Blog for July 14^th, 2008

It is Bastille Day, and I have a little bird that can whistle the Marseillaise, but he is far away, in Alaska cruising the Inside Passage with Scott on the Heron. That life seems so far away.

Here it is muggy and tourists crowd the towns and beaches. When I spoke with Scott, he had just been watching mother bears with their cubs fishing for salmon in a creek.

I miss the quiet and the wilderness in Alaska. I miss beaches with only the footprints of wolves in the sand. Every day I am reminded why I left the Vineyard, but I am also aware of the deep and abiding love that pulls me back.

I think I have loved some places as much as I have loved people. The light slanting across the pastures in the late afternoon up island catches my heart with a pang of longing and love usually sparked by the sight of a beloved face. The dusty blue wildflowers on the side of the road evoke memories of endless barefoot summer days. The small things and the large weave together a tapestry of time and my heartstrings are the threads.

I love this island, but I do not think it could be home any more. The crowding makes me feel like an animal in a trap. There are too many stories here, and they get in the way of my relationship to the natural world. There are the stories of the thousands of people who live here, and the tens of thousands who visit. Everyone seems to be making their own little movie, and the rest of us are props.

There is too much traffic on the narrow little roads, and too many people lined up in the restaurants and stores. There is the constant Gershwin howl of sirens and voices through the trees all night coming from the porches and open windows. I long for silence and a breath of cool air. Then I jump in the sea and the salt on my skin and the pull of the surf is exhilarating. I look back at the towering clay cliffs gleaming in the sun, and at that moment, I cannot imagine another place in the world I want to be.

I went quahogging yesterday. My friend Jane and I stood waist deep in the Lagoon and scraped the sandy pond bottom with rusty clam rakes. I had forgotten what joy there is in feeling the tines scratch the chalky hard shells of a quahog. We filled the basket half full, and brought them home. I steamed them up, and we had them for dinner along with two bottles of champagne.

My brother Steven is home now. My sister Ann was at the house most of the day. We were all celebrating Dad’s return home. He is tired, but relieved to be back in the house. He told me he was happy to hear us talking and laughing. I am happy to have him restored to us. I take nothing for granted now.

This is a fleeting season, not just the summer, but also these days with Dad, this last chapter in our family home. Like the lilacs long since bloomed and gone, or the rhododendrons whose brilliant blossoms dropped off weeks ago, the beauty of these days is stalked by the passage of time.

My friend Laura sent me a package yesterday, which I opened just before bed. It was full of poetry and music, and her choices struck a deep chord in me. She chose songs for the cd that are some of my favorites. The poem she chose was by Mary Oliver and is one that has been running through my mind since I arrived here in May. This poem speaks to me of loving deeply without grasping, and living in the moment without yearning:

Here is part of In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver:

“To live in this world

You must be able

To do three things:

To love what is mortal;

To hold it

Against your bones knowing

That your own life depends on it;

And, when the times comes to let it go,

To let it go.”

I am savoring this summer, these days with Dad, this time on the island, holding it close to my bones, hoping I will have the courage and the wisdom to let it go when the time comes.