Leaving Chincoteague: What Nomad Life Has Taught Me About Letting Go

It happens every time I get ready to leave a place – the place becomes even lovelier and more compelling, flashing reminders left and right of all I’m about to lose.

A full harvest moon rises over the blue-gray ocean, smiling coyly, open-faced, asking: sure you ready to leave me? And the waves – crashing, rushing, lapping – croon their mournful song – you’re gonna miss us when you’re gone.

The invitations – after plenty of lonely alone time – come pouring in. There are oyster roasts and hootenannies – a BBQ with the neighbors including a lively game of charades – happy hours with grapefruit crushes and hot spiced shrimp as the sunset shines in our eyes – my new friend’s and mine – and we toast the fleeting day. A cover band at Chino Tiki that we dance to in the sand.

I’ve recently joined the island writers’ group that meets Tuesdays at the library. Gathering in a circle in easy chairs, we share our work, listen, give and get feedback – all of us infused with the creative energy of Marguerite Henry, infamous author of Misty. So lovely to discover creative community – though now I must leave it.

I hold my first beach yoga hike with students from the Y. It’s windy; but we dig our toes in the sand, the six of us, crouching down in Goddess Pose before tumultuous sea, then open-out, exhaling together, into starfish pose, the maritime sky our ceiling. Bittersweet smile spreads across my face as I wonder: How come I waited so long to do this?

My beloved YMCA yoga class for healthy spines and balanced minds – how can I possibly leave them? We’ve grown from three to six to 12 yogis. We are a sangha, now, a spiritual community. I’ve taught them how to sit tall and breathe in three parts all the way up to their collarbones and flow gracefully through belly-down waves. They have taught me how to teach.

Perhaps most confounding, after a yearlong dry spell (submerged in heartbreak mourning), I’ve finally come out of my shell and mustered not one, but two dates – with men – on this tiny island. On the first one, just yesterday, the fellow took me to the The Hook, an off-road stretch of beach I’ve never visited. The pelicans and gulls were our chaperones as we walked the deserted stretch, stopping to examine washed up detritus – a boat’s search lite, a shard of pottery, a crab trap, many upturned horseshoe craps, a panoply of conch shells in pastel colors, an entire shark! In awe of the serenity, the swish of our footsteps in the sugary sand, and the easy connection with this man, I feel a tiny stab in the heart: another reminder of what I’m about to miss.

It happens like this every time, doesn’t it? After four years on the road – after 60 years on the planet – I know this feeling – that neither wisdom nor age make any easier. The Brazilians have a poetic word for it – saudades (sow-dah-jees). Their bossa nova songs are replete with lively celebration of what we might call missing, nostalgia, the blues.

Nomad life has taught me a little about this reality of being human – the impermanence of everything – and the flip-side – the preciousness. I’ve left beloved places five times in the last year – 30 times over the last four years. I’m an expert, by now, in letting go. And it doesn’t get any less bitter-sweet.

In countdown mode, one week to go before my move, I close my notebook and turn out the bedroom light. But I keep my eyes open. The flash of the light house beacon through the front window – like the rhythm of a heart beat thumping in the dark – is a show I look forward to to end my day.

Until my eyes lids get heavy, the light disappears, and I am gone.

So where do I go from here, dear friends? Stay tuned for the big reveal in my next post. The answer might surprise you.