tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-347135242012-02-02T01:19:50.499-05:00"Casting off everything that so easily entangles, let us run with endurance the race set out for us..." Hebrews 12:1<br><br>A continuing pilgrimageMelissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.comBlogger6271100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-91976881566153374332012-02-02T00:48:00.004-05:002012-02-02T01:19:50.509-05:00

Daily breadYou can't repeat the past, she said.What do you mean you can't?Of course you can.That's the line from "Summer Days," a song from Bob Dylan's "'Love & Theft.'" It's stolen straight from The Great Gatsby.Can't repeat the past? I don't know.But today I made honey-soy bread, with Amish honey, from a Mennonite recipe. It's delicious--dense, and dark, and wheat-y. There's lots of whole

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-1876471163652839362012-01-29T10:21:00.002-05:002012-01-29T10:25:43.809-05:00

Secret, in mangrovesI feel like winter steals my creativity, my ability to think about new things in new ways. The landscape is as blank as a piece of paper, and that's how my mind feels. Or maybe it's just a lack of focus, an ability to carry an idea to completion, or the soreness in my joints from trying to trek through snow.I also hate complaining about winter. Then again, I don't believe

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-8433711929255088522012-01-25T17:19:00.004-05:002012-01-25T17:44:49.803-05:00

More winter landscapes. Bored yet?Sometimes, in winter, I am a wolf maiden. Not on days like today, a January melt, when the temperature zoomed up to 38 degrees and all of the icicles sank off the glass room. But when Shadow and I are roaming over the snow-scape, I can squint and imagine us hunting together 100 years ago, like some cliched truck-stop postcard. I started writing a story the

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-49401687083834264802012-01-22T00:22:00.003-05:002012-01-25T17:38:43.502-05:00

StaircaseAs far as I'm concerned everything I do here has an element of apology, self-justification. Why do I tap keys and then upload my words into a public journal? Why does anyone do anything? It's one of these questions that people who write for, say the New York Times, don't ask themselves. And why not? Because they have an editor?I admit, editors are helpful. If I could afford one,

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-62636061985786088732012-01-17T00:09:00.003-05:002012-01-17T00:14:43.969-05:00

I root for the Baltimore Ravens because they're the only team named after a poet's progeny. Edgar Allan Poe's raven, who quoth nevermore, wore black tights, purple sateen, and flipped himself over in the end zone. It's unfair, I know. I shouldn't be allowed to like a team because they were created by a science-fiction writer who died of alcohol poisoning in a nineteenth-century Baltimore

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-56898153757922204032012-01-14T23:55:00.002-05:002012-01-15T00:11:44.345-05:00

Sitting here at home, in front of the television. It's January, and television consumes too much of my time. I'm watching football tonight, New Orleans versus San Francisco. I'm rooting for Drew Brees and New Orleans, since he beat my Lions last week. But K.'s first cousin once-removed plays for San Francisco's defense, and it's a great game. I love football. I love baseball, and I have a

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-33278421861761247772012-01-11T18:02:00.003-05:002012-01-11T18:51:25.642-05:00

The washout beneath iceI'm back here in the frozen north, the land of cold and restricted internet access. Which means, of course, that I feel the need to reconnect with the universe at large again. It's amazing how distracting the internet is when I'm constantly hooked into it, ending up a barrier to genuine connection. Then when I'm separated from it, I long for it. So it's Wednesday, the

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-3017406971585183182012-01-06T17:48:00.000-05:002012-01-06T17:54:12.623-05:00

January always makes me think about heat. How I grew up in Thailand, one of a long line of sun worshipers. My mom and her Greek sisters smeared olive oil on their Mediterranean skin before laying out at the Jersey shore. I loved heat growing up, clung to it—it shimmered on my skin, shivering, equatorial humidity like a wall.When I got off the plane at the Bangkok airport, heat meant home.

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-76488452057893065142011-12-22T02:45:00.001-05:002011-12-22T02:48:15.443-05:00

Apartment and cat in Chicago (note land line and answering machine)Back when I had a cohesive iTunes library, I loved listening to John Prine. Heck, I still love John Prine. (Go buy his album immediately.) He sings:The man down the street, the kid on the stoopAll agreed that life stank. All the world smelled like poop.Baby poop, that is. The worst kind.The funniest thing about baby poop is

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-84578183698654161082011-12-17T13:46:00.000-05:002011-12-17T13:47:28.430-05:00

I'm heading out the door to a cabin in Alabama to spend the weekend with some artist friends. We're going to celebrate Christmas/solstice, dance around a bonfire, do dream work. Or that's my plan, and in getting ready, I dug into a box I had taped up since 2004, since before I began hiking the Appalachian Trail.Opening it up was like finding a time machine, instantaneous transportation into my

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-19578526239903238722011-12-14T02:08:00.002-05:002011-12-14T02:16:31.459-05:00

When I was a little girl, just learning to read, I knew immediately I'd found my calling. After I read my first book. I learned to read at three, and in my faulty memory, that's when I knew I wanted to write books. Knew it with a vast, unshakeable certainty, the way I knew that Jesus loved me. Or that the sun was warm.Not just any books, either. I wanted to tell stories. Whoever it was who

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-2561665936107024892011-12-06T23:55:00.001-05:002011-12-07T00:28:13.848-05:00

When I'm away from civilization, I long for Wikipedia and Flickr and YouTube, all of the digital distractions that masquerade as genuine tools for accomplishing things. But I forget about online shopping and celebrity gossip and angry birds and all the other endless rabbit holes that I can fall down. I forget how much time I lose here. Nonetheless, I'm happy to be reconnected, if only for a

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-87886395862527535172011-12-01T15:49:00.005-05:002011-12-02T00:58:54.355-05:00

So that's one reason for my continued silence. The other is endless computer challenges, to use a polite euphemism. I'm writing now in the Boston airport, whence my plane departs in twenty minutes. What is it about travel that always makes me want to expound with annoying verbosity to the universe? Maybe it's because travel is still the thing that makes me feel the most existentially alive.

