Author’s Note: as I write this, an election fraught with uncertainty unlike any other is two days away. This week, Maine for the first time had more than 100 new COVID-19 cases on a single day. We are increasingly being told to limit indoor gatherings this winter, a need threatening family gatherings for the holidays, certainly increasing ongoing isolation for those already tired of being alone. The mental strains from the pandemic and our politically divided country weigh on many. It is in this context I offer Brendon’s tale—a story about overcoming obstacles not only through individual grit and persistence, but using the necessary supportive role of community. Brendon’s tale reminds us we can make it through anything, and we must do it together. (PB, 11/1/20)

As with so many who become caught up in the criminal justice system, Brendon McLellan’s problems began with substance use.

“I just loved it,” he says, recalling his marijuana and alcohol use as a teenager. “I had a great childhood, a great family, and lots of opportunity. But I just loved getting high.”

It eventually led to trouble. Expelled from a private school in 10th grade, by senior year Brendon was arrested for Operating Under the Influence. By then, he had added “oxy” (Oxycodone) and cocaine to his habitual weekends of using. Though his driver’s license was suspended, he did not see jail time—that did not come until his mid-20s (he is now 34).

As his addiction grew, Brendon needed more money than he could legally earn. He took to stealing and pawning jewelry from his girlfriend’s family.

“I loved her and I loved her family. I felt terrible about what I was doing, but that addiction drove me right by what’s right and wrong. It was always my loved ones I stole from and hurt the most.”

Such is the way with substance use disorder: the brain’s circuitry is hijacked, and uncontrollable urges relentlessly drive behaviors privileging drug use above all else. Willpower is useless; moral compasses broken.

Brendon’s unwell path eventually led to a 3-year prison sentence, and while incarcerated, he began turning his life around.

“My second day up at Maine State Prison, I ended up seeing a childhood friend from the Boothbay area who was serving time for two murders,” he recalls. “He had changed his life and had been sober five years. That influenced me. I began doing yoga, meditation, working out—that routine was so critical for keeping a healthy attitude. I became part of a community of sobriety up there.”

When coronavirus shut Maine down in March, Brendon had just two months left to serve on his sentence—some say the most important two months for successful transition out of the system.

“COVID hit, and at first it was better than usual. With transport shut down, we had extra guards around and everything ran as scheduled with no cancellations. The first month was great.”

That changed.

“Then we went into a state of emergency and they shut down everything. No visits. No recreation. No programs. We were shut down in our pods.”

Beyond no longer receiving visits from his family and losing out on his daily structured routine, Brendon had the added anxiety of not being able to prepare for release as he had planned to.

“It’s so important for re-entry to make connections with people on the outside, and I couldn’t make those connections,” he says. “Here it is the end of March, and I’m getting out in May. It’s a really crucial time for me to get ready to go out into the world.”

Brendon knew the facts: 70% of individuals released from incarceration commit crimes again, and those suffering from substance use disorder have a significant chance of relapse upon release, leaving them at high risk for death from overdose. He was right to be concerned. Adding to his challenges, Maine was still on pandemic lockdown when he was released in May.

“I went from one quarantine to another,” he says. “To be honest, I was just scared.”

Odds against him, Brendon knew the first thing he needed to do was recreate the programs he’d had access to before COVID-19 shut down the prison system.

“I really needed to find a sober community,” he says. “That’s key to my sobriety.”

Friends in prison had given him a phone number when he left: that of Keith Arvanitis. Keith, a certified peer support specialist and recovery coach, is the Program Coordinator of Boothbay Harbor Peer & Wellness Center.

“The day I got out I got my cell phone, and that day I sent him a text,” says Brendon. “He replied and told me about the support meetings at [Barrett’s Park in] Boothbay.”

Brendon attributes his ongoing sobriety to the meetings he now attends, and the supportive community he has found even in the midst of a pandemic. Life is coming together, and his peers have made all the difference. When he feels cravings or urges, he reaches out.

