Note: Over the last several weeks, it’s come to my attention that alert readers (I have readers?) wondered whatever happened to me after my most recent July 9, 2018 voyage out “to my new island home” on Peaks Island, Maine.
I kind of—OK, completely—trailed off after that. Life continued to happen, but I stopped writing about it, somehow feeling as though I were “done” with my desperate, astonishing, and magical California-to-Maine travelogue. I started living my life unobserved again, completely oblivious to the miraculous fact that people had been paying attention as I deliberately re-create my life.
And so, encouraged, here I am with an update on my continuing adventures since I last wrote on July 9 aboard a ferry out to Peaks Island, certain of my future and vision for what would be.
I love Peaks Island. I really wanted to live there—especially after the owners showed me around their rambling old place filled with local art, a view of the ocean from every front window, and the thriving, riotous garden out back. The ferry ride out had been spectacular and inspiring, and I had no doubt I was seeing my new home for the first time.
And then…the probably-OK-ish $750 rent suddenly became a thoroughly overwhelming $1,000. (“Oh, yes, did we mention utilities?”) And I’d have a housemate—an idea that filled me with misgivings, having lived happily alone for several years. Plus, Mini would have to stay on the mainland to be useful, which would take more dough. I started to get a heavy feeling of dread in my stomach that I’ve learned (finally!) to recognize as the sign to drop a Bad Idea.