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-51750434129889552812011-11-15T17:52:00.002-05:002011-11-15T17:56:24.908-05:00

A fragment of a blog post that I managed to salvage from my crash... What did I mean? I have no idea. Obviously, I was thinking a lot about issues of financial ethics, even before my computer crisis.It's been a month now, so I'm beginning to to let my grief go, and it is seeping away, slowly. I keep trying to explain to myself and to others what it was I lost. My obsession with data perhaps

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-17326617378812378042011-11-09T18:43:00.001-05:002011-11-09T18:43:46.692-05:00

My guilt, the bad karma that I believe brought this on myself, was not paying artists for their work. But do I really believe that? No.I keep thinking about electronic copies of media—books that friends download on their iPads, how CDs are just promotional items, ripped and passed on, that help musicians sell concert tickets. How do artists make money in an age when no one spends money on art?

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-45568027421241262882011-11-06T08:43:00.003-05:002011-11-06T10:11:03.802-05:00

--horse ranchers from British Columbia, on CBC's 75th anniversary special.I'm sitting on the couch, watching Canadian television, received on an antenna over the air from Nova Scotia. When J., who has a smart-phone, comes over from Caribou, it blows the signal out. Canadian television is one of the best things about living in northern Maine. Tonight they're airing "1 Day, 24 Hours, 34 Million

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-16622466052326384762011-10-31T20:33:00.002-04:002011-10-31T20:37:28.764-04:00

Self-portrait in despair and hunter orange"There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own." --Herman Melville, Moby DickRebuilding directory… Speed reduced by disk malfunction:

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-89328344218408842982011-10-27T19:27:00.000-04:002011-10-27T19:55:08.867-04:00

I do realize I’m obsessing about my computer and needing to let it go. I need to let it go, somehow. I’m running software still, trying to get everything back, but the hunt is stealing my time and energy and money. Is it worth it?I don’t know. Should I just return to the paper and pencil, write new stories, take new photographs, listen to different music? Like the hip-hop album I’m listening

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-20834573664657036982011-10-27T18:22:00.002-04:002011-10-27T18:29:27.588-04:00

"Directory of disk eGo cannot be rebuilt. Disk is still in use. Quit all other applications or restart from Disk Warrior disk and then try again. Error codes: 2153, 4903."

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-75079752646906602312011-10-23T00:13:00.002-04:002011-10-23T00:48:47.385-04:00

Autumn sunset, off the camera's memory cardThinking about the future of the publishing industry today, with my guilty post of last week about my pirated music. I’d like to draw a line between myself and those who download music wholesale off the internet, but am I any better? Almost all of my music comes from actual CDs, uploaded to my database. So the artist was paid for the music. How is it

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-15396952308710355542011-10-17T11:24:00.003-04:002011-10-17T11:28:29.905-04:00

Dropping a line to say that my computer died--hence my long absence. Then my new computer--a brand new one, with all the bells and whistles, a huge splurge and the most money I've spent on anything since Secret--ate the data off my external hard drive, including all of my music, photographs, and writing files.I'd appreciate as many prayers as you can spare.

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-81992657621117745252011-09-29T22:59:00.003-04:002011-09-29T23:08:46.187-04:00

I woke up this morning at my friend the artist’s house, in her red guest bedroom, after a night spend discussing the problems of the universe. Which for me are reducing themselves down to three: waste, farming, and art. The only way we solve the central challenges of civilization is by figuring out what we do with our waste, how we grow our food, and what it’s all worth. It come back to those

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-32678293266778570222011-09-27T00:48:00.002-04:002011-09-27T01:20:24.908-04:00

One of my favorite old CDs, now existing solely on my computer, is one from Marcel, a fellow sailor I met anchored at the base of the Statue of Liberty. He was a crazy French-Canadian fireman, so crazy that he melted his entire keel, more than 5000 pounds worth, in his backyard from bicycle tire leads. He burned me a CD with MP3s his nephew had bit-torrented for him and his wife before they set

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-23843185809443337122011-09-23T22:37:00.002-04:002011-09-23T22:53:19.990-04:00

FungiIt’s fall here in the north woods, which means that the leaves are turning orange and falling. This season is when the leaf peepers and the partridge come out. I’m in a good mood, mainly because it got back up to 73 degrees again today. Maybe for the last time. But all the Mainers have been saying that for the last two months. I learn quick.I’m not impersonating a peeper, but it is nice

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-72881574256061204882011-09-21T01:29:00.002-04:002011-09-21T01:41:43.981-04:00

Autumn beginsAnother in my ongoing series of little book posts. I don’t know why I keep going back to the little books I kept on the boat for source material. Or I do. The time I lived aboard was a dream come true, a dream that some days I wish I hadn’t woken up from. And then I find a note like this one:more spaceEach word underlined individually, as if a prayer. There are things that I

