N.B. I am posting this on a cold, wet day, but I wrote it a couple of days ago. I am also plagued by the Add Media problem — ongoing. Finally, as you can see, my home page does not pick up the paragraphs from my draft.
I am enjoying a lovely spring day — sunny, no wind, warm enough for shorts, but not too hot to sit outside. Maine is so gorgeous this time of year. A day like this always brings up memories of other happy spring days, when I was younger and still relatively carefree. I love that I can remember those times — all I used to remember was misery. My dad once said that I was projecting my current unhappiness on my memories. I think I told him he was nuts, but I see now that I was doing exactly that. I experienced sadness in my early adult life, but I also lived happy days. (I tried to insert a read-more tag here, but nothing doing. Sorry.) I remember driving down to Fort Popham on a day like this. I don’t even remember what car I was driving, but I rolled all the windows down and turned up the radio. I liked to sing along with the radio, (I am referring, of course, to a time when one actually heard songs with lyrics worth hearing, and which were a lot of fun to sing.) On a weekend afternoon, I almost always went to the coast. I usually went to Fort Popham, as Popham State Park was usually full, often with lines of cars wanting to get in. The beach at the fort was a little harder to get to than that at the park, but it was also far less popular. I would sit on that beach for hours — sometimes friends joined me, or I found them, and we’d build a bonfire. I usually brought my guitar, and I could play for hours, if my friends kept listening. I sang fairly well, back then.
Other days, I would drive down to our summer cabin, in Phippsburg, where I sat on the rocks and watched the New Meadows river flowing by. Sometimes I fished from the float — we used to catch a lot of flounder from that spot, but now the draggers fish out all the flounder before they can swim upriver. Mostly, though, I would sit on those rocks for hours, waving to lobstermen and water-skiers and soaking up the sunshine. That part of Phippsburg was all summer houses then; now, a developer, (who spent his childhood summers just down the road from our cabin,) owns most of the land, and he has built year-round homes all over the area. The charm of the place is mostly gone — I drove there to show my friend D. where I spent my summers as a kid. The cabin was no longer the quaint little place it I remembered. My mother’s dad built that cabin, but everything is different now, and I won’t go back again.
I just took a break and went outside, to sit in the sun and listen to the birds. The weather is even better this afternoon that it was this morning: sunny, warm, breezy. I was surrounded by the trees on our lawn, and I think every one of them held at least one robin, or cardinal, or grackle. The whole world is wide awake and singing. So am I.
I remember evenings when J., my third husband, and I barbecued and ate dinner on the kitchen steps of our house on Beacon Street. Our cats, Laslow and Cromwell, used to prowl around the back yard in search of voles and moles and mice. Once Laslow, our big orange tabby, grabbed a baby bluejay out of the pear tree. Within a minute, a huge swarm of adult bluejays sat in the tree above him, and yelled and squawked at him until he carried his prize away.
Another day, I was sitting on the same steps, and all of a sudden, Laslow ran by, chasing a groundhog. Less than 10 seconds later, he ran past me again, this time being chased by the same groundhog. I didn’t see the outcome of that contest, but later, the groundhog was alive, and so was Laslow, so I decided not to fret. J. and I planted flowers in a big patch of the backyard. Cromwell used to sit among the tulips, soaking up the sun. Years later, after J. and I split and I moved to North Carolina, I got a letter from J. with the news that Cromwell died that day. I sobbed and cried for more than an hour. After all, Cromwell lived with me for 18 years, in 12 different homes in three states. When I could finally finish reading the letter, J. explained that he had buried Cromwell in a box, in the tulip garden, with a piece of his favorite string and a can of tuna. I cried for another hour, but finally I calmed myself down, and wrote a letter thanking J. for his thoughtfulness. I don’t think Laslow is alive anymore either, but they were both great cats, and we loved them dearly.
Most of these really are happy memories, (though I diverted into some sadder stuff.)- I am glad I didn’t lose them permanently in the morass of depression. I enjoy now, remembering these feelings. This is where Abraham-Hicks’ Law of Attraction is working in my life — I don’t vibrate to feelings of misery and sadness, but rather I choose to concentrate on happiness. This is a great habit — I recommend it to everyone.