10 reasons (and more) to visit Maine

(Photo by Carla Kucinski)

I’ve dreamed of going to Maine for years.

When my husband and I were first dating, we’d lay on the couch, fingers interlaced, fantasizing about the places we’d live together. Maine always came up. The fantasy goes like this. Andrew and I would live in a cottage (grey with a colorful door – maybe red or yellow) by the rocky Maine coast, and I would write books from my study overlooking the Atlantic, while Andrew would chop wood in the yard with our black Lab, Molly, at his side. There may be another dog or two in the picture. I would wear a lot of wool socks and oversize sweaters and mill about the house clutching warm cups of tea. And after a morning of writing, I’d make something like blueberry jam or a stockpot of hearty stew. Andrew would wear lots of flannel and thermal undershirts, jeans and rugged boots. He’d have a salt and pepper burly beard. When he wasn’t chopping wood, he’d read books in our library lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Molly would chase seagulls.

I’ve only known Maine through artwork and photographs, “Olive Kitteridge” and “Murder She Wrote.” The landscape has always drawn me in. The evergreens, the lighthouses, the choppy ocean slamming into the cliffs. It’s been a dream of mine to hike Acadia National Park and breathe in the smell of pine, stand on top of a mountain overlooking the Atlantic.

In May, I finally stopped fantasizing about Maine and made it a reality. It’s been a rough half of the year so far, and my husband and I needed a change of scenery, a place where we could hit the reset button on our lives and just be together. One night, I suggested Maine, and presented my research on flight times and cost. (I’m in PR; data is important when you’re delivering an idea.) Three weeks later, we were on a plane to New England.

Maine is one of the most – if not the most – memorable vacation we’ve taken together. I remember on our way home, sitting in the Bangor airport waiting to board our flight, and I scanned the large photo canvases hanging on the walls around us. Each one captured a beautiful Maine nature scene. I smiled recognizing some of the places we have visited. Jordan Pond. Bass Harbor Light House. Cadillac Mountain. “Look, we were there!” As we waited for our flight, we flipped through the endless stream of photos on our phones – us on our first hike at Acadia overlooking the ocean; us at sunrise at Cadillac Mountain awash in golden and pink light; us about to eat the best meal of our lives in Portland. A sadness came over me as we swiped through the photos. We hadn’t even boarded the plane yet and I was already missing Maine. I didn’t want to leave this beautiful state.

When friends ask us how our trip was, I always respond with one word: memorable. Here’s 12 reasons why — in the order in which they happened.

1. Family.

So yeah, NH isn’t Maine, but that’s where my sister and her family live and I haven’t seen them in a year-and-a-half (shameful). So we made a slight detour and spent two nights hanging out with this adorable stripes and plaid crew. Our itinerary consisted of: Eating the best carnitas ever (prepared with love by my sis and bro-in-law); blowing bubbles in the front yard with the boys; a riveting game of bocce ball; homemade ice cream on a 95 degree day (Yep, that’s right 9-5.); choreography lesson and dance party in the living room with the boys; a late-night heart-to-heart with my big sis; Sunday morning pancake breakfast and a living-room cello concert from my oldest nephew. Oh yeah, and the best group selfie ever taken by my bro-in-law.

2. The Breakers Inn

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After leaving 95-degree NH the next day, we traveled two hours north to Scarborough, Maine, where it was overcast, windy and just barely 50 degrees. This was the Maine I was hoping to experience. It required layers and scarves for this NC girl. This was the view from our room at The Breakers Inn. I was in awe gazing out the window and seeing the landscape just as I had imagined it in this non-commercialized town.

I’ve been wanting to come to the Breakers Inn ever since I first heard about it 15 years ago from a couple I lived with in Connecticut while I was interning at The Hartford Courant; they had been going for 30 years. I couldn’t believe I was finally here and it was as beautiful and quaint as I thought it would be. The rooms are cozy, quiet and comfortable and offer spectacular views. And Rodney, one of the innkeepers, makes a homemade oatmeal in the morning that’s to die for. Their homemade blueberry, raspberry and strawberry jams are equally amazing. I can see us coming back here year after year. It’s a special place.