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-86336236328430018052011-09-19T01:50:00.000-04:002011-09-19T01:51:29.990-04:00

Another boat on my list of dream boats is a 42’ Wharram catamaran. On Secret we had about five old Cruising Worlds, donated by the previous owner, and one had a full-page spread of a Wharram cat, under full crab-rig Chinese sails, coming into harbor. It was like a centerfold. I pored over the article again and again.It’s hard for me when sailing friends say I’ve swallowed the anchor, when I

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-77547065862726149142011-09-16T01:08:00.003-04:002011-09-16T01:21:07.654-04:00

Flowers on the banks of the Saint John's RiverWaking up at two o’clock yesterday afternoon made me realize that my schedule has shifted too far deep into the night-time, and also that no one in the world of the internet cares about my translation of Sanskrit, my thoughts on yoga and enlightenment. I’m mourning the disappearance of my friends, and grieving the loss of another school semester. It

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-90789532792965284772011-09-12T23:53:00.001-04:002011-09-13T01:10:28.518-04:00

The sky is blue in the waterI walked over two beaver dams today to get to the other side of the pond, and I’m writing right now while sitting on moss, surrounded by lily pads and felled cedar. I have about fifteen minutes before the real sun dips below the pines, and already it’s 58 degrees. My intention, all summer, has been to put on boots and trek over here, but when it’s warm enough to

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-27470446970598018372011-09-08T23:07:00.001-04:002011-09-09T00:15:01.210-04:00

Backpack full of applesShadow waited patiently today as I pulled apples off the trees in the back of the land. Most of the fruit were barely golf-ball sized, off of trees that haven’t been maintained for years, but their higher branches held shocking quantities. It feels like such a fall occupation, as I know it is. I feel like Robert Frost. The seasons move so quickly here in Maine that it’s

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-63696174848725801892011-09-04T23:02:00.001-04:002011-09-05T01:35:36.251-04:00

Echinacea and tire Gifting is an odd phenomenon. I try to keep a list of gift ideas, things that occur to me over the year, so that when a birthday or Christmas pops up, I have the perfect thing to buy someone in my life. Sometimes I’ll wake in the middle of the night (as I did the other day for my sister) with the perfect idea for Christmas, and by the morning it’ll dissolve into the ether

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-768703898848490162011-09-02T23:56:00.003-04:002011-09-03T00:14:01.585-04:00

I drove back this week and it's an odd feeling. As regular readers know, I have a difficult time with the word home, but driving back this week. Every state that passed I breathed easier. When I saw that sign above the road that reads "Maine: The Way Life Should Be," I thought yes. This is the way life should be. Today I drove to the big city and took pictures of graffiti under the bridge,

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-5842964521820916072011-08-28T23:14:00.000-04:002011-08-28T23:15:21.236-04:00

Hunkering down today because of the alleged hurricane caused me to think about electricity. The storm itself died before it reached New England, as I suspected all long during the last week of mass panic, but after the wind arrived it was still strong enough to knock down countless trees and the power for the entire day. In some ways, it was the best day of my mini-vacation: I played pool,

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-80805659459690868962011-08-23T22:52:00.000-04:002011-08-28T23:14:01.356-04:00

Meadow Island I’m away in Massachusetts, which allows all of my habits to drift away—good in some ways, bad in the others. Whenever I’m spending time with family I have this tendency to allow guilt to settle down around my shoulders, to believe that I should be doing more for them, with them. It’s mainly guilt that I live so far away from the people I love. There’s also an element of feeling

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-33097552912762255002011-08-19T22:52:00.004-04:002011-08-19T23:45:57.614-04:00

When life gives you blight, make green-tomato salsa I’ve been procrastinating this post, for obvious reason—we killed Schafe on Monday, and I’m having a difficult time with the decision. Even though I’m convinced that it was absolutely the right thing to do. Monday morning K. found maggots in the cat’s hip wound, flies actually flying from his body. He showed me, and I’m glad I looked, even

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-87096760152369476092011-08-15T01:57:00.002-04:002011-08-15T12:00:21.326-04:00

Blight on the tomatoes Another two-in-the-morning post. 1:29 am, to be exact. Schafe is under my feet, on the heater. He got a bath today, and some dewormer—maybe he’ll make it through another winter. In other news, we found blight on our tomatoes yesterday, and tore up three of every four plants. It was heartbreaking. Cliché, perhaps, but I don’t know how else to describe it. I felt

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-91690945459683455222011-08-12T23:31:00.001-04:002011-08-13T01:50:09.652-04:00

My parents in the 70s. Part of an ongoing series of familial photographs. My cat may be dying. He’s not exactly my cat, but a cat that I’ve lived with, off and on, here in Maine, for almost eight years, so he feels like mine. I’m one of several humans whose lips he deigns to claw while I sleep. Not anymore, though. Now he curls up in various corners, beneath end tables, on door steps, in

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-11362720380650126602011-08-10T23:13:00.000-04:002011-08-11T01:15:13.182-04:00

It was rainy and dreary this morning, the result of a persistent low-pressure system that’s been located over Maine for the entire summer. It was fifteen degrees colder than usual today, and more rain is expected all week. According to our meteorologist, it’s because of the consistent high pressure located over Oklahoma and the central US, which has been forcing all of the precipitation north.

