Getting off the Roller Coaster

Amusement parks were not a mainstay of my life growing up. We had the annual county fair, a much-anticipated event, which arrived in mid-August and lasted four days.  I revisited those days last October while sharing my account of a visit to the Fryeburg Fair here in Maine. But, we rarely had encounters with amusement parks, only once in awhile with the one found on the shores of Lake Bemidji, where we would travel every summer via train to visit our cousins. It had a Paul Bunyan theme, as they seem to in northern Minnesota.

After my return to Maine a few weeks ago, I realized there's a park right down the beach from me, the only oceanfront amusement park in New England. It's closed for the season, but that's what intrigued me. I  was drawn in by the atmosphere it creates which drifts a bit towards the melancholy. Apparently, it's a hoppin' joint in the summertime with over two hundred arcade games and rides for kids of all ages including us grown up ones.  I was particularly smitten by the empty roller coasters. It seemed a fitting metaphor for my time here: getting off the roller coaster of life, especially the emotional aspects of it, and getting grounded.

There's a pier jutting out into the water, with one food shack after another, offering everything from ice cream to the now ubiquitous chicken wings. I was intrigued by the structure and couldn't resist a photo or two. Or three. Possibly several.

When I headed back down the beach towards home, my inclination was to walk closer to the amusement park, keeping an eye out for other photo opps. But, I found myself walking down closer to the water, not consciously choosing to, but moving to where I felt led. Looking down, I saw that the two people who had been sitting there a few minutes earlier had left a message in the sand. I love getting messages from the Universe, especially through people who might not even be aware that they were angels in that moment. It was a variation on a theme I had recently been encountering in a variety of places, things I'd read, songs I'd heard, both on the radio and running through my head. It is probably, no, it is, the singular most important thing to remember as we navigate through life:

 Love is Beautiful, indeed.