Tales from Rural Maine: Time capsule

April 21, 2016

Are you ready for this? One of my yoga students handed me a copy of the Bucksport Free Press...from 1990! It's the graduation special edition featuring, that's right, the Bucksport High School Class of 1990. (Also a story I wrote in my debut as a sports reporter...) She didn't have a child or even a relative in our class, and yet somehow, like some sort of yoga-rific time capsule, she got that issue, held onto it for 26 years (!) and then handed it back to me before yoga class. If that isn't Throwback Thursday-worthy, I don't know what is! #TBT Rock on, Golden Bucks, rock on! "You Can't Touch This!" June 1990. :-) (I still have that watch.)

Tales from Rural Maine: The definition of progress

When I started with the Orland Fire Department, I was afraid of everything. Quite literally. One year before I joined, I had been attacked by five idiots at a church before yoga one day, and for the next six weeks, I didn't leave the house unaccompanied. The church was so concerned for my safety, they provided an escort at my next week's class, and then they changed the locks and strongly suggested I never let myself be alone on the premises.

I slept with all the lights on inside and out for almost a month. My neighbors organized a 24-hour watch because there was a realistic fear that my anonymous attackers would come back to do more harm. I quit teaching yoga. I quit doing everything. I huddled inside my house all spring. All summer. I was afraid even to go in the yard. I was covered in stress-induced hives for almost a year. My joints ached. I didn't socialize. I barely spoke. I didn't sleep--and if I did, I had night terrors for the first eight months. I nearly committed suicide three times.

The police would not give me or my attorney the names of my attackers, who got off with a disorderly conduct charge because I was too frightened to press assault charges. I had no idea who most of them were. They were nameless. And they were terrifying. I saw the face of the woman who led that attack in my nightmares every night and I lived in abject fear that she or her friends would turn up again, somewhere, when I was alone. So if I was alone, I was behind a locked door--or two. If the doorbell rang, I hid.

I worked really hard to heal, to recover from the trauma, to get some semblance of self-esteem back, but as anyone with PTSD knows...the work is hard and long and sometimes it seems, we will never get well.

Even when I started going out in the world again, I lacked a sense of safety. And then one day, one of my most dedicated students, who also happened to be the assistant fire chief at the all-volunteer Orland Fire Department, suggested I use the training room at the OFD to teach a yoga class. It felt overwhelming to go out into the world again and teach. It felt unlikely that a fire department could be a comfortable home for yoga. But something inside me said, "Yes. Go. See."

So I went. I saw. I met Bobby Conary and Mary Lou Conary. And that space? It spoke to me. It spoke of kindness and belonging and of the possibility that maybe I could be okay again one day. I took a gigantic leap of faith, and I started teaching yoga at the Orland Fire Department.

Slowly, over the course of a year, the kindness and selfless service, the generosity and togetherness, the sweet, amazing courage that infuse that space calmed and settled my nerves. The nightmares stopped. The pain eased. I began to feel more brave and settled and strong. I developed a crush on the fire trucks. And then one day, the Chief, who had also become my student, said, "Why don't you join?"

I laughed. Me?? I'm afraid of everything. I thought he was kidding. But he was serious.

I told him I was too afraid.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked.

And I told him, "Two things really, fire and having to pee! What on earth will I do if I'm stranded for hours in turnout gear and I have to pee?!"

He laughed. And he explained that there were lots of things to do at the fire department that didn't involve being near fire. And as for the second thing, he said, "We have special equipment for that." And he took me to the back of one of the fire trucks and rummaged around in a metal compartment, moving big heavy tools with names I didn't know, until finally he pulled something out.

"This is what we use for that," he said, grinning, and he held out a roll of toilet paper. I laughed. 

It would've made all the sense in the world to say, "No," to joining a fire department, but something inside me said, "Yes. Go. See."

"Okay," I said. "I'm in."

When you apply for membership at the Orland Fire Department, someone nominates you at a monthly meeting. Then for the next month, you can attend weekly trainings as an observer to get a sense for the work and so that people can get to know you. After a month, they vote.

