 I propose a realignment of the seasons. Why do we celebrate “midsummer” on June 21, the day we designate as the FIRST DAY of summer? Isn’t December too late for fall to be sticking around? Wouldn’t it be more sensible (and hopeful) if Groundhog Day really was the threshold of spring? By August 7, daylight is visibly leaking away from the evenings. Birds are fledged; crickets are in full chorus; harvest time is burgeoning. The feel of autumn and school and a retreat from summertime’s life explosions permeates the atmosphere. It’s time for change. I propose our solstices mark mid-winter and mid-summer, and the equinoxes mark mid-spring and mid-fall. Doesn’t it make sense for the pivotal light shifts to fall in the heart of each season? Let’s move seasonal turnovers back by about six weeks: Winter: Nov 7-Feb 7 Spring: Feb 7-May7 Summer: May 7-Aug7 Fall: Aug 7-Nov 7 Thoughts? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 346: 150 words, TOTAL = 57,020; 2,980 remaining
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 Kate has had me up a lot since the wee hours, pacing, panting, snuffling at the door, needing to go out, restless. I laid her down, rubbed her head and ears, scratched her belly, massaged her paws. I told her what a good, devoted dog she’s been, and that I’ll be okay without her. A part of me wishes she would die quietly in her sleep. I guess everyone wishes that. Death is rarely so accommodating. I tried to go back to bed, but now I’m restless too. So I got up, drawn by the early light of pre-dawn, a gentle wash of waves, cool air. A lobster boat, running lights on, chugged its noisy way out to sea for a day’s work. You can’t see it in the photo, but a parade of twinkling headlights shone from the shoulder of Cadillac Mountain across the way, tourists winding up the access road to catch the first U.S.A. glimpse of the rising sun. I appreciate this quiet before the world fully wakens, a good time to be with my swirling thoughts. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 345: 152 words, TOTAL = 56,870; 3,130 remaining  Lest I leave you with the impression that island life is all spongy moss and sparkling sea, aromatic evergreens and tantalizing tidepools, here’s a reminder that the laws of survival are as merciless out here as any place. A seal carcass recently washed ashore into a nearby cove. Years ago, another cove housed a deer’s body, insides leaking out, legs a-tangle in seaweed and rope. The smell of rot accompanies bay and balsam. Fish are daily victims of cormorants and loons who dive, bob to surface, and flip the flapping fins into their gullets. Osprey pounce with greater splash, talons down, rising to the sky with wriggling fish, wrested breathlessly from their world. Gulls leave less gruesome remains – the shells of mussels and urchins, the legs of crabs, strewn carelessly along rooted, woodsy paths. And unlucky gulls, in their turn, end up as owl’s prey. Nothing left but feathers to attest to the violent scene that ended their flash of life here on earth and sea. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 344: 166 words, TOTAL = 56,718; 3,282 remaining  Two of our kids gave us a unique gift some number of Christmases ago, a tide clock made of polished stone. It took us a year or more to get the clock to the island, then another year or more to finally set it in motion. It’s supposed to be activated (battery goes in) at high tide during a full moon. We’re not here often enough to have arranged that particular lineup of elements sooner, that magic spell of ingredients that sound like they could summon up the dead or awaken werewolves.
It was a werewolfy night last night – brilliant full moon over a restless sea. Jonathan and I ventured out to Black Rock and sat on the still sun-warm ledge to take in the view of the weirdly illuminated night sky. The full moon exerts forces on us. I feel them, though I can’t clearly define them. Summer air, moonlight, the rush and retreat of waves over cobbled shores…a stirring potion of magic and mystery. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 343: 166 words, TOTAL = 56,552; 3,448 remaining  I cherish a foggy morning. After these glorious days of bright sun and dry air, the fog’s cool embrace offers welcome respite – mystery, solitude, escape from view. It’s a changed world, cool, yet still comfortable in shirtsleeves, quiet, muffled by surrounding clouds of minute droplets. Cereal boxes and the pages of books squish submissively under the fingers, softened by the damp air. Spider tents linger longer into the dimness of day, glistening with beads of moisture. Tall grasses wash the feet and legs. Thirsty skin drinks in the mist-laden atmosphere, a spa treatment after all that burn of sunshine. I wouldn’t want to be trapped here forever, but it’s a nice place to hide for a while. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 342: 151 words, TOTAL = 56,386; 3,614 remaining  I’m uncomfortably aware of our imminent departure from Sutton, just a few days from now. It takes a while to settle into island rhythm, and it seems I always find it right around the time I have to leave. I suppose that’s a cause-effect relationship. I remember when it came time to move away from Rochester, NY after our eight-year residence, much of which I squandered with one eye over my shoulder, looking to our eventual return to familiar northeastern territory. Once our departure was on the calendar, I began to notice what I was leaving behind. So many aspects of life in Rochester were lovely, but I didn’t register them when I saw them as temporary obstacles to something else. What poignant wisdom Thornton Wilder’s Emily speaks in Our Town – “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it – every, every minute?” Got to keep trying. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 341: 149 words, TOTAL = 56,235; 3,765 remaining  The last time we ate at the Islesford Dock Restaurant on Little Cranberry Island was about 35 years ago. I remember it as a classic lobster shack with seafood fry baskets and whole lobster meals served on red and white checked oilcloth-covered picnic tables. Over time it was closed, reopened, then exquisitely re-imagined. Yesterday evening, generous friends with a boat provided transport for a re-visit. The weathered, wood-clapboard buildings, old-timey fishermen’s pier, remote island simplicity, burgers and fries, and fresh lobster offerings remain, but additional cuisine rivals any five-star venue in Bar Harbor or Portland. Fresh steamers, local oysters, seafood carbonara, lobster burrata salad, spicy tuna salad with pineapple dressing, halibut with lemon, capers, and beurre blanc... My mouth waters just remembering. And the cocktail menu! Of course, the perfection of a summer evening on the water – clear air, sparkling, low-angled sunlight, soft breeze on bare skin, excellent company – that part only comes together by serendipity, once in a blue moon, when everything falls into place and you do your best to immerse in the deliciousness of present-time. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 340: 178 words, TOTAL = 56,086; 3,914 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs. Archives
June 2026
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