Week 14

I'm the most fickle person I know. I'm constantly changing my mind; my thoughts are constantly bouncing around in my head. I can't even decide on an outfit in the morning; usually what I wear is a product of running out of time to get dressed. But I also find pretty much everything interesting, and I adore research. When I'm interested in something, I want to know everything about it. I submerge myself in in and become very passionate, very quickly.

I remember being a little girl, I always begged my mom to let me take dance lessons. With my big feet and big hands, I never saw myself as much of a dancer. But whenever I watched television shows of people dancing, I always got a little twinkle in my eye. A natural klutz, I could never imagine being able to do the things with my body that these dancers do. They look so graceful, so beautiful. When my mother finally got sick of my begging, she told me she'd let me choose between soccer or taking dance lessons.

When I was younger, I was always compared to Cindy. In every way, shape and form. And I learned quickly that the easiest way to obtain approval was to act like Cindy. Cindy was a class clown, so I was too. Cindy was a tomboy, so I was too. Cindy played basketball, so I did too.
Cindy played soccer, so I did too.
I kicked the dancing dream (literally) because I knew that soccer was would make me more like Cindy.

Now, I'm much older and I have accepted that it was never beneficial for me to try and be like my sister.

But I sometimes wonder how differently things would have gone if I had pursued dancing instead of soccer.

Soccer is probably my favorite sport to play. It's difficult, and I'm not very good at it, but it is a fun sport to play. But it never sparked my passion, per se. But when I joined Drama Club and Chorus, I loved them both, and realized that I definitely had a certain flair for dramatic expression.

So, I've made a mental note to return to that secret passion inside my head. And that secret passion is dance. Considering I was voted class clown in high school, I know I'm not exactly the most graceful person on the planet. But, I still would like to learn the basics of certain dances.

The Tango

Probably one of the steamiest ballroom dances out there is the Tango. The authentic Tango originated in Argentina, and is a saucy, sexy form of expression.
Whenever I see this dance on movies or on TV, I feel the need to get up and move around, because it's just so darn inspiring. I like to think of the Tango as the original Dirty Dancing. Before nobody put Baby in a corner and before the 'bump and grind' age of today where girls just shake their ass and wait for a guy to choose her out of the group and rub himself all over her.
The Tango is different. The Tango can almost tell a story. A man and a woman, heated with passion and desire. The man leads the woman, sometimes the woman leads the man. It's a dramatic tale of love and often times betrayal, all set to music. What's not to love?! 
With it's Latin spice, swishy dresses and hot-hot-hot intensity, the Tango is a dance that I dream about taking lessons for someday.

Swing Dance

Now, if a dance can bring you to life, it's swing dance! There's something about jazz. Something sensual, something, fun, something very American and alive.
Swing Dance is used to describe the styles of dances that is usually done to jazz. It originated during the 1920's-50's, during the times of war and the Great Depression. During a time before social networking, the internet, cell phones or extreme mass media. A simpler time where dancing was all you needed.
Because of my old soul and obsession with things that happened before my time, I think swing dance would be something  I'd strongly enjoy. It's high-paced, doesn't really have much flow to it, and is basically all over the place. Sort of sounds like life! ;) Many people who dislike jazz say that it's too hard to follow. There is no flow. But maybe that's exactly what's so wonderful about it. Jazz sounds like the inside of my head on a busy or a relaxing day. Jazz can either soothe me to sleep or make me feel awake.
And swing dance... The way the people move and soar across the dance floor looks like it's easy and anyone can do it. They look happy while they dance like that.
The swing dance isn't like the Tango. It's not as intense; not as formal. Swing dance is just a couple of people, some music and a common goal to just let loose.
Because of my 5-day-a-week work schedule and constant 'to do' lists, swing dance is something that I think would do good for my body and my mind.




The Foxtrot

Classy, slow, graceful and cautious, the foxtrot is one of the most widely known ballroom dances. This big-band dance was premiered in the early 19-teens.
Growing up in the middle of the woods, I'm not exactly the classiest person you'll ever meet. I like to eat with my fingers; I crave cheeseburgers that practically swim in grease; I am known to let rip a mean belch. But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel a little classy and wish I could slip into a ballroom gown and stroll across a ballroom floor.
The Foxtrot is a dance that was originally set for being danced to ragtime, but as it evolved in changed to big band music, which is similar to what Swing Music is danced to. Foxtrot dancing is very slow with long steps and arm movements.
To me, this dance is much about love. The man and the woman dance together very slowly, always touching, always together. They have plenty of time to hold eye contact and maybe even whisper little words to one another while they slide along the dance floor.
Although this dance isn't as fast-paced as the others, it still is one that I'd love to learn more about someday. It's graceful and beautiful, classy and smooth. It's very out of character for me, but it's still a skill I'd like to acquire.





So there you have it. Some facts at a glance about a few dances that I've always been interested in learning. Someday, when I have the money, hopefully I'll find the opportunity to take some lessons. I don't play soccer anymore, but I always still wonder if I'd be a dancer by now if I would have chosen dance.

Week 13

A man and a woman meet in high school in Rhode Island. He secretly gambles behind the school to get money to buy her a milkshake. They get married, he joins the army. After spending three years in and out of the hospital, he returns home and moves to Waite, Maine to start a farm with his young wife. Having one of their children die of leukemia at the age of 9 nearly tears the family apart. A family of equally hot-headed people and hitch-hikers and wanders who come and go, there are endless comedic tales of mishaps that occur on the prosperous farm in the middle of the Maine woods.

Meanwhile, states away, a young Registered Nurse and a young army man go to a community dance with two separate dates, but leave together. They start a life together, building from the ground up, for both of them were products of extremely poor families. Living in Detroit, Michigan and moving to Calais, Maine, the couple goes through tribulations trying to start a family, and are unable to have kids. They adopt a baby girl and a toddler boy and raise them on the craggy coast of a bay near Calais, Maine. A daughter who got into some trouble here and there and a son who had a witty in-put for every situation, this family has heart-warming tales of growing up and learning about love and life.


Both of these very different life paths lead, eventually, to two people meeting at a bar in Calais. This book is about all of the things that occur before that; the things both families endure, the lessons they learn and the stories they have to tell. Each of them have unique tales that are different and yet unique .

All of them come down to love.

The love that a husband and wife share, even if it means driving her crazy like when Don used to torture Jean by poking fun at her Italian back ground. Or when Jim bought Catherine a diamond, and when she lost the diamond from the ring, he went out and bought her a new one. Even though she found the diamond while vacuuming, Jim only smiled and said, "Well now you have two rings."

Or it's the love that siblings share, even in the midst of tragedies. All of the stories in the book lead up to when a new chapter begins. The stories remind you of the value and the purpose of life, and they teach you the importance of family and how it truly is the most important thing in life.

Week 12

The Field

A soft breeze makes the long, long un-cut grass in the field bend and sway ever so slightly. It plays with my hair; makes it tickle my face. I walk alone, quietly. It's one of those moments where I prefer the silence; I don't want music, I don't want talking.

The sun is shining in the field in a way that makes me wish I had my camera; makes me wish I could take pictures with my eyes.

The talls pines shade me from that hot sun. I read somewhere, recently, that 90% of Maine is covered in forests like this. The most of any state. Interesting. It makes me wonder how many other forests hold secrets like this one.

As I continue on, I think of the times my sister and I snuck friends out here to get drunk. Or how many times I escaped in this field. The hours I spent laying on my back, staring at the stars in the sky.
I sneak out into this field to think. The forest helps me breathe.

This time, I'm just visiting an old place I haven't visited in a while.

The path opens up to a clear part in the field, and in the middle of that clear part is a small thicket.
One lonely bench sits next to a tree; a small blue hand-painted birdhouse hangs on a pine tree above the bench. My grandmother made that and hung it there 15 years ago.
On the ground underneath that tree is a marker. A marker of life; a marker of death.

Grampy.

I took a deep breath and sat down next to Grampy. Christmas had passed, my birthday had passed, life had passed... and it had been a while since I visited him.

"I'm sorry if you got lonely."

I sat there and thought about everything I had heard about Grampy. All the stories. All the times he drove Gram to complete madness. How hard he worked.
But, mostly, just how much he loved his life.
Old friends of his would always shake their head when they met me, saying, "He was quite the man."
I don't remember much about him. I was 4 when he died; at an age where everything was new and my memories became real. I remember he always smelt of smoke from a woodstove. I remember the sound of his voice and his laugh.

I smile when I think of his laugh. So low and raspy... it almost sounded like a cough.

I curled up on the bench, bringing my legs close to my chest. Oh, how badly I wished he was apart of my life.

