Fire Fighting Tales from Rural Maine: Fire-Fighter Up

It was not until she was about to board the Sandia Tram that Naomi realized that she had, perhaps, neglected to ask some important questions. She had, for instance, not exactly grasped how *high* off the ground the glass container would be carrying her. And now it was too late to turn back.

900 feet above the canyon floor, is the answer, by the way. A confined space at a drastic height...her heart began to pound a little faster and, for a moment, she thought she might panic.

But then? She remembered. She can do heights. And confined spaces. If she has to.

"It's okay," she said to her friend. "I'm going to fire-fighter up."

And as she traveled up 3,819 feet in elevation over 15 minutes on the world's longest tram (a double reversible jigback aerial tramway, it turns out), she was glad once again, that she had done her fire academy training. Because it meant that she could stay calm and enjoy views like these, even when the conductor pointed out they were up so high it would take 8 seconds to hit the ground if we fell.

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Old School

I had an iPod snafu today--for some reason it didn't charge overnight and I had *three* yoga classes in three different towns to teach today, and my students and I really like the yoga music to play during class. So, I used the iPod for the first class, but then it died so I brought my rockin' boom box and a CD to the last two classes.

"We're rolling old school tonight, my friends!" I told my last class of the day. "This here's my boom box, which I bought in San Francisco in 1996!"

"That's the year I was born!" said one of my students.

(!!!)

Luckily, my young student is holding up a little better than my boom box, which decided during Savasana that it, too, needed a rest. So my students had the gift of silence, and my voice, and the crickets outside the open window.

If that was the last hurrah for my boom box, I guess it was a good one.

Although...now what will I use to play all my mix tapes???

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: Lucky ME

One of the particular quirks of being me--and, consequently, also of being a person in the world who encounters me--is that while I groove on some aspects of society really well, I more often function like I'm from another place. Like, perhaps I used to be a mermaid. Or maybe I'm from some crazy place like Bohemia, except I don't really seem to have an accent.

Mostly I "pass" in (rural) American society by smiling a lot and asking questions with a sincere curiosity and warmth. It also helps that 9 out of 10 people here know I'm from here, or they know I teach someone they love yoga here, so they endow me with a certain amount of cred right out of the gate. This will often buy me enough time to learn what I need to learn before they fully cotton on to my cluelessness and get fed up.

Today, the kind folks at Tozier's Market in Bucksport had the sort of encounter I'm talking about.

A forty-something-year-old woman walks in the door, puts a paper on the counter and then says, cheerfully and with an almost childlike enthusiasm, "I'd like a lottery ticket, please! How does that work?"

The cashier sized me up and I don't know if she is just kind in her heart or if she made a decision to be kind right then--I think both--but she ever so graciously began at the beginning, which was just what I was hoping for.

"Do you want one of these? [pointing to the logos for some lotteries] Or one of these, that you scratch? [gesturing to the scratch tickets]"

Her assessment that I might not know the difference between a scratch ticket and a lottery ticket was incorrect, but I felt grateful that she did perceive that I knew next to nothing about what I was trying to do.

Me: "Wow! Who knew there were so many? I would like the kind that they draw numbers for? That kind. Not the scratch...How does that go?"

"Well, tonight you have Magic Number Balls [or something, I can't remember what she really said] and Lucky Winners [or something else; I really can't remember what the various lotteries are called. There really are a lot of them!]."

Me: "That sounds great! How much do they cost?"

"Well...this one is one dollar and that one is two dollars."

Me, brightly: "I'll take the one for one dollar, please."

As the clerk prints me a ticket, she explains: "The drawing will be tonight."

Me: "Okay! Exciting. So is that something that will be in the TV?"

By this point, her colleague had come over and they were both so sweetly observing me, like they couldn't quite get a handle on why I don't know anything about lotteries. Or maybe even TV.

The other clerk said, "Well...I think it may happen right before the evening news...?" And she sort of paused, as if to see if I understood what evening news was. I nodded. "Or, you can call the store and the clerk here will tell you the winning number...Or you can check...online..." And with the online bit, she trailed off. I think she thought she'd lose me there. Little does she know that what I lack in lottery know-how I more than make up in online know-how!

"Online! Perfect. Thank you!"

The first clerk rang me up and said: "One winning lottery ticket. That'll be $1.79."

Me, being funny: "Do I have to pay extra for a winning one?"

Clerk: Laughs. "Nope. It's included."

I'm not sure it's possible to convey the air of sweet confusion about the whole thing. It was utterly inconceivable to the women serving me that a grown adult who seemed to have her wits about her and definitely seemed sober would walk into a convenience store and not have any comprehension about how lotteries work. I must have seemed like an idiot. And they were SO nice about it. I love kind people, I really, really do.

When I got out to my car, I realized in my excitement about buying a lottery ticket, I'd forgotten something I went there for, so I went back in just as they were saying to a third colleague, "No! I don't think she'd ever bought a lottery ticket before!" Total bafflement reigned. It was all so charming.

They were surprised to see me, but I let them know with my smile and my body language that I know it seems funny that I don't know about lottery tickets. We all laughed--I totally got why it was odd.

And realizing I wasn't insulted--we were all on the same page--they asked the burning question, "Have you really never bought a lottery ticket?"

I explained how I'd bought a MegaBucks on my 18th birthday, but that was a really long time ago, and since then I'd bought a couple over the years as gifts for people, but it was always so many years apart and I never quite did understand how any of it worked or what it all cost or how you check the numbers or which one is best or how often they have drawings or any of that stuff. Like many things in life, my conscious awareness ended in 1990. I'm also always surprised when a first-class postage stamp isn't 25 cents.

I left really hoping she did sell me a winning lottery ticket. Wouldn't that be great?  I could buy those clerks a present--and also in all the press conferences, I could tell the story about how one day, I just felt lucky and decided to ask someone how to buy a lottery ticket and they were so nice to me and then we won! 

I bet that story would be in the TV...and also online...!

Tales from Rural Maine: The opposite of cool

For most of my life, I have wanted to be cool. I have the potential to be cool, in theory, but I have proved time and time again that I am lacking a level of indifference, composure, and quick-thinking required to be truly cool. Instead, even at the age of 41, I still possess the capacity for childlike wonder. A couple of years ago I saw my first monster truck rally and the radical sensation of joy, amazement and thrill I experienced was visible all over my face. Pure happiness rocketed through my body. I looked like a six-year-old meeting Mickey Mouse or whoever it is at Disney World that truly rocks kids' worlds these days. Or maybe I looked like a six-year-old seeing her first monster truck rally. (They crush CARS with TRUCKS!!!)

I get spazzy and giggly and authentically enthusiastic instead of cool. I light up like a Christmas tree whenever I get to put on my turnout gear. I see someone I like and I behave more like a puppy than The Fonz or whoever it is that represents cool these days. I brighten up and think excited thoughts and if permitted to, will jump on that person and deliver affection.

