An Appalachian Brown Moth, a recent immigrant to Maine about 10 years ago, rests on a wild common holly leaf. She doesn’t seem to know that Maine is not her original home, but why should she know it? It’s her home now. At some point not long ago, a few Appalachian Brown Moths immigrated to Maine. Can you blame them? A lush green climate, moist and sensuous, called to them across the great divide. And they responded.
|The Appalachian Brown Moth.|
It’s the same for any creature who comes to Maine. They hear the call. It’s a siren’s call, like the beautiful voices the sailors hear out at sea. But unlike the sirens who lead the sailors to shipwreck, the sweet call from Maine leads the weary traveler to a new home. Yet there is still ruin. There is ruin of the old life, the old ways, the old ideas. They must fall away in order for the new to begin. Like old leaves on a tree, they must fall off. Then comes the winter of uncertainty, of seeming death. Many travelers will leave in this most perilous time and go back to more familiar grounds, but the strong pilgrim waits, sure in his knowledge and faith that hope will be renewed.
And it is. It always is. That’s why people come to Maine. They come for the new life. They come to start over. They come for an appreciation of the old ways, that are always somehow new. Come all ye brown moths and weary travelers to the land of green. Many will leave and few will stay, but those who do stay add to the diversity and the uniqueness that is Maine.