At the very first training following my nomination, I was about to get in a fire truck (my very first time!); I was feeling so brave and special and happy about this new chapter. And then I remembered that I had left my gloves in my car. I went out to get them...and almost ran smack dab into the two people I feared most in the world, the two people I had not seen in person since the day they attacked me almost exactly one year to the day before. I had seen them only in my nightmares. And it was them. They were there. The woman and one of the men (her husband, it turns out) who, along with their three friends, had attacked me.

She had joined the department just a few months prior to me.

Because I was never told her name, my students did not know her name, either, which meant that no one in the department could connect that human being with what had been done to me. I like to think that if they knew, the members of the OFD wouldn't have voted her in...

I'll skip all the stuff that happened next. How impossible, how terrifying, how rotten it was to serve with her for two years. How I refused to quit, even when all of my PTSD symptoms came back. I'll skip all that for now and I will tell you this: I have faced every single one of my absolute worst fears since I joined this department. I have done them one at a time. I began with learning how to step into the woods and pee without soiling my turnout gear at a structure fire. And I moved on to walking on roofs and holding a hose directed at a burning building and responding to an accident where a young man's broken legs were pinned under his car.

Every time, as I am about to do something terrifying--maybe it's going out in a little rubber boat to look for a man's body in the world's scariest bay; maybe it's going out in the middle of the night and driving a fire truck to the spot on the highway where a woman laid down in traffic; maybe it's getting behind the wheel of a fire truck in the first place; maybe it's putting on an ice rescue suit and walking out on the ice toward open water, knowing you are going to fall through; maybe it's just simply being there, with the person who triggers my trauma (over and over and over and over again). Whatever it is, I ask myself each time, "Is this okay?" and each time, something inside me has said, even when my body trembled and my head ached and my stomach churned, "Yes. Go. See."

So I continue to go. I continue to see. I continue to learn and make mistakes and get scared and come back to try again. My crush on the fire trucks has become a full blown love affair.

Which is how it has come to pass that, as of today, I am now officially enrolled in the Hancock County Fire Academy. If I graduate and pass my end test, I will be a real and true bonafide interior firefighter. If you stand outside your burning house screaming, "Save my baby!" I might actually be able to go inside and help.

I begin in a few weeks. It will take six months. It will be the hardest, most grueling, most insanely difficult thing I have ever done. Godwilling, I will not washout (although half the candidates do). Godwilling, my middle-aged body will not fail me. Godwilling, when I am scared, I will do what my first captain has taught me, "Stop. Breathe. Think." Godwilling, I will continue to do what I consider my "yoga-firefighting practice." It consist of three parts: "Show up. Stay calm. Be strong." If you do those three things consistently and in order, I have found, you can respond to anything (with anyone).

It's been two and a half years since I joined the Orland Fire Department. When I began, I was in the worst stages of PTSD. But what I've discovered is that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder does not have to be the end of the line. There is also something called Post Traumatic Growth. It is "positive change experienced as a result of the struggle with a major life crisis or a traumatic event." It is based on the idea that human beings can be changed by their encounters with life challenges, sometimes in radically positive ways. If it hadn't been for that traumatic attack, would I ever have found my way to the extraordinary gifts of volunteer fire service? I'm not thankful for the attack. But to imagine my life without the Orland Fire Department is like imagining my life without joy, companionship, or purpose. I am thankful for the tremendous growth that has blossomed out of that trauma.

Right now, as I prepare to face the Academy, the thing I am most afraid of is being in confined spaces on an airpack. My old fear of my attackers (or of fire or of an uncomfortably full bladder!) seem almost silly in comparison to the knee-buckling horror this situation elicits in me. And...it's mandatory. One really cannot be much of an interior firefighter if one cannot keep one's composure when pinned in turnout gear in a small, dark space breathing on air. So. What does a firefighting yogi do in this situation?

She asks for help...and she practices.