Sometimes, when I come here, I like to think of what it'd be like if he'd just appear next to me. When I was young I'd like to ask him to meet me in my dreams somewhere. Sometimes he did.

Before I moved away from home, I used to come here and talk to Grampy when I had a problem of some kind. Even if he wasn't listening (I know he was, I know he is), it was nice to talk out loud.

I closed my eyes and begged for him to appear next to me. Even if it's for only five minutes.
Imagine if he appeared next to me all those times I came here to ask for help.



"Boys are dumb, Grampy." I said angrily, crossing my arms and swaying my feet back and forth as I sat on the bench. I wasn't quite tall enough to reach the floor yet.
Grampy shifted in his seat next to me. The hard wood hurt his hips. He let out a low grumble and placed his hands on the big beer gut he kept strapped in with suspenders, "They won't ever change, Holli. They'll always be this dumb."
I sighed, "Well what do I do? He wasn't very nice to me, Grampy. He made me cry during recess."
He shook his head, "Make him cry back!"
I looked at him, eyes wide. He was smiling, and it was big enough to reach his blue eyes, "I can't do that, Grampy!"
"Why not?" He cried, "Your grandmother is the toughest old broad I've ever known, and that's exactly why I married her. Don't ever let anyone make you cry, Holli."
I bit my lip and thought for a moment, "I'm not mean enough to make anyone cry, though."
"I don't mean you have to make anyone cry." He chuckled, "I just mean don't let them treat you like that. Bergins don't get mad. They get even."
And just like that, I heard my father calling my name very loud. It echoed through the fields, like it did every day at dinner time.
"Oh, no. I have to go, Grampy." I said and looked over at him.
"Okay." He said and patted me on the back, "Go, quick, before your dad eats it all."
I smiled and slid from the bench. I looked over at Grampy, his blue eyes were observing me. My smile faded as I looked at the scar on his face from right before he went to heaven.
He laughed, knowing what I was thinking.
"I'll still be here the next time you need to talk." He said and winked. "I'm not going anywhere."
I shrugged, "I guess I get a little scared you won't be here."
He leaned forward, "I'll always be here."
I grinned and quickly hugged him, taking in the scent of the woodstove. I said goodbye and took off running.
Before I got to the path that lead to my house, I turned around and he was still sitting there. He looked at me and waved. I waved back, but didn't leave right away.
He looked so content sitting there.
I heard my dad's voice yell for me again.
But I didn't want to turn around.
Grampy was looking out at the field. Dad told me that this field was his favorite place in the whole world, and that's why he stays here now. He says whenever Grandma's time come, she'll come here and be with Grampy too.
I didn't blame Grampy for this being his favorite place. It was so beautiful when the sun was out. Every blade of long grass had a sheen to it; every wildflower bright.
Dad yelled for me one more, and last, time. Judging by the sound in his voice, he wasn't happy.
I smiled at Grampy and finally left; running down the path and excited for the next time I'd have a problem I had to talk to him about.


And now, I'm a 20-year-old woman, and I still wish my Grampy would appear next to me in this old field.

"I have a million and a half problems, Grampy." I said out loud, praying my voice didn't crack, "And they're not as simple as boys making me cry at recess."

Just boys making me cry myself to sleep.

What has happened to my life since I was that little girl? I had scuffed knees and big dreams. Big glasses but a big heart. I'd save a dying bird that fell out of a tree, and then cry and bury it next to the other animals I tried to save but couldn't.
My Grandmother told me a story once. She said that, the day Grampy's ashes were delivered to us, everyone was crying while we went to the field to choose a place to lay him to rest. I was 4, and I tried to get everyone to stop from crying.
"Look at how beautiful this day is! Grampy would love this. Don't cry anymore! There's a deer over in that side of the field, and the sun is shining! Grampy loved days like today."

My grandmother said that that's when she knew I was one in a million.

"I need to fix my life, Grampy." I said outloud, "I know you can see what I've been up to, and I'm sure you're not impressed."

The past two years have been intersting for me. I've made bad decisions, I've experimented, I've actually ended up in the hospital once because I drank a bit too much tequilla.
My stomach turns at the memory.
I left with my ears pierced and 0 tattoos. I'll return home this May and I have 8 piercings and a tattoo on my foot.
I have more secrets.
I'm not that little girl anymore. The world destroyed her; the world tamed her. Put out her fire. And it hurts to realize that she's gone.

She's not gone...

The thought fled through my mind quickly. So quick I almost lost it.

Sort of like how Grampy isn't gone either.

It's amazing in life how some things can change so much; others so little. The field, for example, never really changes. The grass gets longer, the trees go along with the seasons. But at any given point in time, the field looks exactly the same as it did a year ago.
I'm not like that.
I was different a year ago today. I'll be different a year from tomorrow.
And ever since I was a little girl, I realized that I never did anything in moderation. And change wasn't excluded from that.

I exhaled sharply and decided to start from the beginning.
"I moved out in mid-August two years ago. I guess at that point, I was still very naive. I had high hopes, Grampy. Big dreams. I guess I was always like that up until now. But when I moved out, certain things happened that made me change. And I guess, in the midst of all that change and all that growing, I left that little girl behind. It all started when I realized I had no idea how to drive in the city ... "

Week11

I have never been a very good cook or baker. I burn almost everything I attempt to cook. Even though I love to bake and cook, the last time I made cookies for my dad he wouldn't eat more then a bite of them.
And my dad eats everything.
Apart of what makes my cooking and my baking a little less then Food Network worthy is probably my desire to experiment.
For example, baking cookies with applesauce instead of butter may sound like a fantastic idea. And although it makes the cookie quite a bit more healthy, it certainly makes it a lot less tasty. Especially considering I burnt them.
And as far as cooking goes... I just mastered the art of successfully frying an egg without making the smoke detector go off. So when it came time to come up with a speech to write a demonstrative speech for my oral communications class, I was at a loss.
I knew most of the people in the class would bring in things that they had cooked or baked. I tried my hand at making a chicken, cheese and buffalo sauce dip, but I messed that up too.
So I was sitting at the kitchen table at my apartment, with my cruddy dip sitting next to me, tapping my fingers on the tabletop, trying to figure out what I could teach my class.
I have accepted that cooking and baking are not my strong points. My mom's a great cook and so is my sister, so I'm clearly just the oddball out that wasn't given that gene. I went through my life and tried to think of something that I was good at that I could teach others.
There is always photography - but this speech was about creating a finished product. Something tactile that could be touched and, in most cases, eaten. I couldn't exactly do that with photography. I work with kids, so I considered for a moment some kind of craft that I could show. But as I brainstormed, nothing really came up.
I sighed, stood up, and decided to make myself some chocolate milk.
I learned when I was a barista at Border's that stirring a mixed beverage hurt more then helped the mixture. It was always better to shake rather then stir. So I made the chocolate milk, and while I was shaking it from glass to glass as opposed to stirring it, I realized that there was something I could share with the class after all.
I had a brief flashback to when I was a barista. I loved it. I would walk into work and tie my apron on, pull my hair back and push my sleeves to my elbows. I loved working quickly with my hands from drink to drink. I didn't follow recipes well; I did what I knew would taste good, not exactly what was written in the book. But I never had any complaints on how my drinks came out. I was a master at making whipped cream look great sitting atop a beverage, and I enjoyed moving quickly behind the counter at that little cafe.

Ever since I worked as a barista for the four months that I did, I realized I had a love for creating those beverages. I had little dreams of me someday maybe behing a bartender; tossing shaker glasses in the air and catching them, collecting tips as I did. Wearing old blue jeans and a black t-shirt, I'd pour rowdy bikers and cowboys whiskey sours and rum and Cokes.

Even though I was voted Class Klutz in high school and can barely go a day without tripping, working as a barista was something that surprisingly came easy to me. The first week I did it, I hated it and thought I would never be very good at it. I contemplated quitting.
But as I gave the job a chance, I got better and better. Soon enough I was tossing around stuff like a champ.
So inspiration hit me.
I grabbed the things I needed and started working.
I brewed some iced tea just like I learned at Border's; put tea bags in a pitcher, one for every 8oz serving, fill it with boiling water and let it steam for 10 minutes. I stuck it in the fridge and got out some pomegranite juice and mint leaves. I put ice into a cup and, when the iced tea was cool enough, I poured some of the juice and the other ingredients into a cup. I shook it all together (always shaken, never stirred) and took a hearty sip.
The mint hit me first - because I like a strong tea, I didn't use any sweetener but the mint was a great mild touch. The pomegranite added a satisfying tang, and it added a nice flavor to the tea.
All of the healthy and natural ingredients created a nice, refreshing tea. I decided that this sort of thing was perfect for my speech. I could give some tips that I learned as a barista; things that students who didn't work as a barista may not know. Maybe I could inform them and show them something they didn't know how to do before, which is precisely what the speech was intended for.
I smiled to myself as I fished for more ingredients around the kitchen; there were so many possibilities now.

