To the lighthouse

...there is a coherence in things, a stability; something… is immune from change, and shines out … in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby…
~Virginia Woolf

I’m not sure what was so nice about the day – it was not extraordinary in any obvious way.

We went for a drive to see the fall foliage, an endeavor that mocked us with every passing mile since the leaves along New England’s coastline have stubbornly refused to change their hue, as is – don’t you agree? - their autumnal obligation.

So we improvised and drove along York Beach, where surfers braved the cold, cold water:

And made our way to Nubble light:

I climbed down our rocky perch to watch the waves crash against the shoreline – a pastime of which I never tire. I spied some seagulls who may have been looking for food, but I like to think they were just enjoying the view.

I climbed back and watched Tim playing with the baby. He would scoop her up and blow on her belly or swing her around his shoulders, and she would giggle and wiggle her way out of his arms, running away while laughing and squealing until he caught her again and the sequence repeated.

They were moments that escaped transience – time ceased being linear as I watched my daughter running, giggling, playing, trying with all her might to reach a rain puddle to splash in before being caught by her daddy.

My heart hurt a little.

Once we were thoroughly chilled, we went to one of our favorite diners, replete with old-timer Mainers. We chatted with the locals and ate blueberry pie, made with tiny, fresh Maine blueberries. Really, the only blueberries worth eating – they are so sweet and flavorful it’s a little shocking when you take a bite.

While we were waiting for our clam chowder and pie, the baby wanted Tim to draw a picture of “Mama,” so he obliged with this flattering work of art – note my eyebrows (Tim thought he was soooo funny):

On the way home, I turned on a CD with baby songs. Tim really loves those CDs:

Family. Isn't it about... time?

Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that endures.
~Virginia Woolf