I’ve never been great when it comes to transitions. The older I get, the worse I am at change. I’m settling into my curmudgeonly cardigan-crafting era, and don’t have any complaints— it’s my natural habitat.
I’m moving away from Tilghman Island, where I’ve been for 13 years. My health has declined—years of beachcombing, candlemaking and writing have created the need for a creepy-looking spinal fusion surgery to replace vertebrae in my neck with metal, and as a self-employed person I can’t afford to take time off for the procedure. Thirty years of unrelenting migraines and their treatment medications have caused my memory to operate at about the Swiss cheese level of the MRI of my neck. And my mental health isn’t great. I’m getting old too fast for someone turning “only” 56 this year. Heaven help them, I’m moving in with my family fulltime, although will hide out in a separate studio space and try not to make too much of a ruckus.
I’ll still write. Maybe not scrambling to pay rent I can’t afford will allow me to finally finish the book I’ve been working on, or find a pro bono literary attorney to catch up with two publishers who’ve stolen copyrights to books I wrote in the past that I’ve lost royalties on for years. I’ll beachcomb once in awhile, and make candles in a bespoke manner using preferred vintage vessels. And mainly, I’ll focus on a new artistic passion that has consumed me in recent times: miniatures.
I began renovating my childhood dollhouse last year, pouring miniature candles, and built a miniature conservatory. I’m now cultivating miniature real plants and recently started working on a miniature pottery wheel to create mini-vessels for both candles and plants. I joined a mini-club last year, opened a new Etsy and plan to appear in my first miniature show next year after completing the vision for products and display. It’s fun and something to pour positive energy into that helps cushion the blow of leaving the island.
My 13 years here have been a blessing. Having my own four walls in which to be creative is something that feels essential to my spirit, but doing that in a place filled with natural beauty has been a gift. I couldn’t count the endless sunsets and (less) sunrises I’ve encountered with wonder and awe. So many mornings on frozen coastlines in pajama bottoms holding coffee at sunrise while prying sea glass out of the ice; I did many live feeds on Instagram to share the beauty of such gorgeous moments. Live sea glass hunts on Instagram around the island were something I often did years ago to share my excitement in discovering fun finds; trading laughs with other enthusiasts from around the world. It really was a simpler time, when it was just about the thrill of the hunt before I knew anything about “an industry.” Maybe now, once in awhile, I’ll be able to go out for a kayak ride and get back to that simplicity.
I wasn’t very social on the island—kept to myself for the most part. I’ll never forget the country store owner, Patricia, who saved my life the time I got caught in a tropical storm and my kayak capsized in freezing waters. She also hired two of my kids and I’ll miss her cheesesteaks, good bourbon and homemade ice cream. I enjoyed the friends I had in the island book club. The baker Amanda makes the best soft pretzels and croissant muffins. Two If By Sea restaurant has killer crabby eggs Benedict, and the clothes Melissa sells at 2VintageChics in the old bank building where I once ran the beachcombing museum are the greatest.
But the rising waters of the Chesapeake always gave me anxiety. I was forever going around feeling like Chicken Little watching as a very tiny island near the bridge got washed away: soon it won’t be there to protect the low-lying lands (and unfortunately-placed gas station). All it will take is one semi-strong hurricane for the water on either side of the bridge to meet at one end of the island, and on the other, the river and the bay are just about to meet and cut off the south end of the island; the middle is fragile as well.
As a kayaker I watched these environmental impacts over the last decade, even as my own roof got torn off last year in 85 mph winds off the bay. Climate change is harsh for a tiny island in the Chesapeake Bay. Houses I rented were surrounded by water on more than one occasion, one time I kayaked off my front porch. Maybe it was time to go before I was forced to, but that doesn’t make it any less sad, and won’t make me miss this beautiful little island any less.