“Either Keith is texting me, or I’m texting him. Keith lived that lifestyle. He’s been in prison, gotten sober in prison, and wants to help. There’s a comfort level in speaking with someone else who has addiction. I need that to be completely open with somebody.”

As hard as it’s all been, Brendon has managed not just to survive, but to thrive. Some of his success comes from his daily hard work and well-earned resilience, and some from all of those around him holding him up.

“I feel confident now. I’m so fortunate to have my recovery community, and my family still supports me after all these years. I put them through the worst. I even got a puppy last week. I couldn’t take care of myself before, how could I have taken care of a puppy? I’d have had trouble with a goldfish. I don’t want to say I’ve got it, but I’m on the right path.”

He certainly is.

Brendon’s story shows us all that is possible, even as the world seems increasingly impossible.

The post Brendon on Freedom appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

In a pandemic world, music helps.

“I listen to music a lot, and that is so calming,” says Kerry Jackson, a cellist who moved to Boothbay Harbor a little more than a year and a half ago. “Playing music too; it’s so uplifting. I haven’t felt a negativity during COVID.”

Kerry first picked up a violin at age 8, switching to cello 3 years later. She spent her early years playing as part of youth symphonies and for school musicals, and as an adult she most enjoys playing in smaller groups.

“I really love playing in quartets. It’s like having a relationship, you have to listen so carefully—you have to move together. You really get to know each other.”

When she first moved to the area, she did not know anyone, but that quickly changed. In the natural course of settling in, she got to know people. Soon enough, Kerry was practicing once a week with four different fellow musicians and playing cello with the Seacoast Youth & Community Orchestra.

That all came to a sudden halt in March when COVID-19 shutdown the country.

Undeterred, Kerry quickly found a new path for making and sharing music.

“I started playing out on my deck in the evening,” she says. “I’d seen a sign outside the Opera House saying ‘play music outdoors,’ so I did. That kept my music going.”

In addition to giving her neighbors something to appreciate, her deck playing also gave her ideas for the future.

“I have a nice yard and nice deck,” she says. “ I could have three people playing on the deck and people listening down below. I would not have thought of that if it were not for the pandemic.”

Rather than being restrictive, the pandemic has generated new possibilities for Kerry.

“There’s a man who lives across the street and I know one song that he sings. I play on my cello from my deck to try to draw him out to get him to sing. I really want participation. I don’t want to perform, I want people to participate.”

“You feel as one when playing music,” she adds.

Such was the experience Kerry offered dozens one late summer eve on Boothbay Common, as she played Ashokan Farewell as part of 132 Candles, an International Overdose Awareness Day event held August 31.

“The tune is best known from Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary, but I think it fit for that occasion.”

She was right.

Kerry, cello in hand: a sole musician flanked by tables covered with 132 votive candles (symbolic of the number of Mainers who lost their lives to overdose in the second quarter of 2020), Ashokan Farewell’s familiar refrain in ongoing lilt, community members lighting candles as day faded: serenity like a warm blanket on cold toes.

Music—and balm.

Prior to moving to Boothbay Harbor, Kerry lived in West Virginia, where she performed with the Springs Chamber Ensemble. Sample recordings from that time in Kerry’s career can be found here.

The post Kerry on Music appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Anyone with a friend or family member in school this fall knows the thorniest element of Maine’s guidance on school reopening: that it “will evolve as additional information and guidance is provided.”

We’ve all lived with “evolving” guidelines since March, so if you’re a parent, administrator, teacher, or student, you know what that means: the path ahead is unclear.

Just ask Fox Elder, a senior at Boothbay Region High School.

“Honestly, I believe we’re going to have more of an issue than last year’s graduating class,” he confesses, reflecting on what may await him and his classmates.

“I can’t see things getting any better in six months—especially with the school year starting everywhere; that’s a whole other new way of exposure all over the country. Honestly, at best it’s going to stay where it’s at. It probably will get worse.”

It’s not surprising that he’s done a lot of thinking about the impact this will have on him.

“I worry about the spring. I worry about applying to college. If it’s still a big issue next year I don’t know if I’ll go to college. I might skip a year—I’ll play it by ear.”

