Bye Bye Maine; Hello Montreal - Long Covid Lemonade & Other People’s Pets

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you

June 21st
Bye Bye Maine - Thank You, Thank You

Hello Montreal

Bye-bye Maine.

Not so fast.

Oh crap —I forgot to give Homer and Earl a kiss goodbye. I always do that. That can’t change now.

A part of me was pulled to just get on the road and say forget it, but the other, higher, softer part of me knew I had to pause. To respect and be in gratitude for these souls that have been engaging with me for the past two weeks. I went back in the house, and plopped on the floor.

Homer approached me. Nose to nose, his hot breath against my face, he gave my cheek the softest lick. Earl, still a cat, skittishly maneuvered away from me, not one to trust initially. Sticking out my hand, slowly, he came in for a sniff, close enough for me to plant a big smacker on his head.

“Thanks you two for sharing your beautiful souls with me.”

I stood up, kissed my hand, placed on the walls.

“Thank you house.”

Off I went for good, locking up and sliding the key under the mat. Nostalgia immediately bubbling up.

I’ve done quite a few of these pet sits now. Let’s count: twice in Santa Fe. Three different families in Michigan. One in Toronto. One in Boston. And now here, in Maine. Just like in teaching, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have favorites. In Santa Fe— Shelly, Charming, Trek and Teddy—and now Homer and Earl here in Maine have been my favorite energetic fur friends. Both geographical locations and the pets a different kind of magic attached to each experience.

There’s something incredibly special about the spirits attached to Homer the dog and Earl the cat. Homer is part pit, and definitely part Great Pyrenees. I don’t know which side of the breed is more affectionate, but Homer is a lover. He appreciates proximity and touch, deep pressure, and nervous system regulation—as much as I do.

For two weeks, whenever we were together, we were on top of each other, touching. He’s got a jealous streak too. Anytime Earl would come looking for TLC, Homer would scooch closer, protecting his new territory—me.

Earl is a 10-year-old cat and the very definition of cool. I can’t remember if the owners warned me he might be aloof, but if they did, they were wrong. Earl was my right-hand man. That very first night, he curled into the crook of my arm and fell asleep like a tiny feline doughnut—snoring like an old man. I’ve seen dogs snore like old men. Never a cat.

Throughout my life, I’ve spent a lot of time alone. Years in my townhome with not even a fur friend in the house. That kind of silence can be deafening, close to maddening. But to have another sentient being breathing somewhere in your space—there’s something deeply soothing about it. A balm to my nervous system. A salve to the palpable silence.

And yet, I know none of these animals are mine. None of these houses are mine. And sure, I could tell myself that’s a little sad—that I don’t have anything of my own—but there’s room for both. I’m alive. I’m no longer riddled with pain. I can see, hear, walk, hike, frolic through streams with some stranger’s dog. So yeah—it’s a little bit of a bummer, AND I’m fucking alive. Healthy. In gratitude. Deeply appreciative.

When I’m in my higher self consciousness, I truly believe we’re all connected—one cosmic soup. No separation. Just atoms and electrons pretending to be separate physical things. But if you zoom in close enough, we’re all the same: packed cells, vibrating.

That’s the real take from this chapter. This intricate interconnectedness between humans, animals, and plants. We all play off one another—differently, but in harmony. I’m helping these people travel in peace, knowing their animals are safe and loved in their comfort zones.

They’re helping me live creatively in a moment when I have no home base and can't afford my townhome mortgage. I left that world—teaching in a public school filled with people and germs. Honestly, it’s not just PTSD. It’s a refusal. An unwillingness to go back to that lifestyle.

And yet, money is always there, lurking. What is money? A symbol for value.

And I wonder—do we even need it?

Martha Beck, someone I admire, once described a study where apes lived peacefully eating mangoes. Then researchers introduced a token system. Suddenly, there was extreme aggression and competition over these tokens. All because of this made-up middleman. Money. Maybe bartering worked better—“I'll trade you this necklace I made for a bag of rice.”

That makes more sense to me.

So yes, I’m pet sitting and house sitting not just because it’s beautiful and soul-nourishing—but because I can’t afford my own space right now. AND my life is full—of connection, movement, nature, gratitude—but not money. I wrestle with that. I tell Jesus all the time, “Buddy, I know it’s not important for you up there, but down here—it matters. Please send it.”

I understand the cost of living, the need for a cushion, the comfort for aging parents, for elder years. I know the message from spirit is not to worry about these things, but being in this physical body, in this human game? A nice chunk of change would be... helpful.

