Darkness on an Island

Two night ago, on a rainy night, the streetlights where I live were out. The darkness didn't make much of a difference until I turned out my bedroom lamp late that evening before falling asleep. Street lamplight no longer streamed into my windows. In truth, it was a welcome darkness, yet immediately I was transported back to a summer childhood experience.

It was on a small island, a little bit larger than a football field, situated on a lake in central New Hampshire with a long Native American name. Friends of our family owned the island and we'd stay for a night each summer. There was no electricity or running water and the island could only be reached via a brief canoe or rowboat trip. By day, we'd swim or walk through the wooded island, past blueberry bushes and well-traveled paths. Sunsets could be viewed from a large flat rock on the west side. A small one-room house sat at one end of the island filled with board games, a large table, comfortable chairs and a set of bunk beds. In the middle of the island, a wooden cabin housed a small kitchen, an indoor sitting area, an outdoor porch and a steep ladder leading to a sleeping area with a large bed and another set of bunk beds. Meals were simple and fresh, lake water would be boiled occasionally on a gas stove for pasta or rice. My brother and I were right at home, spending the days with two other children our age who we had grown up with. The four of us would have scavenger hunts in between afternoons of swimming or games of backgammon. I remember spying eagle nests, spending evenings playing cards and walking through the dark woods with flashlights.

We would sleep in the bunk beds, falling asleep easily, on a dark island, on a summer night and waking to the sun. Falling asleep two nights ago brought me back to these summer evenings on the island in ways that I had forgotten and never would have expected to be reminded of again. I've found much of writing and creativity is remembering. It's living memories again and understanding what sets each experience apart. I never would have imagined a streetlight-free night would provoke memories of nighttime darkness on a small island in a lake in New Hampshire, but it did, it reminded me of so much more.  

Island life, 1996 or 1997.

Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning"

I was flipping through one of my favorite anthologies of American Literature (Harper American Lit. Vol. II!) on Monday morning while packing to return to school when I came across the poem "Sunday Morning" written by Wallace Stevens in 1915. I had heard of Stevens before but didn't know much else. The second stanza of the poem, especially its focus on divinity and natural imagery, stayed with me throughout the day.

"Sunday Morning" 

by Wallace Stevens

II

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

What is divinity if it can come 

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must live within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

All pleasures and all pains, remembering

The bough of summer and the winter branch.

These are the measures destined for her soul.

Easter Weekend

Balance has interested me lately as I begin to transition from student to (hopefully) employed. I've found the tasks to complete are numerous, but not quite enough. I've been craving change and travel and the luxury to make and act upon sudden decisions. Less structure sounds nice. Life is busy but I think I want to be busier.

Late last week I celebrated my Mom's birthday along with my maternal grandmother in southern New Hampshire. The next morning, I interviewed on the north shore of Massachusetts. It was nice to see the ocean again. I ate a lobster roll afterwards. It seemed fitting. :)

From my parents house, Friday evening.

Easter weekend has been full of cooking, baking, organizing, emails, cleaning, sleep and this morning, sunshine, easter lilies and strong incense. 

Last night I headed to the Dartmouth library to complete some academic work. The light was beautiful. :)

For Matthew

I was out to dinner at an Indian restaurant last August with a large group of people I didn't know well when a man a few seats away suggested that each of us share the best dinner experience we'd ever had, one that both food-wise and company-wise was more fulfilling than any other. It didn't take long for me to point to my brother's college graduation dinner when it was my turn to share. A May 2010 evening meal at a Peruvian restaurant in Portland, Oregon, three years later I remembered the food -- beef and roasted peppers and asparagus, among other items -- as some of the tastiest I had ever had, but there was something else about the evening. Laughter and conversation was all I could remember.

There's a picture on my wall of my brother and I on his graduation day. It caught my eye earlier today and I was reminded of the Peruvian meal and began to wonder what dinner experience might someday take its place.

May 2010

I don't often admit that I still listen to the occasional Dave Matthews album, but like most of my older music, it was introduced to me by my Matt, my brother. "Sister," a Dave Matthews song I've long loved has been stuck in my head recently. The lyrics "counting stars against the black, thinking about another day, wishing I was far away, wherever I dreamed I was, you were there with me," evoke my own memories of growing up with my brother.

When I think of my interests in writing and creativity today, I'm transported back to our shared childhoods, writing stories together, him composing music and I pairing rhyming words to sing, I'm reminded of his deep brown eyes and long eyelashes, similar to my own. I think of the constant laughter, how few people can make me laugh as much. I think occasionally too, of his large collection of books, his intellectual curiosity and love for the natural world.

 As I near my own graduation, I think of exactly what his graduation did for me: I witnessed the possibility, time, place and opportunity that laid before him. With our nearly-exact four years' age difference, it's felt so fitting through high school and college to see him just ahead, conquering the next milestone. Reaching my own college completion though, I happily can't imagine what the next four years might hold. But I see the same opportunity for myself that I once saw for him.

