Maine feels like a place defined by space; generous shorelines stretching in every single direction. You don’t see a ton of people, but you see their mark. Thoughtfully maintained hiking trails that wind through abundant wild blueberry patches and over mossy pine sprinkled floors that lead to intentionally constructed benches tucked in at the water’s edge, affirming a quiet shared agreement among strangers that this landscape is worth reverence.

I’m in what I’m calling the grand finale of my self-made sabbatical. A season I chose to intentionally reset my walk through life, giving myself the space to tune into my needs. Simply put, it’s been a real privilege.

Love ( with a capital L)

It was Love (with a capital L) that brought me to Maine, an invitation to celebrate one of my longest, dearest friends as she married an incredible man, in the beautiful home where he spent his summers. I felt privileged not only to witness their pure love, but also to be embraced by the warmth of both their families. This intimate glimpse into Maine life was an abundant, spacious gift… perhaps the cherry on top of the unknown sundae I had ordered.

I love being fully immersed in the moment of love. To me, a wedding feels like the truest expression of a couple’s essence. Nothing fills me with deeper pride than witnessing the love my dearest ones have so thoughtfully cultivated for themselves. A living, breathing proclamation of devotion. I myself am a lover girl, so naturally… I live for these moments.

So of course, I was elated to accept the invitation to head to Maine. Having never been, I carried with me a quiet intention: to release any and all expectations. My pre-trip planning was akin to going to the movies without watching the trailer… you’ve heard it’s going to be good, so why risk spoiling it? In that spirit, my planning was minimal to none.

The wedding was, simply put, perfection… aside from that small fire that broke out in the boathouse exhaust ducting, which was swiftly extinguished thanks to the bride’s guests, a few of Boston’s finest firefighters and policemen. Together we adventured on land and sea, carried by love, savoring this sweet and salty place.

Post wedding magic, I found myself with time and space built into my schedule, and Maine seemed to be calling me to linger a little longer, so I happily listened. An old friend from culinary school had offered me a place to stay, and in the spirit of saying yes, I soon found myself fishing at 7:00 am off a pier in Easton. My friend is a Chef (with a capital C), the kind who is classically trained in the world’s most renowned kitchens under Thomas Keller and Eric Ripert. He’s the kind of Chef who expresses his technique in rhythm with the seasons, offering a deeply immersive dining experience with a foundation rooted in tasting the sense of place. Simply put, he’s a cool guy. He had a dinner to prep for in a few days. So, naturally, the first step in prepping for this type of ultra-exclusive dining experience was procurement: catching the ingredients ourselves.

Hooked…

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been fishing, most of them before the age of ten, so a quick demo was in order before I trusted myself to take the wheel and reel. Almost immediately we started catching fish, and to my surprise, the rush of reeling one in felt like what I imagine hitting big on a slot machine must feel like. I’ve never been one for gambling, but the thrill of a tug of weight on the line felt like the definition of a gamblers high. “Another one!!” I hollered.

After my third or fourth cast, my signature clumsiness made it’s appearance. My arm swung out awkwardly, and before I knew it the line of hooks came flying back toward me. I ducked, narrowly missing my face, but one hook lodged itself neatly into the top of my head. “Goodness Gracious Ab” I thought to myself as I felt around in my hair on the top of my head, oh yeah it‘s stuck in there good. Poor Ross was horrified as he worked to remove it, asking over and over if I was sure it didn’t hurt. “These hooks aren’t meant to not come out, you know?” He said nervously while he tried to dislodge the hook from my head. Strangely, I didn't feel it at all, maybe because it landed in the exact spot where I once had staples after a surfing accident, or maybe there just aren’t any pain receptors there, or maybe I’m just a tough girl, either way, my ego took a bigger hit than my scalp. After pouring some hand sanitizer on the top of my head to take care of the threat of rust, I assured, I would be just fine.

Shaking it off, I thought to myself the only thing to do was to get right back to casting. This time… I took my spacious time and embodied myself fully through every step of the process. (Life hack alert! Want to limit risk of injury? Stay present!) I cast out with my arm outstretched releasing the line at the 11 o’clock position, I made sure the line sank fully to the bottom with my now fully dedicated focus. Right away I felt a strong tug! I reeled in and called over for back up. With Ross’s help, and to both of our delight, it turned out to be the biggest mackerel of the day. By the end of the morning we had caught ten mackerel and eight herring, more than enough for the private dinner he was preparing for, with a few extras to snack on later. We laughed about how I must be “the reel catch” and how I was “hooked on fishing” now, and I couldn’t help but agree.

The lesson of the morning was simple: keep going, and you’ll reel in something bigger than you expected. Determination always provides.

If you love to eat locally caught, foraged and intentionally crafted food, check out my bud Ross Florance.

Reel Magic

The next day, filled with determination, I set out to explore the northern coast of Maine, or, as I’ve since learned, what locals call “Down East.” The name comes from sailors navigating downwind to the east along this stretch of coast, hence “down east.” Still, it’s a little confusing, since geographically it feels about as far “UP” as you can go.

Nevertheless, I was eager for adventure. My first mission for this adventure was simple: load up on local snacks. With a recommendation to check out Columbia Falls General Store, I headed that way, curious about what I might discover, or as it turned out, what might discover me.

