That house on Matinicus, 20 miles from the coast of Maine, an island that drops to about 50 human beings from September to June.
For Sale: 3 South Rd, Matinicus Isle Plt, ME 04851 | realtor.com®
There is the home that could be the end of distraction and the noise of 21st Century modernity, this post-democracy, post-intelligence, pre-just-another-few-months-away-cascade-of-catastrophes. The bunker, the haven, the last redoubt.
There it is, the port of call to giving up on people, where the extremities of January loneliness would take hold, and where North Atlantic storms must draw weeks-long barriers around a cell of daily silence in the middle of wind and terrible waves.
This house is the crystalized version of the push and pull of what I’ve felt since I was in my 20’s. Find a place away, a Walden without the mythology, but also be wary of the trap, this perfect hermit’s cave from which the rich and warm theater of other people has been banished.
If we sold our house and were careful with updates and repairs, we could make the move. We could live in another version of time, a more expansive version governed by weather and the rhythm of sun and stars.
If we sold our house and left the connections with others, both formal and casual, that we have made over decades, we could live in a constricted space absent most voices, where aside from each other, the wind would be our most reliable respondent to our questions.
I know I have always sought some version of solitude and engagement, of the desert, the mountain, the coastal refuge, and equally, the full bodymind immersion in the ebb and flow of humanity. Each day, I think I try to make a home field facsimile of both. I think it will have to do.
