Kentucky, Southern California, New Orleans, Baltimore, Pennsylvania, are all places I've lived. The friendliness of the people in Kentucky, the reliability of good weather in California, the food and sounds in New Orleans...there Is something to appreciate everywhere. All interesting adventures, but none of those places felt like home. As soon as I was settled in, I started thinking about where I should move to next. Just like how I wonder about what's for dinner while in the middle of eating lunch. Until moving to Maine.
I never would have expected to become so attached to Maine. My wanderlust goes back to childhood, and besides I don't particularly like being cold. There is a pull. A force so strong that the energy of the land is palpable. I'm enjoying the soft colors and smells of winter, and playing out in the snow. We went snow tubing today and with the sun shining, slick paths and 80s hits playing on the speakers, it was the type of day that would be hard to beat. Much like going too long without a kiss or a hug, in the winter I desperately miss lying on the Earth. The beach that has retained the morning heat, fresh dewy grass on the hilly backyard or the colorful boulders and rocks along the coast. Especially the jagged coastline rocks that look like they were forced out of the Earth. In Shamanic traditions there is a place called the Lower World where our spirit animal guides reside. Perhaps those fissures in the landscape were created to give us the means to visit with our teachers.
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