We are driving out to the island the second Monday in a row for me, a Monday ago in the buoyant warm of growing moon gibbous round and all those first thick gusts of spring, and now Tom and I, a totally spontaneous date the tidewater springs and gullies high with rain the echo cacophony of frog songs ringing the air, guiding us.

It is windy on the island and new signage and deck seating have been installed on the bay side spot where I used to always go. We follow the finger of land along the water around the curve to a natural cove made from upturned tree roots and hardy grasses and scrub. It is a complete block from the wind. The sun is a muted white button behind a wisp wall of clouds. He plays guitar. I let the elements clear my head.

It is Monday on the island but feels like still part of the weekend which started realistically Thursday night in front of the woodstove under the full moon in the tent into a working mommy/baby day that blurred time on Friday but landed us in Ocean City in all the foggy mists when night came. Then it was Saturday still between time with family back under the tall pines all day then Sunday banging drums with Liz for the spring equinox celebration at the Universalist church. The island, as always, grounds and nourishes me as always I gratefully receive.

Back at home later I take Ken to Barnes and Noble for the midnight release of the new Hunger Games book. We have just finished our installment three of grls nite, which is rewatching the entire Twilight series nite by nite whenever we have a random whole evening of time just for us. We are on Eclipse and the dire sarcasm spitballs between us the whole time. The Hunger Games launch is goofy and exciting and fun, she opts out of the awkwardness of the making new friends group activity but we get circled in at the end in a way most bizarre and that is my take home, a memory I’ll always remember. The utter likeness of most the fans that come out for a midnight release. The truth of my stepchild, 19, telling me again but it sticking this time~ the dystopic mythic darkness at the core of Gen Z.

Dark times. Dark time are here fu*kery afoot. On my desk since 2018 the precious hand-painted sign with a skeleton lady on one side called duende and a mermaid on the other called muse. Erika made it for me.

Today I arrive awake at my desk overdosed on technicolor sun it is bold blue yellow through the window, it is a duende day. All the way back to 2010 when the best habits I had for my own mental health were based in ritual and writing. The when I relied on creative writing days. No head full of psychotherapy blah clinical this that substance use abuse continuum mood disorder dual diagnosed recovery trauma informed anything. Just me and the words, the moon and the rhythms of the earth and the sea the my body her body our body mystery body dance. In those days, to know the devil in front of you was to be able to bow, and to catch a dance. So the dance, to the page. To get it all down…

It is about 10 days since the time changed and all that extra daylight sun. A full moon last week sending it back on us even at night. All that spring almost here drawn down. It’s still cold out here. Damp, drafty. Good reasons to be sleeping well and staying warm. Safety basics the drill.

Dark out there! For sure. Too, the light comes beckoning, billowing blooming blossoming swiftly all around.

Here’s to the strong roots that hold.