We Live in a Paradise

A Daily Window into the Quiet Wonders of River and Forest

This is a real story, not simply based on one. It is my lived experience, beginning in 2020, of a home alive with the world around it. We never imagined a house could feel so alive. When my wife and I moved here, we knew the river would bring wildlife, but we did not know it would bring a world. Every day is a quiet lesson in patience and attention. Every moment, a reminder that life—small, swift, grand, and ordinary—persists around us, inviting us to watch, to learn, and to be grateful.

We bought the little house in Maine six years ago. It sits on the river, quiet and wild, backed by forest older than memory. My wife and I knew there would be wildlife. We expected deer, maybe a fox or two. We did not expect everything we have.

It was the end of June. The first morning, we woke to the sound of wings. A redtail hawk circled above the trees looking for his breakfast. Turkeys scratched in the leaf litter looking for theirs. Ducks drifted in the river’s current. It carried the sound of life. We ate breakfast, drank our tea and watched together. Peace.

Our dining room has a large picture window. It looks out over the back yard and our river. Yes our rive and our outoor friends’. Every meal we sit and see our wild neighbors. Some are small and quick, like chipmunks and squirrels. Others move with patience, like deer or a black bear passing in the distance. A bald eagle perches upstream some mornings. It does not look at us, but we watch it all the same, smiling at the quiet wonder.

The seasons come and go. Winter covers the ground in white. Tracks appear and vanish. Snowshoe hares leave their prints. Muskrats paddle through icy water. Spring brings floods, and the river swells. The beaver swims past with its family. Summer is warm and full. Birds call from dawn until dusk. Red-winged blackbirds flare in the reeds. Canadian geese drift lazily. Wood ducks hide in the shadows.

Our front yard is alive, too. Gray squirrels chase each other across the lawn. Red squirrels watch from pine branches. Groundhogs huddle near the stone walls. Possums, skunks, and porcupines wander without hurry. The eastern coyote passes silently. The red fox stops and stares before melting into the brush. Otters slip through the river like shadows, mink darting along the bank. Weasels and ermine move too fast to follow.

Some evenings, we watch the gang of friends gather. Deer drink at the river’s edge. Birds chatter above. A black bear passes down the hill. We do not intrude. We are quiet, watching, sometimes laughing softly at the unexpected antics of a squirrel or a raccoon. Sometimes a moment stretches until we forget we are human at all.

There are creatures we hardly name, leaping mice, voles, river rats. Their work is invisible but persistent. They make the land hum. We have counted over eighty species of birds alone. The numbers do not matter. It is the presence. It is the sound and the motion and the quiet recognition that life persists.

We have learned patience. We have learned attention. We have learned to notice the small gestures: a squirrel pausing to sniff the air, an otter rolling in the current, a hawk gliding silently above. We have learned humility. We have learned joy.

At night, the river whispers. The old mill falls down below roar after a rain storm. The forest breathes. My wife and I sit together, feeling ourselves part of it, though we know we are only visitors. This is our home, but it is their home too.

We are blessed. Every morning, every meal, every moment, we are reminded of the abundance of life. Not abundance of wealth, or noise, or possession, but true wealth, the richness of life and the abundance of being.

Six years later we now tell people that we live in a sanctuary. We live among friends. And we watch, quietly, gratefully, as the world moves on without us and yet with us.

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Do you live in a wild area like this or do you dream of it? Drop a comment below.

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