I’m pretending that I’m there right now. With a cup of morning coffee at my side, with brain and keyboard fingers operating with reptilian slowness, I imagine just relaxing on a tiny tropical island. What does it matter that a classic Nor’easter whitens the realm outside my actual place?
The Don’t Hurry Isle is not the one where the cruise ships pause in a lonely harbor. If it was, I wouldn’t be there in imagination now. I much prefer the quietude and serenity, the solitude and natural beauty of this smaller place. For me, in the eye of the storm (the middle-March “blizzard”), the tiny island is my Innisfree, my humble share of the peace to be enjoyed today:
… And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;/ There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,/ And evening full of the linnet’s wings... [from W.B. Yeats’, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”].
We had planned to visit our daughter Alyssa in St. Croix this April, but she decided to return home from her second year of island life a little prematurely. She’ll come home to New York State in a matter of days and we’re delighted to have her back, although I, for one, looked forward to pouncing on those tarpon-filled tropics for another cast or two of exploration. Ah well, Alyssa will just have to pack us in her suitcase when she goes back to revisit the many friends she made down there.
The Don’t Hurry Isle ignores me as I try to hold it in my thoughts. No problem. I’m ignorable. The snow continues falling, one week from the Equinox. Schools are closed. The regional states have levied their emergency measures. I may be sick with cough and sinus issues here, but I’m fine because I’ve found some photos from last year’s island trip. I never posted these images in my “Caribbean Scrambles” series last spring, but here they’ll ease my passage to the Don’t Hurry Isle.
As the great Irish poet said, … I will arise and go now, for always night and day/ I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;/ While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,/ I hear it in the deep heart’s core.