I had a very Pender moment last month while my family was preparing to leave the island for Spring Break.
After the standard prepping and packing and re-packing (not to mention the last-minute debate about which morning ferry to target), it was time for me to drop my dog off at a friend’s house, where he’d be staying during our time away.
It was late. The sun had tucked itself away long ago. But our friends lived just a six- or seven-minute walk down the road. So, I threw on a reflective vest, turned up my nose at the flashlight we keep next to the front door, and wandered into the darkness.
Louie and I – Louie’s a basset hound mix we rescued shortly before moving from Toronto to Pender – strolled down our road in comfortable silence. Our path was lit by starlight and occasional front porches, but little else. No cars passed by and, aside from seeing Louie’s gracious hosts at drop off, I didn’t see another living soul the entire journey.
It was nearly pitch black and I felt a cathartic absence of civilization. I was alone in the darkness, and I couldn’t have felt more at peace.
I couldn’t help but think back to this time last year. I was still new to life on Pender Island and struggling to find my place. Everyone I met was doing interesting things, pitching in in interesting ways. My family was acclimating well and I was happy, but something was missing. I knew what it was.
I finally mustered the courage to reach out to The Pender Post Society’s then-president, Annie Smith. She could not have been more gracious, and supportive, as I dipped my toe into the waters and attended my first board meeting.
The following month I was officially named Annie’s presidential successor and graciously accepted the position of editor for this community newsletter.
The year since has occasionally felt like a crash course on Pender Island life. I’ve joined committees, made new friends and volunteered on some fresh and exciting projects. I’ve observed the community’s relationship with The Pender Post, both as an insider and outsider. Not to mention The Pender Post’s relationship with itself.
The truth behind both of these is far more complicated that I could have understood one year ago. And in hindsight, I had been walking through the darkness trying to follow a path that was only dimly visible.
The only reason I’m still standing (albeit with some stubbed toes) is the honest and earnest support of so many people who have quietly guided me around obstacles and picked me up when I’ve stumbled. I cannot possibly name them all here. But I will not let this chapter close without thanking my board members, especially my vice-president Val Butcher and Dianne Allison, the longstanding pulse of The Pender Post.
I also want to thank Christa Grace-Warrick, with whom I’ve often felt I shared a “journalist’s brain”. Not to mention Shon Tam, Veronica Cross, Gay Perry, Angie Gray and Noemie Crepeau.
I wish I could also thank the countless contributors who send in club reports and the other fabulous stories that grace our pages each month. But I have just passed the 500-word mark. And, as they know, once your article passes 500 words, things start getting cut.
So, I’ll use my final few words to thank my partner, Sam, for her patience and encouragement while I wandered through the darkness, repeatedly promising I would find the light switch soon.
I haven’t found it yet; maybe I never will. But after a year in the dark, my eyes have begun to acclimate, and my night vision has improved.
And there is something quite cathartic about a comfortable darkness.