I'm not yet fully home. I'm not sure I will ever be.
This wandering spirit falls hard and fast for every single land it has ever laid eyes on, even if only for a moment. Sounds fickle, I know. Sounds unrooted and easily discontented of me to allow my gaze to be so quickly caught. Terribly romantic and yet tragically uncommitted.
My roots run deep through people, not places, near well-watered streams of relationships producing vines grafted into strong branches all wrapped with tangles of cords not easily broken. These roots are how I know exactly who I am and who I've been created to be. These roots are how I trust my crew and where we are headed. These roots are how I am always connected to those I love no matter where my steps land.
I always feel at home in a new place because this entire planet has been given to us to explore, to marvel before. Every trail, every feather, every mount, every shoreline a dazzling gift indulgently showcasing the glory of a creative God offering a standing invitation for me to stay. To linger. To receive. There is always a piece stirring my soul's memory as if I've never not been there.
Doe Bay was just that way.
On paper, Write:Doe Bay is a writer's workshop, a retreat space for the work of the written word. On skin, though, Doe Bay hangs magic in the air thick like her blinding fog offering space for intersections of opposites and kindred spirits alike. So I could tell you about amazing workshops sessions with best-selling authors whose works are shaping my own processes set in a twinkly lit living room decorated with handmade dreamcatchers,
gorgeous meals cultivated with grace and love using ridiculously fresh local and sustainable elements, killer island views where every shade of green ever known to man runs toward shore to kiss every shade of blue I've ever seen in the sea which reaches out to a horizon of the exact same hue making it impossible to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins...
...but I won't.
Surely those pieces of the journey settled into my soul convincing me of having always been home, but my roots dug deep into the people. We are each so. beautifully. different. And yet there is something about giving another human being permission to wrap their hands around your experiences and to hold them, even if just for a moment, that reminds us of just how much we all have in common. Showing up for the love of the written word proved to be more than enough.
What I found is that I CRAVE diversity. Literally binging on it all weekend long, I could not get enough of hearing from those whose lives pulse so differently from my own. Naturally, the schedules we keep align us with others who swim similar currents and I feel like I am constantly trying to swim against the current to not forget the taste of the greater ocean. I don't want to be whisked away in mindless motion where every other face looks like me, lives like me, believes like me.
We didn't talk much about our kids and spouses or jobs and zip codes that weekend. Maybe here and there while rumbling through suitcases for flashlights or on our way along well-worn paths. Mostly, we talked long over refilled mugs and stayed late for second rounds of drinks to tell of art and honesty and our creative natures and the glitter-flecked, tear-stained moments that string together a life of making that would dare to bring us together on a tiny island in the middle of the great Northwest.
And I felt at home.