I was maybe three years old, lying on the bed in the nursery of my childhood home when I had the vision—I was in my 80s, a short white bob caressing my chin, long flowing clothes cascading over the edge of the velvet Victorian sofa I sat on, hand perched on a cane with a gold bird’s head. Around me were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the same rich red as the walls. The floor was littered with stacked books and discarded newspapers mostly obscuring the worn patterned Persian rug. I knew I was alone, and I knew I was in a city. I had never seen anything like it. The vision lasted just a moment, but I felt calm—like I knew at the end of my life, I would be alone, surrounded by books, in a city full of life, and I would be okay. That feeling and its image have stayed with me throughout my now almost 42 years.
I grew up in Westbrook. Our house sat between the Dairy Queen and McDonald’s, on a busy road where trucks rattled our windows at night. Before a massive Ford dealership paved over the field next door, we’d run across the street and play in the creek, catching toads that immediately peed in our sweaty little hands. The window trims of our old house were covered in chipping lead paint, and the coarse carpeting made my knees burn as I played with Matchbox cars. My mother was always in the kitchen, ornamental baskets and dried flowers hanging above her. Westbrook was also known for its stench—a suffocating rotten egg smell from the nearby paper mill. Visitors always complained, but I was used to it. We frequented the library and Denny’s, but that was it. There was no art, no music, no sense of the greater world beyond our town, yet I had an innate sense that so much more was out there waiting for me.
In my early 20s, I lived on Peaks Island—a bustling 1.16 square mile piece of Casco Bay in the summer, and a bleak, howling ghost town in winter. I lived on the north end, driving home in a baby blue 1982 Honda hatchback with holes in the floor. It was there I fell in love with the ocean, spending summers on a sailboat and cruising around the other islands. My hair was crisp with sea salt, and I finally made peace with the frigid water. Eventually, the ferry schedule wore on me and my job, so I moved to Gorham—the furthest I’ve ever lived from the coast.
In Gorham, I lived in a ridiculously large historic home with eight fireplaces, two beehive ovens, a “grand” living room, a “summer kitchen,” and a carriage house. I marveled at the details crafted over two centuries earlier. Each room was painted boldly, I never knew whether to take the front or back stairs, which living room to read in, or which fireplace smoked too much. In that house, I felt like part of history. It had sheltered lives for 200 years, and I was another. I held reverence for that space—but apparently, its previous spirits didn’t share that. Five months pregnant and increasingly unsettled by the wrathful energy there, I moved to a small midcoast town along the Sheepscott River called Alna.
The midcoast was unfamiliar, but I immediately loved our off-grid timber frame home, nestled on eight black fly-infested acres. I dove into the lifestyle—canning fruit under the mortise and tenon beams, raising chickens and ducks who ran to me when I sang “Hey Jude,” baking bread in a wood-fired Aga, planting a garden with far too many radishes (and realizing I didn’t like them), cloth diapering my baby, and living simply and sustainably, appreciating even the smallest things. Sometimes I’d drive to a field overlooking a sweet red cape house below, sheep dotting the landscape like cartoon marshmallows. I’d lie in the tall grass—meditating, doing cartwheels, dreaming of the future, blissfully unaware of the ticks that would eventually give me Lyme disease. In that home, I experienced extreme loneliness, uncertainty, heartache, but also pure joy—a joy I’ve been chasing ever since.
I left that house seeking a better life. I brought with me a desire for simplicity, the joy that made me cry happy tears, and the anxiety of raising my daughter with only $80 in my pocket. We landed in a 350-square-foot office space with a toilet and sink the size of a piece of toast. We weren’t allowed to live there, but the landlord took pity on us and let me make it a home. I sent my daughter to her father’s for three days, and transformed the entire space. I installed a makeshift kitchen sink, added a mini fridge and hot plate, hung art from friends, set up a futon with her crib mattress underneath, and got a galvanized tub for baths, hanging it from the ceiling when not in use. A large window overlooked the Damariscotta River, giving us sunsets at dinner and marine entertainment by day. On our first morning, my daughter, eating hot-plate pancakes, turned to me and said, “Mama, do you remember when this was just an office? Now you’ve made it a home.” Home is what you make of it. We called it our “River House,” and to this day, it remains my favorite place I’ve lived.
Our time at the River House ended quickly. It was meant to help me find my footing—and it did. I started my business, worked odd jobs, and within 10 months, saved for a down payment. I bought an old church on a busy Edgecomb road, steeple intact, no pews or pulpit. The second I walked into the light-filled space with eight-foot windows and 16-foot ceilings, I told my realtor, “I’ll take it.” There was no kitchen or full bathroom, but I knew it was home. Over the next few years, the church became a creative oasis. The second-floor studio housed my photography business and my new partner’s painting. My daughter painted like Basquiat on giant canvases and performed dance recitals in the living room. We held concerts, art shows, dinner parties, and photo shoots. I planted eight raised beds, an orchard, and had flocks of chickens. Everything we did was about creating. But eventually, under heartbreaking circumstances, we had to leave. It was the hardest move since leaving my childhood home.