I once tried to smoke a cigarette with my coolest friend and she laughed (with kindness) and said, "You look like a kid dressed up in her mother's heels."

I can't wear leather because I feel so sad about the cows.

I have tattoos, but they're all about compassion and inherent goodness and I never show them off.

I once got so mad at a boyfriend that I became completely unhinged and the worst thing I could think to scream at him was not an obscenity, it was, "I hope every bad thing happens to you!!!"

In other words, I curse like a kindergartener.

In high school, the guy who's locker was next to mine put up a Metallica sticker. I saw it and said, "What's Metal-icka?"

I have often said, with a sort of self-accepting self-effacement, "I am the opposite of cool."

I said this to myself just the other day. And then it hit me...the opposite of "cool" is "warm."

That's actually true! I'm warm.

I'm not sure when my quest for cool began. Probably during the tween years like most everybody else. But it ended in January of 2014. I'm the *opposite* of cool. And that actually feels pretty cool.

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Why resting matters

On January 6th, I misjudged the clearance above my head and jumped—hard—in order to adjust my footing while standing on the steps of a fire truck during what should have been a painless firefighter training. Instead, I gave myself a concussion and a neck sprain and developed a killer migraine. That was a week ago.

One of the most fascinating but challenging aspects of my brain injury has been around my relationship to words. I am a person who is naturally able to quickly locate and articulate the words for the ideas I have and want to convey to a listener or reader. But since my concussion, I have had a fierce struggle to connect these dots. It sometimes takes a lot of time and mental energy.

When I was filling out forms about my accident, for instance, I could write the number of my street address with no problem, but I couldn't retrieve the word for the name of my street. I could understand that the box labeled Street wanted the name of the street where I lived. I knew what my home looked like; I could picture it in my mind. I could feel the feeling of home. But it took all of my determination and focus to pull the word "Central" out of the vast, foggy canyon of mental space behind my eyes. I also struggled for a long time looking for the word "Bucksport." I nearly wrote "Northampton," a town where I used to live. I started to draw the "N," but an alarm bell went off and my sluggish mental engine chugged away until I could retrieve “Bucksport” instead. It took at least three times as long as it would normally have taken to fill out that simple form and it made my head feel like it was splitting. That was about 36 hours after the concussion.

Today, my sister-in-law asked me to write down the ingredients for the smoothie I had made her. I was able to speak all the right words to her. I found “Yes” and “I’d be happy to,” for instance. I was able to understand the task and to remember where I kept pen and paper. But when it came time to write down the simple list of ingredients, I had to fight really hard. My brain felt so tired. I had to push; it actually felt like it took muscular effort. And with all that hard work…I still got it wrong.

Trying to locate the words and then write them down was so challenging that I used a work-around. Since my visual memory is still very sharp, I tried understanding the letters as shapes. I wanted to write “coconut milk.” I wasn’t able to write the words as words, per se, but I could picture the word and then copy the shapes onto the paper. This is a different mental process than spelling, I think.

I could picture the container. I could remember the taste. I knew I had added something called “coconut milk” to the smoothie. And I could say the word. But when I tried to turn that knowledge into a written item on a list…the letters c-o-c-o-n-u-t…they were…foreign. They floated and separated; they had no meaning as a sum total, strung together. It was confusing. “I know I should know this…,” I thought. It was a puzzler.

When I finally wrote the words, it felt more like putting the right-shaped pieces into the right-shaped hole, like when you were a kid and you had that toy? The plastic box and you had to put the star in the star-shaped hole and the crescent moon in the crescent moon-shaped hole…?

I’ve always been a good speller. I’ve always learned and retained vocabulary well. I’m a writer. Words, stories—this is how I interact with my universe. It is so…curious to realize that this complex process happens underneath all that. These complicated tasks are always happening, it’s just that usually my brain does them lightning quick, so it seems like they aren't there.

In the end, what I wrote on the list was “coconut millk.” I could see that it was wrong, but the migraine-type headache I’ve had since about 24 hours after I cracked my head was made worse from the effort; my brain felt what I can only describe as muscle fatigue. I decided it was way too much work to try spelling the word “milk” again—plus, I wasn’t confident I could get “coconut” twice, anyway, if I started over--so I just told my sister-in-law, with my voice, that I was having trouble with spelling, but that she knew what I meant.

Why can I say “coconut milk,” but not spell it? Why is that so hard? I suppose a neurologist could explain.

The important thing, I think, is that I’m not worried. I trust that my words will come back. I wrote “gap” the other day when I meant “lapse,” and it took me more than 24 hours to resolve the nagging feeling that "gap" wasn't what I'd meant to write and to locate the right word to take its place. Words are getting mixed up for me. But I know that won’t happen forever.

Until I get all better, I am using my restorative therapeutic yoga training to help me to cope and to heal. My doctor told me that the key to recovering fully is to rest the brain. He mentioned a recent study that showed (if I’m recalling correctly) that in a group of American teenagers who had received concussions, half were allowed to play video games while recovering and half were not. In the group that played video games, 70% of them (if I remember correctly) suffered more symptoms and slower recovery times. Luckily, I don’t play video games. “It turns out,” said my doctor, “that the brain is like a muscle. If you injure it, you have to really rest it. If you keep using it and using it, then it takes longer to recover and repair itself.”

This makes sense to me. I also read an article from the Mayo Clinic online that said watching TV was detrimental to concussion recovery because it required the brain to focus. So I have tried to rest my brain as much as possible—and this is remarkably hard. Watching movies or good TV programs is how I would normally “rest.” I haven’t cut out that sort of resting altogether, but I have spent a lot of hours lying in the darkness in restorative yoga postures with an eye pillow over my eyes. My migraine and neck sprain have been extremely painful, so it was a challenge to just…be. It is not easy to lie still in the quiet with nothing to distract me from the pain.

Sometimes, though, it is beautiful. This is what I wrote in my journal on Day Three of the pain: The thing that made me feel better was lying with an eye pillow and listening to TV or just being in the dark; it was shockingly hard to rest my brain; to let it do nothing—and to rest my body, too; stillness, closed eyes, rest; in the warmth and darkness alone with the fire and the cats, I rested and I visited with my pain; it cringed and withdrew from hugs or any touching; it flinched with cool or heat; the only thing that did not make it feel worse was quiet companionship; bare as bone, raw, solid, aching arch of pain and I sat next to it, with love, and we watched together, not touching; as the horizon blazed red, then orange, then yellow and then a radiant white Light, then twinkling darkness. Touching, attempting to “help” or control—these upset my Pain, intensified, prolonged, made worse her experience. I breathed; I stayed. I watched and waited; I feel blessed and peaceful; our home is miraculously, effortlessly warm; thank you; I am loved and well-supported by my partner—thank you; I saw a kind and helpful doctor; I saw Vicky, who is pure love itself; I have something for the migraine and Tylenol for the pain; I have a day to rest tomorrow; all is well; my head and neck sure are full of pain, but all is well. Thank you.