Whether Fox is being pessimistic or simply realistic is hard to know. We as a society are entering uncharted territory: a viral pandemic overlapping a flu season just as weather necessarily drives people indoors; schools in session across the country, perhaps increasing likelihood of spread (as Fox observes).

Experts guess, but nobody knows for sure what is to come.

“It’s going to be an odd year,” he says.

He recalls his shock when everything first changed last March, in the midst of his perfectly ordinary junior year.

“My teachers began saying that maybe we’d not have school the next week. I thought that was crazy talk. I thought: no way, that’s not going to happen.”

But it did.

At first, he was excited at the news that school would be shut down for two weeks as teachers geared up for online education. But his enthusiasm for the unexpected time off faded fast.

“Pretty quickly I realized being home and being in quarantine wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be,” he says.  “And to be honest, at first we were scared. We’re used to it now, but when it first happened it was a huge thing.”

Like everyone else, Fox acclimated to his new world, doing the best he could with online education, which for him was a challenge.

“Online classes were not a good experience,” he admits. “It was less work, but there was also less help. For certain subjects, like math, I work best with hands-on learning—when I have a teacher telling me what I did right or wrong. Online, there wasn’t time to talk to teachers—you have to send an email and hope it gets answered from a river of emails the teacher is getting every day.”

“I really benefit from the structure school provides,” he adds. “I miss that.”

With a summer job at Boothbay Harbor Oceanside Golf Resort, Fox found a structured routine that had been absent the final months of his junior year. But even with a regular work schedule, Fox feels the impact of lost structure elsewhere. As a member of his school’s cross-country team (“I’m a middle-of-the-packer”), he ordinarily would be taking part in optional pre-season practice with his team; that is not happening this year. As a consequence, he has not been running as much as he would have liked.

Fox admits to being anxious about what school will be like when it begins. With the school planning limited in-person classes (the student body is divided into an “A” and “B” group; each group attends school two days and stay home the other three days), he is unsure he will be able to receive the individual help he thrives on.

“I’ll be taking Physics and AP Calculus. I’m worried especially about falling behind in those classes.”

But Fox is not discouraged despite his fears—he is determined to control what he can, and do his best with what he cannot.

“I’m going to work hard this year and do everything the way I should and just see where it goes,” he says.

At just 17, Fox’s mature attitude is admirable. He is neither loudly complaining about the unfairness of his fate, nor denying the hard reality of what may come for him and his classmates. He names what leaves him unhappy (“it sucks that I can’t hang out with my friends every day after school”), and is accepting of the need to adapt in ongoing ways (“everything is up in the air”).

In essence, Fox is prepared to evolve as additional information and guidance is provided.

Just what Maine’s government is asking of him.

The post Fox Elder on School Reopening appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

“I’ll rise up,
In spite of the ache,
and I’ll rise up,
I’ll do it a thousand times again,
for you.”

—from Rise Up by Andre Day

“We started grieving the loss of my son even before he was gone,” says Jenny Jordan, whose 19-year-old son Steven Anthony Roderick died of an overdose on November 4, 2019.

So very hard.

“He always struggled with mental health, and very early on… when he was around 15, he began dabbling with drugs,” explains Jenny. “He was self-medicating, and then it just started escalating more and more. Stevie needed so much help. The last year he overdosed multiple times.”

In 2019, 380 people in Maine died from drug overdoses (with the impact of COVID-19, the rate of overdose deaths in 2020 is even higher). When seen as only numbers, the immense impact of these deaths is easy to gloss over. Yet each loss leaves devastation in its wake.

“It’s affected my life in such a huge way it’s mind-boggling,” says Jenny. “It affects the whole family.”

Jenny lives in Alna, Maine, with her husband, David, and two teenage sons—Steven’s younger brothers, D.J. and Christian. A fourth son, Steven’s older brother, lives in Virginia. They are all coping as best they can.

“The boys are struggling,” Jenny notes. “We all fought so hard to not have this happen. But they’re getting support—the counselor at Boothbay Region High School has been fantastic. If there’s a silver lining, it’s made my other boys realize what they don’t want to fall into.”

