a few flowers

and farewells

Hi friends,

It’s hard to believe, but here we are—my month on Monhegan has come to an end. How did that even happen?? Even though I know I’ll be back in three weeks (and then again for all of September), it’s always hard to say goodbye. It's island tradition to gather a bouquet of wildflowers before boarding the boat, then cast their stems into the harbor as a promise someday you will return. I've never forgotten my vow. To return. Every summer. Year after year, after twenty years.

I’ve written about how it feels to meet someone at the boat, but yesterday, it was my turn—to be the one to cross the ocean and be greeted on the other side by John because he’d come to take Gertie, Violet, and me home. My other home. And while it may not seem like Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce at Wembley epic, believe me when I say it was pretty great!

To be on Monhegan in June is to be amid full bloom—the scent of lilac lingers, giving way to fields of phlox and lupines, the lure of sighting lady’s slippers in Cathedral Woods if you know just where to look, and so, so many wildflowers all across the meadow: water forget-me-nots and Queen Anne’s Lace; clover tangled in traps along the side of the road, to name only a few.

Still, what delights me the most has been to see so many peonies popping because they have always been my favorite flower, the ones I wait patiently for each year in my garden at home, the only plant I’ve ever been capable of growing, and the ones I keep on missing—this year by just one day! Oh, peonies, how you break my heart.¹

Peonies have always punctuated the beginning of the summer—vases overflowing, arrangements everywhere. I remember the year Evan graduated from high school, and I made a bouquet for each of their friends to carry home in a jar.

What is it about this plant: how they persist, how they come to flourish, the tiniest of ants quietly assisting, licking open their petals until the green fists begin to burst, bearing blossoms in such abundance that unless their stems are cut, the entire plant will collapse beneath their own leggy weight, unable to lift their heads in seeming defeat. And yet they return year after year, finding their strength in the darkest soil to prolifically begin again.

Before I left Rochester, I decided to attempt the unimaginable: to preserve a few of my flowers by cutting the stems and wrapping them in brown paper for cold storage, hoping to be coaxed into bloom upon my return. I don’t know if it’s possible to hold on to something so fleeting, but I’m going to try, even if for only one day.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

All this last week on Monhegan, I’ve been working with a private yoga client who has also become a dear friend. At the end of each practice, we would read a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, allowing it to be our trusted guide:

Fresh

To move
cleanly.
Needing to be
nowhere else.
Wanting nothing
from any store.
To lift something
you already had
and set it down in
a new place.
Awakened eye
seeing freshly.
What does that do to
the old blood moving through
its channels?

I think of the last sentence as a question all its own—what does that do to the old blood moving through its channels?

In Japanese, there’s a word (of course, there’s a word) for the idea that people, like flowers, bloom in their own time and individual ways. That word is oubaitori, and between these two concepts lies my reminder that a month away can be daunting. Because it’s not always easy to shift effortlessly from one place to another. It’s not that either one is any more or less your life or home; rather, there’s always so much to love in both.

I don’t want to be someone who lives from loss. Someone who only forces flowers to bloom in places I am not. I’ve been that girl, and I won’t do it again.

If I’m going to spend the month of June on Monhegan, how can I see freshly?

What if instead of missing my peonies, I dig into the earth and plant a new garden all my own? Until then, may I allow it to be enough to breathe and bask in the light of these few flowers by Sylvia Alberts. Aahhh.

Lynne’s Room, 1985

So here’s my writing prompt to you: with an awakened eye, how do you see freshly?

Wishing you a glorious summer’s day ~ xosew

P.S.

For those curious, the final island “I used to have Newfies” tally was SIXTEEN! But Gertie also met another Karakachan, which never ever happens. Except when it does. Only on Monhegan.

Thanks for being here. I’m grateful for your readership. Before you go, would you click the ♥️ or share this post with a friend? You may also restack, leave a comment, or reply via email because it helps others find this newsletter. If you want to join in our island adventures, you can also follow me on Instagram, but most importantly, I love knowing what resonates with you.

The Faraway Nearby: stillness, story, sea is FULL!

September 18-22, 2024 | Monhegan, Maine

want to be the first to know about next year’s retreat or get on the 2024 waitlist?

1. Peonies, Mary Oliver

currently:

are you looking for some light summer reads? here are two recommendations from

Emma Straub

, who writes a pretty great newsletter, too:

the first is last night at the lobster, by stewart o’nan, because it’s quick, it’s about lobster (sort of), and unlikely friendships held together by place. you know, kind of like islands.😉

and dare me, by megan abbott, because it’s dark, it’s about cheerleaders, and admit it: on some level who isn’t fascinated by cheerleaders?

finally, if you have thirty minutes you can make this chicken. seriously.

i rubbed mine with turmeric and smoked paprika, which i encourage you to try!

and last but not least:

if you happen to live in the 585, rathaus press and delyraystudio have organized an epic queer pride craft fair, from 11 - 3 at radio social, so check it out, and yep, that’s my kid and their partner!!!