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-17022148927484805172011-08-05T01:13:00.000-04:002011-08-05T01:15:26.368-04:00

It’s 1:04 in the morning and a Quebecois movie is on Canadian television about a six-year-old Catholic boy given the ability to heal people. I’m listening to Chopin as I read French subtitles. My garden was hit by hail this week, the day after I posted all of those pictures, which was depressing to the point that I haven’t been out there lately. My chard has immense amounts of tiny little

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-50118295005612211602011-07-31T23:33:00.001-04:002011-08-01T01:44:42.277-04:00

CabbageFriends from Caribou are camping in the backyard this evening. We woke and fed them boiled eggs and maple jelly. My day felt strangely empty, today, but also joyful. I typed “the end” yesterday, and today’s my Sabbath.I wandered around the yard, tying up tomatoes, transplanting things, watering the cilantro seedlings that have finally sprouted, weeding the row of peppers—garden tasks I’

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-67281928377625590342011-07-29T12:50:00.002-04:002011-07-30T10:26:16.645-04:00

First peppersAnother character wrapped up today. Sorry to keep talking about it. I’m just rather overwhelmed with success. I know it’s boring to everyone except me, but I can’t believe that I could actually be finished with a halfway-decent manuscript tomorrow. I’ve been spending three hours at it a day this week rather than two, and it’s amazing how much more exhausted I am after three hours

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-50787752934837623252011-07-27T18:55:00.001-04:002011-07-27T18:55:57.010-04:00

When I lived in Chicago, one of the alternate careers I dreamed of was being a divemaster in Roatan or Manzanillo. I wanted to live in the tropics, to spend as much time as my hemoglobin would bear 100 feet below the water. I don’t know if I believe in there being the ancient four Greek elements, but something in my body seems to connect to the water. Maybe it just feels like home.Now, the

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-70722566711292448602011-07-22T14:32:00.001-04:002011-07-22T15:01:02.489-04:00

Hollyhock about to bloom, at my new friend the artist's houseThe cat woke me this morning, kneading his claws against my lips, as he likes to do in the morning when he wants to be stroked. That, and the sun striping my calves, and I woke up early to coffee and an egg sandwich, and then straight to my desk. The list of things I write each morning is getting longer—a stream-of-consciousness

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-14086956295466556872011-07-18T23:02:00.000-04:002011-07-19T02:03:27.218-04:00

Sitting on my boat, in the companionway, I used to cry my eyes out listening to Me and Bobby McGee. I don’t know what it is about that song. I fell in love with it in France, where I used to play it on my cassette player, hooked up to French speakers that cost 20 francs at the dollar store. I’d sit in my little apartment in the old village, freezing my ass off, watching the champignons bloom

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-49603914000012667092011-07-16T23:08:00.002-04:002011-07-17T12:34:07.830-04:00

Beets today in the garden. You can see rocky the soil is here, and also how I'm not such a good weeder.It was 81 degrees out today—yay. I have such a hard time on these sunny days. I feel like I should be spending every waking hour outside, in as much sun as I can find, soaking up all of it, but that means not being inside my office, where the work that’s most important to me takes place. I

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-87705762007742112622011-07-13T22:59:00.002-04:002011-07-13T23:05:39.554-04:00

The door onto my grandparents' gardenFor a long time now, I’ve had a theory about Bob Dylan’s album Blood on the Tracks. As everyone knows, Dylan composed this album in the middle of his break-up with Sara, the love of his life, mother of his four children. It is, without doubt, the greatest break-up album of all time. My theory is that for each break-up, all of them, throughout all human

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-18409994170620535502011-07-10T23:50:00.000-04:002011-07-11T00:52:40.219-04:00

I’m sitting on a blanket in the grass right now, sitting in the sun, but edging the shade. Today is free music in the park in Presque Isle, and it’s the first time I’ve been. Listening to some Brooklyn band pour out their hearts into their harmonicas while old people and young people and people with down’s syndrome sway in the shade give sme hope for the future of humanity. It’s summer, and

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-62156758397079881472011-07-07T23:28:00.002-04:002011-07-08T00:22:14.276-04:00

Grandpa Jenks, the gardener, electrical cord clearly visibleIt’d be nice, when attempting to live a back-to-the-land lifestyle, to have a trio of men to perform each of these essential tasks: electronics, mechanics, and plumbing. Someone proficient in electronics could help with circuitry, soldering, and wiring; a mechanic could fix cars, small engines, lawnmowers; a plumber could help with

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-38856818367143395582011-07-03T23:50:00.001-04:002011-07-04T12:20:39.621-04:00

Speckled romaineThe first radishToday, at long last, the first salad from my own lettuce and radish. I feel a bit like a braggart, like one of those people who say: hey, look what I can do! But I think the astonishing thing was that I never really believed it was possible, that food could come from seeds in little packages, even though everyone keeps saying that it is. I was operating on

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-11922868041237990452011-07-01T23:41:00.001-04:002011-07-02T01:24:59.307-04:00

My beautiful lettuce, grown from seed.Planting a row of collard greens today, I thought about water. Mainly because the beans I planted last week aren’t getting enough, and now they may be rotting in the ground. I’m partly thinking that it’s foolish to be planting anything this late, but my garden book assures me that collards taste better after a frost, and that there’s no point in planting

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-64726618294286519872011-06-29T19:46:00.000-04:002011-06-29T19:47:08.414-04:00

I’m at the library in Mars Hill today, freezing my butt off because they have the air-conditioning on. It’s 69 degrees outside, people! That’s cooler than my grandma keeps her heat in winter! But I’m not complaining because they have high-speed internet, so for seven more brief minutes I have access to the world of art and civilization and celebrity gossip.Today it’s a bit of good news, bad