Week 10

 (names have been changed)



"I'd like my little sister to come here someday," The little brown-eyed boy said to me as he fidgeted in his spot. We were walking out to the small play ground that was behind Catch A Falling Star. 

"That would be nice." I replied, even though I knew that this place was only for children with some kind of behavioral diagnosis. 

"Even though I'm pretty sure this program is only for autistic kids." He replied without missing a beat. I quickly looked at him, his brown eyes large, the one that turns in a little unfocused. 

I didn't reply. I simply opened the gate to the playground and let him in. I don't tell him that he is exactly right; I just smile and say nothing. Because even though this little boy is aware that he is different, it doesn't mean they all have to be. 

At the park you see all different kinds of children. The ones who like to swing very high; there are ones who hang upside down of the monkey bars; and many kids like to run around and play tag.
As I stand a ways off of the playground, I keep my eyes on the little boy I'm here with. He is running and playing, and laughing too, but I will always know his struggles. He wrings his hands when he gets close to other people; he is clumsy due to birth defects he's never truly been cured of; he tends to say odd things when attempting to fit in.
Over on the tire swing is a little boy who can't complete a sentence without a prompt from his own worker. Sitting on the ground picking the peeling paint off the side of the playground. He was born without eyeballs and only sees the world through his hands.
All three of these children represent different kinds of the children I work with. The one I'm with has Asperger's; someday he will live on his own and will probably function in society without anyone knowing he had his diagnosis. The boy on the tire swing has mild Autism, and will probably never leave his very tired-looking mother's side. Someday he will be able to ask for what he wants without prompts, but a conversation or a written essay from him will never happen. The boy born without eyeballs is a very unique case. Although very intelligent, his physical ailments makes life very difficult for him.
But as I watch the three of them play, for a moment or two I can forget that they're lives, in some ways, are already decided for them. Chances have been taken from them.
When it's time to go back to the center for the rest of the afternoon, I fear telling the little boy I work with that it's almost time to go. Transitions are hard on him; and chances are he'd throw a tantrum when it was time to go.
It was hard for me to relate to him at times; when I was a kid, if you cried as often as these children did, you would get into trouble. For these kids, they don't cry to get their way or for attention.
They cry because they simply don't know what else to do.
The other kids in the park watch the little boy with mild Autism as he only mumbles parts of words. They look at him funny as he jumps back and forth and flails his arms in the air. Many other people in the park wonder why he doesn't talk on his own.
They don't know what I know.
Someday I'd like these children to have more chances.

I don't want anyone to feel sorry for any of the children I work with. I don't want anyone to pity them. In fact, the opposite; I think you'd be surprised just how much you can learn from them.

He took a toy and threw it across the room. It was already a long day, and I had very little patience left. 
I knelt down to Timmy and reprimanded him. 
"Timmy! That is not okay! That's very unsafe!" 
I knew I was being mean. He had been bad all day. He kicked me, called me a 'stupid sucker' and was very unsafe all day. 
He was biting his thumbnail, a side effect of his ADHD medicine, and he looked at me with large blue eyes behind his glasses. 
He hesitated before saying, "You don't look like Holliann no more." 
I stopped and furrowed my eyebrows, "What are you talking about, Timmy?" 
He continued biting his nail and mumbled, "You look like some mean girl now." 
 

Timmy could tell when I was in a bad mood and when I wasn't. He knew that I wasn't always like that; he could tell his behavior had something to do with it. I couldn't help but smile when he said that to me; his unafraid honesty warmed my heart. Even though I get stressed and overwhelmed, that doesn't mean it's who I am. Timmy, even though he's 5, can tell that. He knows that 'Holliann' isn't a mean girl who yells at him for throwing a toy.

I was watching Jarrod, the little boy with Asperger's, as he played along the play ground. He was smiling and laughing, and I then noticed that every one of the children from the center who we brought to the park that day were also smiling and laughing. Even if they are a little different, they were able to enjoy themselves on that beautiful day.


Someday I want the world to have an answer for these children. They don't need to be fixed, who says that they're broken? But I'd like them to feel accepted. I want them to feel like they fit in. Because in the almost-two-years I've worked by their side, I've looked passed the diagnosis they have. Yes, they're technically 'disabled'. But I've watched them grow, and they all play a special role in everyone's lives that they're in, even if they're not 'normal'. But they're still just as unique and beautiful as every other child; even if their struggles are a bit more frustrating.

The next time you see a donation box for Autism research, if you can, drop in some loose pocket change. Educate yourself on what the Autism Spectrum disorders are. Learn more about these children. With the numbers growing, more and more children are diagnosed with Autism a day. Chances are good that I may have a child who has one, or maybe even one of my classmates or friends. And I'd like people to be more educated.
Two years ago, I had no idea what Autism really was. I assumed it was a form of mental retardation. Now, I spend a huge chunk of my life devoting time, energy and passion to helping those who have Autism. I'd like the general population to be more educated, so that maybe someday these children get less strange looks while they play at the park.

I looked down at my watch and realized it was time to go. Surprisingly, Jerrod didn't throw a fit when I called his name and told him we had to leave. He approached me, hugged me, thanked me for taking him to the park, and walked very safely with me to the car, taking and holding my hand. As we drive back to drive back to Catch A Falling Star, he tells me all about the new friends he's made.
The whole ride home, as he looks at me through the rear-view mirror and tells me stories and jokes. He has pure trust in his big brown eyes.
It reminds me of why I go to work in the morning.
And it's a feeling I'll never forget.

Week 9

I've stumbled upon what I want to do for the rest of my life, and I must say that it's a terrifying and relieving thing.
It wasn't something I even realized what was happening. It started when I was a kid. I obsessed over buying cheap disposable cameras from Walmart. I'd save up my money and buy a little 24 shot camera and I'd take pictures of everything I thought looked interesting - everything I thought I would like to see pictures of. I loved getting them developed and then sifting through the pictures - it did something to my heart; it made it beat faster, feel more alive. Now I spend every day dreaming, thinking about being behind my camera. I explore through the woods and just keep my eyes peeled. For me, it's a passion. It's what I need to get through my day. Writing is also like that for me; but being as busy as I am most of the time, photography is easier then sitting down and writing.
The dreams give me an escape from reality. A place I can go where, for once in my life, things go according to plan. Where things work out.
But what if it were to come true? What if photography is something I could make a career out of?

If you were to visit the Bangor Public Library right  now until the last day of May, you'd be able to see 29 of my pictures hanging on their walls. The local newspaper back home published a piece about it with a picture of me next to it.
When I graduated high school from a place nicknamed "pill hill", I had dreams of making my mark on the world. I wanted to travel, I wanted adventures. But when the world showed me that it isn't always as beautiful as it seems through the viewfinder on my camera, it felt like everything had been shattered.
But I've done a bit of growing in the past year of my life. Now, I'm just shy of 20, and the very first photography exhibit of my career is hanging in the walls of a library in one of the biggest cities in my state.
I'm hoping that things like this continue to happen.
The ocean gives me hope that it'll happen one day. Sitting on the beach, as I'm laying in the sand to get a good shot, I realize that this is my thing.
In the sand I see someone who does what everyone does. They wrote their name in the sand with a stick.

Sarah was here. 


To me it's clear that every person has a natural urge to put a mark on the world. Writing your name in the sand is a way to do it; although it washes away, for a moment or two, you've changed something. You've left a piece of yourself behind while you move on. The water eventually washes away your name, but at least it was there for a time. Why do you think people write grafitti or carve their initials in tree bark? Obviously humans want to leave something behind even after they're long gone.
I'd like to do that to the world someday. I don't want a statue honoring me. I wouldn't want a holiday in my name. But someday, somehow, I'd like to leave an imprint that wasn't washed away as easily as the waves wash away the markings in the sand.


