Independence Day: Goodbye to All That

Monday's July 4th celebration comes with much fanfare, and sorrow. I spend the morning packing up my clothes, including the ones that somehow never got worn--the button-up white shirt, the black pants, the high heels. Melissa and I drive around a bit, running last minute errands. I drop off my bike--o loathsome, uncooperative vehicle of non-transportation--at Wildlife, and they hand me a check for $25 in return. Too much, I think, but I use the check as an excuse to buy some pretty earrings at Orcas Island Arts & Gifts. The store owner's daughter, a jewelry designer who plays with sea glass and all kinds of precious stones, talks me into a gorgeous pair of quartz earrings, golden citrine and blue-green chalcedony, translucent and smooth in my hand.

I look through the gem book behind the desk for the meaning of these stones--chalcedony is considered a powerful cameo; Greeks in the 3rd-4th century used to wear it to prevent drowning. Citrine, meanwhile, gets its name from its lemony color, and is meant to increase self-confidence, desire, and creativity--generally known as the wealth or abundance stone. I've picked stones that put me at a crossroads, between what has happened and what might be coming around the bend.

Melissa and I get a text from Annie--she and Ken have loaded their kayaks onto the truck, and will meet us down at Cascade Lake for a bit of summer sun before the barbecue tonight. We drive down to the lake, crowded with fishermen and families by the swimming area, and pull the long heavy boats down from the rigging. Melissa and I slide them into the water, which is much warmer and softer than expected, and paddle out into the lake. It only takes a few minutes to move away from the shore, the sound of laughing kids and sizzling barbecues dying off, and soon all I can hear is the ripple of the water, the low vibration of a dragonfly skimming the surface, the zip of fishing lines as they fly into the air and plop down toward their targets. We steer into an inlet where the water is much stiller and deeper--I can see the roots of water lilies snaking yards down into the darkness, their roots imperceptible but unshakable. Whole tree trunks have crashed down into the water, forming underwater bridges and walkways. The air is warm and sweet and redolent with clover and fir and madrone trees.

I lay back and pull my feet out of the boat, letting them rest on the hot plastic. I want to keep my mind this quiet, this still and appreciative, forever. The peace of just floating here, letting the gentle current carry me away from shore, needs to stay even after I board the last ferry tonight. But my mind is racing with ideas: could I open a restaurant? what would it be? what could I cook? The fact is that a career in cooking wouldn't mean this peace--it wouldn't necessarily mean peace at all. There is just as strong a chance of neurosis, anxiety, and disappointment in a kitchen as there is in an office. What I'm thriving from is the contrast...and, perhaps, the distance. The sky here is wide, open; the trees are taller than office buildings, but not nearly as foreboding. Even when I'm in shadow, I can feel the warmth of the sunlight on my skin, radiated back from the rich brown soil. Wrapped in the Island's embrace, I start to tear up, knowing that tonight, I'll have to leave it behind me.

Melissa and I paddle back to shore, where Annie, Ken, and Amanda are hanging out as little Ava are paddling in the swimming area. Annie wades in up to her knees, the hem of her cotton dress darkening with water. "Blow bubbles, Ava!" she says. "No!" says Ava, paddling away like a puppy, her head bobbing above the surface so her face doesn't have to get wet. A few seconds later, though, she's dipping her face in the water, shaking it off and rubbing her eyes like a damp kitten. But she doesn't shed a tear, or run to get out and dry off. She stays in the water, content as she is to paddle around.

We load the kayaks back onto the truck and bid them farewell until the BBQ tonight. Melissa and I return to the Inn, and as I walk around, taking my last batch of pictures for posterity, Melissa carves out a chunk of a straggling chive plant for me to take home. I wrap the tender roots in a damp paper towel, cover them with plastic wrap, and wrap the long stems in tinfoil. This will insulate it over the next 48 hours of travel--whether it will flourish on my window grate, I'm still unsure. But it's a small consolation to bring even a small piece of the Island back with me.

Melissa and I get dolled up--the first time on the Island I've worn more than a light coating of mascara and sunscreen. My skin has darkened considerably since I arrived a month ago--where I once resembled the creamy interior of an almond, now I look like its toasted skin. It'd be a Kardashian-esque tan if my nose didn't bear a bit of a burn from the morning's boating, proof that the color is hard-earned rather than store-bought. Despite putting on a few pounds from family-meal, I look healthy, athletic, adapted to the outdoors. I look nothing like myself. Or maybe exactly like myself.

We load my suitcases into the car. I give Wally a last hug before departing, telling him to check his low-boy for a last-minute present from me. (Wrapping up after clean-up from pizza, I slipped a bucket with his two oyster knives into his low-boy, one less thing for his daily prep work, with a handy piece of advice written inside: "Don't drop the nuts!"). We pull away from the Inn, the windows now, the breeze blowing hard and cool in my face. Amanda's house is already crawling with visitors by the time we arrive, so we slip off our sandals and sip cold beers in lawn chairs.

