The Long and Winding Road

When you leave the area called Oxford Hills, up north of here, there's a road heading even further north that leads to some pretty wild country. It reminds me a great deal of Canada, at least the parts of Canada I've been to. Pine trees and rocks. Lakes with islands. And roads that appear to be in perpetual need of repair. The kind of place where a person could get lost.

There's something about Maine that causes me to get disoriented easily. It's all that talk about downeast. Which isn't down east at all. It's a maritime term, having to do with water, wind, stuff like that. Down East is heading up. East. I think. I'm pretty good at reading road maps. I said, 'pretty good.' And getting my bearings, direction wise, isn't a problem. But, driving the back roads here is like trying to find my way out of a maze. I usually know where I'm going, I kinda know how to get there, it's the in-between part that can get interesting. I'm learning to relax, though, knowing I will arrive someplace and from there I can take another leap into the unknown.

The other day, I decided to head out and see what the insides of Maine look like. I felt a bit like that youngster, I'm tellin' this story, who heads out to stake a claim in the wilds of the new frontier. Threw a pack across my horse's back, put my foot in the stirrup and into the wild blue yonder I went, armed only with my camera. Okay, it was just a little day trip, in my blue Nissan, but it felt kinda fun, like a mini-adventure. Johnny Horton's "North to Alaska," started running through my mind. Much better than the last song that wouldn't let go. Some maudlin thing by Bread (I believe that may be redundant), about some dern diary:  "I found her diary underneath a tree, and started reading about me..." To make a tiresome story short, turns out it wasn't about him. Anyway, here's something better, with images of the Klondike Gold Rush. Love the movie with John Wayne. Love the song. Here's Johnny Horton:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSt0NEESrUA  

First stop was Coos Canyon, a river much like those along Highway 61, on the north shore of Lake Superior; small waterfalls in rocky steps flowing under a rather picturesque bridge. Did I mention rocks? Lots of big rocks. It took me by surprise and was a nice way to begin.

My cell phone went into "searching for service" mode, but I stayed cool and settled into the sense of isolation. It felt good in its own way, the old way. Much of my life has been spent on back roads with nary a communication device in sight. I could do this. I  soon found myself in the middle of nowhere. And have the sign to prove it. Sometimes the sign said, "next three miles," sometimes it said, "next seven miles." You get the idea.
 

I passed a small lake that was still mostly ice-covered. The blue sky reflected in the ice, and the stillness, the absolute quiet, kept me there for a good while, listening to the "sound of silence." 

Next, "the long and winding road" (don't stop me, I'm apparently on a Golden Oldies bender) took me right to the top of this back country. It's referred to as Height O' Land, in these parts. I got outside and walked over to the edge to take a gander. Not too shabby.

I hung out there for awhile, at the top of the world, before I wound my way back down and into rolling hill country, right up to the old farmhouse I'd been tracking all day. As you know, I brake for old farmhouses. And this was a good one. I pulled over to the side of the road and got out to take a few pictures. Alright, more than a few. I was on a roll. Which would make a good pun in the old days, when we still took pictures with film. Anyway, you might think it looks familiar and you would be right. A photograph of it, a much better version, taken by Murad, was included in my post,  "Murad Sayen and the Gift of Light."  Ever since I saw his photo, I'd been wanting to see this farm in person. It looks like a place I could call home. When I came around the corner and topped the hill, there it was. For me, it's the roofs , the outlines formed by the houses and barns, that draw me to these aging beauties. This roof is especially nice. I've posted a photo at the top. Then, another photo of it below. And then another. And yes, I seem to have a thing for this farmhouse. As I drove away, it called me back to take its picture from the other side.

So, I was pickin' up a little bit of steam, gettin' in the groove, when I came, possibly careening, around a corner and found myself smack dab in the middle of an old mill town. Well, the remnants of it, anyway. It was there I met the coolest old ramshackle building sitting next to the river. It was quietly waiting to have its picture taken. And I happily obliged. I may have gotten carried away. It may have even started to feel like I was invading its space. It's kinda fun to view everything as alive, to feel the life that once existed inside the walls of those earlier days. It was probably a pretty busy place once upon a time. The fading turquoise window and door frames grabbed me first. I'm not sure why I find peeling paint so attractive, but I do. Especially in this color. The play of light created interesting shadows and the mottled paint around the window was, uh, appealing.

