Tag: Maine

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Strength and Beauty

Posted on by Susannah Warner

What I noticed most while vacationing in the south this past week, was the softness of it all. The people, the dialect, the manners, the trees; all of it. A Northeastern girl, I’m accustomed to a harshness in the land, a toughness in the people, and a fierceness in the landscape. Even our trees, here in the pine tree state grow rugged, tall and proud. Our coasts are jagged, and our mountains are severe. Our weather can be extreme, so much so that Mark Twain said, “if you don’t like the weather in New England now, wait a few minutes.” And from its inhabitants, I’m used to speed, and assertiveness mixed with just a touch of hardness. What I saw and experienced in the south, at least in Charleston, was hazy, easy, and softer, and no where was that more apparent to me than in its trees.

Although South Carolina’s state tree is the palmetto, not the live oak as it is in Georgia, it was one of the most beautiful objects I saw in Charleston, and certainly the tree I photographed the most. Spreading its limbs generously, and luxuriantly across the landscape, the prodigious oaks offered abundant shade, and a filter, selfie specialists could only dream of. These massive trees grow more out, than up, a shape that allowed me to wander like a child under a canopy-like reprieve from the sun and the intermittent raindrops. A product of their environment, the live oaks branches grow out, sometimes up to 100 feet, while the height only reaches 40-80 feet, all of this to prevent it from toppling in the event of a hurricane. And if this isn’t magical enough, Spanish moss drips decadently, and enticingly down; an enhancement of beauty, rather than a deterrent, nature’s lovely tinsel. The effect is a covering of softness and beauty, much like the residents of Charleston, whose kindness oozed sincerity.

Maine’s pine tree by contrast, could never withstand the weight of snow if it grew out, and so must grow tall and aloof. Towering 160-180 feet, these trees are tough, strong, and useful, but lacking in the grace, and charm of the southern live oaks. What I find curious though, is that for all it’s bravado, the pine tree is considered a “soft wood,” while the genteel oak is known as a “hardwood.”  I’m no arborist; I know about soft wood only because my husband was a chainsaw carver, and hardwood ruined his  chainsaw blade, and his shoulders, and it was much tougher to carve over the more pliant pine. Hardwood is so durable that supposedly during the war of 1812, “Old Ironsides,” was so nicknamed because of its live oak hull which was so tough that the Brit’s cannon balls literally bounced off it.

I guess it’s true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, or maybe a tree by its shape. The toughest old Maine codger can be a softie inside, while a sweet southern belle can have a backbone of steel. I don’t prefer one over the other; both are a marvel of God’s workmanship. The Almighty sees the beauty in all of us-hard and soft, indomitable and yielding. There’s not one of us that is too difficult for Him to carve into a work of art. For that, and for the beauty to be found everywhere, I will forever marvel.

 

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Perfect

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“Nah, I don’t really want to go now,  I have a lot of things to do at home, and I know you have a lot of work to do too,” I said to my husband, as we sipped our morning coffee together, side by side on the deck. “Besides, when we talked about it last night, the forecast was for full sun, and now there are tons of clouds in the sky.” We were discussing plans for the day, a conversation we’d had the night before, when we’d talked about “leaf peeping,” an autumn activity so popular in Northern New England, that tourists come from around the country, and some even come from around the world to see the fall foliage in all its glorious splendor. Some people make reservations months in advance, and spend hundreds, if not thousands of dollars to witness Maine’s grand finale. Yet, here I sat, with a sour look on my face because, now the weather wasn’t perfect. In addition, I was actually in a cleaning mood, and didn’t want to be interrupted, because that mood is fleeting and I’ve found it wise to harness that sucker and ride it while it lasts, or else I’d never clean out a closet, wash a window or dust.

He was quiet for a minute as we both looked over the railing to our overgrown field, the morning dew sparkling on the amber birch leaves, while the sun ignited the reds of the maples in the background. “I guess you’re right, ” he said, squinting in my direction, I should finish painting, and go to the dump.” His smile disappeared, like the sun at that very moment, as it hid itself behind a cloud. I thought of how little he asks of me, and the unavoidable guilt I’d feel by getting my own way and breaking the plans we’d made, so I relented. “Ok, fine, let’s go. I’ll go get ready, ” I sighed, getting up reluctantly and going inside.  I threw some jeans on over my yoga pants, put a hat on my head, grabbed a sweatshirt and a water bottle, and I was ready.

Off we went, into the mountains of Maine. He chattered like a magpie, while I looked out of the passenger side window, answering questions, and offering  one word answers, but I didn’t participate much at first in the way of conversation, partly because I’d left my enthusiasm for the day back with the mop, and partly because the clouds were like a wet blanket on my shoulders. This seemed like a waste of time, when we wouldn’t be able to see the vividness of the changing leaves against the clouds as well as we would against a bright blue sky. I knew I was being ridiculous–that I’m blessed to live in Vacationland, where beauty is literally out my back door, and that I have a husband who loves nature even more than I do, and even better, that he loves nothing better than to share the beauty of the earth with me–but, you know how it is, sometimes when you let yourself get into a funk, it’s hard to pull yourself out, and the fact that you know you’re being ridiculous, makes it even worse. For me, this kind of mood is only improved by one thing, and that is to not only think outside the box, but to literally get out of the box, and into some fresh air.

