I spent Saturday afternoon surrounded by the flowers of Esalen, an institute and retreat center in Big Sur.

The flowers are near the gardens,

and visitors are encouraged to take a sweet pea or two with provided scissors,

There is incredible energy in this place where those seeking to learn arrive for workshops and seminars,

to see parts of themselves unfold in brilliant colors.

From the gardens, I could hear the poets on stage as part the day’s Arts Festival, so I left the orange dahlias,

to see what words were being spoken—

beyond impressed with Dr. Thema Bryant-Davis’s performance, especially her (famous) “An Upbeat Black Girl’s Song” that rang out over the grounds.

I wandered over to where hula hoops revolved near the mineral baths,

and plantings of succulents,

and returned to watch the opposite stage as someone chalked a peaceful heart in blue near my feet,

as the tribute to to Francisco Aguabella (1925-2010) with Jesus Diaz & Pedro “Muñeco” Aguilar began, and I was inspired by another fierce female artist, Kati Hernandez, who commanded the audience’s attention.

Kati was joined by another dancer who left his microphone to dance in front,

until she appeared in a different costume (the blue costume symbolized the maternal force of water, known as Yemayá in these traditions).

Then, the two danced together after the different types of Afro-Cuban rumba (Rumba Yambú, Rumba Guaguancó, and Rumba Columbia) were explained,

and the group’s performance on the bright stage hung with prayer flags ended with a huge audience conga line around the space and everyone on their feet (also, the drummer in the center with the cap was phenomenal).

As they finished, the festival founder and creative director Jayson Fann (here in the hat) was readying the next performer, Viviana Guzmán—part of a seamless string of talent that graced the stages throughout, and not an easy feat with an entire day of different acts.

As Viviana’s set started, beautiful local food began to be served:

a local halibut, local corn, and three salads with lettuces grown at Esalen ( “greens that haven’t seen a mechanized vehicle!” a proud server crowed).

Grateful to my friend Bella Shing for alerting me to the event (she’s lovely, and ran a filmmaking intensive as part of the festival), I left the celebration of artists and food and nature to drive into the sun around Big Sur,

inspired by all the views of the day on the misty drive back to my cabin…

I heard the sea spray as our little ferry rocked to and fro last week on the way to Île Saint-Honorat.

One of the Lérins islands close to Cannes, Île Saint-Honorat is dotted with small chapels and a modern monastery.

One resident monk (there are thirty in this Cistercian community) was on the ferry with us, perhaps to officiate the service later that afternoon, or returning to tend the island vineyards.

There is a grand archway that stands alone near where the ferry docks, and beyond it lay mostly trees and native plants;

butterflies flutter everywhere in the tall grasses in a way that feels eternal.

Leaving the shoreline,

and the blue, blue water of the Mediterranean,

I ventured into some of the vineyards (please don’t tell the monks),

and then headed toward the abbey beyond.

Somehow, it felt strange to see cacti in this quiet place,

but the island has fended off invaders for centuries, and some paths are pricklier than others;

ducking into the wide space under this tree branch,

I found a startling view.

And then I saw the fortified monastery and took off (it’s probably a lovely swim too) in that direction.

Inside, there are the small openings that let in the breeze,

hint at the blue water surrounding,

a chapel within, beautifully signed,

and the archways provide shade on the lower levels,

but climb the structure’s single spiral staircase for the view from higher archways,

and to see the entire island.

I watched the shadows below, thinking about what it must be like to live as part of the order here,

and to see each afternoon the lavender bend in the wind, filling the air with its peaceful fragrance.

Near the lavender, carefully planted beds flank the path to the abbey,

with leaves shading the walkways,

and I heard the gentle swish of robes before I saw them as time for afternoon service approached. I wandered back toward the ferry, through the archway, past the flowers that seem imbued with meaning.

Noticing an ancient little chapel tucked in near the archway, I thought perhaps with views so grand, only a tiny place to kneel is needed, if only to study the contrast.

I am surrounded by tall trees I can see from windows all around the cabin in Santa Cruz, but early in the morning, birds tap at the windows, urging me out into the day and toward even larger trees—

butterflies flutter about too, landing where I can watch them slowly open their wings slightly, drawing me outside to watch them alight on branches and plantings,

and then I do wander into the woods, passing fruited trees,

pausing for church flea markets like this one in Felton, California,

with homemade candles,

all manner of miscellany,

and aqua wine glasses that I felt the cabin needed in her kitchen cabinets (quite worth the expenditure).

