We have arrived.
The sky has been drizzling, as expected. On our first night here, Jon told us that the rain here doesn’t soak in the way it does in Holland. So far, he’s been right. There’s almost always rain, but not the drenching kind. It’s light, almost unnoticeable.
We’ve tried to picture this summer for quite a while, but with no success, lately anyway. It’s not like we couldn’t imagine the landscape; after all, we spent one day of our honeymoon on this very island, breathing in the Sound-scented air, waiting for clouds to dissipate and reveal the mountains (Cascades on one side, Olympics on the other), and gorging ourselves on a bowl of mussels at Toby’s. And our dear friend Trygve, who grew up here, has talked about the island for so long—making it sound like the people have deeper souls and clearer vision than the rest of us—that surely we could’ve imagined ourselves here.
And yet we’ve had trouble picturing it. Maybe it was that the month of May busied itself with classes and exams and sermon-writing, or maybe it was that our internship would be complicated by Jon’s moving partway through. Whatever the reason, our imaginations were obscured.
So we’re glad to be here. Glad to know. Glad to discover life in this space, among these people, with this water and this air. Trygve insists that we explore the margins of the island. That’s the secret to the island, he says.
What is it about edges? The crust of bread can determine a loaf, a ragged hem can put a pair of pants out of commission, and apparently the edges of the island, where rock meets water, betray the character of the place.
Today is our day off, so we’re going to take his advice and acquaint ourselves with Whidbey and her edges.