As I drove through the day, I saw a variety of social landscapes, shall we say. Have you ever read the novel, The Beans of Egypt, Maine, by Carolyn Chute?  I believe I may have passed their place. I started thinking about poverty and the so-called  "under-privileged."  What an ill-fitting way to describe those who eke out a hardscrabble existence, with no privileges whatsoever. It's a way of life that settles in for some and finding a way out becomes difficult, if not impossible. I don't like to use those words, because I like to think anything is possible. And, I truly believe it is. But then, I've never gotten trapped by life choices, nor by life circumstances. At least, not for long. Some folks do. I had to wander about the person who had inhabited this dwelling. Maine winters can be tough. Definitely a scaled down version of a summer place. But, man, did I love the colors and the car. What a first-class photo opp. Well, it would have been, given the right time of day, the right light, but what the heck, I shot them anyway.
 

Later in the afternoon, I landed in Farmington, a small, picturesque college town. I've always loved the vibe of college towns, that youthful energy that moves down the sidewalks and fills the halls of academia. It seems like yesterday that I walked out of my house, just off Beltrami Avenue in Bemidji, headed down the sidewalk to the college three blocks away, saying to myself,  'These years will go by fast. Make 'em count.'  That was back in  1972. May I repeat that for anyone younger who might be reading this? These years will go by fast. Make 'em count. And not just the years, but the days out of which they're made.

There was the usual library. Except in this case, it wasn't usual. Someone had the good sense to create new architectural elements to compliment the old. It worked beautifully. I have to show you a few photos to do it justice. Well, as much justice as I can, given the time of day and a pocket camera. I may have gotten a tad carried away. I love libraries. Variations on turquoise seems to be another theme here.

The bell tower of a church is a photographic cliche, but I include it anyway. I love the variety of designs in the wood, a little bit of Queen Anne, a little bit of gingerbread. There's something about how they reach toward the sky that I still find, well, uh, inspiring, that makes me want to stand under them and just look up.

I walked a portion of the main street, ducked into Dunkin' Donuts for a too-late-in-the-afternoon iced coffee and then hit the road again. I had driven a loop through some interesting country and was back on Highway 95, heading for Old Orchard Beach and home. The freeways and turnpikes might take us where we need to go, but it's on those back roads where life is really happening. Another good day behind the wheel.


P.S. The next morning I got down to the beach in time to witness this. So beautiful, it almost broke my heart.

Here are the Beatles:

Feeding My Soul

Yesterday was a town day. Lunch at Whole Foods and a visit to the Museum of Art on Congress Street. Portland is an interesting city with an nice arts district and a lot of history. Many great artists came from Maine or made it their home. The Wyeth family, which now includes three generations of great painters, is the highlight of a trip to the Farnsworth Museum in Rockland, up Highway 1 along the coast. I visited it last fall when I was here and had a hard time pulling myself away. "Curtain Call," by Andrew Wyeth, although not showing at the Farnsworth, is a nice example of his work and a favorite of mine. That red coat against the starkness of the interior...

Yesterday, during a visit to the museum in Portland, I was quite taken with a piece by Renoir titled, "Confidences." I love studying certain paintings to see what might have been in the artist's mind as he, or she, made a stroke with their paintbrush, laying down color and line, creating form out of imagination and life experience. I can easily be drawn into the emotions of a piece, the mood, the light, and what it evokes; it invites me to relate to it in a way that feels personal, yet universal. I love the little areas of color that somehow make it come alive for me. The traditional poppies, this time in his female figure's hat, are always a nice touch, but yesterday it was her red shoes that caught my attention and held me there, wanting to investigate every corner, every bit of color he chose. I could have stayed and lived inside that painting for quite awhile. Here is an image, although the shoes do not come through nearly as fetching as they are in person:

After pulling myself away, and before heading home, it was back to the grocery store and a trip through the produce section. It was like an ocean of color, a living, almost breathing, work of art.

A nice day. Food for the body, food for the soul, and a banquet for the eyes.

Getting off the Roller Coaster

Amusement parks were not a mainstay of my life growing up. We had the annual county fair, a much-anticipated event, which arrived in mid-August and lasted four days.  I revisited those days last October while sharing my account of a visit to the Fryeburg Fair here in Maine. But, we rarely had encounters with amusement parks, only once in awhile with the one found on the shores of Lake Bemidji, where we would travel every summer via train to visit our cousins. It had a Paul Bunyan theme, as they seem to in northern Minnesota.

After my return to Maine a few weeks ago, I realized there's a park right down the beach from me, the only oceanfront amusement park in New England. It's closed for the season, but that's what intrigued me. I  was drawn in by the atmosphere it creates which drifts a bit towards the melancholy. Apparently, it's a hoppin' joint in the summertime with over two hundred arcade games and rides for kids of all ages including us grown up ones.  I was particularly smitten by the empty roller coasters. It seemed a fitting metaphor for my time here: getting off the roller coaster of life, especially the emotional aspects of it, and getting grounded.

