One of the things I like about this island is that it slows me down. Slow is good. Slow allows me to sit on the porch with a gin-and-tonic and take pleasure in all the small gifts of life, like the way green palm fronds shimmer against a blue sky. Or the pink-on-pink beach cover-up I am wearing.
The cover-up belonged to Margo Wilson, who moved to North Caicos with her husband John back when Tom and I were just starting to build our house. Margo was a reluctant transplant; she often said that North Caicos was John's dream, not hers. But she came and made a go of it, navigating the immigration bureaucracy, figuring out new ways to cook without all her California bounty and learning to enjoy the opening of a hardware store, knowing it might be the only entertainment in a month.
John died here, but Margo stayed. She made new arrangements and went on with the island life John had sought. Then she died, too. And now I am wearing her pink beach coverup. It reminds me of her spunk, and maybe it will make me spunky.
Spunky, not speedy. Speed would not allow me to sit and think about a long-gone friend. Speed seems to be associated with energy and success, but when you're zipping along at warp you can miss seeing the stars.
I shouldn't have to come to North Caicos to slow down. I should be able to take a pause from my Richmond life to enjoy the way my cat's fur feels or the glow of morning dew on Shockoe Bottom cobblestones. I should slow down no matter where I am. I believe it makes me a better writer. I believe it makes me a better person.
The cover-up belonged to Margo Wilson, who moved to North Caicos with her husband John back when Tom and I were just starting to build our house. Margo was a reluctant transplant; she often said that North Caicos was John's dream, not hers. But she came and made a go of it, navigating the immigration bureaucracy, figuring out new ways to cook without all her California bounty and learning to enjoy the opening of a hardware store, knowing it might be the only entertainment in a month.
John died here, but Margo stayed. She made new arrangements and went on with the island life John had sought. Then she died, too. And now I am wearing her pink beach coverup. It reminds me of her spunk, and maybe it will make me spunky.
Spunky, not speedy. Speed would not allow me to sit and think about a long-gone friend. Speed seems to be associated with energy and success, but when you're zipping along at warp you can miss seeing the stars.
I shouldn't have to come to North Caicos to slow down. I should be able to take a pause from my Richmond life to enjoy the way my cat's fur feels or the glow of morning dew on Shockoe Bottom cobblestones. I should slow down no matter where I am. I believe it makes me a better writer. I believe it makes me a better person.
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