I suppose I share all of this because I’m not sure, culturally, that we are really prepared to rest—or to be with our pain with awareness and compassion. I don’t think we, as Americans, really understand what rest is. We watch TV or fiddle around on Facebook and we think we are resting…but I know for a fact that our brains are not at rest when they do these things. I know because of how much it hurts my head to check Facebook or watch TV.

Meditation is the act of Being. It’s that simple. I spend a little time doing this almost every day. But because of my injury, I have had a glimpse into just how lopsided even my life is—and I’m a yoga teacher! We need more eyes-closed quiet. We need time to recover from mental fatigue. It’s a real thing--even if we aren’t foolish enough to bonk our heads on a firetruck! I understand now how Deepak Chopra can spend two hours every day in meditation. I’m beginning to wonder how any of us survive if we don’t spend two hours every day in meditation…

Today is the first day that my pain is trending downward. While I’m still struggling to write grocery lists—and writing this post has ramped up my pain quite a bit and my right arm has gone all tingly—I’m encouraged to have (I hope) finally turned a corner so that I can go back to living without the feeling that my head is cracking open and my neck will never stop aching. If I continue to truly rest as much as possible, I expect that I will soon be writing grocery lists with all the speed and acuity of a woman can not only spell “acuity,” but who takes such things for granted.

Yoga Tales from Rural Maine: Out on the water

What's most amazing to me about the experience of becoming a first-responder is how I am much more able to find my courage in service to others.

I don't like boats, uncontained water, or, frankly, dead bodies--all three frighten my civilian self--but I did not hesitate this morning when I was asked to jump into a little rescue boat in the pouring rain on very little sleep, with no food, and what felt like not enough coffee, to troll all around the bay in choppy, cold, DEEP water looking for a body that would likely be grisly, it having traveled all the way down to the harsh surface of the water from the bridge so high above.

When I say I don’t like boats, I mean, I really, really don’t like boats. I once got seasick on an aircraft carrier—at port. That’s practically like getting seasick on land. I get a panicky feeling sometimes if you just say the word boat to me. I get all scared that you’re going to try and make me go on one.

I don’t want to go on one.

I also, by the way, generally can’t wear necklaces or turtlenecks because I feel like I’m being hanged—I can’t even wear halter-tops. I get all panicky and break out in a sweat and can’t breathe properly. Perhaps I was hanged in a previous life…and taken to my hanging in a boat. I don’t know. But that fear is deep and it is real, my friends. It is a deep, down visceral fear.

Did I mention I’m also not a morning person? And I’m terrified of bridges?

But this morning, having jumped out of bed at 5:55 a.m. to answer the call, when I was faced with the prospect of getting into a little inflatable rescue boat so I could zoom out into the Bay to look for the body of a man who had jumped from a really high bridge, I said “Yes.”

I didn’t have to. I’m a volunteer. I can stay home and sleep. I can say no to boats.

But when I was asked by an officer I trust, “Do you want to go out in the boat?” my answer was, “Yes.”

Because it was pouring down rain, and because the water in the Bucksport Bay is pretty damned cold, step one was to put on a gigantic and ill-fitting neoprene wet suit that made my hands and feet as dexterous as penguin flippers and which, due to being approximately six sizes too big, rode up at the zipper and pressed against my throat like two thumbs on my larynx. I was inside this choking, awkward contraption, about to go look around in uncontained water under a bridge for a dead body and I still got into that boat. And not because I thought I had to. I did it because I wanted to. I did it because when I was asked, my answer was honest-and-true, “Yes.”

The captain of our little craft—who makes his living on lobster boats--asked me once we were under way if I liked boats. “No,” I said. "I do not like boats."

I had only two questions. The first I knew the answer to, and I asked it lightly: “If I get sick, I should lean over the side, right? Not throw up in the boat?” 

The second question was not so light: “What was he wearing?”

I got the answer. And then I started to look.

When I teach yoga, there is a magic that runs through me. All my fear and doubt wash away, and I know how to help, I know what to do and say. Now matter how sick, tired, angry or frightened I might be when I walk in the door to a class, when I “step into” my teaching space, everything is calm and full of grace. (Currently, and not coincidentally, my literal teaching space, by the way, is the Orland Fire Department.) Even if my body is sick or tired, when I "become" a yoga teacher, I get strong and able. I know it may sound remarkable, but I have this same feeling when I am at a scene.

Today, I faced some of my worst fears all at once in service of this man who took his own life last night. And I swear to every god and goddess I know that I felt not one lick of fear or doubt about any of it.

I did feel really sad for a few minutes when I first arrived, staring out across that gray water and knowing what had occurred. But I am a yogi—and a first-responder—so I breathed, and I muttered soothing Sanskrit things from under my helmet. And eventually, I felt calm, centered, and totally present.

I trust my firefighters and I trust myself to show up and to listen, in the same way I trust myself to show up and listen when I teach.

Today was kind of awful. And sadly, I expect it’s not the last time I’ll get that call. Someone else found the body, after our team had left for the day. The family has closure. I still feel nauseous and tired.

And--yes--I would do it again in a heartbeat.

[If you struggle with suicidal depression, please put this number into your phone (1-800-784-2433). It’s the National Hopeline and there will always, always, always be someone there who wants to talk to you. It may not feel like it right now, but there are people who care enough about you and your loved ones to comb the deep and scary waters for your body, if you jump. Please give us the opportunity to care for you while you are still with us by NOT asking us to do that; make this phone call instead.]

Teaching yoga at the Orland Fire Department.

Tales from Rural Maine: Lemons (or Melons...)

Friday night, at a friend's Tastefully Simple party a middle-aged woman I'd never met before walked up to me and said, "You're AWESOME." Then she seemed to consider my breasts and before I knew what was happening, her hand darted out. She grabbed the front of my top, pulled it out, and very nearly stuck her face in. 


I was a little slow catching up to these events, having not seen it coming, so my first reaction was actually to join her in looking down. I think I thought that maybe there would be something new down there, something unexpected that would make grabbing my top seem like an okay thing to do. But all I saw was what she and everyone nearby saw: my lacy, see-through bra, which still contained the same two really quite ordinary breasts I had packed into it when I got dressed. 


I looked up at the people around me, blushing, I think, and then my new friend let the top snap back in place and walked off. I was left to conclude that putting gin in the sangria, while delicious, can only lead to trouble...And also, as I near 40, I suppose that, while my intoxicated friend's judgement was not the most discerning, I might still chalk it up as a "win" that my breasts were the ones chosen to be accosted from the dozen or so pairs on offer at the party. Why not consider this a compliment? As our Tastefully Simple sales rep says, "When life hands you lemons, get a bucket."  

