Dreams Come Alive

I love this place. The brushing wind, the puddles of sunshine appearing through white puffy clouds, the white stone beaches with clear, cold waves breaking. Mackinac Island. Our family has been coming here for ten years. The old, dilapidated house where our adventures began is now a bustling, renovated success. But we discovered it, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I look upon the other guests as intruders. This is our summer home.

People always ask why we keep coming back.

When I'm away from the Island, I can never remember. But on the ferry ride, as we are tousled and tossed by the Michigan wind, the water gets bluer, the island gets bigger, and I remember. This is where my dreams live.

There is a place where all my dreams seem possible. When I can open up my notebook and believe that I can make a living writing. Where I can read good literature and believe that I'll someday write good literature. Where I can sip coffee, laugh with my family, peddle down hills, feel the sun on my face, the wind whip my hair, and believe that my life will come together. It will all work out. That it's a good thing to be alive. To live and dream.

So, I spent a good part of today curled up, writing, reading. I played lacrosse with my brothers, drank coffee with my mom, and dipped my toes in the pool with Julie. Martha and I talked about traveling the world. Dubai sounds interesting and Brussels a possibility. Erika and I debate vocabulary, and my father alternately laughs and encourages my inept bike peddling up the Grand Hotel hill.

The horizon is hopeful. My mind is teaming with new dreams and the rebirth of old aspirations.

I love The Island...