And then I pass into Henry Cowell State Park to visit a spell with old-growth redwoods, stately in their bark of many colors,

fielding avian interruptions as I walk and birds hop on close posts, anxious to talk (my friend Karen, who knows this area of California well and cultivates a bird following, would enjoy these discussions).

The Zayante Indians once lived in the area, and the trees are between 1400 and 1800 years old; their majesty defies capture, as the trees twist away from the camera,

and I cannot show you the bits of softly falling leaves in the light,

I can only suggest the way a stand of trees seem to bend into each other, conspiratorially.

When I have looked up for a long while, I go to find spongy moss growing on logs,

the plants growing at the base of trees, spotlighted as sun filters in through serious branches,

and, my mind quieted, I look back over my shoulder as I leave these trees that will stand resolute, grandly implacable, the same way they will stand when I inevitably return, again and again…

If I had to pick, Saturday would be my favorite day of the road trip, beginning with the town of Greybull, Wyoming that looked so like I imagined a small western town might,

and we continued on in the early hour past the Bureau of Reclamation on our way to a trading post,

with horns, of course,

and a welcome to the Land of Buffalo Bill at Our Place,

where we ate crispy hash browns and eggs with tomatillo sauce and bits of pork, and thick, smoky bacon and biscuits and gravy besides.

There was a persuasive woman carrying a basket of poppies around, and we showed our support for vets, (she instructed us to carry the red flowers with us around town).

Kat is standing here in front of a fireworks outlet, which seems like a great idea to build next to the daily rodeo center,

in Cody, Wyoming, the “Rodeo Capital of the World.”

We drove on past blue-green water, slowing down after two days of chasing the light down the highway,

startled by a Yellowstone covered in snow,

but most surprised to see a bison walking down the middle of the road. (This is the most powerful argument I can imagine for sharing the road.)

We saw bison later that day, too, but instead of the hooves clacking in a jaunty walk down the yellow line, this one was much more interested in eating grass.

Yellowstone holds incredible beauty,

and thermal energy.

We arrived near Old Faithful to be told we had one minute before the next eruption,

so we ran to join the crowd soon gasping as the heat curled away from the vertical geyser (the timing between each eruption is lengthening, apparently, which park attendants suggest may be yet another indication of climate change).

From Yellowstone, we drove through the Grand Tetons,

that amaze with their beauty, too.

And we pulled into the Jackson sunshine, to Snake River Brewing Co. for local beer,

and then margaritas, Yucatan pork, and chile relleno at the outdoor patio at Pica’s, where we overheard a fantastically encouraging (and heated) conversation between a tableful of collegiate guys discussing the merits of dairy; “It’s whole milk or no milk, John.”

And we returned to watch an equally impressive sunset from our cabin porch at Spring Creek Ranch (I highly recommend these accommodations a few hundred feet above Jackson Hole),

And the mountains were waiting for us in the morning, pulling us reluctantly from Wyoming and into Idaho, Montana, and Washington…

I did not think Maine would inspire with doughnuts—but then, Maine is full of surprises.

The Willow Bake Shoppe opens early, to close at noon, in the accepted local practice of quirky business hours,

and I walked in last Monday morning to the smell of baking, of warm classic buttermilk and molasses doughnuts, some rolled in sugar.

When you visit, go for the chocolate glazed (code for chocolate cake baked into circles with a shiver of icing) at this little shop.

After work in the quiet office, my wonderful friend Keryn and I walked up Beech Hill Preserve to watch the clouds,

and the water.

Keryn pointed out the sod roof on the house at the top of the hill, another old-fashioned Maine surprise, as even a roof can spring to life.

Mornings in Maine tend to be equally serene,

birds winging their way across ripples,

the still Camden harbor waters sparkling,

local products being produced, to later be found at the wonderful Farmers Fare in Rockport, Maine: Keene Dairy raw milk (my favorite of the area raw milks), Maine Natural Oils’s potent mustard oil, mint water (not quite sure how I’ll use this), Dolcelinos excellent ice cream sandwiches (try the ginger-lemon), and Farmers Fare Frozen Joy (a product they are still perfecting).

On Friday night, the Maine Farmland Trust gallery in Belfast featured Keryn’s friend Lily’s work, and so we went to see her clean images of Maine farmers with their lovely scrubbed vegetables, before heading to (“life-changing,” as Keryn’s friend Rachel told us as we walked through the door) Pemaquid oysters at Three Tides, where they serve Harbor Wharf Brewing Co. beer produced next door.

The next morning, we pulled out Keryn’s copy of the Maine Gazetteer (Maine has their own version of most things—for a road atlas, the Gazetteer, for Craig’s List, Uncle Henry’s)—and headed toward sauerkraut.

