Provincetown Redux

Race Point

This is where the day ended yesterday.  I waited for the early morning sun and found it peeking between the rooftops on Conant Street, sanguine and serene.  I'd been waiting such a long time--maybe months--but there it was again. I followed it along the soft wavy brick walks of Commercial Street, past Joe's to the ripply low tide harbor, and finally to its grassy cradle beneath the icy winds of Race Point.  This is how day ends here.  

The bright colors and characters along the streets and lanes here speak an uncommon joy. I saw someone wearing seriously bright, bright purple leather boots.  I beamed.  My own feet cheered at the possibility.  I saw sparkly scarves and mad bomber hats.  Black glitter sneakers.  Friendly faces. Swirly snow.   Even in the dead of winter, these streets infuse joy and warmth.  

Yet, that wasn't really it this weekend.  Look up.  Or try not looking up. In spite of your joy boots on the ground, your eyes will drift upward. Town Hall, The Meeting House, and Pilgrim Monument all seem to point you there.  The Provincetown sky arcs over head like a transparent shield, expanding forever and ever, but tucked around our edges like a blanket...and here we are, under cover, safe and sound.  

I walked from the West End to the East End and back again, retracing summer steps, remembering the happiness of that time.  I could still hear the echo. But my eyes were fixed on now, the present sky, my feet following the sun to the edge of the night, the edge of the sea, and the very edge of the sand. Racing forward into the wild wind, I opened my arms wide and ran down the beach, silently shouting thank you to something or someone, and holding on to this peace.  I watched as the last drop of sun was absorbed by the earth. 

This is how day ends, here...

Three Sisters

Hold hands and hold tight.

Love to you this Christmas.

Don't Laugh. She's Serious.

Mercy discovers her inner reindeer.

Maine Prelude

Prelude, Kennebunkport

I am just back from another Prelude weekend in Kennebunkport, Maine.  Christmas on the Maine coast is beautiful.  Boats with red gingham wreaths, a lobster trap tree lighting, sea shell ornaments, church craft fairs, white twinkly lights, carolers singing and drumming, children with lobster hats and mittens, jingle bells on doorknobs, people shopping...It reminds me of the days when we anticipated magic.  

I enjoyed time with my friends.  We all came from different places and for different reasons.   I loved how that really didn't matter.  We thrived around the dinner table, laughing very loudly and sometimes whispering serious things.  Every time we crossed the Dock Square Bridge, we reminded ourselves of our past bridge stories--telling those stories again and again because telling them has become more important than the past. I love this ritual.

Prelude.  We still anticipate magic but we don't look for it in town at Dock Square. Instead, we find it in the harbor, looking out at a deep gray sea and a white foamy beach.  The sky and horizon stretch right around us and take us in.  We are so lucky to know this. We hear the stories of the gulls and rocks and waves again and again, because listening to them has become more important than anything we could say.  

I thank my friends for sharing Prelude as they do.  Magic, indeed.

  

Angelica

Well, I confess I fell in love this weekend.  Ok--it was fast.  And ok--I already have a dog.  But this one--this one....sigh.  Her name, Angelica.  At 10 years old, she was the most senior member of a Leonberger reunion taking place at Prelude in Kennebunkport, Maine.  There must have been seven or eight other dogs with her, including a youngster who was only a few months old and too antsy to pose for a picture.  The Leonberger, I learned, is a cross between a St. Bernard, a Newfoundland, and a Great Pyrenees.  Ka-boom!  That's quite a lot of dog!

I think what I love most about Angelica (besides her name) is how she brings all her dog-ness to such simple and understated elegance.  The subtle bling, the weathered lines, the gray hair....

Angelica.
Too sexy for her hair.

The Weight of a Stone

I walked along the trail today with Mercy.  The sky was sweet and pale, and hawks were overhead.  Cat tails were bent and broken, their bulky tails bloated and puffy, finished for the season.  The mild temperature contradicted the aftermath of broken trees and sticks and spilled leaves, leftovers of a harsh and heavy fall.  Mercy was in her own world, sniffing every single little thing, happy, eager, silly.  Oblivious and reliable.

As we wandered down the road, my eyes fixed on their usual spot on the verge. I'm taken by the helter-skelter nature of things I find there.  Weeds, wild flowers, rocks, clumps of mud and dirt, a wrapper, a bicycle reflector, a piece of an old yard sale sign, puddles, leaves, a worn glove, logs, and stones--all atop an undeterred road.  The occupation of chaos. I was drawn to the many stones along the way and just one I dropped in my pocket, a token of this day.  I felt the solid weight of reassurance as I mulled it over in my fingers.  For me, it offered proof of simple joys and discoveries.

Tomorrow begins a new week, undeterred by uncertainty or anticipation.  Winter is close by and will soon cover us in a blanket of snow, burying the fall, covering our wounds, and wrapping us in the certainty of its weight.   I look forward to the coming days and this change of seasons. With your stone in my pocket, I am reminded it's worth its wait.

Making the Most of That Effing Hour

Die-Hards: Mark and Sara Bunyan

So, here's how we spent our extra hour today.

While I was out in Amherst with Meredith, Mercy threw up and projectile-pooped from one end of the house to the other.  I blame it on the tree in the back yard that came down in the effing storm last weekend (yes, effing).  The tree was a beautiful Callery Pear tree--perfectly shaped and gloriously covered with little white flowers in the spring, and apparently highly toxic to dogs when its branches are strewn about the ground and within tasting range of curious canines.

After I scoured the house, myself, and then gave Mercy a bath, my parents blazed their way from  Connecticut and tackled the tree, the little toxic pears, and the bizillions of branches on the ground.  And listen to me on this--you really, really can't appreciate the true size of a tree until it's all in pieces on the ground.

In addition to tackling the tree, Mom stepped in a big glob of dog poop, Dad's chainsaw gave out, lunch was prepared and served, and we stacked a half-cord of seasoned wood from last year's pile. Mercy seems all better.  According to my calculations, Mom and Dad should be arriving back home in Connecticut right about now.

And speaking of poop, I'm pooped.  I'm sure Mom and Dad are too. I'm so grateful for their help.  They  still always save the effing day hour.