Time is a River and I was on an Island
When the world wearies and society ceases to satisfy, there is always Whidbey Island <3
This blog is going retroactive. Although this practice keeps both my brain flexible and my interest piqued in all things life-giving, it’s still been a difficult one to stick. But I aim to do better, so I’ve done what anyone with fabulous intentions does and I signed up for a writing workshop. Upon introductions, the facilitator mentioned that it’s common for writers to sign up for workshops as yet another excuse to not be writing. I don’t know about you, but I do enjoy the experience of being called out on my flagrant tendencies. It tingles me with aliveness(!) and is bizarrely rewarding to be a sum of lumps, or among the idiotic and absurd majority.
The workshop was hosted by the dreamiest of the out-of-my-tax-bracket writers’ retreats, the renowned Hedgebrook on Whidbey Island. Per this workshop, I’m to break free from my inner saboteur, give her a name (Scrupulous Beech) and outline a specific writing routine. The calendar is marked and we’re off to the squirrel brain races! Stay tuned to see if this beech or the other Beech prevails!
Time is the substance I am made of.
Time is a river which sweeps me along but I am the river;
It is a tiger which destroys me but I am the tiger;
It is a fire which consumes me but I am the fire.
—Jorge Luis Borges
Now, about my and Trever’s last two weeks in the Pacific Northwest, on an island in the Salish Sea, territory of the Coast Salish. Be still my orca-sized beating heart <3
We stayed in a newly built house with an ocean view. No complaints. We had dinner with our hosts and learned about their routine with their two cats and 11-year-old dog. With the experience of pet sitting for 15 different households so far this summer: people are obsessed with their pets and their pets are having the last laugh because wow, have I met some stuck up furrholes with deeply ingrained royalty behavior and waking times that could only mean they worship the underlords whose spirits require veneration at such hours. Sassy little imps!
As for the humans on Whidbey, those who can afford to live on a picturesque island just a quick ferry ride from the metropolis, are by no stretch of the imagination, coveting silver hairs, hovering around like the neighborhood watch of sparse parking lots, cinnamon rolls in tow, blue blockers and layers of Kirkland cotton, waddling this fine plot of earth with their social security, HOA status, and a self-possessed stare that would put gangs of the meanest chihuahuas out of work. Slow-nodding, hand-wringing, son-of-a-guns. Shirley temple drinking tracksuit wearing snarling little lemon tarts.
As for the younger locales, there are some. There was the guy that stood in line in front of me at the Flower House, a cafe where the island’s population flocks for tea sandwiches and pastries and in the courtyard most seem to be spying on each other from behind the disguise of an upright newspaper. He was in his early forties and was meeting his aunt, a slender thick-haired woman with quarter-sized blue eyes. They hadn’t seen each other in awhile; they were so glad the timing worked out, teeming with a slight jitter, like there is too much to say nonetheless on an empty stomach. Notably, he started with, “I’m really not doing well—I mean, between moving here, the renovations, the baby, the puppy—we never sleep.” His briefcase looked like a prop from 2006 and swayed loosely at the end of his arm, building prime momentum to fling across the patio whilst screaming. I held my breath. But his aunt interjected and said “When Bobby was that age, I remember those days…almost killed us.” Looking right into the aqua centers of his aunts long blinking stare, his eyes went jelly donut glazed and he was nodding a little too slowly. Without letting them onto my looming, I discreetly snapped my fingers to help release him from whatever pre-current life trance he was in. Then he asked how she was doing. “Well, I just came in third place in the island triathlon”
“Like, overall, third place?” She nodded.
Meanwhile Trever is used to me, in each new city we’ve been to, sitting down to lunch and going laser focused onto the apps. Trulia. Reddit. Indeed. Zillow. Wiki. Local News. Random local’s IG page. I must decide if we should live there by the time our meal is over. It may sound flippant, but I’ve settled into the understanding that it’s our birthright to be suckers, to defy the logic of all economists and well-intentioned financial planners, to live in a broom closet, pay half of our income toward rent while desperately and specifically searching for walkable neighborhoods and trees that turn fall colors.
Speaking of, we loved the town of Langley. It is where the 1998 cult classic Practical Magic was filmed; it’s witchy, it’s kitschy, and of course there’s a housing crisis. There’s also a boutique and mercantile where I would gleefully spend my entire life’s savings after which I materialize a 1960 green Ford pickup, drive it to my cedar shingled home, burst through the door with a bundle of fresh flowers to inhale the aroma of homemade spiced candles sweating in the afternoon sun-drenched library where I’d spend the afternoon reading then preparing a feast of linguine and clams (I’d be a member of the clam digging club); all possible due to the complicated relationship I’d have with a wretchedly wealthy middle-aged lush that offers to be our benefactor as long as I spend six days per week recording her stories and subsequently writing her memoir. Once the scandal of her past consumes our lives, Trever procures a small boat and we take a midnight ride to Victoria B.C. from where we never return.
I do have the late night habit of applying for jobs in places that I create such fantasies about. If I hear back from the job in Langley, you’ll know soon.
On our last weekend, Trever surprised me with a dinner at the reputable, Captain Whidbey, where I had the most sumptuous sea diver scallops, got misty-eyed staring into the oceanic horizon and didn’t flinch when Trever ordered the burger and fries. Captain Whidbey: we’re coming back for you and will lodge in your seaside cabins. We also found a hall nearby that *would be* a perfect wedding venue, if someday we feel inspired to set money aflame and have a destination wedding…
We also drove to Anacortes, across Deception Pass, ate at a Japanese restaurant, walked the bluffs at Washington Park, drove to the top of Mount Erie while listening to the band, Mount Erie’s album, “A Crow Looked at Me”, which might be the saddest album of all time—but, I’m guilty of layering on the feels. Trever drove and I saw myself in the mirror then the world outside was blurry, a tear smeared sea, a landscape unfathomably ancient, deep viridian, sun-pierced and awe-soaked.
On a Saturday evening we went to a production of King Lear in the gardens of a Waldorf elementary school. As nightfell the stage lights amped up and the damp coastal air was suddenly affixed by a sea of vibrating, frenzied moths, but the spell on stage was entirely consuming and unmatched by any such distractions. Trever and I agreed that an annual Shakespeare festival is a most desired feature of our future home as to embolden the aspirations of my childhood playwright and performer spirit until it eventually materializes to performing original works for captive familial audiences during holiday functions.
A couple days before we were headed east toward Colorado, Trever had to fly back to Los Angeles for work. I would pick him up from the airport in Seattle after I stayed one more night on the island alone. I decided to book a campsite at Ebey’s Landing or as I came to see it, the edge of the world or, as distant and holy a place as I’ve ever been, somewhat despite the constant sonic booms of naval jets. I drove there with all the windows down; jackets, towels and sheets perilously billowed in the backseat. I stopped at the Greenbank Deli & Pantry for my dinner provisions and listened to these four songs on repeat.
A friend sent me a message during night while I was camping which said, “you and I are so different, because I need stability and a home base whereas you feel comfortable and even flourish while vagabonding.” I was honored to be accused of “flourishing” and hadn’t thought of the word “vagabonding” since a psychic once told me that it was indeed my style but she predicted (in 2021) that I would stay put in Los Angeles for a couple years because of love. Shoot me a message if you want her number.
Next week I’ll be back with tales of our trip across the majestic Montana landscapes, Wyoming, the Tetons! and the beloved Rockies, where we’re now staying until November.
Love to you all,
J
