Some places help you remember who you are when the world has helped you forget.


We drove through the night making two trips between places, down 495 to the steamship parking lot. I sat between them in the cab with instructions to make sure my mother didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. They couldn’t take turns because my stepfather couldn’t drive a stick. My mother had worked a double shift the day before. We had one weekend to move out of the duplex on a dead end to the one behind a marked rock; some place near South Beach called Katama. We pronounced all the town names wrong the first 6 months securing our title as ‘off-islanders’ and probably Massholes, despite the fact we were from Rhode Island. The accent didn’t help. The earliest boat was 4:30. Our first island lesson was patience. It was a freight boat which fit about 10 cars or 6 small trucks. There were two stairwells on either side of the open main deck. The upper deck had an enclosure with two claustrophobia inducing metal bathrooms and a couple of red leather booth seats, like the ones on the Staten Island ferry. Everything was covered in a wet blanket of salty fog. Incidentally for all you fog connoisseurs, early morning Narragansett Bay fog is saltier. Vineyard fog is understated, like it doesn’t have to try so hard. Somewhere behind the clouds the sun was rising. I hadn’t slept since the day before which went along with the surreality of moving from a city to an island that was home to political royalty. The boat docked in Vineyard Haven which didn’t look how I’d expected; an empty daydream. There was an A&P next to a Chinese restaurant both sinking into a fractured parking lot. It flooded all the time. The four corner intersection was marked with weather beaten shacks distinguished by colorfully muted, hand made signs; Wintertide Coffee House, Cumberland Farms, Black Dog Bakery. There was also a closed t-shirt shop. The window was littered with sun-faded logos of whales, boats, grapes and a thousand paper flyers. Diagonal from the A&P was a gas station with a shack behind it. Through the grey intersection was a yellow light. I could see a counter. We all thought the same thing, coffee. A man with a bristly face gave us menus. Chrome stemmed bar stools and wood paneling.  I could smell pancakes and aside from thinking about time, money and calories, the three ever present, deciding factors, I thought I’m very hungry, overtired and will earn and burn them unloading the truck. Impossible, cliched or otherwise, they were the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten. Warm buttermilk and silence with syrup and no regret. I didn’t even have to pay. Something satisfying and far away from all the things.

My 8th grade class, all 20 of them, made fun of the way I talked but also invited me to let my hair down. It looks good babe. It looked ridiculous but I didn’t have to care anymore. The mainland dissolved in the space between the dock and Woods Hole. There were no malls or branded billboards telling you who to be. We’d never had much to do with TV so those messages couldn’t find us either. Programming. In the absence of constructs and orders, authenticity emerges, which comes out like a scream at first. I was empowered by the thumb on my right hand and milk money from the dairy farm. I got working papers, my own bank account and another job downtown.  The distraction and energy previously spent on required hypervigillence to walk to a basketball court or church park shifted to boredom then purging. Things surface when we slow down which is one of the reasons we keep busy. We were still poor, financially speaking, but now I had access to my own means. The little leverage afforded maturity through the deciding power that comes with a paycheck. We need ways to not feel helpless, efficacious. Fresh milk forms a thick skin to protect the watery stuff under the surface. Jobs are probably like that; barriers from loose stuff inside us. School had always been an effortless chore that took up space. Work was any performance I got paid for. That time felt justified, if not unpleasant, since it’s never not been an option. Dealing with your shit is what you do when everything else is done. These were the gifts of the island; time, space and means. A holy trinity of sorts.

This morning I was thinking about unpacking and those pancakes. I unloaded more than boxes filled with meaningless crap into rooms with smelly rugs and dirty walls. I got filled up with more than pancakes despite the fact that I let myself become the hungriest there. It’s like bringing all your needs to an invisible witness who can mysteriously lead you to choices and perspectives that become answers. I can’t articulate the safety of unconditional acceptance but it gives you permission to become undone and otherwise let down whatever, or whoever you’d been asked to hold up. At church last night they talked about Sabbath as a practice. I’d qualify the Vineyard as a Sabbath place; be with rather than get from or give to. As the Vineyard taught me to be it wasn’t that nothing happened it was that the things which needed to happen now had the space to surface. If the island could speak it’d probably say: ‘Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.’ And I have. And she did.

Have you ever gone somewhere that knows you better than you know yourself? They’re never easy or convenient places to get to. Truth be told I haven’t been back to the Vineyard since my niece was born, 5 or 6 years ago. Sorry Maya, auntie is bad with dates. It’s expensive for one and giving myself permission to spend any length of time there means explaining to mainland family who are all close by why you’ve come all that way but didn’t budget them into your trip. Boundaries for reconnecting are work in that sense; maybe you haul regret, fear of confrontations, guilt, shame, feeling unworthy or worthless. Giving ourselves the luxury of disconnecting from ego and the world to reconnect with love, or god or whatever you call sanity is merely a matter of fact. We can’t make everyone happy. We can’t earn grace. We can’t undo hurts from our past and someday, everyone we love will die. Chipper but true. If we don’t learn to be the rest will never come.

20 thoughts on “U-Haul & Pancakes

  1. Well written! I love celebrating Sabbath. I grew up in a family which did it legally, I have chosen to do it from the heart. Jesus calls us to rest and that includes rest from trying to get even with past abusers or fixing ourselves. I have some Quaker friends who taught me to ask myself the question when I sabbath, “Does this bring life?” After all Jesus says he is the life.

    One a couple notes, I love buttermilk pancakes and syrup, I know what it is to move into an old house with old smells and boxes of stuff. It’s sad that we carry so much baggage in this life–physically and emotionally and spiritually.

    I also love Maya Angelou, so your niece’s name is such a treasure as i am sure she will be her own sheroe in time. Thank you for this heartfelt piece! I was blessed!


    Liked by 1 person

  2. I noticed your comment on somebody else’s blog when you agreed on how difficult publishing is. You said it’s all about fancy connections. It gave me comfort, thank you for that (because I am also trying to get published but haven’t been successful yet – it seems to be a world that actually sucks; lot’s of people in a ‘better’ world working as literary agents… you just can’t reach them and some of them don’t want to be reached. Makes me sad when I hear them in interviews saying “We don’t want our time to be wasted.”).
    Hope you’re doing well!!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hi Katie. Hopefully I didn’t sound like sour grapes. I don’t think the publishing world is all bad, I’m just learning there are some special rules and I don’t fully understand them, much like other cultures or systems of access. Could just be I’m a crap writer and editors don’t have the heart to break it to me. It sounds as if you’ve been at it much longer and have run into some frustration. Sorry to hear it. If you ever find a secret publishing portal or magic door, feel free to share. For now I’m enjoying blogging quietly in this corner of the world. Be well 🙂


      • Yeah, I know what you mean by you could just be a crap writer – it could be two of us then ;-).
        Nope, I haven’t been doing this for long but had some coaching. I have only spent some months on trying to get published but I have spent 2.5 years on writing my novel (it’s a story about OCD, maybe you have heard about it!? I’ve seen you have the category ‘anorexia’, so seems you have experience with mental health yourself) – think that’s where the frustration comes from when you have to work even harder/longer to get it published.

        Liked by 1 person

      • I’ve not heard of your novel about OCD but I’m certainly familiar with OCD 😉 I worked in a hotel once and got way too excited about vacuum lines in the rugs, lining up pens parallel to comment cards and rooms of uniformly folded white linen. Haha. Do you have any blog posts about your publishing journey?


    • Glad you liked it. Yes, I was making a parallel between god and a place, that some places can make us feel close to god or that the essence of god can be felt there. Living there was a true gift.

      Liked by 1 person

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