I walked down the beach, soaking in the long sweep of solitude. I’d been inundated with activity and people lately, and needed this time apart to recalibrate. I was feeling frazzled and fractured.

As I walked, the wind blew relentlessly into my face, transforming my dangling earrings into wind chimes. I wandered along, soaking in the serenity and the scenery, stopping occasionally to take pictures. Struck by an isolated boat at anchor. The interplay of granite, tree and sky. Or a still life of rocks beneath my feet.

Moving along the beach, I spotted a large piece of driftwood. I love driftwood with its intricate lacing of pale sea- and salt-worn branches and roots. I angled up the beach to get closer. There were rocks tucked in to some of the crevices, and a strand of grass had opportunely seeded and was reaching toward the sky.

I began taking pictures. Often, photography can serve as a sort of meditation for me. I find myself lost in the flow of what’s around me. Moving seamlessly from object to object. Looking at the light. The shapes. The shadows. It was exactly what I needed at this time. As I took pictures in the sun, with the wind and waves and the worn wood and tide-tumbled rocks, I felt my own edges smooth out. I felt the stress of the past day fade away.

Then, thinking the light would be better, I walked around to the other side of the driftwood to take a few more photos. There were more rocks tucked in the tangled roots. It took me a second to realize there was writing on them. This was the first one I read:

I was stunned. The writing was so random and unexpected, yet so apt and intimate. I felt like I’d received a secret message.

I read all the other rocks, and noticed spots where people had graffitied the wood with positive words and images.

I imagined different people choosing their rocks, writing a message of hope and comfort, then tucking them into the nooks and crannies of this tide-tossed tree, not knowing who might ever read it. Not knowing how welcome its message might be.

What a lovely note of kindness to put out into the world. What a gift.

In spite of the less-than-favorable forecast and the typical Irish weather, it had been a beautiful day in Dublin, and we’d been walking and soaking in the scenery all day long. After debating our options, we’d finally selected to eat in the outside area of a restaurant adjacent to the pedestrian zone. We placed our order, and sat back, ready to enjoy both people-watching and being off of our feet. It was finally sinking in: Our long anticipated trip had really begun!

Dining tables in Europe tend to be placed closer together which can invite conversation or at least facilitate eavesdropping. The table across from ours was quite close, and the four people there were clearly enjoying their time together, with lively conversation. The server kept them well-supplied with a variety of adult beverages, and their happy laughter was a nice backdrop to the scenery and our own idle conversation. Eventually, not long after we got our meal, they departed.

Within minutes after they left, a man strolled in from the street, sauntered over to their table, still cluttered with half-finished drinks and dirty plates, and sat down. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, clearly quite at ease.

He must be hungry or really impatient, I thought idly. He isn’t even waiting for the table to be cleared.

Then, the man casually picked up one half-finished drink, lifted it to his lips and drank it down.

Wait! What?!

Kurt and I turned to each other, astonished. We looked back just in time to see the man downing the dregs of the next drink. And then the next. And the next. Almost before we could even process this, he had emptied all the glasses, stood up and was walking away.

As he left, a server approached, and he reached out with both his hands, clasped one of her hands and vigorously shook it. She looked a bit confused, but smiled at him as he talked to her. Then he released her hand and casually walked out of the restaurant and down the street. She continued toward us.

“Excuse me,” my husband said to her as she neared our table, “Did you know that man?”

“No,” she said, laughing. ” I have no idea who he is.”

“Well,” my husband said, “he just sat down and polished off the remnants of all the drinks that were on that table.”

The waitress’s jaw dropped.

Mine still does too, every time I think about it.

It’s one of those days that reminds me why I live in Maine–all sharp-edged clarity and cool low humidity. Sun streaming and the air scented with a potpourri of scents: lilac, wisteria, lily of the valley, and freshly mown grass. I putter about the yard, moving from garden to garden, enjoying my haphazard wandering, surrounded by bountiful evidence of spring’s entrenchment. I weed here and there, spread some mulch. Every so often I stop to admire tendrils of growth or newly emerged blooms. To gently brush variegated leaves. I’m deeply and utterly content to be where I am, doing what I’m doing.

