The Lightkeepers Echo

Chapter 1: A Flickering Flame

Boston artist Evelyn Martin (Evy to her loved ones) sat in her cramped studio in a mess of half-painted canvases and paint brushes splashed with color. The turpentine scent filled the musty room, competing with blaring honking from cars and distant shouting. Evy was not a part of the bustling, beautiful madness, and it sunk in, filling her up like nothing else could.

Her most recent piece, an oil painting reflecting her cherished ocean, rested on the easel incomplete, its colors losing their voice to induce further expression. She gaped at the canvas, unblemished, and so too was her brain. She had felt that for months as if the source of her imagination was empty. She found the city and its surroundings, once so rich in inspiration for her and glowing under a bright sun, as gray as any other. The noise, the hurrying—everything was too much, and Evy could not locate that one lightning bolt that would relight her painting flair. She felt a sense of this all summer and couldn't figure out why.

Her sole focus these days is her fellowship at the Seaside Art Residency in Pemaquid, Maine. This eight-month retreat is the ideal setting for her to find the inspiration she needs to complete some of her projects. Evy had spent weeks sitting on pins and needles, waiting to hear back from the Seaside Art Organization one way or another. Her phone buzzed, and an email had been delivered to her inbox—this could be her answer to a life-changing experience from the Seaside Art Residency program. She felt her heart rate flutter. What if I wasn't accepted? She opened it with a small sliver of hope, bracing herself for the upcoming rejection. Except when she opened it and bloodless eyes skimmed over the words, they widened: "Congratulations! Dear Applicant, You have been accepted at the Seaside Art Residency in Pemaquid, Maine."

The residency provided the opportunity to get away from everyday distractions and allow her attention to focus on this calm time. It said it would deliver privacy, muse, and break the interruptions that tormented her everyday life. Taking this new reinforcer, she leaned back on her chair. She had never been that far north and was excited to see where this adventure would take her. The mere thought of it brought visions of waves crashing on windswept shores, a far cry from the concrete jungle she called home now. Perhaps she needed to shake it up a bit and travel, seeing the world with wandering eyes.

In the days that followed, Evy planned her journey. She slipped away from her concrete world, brushes and tubes of paint banging together in a kilim bag. And the voyage to Maine was her first act of searching for that artist. As the train took her further north, she passed through different types of countryside, changing subtly with the approach to the coast. She finally appeared; the air was crisp and salty—a nice break from the city smog. After a short Uber drive, she was in the cutest little village with everything—cobblestone streets and country cottages. The town was almost naive of its timelessness, moving so much slower this time of year, with townsfolk way friendlier than in the big city.

When she arrived in town, she checked into The Hotel Pemaquid, an inn run by a couple from Malden, Massachusetts, that welcomed her with warm smiles and stories of history. They talked of the ancient beacon that had stood on these shores for over a hundred years, abandoned and uncared for. With curiosity winning the day, Evy set off for this lighthouse. She was inexplicably drawn to it as if the very thing she needed for inspiration sat in front of her. The inn was within a short walking distance of the lighthouse, perched on a lovely cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The wind blew past, bringing with it not only the salty presence of the sea but also callous sounds coming far away from somewhere close by, like a seagull's "ka ka KSAAAAWKS" as she came closer.

There was a lighthouse, looking weary from years of monochrome yellow, now in a needlessly peeling grin. A quiet sentinel that has seen more than its share of storms and calm waters. She spooked as she looked up at it and received the sense of a story itching to be told. The bulky wooden door squealed on its hinges as she pushed her way through, letting in a musty darkness of dust and cobwebs. She could hear her footsteps resonating through the haunting silence as she started making her way up the narrow spiral staircase. Then again, as she lumbered over the rusting metal steps in her circular platform, they were more like groans that bordered on some kind of protest against having to take this massive form.

She ascended every step, and each moved her closer to the lantern room that once held a flame so bright it could be seen at sea. Now it was cold, dark and empty. At the top, Evy pried open the groaning door and emerged onto an outer circular balcony. The sights were so overwhelming that it was hard to breathe—there lay the ocean as far as she could see and hear of waves crashing at a distance. The sky was a wide piece of paper scribbled in light blue and white, with seagulls laughing. It was the first time in a long time that Evy heard an echo of inspiration.

She stood there, soul bare to the cool breeze that warped her hair; she had finally uncovered all those things with which nothing compared as a muse. It was the lighthouse. The silent voice of power and endurance kept calling to her. It was a solitary place, and it will always be the way an artist is going to have to build up strength. Evy felt the lighthouse, and they were kindred spirits; they both fulfilled their roles with endurance. Long since lost in ancient history, for her, this abandoned vestige would eventually become a refuge and an inspiration. One day, Evy promised to capture the spirit of that tree on a canvas and tell it through her painting. Her heart was light as she descended the spiral staircase, charged with an enthusiastic mission.

Now the forgotten lighthouse on top of the cliffs was more than just a place; it transformed into her life, leading her to find her creativity once again. So when she started her residency, it was with a new lease for optimism—to be able to, not from the perspective of outward expression but deeply explore brush strokes in this small seaside town. The lighthouse, being another metaphor that refuses to give up against the elements, offered a renewed muse for Sarah as building blocks to help guide her creative journey forward.