The Calling

Cape Cod was calling me one sub-zero morning last winter.

Or so I thought.

I’ve always loved the peaceful, beautiful beaches of Truro located on the tip of the Cape, but it’s been years since I’ve made a trip out to the coast.

I busily researched cozy cottages to rent and considered the logistics of getting there from the midwest for a short spring visit. It would make for a complicated itinerary, yet a Cape visit was still pretty tempting.

Yet something else was calling me as well.

It was the sweet simplicity and low cost of a trip to a lovely lake just an hour away. I’d been there as a child and years later with my late husband.

I found some photos of a charming little lake cottage on line and immediately booked it.

As I first walked through the door of the cottage last weekend, I knew I’d made the right decision.

It was built of stone, well over a hundred years ago, and was filled with personality and old world charm.

I saw well worn canoe paddles repurposed as book shelves next to the pictures of sail boats on the wall.

I felt the sea foam green soft throws ready to use for naps on the porch, and as lap blankets on the porch swing by the water.

And I tasted salt water taffy in the big candy jar.

Taking the steps down to the dock that evening with my camera, I smelled the promise of fresh walleye dinners also in that lake water.

I decided to sit for a while waiting for the sunset. I was hopeful the day’s heavy cloud cover would melt into a pool of warm colors just in time for sundown.

I watched what looked to be a loon swimming, then circling in the distance.

He appeared to be watching me.

About twenty minutes later, I bid adieu to the lone loon and started to climb the steps back up to the cottage.

But suddenly the loon abruptly called out to me.

I turned and finally took a picture of my sunset.

Nodding to the loon, I realized I’d found my calling after all.

The Waiting Game

I know that spring in Minnesota always comes on its own terms.

So patiently I stand firmly on shore.

Others choose to take a seat, betting on when the ice will finally go out after one particularly long winter.

90 percent of the slippery stuff needs to melt before an ‘ice out’ is deemed official.

But this morning I do sense some movement.

First inch by inch, now foot by foot, I find us clearly making some progress.

I spot a few sleepy fishermen already in the shallow bay behind me casting into the chilly waters that have recently reappeared.

I also see and hear a boat with a motor off in the distance dancing around the perimeter of the remaining massive ice block.

Perhaps the anxious captain believes that breaking the waves will help the overall ice out effort.

But I remain calm as I do know that all good things come to those who wait.

And I know for sure that I’ve been waiting a very long time.