One time, a few years ago, I went to this awful lecture with friends called “Finding Joy In March In Maine.” Sounds good, right? It wasn’t.
It was terrible and kind of depressing actually and laced with inaccuracies and near heresies. So, my friend leaned forward and whispered “Check your phone” into my ear. She had sent me a text that read, “If you want to get out of here as much as we do, pretend this is an emergency text and make for the door. We’ll follow.”
And so we got the heck out of dodge. Found ourselves a table at a pub. Ate nachos and drank beer and found our joy in March in Maine the way real people do.
This year I didn’t have trouble finding joy in March in Maine. Yes, the weather can be dreary. And it is also true that the divorce was final this month, which came with its own set of feels that had to be dealt with or resolved at the bottom of a tub of ice cream. (Dairy-free, of course, because still healing my gut…)
But also there was grace. And laughter. And children who got muddy and into scrapes. And friends who pressed in. And true love. And cuddles. And warmer temps.