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My great-niece leaps above the in-coming tide of the Atlantic Ocean, Ogunquit, Maine, June 2022

Such joy touches mine!

“There it goes again,” I moan while mashing the pillow around my head, then scrambling beneath the quilt. Still, the foghorn mourns into the night, between intervals of silence.

That was years ago in Gloucester, Massachusetts, while on retreat at Eastern Point. Its proximity by the Atlantic Ocean produced mega-fogs, day or night: thick clouds of chilly droplets suspended over warmer waters resembling insects hovering over roadkill—both producing undesirable heaviness. My experience of fog also demanded caution, pause, and waiting for air and water temperatures to intermingle and level off as visibility and obscurity impeded normal functioning.

Closer to home, psychic fog has served as the boundary between my dream state and consciousness, and for some time has frustrated my retention of stories; only pieces of them emerge, filled with young girls, healthy and thriving, many wearing blue print dresses. Through these windows into my psyche, I have received critical direction and wholeheartedly welcome its return. 

Another component of my psychic fog are tablets of time-released morphine, prescribed to ease my breathing. Despite it scrambling clarity of thought and choice and complicating the process of writing, I still show up at my word processor to see what will happen. I’m rarely disappointed. For each word that tumbles off my fingers, I’m grateful. Still more learning fills my world.

Today’s research of the Eastern Point Lighthouse revealed a change. No longer are lighthouses equipped with foghorns. Since 2019, technology now equips ships with protection from crashing into rocky shorelines or other disasters. All the more am I dependent upon my Inner Warning System that affords me protection during this time of waiting. So far, it’s worked.

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