Things weren’t always hard.

“The boys were just like any other siblings. Me and my husband both worked. We were a normal family,” says Jenny.

Her family had been healthy and happy—a multitude of photos testifies to that truth: four rambunctious boys in action; down-time on the beach; smiles and hugs aplenty.

“Even through everything, we all got along,” Jenny notes.

“Stevie was so smart,” she says. “At nine years old he was getting dirt bikes and quads [ATVs] and fixing them and turning around and selling them on Craigslist. He could take them apart and put them back together.”

Then things changed. Steven began acting out around age 13.

“I thought it was just a teenager thing until it really started to get out of control,” says Jenny. “The older he got, the more out of control he became—he would just blow up. We have holes in our walls we’re still fixing.”

It became clear to Jenny that Steven’s behaviors required professional help, but she could not find what he needed. Steven was physically resistant; he could not be forced to see mental health care providers, and calling the crisis hotline only got Jenny so far.

“I’d go to the police when we weren’t in crisis because it was getting scary. They’d tell me they thought Stevie needed a psychiatrist—but who was going to take him there?”

Steven attended Boothbay Region High School through 9th grade and then stopped attending. According to his mother, he’d “take off a lot” to spend time with his girlfriend at Boothbay Harbor. From age 16 to 18, Steven shuttled back and forth between Massachusetts and Maine; things had become so bad for the family, he often was not allowed home (“the police were at my house so often,” Jenny says).

Steven moved to Massachusetts where his biological father lived, and where he continued having run-ins with the criminal justice system.

“Assault, driving without a license, driving with an unregistered car, drinking and driving—most of his charges were about his license and the car.”

One time, Steven came home to his mother’s to detox.

“I stayed in bed with him, wouldn’t let him leave the room. He was sweating, getting sick. I was telling him about mental illness; helping him to be aware. I got him to go to the hospital. We went to the ER—they did nothing. Couldn’t find a bed for him so they sent him home. He had an appointment three months later. Months,” she says, exasperated at the inadequacies of the system.

“He had moments of clarity, when he was open to getting help. But we didn’t have access, or we couldn’t afford it. One place, even with a scholarship, still was going to be $1,000 a week. I could never afford that. There was nothing,” she laments.

“He just slipped through the cracks. The whole system failed him—all of it.”

Paradoxically, the memories Jenny most cherishes are the six months Steven spent in jail at age 18 in Massachusetts, shortly before he died. During that time, work and family made it impossible for her to visit (the jail was four hours away); instead, Jenny and her son spoke on the phone and exchanged letters. 

“Even though they didn’t put him in treatment in jail, his head cleared. He was doing so well. It gave me six months with him we wouldn’t have had. Right now all I have are memories—I have letters to hold on to.”

Then he was released.

Shortly after, Jenny went down to Cape Cod for a visit.

“He had gotten into a fight and his hand was cut. I stitched him up,” says Jenny, who is a nursing assistant. “Despite that fight, he was doing so well. He had one job and was starting a second job at Target.”

Jenny recalls hugging her son good-bye, never imagining it would be for the last time.

She recounts what happened the next week:

“He was out with a monitoring bracelet and at his girlfriend’s house in Massachusetts—a beautiful house; beautiful neighborhood. They had an argument, and he ended up sleeping over at someone else’s house. He slept all Saturday and all Sunday. And Monday she found him when she went in there. He was there for like a day and half and nobody knows what happened. There was no time of death except when the police went there. Not knowing the time—it really bothers me a lot.”

November 4, 2019, however, is the date that stands as the bright line between a life before Steven’s passing, and a life after.

“At the very beginning, I didn’t want to breathe anymore. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I still have days like that. It’s learning to live with a hole in your heart. I spent a good part of the first six months in bed, not being able to be anything for anybody.”

Jenny becomes exasperated with well-intended people offering vapid advice, and tries to explain her loss in a way others might understand: “When people tell me I need to be strong or to get over it, I say, ‘Let me walk into your house right now and shoot one of your kids. Who do you want to give up?’”

