Why 3 Birches Way, you wonder?

Where I hear my own song

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Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. — Rachel Carson

Why 3 Birches Way you wonder?

When a new friend learned the title of my newsletter, she asked if it was an address. It isn't. It's more of a state of mind. The way or path of the place in Maine where I see three birches together. I miss birches, my favorite trees from where I grew up in a New York suburb. When I go to the coast of Maine in the fall, most tourists have gone and the serene beauty of that place seeps into my very being.

The peace of mind and clarity I have there is unsurpassed. I'm calibrated to my true North, see what is precious to me, what draws my interest, and what I’m passionate about.

The other side of that is that I tend to make a list of what to get rid of when I go home-objects, obligations, activities, and projects I no longer enjoy or want to expend time and energy on. I want to clear space for new ideas and passion projects.

The simple cabin

I am most at home in that coastal place, and at home with myself. There is no TV or WiFi and we thankfully have lousy cell phone coverage. The rustic cabin that is our base doesn't have interior walls, only exposed wood boards and wires. It does have electricity and running water, a comfortable bed, and a galley kitchen with basic, old appliances that work just fine and no microwave.

The open room with living room, dining room and kitchen, the one bedroom, and the bathroom with the hot water heater are all heated with a wood stove. I’m adept at laying fires and getting them going without smoking the place up. We have a little electric heater now so we don’t have to get up to add wood in the middle of the night.

The century old cabin is right on the water. There are slabs of rock in front of the cabin and then the sea. You can’t build that close to the water anymore, so it’s a treat.

We have a great little screened-in porch as well, and the visible patches where holes developed in the screens, just add to the charm. The inside rail is usually covered with my treasures-small, smooth stones, bits of lichens, mosses, and fallen birch bark that sports intriguing little rectangular holes made by bugs.

Filling my well

On fair days, I’m often found on an Adirondack chair that sits on those slabs of granite. One wide arm of the chair holds a thermos of hot tea, the other, a small recycled notebook and pen. Looking out across the sea, I could be the only person in the world except for a tiny sailboat in the distance.

In the foreground are little sushi wedge-shaped islands and promontories covered with pointed firs and other evergreens. On the rock islands closest to me, seagulls and cormorants form an organic avian idea of a line, resting peacefully together. Cormorants, with their wings spread out to dry, are a quirky, common sight.

I enjoy a day or two of rain to read a good book and often hang out on the screened-in porch, entranced by the view up the untouched coastline through the raindrops caught screen to my right. There's an Aspen right outside, its slim trunk bent toward the water. In even a slight breeze, its yellow leaves seem to wave a greeting, an acknowledgment that I belong there as well.

We hear and see loons call to each other, buoy bells, and occasional fog horns. Last year, it was hazy every day from smoke from nearby Canadian wild fires. At night, if I go down to the dock and pull a stick through the dark water, the sparkling trail of phosphorescence seems magical.

Community

I’ve met wonderful people where we stay because if you get that amazing, inspiring place, you at least have core values in common and may even be a potential soulmate.

We have community there, camp friends we look forward to seeing. We share the skinny on hiking trails camp-related news and restaurant openings and closings recommendations. We also have a meal together either out or around a fire.

People who try where we stay and can’t stand the quiet, being alone with their thoughts or memories, tend not to come back.

The camp attracts people who love the peace, serenity, and natural beauty of a Maine autumn. There is absolutely nothing else to do there. It could be a hundred years earlier except for the designer names on jackets and boots and the types of cars.

The original campers

A century ago, the people who came to the original cabins with no electricity or running water, were called rusticators.

New Yorkers with more money than my immigrant grandparents could escape the city's summer heat by taking a train to Boston and a ferry from there to the Maine coast by steamboat.

Camp rhythm

There are walks and trails at our snug retreat. We read, listen to audiobooks or the radio and can get an actual, paper copy of the Sunday New York Times if we wish, which we can’t at home in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I’m inspired to write haiku there and almost only there. There is precious time to think or just be. For me to hear my heart’s whispers, too often unheard amid the noise of daily life at home and a constant drumbeat of tragedies, politicians who don't seem to realize that their greed, lack of compassion, and brinkmanship impact real people's lives.

Weaving a new tapestry

In Maine, the bad news, worries, and annoyances of everyday life fall away. I follow my own life pulse, what makes it quicken with joy and wonder as I watch the scene in all its moods or hike on soft pine needle-blanketed trails.

Well-grounded in nature and quiet, I ruminate about how I want to be and live, the good place I want to come from inside when I interact with others and the world.

Maine moments

Maine is referred to as downeast due to it being the easternmost place in the U.S. The sun rises earliest there, usually around 5:30 a.m. when we are there. We have only to reach over and pull a curtain open while lying in bed to watch a spectacular sunrise. The sunsets over the water leave me in awe as well.

We can’t count on it, but if we're in luck and a certain woman camper is there, we are treated to her playing her fiddle on the deck of her cabin. It often happens on our first night there.

Her practice sessions are a concert for us. They tend to begin as the sun begins its lovely journey home for the night. Last year, I was returning from a walk when my ears perked up and I froze, straining to hear. Yes, she's warming up! The water carried the sounds from another part of the camp. My head swiveled toward the deck of her usual cabin. I never see her, but the music walfts from there.

I was torn between not wishing to miss a note and not wanting my husband to miss this. A few warm-ups and music that makes my heart sing floated over the water to me.

I spotted my husband looking through the window of our cabin and waved him over with urgency. He frowned and then I sawhim realize why I might be waving him over as if our rental car were on fire. He rushed out, careful not to interrupt by giving the screen door a soft close.

As I strained to hear every note of tunes that I don’t know but are always somehow familiar, I watch the purples, reds, and oranges of the sun’s spectacular good night show. The seabirds are quiet by then, and our neighbors are inside.

I take in both the sunset in the sky and its reflection in the cove, the peaceful cabins, music, and my sweetie, and think, “It doesn’t get better than this.”

So, for me, 3 Birches Way is the way I want to be and live, the peaceful, generous, thoughtful place inside me that I’d like to always come from. It's an interior address and state of being?

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I hope that you have someplace like this, where stress falls away and the clear sky and water soothe the soul and lift your spirits. If so, I hope you'll share it with us in the comments.

What I want to share with you today

If you don't have such a place yet or just need a reprieve from the worries and pace of every day life, check out windowswap.com

People upload 20 minute videos of the view out their windows all over the world. The English countryside, early morning from a shop in Brooklyn, a terrace in Thailand or a coffee plantation in Brazil. Press the button at the bottom center and switch to a winding street in an Italian village, a suburban neighborhood in Sweden, an Australia seaview.

When I miss rain, snow or spring blooms, I can see them there. On days  I'm feeling like no one else is experiencing what I am, I see their cat in the window, house plants, and keepsakes,  hear the noise of someone cooking or a garbage truck, and know it's not true.

If you enjoy window swap, you could make a video of your own view to upload. There are instructions on the site and it is all free.

If you could use some instant peace, try these short clips of forest sounds:  www.tree.fm