The cabin sits along the shores of Western Bay, looking out onto Mount Desert Island where 1500 ft mountains dot the horizon with dollops of deep green and strokes of grey.
A simple, single story structure, the wooden home is tucked away from the Atlantic’s cold waters. From its deck a sprawling lawn leads down to the shorefront where pine, birch and ocean rose bushes stand guard.
It’s late summer on the coast of Maine. A place and time where the light blue of sky weaves into the green blue of ocean on the horizon, and the waves’ silver tips mirror the white cones of clouds. A place where breezes are cool, and smell of salt, seaweed and changing tides. A time when otherwise seldom seen neighbors- the herons, loons and geese, fox, deer and seals–make regular and noteworthy appearances.
Today is one of those perfect summer days. The sun is high, the sky clear and the water calm. Small ripples make their way to the shore where the salty brew drapes itself with easy abandon over a carpet of pebbles, shells and granite boulders.
Rugged and humble, the cabin’s magnificence lies in its simplicity, its richness in the stories it carries and its magic seen through the eyes of those who call it home. A refuge to generations of family, it holds within its walls, walkways and its land tales of love and loss, of hardship and celebration, of tears and belly laughs; stories of life in all of its sacred messiness.
I could walk through this house and along this land my eyes closed, and do so without so much as a scratch. This place is etched into my mind, mapped into my being. It is the default button in my brain, the “rebooting” program in my system.
As far as I have traveled, as far away as I live, I always come back to this corner of the world. A place that held my family long before I was born into it, it is one root of my tangled and mixed ancestry. And every time– for however long or short I am here– this place welcomes me with open arms and with presence. And every time, it is as though it has been waiting, patiently and calmly for my visit, whispering to me as I approach: “Ah, my little one…there you are. Settle in. Settle down. Come and rest.”
And so here I am again.
It has been 145 days since the earthquake hit my home in Nepal. 145 days since everything changed– for the country, for its people, for those who call it home, and for those who are deeply connected to the small Himalayan nation. From where I sit now, on the coast of Maine, halfway across the world, the recent earthquake feels like a lifetime ago, and just yesterday, all at once.
For days, weeks and months after the earthquake, I lived like a lady-in-waiting. Waiting for my Queen, the Earth, to rumble, flutter and shift into a quiet slumber. Attentive to her every move– every aftershock, every new quake– I lived on the edge, ready to run or duck. Ready. Always ready. Half in my body, half out of it– a state which, with time, became exhausting.
Even so, I was one of the lucky ones. One of those who survived the quake unharmed, with loved ones also spared. One of the lucky ones with a home in the Kathmandu valley that is safe. The scope of the devastation, the large death toll and the suffering of those who lost so much, is at times too much for my mind to fully grasp. At other times it slams into me so hard that it knocks the wind out of my chest. I catch my breath and remember that I am one of the lucky ones. I am one of the many survivors who have been left to forge out a path of healing and recovery for myself and for my community.
This road to healing has brought me to another place that I call home. A place far away from moving fault lines. Here, on the coast of Maine, the earth is still. Thousands of years of ice, snow, rain, sun and footsteps have weathered its mountain tops into rounded mounds of hard, solid ground.
As does so much else here, this land calls me.
And so I heed its call: I walk.
Every day, I walk. Sometimes for hours at a time. Whether on back roads, wide carriage pathways, narrow mountain trails, or boulder routes that hang high over deep bays. Whether alone or in the company of a chosen few. I walk, clamber, and crawl over it. I wade into its shockingly cold ocean waters and lay on its sun kissed rock beaches. I step into the pathway of its gusting ocean winds or rest in the shelter of canopies of balsam forests.
I walk and learn to trust my feet again. I learn to watch the natural world around me– not for signs of possible danger, but for the sheer joy of observing, being present and finding communion with it.
This land moves, drums, splashes, and wakes me back into my body. Back into life.
Back to the Earth. An earth that I understand now to be solid and not-so-solid at the same time. An earth that once brought me to my knees and has now built me up again–more humble, more attentive, more awake.
It is as though, through all of this, I have been called to attention. As though the Earth has shaken me awake to take notice, to watch and learn: the way she follows her own rhythms unapologetically–not sparing a soul, nor taking one unnecessarily. The way she surrenders and yet stands her ground at the same time. The way she is ever wild, ever gracious, and ever bare and true. Ever wise. She just is. Shaking whatever needs shaking, shifting whatever needs moving, turning whatever needs turning, quieting whatever needs stilling. She whispers to me: Watch and learn. Learn to flow and to be fluid in your stance; know that it’s necessary to give out and give in when the pressure is too strong; know that falling apart and breaking are necessary in order to begin anew; know that death and birth are equal parts of the continuum of life, one unseen the other seen, both mysterious and blessed. Know that you all come here to shine your light, to serve me and all living beings that I house: to serve and uplift each other.
Today is a late summer’s day on the coast of Maine. I bask hungrily in the last warm rays of the season and indulge in its last harvest of peaches and blueberries. I linger a few seconds longer in the embraces of my family here–my parents, sister, and endless gaggle of aunts, uncles, cousins and old friends. I take it all in– all of the love and support that is as solid as the ground beneath and as pervasive as the winds and water that swirl and rock around me.
Restored and still restoring, filled and still filling, grounded and still grounding, I am ready to go back to my home in Nepal with Rumi’s words in my heart– There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the Earth.