That’s how it feels.

Since her loss, Jenny is beginning to find a new sense of purpose. Sharing her pain is part of it.

“If kids don’t see that we’re not always strong, how will they learn vulnerability is okay? We have to be okay with hurting. We have to get over the stigma not only of addiction, but of vulnerability. We have to stop judging people,” she says.

She speaks out against stigma and judgment however she can, and makes herself available to others who are hurting from substance use. She has a vision of creating a place called Stevie’s House—a community with resources located on a 100-acre campus; a place like she could never find for her own son.

“I’ve written the mission statement. It’s a start.”

For Steven, Jenny wants to make a difference.

“Stigma is awful. It has to stop. The stigma and shame stops people from getting the help they need.”

And Jenny knows how unwarranted stigma is.

“These drugs don’t discriminate. They cross every boundary. Every city. Suburbs. Every border. People are like, ‘It could never happen to me,’ and I say, ‘You’re an injury away from having addiction.’”

For Jenny, it’s all about healing now.

“When Stevie was alive, all I kept telling people is I don’t want to bury my kid. My kids are my world.”

But bury him she did. Yet somehow she carries on, finding meaning and hope where she can.

“We planted a tree for him for the six-month anniversary of his passing. A beautiful weeping cherry tree. We put his ashes in the hole we dug; they’re meshing with the roots now, creating a new life form.”

She’ll have another symbol, too. 

“I’m getting a tattoo, and the weeping cherry tree will be the image; Stevie’s tree.”

A reminder her son is always with her.

Always.

The post Jenny Jordan on Losing Stevie appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Stephanie Noyes McSherry has a vision for building community that even a pandemic cannot upend. Committed to literacy, learning, and the inherent creativity of children, Stephanie founded Merry Barn in 2019 as a hub for people to come together around these and other topics. In this video she discusses how she has adapted to changing circumstances to continue offering spaces for children to create, share, and be seen.

The post Stephanie on Merry Barn Done Right in COVID Days appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Sometimes, there really is a silver lining.

When the pandemic shut everything down in March, Special Ed teacher Amanda Cotier began teaching remotely from her Boothbay home. Amanda did her best, but it was not easy; separation from her students weighed heavily on her.

“It was really hard sitting in front of a computer at home when I knew I should be with my kids,” she says.

Helping her through the otherwise difficult weeks, however, was a long-time dream beginning to take shape: owning her own business, in the form of a food truck.

“It was a dream I had years ago. I thought, ‘That would be really fun to do,’ though I never really thought it would happen.”

But on July 1, 2020, her Coastal Crave Food Truck slid open its order window for the first time. It has garnered rave reviews and a loyal following in the weeks since.

Amanda is the first person to say she wouldn’t have been able to make her dream reality without support from her family and the community.

The idea first took shape earlier this year during conversations with her aunt Marie Kelley, owner of Southport’s Sweet Dreams Bakery. They didn’t explore it seriously until Marie’s husband Jamey noticed a truck for sale on Facebook Marketplace. Though that sale didn’t work out, Amanda got excited and began hunting for another one. In a stroke of luck, another vendor had just upgraded his truck.

“We went to look at his old one, and bought it on the spot. It was set up as a food truck already, so it was perfect,” she says. It was even her favorite color—bright blue.

The pandemic erupted just as Amanda got rolling on her plan, and though the shut-down hurt many local businesses, it actually ended up being a good thing for her.

“It was the perfect time to start a food truck,” she says, noting that food trucks address today’s physical distancing requirements naturally.

A major decision was where to locate the truck, and her family came to the rescue once again (there’s a theme here). The Kelleys’ property at 434 Hendricks Hill Road, near the Southport roundabout, proved the perfect spot, with ample parking and good visibility from the road.

The solution made sense for another reason, too: Amanda’s family has been serving Southport and surrounding communities for generations.

“My mom is from Southport. Her family was involved with opening the first Southport store, and they were some of the first people on the island,” she says, recognizing that she comes by her instinct to serve the community naturally.

