Believe in Spring?

It's after 10 p.m. and I'm winding down from a lovely Sunday here in Southern Maine.  Take a look:

I have work to do yet tonight so I'm going to make this post a quick list of the weekend's joys.

We spent time with all of the members of my clan minus one yesterday at a St. Patrick's Day party.  My mother was in her glory, surrounded by her kids, grandkids and great-grands. The Alzheimers hasn't robbed her of her joie de vivre, especially when children are in the room and Irish music is playing in the background.

I enjoyed a productive meeting with a writer friend this morning, dissecting our works in progress.  It's been a long winter of revision for me. In recent weeks I've felt myself approaching a turning point. Today's meeting was affirming in that regard.  But then, I've begun to believe winter is done, so I may simply be in a dangerously optimistic frame of mind.

It was impossible not to revel in the fine weather, even though a voice inside my head nags that it shouldn't be 78 degrees in Maine in mid-March. That was the temp when I left Auburn about 1:30, so I popped the sunroof open and sang along with Van Morrison all the way home.

It was cooler when I got back to the coast, but still May-like on our beach walk.

Signs of spring were everywhere. The sand no longer being like half-set cement, a youthful engineer built a fine sandcastle.

Teenaged girls strolled the beach in shorts and flip flops while their shirtless male peers played frisbee.

Some folks brought beach chairs and basked in the warmth. (The owners of this pair were beachcombing when I snapped the photo.)

A redwinged blackbird trilled its heart out as we skirted a marsh on our way back to the car. 

At dusk, a chorus of peepers serenaded me while I stood on the deck, grilling for the second Sunday in a row.

Springing Forward

It was an amazing day here in Southern Maine, warm, sunny and light for a looooong time.  A lot of people I know (including my beloved) grumble about the arrival of Daylight Savings Time. To them, springing forward means an hour of lost sleep, and dark mornings again. To me, the long afternoon light is worth the trade-off. 

I celebrated by grilling chicken that had been marinating all afternoon in a lemon-garlic sauce officially called "Garlicious" which I call "Garlic-Licious," because it makes my sweetie laugh every time. It was lovely to stand out on the deck, imagining the trees leafed out, the garden planted, the warm-weather birds flocking to the feeders for a bedtime snack.

Soon.

We walked at Crescent Beach in early afternoon.  Here is a photo of the sign that greets the winter-weary masses:

And the dunes, which were especially beautiful today:

A pivotal scene in my novel in progress, The Quick Pivot, is set at Crescent Beach. Every time we walk there I feel surrounded by the ghosts of a couple of my favorite characters, who spent a life-changing afternoon there in May, 1968.

Speaking of my WIP, I had an opportunity to read a couple of short passages yesterday at the New England Sisters In Crime open read event, organized by my pal Maureen Milliken in her beautiful town of Belgrade Lakes. Five of us brought work to read and several others came just to listen, including a high school student from nearby Oakland who told us she loves, loves, loves to read mysteries.  That proclamation, and her courage in attending an event where she knew no one except her very supportive Dad, endeared her to everyone in the room.

Thank you, Maureen, for organizing such an enjoyable event and for reading your work.  Thanks also go to Kathy, Priscilla and Emily for reading, and to Sandy and David and Mary's dad for listening.  And special appreciation to  Mary, for making us remember how exciting it was to discover this world of mystery.

Staying With It

February passed without many Sunday beach walks. We were out of town all or part of many weekends, which disrupted our rituals a bit.  Today was a good day to get back in the groove.  Sunny and warmish, the breeze was light when we arrived at Scarborough Beach.  Here's a photo:

Two young guys carrying surfboards were on our heels as we trekked from road to beach, wearing hooded drysuits complete with booties, essential gear for winter surfing in the North Atlantic. Somewhere between boyish 20 and settling down 30, they grinned at us as they scooted toward the respectable surf, still agitated by last week's storms.

When we made the turn after walking south almost to the end of the beach, the surfer dudes were dark specks in the waves. As we strolled back they came into focus: timing the waves, clambering to their feet, riding the crest, falling into the frigid salt water.

Because I'm (1) deep in revision and (2) especially single-minded when I'm deep in revision, I found myself comparing my passion to theirs. 

No, winter surfing (hell, summer surfing) is not my thing. But like them, I'm absorbed by something I love. They walk into the icy ocean, climb on their boards and paddle with heart and determination past the break, all to be one with the surf for fifteen seconds (if they're lucky).  Then they do it again.

I sit in front of my laptop for at least two hours a day, wrestling with plot points and uruly sentences, all for the fleeting reward of a well-written paragraph, page, chapter.

Here's my takeaway.  If it matters to you, then it matters to work at it.