If this blog feels rusty, that’s because it is. It has been sorely neglected as I wend my way through daily life, which is just so . . . DAILY. I’ve actually had some small adventures over the past couple of months, but I haven’t settled into a rhythm with writing, and I miss it. I have rarely picked up my camera, relying on my phone’s portability instead of planning to get up at the crack of dawn and go see a new place as the sun rises.
Some part of me feels badly for not focusing on keeping adventure in my life as much, but right now, I mostly don’t miss striving to get to the next place, the next thing. I feel less need to share everything going on in my life, though I’ve stayed active on Instagram.
I recently started exploring the small trails not far from my house, each a quick drive and a short walk with a breathtaking view at the end. I really do live in a beautiful place. One year in, I still love my job at the bakery. I love where I live. My dogs are happy. I am happy.
My housemate worked on a tour boat out of South Freeport this summer. I finally got a chance to take a trip with her and some friends out to Eagle Island, a state park and the former summer home of polar explorer Admiral Peary.
I skipped over the introductory video in favor of wandering through the house, trying to duck the very knowledgeable and well-intentioned docent who rattled off facts and figures as I went. I eventually found myself upstairs and spent some time imagining waking up there and sitting down to write at the desk near the window. The house felt like a friend’s family place where I’d spent some time during the summers in high school. There were family mementos everywhere you turned, the scent of old, dry wood, and the slight creak of the floors below.
I walked around the tiny island, peering over ledges and passing through fern-choked paths, picking blackberries. The shore path gave out onto gorgeous views of the water and the surrounding islands. Birds were everywhere, especially ospreys. On the way over we saw their nests perched precariously on rocks, the first time I’d ever seen a nest in the wild. In Maine, we build platforms on power line poles, which the ospreys love to build nests on.
I poked around on the beach for the tiny yellow shells that I collect and eventually came up with a handful. My favorite beach is in the same town, though across the water, and I’m lucky to find one or two shells each week there as I follow the dogs along the rocky shore.
We headed back to town after just the right amount of time, that time just before you get restless and feel stuck, when everything around you still holds a little bit of wonder and you can see how spending a summer on your own little island would be just about perfect.