“My grandma (who passed away a couple years ago) and my grandpa are the kindest people I’ve ever met. They volunteered to help with things in town all the time. It’s something everyone in my family does, and it’s ingrained in me as well,” she says, speaking lovingly of Southport natives Ralva and Ronald Orchard.

Despite her strong local ties, Amanda knew that change isn’t always easy in small towns, and she wondered if she’d meet resistance.

“I was worried that I’d get some negative feedback. I set up a Facebook page early, saying, ‘This is what’s happening’ so everyone would know,” she says. To her delight, the responses have been great.

“Everyone has had positive feedback and seems super appreciative. I’ve also heard from the working folks that it’s nice for them to have another option.” (Amanda is quick to point out that her intention is to expand the choices in the area: “I don’t want to compete — I want to provide another option.”)

And just as they were there to help refine the original idea, her family has been Amanda’s central support as she launches Coastal Crave: Her aunt makes the bread, cookies and other treats. Her uncle helps with technical issues and is the “man behind the scenes.” Another aunt provided the round tables in the seating area, and her parents donated some of the chairs. It’s clearly a family affair, and it’s a welcome addition on the island.

“People want businesses like this right now. People are pushing for it, because it’s more safe to be outside, and these sorts of food trucks are lending themselves to that really nicely,” she says. That suits her just fine, since it also fulfills her main goal in life: “I want to make people happy. That’s my big thing.”

At a time when it’s easy to be overwhelmed thinking about all we have lost during this hard and strange summer, Amanda and her dream-come-true food truck offer a bright spot of good news. It’s a story of family devotion, of taking a chance, and of having faith in her community.

Stop by to say hi and try her tasty creations!

Located between the Southport post office and school, the Coastal Crave Food Truck is open Tuesdays through Saturdays, 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. For news and updates, follow the business on Facebook.

The post Amanda on Silver Linings and Service appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Keith Arvanitis’ life story is inspiring. Told in two parts (go here for Part II), his tale takes us from the depths of his addiction to his recovery and redemption working at the Boothbay Harbor Peer & Wellness Center. Here in Part I, Keith describes his hard journey through substance misuse and incarceration.

The post Keith on Addiction & Community (Part I) appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Go here for Keith on Addiction & Community (Part I), a video about Keith’s years of addiction before he finally found recovery.

After nearly 30 years of  living with active addiction which was “like being in the pits of hell,” Keith Arvanitis finally found the community he needed to achieve recovery, and is devoting his life to help others do the same.

Keith, certified as both a peer support specialist and recovery coach, is the Program Coordinator of Boothbay Harbor Peer & Wellness Center. In 2015, upon his release from prison, he found a group of peers in recovery who supported him as he sought wellness. He began working toward a Bachelor’s degree in Substance Abuse/Addiction Counseling from the University of Maine, found his passion in helping others, and landed his dream job.

“Peer support specialists are people who have experienced addiction themselves and have been trained to support others with their own substance misuse issues,” he says. “I know how important this was for me in my own recovery.”

Keith’s position at the Center has allowed him to do just that.

Founded in late 2018 as an outreach arm of Amistad—a Portland-based organization serving those with mental illness and addiction (more accurately termed “substance use disorder,” or SUD)—the Center offers support and resources for those affected by substance misuse in the Boothbay Region. Since Keith began his job in spring 2019, he has worked on making it a safe space for those seeking help, from the person in active addiction to the family member worried about a loved one’s behaviors.

“There’s a thing about safety,” he observes. “People need a safe place to go to where they know they are not going to be judged—where they can be with someone who has experienced the same thing they have. It’s huge. When I didn’t have that safe place to go to connect with others, that disconnection really affected me. We provide that kind of safety and community with the Center.”

Especially with the onset of COVID-19, filling this need has not been easy. Keith had been Program Coordinator for less than a year when the pandemic forced the Center to close its on-site facility.