Inside, I was greeted by a friendly gal in a kelly-green floral top and bubblegum-pink denim skirt. She was just finishing the A-frame chalkboard to display out front and introduced her daughter, who was shyly playing in the corner. After giving me the full rundown of local snacks, she encouraged me to browse and let her know if I had any questions.

Writers Circle

Just then, the doorbell chimed and a couple walked in. The husband seemed to be looking for a restroom, while the wife paused at the chalkboard and exclaimed, “Writers group… that’s cool!” My eavesdropping brain perked up: Writers group?? That IS cool! I inched my way into their conversation, forming a little semicircle with them.

“Yes! The writers group is something we started to create space for local creatives,” the shopkeeper explained. “We wanted it to be inclusive for all ages and all kinds of writers. It’s about accountability… no matter what happens in your week, if you show up to writers group, you’ve committed to writing something.”

I felt like a dog overhearing their favorite words, except instead of “walk, dinner, treat,” mine were “writers, intentionality, community.” My heart leapt into the conversation: “Wow, that’s amazing that you offer that.” I gushed “When you create space for community, you’d be surprised how willing people are to show up.” They each agreed, nodding knowingly.

The wife added, “Yes, I couldn’t agree more. I didn’t realize I had a story in me. But whenever I’d tell my husband something about my life, he’d always say, ‘Write it down. That’s a story! Write it down.’ And I finally did… and it turns out I had a play inside me this whole time. I actually have just completed my first solo play.”

“Wow!! Amazing..that’s incredible,” I responded, seizing the moment to gush about my own recent writing journey. I shared that I, too, had found a book within me and had just self-published a collection of poems and watercolors. ( Waves of Thought) Both the wife and the shopkeeper lit up, graciously sharing in my excitement.

Then, the wife gestured toward her husband, who had just returned from the restroom and joined our little circle. “Well, that’s amazing,” she said, “because my husband has also recently self-published a book.” We all turned to look at him as he stepped in, nodding humbly while catching the thread of our conversation.

Now it was the shopkeeper’s turn. She leaned in and confessed that she, too, had just finished the first draft of her novel. In unison, our eyes widened as we looked at one another.

“ARE WE THE COOLEST PEOPLE EVER??” I blurted out in true Ab fashion. “Yes, yes we are,” the wife laughed.

We began sharing our creations, one by one. I started, as I always seem to, with my whole life story. “I had this urgency within me to express myself this way and I just had to get it out,” I explained. The other writers nodded, their faces soft with recognition. As I finished, the wife looked at me and said, “Wow, I can feel your pure love energy just pouring out of you.” In that instant, I felt so deeply seen that I instantly wanted to retreat, the way you do when someone gazes right into your soul. I felt a familiar feeling arise within me. Tears welled up within me, spilling over as saltwater always seems to find its way out of me.

I apologized for crying, but no one was fazed. “Don’t be embarrassed, they’re tears of joy,” she reassured me. She went on to share more about her play, explaining that it was an ode to her life shaped by the pain of caring for loved ones with crippling dementia. As she cried too, we lightened the air with a joke: “So, it’s a comedy, right?” “Yes!” she replied. “Dementia and Other Exit Strategies.”

The shopkeeper, Hannah, described her book, a fantasy written in journal-entry form. The husband, introducing himself with a firm handshake as Ron Navarre (a smart move, I thought, saying his first and last name for a lasting impression, duly noted), revealed that he was a master teacher. His book, also written in diary form, chronicled his spiritual awakening and exploration of multidimensional life.

We stood in collective awe of the power we had conjured together in our self made impromptu writers circle. Contact information was exchanged, and we parted knowing this gathering had magnetized itself into being perfectly as it was meant to.

By now, the shop’s owner, Kate, wandered in midway through our conversation, sensing something was unfurling in her newly opened space. Generously, she offered to buy a copy of my book, which I happily fetched from the back seat of my rental car, scribbling a note to the people of Columbia Falls before handing it over.

When the circle finally dissolved, I felt brimming with energy and emotion. Unsure where to place it all, I did the most natural thing I could think of: “Can I have a small cup of ginger ice cream?” I asked with childlike eagerness. “Of course,” Hannah said, smiling. “That’s exactly what you need right now.”

After grounding myself with that sweet nervous system regulation hack, I left Columbia Falls General with a list of hiking trail recommendations, a full heart, and, of course, snacks.

Today, I find myself reflecting and marveling at the pure magic of Maine and all it has to offer. It’s a place where passersby nod, wave, or linger depending on the energy you carry. Where the sun offers its warmth even as the air holds a cool edge. Where pine and sea salt mingle on the constant push of breeze. This evening, I wandered out for a explorative walk, following a trail near the cabin where am staying on land that is protected by the Island Heritage Trust , dedicated to preserving public shoreline access under the mantra of “Shellfish Forever.”

The path led me to the water’s edge, where, not surprisingly, a thoughtfully constructed bench waited in the perfect spot. An impressively level bench that marked the capstone project of Eagle Scout, Cody Eaton, completed 11 years ago. I smiled at the thought of our shared reverence that transcended time. I was once again reminded of the abundant generosity of this land and with a sturdy seat beneath me and humble reverence in my heart, I decided to paint the sunset.