It’s hard to capture the breathtaking in a photograph. Yet, this image does tell us why Monhegan has been such a magnet for artists, writers, and naturalists.  The power of the ocean, the immovability of the massive rocks, the foggy atmospheric tenor.  And so I went in need of inspiration and to feel something outside of what has become our new normal.

On my visit to Monhegan this past week I was struck by another encouraging notion – everyone on Monhegan has agreed to follow the rule of wearing masks, inside and out, no exception!

A true act of civil society protected visitors from one another, protected the islanders from all of us visitors, and protected this island’s magnificence for others who visit after we have gone.  With caution we could participate in the glory of Monhegan despite the virus rampaging through our country.

From my journal:

The island is silent after the last ferry. Day trippers are gone, all supplies have been delivered, family members have come home from the mainland.

7 am. The island remains still before the day’s visitors and mail arrives. A mist over the harbor. Lobster boats moored. I am grateful for the early cup of coffee and a rocking chair on the inn’s veranda.

In the morning, I set off for the cliffs on the Burnt Head trail.   The trail begins near the church in the village area and soon, after an easy uphill, the view looks back on the village before the trail narrows and the woods envelope.

I walk.  Gardeners in silence, tending vegetables and flowers, spreading compost and mulch.  A hammer begins to pound.  Bird song in the woods.  And then soon the crashing sounds of waves.

Monhegan trails are often narrow with embedded roots, or they’re boggy and covered over by plank walkways.  I note how well all the trails are managed and I wonder who does that caretaking.  Hiking along the cliffs is more treacherous, yet again the trails are cut and cleared.

Even at the cliffs, wildflowers grow.

One can sit for a minute to rest or an hour to think and write or draw.  I have not brought writing or art supplies with me, so I choose to think.  I am taking pictures so I think about how the image is never the thing itself, but a representation of the thing, how photographers strive to show us something more than the representation – something felt, or something that cannot be seen, a story.  Similarly, writers struggle with the word, which is also not the thing itself but a symbol of the thing:  wave, rock, gull, wind.

From a poem I wrote in Newfoundland:

 … where sea rinses ancient boulders,

where wind is relentless, where the wild iris bloom

tucked deep within their pockets of green.

My meandering takes me back on a different trail home.  It’s a different world on Monhegan.  No cars, of course, and that’s a huge difference.  But even more profound is the solitude and the invitation to walk and sit and ponder.  It seems important right now.