thyme & money.

My neighbors from Pennsylvania, Lee and Michaella, retired to Maine a few years back. They stayed in a cute little cottage until they decided to build their dream home. The place they always wanted, complete with fishpond and gazebo, waterfront view and room to sleep plenty of overnight guests.

These are the same neighbors responsible for convincing my mom to move. They revealed their detailed conspiracy over pancakes a few visits back. How they mischievously plotted and planned and quite easily swayed my mother’s approval on her relocation. They had invited her up for a respite. A few days to relax and get some fresh air. Then they pounced. They introduced her around and found her a house to rent and by the end of her visit they had converted her to an “Away.” (That’s what the islanders call people who have moved to the island. There is a weird hierarchy in the area. Islanders. Aways. And at the low end of the totem pole…Summer-People).

Now they plan dinner-parties together and shopping outings and garden and go to the theater. They are best friends. And it’s adorable. This couple is their seventies. They have lived amazing lives together. And now they share what they have with those around them and they enjoy their waterfront view and fresh brewed lattes and organic vegetables.

And yesterday I found myself pulling weeds in the early morning mist and fog that hangs over the harbor. Michaella hired me to do a little gardening for her. I had plans to work on a lobster boat, but as we all well know, plans change. (details in future post) So I spent the morning kneeling in the gravel path pulling clover and lupine seedlings that popped up undesirably. And churning mulch and arranging the beds in the medicine wheel garden. I like gardening. I like it for the same reasons I like vacuuming and mowing the lawn. It gives you a sense of accomplishment. You can stand back and see the work you have done. Instant gratification. Except you have to put some elbow grease into it, first.

The patio is flat and smooth. Pieces of flagstone fitted together like a puzzle. The cracks and crevices between them filled with gravel and walking thyme. It's the most amazing smell. Like home and lemons. And cozy places like the good spot on the couch. It's just plain thyme. The kind you can buy in the grocery store. The kind you probably have in your spice rack. But it's fresh and earthy and when your feet graze its leaves when you step, the aroma wafts up into the air and mixes with the salt and sea and lilacs and lilly of the valley and it's amazing.

I am helping Michaella with her garden because she is part of this co-op of friends my mom has that trade services and funds in exchange for other services and funds. Sometimes it's money, sometimes it's a meal. It's friends caring for one another. A community in it's greatest and best capacity. A family.
I am helping her because she needs someone with energy and a strong back.
I am pruning her thyme because she doesn't know how much time she has left.

Her cancer is back.

And as she tells my mom the news I can see them across the yard seated in the wicker loveseat. And I can feel that quiet moment where nothing is said and everything is said. There is fear and sadness and lonliness and anger.
And there are two friends hugging. Because that's a good thing to do when you don't know what else to do. It somehow makes things easier. Sincs up your breathing. Calms the nerves.
Hugs are magic.

I am reminded of why I am here. Why I couldn't sit behind my desk one more day. Mortality has pressed against me so closely this past year and I see in my grandmother's death and my sister's life these huge reminders of how short life is and how we don't have time for fear and shame. I am writing this in hopes that I will be inspired to get my 300 pages out of my head and on to paper and that someone, somewhere will enjoy even a few of them. And to challenge myself to live a life that I am proud of. No regrets. And to be open and love wildly. To live the life I dreamed and have faith and trust in my Lord. And to "know that I was never NOT going to be here"... in this moment.

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.