Nothing feels quite as good as making and creating something with your own hands and then letting the world see it. As I place together old pictures frames I dug up at thrift shops scattered all over the Bangor area, I think about how it feels to know it soon will hang in a spot where others can see it.
Most of people who see my photography are family and friends; they encourage me warmly. But I want some constructive criticism too. I want to know what I'm doing wrong and fix it.
It's easy for me to imagine being a photographer for the rest of my life. I love it so much that it would feel wrong to not do it.
Someday, I'll have a studio, maybe. Even though I deeply prefer being outdoors taking portraits, maybe someday I'll have a studio.
My name on the door, my copyright on the pictures, me behind the camera...
I shake my head. These are silly and dangerous thoughts; ones that have gotten me into trouble before.
I devote so much time and energy into my photography that other aspects of my life suffer. While I'm sitting in class all I can really think about is the ultimate dream for me.
In this month's National Geographic magazine, photographer Holliann Bergin shows us some of the pieces she collected while she explored abandoned castles in Ireland and Scotland...
I know that chances are, it'll never happen for me. A little girl from downeast Maine doesn't exactly get opportunities like that knocking at her door. But I also don't think opportunities like that just knock at your door.
My picture is all in the frame, and to me it looks pretty good. It's the last of my 29 pictures, and my fingers hurt from prying open old picture frames. It took me forever to collect all the frames, and the stress of whether or not my pictures would look good kept me awake all night last night. At least 4 of my frames broke and I had to quickly find new ones; the reception is next week and I'm still unsure of how it's going to go or how many people are going to show up.
But even though it cost more money then I thought it would and it was a lot of stress for me to deal with on my own, I finished it. Tomorrow I hang the last of my pictures, and my exhibit will be there for 2 whole months.
When I crawl into bed I think about how worth it it'll all be to see my pictures int he library. It makes it all a little smoother; it makes the stress go down a little easier. Because I know it's for something I love.
And if no one quit when all the going got tough, they wouldn't have anything to regret for the rest of their life.
I don't want to regret anything.


With my camera around my neck, I climb higher up the mountain even though my legs are so tired, even though I'm sweating so terribly. I know how important this shot would be; I know how beautiful the view will be from the top. So I keep on hiking, even though the African air is killing me.

Week 8

I've never really believed that anyone ever 'aimlessly walks'. I've always thought that any kind of movement has had some kind of purpose; even if you're not sure where you're going. Maybe that's better; to walk without going somewhere. To seek without needing. You don't always have to be searching for something specific in this life; maybe you can just look.
This is the philosophy I use when I take a walk with my camera. I like to walk and see what I can see.
On this specific spring day, I'm taking a walk around downtown Bangor with my camera. Bangor Metro is holding a contest for a shot of a downtown building, so I decided to try my hand and getting a good picture to send in.
Today the sky is blue and scattered with perfectly puffy clouds, the sun is bright and the world seems alive.
My sunglasses shade my eyes from the strangers I pass. I always get curious glances while I take pictures of buildings and other things that catch my eye.
The wind breathes warmly today, and it causes my hair to dance around my face. I snap pictures while I walk, and hope to find that one shot that'll make my walk worthwhile.
As I'm taking a shot of the old Bagel Central building, I see a woman sitting on a park bench nearby. She is clearly homeless; all of her possessions overflowed a shopping cart, her hair was a mess atop her head, her clothes were dark and tattered.
I push my sunglasses up so I could get a good look at her.
Sunken-in eyes and sallow skin, I can't help but also find her beautiful. There is so much truth in sights like this one. Ones that you can't brush of. Ones that you can't forget.
I walk by her and smile warmly as she looks up at me from her seat. She doesn't return the greeting, and I continue walking.
Someday I'd like to take a picture of a sight like that; I'd like to have the courage to walk up to her and ask if I could take a portrait of her. I wouldn't want to offend her.
I made a mental note to someday grow that confidence, and moved on with my walk.
I continue on down a path near a stream. It felt good to get out and take a stroll. I stretched my legs and felt the sun on my skin. Times like this remind me that summer is near, and that's always an uplifting feeling.
The path goes through the forest and brings you to an old rusty walking bridge. Decorated with grafitti, the bridge is a sight for my eyes. Old and sitting alone across a small river, its an interesting little place to get good shots.
Painted in white along one of the railings of the bridge are the words:
 'The free things; water, air, love, fucking, thinking, this view, friendship, love'. 
After absorbing all the truth in those words, I look up to the view and realize how lovely it is. The trees are on either side of the river; the river is as blue as the sky. I smile and lift my camera to take a shot of it. I also take pictures of the vandilism, and I secretly admire their guts to deface public property.
I spend a lot of time looking downtown for interesting shots to take, so I've started to recognize certain grafitti. There are certain signatures, styles and symbols I see often enough to begin to recognize them.
I live a fairly quiet life, and I don't spend a lot of time doing things that could get me in trouble. But for maybe a month I'd like to live a life of wild abandon. I give a fuck about almost everything I do; how refreshing it would be to not give a fuck. Life can be exhausting when you worry about everything. Imagine if I could live life and not worry about everything like I do. Imagine how relaxed I'd be if I did exactly what I wanted all the time.
I look around for on-lookers and dig my keys out of my camera case. Quickly and very carefully, I carve 'HEB 2012' in the rusty bridge. I smile to myself and take a picture of it.
Maybe I don't have to act ridiculous to make my mark on something. And now I've modified this bridge for however long it stands.
Once I'm done on the bridge, I decide to walk up a hill towards the main road.
A little further up the hill, I see a group of thug-looking people who are directly ahead of me.
As a girl who grew up in rural Downeast Maine, I always get a little nervous when I encounter characters like these. I get nervous and hug my arms close to my chest; I cover my eyes with my sunglasses.
As they're walking by one of them looks at me, and I instantly get nervous. Suddenly he stops.
"Excuse me, miss," He says and I stop in my tracks.
I pause before I answer, "Yes?"
He smiles, "Be careful on your walk up the hill; it's very muddy and slippery, and my friend and I just fell."
I smile in return, realizing I had nothing to be afraid of. I thank them for their warning, and I sincerely appreciate their courtesy.
When I get to the top of the hill I look down at the bridge and think about how things look different from every perspective. I've always been fascinated by it. Sort of like how I see that bridge, or the homeless woman, or the thugs who were polite to me. Everything and everyone is different when looking at it from different angles. But sometimes it takes a little more then good eyesight too look closely enough at something and truly see it.

Week 7 : Character Profiles

Sitting in the waiting room, he leans on his old oak cane. The hat that covers his bald head is the same color tan as his pants; he is wearing an old winter coat over a plain gray sweatshirt.
He's silent while the others around him are talking about anything and everything. His old green eyes are unfocussed and far away.
Mom notices his his distance and gives him a kind rub to his shoulder.
"I'm just worried about Nana." He said quietly and stared back at the door where the doctor would come out and end the wait that has already seemed so long.
Inside of his head, he was probably a million miles away. But he was here, at Eastern Maine Medical Center, waiting in a room while his sweetheart was being operated on.
The cane he carried and the way he held his back as we walked was a surefire sign that he has worked hard in his life to earn that extent of being sore. His simple clothes and demeanor makes it obvious that he is in no way an extravagant man. The lines on his face have changed the look of a man that was once young, vital and handsome. Today he looks like an old man who has lived a long life.
He slowly stands up, groaning as he does, and he walks to a table with a coffeepot on it. He's done this a few times, but every time there is no coffee in the pot. However, every few minutes he still tries. Does he forget that the pot is actually empty? Or is it at least something to get his mind off of wherever his sweetheart is?
He returns to his seat with a simmering cup of tea because there still is no coffee.
"She's strong, Dad." Mom told him and patted his knee. "She's almost 80 and this is the first kind of surgery like this she's ever had."
He shrugged, "I know she's strong. I just want two things. I don't want her to be in pain, and I don't want her to be afraid."
Mom said nothing and just looked away.
His words showed how much he cares about Nana, and the way his hands shook and the fear in his voice made it obvious how much she means to him.
In the parking lot, the 'Veteran' symbol on his license plate meant that he has served our country during his life. The tired look in his face shows it. The way he stares at that door, jumping at every person who opens it, shows that he is, as patiently as he can, is waiting for the doctor to come out. He's waiting for Nana.
If I were to guess, I'd say that all he is thinking about is how Nana is.