Tales from Rural Maine: "Going Gluten-free"

It's not easy to be gluten-free; particularly if you live someplace where pizza and Italians (subs) are the only viable take-out and the nearest health food store is 45 minutes round-trip and closes before you even get out of work. Since I've only recently returned here after two decades in more...shall we say..."developed" areas, such as San Francisco, Washington, D.C., and Northampton, MA, part of the quest is not just knowing what I need and how to prepare it (big challenges on their own), but where to gather all the ingredients--and then making the time to forage while also working 40+ hours, trying to exercise, having a life, looking for health insurance, and first looking for a house and now owning one that needs work.

I spent an hour in the Shaw's in Ellsworth on Saturday, for instance, looking for non-dairy yogurt. They sell it at Hannaford so I assumed it would be at Shaw's. Truth be told, it took me nearly an hour to remember I wasn't in Hannaford. Nevertheless, even with the help of three determined staffers who insisted it was in the store, we were utterly unable to locate the soy- or coconut-based yogurts for which I quested. (I wanted them because breakfast is one of my real problem areas and since I don't eat meat, gluten, or dairy (mostly), I wanted the alterna-yogurts I'd been used to--the ones I bought in bulk at Hannaford in Brewer.)

Once I learn the ropes, I think the time it takes to acquire things will go down, but for now, there are still a great many hours spent looking for vegan cheeses and miso that could be spent doing something more useful, like painting my laundry room or watching four hours of NCIS on DVD (or actually trying to cook something).

One thing I know for sure: there is no shortage of information. Quite the contrary. If you mention to anyone--even a stranger at the grocery store who spies you loading Bob's Red Mill gluten-free-something in your cart and asks--that you are gluten-free, you will be immediately asked, "Have you read the blogs?" No matter what your answer, you will then be showered with information, suggestions, a torrent of details and stories about afflicted loved ones that is so well-meaning and yet just too much to take.

As I told my friend Mav (in the ancient tradition of mixed metaphor) when she offered to provide copious amounts of great cooking and eating tips in response to my last gluten-free blog post, but first checked to see if I could handle any more input: "I mostly feel like I'm a sturdy little thimble positioned at the mouth of the great Mississippi. Open wide and try to filter *all that information* into something you can eat. So, yes, thank you for the loving restraint when it comes to tips. I DO want them, but my little sponge of a brain is nearly soaked. I'm tired and hungry and frustrated. One meal at a time. Must go slowly. Can't cope with onslaught of advice. You have my e-mail, though: you could drop me gluten guidance there, if you want? And I'll pop in when I can and have a nibble?"

And that's just it. I love Mav for understanding that I couldn't just get battered by tips: because that's what they usually feel like. Battering. No matter how lovingly given, I'm like a plant that's been overwatered. (Hurray! Another mixed metaphor!) I do want help, but first I just really need to absorb what I already have.

I do thank Renee from Hannaford in Bucksport, though, who saw me checking out with Mike's Hard Lemonade this summer and let me know that malt means gluten. Rats! And to Mark (my sweet friend and realtor), who was the first to tell me that Hannaford in Bucksport sells Redbridge, a gluten-free beer. Problem identified. Problem solved. (Want more gluten-free beers. Here's a super site.)

Some tips are really helpful. Other tips, like, for instance, "You can Google it," are not. One is a tiny, well-aimed drop; the other is like turning the hose on me.

I do thank everyone who is trying to help. And I ask you to please poke your hand gently in my soil before you dump in any more water, lest I drown (or catch you with a thorn).

The exception is actual food delivery. Presenting me with recipes or lists of blogs means I have to do more reading, more thinking, more foraging, and potentially more failing at preparation. Then I have to clean up. But, if you want to invite me to a gluten-free, semi-vegan meal--or, say, drop a suitable hot dish off at my place--well, then, my friend, you are always welcome to feed me.

I decided to start blogging about being gluten-free with my own particular parameters (the nearly vegan, onion-allergic, mushroom-averse me) because I do think it's worthwhile and helpful for all the celiacs and gluten-challenged among us to speak up and share on this great cyber river of muddy information we like to call the Interweb. If you are looking for help or hope or company, here I am. I'm glad you found me. Just don't expect me to read your blog.

Here's the latest one-day-at-a-time menu update:

November 17, 2009
1.5 cups coffee w/2 cubes raw sugar
coconut milk yogurt (from Hannaford in Brewer!)
gluten-free granola (I can't remember now where I landed that. Rats.)
soy chocolate pudding (which I think is located either in the dairy case or the produce section at Shaw's in Ellsworth)
1 bowl homemade vegetable soup (You can find the recipe on page 251 of The Kind Diet by Alicia Silverstone.)
gluten-free french roll toasted with raw, organic honey and earth balance margerine
one glass Riesling (I hope it was gluten-free? I don't know. Can wine have gluten?)
Grilled salmon with mashed potatoes and cole slaw (restaurant)
water
Andes mint

November 18, 2009
1.5 cups coffee w/2 cubes raw sugar
water
3 gluten-free waffles with margerine and real syrup
organic applesauce
homemade veg. soup (note to self: make LESS soup next time!)
gluten-free crackers (they're made from nuts!)
vegan cheese (it's made from nuts!)

3 Junior Mints Deluxe Dark Chocolate Mints (both gluten-free and vegan, I think)

1/2 Fuji apple
soy chocolate pudding
Shahi Korma, 3/4 lunch-sized portion (Taste of India, Bangor)
papadam (it's made from lentils!)
basmati rice
Polar orange dry seltzer

That damn soup is finally gone. And I think I might be out of non-yogurt-yogurt. Damn! I should have had Peter get some today when he was in Bangor. See? This is what's hard about it. Stock up and re-supply. It's like planning for a freaking revolution.

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Gluten-free diet: Breakfast, lunch, and dinner

Eating gluten-free is a total pain in the ass, especially when you're first learning. There's a lot of frustration, mix-ups, and starvation. There's a lot of effort and aggravation--and slip-ups.

In my first month of being gluten-free, for instance, I drank non-alcoholic beer frequently, never imagining I was guzzling gluten. Slowly, I'm learning. I try not to beat myself up or worry. I'm doing the best I can. That's my motto. And, about half-way through my third month, I am actually feeling better.

Now that I have my own home, which means my own kitchen, it's much easier to work on eating gluten-free than it was when I was living in the camper. Living in rural Maine, I don't have easy access to gluten-free products or other necessary supplies, but now that I have my own space, I can bulk buy and store multiple loaves of rice-based bread or tofu steaks in my freezer, if I want to.

