I'm leaving Maine soon. It's time to move on; my sojourn has come to an end. I feel it. Anyway, I'm healed, rested, and ready to take on the world. Yet, I must admit and shout my rapturous love for Maine--not its people, foods, fashions, but the place itself, its wilderness and wildness--untapped, misunderstood, and interpreted in many strange ways. Regardless, every night before I go to sleep, I whisper out my attic window, "I love you, Maine."
When I first arrived, I knew I had come to a dark place; I sensed its eerie undertones, but I did not understand it completely. One night, I heard a piercing woman's scream. On another night, the blast of what seemed a canon. The night my vibrator went off, to my unawares, I thought, "are these weird Mainers mowing their lawns at 2:00 am.?"
My welcome to the place was filled with scary signs and innuendos. On the news, I heard its highest murder rate was due to domestic violence. Every night, I prayed for protection and covered my head with a blanket. In town, people talked of mummies, werewolves, vampires, but I soon learned that was the superficial interpretation of Maine's darkness, more like a Stephen King novel; when, in fact, its darkness was more penetrating, unforgiving, personal, and an unrelenting mirror of personal demons.
It was only after one year of constant fear about the place with its untidy people, who seem to be a product of wild, changing, shifting, seasons and abounding wilderness, with their uncombed hair, mismatched fashions and missing teeth (dental care is very expensive for some Mainers to afford) hair, that I understood what the darkness was all about. At its worst, the small city reminded me of the aftermath of an apocalpyse. I had a gut feeling that Native Americans where the last group as a whole to understand the place and harness its energies. Nowadays, its the artist and backwoodsmen who know how to tap into and tame the abyss of darkness and portals of wildness to create art and a unique and rebellious brand of living. Some others give into its destructive force, succumbing to addictions of heroin, pot, violence, and others still try to stop the wildness with religion, puritanical ideology or fear. Still, Maine is safe and violence is mostly amongst equals--homeless against homeless, runaway against runaway...
One year into my stay, I understood Maine was not only a portal to wildness but a metaphorical funeral, with vast quietness for contemplating loss and preparing for transition. Here was the cycle of death and rebirth, after the life phase was over. Here there was the silence I needed to rest from and understand all the last chapters of my life, like a comparable state of "death" when I could not be part of the constant chaos and machinations of daily life. And what did it take for me to face the darkness? Honesty, truth and courage to face my demons so present in all the stillness.
I had moved to Maine after a grueling stint as single-mother, where for the sake of my children's well-being I gave everything and was left with nothing. Those years of three teaching shifts and doing every conceivable task of house and work felt like one long day, even though it was more like ten years. My mind was cluttered, my limbs exhausted, my intellect and femininity stilted. When my son went off to college, I packed my bags and moved without knowing anything about the state I was going to. Still, I expected Maine be a land of pretty lighthouses, islands, and constant merrymaking, as I'd seen in picture books and movies. I thought my neighbors would hold block parties and invite me to dinner every so often, which never happened. I didn't know what I was in for.
I soon learned New Englanders are influenced by the Puritanical solemnness of their ancestors. Everything in Maine was reserved--the people, ideas, culture, all to the point of boredom. I soon realized, though, that I did not need any more excitement. I needed what Maine had to offer, still and complete "darkness" and silence; that is were the rich nuggets of my life were buried, but I had to dig them out. It's like my friend always said you are called to a place to collect pieces of your soul. And in Maine, I returned to my past, buried insecurities, fear of mediocrity, resentment of abusive parents.
Here, I faced it all: wrestled with writing an autobiography; tried to forgive my mother and father for their mistreatment. And it was grueling work because I had nowhere to run but into more silence and darkness, yet here I found my rebel spirit and a bit more of my voice. And all the time Maine rocked me in its dark, luscious arms, and like the old woman in the myth who lived in a house in the woods and rocked the ancient man back to his youth, it said to me, "There, there. There, there. One day you will rise like the sun." Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby,":http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO
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