***

Working for a local business in a small town, you begin to see more of the people from your community then you ever thought you would. I worked in a grocery store for two and a half years. I knew all of the regular costumers, and usually I could tell you what they were going to buy before I even bagged it.
There was the old woman with the scratchy voice who bought nothing but Bud Ice and cartons of cigarettes. There also was the guy who only bought cat food and then liked to dig in the trash cans outside (rumors were that he ate the cat food). The 97-year-old woman named Ester with a crazy blonde wig and a great sense of humor was always a hoot when she came in every Saturday. Mrs. Foley did her shopping on Sundays; she only bought organic food and brought her own reusable bags. And then there were the few classic, rich-looking housewives who came in and only bought the top-of-the-line expensive foods, and insisted that they only get paper bags because plastic bags are made out of 'oil by-parts'.
So basically, if you did a lot of grocery shopping in Calais, chances are I'd be your bagger. If you came in to shop enough, you'd be another familiar face to me. There weren't many regular costumers that I didn't chat with when they came in.
One particular woman always made me feel a little sad when I saw her.
My mom used to point her out when we would see her around town. She was as skinny as a rail and she was always going for a run around the streets of Calais. Mom said that running was all she ever did, and that she has always been that thin. That oh-so-very unhealthy thin.
She came in the grocery store at least once a week. Usually on weekends. She didn't buy much; probably because she didn't exactly eat much. She always bought a four-pack of Shutter House white wine coolers, fresh vegetables and a loaf of french bread from the bakery. She'd ask for it all to be put in one plastic bag, probably to make it easier for her when she ran home.
Working in a grocery store for as long as I did  is probably what contributed to my fascination with human behavior. I realized early on in that job that you can tell a lot about a person by what they buy for food.
This woman was always one of the most interesting regulars.
When she approached the register, you can smell her before you see her. She always smelt of body odor. Why, I'm not exactly sure. I always thought it was from her extensive running. She was always polite but never said much.
My mom had always told me that this woman was anorexic and always ran. She was never very happy with herself, so she punished herself. 
I would smile and say hello as I bagged her things for her. She asked for it all in one bag, and she always paid with a check that was already written for $25. In my mind, I decided that she did this so that she never paid more then $25 dollars for food. That way she couldn't eat a lot; that way she'd still stay thin.
I was always as polite as possible to her, but she never seemed to notice. Her eyes were so preoccupied. Her mind always elsewhere. Her skin had a yellow-ish tint, and her long fingernails were brittle and many were broken off.
Every time when I watched her leave the store, I hoped that the next time she'd come in she'd be a little heavier. I always secretly prayed that maybe she'd decide to stop running and start living. I wanted her to eat more then she did. A cheeseburger. A piece of apple pie. An ice cream cone. To me, it always seemed so profoundly sad to be so governed by something. Her life always seemed a little sad to me.
But, until the day I resigned from my position as a Costumer Service Clerk, Joanne never did gain any weight. She always had those same sunken-in eyes; she always had those same broken fingernails. I swear that woman weighed no more then 95 pounds, even though she was at least 5'7.
And although I may not have known much about her life other then local rumors and what I saw of her inside of Shop 'n Save once a week, my mind returns to her sometimes. I haven't seen her in a long time, but I still hope that she found some kind of help for her disorder. Because a life that is so closely governed by your own fears really isn't living at all.

***
Every high school has one. In the movie The Breakfast Club, he hid dope in his locker and was in Saturday detention because he pulled the fire alarm. He had torn jeans, combat boots and an 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. If you're a fan of the famous 'Brat-Pack' movies of the 80's, you'd know that I'm talking about the criminal.
The criminal is that bad boy in high school who was always stirring up trouble of some kind. Everyone is afraid of him; he's always the talk of the town. He had that look on his face that basically taunted everyone around him. He was cool; he was badass.
In my high school, it was a certain fellow who took his role as a criminal a bit too far.
He's tall, with blonde hair and a nice smile. He has a strong build and has a surprisingly quick wit. He sat in the back of every class he was in; he started every fight in the hallway. A day didn't go by that you didn't hear his name being called over the intercom by an angry staff member.
There are a million things I can say about this guy. There was the day that he pushed by me in the hallway to help his friends start a fight. This was the same day he got in trouble for hitting a teacher. He was always in the paper for getting a summons of some kind. He sold the best drugs in town. He screamed at teachers; ripped things off the walls; came to school high as a kite.
I'll never forget the time he threw a chair in the lunch room that just barely missed hitting me in the head.
"FUCK YOU!" I remember hearing him yell at Mr. Noyes as the flying chair almost throttled me.
There also was that one infamous time where, one day after school when the building was empty, he shit in a chair.
Yes. He shit in a chair.
He somehow got into an empty classroom during after hours and shit in a chair. The worst part? No one even noticed until halfway through the next day of school.
Going to school with him certainly made school a little interesting. He went to jail during senior year; no one was surprised to hear the news. When he returned, he ironically was the first person to graduate in our class. How he passed, I'll never know. A huge part of me thinks the school just passed him to get rid of him. He graduated on time and, for once, it seemed he was going to do okay.
But nowadays, things are a little different for him.
He's been in and out of jail a few times. He pulled a knife on a cop once. A certain new and very dangerous drug took hold of him, and he spent a month in jail because of it. Whenever I run into him, he never looks very good. His eyes are always dark underneath; he is too thin for his frame and looks weak.
"How are things going?" I ask when I run into him.
He shrugs and simply says, "Same shit, different day."
He always says he's a fuck-up and will never amount to anything. He has said before that the only thing anyone sees in him is a failure.
But little does he know that he actually has so much potential.
In English class he'd always come up with these ridiculously smart answers, even if he didn't read the book. Whenever he played basketball, you'd see this different person come out. Gone was the violent and unhappy guy that everyone had an opinion of, and in his place was a graceful and very talented athlete. He had a way with people that instantly made others like him; he had a confidence that seemed to make him invincible.
In high school, I used to think his wild ways were 'cool'. I thought to myself, Why aren't I more like that? Because I care too much, about everything. But he just seemed to go through life, with one lucky break after another. One more time where the drugs he's done should have killed him but didn't. One friend who will bail him out of jail after another. An alcoholic at 20; never seeming to have a real care in the world.
But that has stopped being cool in my eyes.
Everyone has told him he has potential; everyone has tried to reach out to him. 
But after a while, you just give up. You decide to let him float on, and you decide that your effort is pointless.
Hopefully someday he'll see the potential that we all saw in him. The one that he so obviously has forgotten he has.

Week 6

I can remember what it was like being eleven. I was full of shit when I was eleven. I had a million dreams and I never shut up. I thought that there were millions of possibilities for me. Everyday was an adventure. I had so many things to say, so many things to do.
Now, it's almost ten years later, and I'm standing in the early March cold, somewhere in Bangor, with a child who is eleven and has Autism.
He looked just like a 'normal' child. He was a foot shorter then me, with large blue-green eyes and shaggy brown hair. He wore a coat with Spider-man on the back.
Only this child will probably never be able to have even a single hope for his future.
Every day when I go to work, I see a seven-year-old in a diaper. I see an eleven-year-old who will never be able to hold a deep conversation with anyone. I see a thirteen-year-old boy who was born without eyeballs.
On this particular day, I'm standing outside in the playground with the eleven-year-old.
"What would you like to do today?" I ask him for the tenth time as I knelt down to his level. I use an encouraging voice in hopes that he responds with words.
He doesn't say a word. He looks at me with blue-green eyes. They are eyes that are simply looking at me; not ones that are seeing me. He turns around and walks away.
I sigh loudly. I used to think that all the dreams I had as an eleven-year-old were taken from me and replaced with harsh reality. But it is children like this who had their dreams robbed from them before they could even have been dreamed. Children like this aren't given the chance to speak.
I observe him as he plays. He's putting snow into his hand and pushing it onto the fence. It sticks to the fence, and he does it again. And again. He seems to do this for minutes on end.
According to the rules, he's not supposed to be flicking snow. It's 'unsafe'. But he's alone, he's not hurting anyone, and quite frankly I don't care whether or not he flicks snow. He looks at me with aware eyes; he knows that it's against the rules. He may have Autism, but he's far from stupid. I smile at him as he looks at me. I hope for a smile back but I'm not surprised when I don't get one.
How long does he flick the snow at the fence? I'm not sure. But once he's flicked off all of that sticky snow, he starts to hit the ice with his fist to break it, and then push it off the picnic table. This is also probably against the rules, but again I don't care.
If this is all he wants to do, why rob him of that? Why rob him of something else? Why take it from him?
I walk over to him and try again talking to him. He looks at me but doesn't answer. I can read nothing from his face.
He continues to break the ice with his fists. For a moment I think about making him stop and bringing him inside, where he can sit in the corner and cover his ears with his hands as they all play loudly. He doesn't like being around his friends; they're loud and they hurt his ears. Playing with toys doesn't entertain him. Coloring doesn't interest him. He likes to play in the park, but in all the ice and snow, that just can't be done.
So here he is; breaking snow with his fist. To him, this behavior isn't abnormal. To him, when he jumps up and down for no reason and answers questions with grunts, it feels totally normal. But in public people look at him like he's different. They don't react well to his behavior. They don't understand why he doesn't talk. And it breaks my heart to see their faces as they watch him play.
I give up on trying to talk to him. If anything, I'm bothering him.
I sigh and decide to join him. I take my fist and I start breaking the ice with him. I don't say a word as I start breaking the ice myself. His eyes widen and he watches me intently. I can't decide how he feels. But in my mind, I thought that maybe he wanted a friend to join him. I had no idea how he felt, but I'd hate it if he felt alone.
He allows me to stand close to him and break ice with him for a few minutes. We move in silence; pointlessly breaking ice and pushing it off the table. My hands get cold and it's a little boring, but I had no idea what else to do.
But I knew that it wouldn't last. The boy looked up at me and put his arms on my midsection. He pushed me away with light force.
"Stop." He mumbled quietly. His eyes were silently pleading with me. I sighed in defeat and lowered my arms.
Trying not to get discouraged, I stand back and let him finish his project in peace. He didn't want my help, it was clear.And I decided it was pointless to ask why.
When I was eleven, I was riding bikes with my friends after school every day. I explored possibilities, played soccer and read lots and lots of books. I had plans and hopes for my future already; I liked to write stories and tell stories, go camping and hiking.
Here is a boy who should be doing all of those things too. But for him, just the presence of someone standing close to him made him feel uncomfortable, made him feel unsafe. After a year and a half of seeing this boy grow, he still can't even handle the simplest of human contact.
Once he's finished, we silently go inside. I help him take off his coat and his mittens and we hang them up. He washes his hands for snack and sits at the table with his friends. He uses almost inaudible language to ask for 'bread', because that's the only thing he likes to eat for snack. He sits in silence while his friends are all talking and chatting around him.
Many of the kids here will someday be able to live alone. Some of them may even have kids when they're older; most of them will function as 'normal' members of society. But the little boy with the blue-green eyes, he'll never live alone. He'll never get married and have kids; he'll never be able to have a deep conversation with anyone. Someday he'll be able to use a sentence to ask for what he wants to eat at a restaurant, but I fear that that may be the extent of it.
I'll never be able to forget the tired look his mother bears; one, even though it's so full of love for her son, it's also tired and worn out, because raising a child with needs like this is exhausting.
But my job isn't to 'fix' him, or to 'change' him. As much as I'd love for that to come one day, it may never, so right now, he just needs to learn to feel comfortable.
I sit next to him at the table during snack. He looks at me and I smile. His eyes are a mystery to me, but after I say hello, he is able to echo it back. I sit far enough away so that he has plenty of personal space, but also so that he doesn't feel alone. He continues to look at me with wary eyes, but I just keep a warm smile on my face. I pretend to understand him, because I know I never will understand him.
But for him, and for me, that will have to be enough.

