A year ago, my Ashland Times-Gazette column began: “Today’s column comes to you direct from the shore of the Atlantic Ocean.” Unfortunately, instead of emanating from a place filled with “the healing power of the rhythmic ocean waves and fresh-baked cinnamon buns,” this week’s column is direct from my Ohio living room.
We’ve headed to Maine almost every year for the past thirty in conjunction with The Salvation Army’s historic camp meetings. This year, with two new grandbabies in the family, the rising cost of lodging at the beach in Old Orchard (a weekly house rental equals three month’s mortgage payment in Ohio), and some medical concerns Larry was facing, we made the painful decision not to travel to Maine this summer. It made sense in March, and it still makes sense this week, but I am wistfully longing for the great sea. I’ve even considered hopping on Amtrak, but the specter of jury duty hanging over my head daily made even that last-minute adventure impossible.
Pardon me a moment to whine, but I’m feeling a bit like Paul described in Philippians 3, “their god is their stomach.” The fresh seafood, the “chowda,” the grease-infused pizza and fries at the Pier, the lobster who drew a last breath only minutes before being consumed (I don’t know if lobsters breathe, but you know what I mean) – and yes, even Dairy Queen tastes better at the ocean.
Beyond the food, our visits to Old Orchard have long been a time to connect with friends we only see once a year. It’s been a time to soak in the sunshine and sea breezes, and to feel the sand between my toes and to dump it out of my bathing suit.
It’s also been a place where the veil between heaven and earth is less evident, what the Celts call “a thin space,” or liminal space. Writing in the New York Times a few years ago, Eric Weiner described his experience: “I’m drawn to places that beguile and inspire, sedate and stir, places where, for a few blissful moments I loosen my death grip on life, and can breathe again.” Two Lights at Cape Elizabeth, the ocean at daybreak, a plunge into the relentless waves – those have long provided thin spaces for me.
Yet we can’t always be where we want to be or do what we want to do. Some of us are privileged to enjoy the family vacation on a cruise, at the beach, or in the nooks and crannies of a new city for the weekend. Yet for others, jobs without paid vacation, chronic illness, expensive car repairs or miniscule bank accounts keep us at home during the summer months. As adults, we make the responsible choices, doing what needs to be done, and trying not to be envious of others. When all else fails, we resort to meaningful self-talk: “Suck it up, buttercup!”
Have we fallen for the “Calgon, take me away” enticement, the promise of the slogan, “Maine, the way life should be”? Do we really need to get away to claim relief from everyday life, to find a better life through a fleeting moment in the sun?
Joan Chittister asks: “Who have lived well?” Her answer resonates. “Those who have sucked the juice of life from every period of its growing,” no matter where we are.
I realize how my dad modeled that truth to me. As a union carpenter whose work was plentiful in the summer, he couldn’t take us away on vacation to the lake. Instead, he brought the lake to us. The first pool was self-constructed from 2 by 4s and sheets of polyurethane, but by the next year, a circular pool arose in the backyard. Voila! A summer-long oasis.
Social media posts from Maine still issue their siren call, and I may wallow in self-pity and envy in the moment. But I can also drink deeply of the juice of today, a handful of cherry tomatoes kissed by the Ohio sun, the raucous call of the crow on my early morning walk, and the newly emerging smiles of the sweet Emma Belle, just for Nana. What more could I want for today?
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