Star Union 2026- A Star Island Personal Essay

 It starts with a hug to people I’d not seen since last time. I say, “No shaking hands on the first day,” knowing I've voluntarily let down my guard in the best of ways. I am about to leave Earth as I know it.  

The people you love are the ones who, even after time apart, rejoin you like birds in flight, without pause. Nothing has to be said. Everyone just flies with each other within the V, within that wedge. We welcome the new birds and want them to fly with us, then come back and join us again. Nothing is better here than the “all” whether an outward signal, an aura, emotions or something not necessary to say out loud. It shows up in vibration, in fact, showing love is revolutionary.

One thing I love is you can do everything or nothing while you’re here. People can participate in organized activities or walk around until they hear a voice singing, or a guitar or mandolin playing. There's usually someone sitting on the edge of a porch whose paint you can watch dry, or someone else to simply sit and talk with. When there are people singing in groups with five to six in perfect joyous harmony there is always a seventh to discover and contribute.

Some of the brightest stars are the children of all ages who have come here as children and they bring their own back here. If only these life experiences could be passed on as part of our DNA. Unfortunately, genetics seems more likely to pass along the things you'd rather it didn't (see epigenetics)...so, we pass things in real-time and in our experiences here. Organic.

Sudden. The week ends: Sunday, bags packed, the Laighton approaching from the distance to bring us back to Earth. Nothing can be done about it.

We end with hugs, eyes moistened. No crying until I’m on the highway, when I realize I hadn’t experienced the emotion of sadness in seven days. Then, what I'd fought off overtakes me. Suddenly I'm driving while sobbing.

It only takes a few hours back to fall into routine, and feel that I am not just a visitor in my own house. I know I am no longer at Star.  I am back on Earth, with the obvious reminders of checking the mail, or the less obvious, like holding a paper towel in my hand with a quick thought that “this is compost,” before remembering there is not a bin for that here.

A few years ago, on the island, a friend sat with a few of us and tried to come up with a plan on how to bring the feeling of Star Island back home in some way, shape or form. We discussed everything we do at Star that we can bring back and make it feel like here. A few weeks later, from the facilitator of this casual group came a two-word email:

We can’t