Week 5 : Adult Memior

Is this really what it's come to? Is this really how I'm living my life? I wait and I drift; day after day until I find something that really matters. I've found myself searching in ridiculous places for inspiration. Even if it only lasts a fleeting second and then it goes away, it's still that one moment of feeling so very alive. For me, that feeling can quickly go away. Nothing seems to make it stay. Nothing seems to make the loneliness go away.
I'm sitting alone in my car, in a parking lot of a gas station, deciding if I want to do this or not.
I just think to myself 'fuck it'.
This is something I was told never to do. This was something I swore to myself I would never do. But because I feel the need to punish myself, I do it anyways. In these moments where I realize I'm in control of myself, I do it to prove just that.


I'm sitting in my car a minute after I did it, and I have a pack of menthol cigarettes in my hand. Marlboros. I used some of my hard-earned, 3 job having, 15 hour a day working money on a pack of smokes. I felt I deserved it.
To someone else, this probably isn't a big deal. To someone else, this is probably nothing. But everyone saw me as this pleasant little girl. I grew up always being a pleasant kid. I cried desperately the first time I got a detention. I never talked back to teachers. I never even got kicked out of school.
I had smoked before; at keg parties or the occasional cigar. I was 19, it was perfectly legal. Then why did this feel like such a rush?
Probably because no one thought they'd see a cigarette hanging from the mouth of the wholesome girl who used to bag their groceries with a smile.


Later while I was driving, a lit Marlboro in between my fingers, I suppressed tears as I thought about my life. I smoked and I inhaled, and I relaxed the tears away.
I lifted my phone to my eyes and checked. Zero messages. Zero anything.
Is that any big of a surprise? No one exactly ever goes out of their way to talk to me. I usually just drive alone like this; a car full of thoughts bouncing off one another. My phone stays silent.
How many nights have I spent time staring at a phone that never rings?
I smoke and inhale again, the sunset in the rear view catching my eye.
The emotional roller coaster that is my mind has almost always been made peaceful by the rising sun or the setting sun. For me, it's always been the sign of new things to come. New things have always given me hope, because that means the feelings can be left behind.
Unlike the scene in a rear view mirror, life's problems aren't as easy to escape.
I smoked the cigarette until it was gone and then abruptly lit another one. I hated how it made my mouth taste, and I didn't even wanna think of how it made my hair smell.
I gripped the steering wheel and thought about why I chose this to silently rebel. I chose smoking. Something that, since day one of consuming second-hand smoke from my mother, I decided that smoking was something I would never do.
But it was something in my reach. It was something I could do and no one ever had to know. It's sort of me giving the finger to everyone who loves me and everyone who has wronged me. It's self-destructive. It's risky. And above all, it's basically pointless. So for the duration of this drive, I smoke.
Normally, something like this would depress me. It was, yet another, realization that promises are almost never kept, and plans are made to be broken. I swore I'd never do this. I'd never smoke. But every time I looked in the mirror, it was another reminder of all the plans that had gone wrong. Those few extra pounds I put on and swore I'd lose, they're still there, staring at me. The tattoo I had planned and dreamed of getting; the non-inked skin was still there to remind me that I chickened out. My short fingernails are still there; I've never kicked the habit of biting them, but I've tried at least a dozen times.
These are all things I've failed at. These are all things I did not, could not, or would not do.
I think about all of this while I drive and while I smoke. It made me feel a little bit more alive then I did before.   For a reason I couldn't explain, that little secret I had to myself, made me feel human.
I flicked the cigarette butt out the window and continued on driving down the winding Route 2 I had taken countless times. My thoughts were whirling as I fumbled for a piece of gum in my purse.
Those were the only two I smoked as I drove home to Waite on that warm summer day.



A few weeks later, I was working at Border's. It was a busy, hectic and hot day, and for some reason, the person who made the schedule hated me that day and made me work all by myself. I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman as I ran from one side of the kitchen to the other as I threw things together. I had no help and was on my own all day. But somehow, I was getting costumers' orders out in time.
I was frazzled, sweating, tired and in need of a nice long nap when an old man came up to the cash register to order something.
"Can I help you?" I said with as much of a smile as I could muster.
His face was weathered but very warm and welcoming. He peered up at me and grinned. He leaned on his cane and pushed his glasses up his nose as he pointed at my necklace. "Are you a photographer?"
My necklace was a simple chain with a tiny, old-fashioned looking camera pendant dangling from it. I put my hand to it and smiled, "Well, I'm working on it. I hope to be one someday. It's what I love to do."
The man looked up at me and smiled broadly, his eyes bright as he winked, "Wrong answer, my dear."
I laughed, "What do you mean?"
He pointed at my necklace and said, "I asked if you were a photographer. You should have simply said 'yes'. Because you are." He paused and then continued,  "You are a photographer, my dear."
At that point in time, I had gone through life feeling as if no one could read me like I had wanted them to. I was looking for answers from people who could not give them to. But after having a little bit of conversation with this old man and handing him his peppermint tea and oatmeal cookie, I realized that I was very easily read by a stranger.
And what he said to me was exactly what I needed to hear.

I woke up the next morning, for some strange reason with a smile on my face.
I was still working 3 jobs and 15 hour days. I worked 6 days a week on a good week, and my feet always hurt. It was the middle of summer, my first summer away from home, and I had only gone swimming a few times and really had done nothing exciting.
But for some reason, I still had a smile when I woke up.
The sun came through my window that morning. My cat was snoozing at my feet, and I lifted my arms to stretch, my tired bones cracking as I awoke.
For a minute or two, I lay in bed. My walls are covered and scattered with pictures of smiling faces. My tassels from both my preschool and my high school graduation. Pictures with all of my closest friends. I had almost every ticket stub from every concert, movie and show I had seen in the past two years. A giant purpledream catcher Cindy and Todd got me as a gift when they went on a trip. I like to keep everything and hang it on my walls, and my overflowing bulletin board showed that.
It was then, in the morning light, that I had a realization.
As a person, I'm always looking for more depth. I'm always searching for another thing to put on my list. Not necessarily a bucket list, but a list of things that make me who I am. Make me human. Sometimes I feel as though everyone in life is a list. Every person has a list of things that make them interesting. So I'm always off searching for that ultimate thing to put on my list. That one thing that'll make my list stand out.
I'm always searching for that hidden piece of wonderment.
I was always so concerned about the list. I was always so concerned about those little secrets that made more human, that made me more complex.
But in all of these pictures, I had a smile on my face. Every item that decorated my wall represented a happy memory. They all were a symbol for a time that was good.
Just like those moments when I smoked the cigarettes and felt so alive, these happy moments were also fleeting. And they felt even better then the cigarettes.
I stood up quickly and found that same pack of menthol Marlboros that had been sitting on my cluttered desk for weeks. I had never smoked any more then those two I smoked that day. I hadn't even touched them. I tossed them there and forgot about them. For some reason, they lost their appeal right after I smoked them.
Sort of like many things that don't work out in life, that idea turned out to be not what I wanted.
I picked them up and threw them into my trash can. I quickly realized how little I needed them to make my life more interesting. While I was looking for things to put on my list, I had forgotten about the list I already had.
And you know what... My list was already pretty damn good.