Last night, my first captain was kind enough to take me and Marcus Tweedie who will be joining me at the Academy, through some of the tougher drills we'll face. I did okay with everything. I learned to swing a sledgehammer. I climbed a ladder up to a roof while breathing on air. I'd never done either of these things before. And I was scared of both of them. But, when it came to the confined spaces...for the first time in the history of my experience in first response...I almost cried. I was *that* afraid.

But here is the definition of progress: When I couldn't do the hardest, scariest, smallest space, we tried another one, less scary. And I did okay, but I was still really anxious. So my captain, who is a professional firefighter, as well as a volunteer with us (and a really, really good teacher), took another tack. He had me lie down in a smallish space, but one I could stand up in, if I had to, and he turned out the lights. It was total darkness. "Now just breathe," he shouted through his mask, "and imagine you are in an ice rescue suit, floating on the Narramissic River."

Do you see?

I have come *so* far that the thing we can use to *soothe* me is the day I put on an ice rescue suit for the first (and only) time, and walked out on the ice toward open water. I walked until the ice cracked. And I made a mistake, and fell through all of a sudden, face first. Ice water went up my nose. Ice water went down my suit. And I was stuck for an instant, wrong side up under water in a mostly frozen river. It's hard to right yourself quickly when your bottom half is boosted by a rescue suit's buoyancy!

But I came up. I came up shocked and spluttering. I came up *smiling.* I felt calm. I *loved* ice water rescue! I loved it. You get to swim! In a river! In winter! Before we began, I was so scared I thought I might pass out...but I asked myself, and my Self answered, "Yes. Go. See." And now?

Now, ice rescue is the thing we use to *soothe* me when I am trying to learn how to stay calm doing the scariest thing yet. If that isn't Post Traumatic Growth, I don't know what is.

My friend Kirse Granat May says that there should be a movie about my yoga/firefighting. (I like to imagine Julia Roberts gets to play me.) But perhaps I'll start by writing a book about it. And if I do, I expect I'll want to dedicate it to Julia Gray, who first suggested I teach at the Orland Fire Department; and to Bobby Conary, who, as Chief, welcomed Yoga with Naomi into his station, and then stepped onto a mat himself, and then welcomed me into his company; and to John Gray, who taught me how to drive a firetruck with so much confidence that I passed my EVOC practical on the first try (while three of the people who attacked me that day at the church looked on); and to David Sukeforth Jr., who had the somewhat insane idea that I could do the Academy and become a Firefighter I and II, and then went to extraordinary lengths to get me into this next session. He has never wavered in his belief that I can do this, which I find remarkable (and confusing...me? Really??).

But as another writer/yogi who actually *did* get to have Julia Roberts play her in a movie about her life wrote, "You don't get what you wish for, you get what you believe." So...I'm gonna go ahead and believe that Dave and John and Bobby (and the other members of the OFD who have said so) are right when they say they believe I *can* do this.

And when I ask my Self? Even after the scary confined-spaces-almost-crying practice run?

God bless her. She still says, "Yes. Go. See."

Photo courtesy of the Ellsworth American.

Tales from Rural Maine: Grace

About 25 years ago, a nun came up to me at a ball game we were watching in Bucksport and she smiled such a beautiful smile--the kind of smile that happens when eyes and lips are smiling equally--and she said, "You look just like Grace Kelly."
To this day, I can remember that moment. I remember that I was alone there, leaning on the fence. I remember the smell of freshly cut grass and the gentle warmth of early summer sunshine in Maine. I remember I was a little quiet and a little lonely. And I remember noticing that I didn't feel as embarrassed as I usually did when someone gave me a compliment, and that the absence of that discomfort was remarkable and a relief. This woman, she was so gentle, so sincere, so self-less in her remark. It was like...she was just sharing a sweet truth, articulating in six words the poetry of the day; it was as though she had simply said, "The sky looks like heaven today."
We often hold insults and injuries in our hearts long after the moment has passed. It's harder, it seems, for our human hearts to attach themselves to kindness, generosity, beauty; it's harder for us to believe. Instead, we replay a wounding over and over for decades, consciously, unconsciously. While compliments and kindnesses skip off us like stones.
But every now and then, when one human being offers another human being a certain kind of simple, spontaneous kindness, we arrive at an intersection of grace, I believe, which creates a fixed point in time, a touchstone our hearts and minds can return to, spontaneously, for years to come.
Twenty-five years later--a lifetime later--that stranger's kindness is still there for me. Time and distance melt away. That memory rises up on my journey like a guidepost. I can close my eyes, take a breath, feel that sweet summer air on my face, hear the crack of a ball off a teenager's bat and I can believe for just one moment that maybe...I look just like Grace Kelly...