If you need me, I’ll be here, staring out the window. (Photo by Carla Kucinski)

3. The Best Lobster Roll Evah!

This right here. One of the top three best things I’ve ever eaten. Hands down. And that root beer? Nothing else like it. It didn’t matter that it was extremely windy and cold nor that I could barely feel my fingers. I had my root beer and my juicy, meaty lobster making me happy. Bite into Maine is a little food truck that cranks out these lobster rolls at the Portland Head Light at Fort Williams Park.

It was disappointing that the lighthouse was wrapped in scaffolding, but this lobster roll pretty much made up for it. (Photo by Carla Kucinski)

4. David’s 388

This is us before we were about to eat the best meal of our lives.

David’s 388 in South Portland was recommended to us by a trusted friend who knows good food. The earliest reservation we could get was 8 p.m., so we opted for what they described as the “chef’s table,” a bar that seats four people and overlooks the kitchen. For someone like me who loves food and even more so loves watching food be made, this was a dream come true. To start, I ordered a grilled romaine salad just because I saw one being made right in front of me that looked amazing. And it was. But when I saw the steamed pork bun leave the kitchen, I felt a small ping of regret. After the waitress told me how good they are, I expressed to her my inner torture of trying to decide between the salad and the pork bun. “Screw the romaine!” I said balling my fist in the air. The head chef overheard me and laughed. A few minutes later, he placed a small plate with a pork bun in front of us, and with a smile said, “On the house.” I looked up from my entree in disbelief, and then thanked him profusely. (I devoured it in seconds. There is no photo of the pork bun.) David’s 388 was the best seafood either of us has ever experienced. Everything was fresh and local and damn delicious.

Pistachio crusted scallops. (Photo credit Carla Kucinski)

Hake (a traditional Maine white fish) with lobster, asparagus, corn and the creamiest mashed potatoes that melted in your mouth.

5. Portland

Portland has a little bit of grit to it, but mostly, it’s just darn cute. Lots of quaint little shops. Beautiful architecture. Loads of book stores and coffee shops. Cobblestone streets. (Photos by Carla Kucinski)

It used to be wherever I traveled, I would be on a quest for the best cupcake. I’ve since shifted my focus to donuts.

This is The Holy Donut. These donuts are unlike any donut I’ve encountered. They’re made of potatoes. So that makes them healthy — or something. I wasn’t a huge fan of the vanilla. (It tasted like a doughy funnel cake.) But this chocolate dream below rocked my world. I guess they call it Holy Donut because eating them feels like a religious experience.

Chocolate sea salt donut. Yeah, that’s right.

You may have begun to notice that so far my most memorable moments revolved around food. (This is a common theme in my life.) The food we ate in Maine was truly exceptional. And The Honey Paw was no exception. We actually stumbled upon this place, after putting our name on an hour-long waiting list at a seafood restaurant next door. After looking at the menu, we canceled our table next door and sidled up to the bar at Honey Paw, a fusion of American and Asian cuisines. I ordered this beauty: Korean fried chicken with kimchi and daikon (hold the American cheese) and a side of ramp chips. I moaned and groaned with every bite I took. (I can be annoying like that.) To top off the experience, a kind older couple, who are Honey Paw regulars, were seated next to us and shared their dessert with us. Some kind of blueberry cake with cream filling. Can I have some more please? I learned later that they were written up in the New York Times travel section the day we we dined there.

One of the best sandwiches of my life. I’m in love. (Photos by Carla Kucinski)

People in Maine like to share their food with me.