Because I'm also a vegan-leaning vegetarian who eats fish and "happy" chicken, but who gets sick from eggs and most dairy and is allergic to onions, I'm extra-special pinched when it comes to feeding myself. Most gluten-free cookbooks rely heavily on meat dishes; most vegetarian cookbooks rely heavily on gluten-infested breads, pastas, and fake meat products--or the dreaded hummus or mushroom-based meal. (I don't like most hummus or mushrooms and I can't stand olives, goat cheese, or sundried tomatoes. Gag me.)

With everything that's been going on in my life since the advent of the gluten-free diet decision, I haven't had the energy or time to dig up recipes that are palatable and realistic. Living where I live, it's not easy to find a daikon radish or some ghee. Or seitan? Forget about it. Plus, have I mentioned? I am a terrible cook. No. Really. I am. I burn toast. I under cook and over cook. I make good flavors go bad. It's a giant comic tragedy almost every time I try to make food.

But, I *have* to eat. And I have to eat healthy. So, in a gesture of solidarity with anyone else out there with the same dietary restrictions as me, I offer a sample menu. Here's what I ate today:

1 bowl gluten-free organic cereal with rice milk, sort of a knock-off yet pricier version of Cocoa Crispies.
Lots of water
1 glass water doused with packet of Emergen-C
1.5 cups coffee with two raw sugar cubes
1 bowl homemade vegetable soup, leftover from a surprisingly successful attempt at cooking (by me) this weekend. You can find the recipe on page 251 of The Kind Diet by Alicia Silverstone.
1 gluten-free "french roll" (really more like a biscuit) toasted (so as not to be frozen any more) with organic raw honey and smart balance margerine. (So yummy!)
one large serving organic jasmine rice, frozen (microwaved)
one gluten-free, vegetarian chili meal, frozen (microwaved) ("Helen's Kitchen Simple Health Hearty Bean Chili with Vegetables & TofuSteaks")
dollop all natural sour cream
3 Junior Mints Deluxe Dark Chocolate Mints (both gluten-free and vegan, I think)
1 sandwich made with gluten-free bread (frozen) toasted, with melted almond-based vegan cheese and vegenaise, and a leftover tofu steak (originally frozen, also Helen's Kitchen brand and totally delicious)
Two organic celery stalks
Handful of Lay's potato chips

I'm still hungry, but it was a successful day--the kind of day that makes me think I can actually do this.

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Tales from Rural Maine: "I Know Exactly Where That Is"

One of the things I love--I mean, really and truly love--about rural Maine is the way people give directions.

My family has been here in this same town on both sides for more than two centuries, and I myself have never been away for more than six months at a time in 37 years, and yet I don't know the names of most of the streets. People don't say, "Go up Mill Street." They say "Go up the Post Office Street." (In fact, I don't think it is "Mill Street." I genuinely don't know the name of the street on which the Bucksport Post Office is located.)

And I am not alone in this. I don't know the name of the street because almost no one local uses its name. Most directions are given with points of reference being, not street names or number of blocks between things, or even in miles, as might be common in other places, but rather in terms of details based on where people live or where something happened or what is located on the street (such as the post office or the library).

My favorite part is that the directions are always correct and reliable, but utterly inscrutable to outsiders because they most often begin with where something (or someone) used to be.

I enjoy re-telling particularly excellent examples of rural directions as anecdotes and recently attempted to regale my father with a narrative about the directions a friend had given me to his house in Happy Town. Peter and I had been invited to have dinner with him and his wife, and he issued us the following directions via e-mail:

From your Dad's home take Upper Falls Road to Bald Mountain. I don't have mileage from there but from Bald Mtn you go down over the stream, then up two steep hills, after the hills go a couple of miles, the road sweeps to the Left with some cows on the side of the hill at Wee Bit Farm. Look for Winkumpaugh Road on the Right, take it and go to the next stop sign at Happy Town Road, the sign is frequently stolen and I can't recall if it is there at present. Go 1 mile up the hill on Happy Town Road and we are on the Left @xxx. Our house has a carport, shingled exterior and green trim. Most importantly my cell is xxx-xxxx should you get lost.


I was cracking up by the end. I mean, isn't that a riot? Aren't those directions just so awesomely rural-perfect? Start at your Dad's, go all these crazy ways, turn (no idea which direction) at the stop sign with the missing road sign all to end up in some place called "Happy Town"? Awesome, right?

But my dad, who had been following along intently to my narrative, picturing all the roads and turns in his head just said, totally straight-faced, "I know exactly where that is...But he should have told you the cows have long hair."

Tales from Rural Maine: Something’s Gotta Give

Peter and I came to Maine because it was time. We were miserable where we were. We examined every other possibility and we decided, for a variety of perfectly sensible—and a few more intuitive—reasons that Maine was the place to be for now.

Our plan hinged on a few things, however. The most essential was the weather. Second to that: a job for Peter.

We have been here now for three weeks living in a small camper on my father’s lawn. Part one of the plan was to live rent-free in this manner, the upside of living in a tiny, awkward space was that we could enjoy a Maine summer while also getting Peter out of debt and saving toward a home of our own. We would barbecue on the deck and swim every afternoon. It would be great.

Those of you who live in mid-coast Maine are already laughing a rueful laugh. For those of you who don’t know: it’s raining. It doesn’t matter when you read this—today, tomorrow, next Thursday, September—it will still be raining. It’s rained almost every day since it stopped snowing and the forecast for the next ten days? Rain. In fact, the forecast for the foreseeable future? Rain. Having almost entirely given up any real hope of summer, I am now beginning to tiptoe toward the genuinely dreadful thought of what this precipitation will mean when the temperature drops. Do you have any idea how much snow ten inches of rain translates into? Or what life is like here if it snows day after day after day for months? Especially if you didn’t get a chance to regroup in the warmth of summer? It’s a thought so horrifying that I can’t even think about it. I start to…but when I get close, I turn and run away. That door must stay closed for now or I’ll never make it.

As though you hadn’t heard, the recession is also making it hard to find work, even here, where we thought old family and friend connections and the boom of a summer economy would mean at least temporary or part-time work for Peter.

We were wrong.

And, maybe worst of all: the camper smells. I have tried everything. Baking soda. Vacuuming. Spraying various potions both natural and chemical, which claim to remove odors of all sorts from fabric. Almost every inch of the interior of the damn thing is covered in this terrible, scratchy brownish/tan fabric from 1986. We don’t keep smelly trash, dirty dishes, recycling, or dirty laundry inside. I run a HEPA filter 24x7. Essential oils are diffused, windows are opened, and litter box deposits (and twice daily wet food leftovers) are whisked away so quickly our stunned Norman cat can only stand looking dazed as his whiskers blow back in my wake.

