Beatitude Point – Part 2 continuing – Francis … and life goes on

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The world is in another orbit as gravity spins me back like a restless ghost to Orcas Island where my daughter is caught in the tides of heartbreak after being forsaken by her young husband . He is gone , seeking divorce … she is left behind holding their newborn .

Dropping me off at the Traverse City airport , my brother is kind .

” You will travel in a land of marvels “, I quote as I say goodbye and he looks at me questioningly , ” it’s from Jules Verne “.

” Just call me when you get there , I’ll be here to pick you up in two weeks “.

” OK Dave , I will …. Thanks , love you “.

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Resembling a catacomb , her house crowded with a marriage destroyed and relics of hope and commitment left smashed and deserted like those crooked , paint chipped buildings from my photo series taken on my bicycle of ” places where no one is anymore “. Now her house , her soul , her wavy distressed mind hearing lyrics even when there were none , trying to make sense where there is none . This is the universe of mountains and rivers , of bread and wine , the world of poverty of human nature where man is left in sorrow … ” Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted “.

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This Pacific Northwest Island , an island of narrow bridges overgrown with wet moss and fern from constant rain falling where fog clings to the forest , holds a musky stench from oysters and fish , a rancid breath seeping into everything … the black bay so unlike the pure , clean , fresh waters of Lake Michigan . The difference like that between stagnate unwashed hair and shampooed soft , silky locks that swing when you walk . I miss home … the light that reflects everywhere , it is not here , the coffee not the same . But I have no right to lament as sorrow lays itself down in this house of my family .

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I escape after long days into music listening to Ringos drum playing . He plays the heartbeat ( his secret of greatness ), perhaps this islands secret too held in the sound of the flapping wings of bald eagles who were here first before man . Everything starts with the heartbeat , our mothers heartbeat , life’s heartbeat and it sets the rhythm for the rest of our days . This is the connection between life and emotion , this drumbeat where the most important part of music is found . And the beat is subtle to me in the hamlet of Glen Arbor but here it is too loud , overpowing the quitar and the voices of the robins and the winds moving thru the branches of maple and oak trees I hear back home . And where have the stars gone ? They are lost in the presence of these tall pines on jutting mountain places . Melancholy forebodes in this strangely paradoxical place , stark and murky both where whales don’t linger long after feeding on other abundant species far below the earth . The landscape reminding me of an Escher drawing with its sharp angles , unexpected turns and mysterious depths , the whales juxdiposed in fluidity … another contradiction . Even though the streets have magical names like , Enchanted Forest Road , Fossil Bay Drive , and Owl Lane , I’m frightened of driving these roads , so dark that my eyes sting from squinting for the light . An onerous recollection of past years here haunts me of stumbles in a thicket , a thicket filled with thorns at every turn drawing blood . I think God is unjust now , unjust to my dear daughter . There is a sign over the door in a movie I can’t remember the title of , the sign says , ” How long will they last ?” It’s that Jane Fonda film where the dancers , the marathon dancers are hanging so desperately onto eachother , so exhausted that they can barely hold their heads up while their sore feet shuffle , shuffle in slow motion. This is the dance I find my daughter in . “This life is long isn’t it ?  We’ll do better in another life , with other gods to watch over us “, she once told me .

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I can feel the slow spinning of the earth where across the continent of America , in another place and time , a boy of residual aching youthfulness is honoring his grandmother by presenting her with a slain deer and here , now , on this island my own little grand daughter removes a lollipop from her mouth and kisses the image in a glass frame saying , ” good night daddy ” as I draw the voluminous silk grey curtains lest she be on full view of strangers who loom . The wooden flute sounds just a sigh and I wonder of my life back home , my brother , the familiar faces of the coffee shop employees , that man who sits and writes there nearly as much as I do , his relaxed frame folded in the cafes leather armchair , his blue eyes searching the rooms four corners as if trying to see something beyond its walls … the days of my last chapter before my own heart stops where I’ve found the lighthouse at the end of the world , where the strongest urge is to write the story of my brother and his three mates tragedy while still somehow trying to make it into a love story .

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On the ferry boat returning home there is an eerie pause of water and wind , the sky appearing like a single pearl and the ocean solid as if I could walk across it and I can hear the sound with absolute clarity of a lonely whale breaking the surface thousands of miles away . The loneliest whale in the world does exist . Scientist have been tracking her since 1992 and they know the problem . Her voice is unlike any other whale . No other whales can hear her as she sings at a higher frequency . She is alone . And it is here on this boat that I sense Gods infinite and benevolent hands of compassion holding my daughter and all of us away from the dizzingly crowded Picadilly Circus of confusion where every blade of grass has a shadow behind it . I tell myself to get it together … but get what together ? I’m bewildered . Thoughts are racing fast like the train racing south from Seatle in a streak of silver and blue to the east coast at 200 miles an hour …

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” You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars , you have a right to be here . Whether or not it is clear to you , no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should … with all its sham , drudgery and broken dreams , it is still a beautiful world “.     Max Ehrman

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Note : girl with fawn by Katerina Plotnikova

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Photo of my daughter

20 thoughts on “Beatitude Point – Part 2 continuing – Francis … and life goes on

  1. Oh my, what a powerful, and poignant post, Meg… every bit as rough as I thought it has been for your daughter with all that’s been going on. I found your comparison of Lake Michigan and Orcas and this area to be very telling, and the cleanness of your region really lit up for me as a place to be and not to struggle with the damp wetness that you speak of. Thank you for posting this deeply moving story. Sad and heartbreaking. I hope for something truly transformational and amazing to come from all of this. ❤

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  2. Deeply moving and sad.The sharp pieces of pain and loss always have a way of coming together and creating something new. May this be so for your daughter. Beauty in sadness? I think she’s there. Thank you for a beautiful post.

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  3. Beautiful, lyrical writing. Writing those few words doesn’t quite do it justice. There is something universal you paint here that is found in phrases such as these– “This is the universe of mountains and rivers , of bread and wine , the world of poverty of human nature where man is left in sorrow,”– remind us all how indelibly we are stitched together. We are the solitary whale possessive of a solitary, beguiling beauty, and the enfolding sweetness that grows up each spring through the leaves and needs of last seasons’s fallen sorrows.

    Michael

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  4. A beautiful post. Having just met you, I try to understand the context… the relationship between the words and pictures… It isn’t always apparent. Sometimes it is… and sometimes it escapes me. The images capture me immediately. The words are intriguing at times… sometimes moving. It is a great pleasure getting to know you.

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  5. Well, that was quite beautiful Meg, I’m never sure what is fact and fiction and I like that. I have lived through more than one divorce, it is a souls sucker, and I had no children. I will keep your daughter in my communion with all that is. peace to you Meg.

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