It must have been/ the slant of the light,/ the sheer cross-grain of rain/ against the summer sun, the way the island appeared/ gifted, out of the gleam/ and the depth of distance, so/ that when you turned/ to look again,/ the scend of the sea/ had carried you on,/ under the headland/ and into the waiting harbour.

David Whyte, Leaving the Island

I know what it feels like to want to both live on and leave the island. I know wanting both more than home and nothing but home. I know longing for something else or something more — asking “Is this all there is?” — while also pinching myself at the wonder that surrounds me. I know the courage of new and the comfort of old. I know the strength of leap and the value of stay. I know the allure of shine and beauty of worn. I know roots and trunk and branches sustain life.

What if I fall in love with it all? The songs and the silence. The past, present, and future. The building up and tearing down. The falling apart and coming together. The life and death that happens every day as part of an existential rhythm.

I am in love with the idea that forgiveness is a key to life both on and off the island. Actively forgiving everyone and everything. Actively choosing to stop drinking the poison of regret or disappointment or resentment or hate. Actively living beyond fear and scarcity and doubt. Maybe it is not about leaving the island at all.