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: You've got to hug your farmer

Peter and I have a very small weekly food budget. It works out to be about $2.50 per person per meal for three meals a day, 7 days a week—and in weeks where there are very few yoga students, that budget drops even lower. There’s a direct connection between work and food for us, which is, by turns, equally stressful and beautiful. It grounds us, but it also often freaks me out. Finding creative, nutritious mostly vegan ways to feed us is a high-stakes adventure. Like everything in life, it’s a practice.

This spring/summer we have made the decision to dedicate 25% of our food money to fresh, local produce from our beloved local farmers. 20% of our weekly budget will go toward our CSA share in Lally Broch Farm, a compassionate and creative homestead doing really good work in the world. We had to pay in advance, which took some kerfoobling, but I made it happen because it matters; it matters in all sorts of ways. The other 5% will go to farm stand and farmers’ market purchases.

Yesterday, I got very panicky about my decision to write such a big check. What if the weather is poor and the farm’s crops fail? What if I’m too tired or too busy or too confused to find ways to prepare or store all of that beautiful perishable produce? In the past, my farm shares have often wound up being compost shares, because I had to compost so many things that wilted before I could figure out how to eat them. (What on earth does one do with celeriac? How much kale can one person really eat?)

But having taken a few years off from farm-sharing, I spent that time doing two vital things: healing my body and learning to cook. I’m still not 100% well, but I have enough energy and stamina to cook more often than not. And I’ve learned how to improvise with what I have in the kitchen. Armed with a salad spinner, a good knife, and my stick blender, I can make anything into a soup or a smoothie.

My hand shook as I took out my checkbook this morning to write my farm share check, but, like everything in life, eating well is a practice. Having faith in one’s ability to be healthy and strong and creative enough to cook is a practice. And if I know how to do anything, I know how to practice. This is what yoga teaches us. Don’t worry; just practice. So, I took a nice, deep breath. I let it out. I found my courage. And I wrote the check. Two and a half weeks of food money all at once, to one place. I made the commitment.

And I was rewarded by a visit from the kindest, most beautiful farmer you could ever imagine. She arrived as planned on my doorstep this morning, wearing striped tights (my favorite!) and beautiful jewelry she made herself out of eggshells (eggshells, I tell you!) and she handed me my pre-season delights: radishes, chives, fresh rosemary, thyme, & mint; beet greens and bok choy (I think); and a spring salad mix. All washed and neatly bagged and fairly broadcasting the loving energy with with they were planted and cultivated and cleaned and brought to me.

We stood there in the sunshine on this bright June day, both overjoyed. She thanked me for some kind things I had posted on Facebook, just when she needed them recently. Her eyes welled up with tears of happiness and gratitude. And when I opened my beautiful bag of greens and herbs, mine did, too. (She even threw in a welcome gift of lavender soap!)

I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I said, “Are you a hugger?” And she embraced me in the warmest hug you could imagine and then she stepped back and smiled and said with jolly vibes and deep sincerity: “You’ve got to hug your farmer!”

Indeed, my friends, you really, really do.

My first pre-season delivery from Lally Broch Farm.

Tales from Rural Maine: Beasts

The other day, a flatbed tow truck drove past my house towing a school bus. It was like King Kong carrying an unconscious Godzilla out of the city.

Tales from Rural Maine: Understanding time

When my nephew was very little, he seemed to have an unreasonable level of frustration when he was told to wait for a very short time. He wasn't a naturally impatient person, but for some reason being told to wait "a minute" left him feeling hopeless, as though you had said an hour instead of a minute.