6. Mr. Mo

Our first night in Bar Harbor, I met this sweet pup, Mr. Mo. He used to be a champion show dog in Chicago; now he lives in Maine with his owner, who is blind. They’ve been together for less than a year and they’ve already built a bond. Mr. Mo still needs to work on his seeing-eye-dog techniques, but he’s pretty much mastered hanging out at the local bar and receiving pets from dog lovers. He is the sweetest little thing. (Photo by Andrew Brown)

7. Ocean Path Trail – Acadia National Park

This was our introduction to Acadia National Park. Stunning views from every angle. Ocean Path is one of the most popular trails at Acadia. It hugs the coastline and meanders through forests and rocks and cliffs and towering evergreens. What struck me most was the beautiful emerald-green hue of the ocean. The entire trail was surreal for me. I wanted to come here for so long, and now I was actually here, and I was so overwhelmed by the beauty around us. I just kept thinking, “I can’t believe I’m here!”

(Photos by Carla Kucinski)

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8. Sunrise at Cadillac Mountain – Acadia National Park

Seeing the sunrise from Cadillac Mountain landed on my “dreams list” earlier this year when I was watching a segment on Acadia National Park on the CBS Sunday Morning show. The reporter mentioned how this is the first place the sun rises on the east coast in the U.S. My husband was reluctant to get up at 3:45 a.m. to make the 30-minute drive up the mountain and wait for this glorious once-in-a-lifetime moment to happen. I couldn’t imagine NOT doing it. So did the 200 or so other people who joined us on the top of the mountain that morning. The sun rises wicked early there. (That morning it rose at 4:50 a.m.) But wow, it was so worth it. The view was magnificent and truly unforgettable. The best part was the moment after everyone had hopped in the cars and driven back down the mountain and we were left alone with a peaceful stillness. Afterwards, we had a plateful of delicious wild blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup at Jordan’s Restaurant. It was a pretty perfect morning, and the day was just beginning. (Tip: It’s much colder and windier at the top of Cadillac. I had on multiple layers, but I wish I had brought a blanket or sleeping bag like some of the folks around us. A pair of gloves would have helped, too.)

(Photos by Carla Kucinski)

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What we look like after waking up at 3:45 a.m.

9. Jordan Pond – Acadia National Park

Jordan Pond wasn’t on our list of hiking trails at Acadia; we kind of just came upon it and decided to check it out because frankly we were lost. I wasn’t sure what to expect other than the ponds that I’m used to seeing — brown, murky and mosquito-infested. Apparently ponds look much different in Maine; they’re a little slice of heaven. I couldn’t believe how clear and blue the water is. (Tip: Be sure to follow the short walk to the Jordan Pond House, where there’s a full-service restaurant that bakes warm, fluffy popovers.)

(Photo by Carla Kucinski)

(Photo by Carla Kucinski)

(Photo by Carla Kucinski)

(Photo by Andrew Brown)

10. Facing my fear of heights

I realized I was deathly afraid of heights when I went on a ferris wheel for the first time at a carnival in the 5th grade. I screamed the entire time and couldn’t wait to be on solid ground again. I love hiking. But hiking often requires inclines and overlooks and all that scary stuff. Sometimes, in hiking, you’re forced to face your fears. Such was the case when a friendly female park ranger suggested we hike Emery Path at Sieur de Monts in Acadia. It’s a beautiful hike, great views and lots of granite steps, she told us. We were intrigued, so we gave it a whirl. I did not anticipate just how beautiful the views would be. Absolutely breathtaking. I also didn’t anticipate that I would hike so high up without hyperventilating, crying or passing out. That’s not to say that I didn’t have the occasional narrative in my head which went something like, “If I slip and fall here, I wouldn’t fall that far down.” But honestly, I was so overtaken by the views that I didn’t have time to be scared; I only had time to pause and take in the beauty.

