I’ve come to realize picking up your life and moving it to a brand new place is different than the micro-moves I’ve done these last 4 years in college, in and out of dorms, back from Colorado, etc. I didn’t think they would be different, but I am exhausted sometimes and I don’t know why! I’m going into my 3rd week here. My housemates claim how difficult it must be still to be getting used to things, but I like to think of myself as someone who can just pick up and go anywhere. However, this is not the first thing that has slowed me in my tracks. I might have to start accepting the fact that I am not as young as I used to be…

Leaving Maine sucked! Tears were shed as I pulled out of the house I was living in this summer, the house that saw 88% of my support raised in 2 months (still working on that last bit y’all-would love some more recommendations!) and all the emotions that come with support raising. Emma saw me off, and with a little Toyota Corolla hatchback packed to the very top, I closed another chapter in my life. It was all so new and exciting, getting down here to Amherst, that I didn’t have that much time to be sad. I’m still working on a spotify playlist dedicated to Maine and all my memories there, so if you know any songs, send them my way. I couldn’t believe how many people I was leaving behind, and wonder how many of them will be there if/when I return. If I’m going to be a park ranger one day, it’s going to be in Maine. But WHO KNOWS where God will take me after these 2 years here. I’ll be keeping you updated.

How could I make a post about all the things I love about Maine?! It’s captured a bit of my heart, and the post would go on forever! I can’t even pick some favorites, because every single bit of it changed who I am as a person. So I don’t think I’ll try. All I know is the answer to the question “where are you from?” gets harder and harder as I get older. I  wonder if there are things about Massachusetts that I will never fully get used to, or those things will pass with time.

What I do know is that I wrote a poem that I think describes what I’m feeling better than droning on and on. I want to give some background first though. This wonderful poem was written way back in March, just as the corona news came in that a) I wouldn’t get to have a graduation with all my friends and peers b) We were all getting kicked out of the dorms c) I still didn’t know where I was getting placed on staff for the next two years. A host of other things were making me feel some kind of way, but let’s focus on that last one for a second.

Up until this point, I don’t think I had written anything in months. There was so much uncertainty from the higher ups of where I was going to be for the next 2 years. It came down to staying at USM or moving here to Massachusetts. For as much as I love Maine, my soul was sad and angry at the thought of staying on staff at USM (which is a whole different story we don’t have time for here). A poem had been swirling in my head for a little bit, and I said to myself, “If I am moving to MA, it will be a happy one, but if I’m staying here, it will be a sad one with no hopeful ending”. A couple days later I got the call that I was moving, and from there the poem came. But the title just was stuck in my head, because at that time in March (and I could still argue now), Maine was dead. It was not the Maine I knew. It certainly was not the send off I wanted, but these wonderful memories were pulling at my words, making quite the play of future and past. And if I could be so bold, I think it’s the best poem I’ve ever written. So, with a heavy but proud heart of being far away from home, I present…

“Ode to a Dying Maine”

The 23rd state needs no eulogy from me-
some others would think of
as only a ‘passer-thru’

And I guess it could be said that
my roots are not very strong,
but to be fair, I haven’t had a permanent address in years.
I have no Abenaki blood to brag of, no Arcadian family to claim.
Maine soil isn’t good for growing many things other than potatoes.

But now, the future looms
ahead like a dark lighthouse on the shore.
Calm, the waters surface a mirror, and fog rolls in like the heavy
days of August come again.

When it snows in Maine, it blizzards. When the wind blows, it howls and screams.
If the rain falls, it hails and washes away everything. When those rocky islands and rich pine forests birth an explosion of abundance, I
laugh and yell
in wild wonder
How the most harshest winters give life to
the most beautiful things.

Maine soil grows the most vibrant blueberries you could ever only hope to find.

Even though now,
you are nothing but a shell like the many abandoned garrison
forts along your coast,
I remember you for what you were-

China Lake, the expanse of nothing but autumn woods
on the farmland hills. Such an insignificant town,
but to me it tastes of microwaved apple cider and I hear the echoes
of laughter around a fire, the sweet sounds of
pure friendship, carry on forever.

Those long dark winter nights that
can’t be described as anything other than memory-making, for it is in the
mundane antics of young adults that so quickly turn
into the old aches of side splitting laughter.
When the snow laid down thick on Sunday evenings when classes were cancelled,
we celebrated and shouted like school children,
for, perhaps, we were.
Those many winter months of college were
lathered in heartbreak and sweat,
painting up wonders in our spare time to escape,
to lessen the blow of what we each woke up to in the morning.

And if I could only remember again
the way the sleepy waves crash onto an island at midnight,
the warm summer breeze that sounded like ghost stories,
I would never have trouble falling asleep again.
The dog days of summer in Midcoast-
the bitter taste of mead that rolls on my tongue, sharing everything.
Zooming around in a
Lund boat
“checking the moorings” but really popping wakes and
having the time of our lives, free as kingfishers on the shore.

I remember you for what you will be-

The unaltered wilderness just ready to be explored,
the paced rowing of a canoe filled to the brim with adventure.
Muggy-clear starry nights of revealing. No civilization to speak of for a hundred miles.

Honey soaked conversations of ‘goodbye’.

Maine grew me, so that topsoil can’t be all that bad.
How much I wish I would return.
But my years of away might run quite long before it is time for me to run back.
To once again throw myself to those salty, rocky cliffs,
put down some real roots for
crying out loud, and to get used to calling a place home.

I had never written an ode before, so that was fun. And appropriate, for how dead everything felt. I’ll be back one day. And maybe by then, no one will remember me and it will be a replanting all over again. I don’t know. For now, I guess, I’ll hang on to what I got. Think of ‘home’. Try saying this and see what happens:

“I remember you for what you were. I remember you for what you will be.”

~J