It is so easy to limit our minds and our lives to the four walls we live and work in. We live in a box, we sleep in a box, most of us work in a box; and so, our minds and our passions can sometimes be limited to what we can control. I can turn on the light if it’s too dim, turn up the heat if it’s too cold, the AC if it’s too hot, and turn on the TV if I’m bored. I live in a controlled environment, but nature will not be controlled, which can be  exciting, disconcerting, but oh, so beautiful. My husband knows this, and sometimes I know it too.

“Ohhh look!” I said suddenly, as we sailed past an overlook. Braking quickly, we turned into a horseshoe-shaped turn with one of the most fabulous views I’ve ever seen. Silently, we got out of the car and looked at the artistry before us. Colors, as far as our eyes could see; brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, set against a backdrop of green pines, “a bouquet from God,” my husband said, and I had to agree. Beyond the trees, a lake framed by mountains in the distance, some as far away as Vermont and Canada, with a flamboyant carpet cover, the whole effect as dramatic, yet dazzling as a fireworks display. Above it all, a layer of clouds adorned the top, the striations adding to the scene, not taking away from it.  My mood lifted like the breeze, as I silently thanked God for his handiwork and my husband for helping me to appreciate it. Why should I wait until the conditions are perfect to enjoy what is before me? I’d be waiting a lifetime, for there is no perfect on this earth; not in our lives, our homes, or even in nature, it’s all in how we choose to see things.

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My Maine Woods

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“We need the tonic of wilderness. We can never have enough of nature.”  -Henry David Thoreau

There’s just something about spending time in the woods that is healing. Studies say that it can lower your blood pressure, ease anxiety and lift depression. I’m grateful that I don’t suffer from any of these things, but I know that I have never once spent the day in the woods that I was sorry about, or felt like it was a waste of time. As a kid, I spent most of my days there, tramping around, building forts, leaping over mossy rocks, trying to catch water bugs and frogs, exploring and discovering old stone foundations and rock walls. At night, filled to the brim with fresh air and sunshine, I slept like a baby, knowing nothing until the sun peeked through my window and I jumped from my bed, eager to go back to God’s playground, a place where boredom does not exist. As an adult, my husband and I do the same things occasionally, but I appreciate the peace and sense of wonder even more. We like to go four-wheeling on trails and logging roads, zipping through cold and warm spots, cheeks pelted by an occasional June bug, cobweb or low hanging limb, feeling the thrill of speed and freedom, but more than that, we like to stop and explore, breathe in the silence and exhale the stress. This is what the Maine woods can do for a soul.

Each season in the Maine woods has its own smell, and if you spend enough time there, you know that even some months of the year have a certain aroma. My favorite, is June. It is so raw and so fresh and so distinctive to me that I could identify it with my eyes closed. For a child, it is the promise of days and days of freedom, for an adult it is the a reminder that all things can be made new again, and that growth is possible even after a long, cold winter. It is with the first inhalation of fresh balsam, pine, and cedar mixed with the sweetness of rotting leaves and the soil containing the footsteps of thousands of animals, that I feel the cares of the world falling off like an old coat.

I inhale and relax, tipping my head back with release, my eyes closed at first, then opening to reveal the canopy of leaves over me, screening the sun. Natures filter, the light in the woods is a photographers dream, no glare or hard lines. just a dreamy radiance. Green everywhere: different shades complimenting, not competing with each other with pops of color from purple and white violets, white and red trillium, buttercups, lily of the valley, clearings with lupine, and later in the season, daisies, black-eyed Susans, and queen Anne’s lace. Chipmunks dart away, birds swoop, deer freeze when spotted, moose lumber. Frogs are as still as statues, even when I toss grass on their backs or poke at them with a stick. Fish jump, creating ripples in the glass, jackrabbits play chicken with us, monarchs flit and the blackflys, surround my head. Deerflys, viscous and focused as heat seeking missals, are relentless, until, zipping away on four-wheelers, we finally leave them behind.

But, then we stop, and listen. Really listen. It takes a few moments to tune in. Maybe more for some people and quite possibly there are a few poor souls who never hear the sounds of the woods. There is nothing at first, just my own breathing. And then I hear it,  the symphony of the forest. God’s concert, the anthesis to the cacophony of the world. Tranquility, serenity, a hush falls over my mind and my spirit is lulled into peace. Birds, of course, but then I realize that they all have a different voice, some sweet, some aggressive, some plaintive. Frogs croak, dragonflys hum and the sounds of water, trickles through rocks. Of one accord; different, but complimentary, all together the feeling of harmony. No app can do it justice, no white noise as soothing and restful as the call of the wild.

The woods hold many treasures, hidden to all but the most adventurous, the ones who step away from the path, and venture away from man-made trails. In we go, no purpose other than curiosity, no agenda or expectations. Following the sound of water or the draw of the unknown, stumbling over fallen limbs and zig zagging around rocks. Until suddenly, my husband, ahead of me now, spots a hidden waterfall. It is beautiful, a hidden gem, and I wonder how many other eyes have seen it. Did someone venture this way last year, or maybe it has been a hundred years, or possibly it has never been seen by human eyes? The enormity of my untethered thoughts mix with the aesthetics of the backdrop and I am almost brought to tears with thankfulness. Thankful for the beauty, the feeling of innocent joy, contentment and stillness. A peace made all the sweeter because as an adult, I have felt the weight of the world and now I am unburdened. Tonight, I will sleep like a baby.

“Come to the woods, for here is rest,” -John Muir