Annie enlists us in a game of badminton--my dress is too long to play, so I tie it up with a hair elastic way above my gym shorts, and dive for the birdie each time it comes close. We are embarassingly bad, but the workout we get from laughing at our own missed shots is more than enough exercise. We cool off in the shadow, nibble on crackers and cheese, and tickle Ava as she comes close.

"Ava," I ask. "Do you know how to play the hand-slap game?"

"No," she grins, and I show her how to rest her hands on mine, pulling them quickly away before I can flip them over and catch her with a playful slap. When it's my turn to get slapped, she simply grabs my fingers rather than flipping her hands over--I don't want to get into the actual rules of the game with her. It's too much fun to watch her squeal with delight as she gets me over and over again...and she gets the same glee out of Foot War. We sit on the ground and put our feet up against each other, her pushing her little heels against my bigger, until my legs drop to the ground, defeated. She feels like a champion, and that's what counts.

Everyone makes her feel like a champion--even in the midst of open bottles and half-filled Dixie cups, no one is too busy to play with her, or to interact with each other. Even though the grill is churning out sausages and hot dogs, people are slow to leave their chairs, or to leave the badminton racket. Ava wants to play everyone, and most are up to the challenge.

Everyone seems in a state of half-play--Angela and her boyfriend show up, nuzzling each other sweetly on a blanket. Justine from Coffelt Farms cracks open a beer with some of the guys, laughing and throwing in her own jibes with gusto. The Scot, who compliments me on my dress but remains a gentlemen throughout the night, is all buddy-buddy with Jay and the other guests.

Amanda and Annie, sisters but with dramatically different appearances, are all hugs and smiles with anyone they can get within arm's reach.

Ken grabs the camera from me for a minute and snaps a few candid shots of Annie. They're all shots I've seen in the kitchen--bemused, skeptical, joyous--and clearly looks he loves.

I make a wish for Annie and Ken to work out, to keep their rhythm and appreciation of each other for many years. I make a wish, in general, for Annie to get everything she wants, to feel contented in her life on Orcas, and wherever else it might take her. It seems cheesy to issue such a mental benediction, but I don't have any real way to repay her for her generosity, except to hope it all comes back to her ten-fold. That, and a "New York care package" for Ken. "Bagels, black-and-white cookies, whatever you've got," he says, smirking good-naturedly.

The sun starts to fade, and before I know it, the guests are packing it in for the fireworks. Melissa moves my bags from her car to Justine's, who's heading to the ferry to pick up some friends just arriving from the mainland. As one departs, another few arrive...I give Melissa a bear hug, whispering "Keep in touch." She smiles sweetly--she's started blogging this week, and I couldn't be more excited to read about her adventures after I depart. It's just one more way of staying close even as I have to go far away. The cars pull out, Annie nowhere in sight. Even as I feel like I've just arrived on her level, she's departed, off to see something new, notice something exciting. I leave her a teary message from Melissa's phone: "I didn't get to say goodbye...but keep in touch. Let's talk soon. And thank you, for everything."

Justine races me to the ferry, crossing through Eastsound, driving out of town, off to a loading dock with blinking lights. She helps me unload my bags just as her two friends come running up, all excited and sweatshirted. They speed off for the fireworks, and I plant myself on a nearby bench. Somewhere in the chilly waterside wind, I start to cry. The ferry pulls up, lowering its driveway, and I lumber onto the deck. Instead of sitting outside to watch the fireworks, I find a bench in the main galley and chat with an Anacortes man, who spends time on Orcas every chance he get. I don't remember the details of the conversation, partly because of the beers, partly because of the weird departing haze. But I remember thinking the whole time we were talking, "I will not get to have a conversation this spontanenous again for quite a while."

Outside, lights are shooting up into the air, spreading like lake ripples across the sky. The slow pop and boom of each explosion seeps through my teary daze, and even after I've made it to Anacortes, to the Inn where I will spend a restless night, their shimmery trickle will remain with me. Even without seeing the fireworks, I know they were exquisite.

Monday retreat: Turtleback, Rosario, and the Reasons for a Life of Leisure

When Monday is your day off, you feel compelled to use it for anything but productivity. And when the sun is high, staying inside and catching up on backlogged blog posts just seems silly. So on our day off, Melissa and I start out with a morning hike up Turtleback Mountain. We drive out to Westsound and walk up the Southern route, clocking about 4 miles round-trip of sweaty, thigh-burning distance. But the vistas make it entirely worth it.

