it happened. I need a witness.

In the end I wrestled chaos and confusion. I went to the depths of anger and came back resigned. As a result of the window I will never open the door. I will never share the secrets. It’s bad enough I know.

Recognition

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I walked through town wearing a bright red Camp Kawanhee t-shirt. “Camp Kawanhee?! Now there’s a shirt I wouldn’t expect to see here!” A woman’s shrill voice called out to me. Turning around, she was impossible to ignore. L.L. Bean hiking boots, jeans tucked into socks practically up to her knees, a down puffy vest over a sweatshirt emblazoned with a chickadee, a huge pair of binoculars slung around her bandana’ed neck. With a smirk on her face she nodded toward my shirt. “I live in Farmington.” As if that explained everything. I wanted to tell her her point of reference and recognition was off. Way off. If she visited Monhegan more often she would have known ‘Kawanhee’ is just as common as the word lobster or artist. She wouldn’t have been so surprised.

Later, it was my face that was a source of reference and recognition. We were watching the bonfire, staring at the burn and hypnotized by the flames when a woman asked me if I am my mother’s daughter. Yes, I am. It’s in my eyes, the shape of my face. I am a walking testimony to my heritage and proud of it. The compliments flowed and I answered with “a force to be reckoned with…” Nods of agreement. Yes, indeed. A force to be reckoned with.

It’s a strange state of affairs. I go home to be ignored. I like walking by someone I’ve known all my life and barely acknowledge each other with a passing hello, or the smallest of greetings – a nod. We acknowledge one another with an understanding that goes deeper than small talk and chit chat. We don’t want time for either. That’s just the way we are. So, when perfect strangers recognized something in me and wanted to talk about it, it threw me off guard. Yes, I could tell you of my connection to Camp Kawanhee. I could go on and on about the tents, the boys, the dinners at the Yew. I tell you of my connection to my mother that goes beyond my face. I could tell you stories of how proud I am of her, how amazed I am by her, how she frustrates me to the point of fury, how much I love her. I could. I really could. Instead, I would like to stand before the fire and see you through the flames; I would see you and recognize you. If you saw me I would acknowledge you through the smoke with just a nod. That’s just the way I am.

Obsession

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If my stomach was writing this, this would be the mother of all blogs, singing the praises of the perfect burrito while bowing down to the perfect partner.

If the items in this picture look at all familiar to you, you might be asking yourself, “Self, is it possible she’s in Colorado or New York and not Maine or even Massachusetts?” I would have to answer you with a voice full of glee and giggle, “It is true! I am not in Colorado, nor New York. Chipotle has come north of all that! North of Close Enough to ME! Chipotle has invaded Massachusetts and it’s about time!” There is only one restaurant right now with two more “coming soon.”
Kisa had the trip planned from Day 0. Keeping the plan a secret from me for four whole days must have been difficult because it meant getting me off the island on the earliest boat…on the last day. Getting me off the island can be a chore in itself if I’m not ready to leave. Luckily for him (and ultimately, my stomach) I boarded the 9am without complaint. It had been a long weekend.
TomTom told us the way to go. I have to admit I forgot all about The Secret Plan. Still having post-parting pangs I sulked as route 1 flew by my window. Moody’s was enough to distract me, work me out of my depression. Whoopies were just been whipped together. I bought the first of the batch. L.L. Bean only distracted me further with disappointment. I couldn’t find anything I liked (believe it or not). By the time we missed the exit for 495 South I remembered “the plan” and how secret it was.
616 Fellsway should be the name of my next pet. 616 Fellsway, Medford is the address to heaven. Heaven in a burrito. When we pulled into the parking lot I could barely believe my eyes. True to design, true to color scheme and true to chrome, there before my eyes lay the greatest place to eat my stomach has ever known. Chipotle. In all its glory. I heard a choir singing. Chipotle in all its aroma.
We ate our standards. For those of you in the know:
Rice: yes
Meat: chicken
Beans: black
Salsa: medium (corn, of course) & hot
Cheese: yes
Sour cream: yes
Lettuce: no

Drink: lemonade with a splash of sprite
Chips & salsa: yes

When we were finished gorging we went up again. To go.

Imposters

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I will be glad to leave this world for a little while. Just for a short time, just enough to catch my breath. I am no better than these drummers disguised as chefs. Cooking up all the wrong things. Stirring up mayhem and madness. This weekend I’ll be glad to sit back and be only wife and daughter for a few days. A long weekend. Shed the illusion of Head Mucky-Muck for the time being. I don’t want to wear nice clothes. I don’t want someone to knock on my door and ask “can I interrupt?” No. I want to be eat-from-the-earth girl. Apples, leftover blackberries. Eye-behind-the-lens girl capturing everything that catches my heart. The must-have-lobsters-and whoopie-pies girl. Chocolate crumbs on my chin, white frosting on my fingertips. Face-in-a-book-and-wine-glass-on-knee girl. Oohh…books. Wine. I’m starting to drool. Maybe my book, it will be a girly-girl book. A dirty book. A fantastic book. Something that goes with Merlot. Something too delicious for Miss Mucky Muck.

HomeHomeHomeHome

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What was I thinking? Not go home? Am I crazy? I always go home. Always in Autumn. I fall in love with the island’s air and light this time of year. Every single time. So, why would I think I wouldn’t go this year? Who cares that life is crazy right now? That’s all the more reason to run away.

It’s the same as it ever was. We’ll pack the truck, grocery list clenched between my teeth. Dog food, non-dairy creamer, the usual. I’ll be stressed and knotted until we’re actually on the boat and ready to roll on the waves. I won’t sleep well until we’re on the Southern End under a night of pitch black pine trees.

So, in the meantime I need to figure out what meals I’m going to cook. I need to pick and chose the books to read. Maybe I’ll bring knitting. Maybe I’ll bring running shoes. I need to find my favorite sweatshirt. You can bet I’m bringing the camera. End of story. I’m going home.

Navigationally Lost

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I have made the decision to go home. I wasn’t going to – make the decision or go home. Neither was in my best interest until my life got beyond interesting. Let’s face it. I’m a creature of habit and my habit is to go home in the waning days of summer’s warmth. When the mornings are cool enough for a sweatshirt and the afternoon, shorts. When coffee steams hot at daybreak and ice cream cools the midday sunshine.
I need to go home become my astrocompass has lost its true anything. I need direction. I need my mother to teach me how to make MeltInYourMouth rocky road fudge complete with pockets of sticky sweet marshmallow and crunchy walnuts. In this week I’ve lost my love for the kitchen and that scares me. I sigh and slouch on the couch and say “let’s order out.” Subway for dinner should be a sin.
My magnet is more than one morning in Maine. I’m drawn to the ocean if only to drown the feeling of being directionally duped. The pull of the island is too strong to put aside. I will go. Navigate me so I can TumbleHome.