We’ve washed all our bedding and doused it in fabric softener. We keep shoes locked away. But nothing, I fear, nothing can save me from this smell. (Where is it coming from??)

What is truly problematic about this is that because I work from home (which makes this move possible—hurray!) I have to sit in that smell all day when it’s too wet or too cold to work outside (boo!).

I could go work inside at my dad’s—or impose on friends or family—but there are a couple of problems with this. One is that it’s inconvenient. The other is that, apart from foul odors, faithful friends and readers of my blog know that noise unsettles me. You might say it has the potential to destroy me. And even when my dad’s house is completely empty (which is rare given that a teenager, a teacher, and a retiree with a vicious, barky dog also live there), the house itself makes unbearable noises. Like today, I sought refuge in the empty house only to be driven back out again by a loud and creepy repetitive noise coming from the freezer. It sounded like the creaks a big ship makes. (Peter said that’s called “delisting,” so at least I learned a new word today.)

While this place is a huge improvement over the horror that was Hampton Terrace, locals know that the traffic on the Upper Falls Road is constant and fast-paced. The deceptively rural and unassuming road, green and lovely, bordered by blueberry fields, the tail end of a lake, forests, and a few quiet homes, is a pass-through for all manner of vehicle, from passenger cars to large delivery trucks to rumbling farm equipment, racing to or from Route 1 and Route 46. I was warned about the noise, but after the booming bass, shrieking hordes of unwelcome children, and the chainsaws—oh, gawd, the chainsaws!—at our previous address, I really thought…how bad could it be?

It turns out, it can be pretty bad. I know this because even Peter is bothered and he slept for four years on an aircraft carrier in a tiny metal “bed” beneath fighter jets taking off and landing. (Don’t even get me started on how bad the sleeping accommodations are…that’s probably a whole other blog, but suffice to say…we are both tired and sore.)

Today, despite the gray skies and high humidity, it wasn’t actually raining when I got up, so when I just couldn’t take the stink of the camper any more, I carted all my work junk out to the picnic table, dried it off, and went to work. But the rush of wheels on pavement recurred just often enough and just loud enough that I couldn’t get my work done. I was trying to watch an informative video about a product I’m reviewing, but whenever a car passed, it drowned out my audio, even on the loudest setting.

I finally packed up and went into the house. But then the delisting freezer—and the arrival back home of grandpa and dog—drove me back outside.

Which is how I’ve come to be here, on the back porch, listening to the soothing hum of the hot tub and the gentle swish of the breeze through the trees—and trying to ignore the dog that’s been barking for the last hour and, of course, the traffic.

I haven’t mentioned that for most of these three weeks, I’ve also been starving. Finding dairy-free, gluten-free, semi-vegetarian food in this burg is a project. Take out is an impossibility. I drove all the way to Bangor just to get some microwaveable Amy’s meals—at Target. And the cat throws up at least twice a week, sometimes twice a day. And for a while he had a diarrhea so pungent it brought tears to my eyes and woke me several nights from a rare and precious deep sleep.

Like the icing on our cake, for several days, the septic system was also blocked up—turns out it was a tree branch, not Peter (phew!)—so we had to commute three miles each way to my brother’s whenever we needed to poo or bathe. (Good thing we have our own house key!)

On the up-side, our expenses are minimal. I can hug my niece and my nephew whenever I want. There’s a weird little yoga class on what used to be the stage at my elementary school twice a week. And Peter’s not being at work means that today, when I was absolutely on the brink, he washed the stinky cat dishes, took out the trash, found our missing plate and bowl, hugged me, got the mail, and drove to the grocery store for two different kinds of air freshener—keep hope alive!—and the ingredients for my favorite meal, which he is now cooking.

I will finish this review, dammit, despite the traffic noise and my hunger and fatigue (you’ll be able to read it later at www.wi-fiplanet.com<==plug). I will eat a delicious lunch, which will improve things greatly. Later, we will look at houses with our realtor (who is the first boy I ever spent a Valentine’s Day with) and then we will return home, to spray the air with our new cans of Fabreeze and settle in for the next installment of Torchwood on our tiny, satellite-equipped TV (god bless my father for making that happen). We may even take a dip in the hot tub.

That is, of course, if I don’t just refuse to leave whatever house we look at last…

©Copyright 2009, Naomi Graychase. If you are reading this on Facebook, it was imported from Graychase.com and should not be reproduced without permission. You can find more stories or poems like it at www.graychase.com.

Tales from Rural Maine: You Can't Get There From Here

Peter and I have a joke that he doesn't pay attention to his surroundings. When I say "joke," what I really mean is that he doesn't pay attention to his surroundings--and this drives me crazy because he never knows where anything is, including himself--but since it is, I have come to accept, an irrevocable truth of his personality, we have decided that we can laugh about it rather than fight about it.

Today, we were starving and didn't feel like cooking, and he was going out to pick up our mail at my Dad's anyway (we're housesitting this week), so we decided he'd pick up a pizza for a late lunch/early dinner kind of thing. Given the aforementioned lack of awareness, you can imagine that I had some trepidation about sending him the three miles to Snowman's alone, but he said he could do it.

I had him recite to me the directions from Dad's place on the Upper Falls Road over to Snowman's.

"You just go out to that main road and then when it gets to the place where it bends, you go that way and then it'll come up on the right next to that fried food place," he said.

Sigh.

"Okay, well. Yes. Although, like I said, it's across the street from Crosby's. And..." (And I can't believe you still call Route 1 "that main road there) "And..."

I hesitated to mention it, but I just hated that he was going to go that way when there was a way I thought was shorter. And easier. And would take him past the golf course, which he had just that day asked about.

So, I said, "...And there's actually a faster way? You could, instead of going out to Route 1, just come back this way. And, instead of turning sharp right at that house we like, to go up to the Russell Hill Road, you just keep going straight. You'll pass the golf course and then Snowman's will come up on your left."

"Really...?" He seemed skeptical, but willing.

"Yes!" I was excited that he wanted to branch out, learn a new way. He's usually resistant. "Yes. You just don't take that turn and you'll come to a stop sign and bear left and just stay on it 'til you come to Snowman's."

"Okay!" he said. And left.

An hour later I was half worried he'd had car trouble and didn't have a phone--and was also about ready to eat my own fist--when he rolled in the door with a cold pizza and a story about going to Holden.

"HOLDEN?" I said, flabbergasted. "You went to Holden?"

"I took a few wrong turns."

"I should say so."

He explained that he had gone the way he knew to get to Snowman's from my Dad's (out to "that main road"), but that he tried to follow my directions to get home.

"But, honey, I gave you directions TO Snowman's from Dad's, not FROM Snowman's to here...You were practically in Brewer."

"I know..." he said. "I realized I'd gone the wrong way when I saw the sign that said 'Brewer 8 miles."

We laughed. How could we not?

