Notes from Whidbey #2

Dear Hadley and Harper,

Here are some pictures of where I am.

This is the house I’m staying in. When I walk outside in the mornings, there are about three hundred seagulls and crows talking to each other across the street. I think they’re talking about where to get breakfast. They start flying towards me as soon as I shut the door. It’s terrifying but I’m learning that if you want to be a writer you need to embrace nature so I try to be cool about their route.

The building in between the two houses is where we have all our meals.  The food here is outstanding, and there is always coffee available.  This makes me very happy.

This is where I meet with my mentor. We sit around a crackling fire in big chairs and talk about how it’s time for me to take some more risks in my writing. These are scary conversations but the fire is so nice and my mentor is so kind that I think maybe I can try to do what she thinks I can do.

Here are some pictures of what the walk to this house looks like.

There used to be a tavern at the top of this hill to the right of the picture above.  It’d be a perfect spot to have a beer and look down on the island and the surrounding ocean. However, legend has it that a ghost lingers at the spot where the tavern used to be. He misses the tavern.  He used to stop home with his buddies and have a pint and talk about life and work and that cute girl that works at the Whidbey lighthouse.

On St. Patrick’s Day one year it was warm enough to be outside.  The bartender strung twinkle lights around the windows and the door and this young man and his friends and the girl from the lighthouse and some of her friends enjoyed pitchers of green beer and heard the waves crashing below. He hoped he could walk the girl back to the lighthouse partly because he wanted to spend more time with her and partly because he wanted to walk along the narrow strip of dirt alongside the bluff. They’d have to walk one after the other and not side by side as he’d prefer but he thought that would make it easier to talk to her. If she let him, he would walk her home every night. He didn’t think he could get tired of walking along the bluff, his arms outstretched for balance from the wind and the narrow path and the beer, and her. This is why he lingers at the top of the hill where the tavern used to be.  He’s waiting for his girl.

This is not the legend of the ghost, but you are six and four and the tale is scary so I made something else up.  But I think his demise wasn’t the only aspect of his life that’s important. I think he had a crush on someone at some point. I think he met with friends at the tavern that is no longer. I bet the sun peeked out for a moment or two on St. Patrick’s Day long enough for a bartender to think of stringing up  twinkle lights.

I hope that when you hear a story that is scary or sad, or when you’re living a story that is scary or sad, you always have enough imagination to step back and see about another aspect to that story. Not so much a silver lining that tells you it’s all going to work out, but rather, a bit of beauty that you can hold on to (and holds on to you) so that you can stay in the story a while longer.

Love,

Mama