The calendar said it was Sunday and the chart says Jones Island. Nothing else about the experience had the certainty of place/time. Something about the alchemy of perfect summer days in the islands has the effect of transporting us through a portal into a world apart.
As E.E. Cummings says in one of my favorite poems "Listen, there's a hell of a good universe next door, let's go!".
Something about the way we move and think and be on these days takes us across to this universe next door. We play pickle on a hot sunny clean beach with the boys and find ourselves slipping away. We build a rope swing and take turns and slip further away from this world to the next. We row back to the boat anchored in the cove and jump off the pilothouse top into the cold water again and again, and the waters wash away the dust and detritus of our structure clinging. By the time we take an adventure hike around the east side of the island we are unbound by the gravitational pull of the old familiar world. The tired familiar world. The burdensome world.
Instead we inhabit a nameless place of bliss with no better description than a universe next door. The mind, to the extent it is engaged, is a pure sine wave. The softer senses flutter with happy recognition of enlightened clarity. Nothing foreign, nothing known, nothing other, nothing non.
I have no need to pin this down. It is a thing too light and diffuse and massive to suffer reductionism.
My family journeyed together to a nearby island, and returned a while later. What happened in between was, well, too utterly perfect to mar with pictures or more words.
Thank you Aeolus.
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