Every early summer, I start to pine for the Dungeness Spit. For those who aren’t familiar, this narrow band of rocky sand is the longest spit in the United States, about five miles long, stretching into the Strait of Juan de Fuca, part of the Salish Sea. I reside one scenic-hour drive from this special place. People from everywhere visit this spit, not in masses, but in ones and twos. One cannot swim in the cold, tricky water, nor can one fly kites or run dogs. There are no beach balls, and one is not inclined to frolic. Pensive trampers dot the strip, taking steps with care, over rocks, low-tide kelp and rivulets. The waves crackle and roll and smash as I make my journey to the end–if I go all the way to the end. Though I visit almost every year, I’ve gone to the end only twice, once in 2017 and just last week, yet I feel I’ve reached the tip many more times. I suppose it is because I have thought of that endpoint many more times, so it feels very familiar, and I am nourished when I arrive. Oddly, it feels like home.

I have never been a water person. Yet here I am, at home near the sea.

At the end of the spit, sits the New Dungeness Lighthouse and Keeper’s Quarters. The light in the lighthouse still works, and volunteer keepers pay to stay in the quarters, one week at a time. A restroom greets daily guests like me who have made the journey, as does cool grass, felt as I remove my running shoes and sink my feet into this startling luxury as I sit at a picnic table surrounded by a massive body of water. And there is the tree, its branches permanently blown sideways. All of this is kept in motion year after year by a few people, by keepers, who keep the light working all year-round, a light that was lit for the first time from a lard oil lamp in 1857, the first light to help ships negotiate waters of the strait. This light has not stopped shining since. The keepers make sure of it. 

The Keepers. This labor of devotion vivifies me. They will not let the light die. This little light, on the edge of this narrow band of earth on our planet, seen by few, has not stopped shining because a continuous line of humans are called to keep it lit.

I feel we are keepers, too. We, writers and artists and readers are keepers of light; we are cutting through the noise and locating the vital fragments of our lived experiences and showing them to a small group of people, those who make the journey, who stop for a moment, who think it’s worthwhile to be caretakers of our creations for a short time, as we shine a small light together in this vast place.

In Volume 4, Issue 3 of Club Plum, unexpected small worlds light up before us. Maybe the light stings in the Whiskey a Go Go or throbs from the freight train up in the hills. Maybe it reflects off your wet paddleboard or dazzles from your Windex-blue gemstone on your finger. Maybe it nips our geese-girl ankles as we run in the garden or whistles in the ears of the university men who won’t let us speak. Or maybe the light shines from the eyes of a man who was once a little girl and who lays her to sleep forever with love, keeping her safe and remembered.

Come, step inside the club and join the The Keepers.

Yours in Words and Art,

Thea 

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