My a-ha moment came when I realized that for Bailey, "a minute" didn't mean sixty seconds. It literally meant, "some-long-interminable-indeterminate-amount-of-time-that-generally-means-a-grown-up-isn't-willing-to-say-no-but-also-isn't-willing-to-do-what-was-asked-of-them-right-now."

We were all saying, "In a minute, Bai!" when he asked to play or get help or get attention or have a treat or any and all of the other things kids are needing when they're three. He hadn't yet learned about measuring time on clocks; his understanding of words and of time came from his experience. "A minute" could be counted on to be a frustratingly long amount of time.

As I stood on Tuesday night in the kitchen staring at the heap of dirty dishes that Pete said on Monday morning that he'd wash "later," it occurred to me that what he meant was...he'd do them "in a minute."

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Yoga to Go

I was talking to a master yoga teacher the other day who does not live in Maine, and I was casually sharing some details of my teaching life here--and she was flabbergasted. 

I didn't realize until right then how unusual it is, but especially combined with my service with the Orland Fire Department, on any given day, I never know where I'll be dispatched. Some days I get called to fires or accidents as a first-responder; some days I get called to yoga. Every now and again, I get called to both.

"I hurt my back, can you come teach yoga?"
"My father died...can you come teach yoga?"
"My sister/grandchild/best friend is in town, can you come teach yoga?"
"My daughter eloped, can you come teach yoga?"
"My daughter's getting married...can you come teach yoga?"
"My son was released from prison...can you come teach yoga?"
"My niece is graduating. Can you come teach yoga?"

These are just some of the requests I have gotten. I teach so often that it isn't practical to load my gear in and out every day, so instead, I ride around prepared for anything. I have a "go bag" full of things I need as a first-responder; and a car full of yoga supplies. If you needed me to fight a wildfire, I could drop what I was doing and be on-scene and ready to go in minutes; ditto if you needed a yoga birthday party. 

I always keep enough yoga supplies in my car to teach up to 20 people yoga anywhere accessible by car. Along with water, snacks, sunglasses, safety glasses, leather boots, wildland turnout gear, reflective gloves, high-visibility tee-shirt, a change of clothes, my pager, a helmet, sunscreen, nitrile gloves, a flashlight, etc.

Because of the particular circumstances of my life in rural Maine, I have taught hundreds and hundreds of yoga classes--including one during a blizzard where I hiked through the snow to the end of my driveway and my students picked me up in their 4x4--but never once have I taught in a bonafide yoga studio. During one typical week this spring, for example, I taught in a living room in Bucksport, a kitchen in Penobscot, a meeting room at a health center in Bucksport (twice), a fire department (Orland), a cancer resource center (Ellsworth), and a front lawn in Brooklin.

All of this is made somewhat comical or maybe heart-warming, depending on your perspective, by my choice of vehicle. I am a roaming yoga gnome in a tiny little Ford Focus hatchback. In case there was any doubt that I am a firefighting yogi, I even have firefighter plates that say "OHMM." (Which electricians tend to think means I'm one of them, but which my fellow yogis get right away.) The whole car is so stuffed with yoga equipment and firefighting gear (and reusable grocery bags) that there is actually no room for anyone but me in the car. I recently had to give my 11-year old niece a ride and the only thing to do was to pull out a bunch of props, put her in the backseat, strap the seatbelt into place, and then pile the props on top of her. (She loved it.)

Many of us who teach practice what we call "yoga off the mat." We live our lives in ways that match our yoga philosophy; we practice not only with our bodies and our breath, but with our choices. I am this kind of yogi. In my case, selfless service (seva) is a priority; I am a karma yogi, which means my heart soars most when I engage in the action of selfless service (karma). This is why I serve with a volunteer fire department. No matter where I go--to teach, to fight a fire, to help an accident victim--yoga is literally my co-pilot.