Look it’s me! Way up high! (Photo by Andrew Brown)

Hundreds of granite steps comprise most of Emery Path. Once you reach what you think is the top, another sign points one mile onward to Dorr Mountain. We decided to turn right on Homans Path and head back down the mountain, which I’m glad we did. I’ve seen pictures of the rest of the trail, and it looks a little frightening. (Photo by Carla Kucinski)

Even though I’m afraid of heights, for most of this trail, I felt fairly contained by the steps and walls of the mountain. That gave me comfort. (Photo by Andrew Brown)

11. More food

Some final thoughts on food.

The Thirsty Whale became our favorite lunch spot in Bar Harbor. The food was great and the bar was dark and cozy. Do try the haddock sandwich. It was the perfect meal after hours of hiking.

I also recommend the fried clams at Thirsty Whale. Yowza. Best clams I ever had. I was happy that this plate of yumminess was my last meal in Bar Harbor.

I highly recommend the blueberry basil margarita at Side Street Cafe. Refreshing and served in a mason jar glass. Super cute.

The lobster mac and cheese at Side Street Cafe is also a winner. This is a half order. I can’t imagine what a full order looks like. It was pretty spectacular. After, we walked to Ben & Bill’s Chocolate Emporium, where I had the best ice cream in my life – traditional chocolate and vanilla with peanut butter.

12. Bass Harbor Head Light

We spent our last few hours in Bar Harbor driving to the southern part of Mount Desert Island — beautiful drive with a mixture of wilderness and views of the ocean. As we drove around the island with no particular destination in mind, we saw signs for Bass Harbor Head Light and decided to check it out. A trip to Maine is not complete until you’ve seen a lighthouse, and this one was pretty amazing. It’s nestled into the side of a cliff right on the ocean. A set of wooden steps descend among the pine trees to huge rocks that you can climb to get a more picturesque view of the lighthouse. It was truly beautiful.

(Photo by Carla Kucinski)

(Photo by Carla Kucinski)

(Photo by Andrew Brown)

(Photo by Andrew Brown)

Finding solace among the trees

I do my best thinking in the woods. They’ve become my haven, especially lately.

The woods have always felt like home to me, a place to let my mind wander, to feel the wind on my face, the sun warming my shoulders. The moment I step onto the trail, a soft bed of pine needles beneath my feet, the world around me quiets, and I can just be. Even on my worst days, the second I’m surrounded by towering trees, I can always come back to center, find my footing.

Today was one of those days. I needed solace, and I found it among the pine trees. I come here to think. I also come here not to.

There’s a beautiful forest not far from our house that I’ve grown to love. Few people know about it, so much so that most of the time I have the woods all to myself, and other times, I run into the same familiar faces and their blissful Labs and hound dogs with tired tongues hanging from their mouths.

As I’ve weathered through these past few seasons, so have these hundreds of acres of forest. Together we’ve morphed and changed, parts of us died but new growth came. I was thinking about this today as I walked beneath the trees which seemed to have bloomed over night. The bare branches of winter have been replaced with lush, green. I remember in February, deep in my grief, wondering if spring would ever come.

Walk in the woods from Carla Kucinski on Vimeo.

Growing up, my backyard consisted of hundreds of acres of forest in rural Pennsylvania. Those woods provided the perfect hills for sledding in the winter and produced the most delicious blueberries in the summer that still felt warm from the sun when you popped them in your mouth. I remember going for walks sometimes with my father and getting lost with my sister, and watching the sun set behind the tree line, casting hues of pink and orange across the sky. I suppose that’s where my love of nature began and why it always felt like home to me – and still does.

My appreciation for nature grew deeper in my early 20s when I adopted my first dog as an adult. I’ve been fortunate that both dogs I’ve adopted over the years are both lovers of the woods. When my first dog Yoshi passed away four years ago this month, I sprinkled some of his ashes along one of his favorite trails by a lake and among the creaking, swaying pine trees. Even in his old age with his shaky knees and deteriorating hips, he came to life in those woods, hopping over logs. It was his medicine. When he died, it seemed fitting to return him to the earth, to his favorite place. I remember the day I sprinkled his ashes, the wind kicked up suddenly, and I could feel his spirit there with me. Some days, like today, I can still feel him in the breeze in the middle of the woods. He’s never left me.

