I figure that I am one of the maybe . . . what? . . . 5%? 10% of the world's population that lives on an island. And in the United States, one of the 1%, maybe? I take a certain pride in this fact (though I may be stretching the numbers a bit.)

What is it like to live on an island? To be an "Island Woman"? I think one thing that has come about from my quarter century on this island is that I can feel the boundaries of my world in my body. I can feel where the water meets the land. I can sense north, south, east, west with my eyes closed. As I've gotten older, I notice the light more and how it moves across the days, months, and seasons.

My felt sense of being on the island is one of being contained. Sometimes this feels safe, nurturing, nestling - like I just want to hunker down, dig in, pull the blankets up, and sit tight. Other times it is claustrophobic and I feel like I can't move big enough, can't move far enough, can't move fast enough because the island wouldn't be able to hold all of it.

I think, too, that it depends on which island one lives. Whidbey Island, in the Puget Sound, in the Pacific Northwest. This has been my home for more than half my life. I know it intimately, its beaches, its forests, its lakes, its few mountaintops, and its bogs and valleys. I am visited by Deer (three does and two bucks just yesterday), Crow, Rabbit, Raccoon, Heron, Eagle, and if I'm lucky, Coyote. I can look out my kitchen window and see Possession Point, and beyond that the mainland town of Mukilteo with its traffic lights changing from red to green to yellow and back to red and yet beyond that I can see the Cascade mountain range. The world extends and is held - a Grace given.