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-69673375066418049132011-06-26T21:01:00.002-04:002011-06-26T21:28:31.042-04:00

Another unidentified flowerI distinctly remember the day I learned the meaning of the phrase “I like the cut of your jib.” Secret was anchored in Georgetown harbor, and we were hanging out with crew from two other boats—a duo of crazy western Australians and another couple, the female half of which was Native American and the male half of which was a treasure hunter. He bought a video camera to

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-61701664690083021842011-06-23T23:50:00.000-04:002011-06-24T00:54:56.546-04:00

These are the golden, dreamy days of summer, when light stretches until ten o'clock at night, when even the black flies are dazed for what passes as heat, when the loons call over the lake and the moon rises low and yellow. These are the days that make me realize why people live in Maine. Maybe. I just spent three days at a Little Madawaska Lake with friends, fishing, kayaking, reading, and

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-8247825418325976902011-06-20T12:33:00.002-04:002011-06-20T13:02:56.020-04:00

Sunset over potato fieldsAnother job on my list of ideas from the Bahamas was Emerald Bay, a resort in Exuma. I had several resorts on my job list, mainly in the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico, places where a bilingual American may have been able to slip her foot in the door. It’s funny to imagine now the alternate life I could be living—as a receptionist at a posh hotel, bumming around

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-48099922158237890252011-06-17T01:43:00.001-04:002011-06-17T01:46:56.064-04:00

I drove thirty miles to the big city today for an electric bug repellent device that I have no guarantee will work. I’m not sure about its environmental impact, either, but these things are driving me crazy. The joke in Maine is that there are four seasons: winter, winter, winter, and black fly season, and we’re hardcore into black fly season as of June. I’m not complaining, but I am

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-3008341371909490162011-06-14T23:05:00.000-04:002011-06-15T01:07:15.080-04:00

This weekend I threw a big party, my first up here. I made fried chicken, coleslaw, and potato salad, all my grandma’s recipes, plus a Greek pasta salad, from the other side. In my ideal life, I imagine myself with a close circle of intelligent, creative, erudite friends, whom I greet on the lawn with a tray full of cocktails and witty repartee. I’m not saying I’m there yet, but Saturday night

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-67361793336862606922011-06-11T01:07:00.001-04:002011-06-11T01:42:20.847-04:00

The lion farmWilliam was a guy we met in Exuma, a painter who hung out at the bar at Peace and Plenty, the hotel where we docked our dinghy, stole fresh water, and bought internet. We hoped that we could get some work from him. I have it in my little notebook, although it seems like it must have been a pretty dim possibility. We must have been hard up for prospects to put him on the list.On

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-56697919222597825812011-06-08T23:55:00.003-04:002011-06-09T00:18:11.323-04:00

Sky over the field before the stormWorking on the garden today, I decided that the next logical step is buying seedlings. I’ve been frustrated by its lack of progress, and it’s mainly because I missed the entire month of May, a month that would have been spent sprouting things. I didn’t anticipate my grandparents dying, a extended trip to Michigan. I’m now a month behind.So we drove to a local

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-71547808626749470602011-06-06T23:59:00.003-04:002011-06-07T11:11:13.208-04:00

Beaver pond (view from my office)I’m sitting at my desk, writing by hand in a notebook, as I did on my boat. It feels a bit like a boat here, a single-wide trailer on the edge of the wilderness, looking out on a beaver pond. Two moose sightings last week, plus two in one day when we went fishing with a friend from Caribou. My brother-in-law asked if I was watching ABC tonight.I said, “No, I

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-7552545407893847672011-06-02T23:33:00.002-04:002011-06-03T00:07:19.457-04:00

Closeup of stitchesOne of the things I’ve been immersing myself in since returning to Maine is afghan double crochet, a project started by my mother when I was still in utero. It’s such an old-fashioned stitch that I couldn’t even identify it when I started working. I had a friend familiar with crochet do research in her books until finally she found something that looked similar and taught it

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-5129186132921134062011-05-29T10:17:00.002-04:002011-05-29T10:24:08.131-04:00

Bicycle and cobwebs, in my grandfather's basementSometimes I find myself consumed with ongoing doubt, chewing on a concept like a dog gnawing on a bone. Like Jacob wrestling with the angel. Why marriage? Why is it so important, in almost every culture, especially to organized religion, and especially now to those in the church? The anthropologist in me wants to say that it’s because society

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-85725884327717683592011-05-25T23:36:00.003-04:002011-05-28T15:55:42.879-04:00

Bride and groomSpending time at weddings always leads to reading Song of Solomon, the Bible’s only out-and-out paean to sexual desire. “Many rivers cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned,” says Solomon (8:7). It’s a shocking book, right there in the middle of the Old Testament, on the order of Plato’

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-17398370333668795122011-05-21T00:36:00.000-04:002011-05-22T00:51:35.316-04:00

I’ve been feeling some qualms about writing such a political post last weekend, but I feel another one coming on. Everyone else wears their politics on their sleeve, why can't I? I’m at my aunt’s house because it’s wedding season—my baby cousin is getting married after graduating from the Coast Guard Academy this week. Obama was there to personally give him his commission—on a Coast Guard

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-6063593300842635862011-05-15T23:53:00.002-04:002011-05-16T02:25:22.028-04:00