"I can't believe you drove to Holden. From Snowman's."

He's such a sweetheart, though, he didn't eat the pizza while he was driving all that way.

"At least it was a nice, scenic drive," he said. "Until you get to Holden. No one's fixed the roads there since the seventies."

"I know! That's because no one goes to Holden," I said.

The rest of our big plan for the evening was to go see The Proposal at the Alamo. We've been looking forward to it all week. We thought we'd outsmart the crowds by seeing it on a Wednesday night. But, I called ahead to confirm the showtime only to learn that it appears to have only shown over the weekend. No shows during the week. Sigh.

The pre-recorded voice that told me the show times I'd missed was my friend Jane's. We went to high school together and she runs the theater or something now. (Jane once convinced me to jump out of a moving vehicle because it was a standard and she didn't know how to start again once she stopped. Tip: 5 mph is actually a faster rate at which to hit the ground than you might think.)

It was so delightful to hear her sweet Mainer voice, even though I just saw her last week, that I actually listened to her dash my evening plans, then went back to the main menu and listened to her do it again.

So, it turns out that my dinner was cold, Peter still doesn't know how to get to Snowman's from here--or more importantly, back--but he does know how to get to Holden, should the need ever arise. We can't go see a movie without driving to Bangor or Ellsworth tonight, which Peter already practically did, and oh--P.S.--a large is a medium at Snowman's. If you want a large, you have to order a "Family."

So, we're still hungry. But we are, each in our own way, learning (or relearning) the ropes around here. And he did manage to get the mail, so, even as comparatively remote as our life is here, two new Netflix discs found their way to us, quite rapidly, in fact. So, we'll add The Proposal to our Netflix queue when it comes out and tonight we enjoy...Paul Blart: Mall Cop instead.

Tales from Rural Maine: Run!

On the down side, I walked down to check the mail and not only had it not come yet, but I got attacked by one of those large and unreasonably aggressive horseflies; on the up side, I sprinted for the first time since I severed my ACL two years ago and it turns out, I can still do it--and for a fair distance. My top speed is just slightly more than a horsefly's. Take that you freaking horsenightmare!

As the horsefly launched its attack and I began waiving my arms wildly around my head, an old lady nearby stood inside her screen door and held a flyswatter menacingly. "You want a piece of that?!" she yelled.

I would have, actually, but it turned out she was talking to her four barking dachshunds.

Postcards from the Edge (of Easthampton)

When I left my old apartment in Northampton, it was largely because of the noise that came from living below another tenant. I could even hear when he peed.

Being a light sleeper, working from home, and being prone to migraines, etc. a quiet environment is an essential quality-of-life ingredient for me, and was "top-of-mind" when I searched for a new place. Sadly, the first place I took was such a noise-riddled disaster that I spent most days in tears, clutching my head and rocking. Ultimately, after five long months, my landlords who lived above me, let me out of my lease and hired someone to soundproof the ceiling so that the next tenant wouldn't have to listen to every footstep, every word of every conversation, every microwave beep, and every radio show or guitar lesson that happened above her.

I was so relieved when I left that place and found this strange, but large, apartment in what seemed like a dead quiet neighborhood on the edge of Easthampton. For starters, there would be no one above me, which had been the largest issue at the last two places. And my landlords lived next door in our side-by-side duplex instead of right above me. I was a little nervous about being side-by-side. I thought perhaps I'd wind up succumbing to all of the same sorts of noise that had traveled down at the other places--doesn't noise also travel sideways? But I had such a good feeling about the place, I took it on faith and negotiated a month-to-month lease so that if the noise was awful, I could break free and look all over again. (Ugh.)

I've been here a year now, and I'm happy to report that my landlords are quiet neighbors. Every now and again I hear the husband practicing his drums, a sound that dominates every inch of the house when it happens, but which thankfully rarely happens, or a dog running up and down the stairs, or guests talking too loudly in the kitchen, or the vaccuum cleaner running. Once I heard the eery sounds of what sounded like a recorder floating down from the attic. But, these are the normal sounds of life, they come and go, and on the whole, it's been lovely to have that side of the house be a quiet sanctuary.

Unfortunately, the other three sides are subjected to an almost non-stop onslaught of noise.

Which brings me to this blog. Because the noise is so constant, so unbelievable, I decided it might help me to cope if I cataloged some of it here.

I can't possibly sum up the entire last year of noises in one blog post, but just to give you a sampling, I'll tell you that I woke up on my first Saturday morning here at 9am to the sounds of a chainsaw that ran for the next six hours straight. There were several more days like it as the neighbor to my right worked to cut down and then dismember a very large and healthy tree in his front yard. He then rented some heavy equipment to dig up and then pave over his front yard. My neighbors behind me and next door also enjoy playing music. It ranges from afro-pop to "gangsta" rap to hip hop to--I swear to God--adult contemporary. (Who blasts this?) I have also endured four straight hours of rototilling, many hours of yappy dog barking, snow throwers, especially in the pre-dawn hours, a wide assortment of power tools, the excavation and construction of a house that burned down and was rebuilt one street over, and an ongoing basketball tournament virtually in my backyard. The irregular thwap of a basketball has now landed itself on my list of Most Reviled Noises of All Time.

My neighbors to the right also have children and a large extended family. In summer, there is not a day that passes when a child is not slamming a soccer ball against the house and/or screaming. The neighbors just past them also have a remote control car that they whiz up and down the street. This noise could best be described as a high-pitched Weed Whacker that increases and decreases the intensity of its whine as it approaches and then passes my apartment. Over. And over. And over. It sounds very much like a dentist's drill and is one of the most unbearable sounds ever created. (I have extended fantasies about running down this remote controlled vehicle and crushing it under the wheels of my car--and then backing up over it just to make sure it's entirely crushed. My next door neighbors on the far left have the very same fantasy. Perhaps one day our dream will come true...)

The children next door will, occasionally, stop slamming their ball against the house and go inside, open all the windows, and blast cartoons louder than one would think possible.

The saddest part of all of this for me is that I live for spring and summer. During all the long, cold, dark months of being shut up here in New England, the thing that keeps me going is the anticipation of the moment when I can throw open my windows and bask in the warm breezes that kiss my skin and satisfy my nostrils. I love the feeling of warm, fresh air through windows. I love hearing the birds and feeling the sunshine. I love looking out over my tulips.

But here, I have to choose: fresh air or quiet. I've invested almost $200 in white noise machines and ear plugs. I've tried running fans and air conditioners, but these burn through electricity and with the A/C on, I can't also open the window.