Tales from Rural Maine: The way life should be…

I was delayed getting to my uncle Ricky's memorial gathering on Sunday. First, because I was so incredibly sad, I couldn't put my clothes on. Second, because a goat climbed into my car. And third, because on my way there, I came upon an accident involving my other uncle—Ricky’s younger brother--who was trying to find the memorial in his rental car and got sideswiped by a speeding SUV (with out-of-state plates, I might add).

The goat in question is named Dixie and she belongs to Dave and Angel, fellow members of the Orland Fire Department. Pete and I swung by their place on our way to the memorial to drop off Pete’s Jeep at Dave’s garage, and as soon as I pulled up, Dixie made a bee-line for me.

I’ve only met Dixie once before and usually she lives with the other pet goats in a backyard pen equipped with lots of things to climb on. I suspected she wasn’t meant to be free ranging since the other goats were in the pen and Dave and Angel seemed not to be home. Two little girls were playing in the yard, though, and they said it was okay for Dixie to be out, so I took their word for it. I gave Dixie some pets and scratches, and then headed back to the car with Pete. Dixie followed.

She was utterly and sweetly fixated on coming with me. I would lure her away from the car and then dash back and she would gallop on her little hooves to catch up with me. The girls tried calling her to them, but she could not be dissuaded from this notion that she and I should be together.

Pete opened the passenger-side door to get in, but Dixie climbed in ahead of him. She is a small, brown goat, and she wanted to come with me. To be honest, I sort of wanted her to come with me, too. There was something so endearing and healing about her warm interest in my being. The week had been so hard. Some of my relatives are tough to be around. I listened to and experienced way too much judgment and criticism for my own comfort. It left me feeling ragged and alone. But in Dixie’s unabashed desire to be with me, I felt fully appreciated. This guileless little being, her affection, her warm and willing eyes, they soothed the hot sense of disapproval I had felt radiating at me all through the week.

Dave, our 1st Lieutenant, and sweet Dixie

I’m not sure how discerning Dixie is. It may be that every human who enters that yard has to remove a friendly goat from their passenger seat, but for me, in that moment, it helped me to feel more like me. For the first time that day, I laughed. I giggled. I talked to Dixie. I loved her. And with that love, with that laughter, I began to feel a bit more like myself, a bit less traumatized, a bit less lost and alone in a wilderness of thorns. It was like I had wandered off the internal path I follow, the quiet and lovely path that keeps me grounded, happy, and whole, and Dixie turned up to show me the way back. Eventually, we were able to separate ourselves and I left Dixie in the care of the neighbor children, and drove off, a bit late, for the memorial gathering.

The memorial gathering was a casual affair. A time for friends and family simply to gather. No speeches or eulogies, just food and drink and a couple of hundred people who knew my uncle, gathering in the sanctuary-like yard of some dear friends who live on Cedar Swamp in East Orland. Don’t let the word “swamp” fool you. It’s truly beautiful there, back in the woods. It’s all trees and birds and flowers; deer and happy chickens and raised beds full of green and growing things. There is a constant and gentle trickling of water from the artesian well, and a sequestered sort of openness that allows one to feel both safely ensconced and utterly free all at the same time.

After leaving Dixie, Peter and I drove directly toward the memorial. But just before the last turn, we came upon an accident. We were in Orland, so of course I stopped to offer assistance. There were no emergency vehicles on site, just a large group of dazed and miserable looking people—about half of whom I was related to--and two SUVs looking worse-for-wear on the side of the road. I soon discovered that one of the smashed vehicles had been driven by Uncle David and that several of my younger cousins and my 11-year-old niece were passengers. The girls were very shaken up and had already been picked up and driven back to the memorial by other family members, as everyone else involved waited for help. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured; but both cars were now undrivable, and my uncle, my cousin, and my aunt’s husband were in limbo, standing in the heat next to a smashed up rental car, looking for all the world exactly like what they were—tired, sad, shocked, stranded travelers.

Orland was never dispatched to the scene—I’m not sure why--but nevertheless, in this moment of crisis, two of my firefighters materialized anyway and gave assistance with grace, calm, and the deep and generous kindness I truly love them for.

