Maine

The West Street Hotel overlooks, well, West Street, and a bustling little tourist town that is Bar Harbor, Maine. Earlier this year, Won and I opened Google Maps and made a list of towns up and down the East Coast that were within a 2 hour flight from DCA. We will go down the bucket list, one long weekend at a time. Burlington, VT. Buffalo, NY. Nashville, TN. This past weekend, we landed in Bangor, ME.

Two hours is a perfect amount of time for me to settle into my seat, frantic from a mad dash from the office to the airport, and feel the cortisol levels plummet. The first article on the popular NY Times list was about self-compassion, an admonition to stop being so hard on oneself. It sounds so simple. But there’s really no way to quit the self-criticism if you’re female hoping to make progress in the corporate world. And also host nice dinner parties. And care for your aging relatives. And stay fit and look put together at 7am daily. And remember your birth control. And stay on top of your technical game in your area of expertise. And remember everyone’s anniversaries, your best friends’ birthdays, that it is National Secretaries Day, and that I was supposed to wear red, white, and blue to the office for Memorial Day. You will crumble in a disorganized, blabbering mess, lady, if you are not a little perfectionist and self-critical.

What’s not to love about Maine? Lobsters, hiking, ice cream, steamer clams, and Whoopie Pies.

In this shoulder season, Won and I had seemingly all of Acadia National Park to ourselves. One morning’s hike up to Pemetic Mountain was quiet, and we shared the summit and it’s panoramic views with only a falcon and a few chipmunks. It’s easier to think well of oneself when you conquer a peak… 1250 ft, yet still one of the highest around.

Over 2 days, we pedaled almost 60 miles exploring JD Rockefeller’s carriage roads.  There’s something about powering yourself up a hill, with nothing but the endless rotations of your quads and cranks, the sound of crunching gravel and gasps for air, that makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something when you finally reach the top.

It’s also easier to be self-compassionate if you give yourself permission to be forthright, to stop smiling through your exhaustion and irritation, to make mistakes, to match other people’s assholery with assholery. It’s just that for so long, I’ve absorbed the lessons that girls should be accommodating and demure, deferential and perfect. To hell with it.

Who knows, maybe with self-compassion comes a little more patience for the rest of the world.

Goodness knows this world needs a bit more authenticity, and a little less posturing. Won and I have this pact: we’ll give ourselves the luxury of an escape, permission and headspace to reflect, and every few weeks, we will hop on another flight somewhere new.

May 30, 2018