The Here

Every road is a journey, present and past. I travel over the island and every turn, every juncture, every road brings memories. Everything here is connected for me. There are patterns woven over this land. Intricate, obtuse, invisible, intangible.

I have come here forever. I have traversed this place in every season. Although I have wandered many lanes and fields, this place still holds surprises for me. And new connections.

As a child, what was so striking about this place, were the views and lack of trees. Leaving here at summer’s end, to go back to school on the mainland, what stood out for me was how green and tall it was across the ocean.

There is no longer an absence of trees here. Maples and shad share space with chokecherries and bayberry. The greenery of this place wanders, it just wanders taller now. The greenery has grown to become a view changer and a shape shifter.

These days I come home here with my husband whose only connection to this place is through me. It allows me to see it through different eyes. We live on the other side of the world, where winters are more mild and summers more intense. He speaks of spending a full year here, to experience and witness what the off-season offers.

The thought of a winter here brings all sorts of different memories. Winters here are where and when the magic happens. It is an isolated place, buffeted by wind and sea. There is space for quality time and a sense of breath. If the summer weighs down the island then the off season buoys it up. Not only can the inhabitants breathe, but so too can this land.

Every corner, every lane, holds a memory of some sort. Maybe the memories are so contained because this land is contained. Islands are single and solitary by their very nature.

The here calls. Wanting to witness the now but also remember the past. Everything here is linked - this person to that place. Who are your people? How do you fit here?

The here holds so many stories. So many people. So many memories. They travel with me any where I am but being back here, I can hear and feel their voices.

In this disposable society, I hold onto these treasures of my past. My memories are place holders. They are markers. They may no longer guide me but they show the path I have travelled to be in the here, now.

(This piece was written on my last trip back to Block Island, in July 2013. It still fills me with wonder at how much a place can be such an integral part of you.)