Star Island

Once upon a time — almost a decade ago, I spent a glorious week on a small island off the coast of New Hampshire (which has a very small coast, in fact). The island, which was now being used for various retreats, is home to a late-19th century hotel, a small chapel, several cabins, and an art barn.

There are no televisions in the rooms, electric sockets are hard to find, and hardly anyone is glued to a computer or cell phone. It’s beautifully simple and quiet, the perfect place to exchange ideas and dreams. The meals are served family-style at long tables and the days stretch on without usual distractions. The island is staffed largely by college students for the summer, who have a very Dirty Dancing-esque culture with their own parties, dances, and other events.

When I sometimes feel too overwhelmed, I find myself thinking about this place, about the people I met there, the poetry I wrote, and how I long for more weeks spent laughing myself silly as I fail to row a boat properly, taking afternoon dives into artically cold waters, lying on a rock in the morning sun feeling my spirit swell, gathering around with new friends at night talking until sleep took us.

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