I would drive the winding island roads, wind in my hair and peace in my heart.
I would reach up to my chest to feel the cool metal of the key where it rested.
I would pull over to take pictures of sheep in the fields, and the sun would be warm on my skin.
I would arrive at the ferry and wander down to the little shop to buy some trinket or treat for my children.
I would stand on the bow of the ferry, my ears and nose growing cold in the boat-wind, and look for elusive whales and admire cormorants on the pilings.
But more often than not, it seems would and supposed to are pipe dreams.
Instead I find myself gliding in darkness through the curves and turns of the island, my body electric with the panic of something wrong.
I huddle in my car, first in line at the ferry, in too much pain and feeling too much desperation to be sad yet about missing the final morning, the breakfast, the plunge, the goodbyes.
I manage to fall asleep on the ferry ride, relief comes finally, and though I momentarily wonder if I could have stayed, I know I made the right decision.
I go to the doctor the next day, and though they tell me that my urine sample is "rock solid," four days later the results come back as an infection from the lab, and I am relieved to know that I was right the entire time, not crazy, and not unjustified in my return home in darkness.
It's been five weeks since that unexpected journey, and I'm finally coming back into myself. My time in that sanctuary of my soul ended so abruptly, I don't feel like I've been able to process it or dive back into the thoughts and writing and experiences I had there.
I've barely written since I got back. October was a blur of the infection that cut my time short and recovery from surgery, then having my period for the first time in four months. I missed the ease back into reality from the beauty and magic of Doe Bay, I missed the building of paths in my brain forming and re-wiring and inspiration crashing over me like waves.
It seems like I'd feel sad about it, but there was no other way for things to be. So instead of sadness, I just feel sort of numb and... annoyed, I suppose.
I want to change it. I want to figure out a way to capture the inspiration, the fullness my soul felt before my thoughts fell apart and all I could think of was home. It's down to this: I think about writing more than I write. I feel and then I think "I should write about this" and I think of the things I might write, but by the time I sit down to actually do it, the moment has passed, or worse yet, I just never sit down to do it.
So, here I am on a Saturday night, in between things on my to-do list, hot cinnamon-tea in my cup, carving out the time. An hour here, forty-five minutes there. Intention. I set it here, glancing out the tall glass windows, and tonight, in darkness, I begin.
