Saturday, June 28, 2014
I moved here to Eastport, alone except for my three dogs, in 1987. I arrived in the middle of a huge snowstorm, bidding good-bye to the movers who pulled cautiously away after unloading my worldly possessions. It was a bewildering experience and I felt loose in the world, questioning my decision to be here constantly. Well, the rest is history, as they say, and here I am.
But Lately I have been thinking about moving back to Bangor. It seemed to me that it would be going "home." These past weeks the thought has dominated my thoughts. I even found a place to live, where I would be warm in the winter, which is an increasing priority for me. I would have a real shower, modern appliances, access to public transportation, close to galleries and plays, restaurants and little coffee shops. I would have friends.....the same ones I had before I left, other artists and opportunities to join the art community that has become unavailable to me here. I would miss the ocean, but the city is on a large river that is within easy walking distance to where I would live.
All of these thoughts escalated to the point where I was at the very threshold of making the decision to go. Then, as I went out to put my chickens in their house last night, the idea flew out of my head as if I had suddenly awakened from a dream. As I looked around me I was overwhelmed and mystified that I could ever think of leaving.
I have felt like an outsider here since I was denied admission to the gallery that was so much a part of my life and identity. The other members were my friends and I had a place in the community. I believed I was liked by people in the town. Now I am isolated, an outsider, as I was when I first came here. I see, though, that I'm not ready to turn around and go back home.