First-on-scene was Dustin Bowden, a young man who lives nearby and heard about the accident from his grandmother. This is how we roll in rural Maine. Your grandmother drives past an accident and gives you a call and you are a volunteer firefighter, so you go out looking for it. Dustin and I secured the scene, called for an ambulance, and made sure the sheriff was notified.

Soon, our second captain, Casey Soper arrived. I was so happy to see him. He’s tall and deeply tan from long days of lobster fishing, and he scooped me into a bear hug. Serving with Casey is like having a big—very big—younger brother who knows when to crack a joke, when to play wrestle, and when to take command of a scene. The second time I met him, we were in a fire truck—he was driving—and he told me he would trust me with his life, and that there are not a lot of people he feels that way about. I have endeavored ever since to be worthy of this trust.

Between the three of us, we were able to expedite the tow truck for both cars and get my family on their way with a blessed efficiency. Just to provide some perspective: The last time we (the OFD) were at an accident scene with an out-of-state driver in a rental car with no AAA (just like my Uncle David), it took four hours to clear the scene and the chief wound up driving the family to Trenton to get another car. But this time, using my AAA card and Casey's inside knowledge (one of his many talents is tow-truck driving), we were able get this wrecker call taken care of in a fraction of the time it would have taken, had Casey and I not been there. I was overjoyed at our useful and helpful connections to one another, and within our community, and that whatever fortuitous forces were at play that day had brought the exact right people to that scene to be of service to my family.

I emerged from the incident grateful, as ever, for the members of the OFD, for my friends and family here in this small town, and for the very quick response and congenial nature of the deputy sheriff on scene.

Even though I was an hour and a half late to the memorial, and a lot of people had left by the time I got there, the silver lining in that particular terrible cloud is that--as it turns out--the perfect combination of things to draw me out of weak-kneed, weepy inconsolability is a very friendly goat, followed by first-response. The accident—particularly since it involved my family—meant that I switched from upset-and-grieving into calm-competent-firefighter. Nothing in the world existed in those moments except the roadside problem at hand and the tools I had at my disposal to fix it. When everything depends on my presence of mind, nothing is present in my mind except my compassion, my instincts, and my training.

When people say, “Maine, the way life should be,” I don’t think about mountains or rocky coasts or lobster that is cheaper by the pound than hot dogs, I think about Dustin Bowden, jumping in his car to come and help because his grandmother saw an accident near the blueberry factory; I think about Casey showing up and giving me a hug after a long, hard day of working on a lobster boat and taking out his battered phone and saying, “Yes,” when I asked if he could help me get a AAA tow truck there quickly; I think about the scraggly wrecker drivers who didn’t know me, but when I climbed up to the cab and explained I was a friend of Dave’s—and Dixie’s—they smiled (they know them both well) and said yes, they’d tow my uncle’s vehicle first, so that he could get to the memorial; I think about those hundreds of people who came to East Orland to say goodbye to my uncle, people who had known him when they were children, having adventures with the Gangs of Bucksport; I think about how those were the days; and I think about the heavy, black pager I wear on my hip at all times, even when dressed for a funeral, and the kindness and competency it always summons when people need it most.

Once the drivers and passengers had all refused medical transport; once the sheriff had released the scene; once my uncle David’s rented Expedition was on the way to Dave’s, I thanked Dustin and Casey, and I climbed back into my little Ford Focus, stuffed with yoga supplies, and firefighting gear, and two bouquets of flowers from my garden for the memorial.

"There's no crying in first response," I joked to Peter, once we were both safely back in the car.

"This car smells like goat," he said.

And we were on our way. 

Me and Dustin taking a break at a long, sweltering structure fire in Surry.

Tales from rural Maine: Sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt

A few years ago, I lost a baby. It gave tangible meaning to the word "heartwrenching." There was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do, to save her, and my heart felt wrenched, physically, from my body. I bled. I suffered. And for several weeks, my doctor warned me every day that I was at risk of dying, too. I curled up in a ball, speechless, and did not leave my house for a month, except for daily visits to the lab for more hideous blood draws, to be sure that she was fully and truly gone. It took forever.