Buds in Maine. I can't wait to get back and see if they bloomed!I’ve written about global warming before, even going so far as to say that it’ll be viewed historically as a conscious choice of the rich white man to make his weather better and himself richer at the expense of the poor multitudes at the lower latitudes. Nonetheless, I feel a thesis coming on, after listening to a piece on NPR

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-37464889754236082482011-05-12T15:36:00.003-04:002011-05-13T16:10:21.075-04:00

Art by Cora. A self-portrait, maybe?My thoughts lately have been consumed by old photographs and the existences they account for. Spending so much time in Michigan with my grandparents’ photographs has made me contemplate the importance of the historical record. Someone could discover my old journals 100 years from now, and they could be important to them, or more than important. A record of

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-72827462670031523512011-05-08T23:48:00.004-04:002011-05-09T12:17:40.185-04:00

Me as an eight-year-old. Yes, this was my constant position.In an earlier post from back in the day, I talked about the importance of little notebooks, how the record of immediate thoughts allows a writer to flash back in time. Journals are almost time machines, bearing us back into the past, like something from Fitzgerald. I always wanted to be the kind of person who journalled, and now I

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-78608958341742275612011-05-06T23:55:00.001-04:002011-05-07T01:45:52.952-04:00

Peter, my brother, in Grandpa's gardenWhen I lived on my boat, I woke up every morning at six AM to listen to the weather on the shortwave. I developed a notation system so I could record every variable reported. How many knots the wind would blow, the swell, the projected systems beyond the ten-day forecast. The weather was a daily, ever-present part of my life.I remember the first tropical

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-11729968927646130062011-05-04T11:06:00.000-04:002011-05-05T00:40:20.312-04:00

Cora and Floyd Jenks, married November 10, 1915One of the amazing things about the last couple of days has been the giant box of photographs uncovered at my grandmother’s house. I guess a couple of my cousins, maybe my aunt, knew it was there, but I don’t think any of us knew how many of them there were. We’ve discovered letters and photographs from the 1800s, full scrapbooks with handwritten

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-88973041595086318662011-05-02T00:16:00.005-04:002011-05-02T00:43:10.348-04:00

Grandma Jenks with two new grandchildren (me on the right, cousin Aaron--twice as big--on the left)Grandma Jenks died yesterday evening, the day of her husband’s funeral. Emmaline and Gordon Jenks were married 66 years and died within three days of each other. Death is never pretty, but it doesn't get much more perfect, or romantic, than that. It’s fun to do the math—how long would I have to

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-26307885328806170322011-04-29T23:38:00.000-04:002011-04-30T01:39:10.410-04:00

Today I flew into Grand Rapids. To get here, from Aroostook County, I started at six o’clock this morning, and caught three successive buses—the first to Bangor, thence Portland, thence Boston. Then a plane to Chicago, and finally, at 10:25 pm, Grand Rapids. I drove straight to the nursing home with my brother to see my grandmother.She is actively dying. She and my grandfather were married

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-18852063335388408842011-04-27T23:36:00.003-04:002011-04-28T00:06:56.318-04:00

Picking rhubarb, last summer, at the old homesteadMy grandfather died this morning, so on Friday I’m headed back to Grand Rapids to be with my family. Just when the snow is off the ground and the mosquitoes beginning to buzz above the pond. Just when the horse manure is shoveled in the garden. Just when I’m beginning to feel like I’ve come home.But it’s all right. My grandfather was 92, and I

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-68386281675277925862011-04-24T23:25:00.002-04:002011-04-24T23:28:48.154-04:00

It finally felt like spring today. I made quiche and listened to the entire Handel's Messiah and watched the resident blue heron wander around snapping up little frogs from the edge of the beaver pond. The garden is tilled, ready for my leeks and lettuce. Today I feel like it's truly Easter, in the old sense of the world--the dead god had arisen from his winter slumber. He is risen indeed.

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-83118586386000997962011-04-23T20:58:00.005-04:002011-04-23T21:35:23.039-04:00

Bean sproutsOn the boat, I had some of the same struggles that I’m having here in Aroostook County. There are some odd similarities between eking out an existence in the frozen north and on a deserted beach. The temperature is different, but in many ways, the landscape is the same. I even had a dream about it when I first arrived, imagining a windswept beach, with sand the color of snow.One

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-71376411210701330392011-04-21T00:15:00.003-04:002011-04-22T12:01:26.771-04:00

Full moon behind cloudsWhen I was in college, I was one of those girls that liked “every kind of music but country,” but now it’s pretty much my favorite music. Townes Van Zandt, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Steve Earle, Gillian Welch, Lucinda Williams—they’ve all got to be top ten. That’s six out of the top ten slots, if I were to geek out all High Fidelity-style.Not to mention Hank Williams, he

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-54680875317575602732011-04-17T22:00:00.000-04:002011-04-18T16:30:28.587-04:00

Mind mapping. Maybe too much information if you zoom in.A piece below I'm submitting to The Sun, on the topic of Authority. More mind-mapping this weekend... I hope it's all taking me somewhere important... And on the plus side, although my toes are numb right now, it is beginning to feel like spring here.The first garden plot is finally half-free of snow, and Crockett says we can put peas

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-24624627149225413802011-04-16T12:24:00.000-04:002011-04-16T12:39:33.392-04:00

It may not be spring, but the lichen is growing

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-57575404233144462662011-04-15T23:54:00.002-04:002011-04-16T00:09:29.772-04:00