“Even before COVID, I would have liked to have seen more engagement,” he says. “As a new organization in town, it takes time to establish your presence and make clear what it is you offer the community.”

The Center offers a great deal, and not just to those with substance use disorder—affected families are part of the growing clientele, too. “We were supporting not just peers but family members walking in the doors, which was huge because when a family member is witnessing a loved one caught in the cycle of addiction, there are a lot of unknowns. It’s so important for us to support a family member through that.”

The progress they were making to establish themselves, overcome stigma and attract those who needed their programs stopped short when the state went into lockdown.

While Keith and other Center staff are constantly available by phone and online, and they now hold weekly outdoor support meetings, “business” is not the same as it was before the pandemic; he worries about the impact on those struggling with SUD.

“When someone is in the moment of desperate need, to be able to walk in a door to physically talk to someone is a lot different than making a call,” notes Keith. “With the Center being closed, we’re missing that sense of fellowship and human warmth that comes with community.”

As eager as he is to re-open the facility, Keith knows now is not the time. “We have to think of the coronavirus and the risk people are put at. It’s just not the right time.”

What makes that realization all the more painful for Keith is his seeing firsthand the impact the closure is having on people trying to find recovery. He offers an example:

“One individual we’ve been supporting from the region is caught in the middle of crystal meth use. They had been on a better path before everything shut down—their usage was down and they had support available – but now over the past three months this person’s usage has skyrocketed. It’s heartbreaking.”

Understanding addiction as he does, Keith does not blame those struggling for their behaviors; rather, he brings unyielding compassion for their plight.

“Just because people have trouble with substances does not make them less than human. I always remember: that person is someone’s son, someone’s brother or father or mother, and what we witness in how they act is a byproduct of the addiction itself,” he says.

“That person is still there—that person is still a loving, caring human being. Nobody wakes up and says ‘I want to have a drug addiction.’ Each individual situation is unique, and I never give up on people.”

In a region that already prides itself on its community spirit, Keith summarizes in two words his hope for those suffering in Boothbay: “More community.” From his own experience, he knows those living in isolation, caught up in harmful addiction behaviors, are not always treated with kindness.

“This individual was on the side of the road with a sign saying he was homeless. I pulled over  and told him there are people in the community who care about him. To see the number of people driving by or walking around him was devastating to me. To let him know there are people in the community who care for him and love him, and that’s the biggest thing a community can do—those few kind words of acknowledging him without worrying about the external things—the greasy hair; the dirty clothes—it matters so much to that person to be acknowledged as a human.”

Keith offers a simple way forward for all of us:

“Just love,” he says. “I can’t put it any other way. I understand people who haven’t been through it are scared or put off by what they see and want to put boundaries up, but just love.”

Keith judges neither those in SUD’s grip nor those who have difficulty seeing the person beneath the disorder: his own past has taught him much, and because of it he has found an abiding empathy for others and a deep faith in the restorative powers of community.

Perhaps that is why he does not regret his life path, difficult as it has been.

“This may sound odd, but I’m happy for the experiences I had,” he remarks. “We only know what we know and we only do the best we can. We have to learn from those experiences, and that’s all we can do.”

This is true for all of us—we each have our own experiences to learn from, and we are fortunate to have Keith and the experience he so generously shares to guide us, as well. 

For updates, follow the Center’s Facebook page, where staff posts information on upcoming activities.

The post Keith on Addiction & Community (Part II) appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Blue Tin Farm is a labor of love for Crystal Theall. Begun in 2013, the farm now has a herd of more than 60 goats, as well as chickens and pigs. In 2019, things became harder for Crystal after a difficult divorce left her struggling to manage things entirely on her own. Then, just as COVID-19 hit and turned most of the world upside down, everything came together for her. 2020 is a year most people would rather forget, but not Crystal, for in this year of upheaval she unexpectedly finds herself the happiest she has ever been.

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Metehan Ṣahin expected the second season with Taka Mediterranean Bar & Grill to be more predictable than the first.

He was wrong.

