Downtown

I’ve described it as a dot on a map, this small-town-Maine I’m moving to, soon, late in my life, a dot on Route 15, north through Monson to Greenville, Greenville with its lake, its shops and restaurants, Vacationland at its best, a reason to be there. But Monson, to the south, another small town in a succession of small towns - Sangerville, Guilford, Abbott - is but a shrinking dot on a map of Maine, overlooked by travelers and tourists and guidebooks, a slowdown on Route 15, no reason to stop, really, nothing to lure people in, just a crossroad, an S-turn, a zip code – o4464 – a now-closed general store, a pub, a gas station, and a church, steeple-spire pointing heavenward. And perhaps, this is reason enough to stop, to settle down, move in, small-town-Maine’s allure, God’s blessing of a simple life, life slowed down in this slow town, down town, a dot on a map, Route 15 north, calling me to come home, calling me to stay.

Putting the Canoe Away

Today, it’s time to pull the canoe from the lake, store it away for the coming winter months, our travels over, our travels done, trips alone to the head of the lake finished, for now, for this season. The ice is forming around the edges of the lake, the nights below freezing, the temperatures dropping, staying low, too cold now, the ice melting in the morning sun, reforming again in the dark of night, reclaiming itself. And the hours of light, the time on the lake, are shrinking, too, the morning smoothness of the water whipped to white caps with the rising wind, keeping me land-bound, off the lake, fearing, as I do, capsizing in my inattentiveness, my attention elsewhere along the shore or skyward following the eagle’s flight, my ears attuned to his cry calling out, or, drawn back to earth, watching winter settling in at the lake, nature preparing itself for the dormant months ahead, the beavers patching their huts, fortified against the winter cold, squirrels foraging for food to store away from the approaching snow’s cover, and the geese, rising from the lake to renew their trip southward, responding, as we all must respond, to this cycle of nature.

On the bank, the canoe, responding, lies dormant itself, where I left it, leaving it close to the water’s edge for an autumn’s journey when Indian Summer grants me a few hours of sunshine’s warmth and calm water or when the lake calls out to me, speaks to me in her silence calling, and I launch, paddle dipping, pulling, moving me into the lake, into her solitude, into myself when the clutter of my life needs clearing out, my mind and spirit needing renewal. But today, the canoe lies dormant, UMSKEE dulled white on green, upside down, listing to one side, as tired as I this day, perhaps, listing myself, ready for winter’s rest ahead. So I right her, keel flat, and drag her toward the porch, the door below agape, a winter yawn, to store her there, upside down once more to keep the squirrels from making it a home, a winter nest of fur and thatch, though I shouldn’t mind if they did crawl under the seats there or into the small spaces in the bow and stern and turn it into a winter home, winter’s nest. We all need a safe place away from the cold and wind, a safe place away from the winter storms of our lives, just as I crawl up the stairs to my den, safe and warm while the blizzards howl around me, rattling my windows and doors.

And closing the door, the canoe safely stored, locked away for the season ahead, I look once more to the lake, the ice still frozen along the shore’s edge this early morning, white against the black of autumn’s water, and the eagle’s piercing cry echoing in the still air aloft draws me to the other shore, to the tree he has nested in these summer months gone by, months gone by since I arrived at the lake, launched my canoe and journeyed west to the head of the lake, he and I both, journeying alone. He stretches out his great wings, lifting off, his figure stark against the azure sky made richer by the chill air, and begins his winter journey even as I begin mine, each of us going wherever it is that eagles go, wherever it is that eagles fly.

Early Mornings

Early mornings, the lake is calm, smooth, a mirror reflecting the shore, tree-lined, and the sky, equally calm, equally smooth, a mirror reflected. And my paddle dips into the water to propel me forward, the bow of my canoe breaking the smoothness, disturbing the sky reflected. My paddling is slow, deliberate, determined, paddle raised, slicing into the water, pushing back, pulling, and holding fast, my canoe sliding forward … and again … slowly over and over … pushing back, pulling, holding fast … the shore slipping by as I glide to the head of the lake, a slow journey undisturbed, quiet, disturbing nothing but the water’s surface, the water’s smoothness restored in my passing.

Smooth paddling, smooth glide, the canoe brushes the water’s surface, raising a soft hush as of beach sand brushed by the oceans’ tides, the water parting, pushing it aside, left and right, water slipping away to aid my passage and, behind in my wake, rejoining, watching, water watching as I move forward, envious, even as I envy the water’s smoothness, water’s calmness in a chaotic human world, nature holding fast, holding firm.

Above me, the sky reflecting, an eagle flies, wings outstretched, caressing the air, a smooth glide, as mine, unbroken, rising and falling, his cry sharp and piercing, calling out, heard only in the quiet of early morning on the lake, and perhaps calling out to me, our journeys to the head of the lake crossing, solitudinous journeys taken alone, our journeys reflected, and reflecting, too, ourselves, he and I alone here, calling out.

And the loons, too, call out unseen, their trills and warbling echoing or echoed by others unseen, their black heads rising to dive again, seen only as a ripple breaking the surface. Their calls stop my paddling, draw me out of my own silence into theirs, theirs and the eagle’s sharp cry, we now a holy trinity united, if for even a brief moment caught in nature, wild and untamed here at the head of the lake, nature united in the three of us – earth and air and water – sharing the silence, sharing our journeys, alone and silent.

At Home Now

At home now, not here where I am, city-bound, it’s raining, the cold rain of autumn leading into winter’s snow. And a rainy day at home is time spent inside, “sweater weather,” staying warm, a hot cup of coffee, or cocoa, rich and chocolaty, warming my spirits, and a good book, no Nook or Kindle on a rainy day inside, but paper, paper pages thumbed and turned, dog-eared, or chest-pressed in dozing off, the lullaby of rain falling on the roof, beating time on the windows, the comfort of a room warmed closing my eyelids and raising snores, gentle snores of dozing off, on a rainy day, a rainy day spent inside, a slower life, settling into the winter snow approaching.