December 2012

Mountains and a New Normal

I've returned to a new normal this past week. My thesis finished and my degree nearly complete, there's been an adjustment. It's been warm and and after catching up on sleep, I've thought more of where I'm going and where I've been. A few days ago, I began to feel ready to graduate. As much as I love Vermont and how much I've changed and grown here, I know it's time for something new. The weather's warm and the windows are open again. I've woken to the birds each morning this past week.

This week too has been punctuated by mountains. A few weeks ago, in the busy-ness of job searching, interviewing and applying the final touches to my thesis and other assignments, I remember dreaming about Vermont's mountains. It was the end of winter, but it had appeared that spring might never arrive. I remember thinking of the trees and plants, how dead both are and how life is only brought to them part of the year. I thought of the constant presence of the mountains in this state. This past semester, I've driven weekly to Vergennes, a small town near Middlebury, about 45 minutes south of Burlington. I go  on Friday mornings with a friend to teach English to a migrant dairy farm worker. The experience has allowed me to examine U.S. immigration and the agricultural industry like never before. The road to Vergennes has been one of my absolute favorite drives in Vermont since my first trip to Middlebury two years ago. Hugging Lake Champlain for the full 30 miles, New York's Adirondacks line one side with Vermont's Green Mountains on the other. Farmland and red barns are abundant. I have yet to take any photographs on the drive that illustrate the calamity.
                           
                     
                            This one (taken on Friday) might come closest.

Early Friday afternoon, after returning to Burlington, I drove to Montpelier for lunch with a friend. Driving through the center of the state, the sky bright blue, I saw the mountains like I hadn't before. I noticed how the highway twisted around each one, how the interstate was continually uphill or downhill depending on the direction, I noticed the 15 miles between exits 10 and 11, followed by 9 miles, and then 6 miles as I reached farther south and the towns were closer together, the mountains farther apart.

That evening, I joined my friends Amanda and Katie for a trip to Burlington. We found ourselves by the lake early in the evening, where the icebergs floated freely, the weather warm but the lake still partially frozen. The Adirondacks sat on the other side, still snow-peaked.

Amanda, myself and Katie.

Returning to the roof of the parking garage an hour later, the sun was setting.

I feel more at peace than I have in a long time. I've been reading as much as I can and taking time to appreciate the place I live in. When I noticed the sun setting at 7:30 p.m. last weekend, I couldn't quite believe it was April already. Yesterday, as I watched hundreds of accepted students and their families arrive at my college, I thought of myself four years ago, remembering how much has changed, how much good has occurred. 

Moments in April

I've missed writing these past few months. I've put both creative writing and blogging on hold as I finished my thesis (I successfully defended it last night :) ) and traveled for job interviews. What lies below might resemble stream-of-consciousness writing along with thoughts I'm still working to gather.

Yesterday morning I watched the sunrise for the third morning in a row. Salmon clouds collided with golden horizon below a city encased in haze. Three dozen floors above lower Manhattan, the world looked different.

I was awake early again today, watching the sun rise over the distant pine tree line of northern Vermont. The snow has melted. I haven't slept well in several days but continue to feel rested. Energy and adrenaline has arrived from somewhere. After yesterday's sunrise, I couldn't fall back to sleep but I remember entering a dream-like-thought process. Remembering suddenly of the rose bushes on the west side of the home I grew up in near the tall evergreen tree in the center, illuminated by Christmas lights in December and the rose bushes, illuminated in pink blossoms in the summer. I thought of the wild raspberry bushes bordering the rose bushes. It was a moment of peace that reminded me of moments in life and place that arrive when we need them most. I didn't eat much yesterday and wasn't hungry throughout the day.

Early in the morning, I declined a job offer I had wanted for a long time but had slowly begun to realize it wasn't for me. I gathered my belongings and headed for the subway, walking past Wall Street on a  Monday morning. I interviewed again two hours later and headed for the airport.

I remember studying my thesis presentation and notecards as the plane taxied. I remember talking to the older man sitting next to me; we spoke about Vermont, about my thesis presentation, about how with the 2 hour flight delay, I might make it just in time. Once we took off and New Jersey became distant, the exhaustion set in. I vaguely remember flying through the clouds, white light streaming in through every window and the sun's heat growing stronger. I remember fighting to keep my eyes open as I saw the flight attendant approaching with the drink cart. I ordered a ginger ale and my seat mate ordered an apple juice. I remember being handed the wrong drinks and seeing him lift my ginger ale before I said in a quiet and slow voice still filled with sleep, "I think that's mine and this is yours." We laughed. I drank quickly, hoping to wake up. I remember Lake Champlain coming into focus along with Vermont farmland I had once walked though. I remember flying over the college I'll soon graduate from and recognizing landmarks across the tiny city that have defined my experience in the state. Once on the ground, I headed for the presentation. I was right on time.

When I arrived back to my room at 9 p.m. last night, my bags still packed, I went to my bookshelf and began reading a novel before taking out a notebook and writing everything I could. I wanted to remember and process and understand everything that I had experienced in these past few months. I wanted to write poetry and fiction too, craving the creativity I had missed. The exhaustion succeeded though, and the writing couldn't stretch. When I woke up this morning, before my eyes opened, I couldn't remember where I was.