This morning, for instance, I sat down at my desk for work at 8:45 a.m. and already the next door neighbors were making noise. It really is comical the diverse potpourri of noises they create. This morning, for instance, it was an industrial-sounding vacuum. It's a gorgeous spring day. Sunny and fresh. But even through the windows, the whizzing whine of the vacuum made it seem as though I'd pulled up to a car wash rather than sat down in my sunny little office. When I opened the windows, the noise was just too much to take. So, as I usually do, I chose the quiet over the fresh air and closed the windows. The vacuuming went on for what seemed like forever.

We also seem to be in the flight path of what I think is an air force base in Westover or Westfield? After the vacuuming stopped, I opened my window and a massive aircraft, the kind that looks like it could open its cargo hold and swallow half a dozen tractor trailers whole, rumbled by overhead. When these planes fly over, the noise is so powerful it fills up your whole chest as they slowly pass over. I always feel a little bit afraid when I hear them, as though I weren't on the edge of Easthampton, but instead, on the edge of Gaza or Tikrit where such noises often herald doom.

After the vacuum and the airplane noises were done, the children came out to play. They are on April vacation. And so the bouncing and slamming began. And the shouting. The littlest one has a shriek that could shatter glass. Oh, yes. And the Big Wheel. I am deeply nostalgic for my own Big Wheel, but this one, last summer, was the bane of my existence.

After the vacuum ended, I opened my windows again. But what quickly came through them, carried in on the sweet spring breeze, was an argument between children, close in age, fighting over toys and territory. The little one will win because she is cuter and holds greater sway with the adults, which her older brother knows all too well. And because she can scream louder and for longer. And because she is a little girl and therefore is, to a certain extent, untouchable.

"No, I get it! Don't go here! Stay here!" she screams. Her voice getting higher and sharper.

Frustrated beyond words, "Waahahahhhhhhrrghh!" is his response.

An adult intervenes in some melodic West African language, and now the Big Wheel rumbles forth. I don't think it's possible to describe exactly how loud, how miserable a noise that Big Wheel makes. The wheels squeak and I resume another of my fantasies: dousing the thing in WD-40 while the children sleep. But the worst is the rumble. The plastic wheels grind into the pavement in such a way as to create a noise so profound it cannot be stopped by walls or windows or ear plugs or white noise machines. It is relentless. And the children never tire of it.

So, this is how my days go. Bella and Buddy will scream, screech, wail. Bang things, throw things, and ride that cursed Big Wheel back and forth all day. The tractor trailers will rumble by every few minutes. The helicopters and warcrafts will pass over head just often enough to be noticeable. Adults will talk loudly in a lovely language I can't understand. And, at some point, someone, somewhere, will blast their music, most likely with a sub woofer-enhanced bass line so strong it feels as though it is trying to impede the beating of my heart inside my chest. There will also be the extended grinding buzz of motorcycles speeding by on the main road at the end of my street and, inevitably, some sort of machinery or power tool buzzing and whizzing nearby. A few times a week, the pair of little dogs two houses down will add their yappy voices to the mix.

You may ask why I have stayed...I started looking for a new place to live almost immediately after moving in, but then my truck died. And Calvin died. And then my knee got ripped to shreds. And then, eight months later, just as I could walk again and imagine carrying boxes up and down stairs, I had an accident in yoga class and got a pretty bad case of whiplash. (I know, it's funny, right?) That was three weeks ago. In three more weeks, I'll be medically cleared for something like a move. So, we'll see how things go then.

Silver lining
If there can be a bright side to all of this, it's that I've somehow come to a place of greater peace and acceptance with my powerlessness against the noise. Sometimes I even laugh when a new, obscure noise invades what little silence I may have achieved. The sheer volume--both in level of noise and variety--is something one really has to have at least a grudging appreciation for.

Just the other day someone on the street behind ours was running some sort of machinery and Peter and I both looked at each other with quizzical expressions and said, What is that?

And then, in the way that some connoisseurs might try to determine which particular type of pear or mushroom has been baked into a dish, we cocked our heads and ran the sound across the palates of our ears, scanning our internal database for similar sounds.

I thought it was someone trying to saw through a sapling with an electric carving knife. Peter thought it might be some kind of saw. Whatever it is, it's being overworked, I said.

Every weekend, sometimes on both Saturday and on Sunday, the Ghanaian family next door has a bash, a multi-generational gathering, which lasts all day and involves a lot of talking both in English and in a melodic African language I cannot understand. There is laughter, shouting, and music--and this year, burning meat with lots of lighter fluid. (Something smells wrong about that barbeque, said Peter as we fled the house in search of quiet places last weekend.)

Perhaps it is that I am getting older. Perhaps it is my yoga. Perhaps it is because I have Peter, or because I am no longer injured, broke, and stuck in one place. Whatever has caused it, now, when the noises come, I do not get angry. I examine my choices and I pick one. Instead of hating that I have to close the windows to block out the noise enough to sleep/work/watch a movie/think, I take a very deep, cleansing breath, let it out, and make my choice.

This weekend, for instance, the weather was incredibly beautiful for the first time (on a weekend) since the fall. The noise started as soon as we got up. But, instead of closing the doors and windows and gritting my teeth, putting on the fans or putting in the ear plugs, or calling the police, Peter and I just left. We packed a picnic and went to the lake. We saw a movie. We went out to dinner. And by the time we got home, things had quieted down almost to the point that we could hear our own television when we turned it on to watch a DVD of LOST.

Having Peter here means that I am not alone with the noise, except when I'm working, and this helps. Having a stable job means I can afford to escape by doing things like seeing movies or eating out. Being able-bodied means I can walk or drive away; for the first eight months, this wasn't true. And my yoga practice has helped me to achieve a greater sense of perspective, a more fluid sense of myself within the great flow of the universe. Somehow, it allows me to laugh the way the Dalai Lama laughs. I can't stop the noise, but I have some freedom and some agency and these things help to relieve my resentment. I have perspective, and this helps me to laugh, even in the face of chainsaws.

While I still long for a place of my own that is quiet and lovely, I have come to a place inside myself where the noise I experience here doesn't make me feel desperate and crazy. Right now, for instance, the yappy dogs are barking again and a woman is yelling very angrily at them, to no avail. (Quite honestly listening to her is almost worse than listening to the sharp yelps of the dogs, which has been going on for about an hour.) She has been joined by a child, who is also now yelling at the dogs. Who are still barking. And, all of this happens above the constant soundtrack of a conversation between men, in the African language, which has been going on outside my window for some time now. And, for percussion, a tractor trailer grumbles loudly, followed by another, and another. The engines rev as they accelerate, or the brakes squeak and the engines grind as they down shift and prepare to dock.

But, I am okay. I wish very much that it was quiet here, but, it isn't and this is where I am. I take a deep, cleansing breath, fill my lungs with nourishing fresh air, exhale...and then close the windows. I can still hear the dogs, but, as my friend Dan says, "Noise happens."

And, continuing to look on the bright side: at least I don't have to listen to anyone pee.