Yoshi and me hanging out on his favorite trail. He died less than a month after this photo was taken.

I have a new doggie companion now, a black Lab and Border collie mix who also has a deep love for woods and hopping logs. When she’s in the woods, she’s at home, too. It’s a magical place for her. She completely loses herself in the experience, chasing squirrels and running after deer. But often times I catch her pausing for moment on the trail, looking up to the sky, scanning the scenery around her. Most of the time she’s listening for squirrel movements, but sometimes I think she’s intentionally stopping to take it all in. She constantly reminds me to rest, to linger, let go and be in the present. Everything is temporary. Tomorrow will be different.

Molly among the pine trees circa March 2016. Photo by Carla Kucinski.

Make a wish

My mother always made me feel special on my birthday. Every year she picked out the perfect Barbie doll, the best stuffed animal, the prettiest bracelet. When I look back on my birthdays as a kid, it’s not so much a particular gift or image that I remember most, it’s a feeling, how the people I love, especially my mom, made me feel important.

For years, my mom hung a Happy Birthday sign above the sink in our kitchen, chunky letters in every color of the rainbow strung together. It was the first thing I’d see when I came downstairs from my bedroom. As I stood sleepy-eyed in my pajamas, she’d sing “Happy Birthday” in a country-western twang with such passion – and volume – even though she doesn’t have the best singing voice. She still calls my sisters and me on every birthday and sings to us. I always let her call go to voicemail because I like to play the message over and over; it makes me smile.

What also made my birthdays so special every year as a kid was being able to design my own birthday cake. We went to a bakery called Mr. Baker, where your senses were greeted with the scent of vanilla icing whenever you stepped through the door. I loved the ritual of going with my mom to pick up my birthday cake and riding home with it sealed in a traditional white cake box. The anticipation of waiting to eat it drove me crazy. At age 36, I have not outgrown that and probably never will.

I took my birthday cake seriously as a kid – and still do. I had obsessions with Snoopy and Garfield when I was a child, so naturally they ended up on a lot of my cakes during my early childhood. I can still picture my double-layer cake with Garfield drawn on the top of it. It was my fifth or sixth birthday, and my whole family was gathered in the dining room, the lights dim and golden. My mom’s face glowed in birthday candlelight as she walked toward me with my Garfield cake, and everyone started to sing “Happy Birthday.” I burst into tears before I could blow out the candles. I ran to my room and threw myself down on the bed, burying my face in my pillow. My mom scooped me up, and I cried into her chest unable to explain the tears.

Now, as an adult, I know the reason. It wasn’t just that my mom ordered me the perfect Garfield cake; it was that everyone I loved was gathered in the same room to celebrate me, my life. That birthday was the first time that I recognized what it means to be truly loved and cared about.

I carried that same feeling with me throughout the day on Wednesday as I celebrated my 36^th birthday. All day I felt surrounded by so much love from the moment I first opened my eyes and saw my husband smiling back at me. Sweet text messages and phone calls trickled in throughout the day, each birthday wish touching my heart. After the tough couple of months I’ve been going through, it felt good to truly feel joyful for one day.

My husband can’t cook, but he’s great at ordering takeout. When I walked into our kitchen on the morning of my birthday, he had set a table for two with a Chick-fil-A biscuit and golden hash browns waiting for me — my twice a year guilty pleasure. He went into work a little later that morning so we could eat breakfast together. It was a simple gesture, but it felt grand to me.

Later that afternoon, two of my dear friends treated me to lunch at one of my favorite restaurants. When I arrived, they were seated in a booth with a small flower pot of yellow Gerbera daisies on the table and the biggest balloon I had ever seen attached to it with spirals of multicolored ribbon. I shrieked with glee when I saw it — and teared up a little, too. Those little touches sure made this birthday girl feel special. I left our lunch that day with my heart full — and my face sore from laughing so much. Good friends always know what our hearts need.