There was nothing anyone could do to help me. I had to breathe the swirling tumultuous tsunami water of grief until I either drowned or swam up to the surface. Peter was stalwart and loving. My sister-in-law held my hand. And then one day, a package came in the mail. My friend Michelle ("The Mickster") who had been with me when the bleeding started while I was on a trip to Massachusetts, sent me a care package. It contained a beautiful bounty of heirloom seed packets with vintage designs and a note that said, "Sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt."

In that moment, I felt understood, beloved, and I glimpsed a future where flowers bloomed and my heart resumed its beating.

Yesterday, I got a call telling me that my favorite uncle (Rick Chase) had died suddenly from a heart attack while jogging with his beloved wife. My chest cleaved. My brain could not keep up. My face broke open and I wept. 

"What?" I kept saying. "He what??" My mind could not grasp the sudden, terrible finality of this crazy truth. The world was question marks and ambulances; blood and faces and a voice on the phone telling me something impossible. 

And then she asked, "Would you tell the family?"

How could I possibly? What could I say? A deep breath in, and out. Of course I will.

"Yes. Yes, I'll go now," I said.

I stopped crying. I stood up. I had forgotten I had legs. Peter held me. I breathed. I pulled myself together. I did one thing at a time. Find keys. Get in car. Should I bring tissues? Make choices. Where do I go first? Words? What words do I say? I wasn't even really dressed, I realized as I was leaving, but I couldn't remember how people put on clothes. This will have to do, I thought. This is what I will look like when they remember this moment, but there is no right thing to wear.

And then I drove to tell his parents in person the worst news anyone could ever possibly tell them. I told his father first. And then I went to see his mother. Her reaction was the worst thing I have ever seen in my entire life.

It was a bad, hard, long, heartwrenching day. It gave tangible meaning to the word "terrible." I lost someone so dear to me, someone healthy and kind and vibrant and quiet. And worse than that, a wife lost her lifemate, parents lost their son; siblings lost their brother; four children lost their dad.

How do we sleep now? How do we eat? How can there be a world without Uncle Ricky in it? The sturdiest dam let loose somehow and we are tumbling through debris, trying to grab hold, to know up from down, to breathe and not drown. How can this be?

Last night, I was supposed to be attending water rescue training. But instead, I was trying to keep myself, my family, afloat during a different sort of drowning. I was doing all that I could to keep my aunt Kim's head above water. I told my fire chief I couldn't come to training, after all, and why.

Today, he sent me a text and told me he would be around if I wanted some "truck therapy." In that moment, I felt understood, beloved, and I glimpsed a future where trucks gleamed, where strong, generous volunteers show up to help, and I began to imagine that I could breathe again. It will be a good long while before any of this feels okay. But after lunch today, I am going to the fire department with Bobby because sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt. And sometimes a girl just needs to get her hands on the wheel of a fire truck.

In times of grief and loss, in times when we are drowning in despair, in times when anguish thrusts us off our center and leaves us wondering how we can breathe; when doubt unhinges us, what really and truly matters--at least to me--is kindness. These simple grounding acts of lovingkindness that come from the people who know us best.

Those seed packets saved my heart. I dug in the dirt. I admired each beautiful packet. I planted a memorial garden. I was able to feel connected again, to my full self, to the cycles of life, all of them. The water receded and I stood again on firm ground. I faced my future, I remembered my baby, and I knelt down and planted flowers in her name.

I am grateful that I am loved in this way. That in the midst of a nightmare, someone knows that the one thing I need are seeds, beautiful heirloom vintage seeds, and lots of them. And fire trucks. Giant, hulking, shiny red fire trucks.

Our loss steals our breath, compresses our hearts, explodes the comforts of our reality. But there is room, even in a grieving heart, for the magnificence of gratitude, when kindness comes. And I am grateful for it.

Om mani padme hum. And thank you.