Peninsula

The narrow road to Ender’s Island twists and turns, weaving in and among trees at times as well as glacial grey boulders ranging in size from bowling ball to consuming the entire front lawn. Along the way are multiple speed bumps, and a speed limit of 20 mph, as if those other obstacles weren’t enough to slow you down, as if the strangeness of the setting wasn’t already giving you pause. Here I have seen deer, and rabbits, and fox wandering free, not moving away as I approach in the car.

There is a feeling of trespass as you make your way past the guard gate, mostly used in summer to keep tourists out, and move through the private enclave of waterfront houses. The very illicitness adds to the excitement of the journey along this peninsula which makes its way from the shores of Stonington out into Long Island Sound. As if to signify that you are entering another world, the road finally narrows to one short lane, an artificial berm of rocks connecting the mainland to the former estate now Catholic retreat. This is where the wind blows your hair across your face through the car window and you gaze from side to side in wonder at the blue ocean expanse surrounding you. The world behind fades and you enter a different state.

That they graciously allow you to walk the grounds is miracle enough. To the left a chapel built into and out of the giant stones, to the right a green expanse of lawn with a gazebo and old-fashioned wooden chairs for contemplation. Best, the maze of gardens and stone walks, everchanging and lush by season. It is too early now, but later, oh later awaits a fireworks explosion of roses and dahlias in brilliant yellows, reds, pinks that almost make you forget the sea views around you. It is here that people come to admire the beauty but also to walk in meditation as I do today. It is here that someone once lived, choosing to disconnect from the conveniences of the mainland.

I ask the ancient rocks, the vast sea, and the meandering wind to carry me toward the choice I know I have to make but am afraid to do so. I eye the ropey wisteria vines of the pergola, many avenues leading upward, intertwined, strong, but not direct, and I’m unsure which route is best. So many look healthy and vibrant and wise. I sit among them, not yet in bloom, waiting.