Afterwards, I went for a stroll in the woods with my dog Molly, and as I walked among the towering pines and the wisteria in bloom, I paused and looked up, taking it all in, this vast and beautiful world. My eyes, my senses, my heart — they felt wide open. In the middle of the woods, this place that I cherish, my daily haven, I felt a deep connection to the universe. Among the rubble of winter’s fallen trees and bare branches, new life was unfurling all around me. Birds chirped. Four monarch butterflies danced in a figure eight near me. Wisteria’s delicate lavender flowers clung to their vine. I thought about these last two months and all the grief that has consumed me, and I realized even in the midst of sorrow there are gifts. You just have to open your eyes, and your heart to see them.

When I got home, there was a card waiting from me from my best friend Addison, who I share this blog with. The cover of the card pictures a cluster of cars, traveling in different directions, and a young girl on a bike looking over her shoulder while pedaling away from them. “I like to think that this is you pedaling even further past the grief that began this year,” she wrote. “You’re looking back a wee bit but pedaling forward to your next adventure.”

I love that analogy. It’s always a comfort when those we love can see a future beyond our grief. Reading Addison’s words gave me hope. Yes, I’m still glancing back at the past as I weather this season of change, but deep in my heart I believe the best is yet to come. Birthdays are a perfect way to mark a new beginning.

That night my oldest sister, brother-in-law and two nephews sang “Happy Birthday” to me via FaceTime – a virtual birthday party. Hearing my sweet nephews’ voices in the chorus of adults made me laugh as they sang with such fervor. This time there weren’t any tears, just laughter and gratitude. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and made a wish. I wished for joy, but after I blew out the candles, and opened my eyes, I realized I already have it.

Somewhere in the middle

I’ve been craving calm lately, and rejuvenation. I’ve spent the last few weeks perusing yoga retreat websites, searching for the perfect destination. I needed something restorative but also inexpensive.

Then I heard about Yoga Fest from my yoga teacher, Andrea. The annual day-long retreat in Raleigh features dozens of yoga sessions from meditation to acrobatic yoga. I attended my first Yoga Fest on Saturday, and it turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. It was a day of releasing for me. I let go of emotions, tensions, judgments. By the end of the day, I felt cleansed, lighter and looser. It was a powerful experience and more than I could have imagined.

My day started out with an amazing Yin Yoga session with my yoga teacher Andrea. She’s the coolest yogi I’ve ever met. I just adore her! She’s a wonderful teacher. See how happy and relaxed I am after her class?

The biggest turning point of my day came in the afternoon. Between sessions, I visited the exhibitors’ area and had my aura read for $5 by a woman from a Raleigh yoga studio. I’ve always been fascinated by aura readings and curious about what my own aura looked like. I’m not an expert on the subject of auras, but I’ve been reading about them since I received mine. The best way to describe an aura is it’s a field of energy that surrounds a person and reflects their essence — who they are and what’s happening at their core. The rainbow of colors that appear in an aura are supposed to reveal one’s emotional, physical, spiritual and mental well-being. Since I’ve been dealing with some heavy emotional “stuff” these past two months I was eager to see what my aura would reveal. I placed my hands in the outlines of what looked like two metal fingerprints and within seconds my aura appeared on the screen in front of me.

I studied it for a second and turned to the woman beside me anxiously awaiting her analysis. My aura contained an overwhelming amount of red, which she said represents high energy, creativity and love. “You have a lot of passion,” she said to me. I smiled and nodded. But red, she continued, can also indicate anger, stress and too much thinking and analyzing. She asked if I had been under a lot of stress lately, and I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Not really.” I’ve been managing my stress better at work, doing more yoga and meditation every morning and sleeping well. So no, no stress. She said I have so much energy, creativity and ideas that I want to accomplish, but I’ll never be able to accomplish any of them unless I focus my energy. True. That’s been an ongoing issue.

