Fifteen miles off of Maine's rocky coast, there is an island called Vinalhaven. It is where my grandmother was born and raised, where my mom and aunt spent their summers growing up, and where I was lucky enough to make some memories of my own during my childhood. This island is magic and wonder and peace. It is granite and lobster and pristine natural beauty. When you visit it claims a piece of your heart, and you never fully recover—though I doubt anyone would wish to. 

Since I was a young girl, I've dreamt of bringing my own children to the island, and last month it finally happened. It was an incredible family trip, and my husbands parents and brother came too, which made it even more special. The house we stayed in was my grandmother's (now my aunt's)—it is where I took my first steps, curled up reading countless books, and picked blueberries in the yard. The joy that filled my heart during the 12 days of this trip, showing my family all the places I've loved for so long, cannot even be expressed in words... so I'll allow the images to take it from here.

In the interest of avoiding an insanely long blog post, this is part one of four. 
Read the rest: part two, part three, part four.