it's been a few weeks ago now, but i move in time differently now that i am a mother. that is to say: i seek a simple way of living as much as possible. that i might be aware of my life as it happens, and not looking forward or back. that i might feel balanced in my physical and spiritual spaces. that i might live fully just exactly the moment i am in. which is the scenic-route way of saying: it's been a few weeks ago now, but we roadtripped to maine for christopher's birthday, which fell on labor day this year. it's been a dream of his for such a long time now, laying his own two eyes on portland. the joke we volley is that his dream is portland (maine), while mine is portland (oregon).
our maine was pine forests and wild blueberries, brown butter lobster rolls and butterbeer and sweet cream cones. we slept in a hundred year old cabin perched on the sheepscot river and woke like birds each morn to the tune of seal sounds and perfect sweater weather. we pulled over for roadside antiques and walked on rocky coasts speckled with lighthouses. we ate bagels dusted in sea salt and rode a ferry boat from island to island, each without bridges, utterly charmed by the scene: townspeople lining the docks to collect their mail and freight. baby and i met every sunrise together -- by the sea, nursing in the hammock, and walking in the woods. we built fires at night and read books for hours before bed. francis' dimpled hands roamed sticks and moss, and when he leaned too far toward soft earth and took his first tumble, i felt that i was witnessing the spark of his boyhood. my love passed into his new year with our son in his arms, and memory of this time last year -- when francis gave us first kicks on his papa's thirtieth birthday in marrakech -- brushed up against us. our last morning in maine, we ate potato doughnuts and sipped blueberry coffee and watched the frothy waves roll in and delighted at the sight: dwindling summer, baby's dimpled bum, white as the beach he was sitting on, bare as the day he was born, his brow ever so knitted, perplexed by the possibilities of sand.