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“This concerns me,” she said, pointing to a darker area on the screen. I looked closer at the cloudy blob of darkness sitting in the center of my chest. It looked like an ominous, black hole and it was near my heart. I noticed more murky blackness along the edges of my aura, around the crown of my head, but the hole in the center of my heart appeared the densest. “You’re protecting yourself, keeping your emotions closed in,” she said balling her hands into fists and pulling them to her chest. She mentioned illness and grief. I told her I had suffered a great loss in February. She nodded as if she already knew.

It’s been almost two months since my husband and I lost our baby. And it’s a loss unlike anything I have ever felt. It’s a shock to the heart, to the body. Most of all, I grieved the potential, what could have been. Now, what I’m mostly left with is anger. I’ve been through a lot of tough experiences in my life – chronic illness, deaths, divorce – but nothing compares to losing our baby. That black hole, it feels like an abyss. And I was staring directly into it. As I sat there studying my aura on the screen, I saw so much sadness. It’s a strange thing to see your emotions displayed in front of you. It was almost like looking at a self-portrait I had painted. But it’s up to me to change the canvas. The woman who did my reading recommended I meditate more, do some deep meditative breathing and yoga postures to open the chest and release the emotions I’m holding onto. “The gong bath will be good for you,” she continued. “It’ll be interesting to see what your aura is like after the gong.”

Gong bath. I had been hearing about this all day but had no clue what it was, and for some reason I never felt compelled to ask someone. I guess I wanted to be surprised and not go into it with any expectations. With my phone, I took a photo of my aura on the screen, thanked her, and went off to my final yoga class of the day: Cultivating Calm. How appropriate.

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The whole time I was in the class, I couldn’t get the image of my aura out of my head. Every time I tried to concentrate on a particular posture or my breath, my glowing red silhouette with that black hole in the center kept popping up. I kept thinking about how much better I thought I had been doing, how my life was getting back to normal … almost. But I’m still healing. As a friend so eloquently put it, I saw my “true colors,” and it scared me.

“Breathe in possibility and optimism,” the instructor said during our final meditation. “Breathe out fear and doubt.” As I breathed out, I pictured the black hole in my chest leaving my body and light coming in. My closed eyelids trembled as I tried to hold back the tears.

As I waited for the gong bath to begin, I pulled out my phone and Googled “gong bath.” The first result brought up: “A gong bath is a form of sound therapy where the gong is played in a therapeutic way to bring about healing. … The term gong bath means that you are bathed in sound waves, there is no water involved, or clothes removed.” Well, that’s a relief.

I closed my phone and laid down on my yoga mat, waiting to be healed. A woman with thick, blonde curly hair, black and white geometric yoga pants, and an off-the-shoulder black flowing t-shirt entered the room pushing on wheels a gong the size of a Smart car. She suggested lying down on the yoga mat with your head toward the gong and laughed as she told us one of her friends describes the gong bath as a “magic carpet ride.” The idea of floating around on a magic carpet sounded good right about now. The ultimate metaphor for freedom.

She turned off the lights, and as I laid there looking up at the dark, empty ceiling, I kept thinking about the words “healing” and “unreleased grief.” “Give yourself the gift of letting go,” the blonde-hair girl spoke gently into her wireless mic. And with that, the gong bath started. The sounds of the gong began gently like ripples of water, then increased in intensity. I could feel each sound wave reverberate throughout my body. I tried to stay grounded in the present and not let my mind drift, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the past – and that black hole. Eventually, the obsessive thoughts stopped and I let myself just be.