There's a pier jutting out into the water, with one food shack after another, offering everything from ice cream to the now ubiquitous chicken wings. I was intrigued by the structure and couldn't resist a photo or two. Or three. Possibly several.

When I headed back down the beach towards home, my inclination was to walk closer to the amusement park, keeping an eye out for other photo opps. But, I found myself walking down closer to the water, not consciously choosing to, but moving to where I felt led. Looking down, I saw that the two people who had been sitting there a few minutes earlier had left a message in the sand. I love getting messages from the Universe, especially through people who might not even be aware that they were angels in that moment. It was a variation on a theme I had recently been encountering in a variety of places, things I'd read, songs I'd heard, both on the radio and running through my head. It is probably, no, it is, the singular most important thing to remember as we navigate through life:

 Love is Beautiful, indeed.

Sunrise at the Ocean

Just before dawn I was lying in bed thinking about how much I love waking up early. I even love getting up early. It was the getting outside early that had become all too infrequent. I had forgotten how much I love it. Until this morning. Lying there, I soon realized there was a big event happening right outside my door and I needed to attend. It's called sunrise. The colors coming through my window caught my attention. Time was of the essence. I scrambled for my clothes and almost ran out the door, down the steps and onto the beach. I got there just in time. Things were happening quickly, as they are wont to do when we're talking light. I started snapping and kept on snapping, stopping only long enough to try to take it all in at the same time. The orange and pink and lavender were creating quite a show.  The sun rose, the colors changed, the light on the water danced in time to the silent music playing overhead. 

Then I saw what was happening at my feet. It was creating a beautiful postlude.

 

The light on the wet sand and the waves rolling in and receding left quite an impression. It helped me understand more fully why the Impressionists were so smitten by their approach to painting. Life is impressionistic. Pointillists, who found a way to capture a scene, a moment in time, with small dots of color and light, certainly knew this. Neo-impressionist, Georges Seurat, was a master of this method. His painting "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte," is considered a perfect example.

The light on the water was creating just such a moment. It was all about the water and the light. The necessities of Life.

It was also easy to see this morning why many aboriginal and indigenous tribes, living in the world today, still worship the sun. It's easy to identify it as God, as Source, Ra. I didn't want to turn my back on it to return home. Then, in making the turn towards home, I realized the sunshine was on my shoulder and John Denver's song instantly came to mind. I quietly sang it to myself. Here is a video of John singing it accompanied by some pretty fine images. I especially love the opening scenes, taken from space.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Zx27dP1mTg

I walked on the beach for a few minutes and then came in to make my morning coffee. Watching the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean is pretty spectacular. I'm so blessed to be present to it. But, the sun rising anywhere, on any day, is something to behold. We forget, we take it for granted. This morning, I'm grateful to be reminded of its beauty and its place in our lives. Source, The Light. Life itself.

Note: I do not have photoshop, only a windows program which allows for some minor adjustments. These photos, however, are exactly as I shot them, no adjustments made. The light was that amazing.

Star Covered Vases and Horses on the Beach

I came home this morning after spending Easter Sunday among friends: Murad and Abby, Kevin and Roderick. It was a remarkable dinner and wonderful conversation laced with many laughs at life's little absurdities. Shortly after arriving home, I laid down on the couch to rest. I soon fell asleep while being watched over by this cobalt blue vase covered with stars. The light that fell through the window made, in that moment, a fine companion.

It was the perfect Easter weekend. I have always loved the notion of  "rolling the stone away." It says to me that anything is possible. The hardest times, the most difficult circumstances can be met, even transcended.

While reading a fellow writers account of life on his Texas ranch (Jack Matthews at http://swamericana.wordpress.com)
I remarked how interesting life is when we are able to see the way it mirrors our experiences back to us; that even my experience here at the ocean, and his there with his wife Brenda on their ranch, is a mirror of sorts, a mirror showing all the good life has to offer, all the beauty. I so enjoyed reading his descriptions of their horses; the individual personalities and how they came to be with them. I spent a good deal of my youth riding horses. I have always loved the feel of their necks, their flanks, their soft velvety goodness.

This was on Good Friday. Saturday morning I walked out on the beach just in time to see this:

I quietly watched them with awe and wonder as they made their way down the beach.

A few young families were at play with sand pails and kites.

A father and son walked by with a bucket, perhaps to dig for the clams the low tide would help reveal.

A lone surfer was practicing for the bigger waves; accepting, and even inviting, the bigger challenges yet to come.

The tide had ebbed and I found life was, once again, making an imperceptible turn. The horses were a gift to help me make that turn. I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know until this moment, as I wrote it down.