Holliann Bergin 
daughter, good friend to plenty, seen too many movies, thinks too much, is afraid of spiders and snakes, doesn't like snowstorms, reads a lot, has glasses, Star Wars and comic book fan, loves to drive, photographer, writer, loves adventure, loves the outdoors, loves life. 

Week Four : Childhood Memoir

I woke up to the distant humming of trucks and tractors. Being so used to only sleeping to the sounds of crickets and frogs, these loud mechanical noises were foreign for me to hear this time of morning. 

I uncurled myself from the fetal position I was sleeping in and leaned to look out the window. 

In the earliest moments of day, it seems like everything in the world is impossibly still. This particular morning, the sky was a few shades of a light blue and purple. You could see behind the pines where the sun was starting to rise. 

My dirt driveway was mangled with large tire tracks. It was then that I remembered why I heard those loud trucks. This morning was when the cutting started. 

Living on 96 acres of forest, my life has always been surrounded by trees. Recently, my dad was given an offer by a local logging company for them to come and clear out some of the trees in my backyard. 

The loud noises of the trucks continued and I quietly stood up. I tip-toed downstairs, wary not to wake Cindy. 

No one was awake yet. It was a little past 5 in the morning. Everything was quiet in the house, except for a few croaks and moans coming from the old beams. I grabbed a blanket off the couch, careful to avoid the sleeping dog, and walked barefoot onto the front porch. 

The air this Indian summer morning was a crisp surprise. I wrapped the blanket around my arms and followed the noises of the working trucks. I walked across the cold, dew-covered grass and sat on the picnic table in my yard. 

From this spot, I could see many of the trucks working on cutting down the trees. I could hear the beeps, the wheels turning, the chains rattling. It was loud and I didn't understand how anyone in the house could sleep. 

When Dad first announced that this cutting was going on, I was angry with him. How could he cut those trees? Those trees that have harbored so many memories. The trees I climb are being cut. At the time I didn't realize that Dad was getting a lot of money for doing this, and he was doing it for his family. 

As a kid I curled up and sat and wondered. I thought about how different my backyard would look without trees. How different my life would look without trees. For me, it was all I had ever known. The thought of being without it... was scary. 

So here, first thing in the morning as the sun was rising, I watched as trees were taken from my home. In a lot of ways, the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach was much more then just losing trees. I can't say goodbye to something that seems literally to have grown to be apart of me. It was an emptiness that I couldn't explain. 

A couple weeks later, I was sitting outside of my dad. We were looking out to the field that used to be a forest. In the middle of the field were a few tall and full maple trees. One of those trees became my favorite place. If you sat at the bottom of the tree, you could see almost every inch of the sky. 

My dad told me that he kept those trees there because him and Grampy used to tap those specific trees for maple syrup. I may never have found them if the other trees were cleared. That place became a place I went whenever I had to think. I'd sit at the bottom of the tree and work everything out in my head. It seemed to be the only place that was only mine. 

I think I learned early in life that things are constantly changing. I tried to fight change. I didn't want change. I wanted things to stay the same. But sometimes, just sometimes, change is the best thing. 

Week 3

I've never trusted technology. But on this specific day, I truly learned why.
Over the summer, I had an appointment with a woman at the college I'm transferring to. I had scheduled it months before, so naturally, I completely forgot about it until I got a phone call reminding me. I had to scramble to find someone to cover for me at work, I quickly packed up my stuff to head out and I punched the address into Tom, my GPS system.
I got my GPS for my 18th birthday. Mom and Dad thought it'd be good for me to have it while I was on my own. And for the most part, I could trust good ole' Tom. For the most part, Tom was helpful.
I can vividly remember calling my mother earlier that day.


"Mom, how do I get to Machias from Bangor?" 
"Just take Route 9. It's not too long of a trip." 
"Hmm... I'll just put it into my GPS." 

I should have listened to my Mom.
When I got into the car and started on my trip, I was excited. Not only was I touring and getting to meet with people about a school I was really interested in, it was a gorgeous summer day and I got to take a nice drive.
But apparently, my GPS felt like my drive had to be 3 and a half hours long.
It was the longest drive I have ever taken by myself.
Even though it was a long-ass drive, I couldn't have picked a better day to do it. The sky was unbelievably blue, the clouds were the perfect, puffy kind that peacefully floated from one side of the sky to the other. A bright sun prompted me to slide on some aviator sunglasses, and I rolled down my window and played my favorite country songs.
When the drive started, I saw it as a great opportunity to think. Organize my thoughts. Driving is one of the only opportunities in my busy little life I have to truly be alone with my thoughts.
I couldn't help but smile at how good the sun felt through that windshield. My hair wouldn't stay in one place; but neither would my thoughts.
So many thoughts an aspirations I had revolved around the road. The dreams of the places it was taking me; the thoughts of the places it could take me.
Travelling. Sometimes that means a plane ticket or a bus ticket, or even a boat. For me today it was the Oldsmobile that was over half my age, and a road that was even older.
Tom took me through Ellsworth, which was a little concerning to me because I knew that that was in the opposite direction of where I should be going. I sorta shrugged it off and continued on driving.
As I was directed to drive out of Ellsworth, I saw a sign that said 'Downeast and Acadia : scenic drive'. It's a sign that I've seen all over Washington County as a kid. I figured that that meant I was on the right track.
I sit back and relaxed.

The trip went on for over 3 hours. Confused when I realized that I was driving for way too long then I should, I called my mom again. She told me that Tom took me on a different route; one that actually takes you around the state to get to Machias. If I would have cut through Brewer and got on Route 9, my trip would've been only half as long.
On that trip, I saw places of the state I had never seen before. I drove through places such as the Blackwoods; a forest with a winding road in the middle of it. I drove through nothing but trees for miles and miles. A lake sits in the middle of a valley in this forest; and the sight is breathtaking. Later upon doing research, I learned that the Blackwoods forest is actually locally famous; and apparently haunted.
I drove through Cherryfield, another place I had never been. Rustic and looking like it came straight out of a time machine, Cherryfield was a sight. It's refreshing to see a place so simple.
Every thing I passed on my drive were things that people had forgotten about when caught up in the busy life in the city. Maybe I had even forgotten just how whole it feels to be surrounded by this simplicity. I had been so caught up in my new life that I had forgotten that wonderful feeling.
The drive was beautiful; but when I looked at the clock, I realized that I was definitely going to be late for my appointment. Tom was telling me I still had over an hour until I reached my destination.
I called the school and let them know I was running late, and after that I just sat back and enjoyed the ride. What other option was there? No reason to get frustrated now.
As I drove along, I realized just how winding and bumpy this road was. Once I got closer to the ocean, the road was clearly eroded from the salty air. Every hill I got to the top of, I could see the Atlantic ocean past the pine tree horizon.
I smiled to myself, and realized how much I needed this drive. I was balancing 3 jobs all summer working 15 hour days. A few hours to myself almost never happened. As I zipped over hills and around corners in my rattly old car, I was reassured and relaxed about my choice to come back to the area that will always be my home. Nowhere else in the world can you see sights like this. Such untouched, unfathomable beauty.
I still don't trust technology, and from time to time, Tom will still make mistakes and take me to the wrong destination or will tell me I've reached my destination and I'm nowhere near where I need to be. But I like to tell myself that on that specific day, Tom took me on that drive for a reason. I may have gotten a sunburn on the arm I kept hung out the window, but it was the longest drive I've ever taken by myself. And maybe also one of the most important.

(fun fact: I learned later that the specific drive I took was in National Geographic's top 500 most beautiful drives on the planet!)

Week 1 : a tribute to summer.

A day spent outside is never a day wasted. Especially during those sweet three summer months. The air is warmer, the sun is hotter and the days are longer. And, arguably, your spirit is a bit more alive.

