teenagers and sunrise

sunrise:  5:26 am

Four teens joined us on Sutton Island this weekend for a retreat - part of the "Coming of Age" program that Jonathan and I have been teaching since January.  It is an excellent curriculum published by the Unitarian Universalist church.

We have learned a lot about "teaching" adolescents in the course of this experience.  You would think that we'd know most of it at this point, having barely finished seeing the last of our four children leave adolescence (mostly) behind.  But, happily, life is ever bristling with information.  We will never get it all right.  We can only keep trying, keep thinking, stay open to possibilities heretofore unconsidered.

At any rate, after repeating ourselves 100 times, and realizing that so much of the INFORMATION that we were spouting might as well have been water through a sieve - we realized that the things the kids remember most are dynamic and circumstantial.  The rousing game of bucket-of-nouns that we played at our first retreat stuck with them far longer than the definitions of a personal credo.

Still - this is a bright group.  The bits and pieces of discussion found places in the nooks and crannies of their minds, and they will surely emerge in various forms of recognition later in life (maybe even sooner).  For now - Jonathan and I learned that to engage them in activities and have some fun is, perhaps, the most important thing of all.  Suddenly everyone is laughing together around a card table.   Learning that you can share that companionship with a bunch of new people is as important as anything.

Now, I'm not going to say that they all embraced the idea of getting out of bed at 5:00 in the morning when it was about 40 degrees outside (and inside - fireplace was long cold).  But - they did it.  They got up, they went out to the rocks, they saw the sun glow rising, and the fire of the first light making its brilliant entry over the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

We didn't belabor the point, or try to draw them into my own romantic imagery of meeting the day face to face with the sun.  But I think it made an impression.  We can afford to be patient - something will come of it.

launching one's heart

This is a dated sunrise.  After her three month stint in California, learning about screenwriting, film, music, living on her own, managing quirky personalities, and driving in Los Angeles traffic, T ended her stay with a trip to San Francisco.  She sent me this shot of the western sunrise glow, reflected from the eastern dawn, out the window of our friend's apartment in that city.

My dear youngest child then returned home for a few fleeting weeks, to the opposite coast.  Yesterday, J and I brought her to her new home for the next 6 months - a 90 foot fishing-trawler-turned-ecotourism-vessel called the Wanderbird.  She interviewed and was hired last fall to become one of their small crew at the start of their spring/summer season.

One problem for me is that I seem to have become rather attached to my daughter, who has grown to be such a thought-filled, interesting, and charming companion.  I am experiencing some physiologic symptoms of grief in her absence.  I'm sure all of the unknowns of her sea adventure create some anxious fretting in my mother's heart, but I think most of my stomach knots are simply an ache of missing her company.

Fair winds and a following sea, my friend, my daughter---

Quebecois lessons - crossing borders

sunrise:  reasonably further west

Two years ago J and I visited one of our great lifetime friends at his amazing home in southern Quebec.

Our visit happened to fall on the same weekend as an annual event for our Canadian friend and his family. On the birthday of his oldest child, they invite a bunch of friends from their former home in Ottawa, 3 hours away.  For one exuberant weekend, the house fills with about 20 people, half of them children.

It was such a unique experience, that we kind of invited ourselves back again.

There are numerous cool things about this gathering of friends.

First - they only see each other 4 times a year, and their initial connection came from one year of living in the same town.  Somehow, this group of young and grown-up friends has become a kind of family.  When they are together, they are at their most animated and their most relaxed and secure all at the same time.

Second - Every one of them is bilingual, and for several, English is their second language.  To hear a bunch of children bantering back and forth between languages is an amazing thing to my sequestered Maine ears.  I realize that this happens in Spanish all over my country nowadays, but I don't see it (nor do many Mainers).

Third - No TV.  There is one big computer screen around, but they don't have any television in the house.  The whole crew went bowling.  The piano was played endlessly by young hands.  Kids bundled up and jumped on the trampoline.  Piles of books in both languages littered tabletops.  A floor-to-ceiling tower of blocks was erected.  There was lots of movement up and down three flights of stairs, and lots of noise.  It was awesome.

Fourth - I forget that we have this foreign culture just a few hours away from home.  Most of the US doesn't think about the fact that we have French speaking neighbors right next door, especially in our increasingly Spanish-speaker influenced society.  Architecture, food products, the metric system, signage - everything is different.  It is always so eye-opening to travel to a foreign country and be reminded that we each live in a particular culture of our own.