Reading the Sojourners blog the other day, I came across this interview with Rob Bell. In it comes the quote: “I’ve never felt more loved than when I realized I was doing exactly what I was created to do.”Today I drew a mind-map for one of my characters. I taped a 18”x12” sheet of drawing paper to the cantina, and took two colors of pens, and drew a picture of what I knew. I’m not sure that I

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-39571084988036987062011-04-13T23:08:00.006-04:002011-04-13T23:57:14.548-04:00

Little house at the edge of the woodsI wanted to post these Lessons from 10 Days of Self-Help. When I was in Chicago with my sister, we gave each other a yoga retreat, right in the apartment, while the girls were napping. We’d talk about life, where we were, and we came to the conclusions below.I finally feel like I’m anchored here, like I can remember what happiness feels like. I don’t think

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-3261331479582986372011-04-11T01:01:00.001-04:002011-04-11T01:24:31.743-04:00

Aroostook County cloudsToday I’m listening to Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon”, one of the albums my sister gave me in Chicago. I have a consistent weakness for 1970s singer-songwriters. In his song “From Hank to Hendrix,” he says: “the same thing that makes you live can kill you in the end.” What are those things that make you live but kill you in the end? Maine could be one of those things. It’s

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-61272536554156339412011-04-06T00:04:00.001-04:002011-04-07T00:28:01.449-04:00

Global warming? Not here.My life here in northern Maine means a number of things, one of which is that I have time to catch up on all the New Yorkers I’ve avoided reading over the last two years. I’m reading the issue of January 4, 2010, right now, which has an article in it about Vincent Van Gogh. You know, he of the Don McLean song. “This world was never made for one as beautiful as you.”

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-4322568456251321882011-04-01T23:48:00.000-04:002011-04-02T16:51:30.320-04:00

April Fools!On Wednesday I wrote about faith being a full system of being, a thought that I have continued to mull over these last few snow-haunted days. I’ve written before about the challenge of mutually incompatible systems of belief. Maybe it comes from having parents that are missionaries, parents that are evangelists in the true sense of that word. They make it their life's work to change

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-71437481044155763932011-03-30T01:11:00.000-04:002011-03-31T01:38:01.853-04:00

My hostsWhen every Sunday rolls around, I ask myself why I'm not making it to church. I ask myself that question almost every single Sunday, and have for years. Since college, actually. I read John Updike's lauded article about faith, and he mentions slipping into a pew each week, almost despite himself, and I wished I could get that far.What's hard for me about church is the same thing that's

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-27949307578516858932011-03-25T23:28:00.003-04:002011-03-25T23:36:45.006-04:00

People ask me why I blog sometimes, and besides blogging being a calling card for me as a writer, I do think of it as a literal web log, similar to the logbook I kept on my boat. Then I tracked the variance of the weather, my location, my mood, and Secret’s mood. When I go back and read posts from the past, they carry me right back to that moment in time, and I’m glad that I kept that record,

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-1313429137471429172011-03-21T23:16:00.003-04:002011-03-21T23:43:09.850-04:00

Branches in winterI’ve been following the curve of the road back to the end of the land every day, except Sunday. Some days, when it’s above 40, the snow is damp and soft and I sink through up to my thigh in some places. Some days, when it’s closer to 30, like today, I can walk across the icy crust of the snow and head to places unknown.I’ve been visiting this piece of land for seven years now,

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-66936321404897274932011-03-17T19:58:00.003-04:002011-03-18T20:31:23.828-04:00

On the bus yesterday, I rode eight hours up from Boston, watching the snow accumulate along the sides of the road. Piles and piles of it, growing along the highway. Here, in Aroostook County, the biggest county east of the Mississippi and the northernmost county of the continental United States, spring is a long way away. I went for a walk today, trying to balance my body on the crust of ice

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-38269247302176703082011-03-13T00:02:00.001-05:002011-03-14T00:44:09.347-04:00

When I arrived in Ann Arbor yesterday, I thought that the rejection letter I had received from the University of Michigan graduate school was already behind me. After all, I knew from the definitive MFA blog that people who were accepted received their letters on February 22. I knew that only 22 out of 1000 applicants were accepted last year, and only half of those in fiction. Generally, 70

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-90221280845128934182011-03-11T01:27:00.002-05:002011-03-12T01:46:40.413-05:00

Grandma in her garden (my sister's photograph)My grandmother sleeps this evening a floor above me, in my aunt’s day room, hooked up to oxygen and a catheter. She’s on three kinds of morphine, but still sometimes grimaces with pain in her sleep, when she feels the tumor pressing against the tender tissue of her lung. Last night, I made her boneless skinless chicken breast and potatoes for dinner

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-79832064662429971172011-03-09T01:15:00.000-05:002011-03-10T01:40:54.067-05:00

En route from Chicago, Illinois, to Grand Rapids, Michigan186 statute milesTraveling today on the Amtrak, I was able to review some of my old emails, including one that forwarded to me this review of an essay I wrote for the House Studio. Bizarre, to see my deeply felt and carefully constructed article disposed of like so much garbage. And oddly encouraging, in that I don't feel the criticism

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-55769699436958497392011-03-06T18:30:00.001-05:002011-03-06T18:31:45.377-05:00

I feel alone right now, and broken. I walked away from my Chattanooga life a week ago and already I feel like I have made a bad choice. I walked away from my life there, and for what? For faith and a vague promise of redemption?God said: all things work together for good for them that love Him and are called according to his purpose. He said: worship in Spirit and in truth. But I feel lost

