Spring and Sufficiency
May 14, 2025
Howdy everyone,
Welcome back! Happy May! Here in Maine, we are moving into the beautiful time of year where the weather is warming up, the sun is coming out more often, and the plants are sprouting their freshly grown leaves. Fall is my favorite season but there is something softly romantic about spring and the new growth this season beckons in. It is a testament that no matter how long winter feels, there will always be new beginnings. Anyways, take a moment to grab your favorite beverage and let’s talk.
April in Maine was an interesting time of year in Pine Tree State. It’s as if the whole state was in a balancing act between holding onto the chill in the air or wanting to usher in the joys of spring. And finally, here we are. Spring is here. Unlike Texas though, spring does not just pop up seemingly in one night. Spring is soft here, it’s slow, and it gives people the perfect amount of time to appreciate the purpose of spring, what it means, and how it changes the landscape. Much like spring, that is what this past month has felt like. A slow unfurling of new prospects, new life being breathed into frost-bitten ground, a gentle coaxing with a promise of spectacular things if just given the chance and a little bit of light. This month has been nothing less than what I was hoping for when given the opportunity to come to the most northern state. Although, it has felt as if like the state, I am walking a tightrope where the remnants of Texas linger and I am caught between the feeling of ice and familiarity and the chill of guilt about leaving everyone I know behind on one side but also wanting to fall to the other side and be enveloped by the unknown of Maine. The promises of maybe. The call of potential. The warmth of possibility. And although the cold lingers for a bit, the desire for more is stronger. So now the question of how to balance the two becomes prominent. How can I fully experience this new area and embrace the new changes in the air without feeling as if I am forsaking my home? Where does the guilt end within me for taking the opportunity of leaving? Is this what being an adult feels like? (PSA: Now listen, I realize this all sounds very pity party and depressing, but I promise I am anything but. I am happy to be here, but these are feelings and thoughts that I struggle with each time I have to say goodbye. Don’t freak out. I am okay. Looking at you mom) Although these are thoughts that I have had many times before; does not mean they are any less significant in my mind. It is all about balance. Until the cold subsides and the warmth wins, it is a waiting period. It is okay to sit in the uncomfortable. I have come to realize that yes, the chill of sentimentality remains, but spring is coming. And instead of being upset that the bit of ice stays, I appreciate it. Without it, what kind of person would I be? If I was never a bit sad about everyone and everything being over 2000 miles away, how would I ever be able to fall in love with my life now? The dark and light balance out to create this stunning display of independence, pride within myself and self-sufficiency. Things that I hold very dear to my heart when it comes to me as a human being.
Speaking of self-sufficiency, let's get into the adventures I have already accomplished since being here. The last time we spoke, I had been here for approximately 5 days. What a lifetime away that feels like now. Since the last time I wrote, our location has opened and we are now slowly but surely welcoming in the busy season, much like the surrounding towns. But before our location opened, I have done and experienced quite a few things. I spent a lot of my time out in Acadia National Park and wow. I cannot recommend enough. Truly a stunning National Park with so much grace and beauty that calls to people. Within the park, I have seen, and hiked, many of the popular spots so that I am able to get an expansive understanding of the area for our guests. Places that people visit Acadia for, I have had the incredible honor of being able to experience before the rush of tourism slams against the shore of this National Park, such as Thunder Hole, Sand Beach, Jordan Pond, Cadillac Mountain, Otter Cliffs, etc. Along with these popular destinations, I did one of the “most dangerous hikes in America”. Alone. No I do not recommend people doing it alone, but did I listen? No. No, I did not. So this hike is the Beehive trail. Let me paint a picture for those who do not know this hike, this hike is characterized by sheer cliff faces, iron rungs that you have to climb up in order to reach the summit, and honestly, not much keeping you from falling off these boulders if you take even one small, tiny, wrong step. And I said to myself “yeah I can do it” for my first hike. After not hiking for at least three months. And never doing a hike with this intensity. Anyways, everything was going well, you know, climbing elevation almost immediately once getting on the trail, but it was only on slightly slippery stone, so I was feeling pretty good! I realized that I had made a huge mistake very quickly after the first grouping of iron rungs. At this point, I was out of breath, either because of adrenaline, the amount of exertion that the ladders took, or just the intense amount of fear that was brought on once I looked up and saw just exactly how many more iron rungs there were that I would need to climb and the slowly sinking realization that I am the only one on this hike. There was no one around me. There were no other hikers that could offer aid if something went terribly wrong. And to be honest, there are plenty of stories of things going very wrong on this trail. But all of those thoughts stopped once I turned and saw just how beautiful the view was even from this short way up. I could see the ocean and it was framed by the pine trees that I had yet to climb high enough to get past, but the contrast between the green and the blue was enough that I knew I had to see more, and so with that, I continued my ascent. It was terrifying. I was shaking almost the entire time. There were many times that I had to stop and wipe the sweat from my hands just in order to get a better grip on these freaking iron rungs that dangled hikers over a drop into dense Maine pine forests. But right when I was about to throw in the towel and call it quits because my poor heart could no longer take this adrenaline dump, I saw it. The most beautiful thing I have seen since being in Maine. The Beehive Summit marker. I had done it. I conquered this trail. And since no one was around, I did it courageously and gracefully. That is the story we are going with. Once I saw that sign, I took a few more steps and there it was. What the hike was worth it for. On the top of this massive collection of boulders, you could see everything. You could see the way the ocean collided with the jagged stones, the way the pine forests reached towards the Atlantic only to realize the soil had no footing for them. How the mountains raised towards the sky while blanketed in the most beautiful deep green. And there I was. A simple human, who reached this moment. I sat on that boulder and I cried. Either because my nerves were shot or because the time simply called for it amidst this landscape. But as I sat there, taking it in, the most simple thought crossed through my mind. “I did it. alone.” There is no one here to celebrate this moment with me. There is no one here to see what I just went through and to tell me they are proud of me for accomplishing this hike. I did it. And I was alone while I did it. There was no help. This thought, while taking in the sights, was everything to me. I had never felt so proud of myself. I had never felt so strong and sufficient in my own means. But how often in life do we do the same thing? No one is with us when we reach the summit of what we have toiled and fought through. No one is there for us to rely on when things get hard and you are precariously on the edge of a mental cliffside. I feel as if we forget that we are our own hikers, and we are our own Beehive. We urge ourselves on. We are responsible for each careful step, each biting metal rung, each planned movement to reach the top of our own life. And we are responsible for our pride and accomplishments. I feel like although you do not get to take pictures of the top of the rocks once you reach the metaphorical summit, you can still be proud of your own self reliance and self sufficiency. You made it. You did it. Alone. And I am so proud of the treacherous hikes that you have done in silence. In the forests and mountains of your own mind. and you should be too.
Well, that was a lot. I can even read back and realize that there was a lot to this post. I have a lot of thoughts. Thank you for sticking with me through it. I am grateful for all of you. I appreciate you. each and every one. So get out there, get outside, see what the world has to offer you and take it. You got this. I am proud of you. But you don't need me to be proud, you are capable of pride and accomplishments yourself. But just know, if you do ever need that extra help and support or even just to hear it from another person, I am here. And I will tell you I am proud of you. Every time.
Until next time, I hope to see you out there.
Natalee