Mornings: Where Candlelight Meets Coffee
Here’s the thing about living in Bar Harbor most of the year—a rocky, salt-aired Maine town that smells like a mix of pine needles and lobster rolls: mornings have a way of insisting on their presence. The sun doesn’t creep over the horizon here. It erupts. Golden rays shoot across the water like nature’s version of Broadway stage lights. It’s showtime, ready or not.
But me? I like to ease in. That’s why, at precisely 6:30 a.m., my day begins with a ritual that seems better suited to a 19th-century lighthouse keeper than a 21st-century writer: I light a beeswax candle on my kitchen table, even if it’s already bright outside. There’s something grounding about that flicker of flame—less chaotic than the energy of my phone screen yelling for attention. Paired with the first sip of my French press coffee (yes, I’m that person), it’s how I prep for the whirl of writing deadlines, emails, and the occasional existential crisis that define freelance life.
Also, if you’ve never written morning musings by candlelight while wrapped in a chenille blanket, are you even a writer?
Mid-Morning Scrolls and Seaweed
By mid-morning, I’m usually pacing around my living room with my notebook in hand, trying to crack an idea or rewrite an awkward paragraph. This is the moment when distractions strike. Sure, I could scroll Instagram endlessly and convince myself it’s for “inspiration.” But instead, my sacred procrastination activity involves trekking outside to sift through a collection of dried seaweed I keep in a basket (I can feel you judging me, and yes, I deserve it).
Let me explain: back in August, I stumbled upon a tidepool teeming with sugar kelp and knotted wrack—names that sound like Hogwarts professors but are actually edible sea vegetables. I collected some, decided to dry it, and ever since, I’ve been arranging them on pieces of driftwood in an oddly therapeutic, arts-and-crafts-for-adults kind of way. It’s a weird habit. I know. But something about piecing together ocean fragments gives my brain room to breathe. And isn’t that the beauty of dating or relationships too—a little mess, a little beauty, a chance to puzzle things out?
If this seems like peak coastal Maine behavior, it is. But after years of finding creative ways to outmaneuver writer’s block (hot yoga, kombucha brewing, journaling like it’s my second job), this works. Bonus points if I get to smell like sea salt while doing it.
Lunch: A Love Letter to Leftovers (or Lack Thereof)
You know how Instagram is full of people who make grain bowls for lunch, complete with “perfectly jammy eggs”? Those people are aspirational. I am not one of them. My lunch routine is more like a blind date with my fridge—sometimes thrilling, sometimes a total flop.
Example: One day, I cobbled together half a loaf of sourdough, last night’s roasted veggies, and some goat cheese and proceeded to eat it standing at my counter, like I was late to a meeting (I wasn’t). But another time, when the fridge was as empty as an off-season lobster shack, I found inspiration in a can of sardines and whatever wilted herbs were clinging to life in my crisper. It was less a meal, more a lesson in resilience.
Dating pro tip here: Don’t overthink “ingredients,” whether food or romantic expectations. Sometimes the seemingly mismatched pieces come together surprisingly well.
Afternoon Wanders and the Art of the Daydream
By 2 p.m., my focus usually starts to fizzle, which means it’s time to step away from screens and wander outside. Growing up in Bar Harbor taught me early on that stepping into the natural world has a way of dousing life’s fires with much-needed perspective. Whether I’m walking along a quiet Acadia trail, poking around tidal pools, or sitting on a boulder watching lobster boats shuffle along the bay, there’s a cleansing magic in letting my surroundings hijack my attention.
Recently, during one of these mental breathers, I caught a pair of seagulls squabbling over a chunk of discarded sandwich (romantic, I know). It made me think of a guy I once dated who insisted there’s no such thing as “sharing” fries—once they hit the table, they’re fair game. Watching those gulls take turns yanking at the food, I couldn’t help but laugh. Duality of nature, duality of relationships.
More often than not, afternoons like these remind me that time spent away from your to-do list isn’t wasted. Whether you’re sketching seaweed collages, decoding shared fries strategies, or retreating into a favorite walking path, it all fuels the kind of intentionality and imagination needed to show up in your work or personal relationships.
Evening: The Dinner Ritual
Ah, dinner in coastal Maine: a chance for all the seafood clichés to make an appearance. But my dinners rarely feature lobster rolls and perfectly buttered scallops. They involve whatever fresh fish my neighbor Jim caught that week (he drops it off like I’m running a clandestine smuggling ring) and whatever has sprouted in my garden. Tonight? Pan-seared haddock, roasted carrots yanked from the dirt six hours ago, and a glass of Pinot Grigio that I swear tastes better in my favorite chipped mug.
During dinner, I have a no-screen rule. Not because I’m above texting during a meal, but because I need to escape the feeling that life is one giant scrolling feed. Instead, I might listen to Fleet Foxes or putter around doing dishes while thinking about my first draft that morning or an email I need to send a friend I haven’t seen in forever. Quiet evenings like these remind me that even as life feels wildly unpredictable, you can carve out little sanctuaries of stillness.
Tip: Cultivate the small rituals that keep you centered—whether a no-phones dinner or writing letters to yourself about where you want to be in five years. Habits shape us more than resolutions ever will.
Nightcap (of the Non-Alcoholic Sort)
Before the day ends, there’s one last ritual I swear by: tea + reading. While others might opt for meditation apps, I grab a book and head to my “ceremony corner” (OK, it’s just a chair by the window). Anything by Mary Oliver or Emily Dickinson works wonders—it’s like meeting soft-spoken friends who remind me to embrace life’s bittersweet contradictions.
By the time I blow out the candle and climb into bed, my mind is calm, full of ocean waves, fragments of sun, and snatches of dialogue I’ll undoubtedly use in an essay or story one day. And as sleep pulls me under, I can’t help but feel grateful for the quiet rhythm of days that feel, oddly enough, like dating a place. Bar Harbor, with its temper-tossed weather and calm, steady tides, isn’t perfect. But I love it anyway.
Sure, I may never have cracked Instagram-worthy habits or mastered the art of schedule-driven efficiency. But there’s something comforting about the simple, joy-sprinkled chaos of my days, where seaweed art and sardines coexist. Flawed, authentic, and a little messy—kind of like love itself.
