This is my place. I don't own it and I don't live here, but when my soul needs renewal, this is my place. It is an island in Maine to whose soil my family has been connected since the turn of the century--almost one hundred years. Despite being separated from it by thousands of miles and sometimes several years, it is deeply ingrained in my being. My parents walked me down its footpaths, under its firs, through its fern beds and over its rocks and now I do so with my children. I am confident they will do so with theirs. There are only a half-dozen unwinterized houses serviced by a single dock. There are no roads, no plumbing, no electricity. And yet it is this primitive character which brings us back time and again. It is a place that has come to inspire respect, an intense respect for both the island's natural beauty and its ever- lengthening history which has resulted in minimal change through the generations. Time itself seems to have given it a timeless strength. And now that the island has recently been deeded to a historic trust, it is all but guaranteed to survive in its current state for generations to come. Each of us is swirled through our personal histories on a ocean of change. To me, this island is like a rock onto which I can crawl and briefly rest from my swim. This rock, this island, this sanctuary, has been and continues to be a great gift--from family, from God. All of these photographs were made during a week in August of 1995. This is my place, but I am honored to share it with you.
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