We return home sweaty but invigorated, then buy a day pass at the Rosario Resort & Spa to use their indoor and outdoor swimming pools, sauna and hot tubs. Rosario is probably the most mainstream form of indulgence this Island has to offer, minus the high-end yoga classes in Eastsound. It's an incredibly beautiful estate, with lots of design details still intact from the Arts and Crafts-era. When the shipbuilding tycoon Robert Moran was told, while living in Seattle in his early 40s, that he was suffering from "organic heart disease" and only had a few years left to live, he retreated to the San Juan Islands and began work on the massive estate that now serves as the Resort's main attraction. Moran owned over 7,000 acres of Orcas (much of which has now been given back to the state as Moran State Park), and when his mansion was converted into a resort in the 1960s, it became a major traveler destination in the region.

Every detail of this place is beautiful, from the dark wood furniture of the lounge to the vintage metal pipes in the tiled bathrooms. Details from Moran's shipbuilding career are everywhere, from the hinges on the doors, keeping them fluid and completely silent, to the thick windowpanes of porthole glass, easily covered with rolled fabric window shades. Stained glass appears in almost every room, in murals ornate and streamed through with golden light.

The highlight of our day (minus lounging by the pool, reading, and soaking up the overcast sun) is the organ performance at 4:00.

Local composer Christopher Peacock plays the piano as we walk in, then walks upstairs to the library where he sits down to play the organ while displaying slides of the Morans during their heyday at the estate.

Once Moran had built the property, he lived for another 40 years--possible evidence that all he needed was to get away from city life. What strikes me is how much this place holds remnants of his leisure time as valued time--old magazines and maps, hundreds of books, and slides from family evenings surround the organ hall in glass cases, evidence of a time where pursuing pleasure was actively sought out rather than simply a daily entitlement.

When I'm in the city, and especially annoyed at my limited budget, I get vocally resentful about how people spend their leisure time in spas, meditation studios, and high-end department stores. The level of indulgence seems to me unwarranted for what I assume are mostly untroubled, unburdened lives. (I also wonder how relaxing a massage can really be when you get to have one every day.) However, looking around at the structure of the Rosario estate, and considering Moran's mindset as he developed the place, I reevaluate what it really means to "live well." Is looking out a window onto a beautiful vista an elitist indulgence?

Does swimming in a pool constitute luxury if it's designed to restore your ailing health?

Moran came to Orcas believing that his life would soon be at an end, and lived to see his family grow and flourish in a beautiful setting. He wrote of the Island, "It is a wonderful place in which to forget one's troubles and worries and get back to Nature in her happiest moods; a delightful place in which to regain health--physical, mental and spiritual." He was sick in the city; he was well here. What was diagnosed as heart disease was most likely stress.

Several recent reports have investigated the effects of city life on mental health, and as I soak up the virtues of pseudo-country life, I can't help but peruse their findings. While debates are open as to its physical effects (does bad air cancel out the benefits of constant walking?), there seems to be clear evidence that city life tends to generate mental illness. The stress of social interaction--of hyper-vigilence at both work and play-seems to be as taxing as regular emotional trauma. It's no surprise to me that one's health could improve in the country, if only based in the reality that there are less people there. You have more time for the mind, more time to reflect and retreat. Your relationships, because there are less of them, may be more intense, but less overwhelming. If people retreat to the country to "take the waters," it also seems they do it to take the distance. Lying on the pool deck may only prove relaxing when it's quiet and nearly empty, as was the case for us today.

At the very top of the organ hall is a light fixture covered with stained glass designed by Tiffany & Co., depicting the muses. Inscribed on the front panel is a poem entitled "Opportunity," written by John James Ingalls, a former senator from Kansas.

Master of human destinies am I;

Fame, love and fortune on my footsteps wait.

Cities and fields I walk. I penetrate

Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by

Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late,

I knock unbidden once at every gate.

If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise, before

I turn away. It is the hour of fate,

And they who follow me reach every state

Mortals desire, and conquer every foe

Save death; but those who hesitate

Condemned to failure, penury and woe,

Seek me in vain, and uselessly implore.

I answer not, and I return no more.

A poem about the fickle nature of opportunity, written by a senator probably procrastinating between reading bills, speaks volumes to me. It suggests that if the opportunity arises to treat yourself well--if it knocks in the form of a beckoning hike, a body of water, a chance to learn to cook--you have to seize it when it first arrives. To put it off, to hope it comes again later, is to resign oneself to a life of missed chances. What may look like leisure to some--my taking off from normal life, in the hopes of trying out another--may actually be the seizing of an opportunity that will never come again. The biggest struggle may be, if nothing else comes of it, looking back on this time and not merely seeing it as "time off." I'd much prefer to think of it as "time on."