Fifth -  Our friend has four children, ages 6 to 14.  I think one of the things that irresistibly attracts J and me to that household is the return in time to a houseful of kids.  Our own four are launched and away, which is exciting and gratifying in its own multiple ways.  But -- to return to that dynamic, discovery-filled period of developing life is intoxicating, especially when we have no responsibility whatsoever!  It is a spectacular family of bright, inquisitive, affectionate, twinkling, engaging young people.

Perhaps even more than traveling to a foreign country, traveling back to another kind of time and place in life is breathtakingly illuminating, exhilarating, and heart-stirring.

empty nest - chapter 2

Happy Halloween!

Snow on the ground did not deter trick-or-treating here in Maine, though we did not get hit by the degree of snowfall seen by much of the northeast.  Still, it was cold out this morning, and I decided to cheat and take my sunrise photos from indoors.

An interesting phenomenon is evolving in our household, dwindled down from 6 residents to 2 (plus three dogs).  The experience of the empty nest has proven to be a longer term process than we supposed.  Things happen in your life sometimes, and you don't really realize they are happening until you look back at them.

In our first year as empty-nesters, J and I were "in transition."  J expressed it succinctly today when we were catching up with some local teachers who came trick-or-treating with their baby.  They asked about us, about how the kids are doing etc.  Over the last year, I said, we were figuring out what to do in this new home dynamic - which is so lacking now in dynamism.

"We just sat around for a year," said my husband.

Over the last few weeks, we have been slowly emerging from our cocoon.  Time to rearrange the furniture!  We have cleared boxes and piles and clutter from several rooms.  It now covers every horizontal surface in the downstairs.  We've been brainstorming visions of what our house's new purpose will be over the next few years or more, and we have launched the metamorphosis.

Things being what they are, my suspicion is that we'll be walking around piles of debris for a few months, but at least we've moved from sitting around to messing around.  I think that's progress.

sunup, sundown on an island in Maine

October 16th

sunrise:  6:49

The closing of the house can be a melancholy event, but J and I and the dogs had a lovely 36 hours putting the place to bed.  J replaced broken windows, we had time to clean and sweep and rearrange some furniture.  In the hopes of avoiding the yearly frozen pipes, we tried blowing a compressor through the plumbing, using an ingenious invention that J came up with.  We'll see how it goes.

It was a labor of love for a dear old friend, who will have to withstand some frigid nights and pernicious winter storms before we move back in next spring.  Maybe we'll even get out there to visit some time...

For the first time this year, I took notice of the shortened day.  Sunup to sundown is only a small percentage of our waking hours now.  To capture the whole experience, I decided to include photos from both ends of the day, October 16th, 2011.  Due to the horizon's sultry haze in the morning, I got some particularly eerie formations of light.

It's always hard to choose which photos to share.  There is pre-dawn, the sun's majestic arising, the play of waves, the morning light on land and water.  Then - the sun on its way to tomorrow, dipping below the horizon as we head for the ferry to take us home.  Unexpected artwork at the town shed.  Dogs on a windy pier.  Bear Island lighthouse in the evening glow.

Enjoy.

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end of the day...

earliest sunrise of the year

sunrise:  4:49

Daisies and the dawn

Some of you may already know that the summer solstice (June 21) is the longest day of the year, but not the earliest sunrise.  There's an explanation here.

I was up at 4:00 am in order to catch all of today's pre-dawn loveliness, before official sunrise at 4:49.  I am basking in the luxury of being able to sleep-in for most this June, but it was, as ever, a transcendently beautiful time of day and time of year for an early morning walk.

Since I'm posting so seldom nowadays, I hope you will enjoy my liberal posting of photos...

I left my three canine friends in the house today, in consideration for the neighbors who may not appreciate a baying hound at 5am.  But it was nice, in a way, for me as well.  Peaceful, lower intensity, with no OCD, stick-bearing, panting Kate assaulting me with entreaties to throw something.

There were several discoveries along the way.  Plant life is in its glory right now.  Lilacs have gone by, but the phlox is in full splendor, along with daisies, irises, clover, flowering trees whose name I forget, and berry bushes thick with blossoms that promise us some juicy breakfasts in the not-too-distant future.  I also love the variety and texture of so many grasses throughout the fields.

As I came around the back corner of our lot, I turned and literally gasped at the massive glowing disk of the moon, just about to disappear.  It looked full to me, but I read that it is the waning gibbous moon, with 99% still showing.  Full enough.

