I visit Lake Michigan often. It’s like that friend who comforts you just by their steadfast presence. Nothing needs to be said—I know how it’s feeling by observing how it moves.
With my impending departure, I prioritize visiting it daily. I love the lake when its calm current reflects the sunlight and is crowned by ephemeral white clouds, and I love it when the rain and fog lend it a melancholy mood.
The Alaska residency sits near the banks of West Creek, a tributary that flows into the Taiya River which, in turn, connects to the Lynn Canal. The canal is the deepest and longest fjord in North America and is part of the Pacific Ocean. I must admit—I was delighted to discover that I’d be ferried along an inlet for which I was unintentionally named.
The residency feels a bit like a full circle to me. When I was twenty-two, I moved to Saint John, determined to write a novel whilst living on the island for a year. I arrived with two suitcases and no place to stay and I bounced from home to home—first an extended stay at the Tamarind Inn then, when my meager savings ran out and through the kindness of locals, four more homes until settling into a job and the fifth and final residence.
My second home, on Saint Thomas, where I stayed for two months, was a shared studio chosen due to its proximity to Red Hook. I rode the ferry between the two islands and was enchanted by the seabirds—frigates, pelicans, and the brown booby birds that floated in the wake of the boats. At night, the ferries moved at higher speeds, waves splashing up and coating my skin with saltwater. During that short period of time, I witnessed more shooting stars than I have in the rest of my life combined and late night swims were luminous with trails of phospherence.
I awoke one night to the sound of rummaging in our outdoor trash bins and saw that two wild donkeys, descendants of the Danish imports to assist with sugar plantation labor, were the culprits. I encountered iguanas outside and anoles in my home, two black cats visited me daily for servings of flying fish and mahi mahi, and I adopted a beautiful betta fish, dubbed James I, who refused to eat his nutritious fish pellets after getting a taste of a mosquito. Once, he spit out a pellet then swam up to the glass and stared at me, and I spent the rest of my time with him using the electric swatters to provide his discerning palate with a steady supply of lightly charred mosquitos.
I made steady progress on my novel—about the collateral damage caused by a woman suffering from postpartum psychosis—until I started experiencing panic attacks. I was pulled into my headspace, always on alert for threats and making choices to maintain the illusion of control and safety. This is a constant in life—the juxtaposition between what you see on the surface and what moves below, like a rip current.
In hindsight, all the places I’ve passed through and connections made were opportunities to build a community with the nuance of varied locales and experiences, and I’m grateful for the expansive view. Intrinsically, I find tribal behavior foreign, unreasonable, and unproductive, though I do recognize that it provides a sense of belonging and that it’s still the status quo in society.
The connection points I’ve cultivated are enough for many lifetimes, and I’ve learned a lot from circling back to people and discovering how they’ve changed and what’s remained constant. Still, I don’t see the need for slowing down. Shared insight sparks growth, and I feel compelled to use my ability to relate—formed from exposure to a breadth of human experience—to keep making new connections and acting as synapse for necessary signals.
Lake Michigan, along with the other Great Lakes and their basins filled with sweetwater, was formed by glaciers. Its slow, majestic growth sits in opposition to the epoch of hustled productivity. It’s patient as it waits for the current to change.
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