The letter came in early March. In part it read: “Congratulations, we have selected your proposal.” I was officially a 2019 Boston Harbor Islands Artist in Residence! Recalling my first day aboard the service boat heading to the various harbor islands, the familiar World War II era chapel came into view as we approached the dock. Memories of my childhood on the island, and Sunday service came to mind. Wheeling my cargo along the uneven pavement, flanked by the remnants of Fort Andrews, I knew this would be no ordinary summer on Peddocks Island.
During my residency I focused on holding art gatherings where island visitors participated by making squares for a communal quilt project. There were colorful drawings of the ocean, trees, forts, seashells, views of the city skyline, imaginative adventures, and more. While hand stitching their contributions together in my yurt, their visuals became a metaphor for life: A quilt in time—a gathering of people and place. I feel the joy in our sharing stories through art. Some are on island for the first time and live afar, others will return to continue creating new memories.
The sights and sounds of island deer and monarch butterflies greeted my days, and the chorus of crickets and other small wildlife sometimes left me sleeping with one eye open. The dark of night is so pure here—every living being is free. Morning shadows cast from the upper shoreline of beach trees are warrior-like protectors. With climate change, these beach trees cling root bare, succumbing to exposure to the sun and rising tides. My photographs tell the story of their plight over time. Later day respite in the form of green canopied paths, woven into the island’s interior, cool and shelter me. I ponder how I too have grown with the island trees. This once almost barren landscape, now heavily forested, a metaphor for my own life. At night my little solar lamp is by my side.
A line from my journal reads: “Find your place in nature and live simply by it.”
Our former family cottage, now blue, belongs to others. The outhouse is gone but the bordering shrubs remain, as does my mom’s willow tree planted on the island during the 60s. It’s one of the tallest trees. My eyes witness a range of emotions. Finding comfort over familiar paths, I’ve come to understand the fortitude of being an islander. It runs deep. Decades of imprints in the land, their footsteps now mine.