So preoccupied by the moon, looking over my shoulder for a final view through the trees, I didn't notice that I had company.  A white-tailed deer stood still as a statue until I was about 30 feet away, when I turned my head around to look ahead.  We had one second to ponder each other in surprise, then she gave a little snort of alarm, turned, and flicked her white tail as she bounded off into the woods.  Another good reason to have left the dogs behind.

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I had a one-of-a-kind experience last weekend.  Though, perhaps it was only the first-of-a-kind that will continue.  I hope so!  I was a guest speaker at a conference in Stockbridge, Mass.  I spoke about Rachel Field and the doll about whom she wrote a historical novel in 1929.  "Hitty, Her First Hundred Years" went on to win the Newbery Award - first time a woman won.

Preparing for the talk (with my exceptionally generous and tech-savvy husband, who assembled the power point presentation), I immersed myself back into the mountains of archival data and notes that I assembled over the last three years.  My excitement to get this book written is back in full flame, and I am determined to make it happen SOON.  Coincidentally, I was asked to speak about Rachel Field again on August 10th, right out here on Great Cranberry Island near our summer house.  It seems that something in the fates is pressing upon me to keep after this book project.

It was especially gratifying to speak to a roomful of people (30-35 or so) all of whom are familiar with and great fans of Rachel Field.  So many of them effused over my material and "can't wait to read the book!"  That is positive pressure, and I'll try to make the most of it, even if they are the only 35 people who buy the book!

Meanwhile, I am also determined to get through the first year of my weekly column without missing a week, so I have my work cut out for me.

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On the home front, T has a good job, is taking a summer physics class, and the three of us have survived the re-negotiation of household chemistry after her first year away at school.  S and N followed up their wild double graduation weekend with three weeks in Europe, and are now back stateside.  Neither has a job yet, and they are now plunging into the uncertain world of unemployment and unknown direction.  I hope, however, that they each approach this youthful stage with some sense of hopeful anticipation.

A is back on the east coast, ecstatic over her daily regimen in a charter school's teacher training fellowship in New York City this summer.

Life goes on, in all of its messy unpredictability.  At the moment, it looks like a very good day.

cross-country, marathon, graduation

sunrise (on May 15th in Denver, CO):  5:46am

There is no sun to display from my last pre-dawn rising, two weeks ago, but it was the beginning of a lengthy odyssey which I will summarize today.

On May 14th I flew out to Colorado to watch A. run in her first half-marathon. 

A week before, J and I had picked up T and all of her belongings (move number one!).  Then we watched N's softball team win their conference championship, before schlepping back home. 

After marathon day in Denver, the Kaiser-Permanente Colfax race which included almost 10,000 runners, A and I packed up all of HER belongings into her car and started back across the country (move number 2!).  I am ashamed that I didn't take the opportunity to collect sunrises from Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, and Ohio, but it was long journey.  Sleep was too coveted to cut short for early risings. 

Crossing the Mississippi between Iowa and Illinois

Rochester, New York's annual lilac festival (and our home of 8 years, long ago)

 Flooded roadway near Lake Champlain...


What a beautiful time of year to see the country!  We were both pleasantly surprised by how picturesque Nebraska and Iowa were.  There is way more roll in the landscape and many more clusters of trees than we expected.  It was all lovely rolling prairie in full spring bloom. 

We crossed the swollen Mississippi, stopped in Chicago, traversed Ohio, spent a blissful spring night with family in the Adirondacks, and crossed the south end of Lake Champlain by ferry to arrive in Vermont.

There was college graduation number one.  Family arrived from three different directions.  Weather was threatening, but never thwarted any of our plans all weekend.  Hooray for N!

Then - move number 3.  We packed up N's belongings and loaded them into cars.

Sunday, we leapt back into cars to drive to Connecticut for college graduation number two.  Hooray for S!  Grandparents were game for everything, even sharing communal bathrooms in dormitory housing (thought that was certainly a stretch). 

Move number 4!  All of S's belongings were crammed into what space remained in our vehicles and car top carrier.

N and S left the next day for a 3 week trip around Europe.  Back home at last, we took a few days to recover.  And that is why I have been out of touch!

The empty nest is a bit of an illusion.  These wonderful offspring still fill our hearts and minds to overflowing, but they also, from time to time, fill every waking moment.

Life is a constant stream of graduations - from day to day, chapter to chapter, home to home, phase to phase, step by step by step.  There is so much promise out there, in all of those racing, running, driving, walking, marching, skipping, dancing people out there, scattered across this extraordinary collection of landscapes that comprise this country. 

I am full of hope.