Before I got sick, I was finally getting somewhere. My teaching salary was high enough for me to save. I had a full year’s emergency fund. That money was set aside for IVF, potentially adoption —but it ended up being for something else entirely: medical care.

Tens of thousands to fight for my life.

So what’s the theme of this blog? Maybe nothing tidy. Maybe just that I’m reflecting, on the road to Montreal, about what I’m doing—traveling from house to house, pet to pet, place to place. I don’t expect Montreal to be anything like Maine.

Maine was insane.

Most places, it’s solitude. But not Maine. Almost every day, I met someone new. Amazing connections—on steroids. A vortex of people and synchronicity. I’m sad to leave. Trying not to be. My antidote to sadness is simple: I repeat “thank you” over and over again.

Thank you, Sarah, for bringing me into your circle of friends.

Thank you, Michael, for just being Michael.

Thank you to all of Sarah’s rock-climbing crew—so sweet, silly, fit, kind.

Thank you, Liz, for inviting me to play guitar and sing with you. That’s soul sex, right there.

Playing music with someone at your level—it’s a spiritual experience. The non-matter vibrations of voice and strings—magic. Pure coherence.

So yeah. Thank you, Maine. You were unlike any other. Complete and utter awe and gratitude from the bottom of my heart and soul.

The drive to Montreal? Back roads, mountains. Not sure if I’m in Maine or New Hampshire. Cracked, bumpy roads. Gorgeous countryside. But suspect. I'm putting a lot of trust in my GPS.

At one point, a falcon flew alongside me, just parallel, low over the farmland. Huge wingspan. I thought—no way it’s going to get any closer than that. Holy shit—it is. Quickly, I rolled up my window, just as its wing was about to enter, and immediately called Shelly, my friend who understands this kind of magic.

This Buddhist chant we both do as a morning meditation — so vibrational, it’s been pulling people and animals my way every day. That’s my belief anyways. My only question: where’s the money?

Also—I need to pause momentarily.

I haven’t given enough love to the lupines. They’re everywhere. Wildflower magic. Purple towers, plus other wildflowers - yellow splatters, orange paintbrush, daisies carpeting the ground. Lupines are proof of God. Foxglove is still my favorite. Look inside one of those petals—you’ll see the divine.

So how long can I live this untethered? For now, it’s okay. The crazy spiritual encounters before, during, and after illness. Getting so close to kissing the veil. There’s this realization: I’m just a visitor here anyways. Just visiting Earth. Looking around.

I enter New Hampshire and see the “Bienvenue” sign. Made me feel closer to Montreal, with the French influence. I imagine it’s a free, libertarian state. Very few rules.

I can’t do this forever, I know that. But for now, I’m doing it. And I’m enjoying it.

Driving through the mountains, packs of motorcyclists sped past—none wearing helmets. Idiots, in my opinion. But I pulled over, gave them the pass symbol with my hand, and screamed, “Let it rip fellas!” Wind in their hair. Flip-flops. Freedom.

All I know is—I’m not ready to go home. Home being Michigan. Someone asked where I lived at Owen’s General Store in Lincolnville. I said, “Nowhere.” The recent Univ of Mich grad responded, “You mean everywhere.”

He was right.

Correction: I’m from everywhere.

Four hours into my drive, I crossed the border into Vermont, and then quickly into Canada. I wasn’t prepared and crossings stress me out. I become a bumbling idiot. I had written down the address of my next house sit, but the agent asked if it was Airbnb. I lied and said yes—don’t even know why.

Maybe I was afraid they’d frown on Trusted Housesitters or HomeExchange. He asked if I had a reservation on my phone, and I fumbled, said yes again.

He asked about my job. “I teach 7th and 8th grade.” Then I tried to declare my fruit. “Do you want me to throw it out?” He said, “I’m not worried about that.”

Then came the questions. Weapons? No. Pepper spray? No. Alcohol? No. Drugs, marijuana, CBD? Nope. I know I look like a hippie.

“I just need to ask these things,” he said. “I imagine you’re a good person, you are a special education teacher.”

Yes. And a very good girl. (Didn’t say that. Thought it.)

He checked my HomeExchange reservation. Stamped my passport. “Welcome to Canada.”

And who greeted me on the other side but Lac Wallace. How’s that for synchronicity?

But holy motherfucking shit. I’m glad that’s done. Even when I think I’m coming in calm as a cucumber, border guards turn me into a tongue-tied wreck.

They should be nice to me though. I’m the product of a French Canadian impregnating a Native American from Michigan. I’m practically their people

.