A Sense of Place

One of the things I found on this bluff was a sense of place.

During my early childhood we moved every two years or less.
From state to state, and coast to coast.
But I began my life on an island, Oahu.
On the other side of the planet.

It could only be a cosmic coincidence,
since I was barely 2 when we left Hawaii,
and lots of people describe the experience,
but maybe there is something on a cellular level
about an island,
that feels like coming home.

On a deeply emotional level
this house
this land
this ocean-side slice of the planet
the friendship that first offered it
the new ones that blossomed here
the family that shared summer breezes
and quiet moments of solitude
the hours of creative inspiration
and the deep inhalation of peace…

they have all been woven
into a marvelous tapestry of memories
that echo through my soul
each and every day of my life.

When I walked through these empty rooms
for the final time
with the house slated for demolition
those memories washed over me
like a rogue wave.

Tumbling with the roiling tide
amidst the laughter and song…
my heart thudded against remembered losses.

Loved ones whose hands we held
when the camp welcomed a sunrise…
and had to let go of too soon
so they could walk into their sunset.

Saying goodbye to those friends
again
I was drawn into a melancholy
that stayed with me for most of
the winter months.

At home
in the studio
I had planned to work on a series of paintings
from the camp.
A sort of final chapter with some favorite views
and unexplored corners.
A way to lift me up and back to the happier times.

Then someone sent me a photo
taken from Squibnocket beach
looking back up at the bluff
and when I saw the empty horizon
I lost it.

In a paraphrasing of C.S. Lewis,
who was “Surprised by Joy”,
I was taken aback by the sense of loss.

I put aside the sketchbook of ideas
for the camp series
and threw my energies into other compositions.

The hours I spent
painstakingly refracting the light
of a Chilmark sunset
through a larger than life woolen fleece
and the challenges of making
the varnished and weathered
old wooden horses fly…
seemed to provide a cathartic
and creative release.

When the spring light started to thaw
the world outside the studio
I was ready to revisit Camp Sunrise within.

And what I saw
in the reference photos and sketches
and in my heart
renewed and refreshed
and waiting there all along
was…the light.

Yes she, the house,
had made old bones.
And yes, I absolutely love the patina
of that century of lives that marks her walls and floors
and cherish having added my DNA  into the mix
but take all those touchstones away…

and you are left with what was always there
surrounding us and holding us…
the island light.

So, that is what I painted.
The bare bones
of a sanctuary
as we let go of her hand
and she welcomed a new day.