Each time I try to sit down and write this post, words fail me. It is for this reason that I surrender my desire to create a narrative that is eloquent and profound. Some things defy explanation, and as long as we live on this side of Heaven, there will be those things that we can't fully grasp or understand.
This precious island on the coast of Maine is one of these things. My heart lives on this island. It is the closest I’ve ever been to perfection. It’s the kind of place where time and schedules don’t exist and you can hear God’s voice whispering through tall trees.
The island has been in my family since the 1800s. The pictures that line the walls of our house reflect generations of people who loved and cherished it as much as I do. Though I am too young to have known them, we are linked by an unmistakable and enduring bond.
Our trip to Maine this fall was simply wonderful. Blood orange sunrises led to brilliant blue days. Long morning hikes led to lazy porch afternoons. Farm-fresh dinners led to campfires and card games after dark. We shared stories and had conversations. We chased dogs and picked brussel sprouts. We sat on the dock and stared at the stars. We lived life in a way that only seems possible on a sacred spot in Maine.
No one who has ever visited the island has left the same. The misty eyes and tight throats that come forth as the boat slowly pulls away from the dock are evidence of changed hearts. There’s a sense of gratitude for having been there and loss for having to say goodbye. As hard as it is to leave, goodbyes are only temporary. I am fortunate in that I married a man who loves the island as much as I do. We make a point to remember it in our daily lives–through stories, photographs, and big rocks used as doorstops. Even when the island feels a million miles away, these things remind us that it really does exist.