One for Peaks!

I don't know what there is about it, but I'm filled with boundless glee when I approach the ticket window at the Casco Bay Ferry Terminal with my five-dollar bill and say, "One for Peaks!"
With my pass in hand, I roll my cart on to the ferry and settle in for the twenty-minute trip, texting my family, "I'm crossing over!"

In the past few weeks I've been very fortunate to cross over to Peaks and fashion two writing retreats for myself at what I refer to as "The Pink Lady of Peaks", the grand old house on Peaks Island that belongs to my daughter and son-in-law.

On this particular weekend they have gone off to Prince Edward Island, leaving me in charge of the beautiful, luxuriant Elsa, as well as two elderly hens by the names of Olive and Tulip. All I have to do is let the chickens in and out of their abode, and tend to Elsa's seemingly endless string of needs, which can put a slight crimp in my writing schedule.

For instance, she has to be fed promptly at 8:00 a.m. followed by a thorough sifting and stirring of her litter box. The consequences of not doing these chores is dire and we won't go into the details here. Suffice it to say you don't want to screw this up.

Queen Elsa also requires a great deal of brushing, fluffing and flattering throughout the day. Take it from me, she cannot be trusted with an open door to the outside, or near dairy products. This includes a bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce and my lime Greek yogurt.

I do think I've gotten to the point where I have her figured out though. Once her requirements are fulfilled, she settles in for a long nap on the sunny spot of the sofa where she snores away for hours. When it comes to the middle of the afternoon, I can't always resist the urge to lay down beside her and cover up with one of many of the Irish woolen blankets on offer.

It's blissfully quiet on the island this time of year. Even during the walks I take to punctuate the shift from morning to afternoon then again at sunset, I only see one or two islanders on their way to the grocery or the ferry.

Today, other than checking on Olive and Tulip, I haven't been out at all, opting instead for gentle yoga and an hour-long soaking session in the claw-foot tub upstairs. As I relax in the warm water with Irish bath salts from The Burren Perfumery and listen to the wind outside the window, I'm filled with such gratitude for this place, for my daughter and her husband, and most of all for the time and flexibility I have to leave the mainland to be here.

Peaks Island in November isn't for everyone, but it certainly is for me. It is here in solitude where I gather my thoughts, put away my worries, sleep for ten hours at a stretch, write for eight hours or more, nap, eat pasta, cheese, ice cream, drink pots of tea, and somehow become new.

Is it the sea air, the quiet, this welcoming, warm house sitting on the hill and blushing in the glow of afternoon sun? Is it Rachel and Jubal's generosity-the whimsical little directions and sketches they leave for me, as well as plenty of delicious provisions?

 

Whatever it is, no matter how long I stay here, it's never enough. I know I'll be back, but I always experience a bit of wistfulness, a physical pull of "homesickness-in-the-making" when I walk down the hill to the ferry for the return trip to my house on the mainland.

I do everything in reverse with a different sort of happy anticipation, and drive north on 295 to my schedules, interviews, writing deadlines and laundry. And my family. They are the reason I stay on the mainland to begin with, and probably always will. I start to look forward to upcoming events with the grandchildren-the birthdays and holiday times, as well as the ordinary but extraordinary charming little moments around the everyday.

It's good to know the island won't be going anywhere and there will always be a special place for me here.  No matter what, I will always make it so.