I reach into the half-weeded side garden, where bee balm and evening primrose thrive along with some needs-to-be weeded long grass. I lean further in to pick up a plastic pot filled with hard and shrunken soil. I’d had sweet peas in there last year, hoping they would wind there way up the side of the outbuilding. No such luck. What might I do this year?

The day shifts to shudder when I see, or sense a flash of movement and feel a sudden slithering whisper over the back of my hand. My shriek shatters the crystal blue tranquility of the day. I drop the pot, jumping backward, and recognize the sinuous form–SNAKE– in the same instant that it computes:

OMG! It just slithered over my hand!!!

The pot tumbles back to earth and there’s a flash of muscular scales as the snake nestles further into the shadow between the pot and the earth. I hold my hand to my heart, struggling to slow its frantic pace.

After a few minutes I step forward, my curiosity getting the better of me. In my mind, my favorite mantra of all time loops on repeat: There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine! There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine! I’m pretty sure it must be a garter snake. I can remember my grandmother speaking fondly to them in her own garden. I’m not sure I’m up to that, but still, I’m slowly drawn forward.

At first I can only see one bend of snake, looped up over the soil. The sheen of overlapping scales is almost beautiful. Almost. Then I see the head, tucked down into the shadows. A glimmer of eye. The snake is clearly watching me and is also clearly entrenched. After a few moments, I go inside to get my camera and return to take a few photos. The distance of a lens is always helpful.

It isn’t too long before I realize that it isn’t just one snake. There are actually TWO of them. I can’t suppress another little shudder. One is bolder and pops its head out. Its tongue flickers wildly, no doubt trying to pinpoint my presence. I see the forked black end of the tongue emerge over and over, noting how it turns to red when the tongue is fully emerged. I’m sort of grotesquely fascinated. This snake and I lock eyes as I take a few photos. I murmur a few reassurances. I won’t hurt it, but I’m not going to pet it either!

We pass several long moments together. My heart settles down. We watch each other carefully. The small space between us hums with possibility.

After a while, I leave the snake and return to my puttering. Every so often I cast a wary eye toward that garden. Perhaps the primrose and bee balm will thrive even with the weeds in their midst. It seems I’ll be sharing that garden for the summer. Now that I’m aware of that, I’m sort of…maybe…okay with it. But I’m pretty sure I won’t be weeding much there.

On this Monday of our week of spring break, the clouds drew me outside early. Something about their arrangement over the smooth line of the barn roof caught my eye, so I ventured out, camera in hand. I had snapped a photo when, out of the corner of my eye, I heard a flutter, saw a whisper of movement. I glanced over to see the door to an outbuilding had come open during the night–or perhaps been left open after all our yard work yesterday.

Looking in, I saw a small bird fluttering up and down, trying to escape through the window–though the open door was just as close. I stepped inside and slowly walked over to the window. As I neared, I reached my hands to the window sill, where the bird was now huddled, to pick it up. I placed my hands about it–felt the scrabble of feet, the quick flutter of wings, the insubstantial weight of flight. It quickly stilled within my cupped hands, and I murmured reassuringly, It’s okay. Why, you’re a sweet little white throated sparrow, aren’t you? You’re such a tiny one! Let’s get you out of here now.

Keeping up my inane crooning, I stepped outside the building and slowly opened my hands. The bird, after the slightest of hesitations, flew directly to the birch tree to perch. My spirits lifted with its flight. It really was okay! A red-bellied woodpecker sang out jubilantly from a nearby tree, calling again and again. I watched my breath cloud in the chilly air, tuned in to bright day around me, to the gradual greening, the myriad bird calls. I watched the small sparrow rub its beak against the birch bark.

Then there was a sudden crash and clamor from the brush in the side yard, and I looked over to see a flurry of movement. Deer! My pleasure at seeing them wasn’t enitrely unadultered, as I’d already taken note of some decimated tulips under the apple tree. Still, I couldn’t fail to mostly delight in their presence. They stopped just over the ridge toward the neighbor’s yard, and I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. One looked steadily through the branches at me for long minutes. Then another. Then, in a sudden silent coordinated moment, they took off, loping away–all elegant limbs and tawny pelts, flashing white tail flags as they left.

I turned to walk back inside and return to my coffee. A white throated sparrow called over and over again. The clouds still dotted brilliant blue skies.

Ah, what a lovely way to start the morning.