Jumping from a bridge into a swimming hole, with your friends cheering you on, is certainly one way to spend a summer day. Another is riding a bike down hills and around corners of cracked pavement, the wind in your hair and the world flashing by you too fast for your eyes to catch it. Sunbathing on a blanket in the grass with a friend, a Cosmopolitan magazine and some sandwiches is another way to spend a summer day. Tubing on a lake, riding on the back of a jet-ski, riding in the bed of a pick-up truck, hiking through the woods... How many ways are there to enjoy the natural beauty that is summer?

Imagine that your bare feet are buried under the warm, luxurious sand. Close your eyes and you can almost feel the warm breeze against your skin. Wearing a pair of denim shorts, the sun against your bare legs. You open your eyes and a lake is spread out around you; as calm as ever, it creates a mirror-like image of the impossibly blue sky.

The faint smell of a campfire and pine trees travels with the wind. The radio sits on top of the over-turned canoe, the country station it was on turned down low enough to hear what song was on. You pick up a rock and throw it into the lake.

With a splash comes a ripple, and the ripple travels quickly on the surface of the water. Amazing, isn't it? How such a small thing can create such a big reaction.

Arms sore from canoeing, you pull yourself up and stretch your arms above your head, reviling in the freedom.

How perfect this entire place is.

Nothing is sweeter and crisper then that first breaking, waking moment of the early morning. This specific morning was decorated in dew and rain drops. The sky remained blue but the rain still fell.

Walking out of the tent, you're first embraced by the smell of a fresh summer rainfall. The air and sand beneath your feet wet, you step out of the thicket and into the clearing that faced the lake.

As if it was a canvas stretched out in front of you, the dark clouds and blue morning sky was home to a rainbow. You could see it's beginning and end, and it reflected off the lake to create two images of the same rainbow.

It was only there a minute or two before it faded. What if you hadn't woken up in time? You would have missed a future story you'd tell. 

An image like that, you can only sit and enjoy it.

As a girl, you sit on a rock in front of the bay and dip your toes in the cold, salty water. The night sky is as dark as ever and the water is an inky-black mass that is laid out in front of you. A huge moon reflects off the wavy water, and the millions of stars in the sky are the moon's faithful companions.

A crisp wind picks up. You hug your legs close to your chest.

I'd like to know just how many of those stars there are...

You think to yourself. You look up at the cloudless sky and can't even fathom beginning to count.

I wonder if you can see these many stars everywhere in the world. 

For some reason, you doubt it.

The waves are melodic tonight. It almost makes you sleepy; almost makes you want to go inside and tell Nana you're ready to bed.

But you want to sit here for a little while longer.

Watching the bay this time of night isn't exactly exciting. The tide is too high to walk about and look for shells. It's too dark to look for boats or seals.

But for some reason, on this August night, watching the waves is better then watching TV.

"I'm afraid!" You cry, jumping down from the edge of the bridge.

"You're scared?!" Your cousin calls up to you, "Seriously? This bridge really is less then 15 feet up."

"I haven't jumped off it since I was a kid though!" I yelled back.

"Then it's even less scary now!" One friend called up to you, "Just avoid jumping too far to the left or the right. You'll hit a bunch of rocks and die."

Everyone laughed except you. You pushed some hair behind your ears and looked down.

It really isn't that far...

"C'mon!" They all seem to say together.

Below the old wooden bridge is a small swimming hole. It branches off into a rocky brook that travels through the thick forest. To your left and your right is a seemingly endless dirt road.

You sigh and get back up on the edge of the bridge.

Your friends whoop and cheer as you prepare yourself for the jump.

I suppose you only live once.

You take a deep breath and jump, screaming your whole way down.

Week Two : A funeral on a hill.

         Somewhere along the winding, bumpy and old line on the map called Route 9, a tiny little farm house sat atop a hill. In the summer, the yard of the home is decorated with flowers and bushes of every color. The view from the back window of the house was a scene of green rolling hills; the kind of view where you could see for miles. On a sunny enough day, you could even see the shadows of the clouds in the sky on those hills. But today, it was snowy and cold. The overcast sky shown no sign of the sun. The air was too cold for comfort and there wasn’t a breath of wind. 
The driveway was overflowing with trucks and cars. People bundled up in their coats, gloves and scarves to fend off the January Maine cold. They all walked up the hill behind the house with solemn faces. Some were wearing black; some were in casual clothes. 
A man stood in front of three grave sites. He held a bible in covered hands; his aged face held a warm smile. 
Locals all gathered around. There were at least 60 people; almost all of them were ones you could easily run into at the general store and hold a conversation with, or ones you’d cheerfully sit down next to at a high school basketball game. Every person there was connected, not only by the gravestone that represented a lost life, but also by the place where you decided to hang your hat. They all chose a different little life; one without many luxuries and plenty of bumpy paths, sort of like this old Route 9. 
From the place where these people stood, the pine trees lined the horizon for as far as the eye could see. A young woman with dark hair, a polka-dot dress and an oversized camera bag scurried up the hill a little late. She greeted her family with hugs, kisses and kind words. 
A very famous Psalm was read once the ceremony started. The one about walking in the valley of the shadow of death, and knowing that you are not alone. Whoever this funeral was for, it was clear that they were never alone in life. 
The gravestones had names of them represented resting places of members of a family who wanted to be placed here on this hill. 
“Everyone in town could count on her,” The man with the bible says, “She was known by ‘Grammie’ to everyone, even if she wasn’t related to them. Her home was always open to everyone, and she was always there to help anyone in town who needed it.” 
Suddenly, a woman standing by the grave bursts into tears. She runs in front of everyone and embraces with another woman, muttering incoherent words. 
Once the short and very appropriate ceremony was over, everyone was invited into the little house to celebrate the life of Barbara. 
Three friends joined together on the walk back to the house. A blonde girl, the dark-haired girl with the polka-dot dress, and a young man in a black suit with a red tie. They all smiled and exchanged some words as the wind picked up and they seemed to shiver in unison. The one in the dress stopped to snap a few pictures with her camera. Once to the house, they entered together, still youthfully smiling. 
If it weren’t for the overwhelming bunch of people in the old house, you’d be able to see just how full of a home it already was. Pictures of family members decorated the walls as did hand-painted portraits of mountains and other beautiful scenes. Quilts, probably ones made by family members, were scattered on every chair, sofa and bed visible. Decorative plates hung on the walls with words that said happy 20th, 30th and 50th anniversary. Everything in the home seemed handmade and one of a kind.
Voices and laughs traveled through the walls of the home. Everyone knew each other’s names; everyone was happy to see one another. It was not only a celebration of life but also a reunion of sorts. The young friends all went to three separate and very different colleges. 
“She’s a ‘home girl’, my granddaughter.” An old woman with olive-toned skin said to another lady as she pointed to the girl in the polka-dot dress, “She’s been in the big city for a while but now she’s coming closer to home.” 
Families poured in and out of the doors of the house. Food was welcome to everyone, as was a place to rest your bones. There was either a cold soda or a hot coffee with your name on it, and food was practically forced in your hands. Everyone was family. 
The house creaked and shook because of all the activity, and the floor was clearly uneven and there was clearly not enough room. But no one seemed to care. Children bounced on the knees of their parents and toddlers curiously walked about looking up at all the new faces. It was a huge spectrum of every walk of life; rosy-cheeked babies, little girls in tutus, teenagers chatting in the corner, young adults sharing their college experiences, parents talking about the weather and the elderly reminiscing. Every step of life was here under one roof, and all because of one grim reason. 
Pictures of Barbara were all gathered together on a board in the full living room. The girl in the polka-dot dress stopped and peered at the board as she pushed her glasses up her nose. 
Clearly still very youthful, this selection of pictures made her smile. All of the pictures were collected from very beautiful parts of Barbara’s very full and well-lived life. Parts of her own life that have yet to arrive. As if it was a perfectly placed time line, you saw pictures of her as a young woman and you watched her age. Married for over 50 years and living until she was 85, Barbara clearly made an impact on the lives of many people. 
“She never did anything for herself,” A woman who sat in a chair near the fireplace said, “She was always doin’ things for others.” 
The girl in the polka-dot dress saw the sorrow and the equal amounts of happiness that surrounded her. The walls of this home had harbored many memories and much love; the young woman could only hope that she would someday hope that she could create a life this full. 
She was snapped out of her thoughts when a smiling face called her name. 
“Holliann! Over here!” 
It was one of her friends calling her to join a conversation. For a split second, she paused and seemed to be lost in thought. But whatever thought it was, it lasted only a moment. She joined her friend with a smile and a plate of food. 
The snow continued to fall slowly from the sky. It seemed as though the whole town was sitting together in the house. From every path of life, and every familiar face, a few hours were shared together to celebrate the end of a life of one of their own. 
There was no better way to do it. 

Rest in peace, Barbara Rhoades.