I’m not sure how long the gong bath lasted. Ten minutes? Fifteen? When the gong music stopped, I laid there waiting for something to happen to me. Was it over? Am I healed? What am I supposed to be feeling? Do I feel any different? With the lights still off, a musical recording began to play a New Age song I wasn’t familiar with. I didn’t know what the song was about because the lyrics were in another language, but it was beautiful and moving. As I laid there flat on my back, palms turned upward toward the sky, something broke inside of me. Hot tears slipped from the corners of my eyes and slid down my cheeks. My throat tightened and my chin trembled as I tried to hold back the tears. This is the stuff I’m still holding onto. Let it go. I surrendered to my grief and started a flood. Tears streamed down both sides of my cheeks. Some tears pooled in my ear canals and slid down my jaw bone and down my neck. Others rolled off my skin not knowing where they landed. I felt like I would never stop crying.

When the lights came on, I dug in my bag for a tissue and dabbed the tears from my eyes. I was a mess. My cheeks were wet, my neck, my chest. I felt like my whole body was covered in tears. I kneeled on my mat and started to roll it up when I noticed there were tears the size of dimes pooled on it. I had never seen my tears manifested in that way. They looked so big — perhaps the larger the grief, the bigger the tears.

I took a few deep breaths, then collected my things and hurried out the door to my car. I didn’t want anyone to see what a mess I was. When I stepped outside, the gray rain clouds that followed me on my morning drive had dissipated and the sky was now a cloudless blue. I turned my face to the sun and let its rays dry the rest of my tears. And I told myself, “I’m going to be OK.”

Andrea introduced me to the works of poet Thomas Merton after her Yin Yoga session. “Sit still and rest.” Ah yes. And I love the second poem “At the End …” I think I’m somewhere in the middle.

Being comfortable with the uncomfortable

Photos by Carla Kucinski.

I’ve been thinking a lot this past week about the idea of being uncomfortable, accepting where you are in your life and making peace with it. In my yoga class, my instructor often talks about this because it’s a huge element in the type of yoga I practice – yin. In yin yoga, seated postures are held for three to five minutes at a time, which forces you to surrender to the pose and allow your body, mind and spirit to just “be” no matter how much your body, mind and spirit fight you. It’s an exercise in letting go.

I’ve been practicing yin yoga for a little more than one year now, and it has helped grounded me in situations and periods in my life where I’ve felt groundless. February was one of those months. Sometimes life hurls at you one big explosion that pulls the ground out from underneath you. In one moment everything changes. That’s how my February started. It forced me to have to process a lot of difficult things and emotions all at once. Feelings I sometimes didn’t know what to do with. Every day felt like a freight train of raw emotions plowing into me.

After taking a brief hiatus from yoga, I returned to my practice last week to help find my footing again. Coincidentally, the lungs were the focus of class that night. The lungs represent courage; it’s also where we hold our grief.

spring blog web

During the class, my instructor talked about a YouTube video she posted on Facebook earlier in the day. The video features a rabbi talking about how lobsters’ bodies grow, but their shells do not. When the lobster is ready to shed its shell, it retreats under a rock, casts off its armor and then re-emerges to begin growing a new shell.

I feel much like a lobster these days. For the last three weeks, I’ve been in hiding and spent a lot of time reflecting and processing. But something has shifted in me recently. I’m starting to shed my shell. With each new day this past week, I felt the ground returning beneath me. The chatter in my mind quieted. My emotions began to find balance. I started to make peace with this uncomfortable place I’m in. I’ve accepted that this is where I need to be right now, so I can grow, like the lobster.

“Times of stress are also times that are signals for growth.” I keep coming back to those words from the rabbi. They grabbed my heart.

A friend remarked over brunch this morning how good it feels to see pops of color beginning to emerge outside, after enduring a bleak, grey February. Winter is starting to let go, and so am I.

Spring is a transitional season. It’s a time of growth and renewal. It’s a new beginning. Letting go is all about moving out of something, so we can move into something else — another wise observation from my yoga instructor. (Are you noticing her pattern of awesomeness?)

I do not know what I will be moving into, but I do know what I’ll be leaving behind (fear and grief) and what I’ll be taking with me (hope and promise).

spring flowers web

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Carla Kucinski

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Being comfortable with the uncomfortable