A Recipe for Childhood: Blueberries

This is a mid-winter picture from the east side of Blue Hill Bay -- less than 5 miles from where I was born. If you could pan around to the left you would see the small town of Blue Hill which is a lovely little town in mid-coast Maine. It was listed (along with Athens, Ohio -- the place I currently call home) as one of the 12 Best Places to Live You Never Heard Of by Mother Earth News. Somehow I am deeply connected to both places.

The hill in the distance is one of the three mountains making up Mount Desert Island, where I spent much of of my early childhood. When I was young -- 8 or 9 years old -- my best friend Elihue and I used to row our little dingy out into the middle of Bass Harbor amidst huge cargo ships, sailboats and lobster boats. We also spent hours and days exploring the rocky coast line near Bass Harbor Lighthouse which was about 2 miles from my last Maine home. I remember running fearlessly and quickly over the rocky coast letting my feet guide the way -- never hesitating and never falling. We found some huge caves that led way back into the shoreline. It was a pretty magical childhood really.

When I returned a few summers ago with my friends, I once again decided to run fearlessly and quickly over the rocks way down the coast, leaving my friends far behind. The smell of the ocean and the pounding surf, the rough, sharp rocks, the spray of the ocean as it moved endlessly, the sound of seagulls above and the endless coastline (Maine has the longest coastline of any state in the US -- longer even than California's, though the state is much smaller) kept my feet moving and my footing solid. The motion of my body over these rocks a memory that required no thought process.

I associate that feeling with freedom from way back in my childhood and was happy to know that even as an adult, I could move over that landscape almost like a bird -- no fear of falling, only the quick pushing off of one foot, the jump to the next rock, pushing off again, and again.

Behind the photographer in the above photo is a hill with a bumpy unpaved road that becomes a mess of mud and ice throughout at least half of the year. That road leads to the Circle Farm, the old name of the hippie commune where I was born. It is covered in low-bush blueberry fields and some 5-6 houses spread out through the 80 or so acres of the Farm. It is my second home.

My recipe for remembering what it feels like to be a kid goes like this:

In mid August find a large, open blueberry field
Sit down in the middle of it
Eat as many blueberries as you can from that spot
Move on to the next spot
Keep eating blueberries
and move on again, until you can't possibly eat another blueberry and at some point later you will probably, as I did when young, make some pretty awesome blue poop.