As one would imagine, the first season was hard. Metehan and his partners, Rıdvan C̣elikel and Alex Mackay, did not know if Maine diners would take to their restaurant’s Mediterranean sensibility, and though they and their staff had years of restaurant experience behind them, there was no getting around opening Taka in Boothbay Harbor in summer 2019 was a fresh venture. The team constantly made adjustments throughout the season, figuring out by trial and error what worked best.

“In the first year, there were a lot of ups and downs. Every day we had to see what the next day would bring to us. Everything was new,” says Metehan.

“But we knew it would be like that,” he adds, noting overall they felt on track for success by season’s end.

What they were not counting on was a worldwide pandemic in their second season.

“Now, it’s like a second first season,” says Metehan, reflecting on the challenges and uncertainties he and his partners contend with every day with COVID-19.

Metehan is not from the Boothbay Region. Born and raised in Turkey, he and his friend Rıdvan came to the United States as students. They began spending summers in Boothbay in 2012, working at the restaurant in Linekin Bay Resort for several years. It is there they met Alex, whose family had until recently owned the resort for generations. Almost immediately, they began envisioning opening a restaurant of their own.

“We dreamed of bringing traditional Mediterranean spices to Maine seafood,” says Metehan.

Their opportunity came when a space by the docks became available in late 2018; they opened their doors May 15, 2019.

People came.

“They were curious—we were something new, and then having the locals give us good reviews generated good business for us,” he says.

Everything was going according to plan—until January 2020.

“From the first day we started seeing Italy going down, we were worried,” says Metehan. “That was already a big concern.”

In early March, Metehan traveled from Florida (where he winters), moving into an apartment over the restaurant with two colleagues who had come north with him. This living arrangement allowed them to work on the restaurant building for their eventual opening while serving out quarantine.

“I believe it was the second week of May Governor Janet Mills announced the state’s plans to open up,” says Metehan. “So we opened our doors on May 29.”

But it was no ordinary opening.

“To be honest, it was very scary,” he admits. “Not only is it just our second season, so we already wonder if our customers are coming back, but there’s also COVID. It’s no longer only providing the good food, it’s also keeping people healthy. So it’s very scary.”

And complicated.

“Some people come preferring not to wear masks, but others see that as a problem,” he says. “So sometimes we have to go to tables and ask guests to put on masks without offending them—you have to keep people safe.”

“Honestly,” he adds, “it’s stressful every night.”

Of course, there are also logistical challenges to operating a business during a pandemic. Distributors are only delivering twice a week; it takes not a day but a week to have someone come fix a plumbing problem; and a sick staffer means quarantine and one less worker for up to two weeks (on that note, all employees have their heart rate, temperature, and blood pressure checked daily—everyone has been healthy so far).

“Sanitizing is now a big expense,” Metehan adds. “Boxes of gloves, masks, sanitizer to make sure everything in the restaurant is safe. We now clean our rest rooms every 30 minutes. Cleaning is now a top priority.”

This on top of the already high-pressure work of running a seasonal restaurant in the best of circumstances.

Despite all, Metehan remains upbeat and good-humored. He and his team know how to adapt, and have adjusted their expectations accordingly.

“We were planning to have paid off all of our investments after our second year, maybe open a second restaurant. But we had to minimize our budget so that we at least can break even,” Metehan says. “That is our hope—our Plan B.”

All the while, his biggest worry remains whether or not there will be a spike in the pandemic, forcing Taka and other Maine restaurants to close again. 

“We just don’t know any of these things,” he concedes with concern.

Policy decisions at the state level have put significant pressure on Metehan and other business owners. This has been hard, but while he might personally wish for greater leeway as a restaurant owner, he embraces a larger and more considerate attitude.

“The Governor is thinking of the whole state,” he points out. “Maine is a place for retirement people. I can think about my business but I have to think of the whole society, the whole community—protecting everyone. Just because I’m not high risk personally does not mean I should not consider other people.”

“I cannot just be selfish and think about myself and my business.”

As of the writing of this story, Taka Mediterranean Bar & Grill is open seven days a week from 11:30 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. Walk-ins and reservations are welcome.

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