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-37591709261092258482011-03-05T21:27:00.000-05:002011-03-05T21:28:14.568-05:00

Yesterday was the seventh anniversary of my start date on the Appalachian Trail. I can hardly believe it. My life has changed profoundly since then, and I’m proud of myself for the journey that I’ve been on, the progress I’ve made. I’ve compromised since then, but not on fundamentals. Not on the kind of life I want to lead the most.I’m still pushing forward, chasing the dream—despite

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-42938738932325278072011-02-27T00:47:00.002-05:002011-03-06T09:37:20.052-05:00

Maybe it’s gauche to admit it, but I’m still a huge Indigo Girls fan. They’re maybe the first band I fell in love with, even back in the Philippines, and I don’t think they’ve received the critical acclaim they deserved. Not because of homophobia and sexism in the media and the recording industry or anything like that. Not because of anything like that.So this Indigo Girls song came to me

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-74802721020114380782011-02-25T01:07:00.002-05:002011-02-26T01:11:48.966-05:00

Dylan’s words keep rolling around in my head, as I prepare to become a rolling stone again. It’s a feeling that both of us know, because both of us are artists. So many of his songs end up being about the journey of the artist, forever disassociated from any kind of community, any kind of culture. The only way to critique a culture is from the outside. The artist, of necessity, must

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-72659086218730470062011-02-23T16:56:00.003-05:002011-02-23T17:52:44.168-05:00

A not-so-sheltered childhoodMy iTunes on shuffle played me that song today. I was a latecomer to American popular music, and each wave of the musical revolution swept me away as I encountered it throughout my adolescence. Elvis, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Dylan—each hit me with that same shock of discovery that the country felt during the twentieth century. One of the joys of a

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-47096408263751067652011-02-18T17:53:00.003-05:002011-02-18T18:02:10.480-05:00

On December 2, I wrote about an endless quest among cultures. I wrote: “I look at people who manage to be stationary, attached to one place, with envy.” I wrote: “traveling is when my heart beats fastest.” I finished hiking more than a month ago, and I’ve been silent ever since. Processing my experience, maybe. Digesting. Or more likely, just busy. I immediately stepped back into my

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-67402793341076199692011-01-10T16:00:00.003-05:002011-01-10T16:23:28.422-05:00

So my hike is over. We drove back to Chattanooga in the freezing rain last night, out of the wilderness of backwoods Alabama, and made it here just in time for seven inches of snow. It was planned, actually--I pushed the miles the last three days so we could make it out in time for this last front. Shadow is confused and at loose ends. Even though he's a snow dog from Maine, snow in this

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-34516892505310769622011-01-09T15:02:00.003-05:002011-01-25T15:10:27.060-05:00

Campfire and moon memories of the trailWhen we walked out of the woods today, into the hallowed hiker heaven of a Mexican buffet (a rarity in the all-you-can-eat universe), I had that same sense of vertigo, of the world shifting around me immediately. Like in a science-fiction movie, when the green screen drops, and our hero realizes he’s been at home the whole time. After the trail, everything

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-87152486541274450802011-01-08T14:54:00.003-05:002011-01-25T15:02:41.199-05:00

Shadow, at my sleeping bag's foot, in the morning18.5 milesWondering if tonight may be my last night in the woods, I’m sitting in front of the dying embers of a smoky fire. Partly because of Shadow’s food situation (he’s still on strict rations), we’ve been pushing our mileage, which means I’ve done in three days what would have taken us four in December. So we’re ahead of schedule, and the

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-86393870401226256232011-01-07T20:47:00.001-05:002011-01-23T21:07:45.911-05:00

Shadow and his Puppy Chow from heaven16.0 milesA shaman met us on the road today. Well, a crazy Californian living in a van with “LOVE” painted on the side who claimed to commune with the spirit of Sacajawea and to have knowledge of his past lives. And to be a shaman flautist. He claimed that my nose indicated I came from the Cheyenne tribe. He called me a “wise woman.” I’ll take that

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-71031920190588191912011-01-06T20:41:00.001-05:002011-01-23T20:46:50.761-05:00

Tired trail dog13.4 milesBefore I left on this trip, I showed some friends at my job a map of the trail, told them my plan. “Better you than me,” was their attitude. Today was one of those days I know what they mean. Half the day was spent walking through a “rock garden,” with each step unsure beneath my feet, jagged stones throwing me off balance, wrenching my ankles, my knees, my

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-75964545777001168072011-01-05T14:00:00.000-05:002011-01-22T14:41:23.011-05:00

Cheaha State Park placard8.2 milesI’m sitting cross-legged, in front of a birthday bonfire. Shadow is a curly dog next to me. K is cracking dead oak into logs for the fire. We built an oven to cook my birthday dinner, a packed-out frozen burrito from the campground store.The burrito was absolutely delicious—crispy and brown on the outside, gooey and dumpling-like inside, with oozing cheese and

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34713524.post-55110337005231137922011-01-03T14:00:00.001-05:002011-01-22T14:29:22.603-05:00

Another Pinhoti Trail stream1.9 milesWhen I woke up this morning, I thought I may end up here—in yet another motel room. That’s four for a 350-mile trail, and I hope it’s the last. As much as I love the anonymous hotel room, and this one’s especially nice, at a state park with a gorgeous view of Alabama’s highest point and stacked rock everywhere, I feel like I’m splurging a little bit, too

Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05671992975667465476noreply@blogger.com0