I . Am . An . Island

“Mid 18th century: from French isolé, 

from Italian isolato,

from late Latin insulatus ‘made into an island’,

from Latin insula ‘island’.”

It has been eight weeks since we made the decision to leave our city home, as a global pandemic began to domino through our country. We took the idea of isolation seriously. We isolated to a remote island with a very small population; Kangaroo Island - off the coast of South Australia.

While every one of us has been asked to practise ‘physical distancing’, I am aware that our experiences have been as varied and individual as we are. Unlike many, we had options. We could choose where we wanted to stay. 

With two teenagers and a dog, we chose Kangaroo Island because it gave us space. Space to walk, roam, enjoy. It meant that we could ‘self-isolate’ without feeling ‘boxed-in’.

Our place overlooking rolling hills and sea at Stokes Bay had always been calming, healing. We loved it. And any opportunity to stay was a serendipitous excuse. I knew that it would be good for our souls. We chose Kangaroo Island because we love it.

When we arrived I imagined that I would have ‘all the time in the world’. I thought that I would read through the pile of books I had brought, focus on getting my manuscript accepted by a publisher, start writing my next book, cook interesting new recipes, paint, draw, create, walk, get fitter, lose weight, take my dog for walks along the beach, complete much needed jobs around the house, clear the property from the after effects of the Summer bushfires. What I didn't expect was how I FELT.

I cried for the first two weeks. Every. Day. And, more than once a day. 

I missed my family and my small circle of friends. I felt guilty. Guilty that we were able to be somewhere beautiful while others were losing their jobs. Guilty that people were sick. Guilty that people were dying.

But, guilt is an unhelpful emotion. It paralyses. It keeps you stuck. It weighs you down with self-judgement and blame. Guilt overwhelms. Guilt internalises everything. Guilt wears dark-coloured glasses.

As I tried to work through my feelings I began to understand that, more than anything else, I was grieving. I was experiencing grief for all the potential losses I could imagine, as well as the losses that were real. I grieved for my family and friends. Grieved that I couldn’t see them, grieved that they were at risk, grieved at what ‘might happen’. I grieved for the life that we were supposed to be living, the normal everyday experiences which, up until that point, we had not even contemplated would not continue ‘as normal’. I grieved for my children, for the disruption to their lives, the potential effects on their emotional and mental states.

I may well have continued being tossed around by grief like a swimmer tumbled by waves, not knowing which way was up (and out) if not for my sister sending me an insightful interview between Mel Robbins and David Kessler. That, and a beautifully sensitive piece on grief written by Tanaaz from foreverconscious.com provided the push I needed to propel myself out of my state. I am grateful for all the incredible wisdom I have been able to source and utilise.

Since writing the above, another month has slipped by and so I sit here on this evening of the Winter Solstice, now three months since we arrived.

Last night I cried for a different reason. I cried because I thought that we would have to leave my island home sooner than I felt ready. Yes, I want to see my family. Yes I want to touch base with friends, share a coffee, have a chat. But it has been so incredibly healing here - I think I am almost daunted to head into the wider, busier world.

Each day I have been blessed by calm, beauty, wholeness. There have been simple pleasures: crisp morning walks through burnt and rejuvenating bush; countless moments when I have had to stop and wonder at the the beauty of the ever-changing sea and sky; basking in the glow of the afternoon light; sinking my bare feet along the water’s edge of my local beach; listening to the melodic tapping of rain on the tin roof while snug in my bed. 

I know that I have been blessed. I know it and I feel it. And I am so grateful for the silver lining that this time has given me.

I’m not sure that any of my lessons have been particularly profound. I have learnt a bit more of my strengths, insecurities, dreams and challenges. The biggest lesson has been learning to accept myself for where I am each and every day. And trying to find peace with myself each night as my eyes close before sleep.