I just wrote this.

This Saturday morning, I got up at 6 AM. This is early for me. I was calm and my mind was busy, so I know that my writing retreat with Wide Open Writing is still alive inside me. Instead of rushing to dump the thoughts out into Morning Pages, I sat on my meditation pillow.

The thoughts tossed and turned, excited from my time away, the new writing I’d done, the final pages of my manuscript I’d edited, the wonderful community of women with whom I’d shared time and stories. I didn’t want to lose the momentum of writing or the incredible feeling I got from the place.

Yes, the place, Whitehead Island off the coast from Spruce Head, Maine. It’s this lighthouse that sold me. The idea of being in one for a while. And so, months ago, when I also learned the retreat was for women and included writing and yoga, I signed up without a second thought.

Whitehead Island Lighthouse

So a week ago Friday, when I finally arrived on Whitehead Island, after having been in the city for far too long, I trudged through the mossy green woods, my shoes sinking into soft mud. When I emerged, the view of blue stopped my breath in a storybook way. It was magic. The fresh green gave way to choppy blue that melted right up into the smooth sky. The clouds smiled on me in a way that a parent does when they’re watching their child meet a cocker spaniel puppy for the first time.

I dragged my suitcase up to the second floor of the keeper’s house. I opened the window to let the breeze in. It moved the white curtain softly and escorted me right back downstairs towards the smell of baking and introduced me to my new friends.

We settled in and began. All of the faces mirrored my excitement, nervous with anticipation, unsure of what would happen next. Quickly we were all cracked wide open and knew, without question, that we’d arrived, and were ready to write.

Then there was an offer.

“You’re welcome to go into the lighthouse,” the innkeeper said.

The excitement roared inside of me. That demanding toddler. I had to keep her calm.

As soon as I could, I went to the lighthouse. I opened the heavy silver door and walked into a smell of work. Steady grease and guidance. It felt of tools and strong hands. I walked towards the first step and took it up and around each turn, holding onto the rope on my left. Knotted to hold it in place. I climbed up to the landing where light beckoned.

I could only smile in the August heat as I walked around the green lantern, marveling at the 360-degree view of blue. I felt like Alice in Wonderland when I found the door that took me out onto the catwalk. I walked around it until my cautious heart and careful feet felt sure. Until I could lean out, and hold onto the thin black railing and breathe.

I breathed and thought.

May the places we keep guide us to places we’ve only imagined.

My time on Whitehead Island, with those writers, has sunk in and formed a forever skin around me.

And so, this morning, back in the city, I sat. I sat and let my mind settle. I’ve found a new way to start.

Here’s to delicious moments!

Warmly,

Tiffany

P.S. This soul nourishment made me hungry for a good breakfast like I’ve enjoyed all week. So, this morning, I made one of my favorites. I share it here, with you.

1966: David Eyre’s Pancake. This recipe appeared in a Times article by Craig Claiborne.