I had the great fortune of spending a few solitary hours this morning at Reid Park in Maine. It was magical. The sky was gray and moody. The rocks jagged and dark. It was cool enough that I wore two jackets over my t-shirt. There were only a few other people on the beach at that time. I see the ocean so seldomly these days that I just want to absorb every ounce of it while I’m there. I not only want to snap a few photos, I want to sear the image into my brain. I want to bottle that awareness––that complete and utter absorption in nothing but the present moment–– and wear it on a chain around my neck for when I return to my daily routine.

I’ve been struck by the different types of natural beauty there are in this world. The Maine coast is otherwordly in its beauty, but the Vermont mountains, covered in verdant summer greens, also swell my heart with joy. The thick, damp Vermont forests also stops me on my feet to pause and look. Just look.

I find myself thinking, I am so lucky. To be on this magnificent planet. To feel well and healthy and pain-free, and to have the time and opportunity to travel, stop, look, breathe.

I thought of my mom, someone who has chronic pain now and has had variations of pain through her life, though she always worked through it. I don’t believe she’s ever been to Maine and it’s unlikely she’d travel to it now since she hates traveling and doesn’t feel her best. But she’s been to Italy and to Mexico and so many other places in the U.S. She was never a fan of traveling, but she’s been around! I thought of my dad. He never saw the Maine coast. But he did get to Florida and to the southwest. And, more importantly, he was perfectly satisfied in his little Ohio space.

I thought of Anthony Bourdain. I was never a fan, really. I thought he was handsome, but he looked like someone who could become an asshole at the drop of a hat. I knew he was a chef and a television host, but I never watched his shows. I loved that he had an underdog story (randomly submitting an essay to the New Yorker and it getting accepted, which launched him into the limelight). Spence watched some of the old episodes of his show and I realized I had no idea that Bourdain had been at it for so long––he looked so young. He was anti-vegan/vegetarianism (boo); not surprising since the entire idea of his show is to enter new cultures and eat whatever they eat. But I loved that he got to see the world! And he got to write about it and talk about it and have fun. So when I learned he’d committed suicide, in Paris of all places, I was thunderstruck. All the usual notions went through my brain––he had it all, he had a great job, he got to travel the world, he was filming another episode in Paris (!), etc., etc. I had to catch myself. We are all human. We are all susceptible to the pains, depressions, dark abysses, addictions of this life. It matters not the outward visuals of a successful life.

I stood on the Maine coast today, thinking about a lot of people I love and wishing they could see this scene. I thought about Anthony Bourdain, someone who saw most of the world, and it wasn’t enough to lighten the darkness when the darkness descended.

“If I’m an advocate for anything, it’s to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. Walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food. It’s a plus for everybody.” ––Anthony Bourdain