Victorian Houses--Being Nosey

Yesterday, the Cottager's Association held their annual tours of the Victorian cottages that dominates in Oak Bluffs. Of course I went. Was there any doubt I would miss out on an opportunity to go nosing around someone else's house? And these cottages, some dating to the 1800's are interesting in design and history. The Cottager's Association is an affiliation of African-American women, who are trying to preserve the relevance and history of these cottages--where many African-American families have owned homes.

One cottage felt more like a doll house, each room stifling in its miniature size. Some of these cottages have been lovingly restored, bringing 21st century amenities, yet preserving the bones of the house. I felt claustrophobic just standing in one of the teeny bedrooms, which is saying a great deal since I love Hobbit-like places. I walked from house to house, traipsing after a group of older women. I don't know why I always find myself participating in activities with those who are long past menopause. What this says about me, I'm not really sure. Hydrangeas, one of my favorite flowers, thrives here on the island. They are as much a part of this landscape as the woods, beaches, and lagoons. The flowers are that perfect bluish violet, the blooms clustered around a bush of green leaves. They decorate many front porches, another standard element of an island home where people sit and rock on their rockers. I tried to grow some hydrangeas in Los Angeles, but found the flowers looked anemic in color and vibrancy. They needed less sunlight and more water, which is either too plentiful or not plentiful enough in LA.

One friend left the island yesterday. I drove her and her many luggages to the ferry where we gave each other a quick hug. It's unlikely I will see her before next summer, although now that I'm on the East coast that may not be the case. Another friend, one from LA, who has summered her since childhood, arrives today. It is a steady stream of 'hello's' and 'goodbyes.'

The days are quiet here. They say those who come to the Vineyard are experts in the art of doing nothing. And this I would have to say is very much the reality. Metaphorically it's somehow significant that this island is the the connection to my life in LA and to my new life in New York. It's not as if I'm in a holding pattern here, but instead feels like my time here is the bridge between the past and the future.

I haven't spent much time gazing backwards. Yet, I'm not peering forward really, simply luxuriating in days that have very little shape or pull. Every so often, I am reminded of this new life taking shape, things getting sorted, as calls to the new pharmacy on 19th street, a Walgreens, instead of the Rite Aid on Western, gets made. I understand the significance of departing this island by driving our car off instead of having to take a plane. But none of it feels truly real.

When I was in LA, there were times when my loneliness was profoundly acute. Even though I was surrounded by many friends and acquaintances, the ache inside prevented me from enjoying my life. The isolation I felt would always come during the middle of the day, which is strange since for some people the melancholy occurs at the time of the day when the sun hasn't set, yet the day's end is imminent, when life's rhythm seems to slow. I bring this up because on the island, I spend more hours alone, yet that ache inside has not formed in the bottom of my stomach. The solitude here feels more like a cocoon, shielding me from whatever turbulent waters are just ahead. I'm certain this landscape that is so breathtaking would be quite bleak during the winter months when the island empties to a mere 30,000 inhabitants. But somehow the aloneness of being on this island feels more natural than the sadness and loneliness I felt in a city teeming with cars and people.