Morse’s Sauerkraut is an institution,

offering foods in the restaurant that complement their sauerkraut and pickles, adjacent to a comprehensive European foodstuffs store.

Keryn ordered the refined Swedish pancakes with lingonberries (on top and also within the folds), while I embraced what might be the only Reuben omelette I have the great pleasure of ordering, filled with sauerkraut, swiss, and corned beef next to potatoes and sauce, rye bread.

We lingered in the shop, talking to the store owner who promised to carry Spekuloos soon (the gingerbread cookie spread that the Waffle Truck in NY is making famous), and who introduced us to pear and apple stroop, coffee candies, and chalk licorice.

We found our way to Liberty Tool, wandering among three floors of collected tools of all sorts,

wondering what a Mirroscope might be (looks like a proper projector and maybe one that uses internal mirrors to reflect?),

and Keryn illustrated how a blueberry rake (missing its handle) works.

Passing old cars, Keryn drove us from Liberty back to Camden,

where we secured a few large bags of the addictive Little Lad’s popcorn as sustenance for our friend Jen,

who is rebuilding a house of her very own.

A herculean effort, Jen’s strength of purpose showed as she talked with affection about installing the beautiful tub,

working on this room that hasn’t been a focus yet,

the vintage stove she bought years ago (that I would like to cook on someday),

and I would say we left Jen musing about the possibilities,

but knowing her better than that, more likely, she went back inside to find employment for her beloved power tools and some pieces of siding or trim, whirring away into the afternoon.

Gloriously free of tools, and not needing the Gazetteer for the nearest food markets, I wandered back to the small working farm behind Farmers Fare,

and, of course, inside the space full of local products and a cafe, ordering what turned out to be the best charcuterie plate I’ve ever had of smoked mussels, smoked day boat scallops, Sullivan Harbor Farm Smokehouse‘s incredible roasted smoked salmon, and local apples, good salami, mustard, Morse’s pickles, and a house-made relish.

Back at Keryn and Mike’s house, we made a garlic paste for cooked cannellini beans, smoothed it into a spread, and headed over to Ladleah and Shane’s house, where the fire was starting and the table was being set,

daffodils and quince branches from their friend Peels were waiting on the dinner guests,

Keryn placed napkins,

and Ladleah and her friend Rodney (who will be working at Primo) were prepping goat chorizo, mushrooms, and shells for the big paella pan,

that steamed with all the good things in it under the careful watch of its expert handlers.

Ladleah told me how she had just enough eggs for her soft, fresh pasta; the rest of the eggs were promised for Sunday’s Supper at Salt Water Farm, like the wonderful one I attended the week before (one of the many reasons I stayed an extra week in Maine).

Having completed their egg duty earlier, the chickens inspected the table,

before everyone shooed them away (conspiratorially taking my arm, Ladleah showed me how they roost in their quarters),

and everyone helped place the bowls on the table (at right is the fascinating Evan Strusinski, who forages lovely things for local restaurants and a few in New York with impossible reservation lists),

as the sun faded (at left in the foreground is Annemarie, the inspiring chef at Salt Water Farm who has made the transition from Brooklyn to Maine beautifully, and who shared her excitement about new offerings from local fish purveyors).

Jen, sans power tools, was on my left, across were Keryn and Mike, and all these beautiful people with their beautiful energy passed the wooden bowls, served each other, and their laughter rang out.

As the best dinners do, everyone moved around the table, making sure to talk to everyone else, and much later, dessert crêpes appeared, then a guitar that Rodney skillfully played in the living room by the kitchen,

and I stole outside in a borrowed jacket and scarf to warm my hands at the fire, look up at the stars, knowing I had to leave so I could return.

Suddenly, and with her usual grace, Keryn was next to me, and then her talented group of friends (that she generously included me as part of all week) joined us at the fire, and I knew I was smitten with this group, firm in their conviction they can shape the lives they want in this place.

I drove back to a rainy Brooklyn on Sunday, the trees as green as the Maine fiddleheads I split and sautéed, stirred into pasta with roasted asparagus and ramps, shaved pecorino, and a simple cream sauce for dinner with my wise friend Solana, who forgave me for missing her birthday party when she heard about my coastal adventures.

We finished a Chenin Blanc and dipped warm stroopwafels from the Maine woods into vanilla pudding (recipe) and talked of the summer, extending stays in places you grow to love,

and I thought about how my life is like the spiral of fiddlehead ferns, about to unfurl in ways I cannot even imagine…