Murad Sayen and The Gift of Light

"In nature lies the true source of all beauty and enlightenment. Everything else is merely alluding back to that wellspring."
~ Murad Sayen


This past Sunday, my friends, Abby and Murad, came for a visit. They live about an hour or so away from where I'm staying. I've written about our friendship in previous posts and also about their two beautiful and very empathic golden retrievers. I first met them when I was an art consultant for a gallery on Canyon Road in Santa Fe. Murad was one of the artists the gallery represented and we struck up a friendship. When they visited Santa Fe in the fall of 2008, I met them both in person for the first time. Abby and I immediately recognized our connection and felt like long lost sisters who were finally reunited. We have spent many an afternoon or evening talking, laughing, and whipping up some fine meals in her kitchen. She is an excellent cook (not to mention a wonderful massage therapist) and so I was a bit nervous about having them for lunch at my place. But, not to worry among friends such as these. We walked on the beach with Emma and Holly, the golden girls, and looked for the perfect clam shell to serve as Murad's pipe smoking ashtray. We found more than one that seemed well-suited. It was cool and a bit windy, but being on the beach, watching the dogs enjoy their outing, was so nice.

Then we sat down to a lunch of lightly spiced, sauteed veggies alongside a bed of polenta, which was topped with bits of tomato and gorgonzola cheese. I'd found a wonderful garlic infused hummus at the New Morning natural food store. It worked well with the four-cheese bread. We had a few small stuffed mushrooms to, aah, cap it off. I scored dessert from the glass counter at Whole Foods in Portland - small chocolate covered cheesecakes garnished with an itty-bitty dollop of whipped cream and a filigree of chocolate. We were bad. It was good. Add a cup of Green Mountain Coffee and it made for a nice time of after-dinner conversation as we looked out on the ocean from my kitchen table. We spent a quiet, very peaceful afternoon talking about art and life and cooking and all the things friends talk about. I'm so grateful for their friendship.


Note: I have saved ninety-eight letters from my mother. Most of them contain a description of her menu for dinner that day. She loved eating and talking about food. I have become my mother. This is a good thing.
 

I'm blessed to know some truly fine artists, people who see the beauty of this world and strive every day to share their vision with us. Murad is one of them. Whether it's through the lens of his camera or the wielding of his paintbrush, he captures the light, sublime moment after sublime moment. I have included images of his oil paintings in previous posts. But, as a way to balance the persistent rain of the last three days, it seems like the perfect opportunity to share his photography.

Murad once served as facilitator for groups supporting people with serious and chronic, life-threatening illnesses. He states, "It became evident that these folks needed opportunities to simply relax, to just let go of all the daunting circumstances in their lives and go inward." He began sharing a slide show of his photographs with them, accompanied by music. It evolved into an amazing piece of film called, "A Gift of Light;" beautiful images, set to soothing music, dissolving into each other. The first time I watched it, quietly, by myself in a darkened room, I fell into spontaneous tears about halfway through. I had no explanation for this, but the tears it brought on felt cathartic. I shared this with him later and he said that it's a common reaction. People seem to feel a profound sense of release that remains inexplicable. Its format does not allow me to include it here, but I'd like to share some of his images with you. They range from a full scene to vignettes found on the forest floor as he walks through the Maine woods keeping an eye out for the light and what nature has to offer us.

Murad also photographs urban landscapes with that same eye for light. They sometimes include solitary figures set against a background of brick and glass, walking through their neighborhoods as they go about their lives. He has referred to at least one of these characters as a "stranger in a strange land," taken from the classic book of the same title by Robert Heinlein (if you haven't yet read this book, you might find it interesting and just as relevant today as it was in the 1960's).

These photographs tell a story about our lives. Many people feel a sense of isolation even among the familiar. We are all struggling to find connections, a sense of community, especially in what feels like turbulent times.

                                    Shaker Meeting House


I love this big beauty he found holding court on the corner of a street. I especially love the wet pavement and the clouds.

Sometimes, it's all about the clouds...

 But, always, without exception, it's about the light...

It's his photographs of nature that sing for me, that call me to that place I feel most at home. Together they form an amazing body of work. Understanding and sharing the essence of life found in nature through his lens, his eye, is the ultimate gift, this gift of Light. I have been blessed by them. And by the gift of a peaceful Sunday afternoon with good friends.

All of the photographs found in the body of this post were taken by Murad. By clicking on each individual photograph you can enjoy an enlarged version. He has had more than one book of his photographs published. Maine: The Home Place, published by University Press of New England, can still be found at Amazon. The most recent is a self-published book of his photographs and paintings, which can be found at  http://www.blurb.com

P.S. As I finished writing this, the sun came out. We now have glorious blue skies and the sunlight glinting off the water is inviting me down for a visit...