It started off overcast and gray, spitting a bit of rain, and blowing a rather cruel wind through my flimsy spring shirt. The season was late in coming to Ogunquit too, but rain or shine it was impossible not to let the town work its magic. Sometimes it worked faster than others, such as the morning we walked the Marginal Way.

On days of gray, there is a different kind of beauty at work, one in which texture and shadow become key, where the subtle palette of moss and lichens reveals its myriad complexities. The gradations, while softer, are just as richly varied if one takes the time to adjust and fine-tune our perception.

It’s a matter of perspective, of shifting the way you expect things to be. This is not an altogether unwelcome task, as it encourages a new way of appreciating the world.

So much joy is based upon that, and we should always be open to the opportunity for more joy.

While crested waves cap an undulating body of somber aquamarine, under-saturated in color but infinitely interesting in form and shape, the eye roams over what would often be lost or thrown away as a less-than-perfect day. When visiting, however, there can be no such things as a wasted day, and so we walked on, the promise of an early lunch in Perkins Cove leading us forward and around the final bend.

For some reason, we never spend much time in Perkins Cove. We pause there at the end of the Marginal Way, we cross through to get to the Ogunquit Museum, or we have an early lunch in lieu of a late breakfast – but in and of itself the Cove has never been a designated destination.

Sometimes, as on this day, we take it in and inhabit the moment, as I devour a plate of oysters and a trio of fish tacos at MC Perkins.

As we ingested our meal, the entire day transformed itself. The clouds had blown far off-shore, the sun had come out, and the skies were revealed in their truest, bluest form.

The ocean lit up as if from within – every imaginable shade of blue and green and absolutely everything in-between. Against the shore, the lime green freshness of the first flush of spring foliage – tender and shiny and new – was the brightest it would be all year.

It was a fleeting moment, a special time. Most of us don’t realize that as it’s happening. We don’t think of the fact that this is the only time of the year that it will be like this. In a way, every day and every moment could be seen as such. It wasn’t something I thought about much, and outside of occasionally contemplative moments like this, I still don’t. Not enough as I should, anyway.

The way back along the Marginal Way always seems shorter and quicker to traverse. In the sun, it also seems more vibrant and alive. The difference is profound, and the time for subtle quietude is broken by the pounding surf of the incoming tide.

Only a few tiny flowers, sheltered in a shaded nook and protected from the wind, convey the soft way the morning began. These flowers are so little they go unnoticed by most passers-by, and I have kept their location secret so that they remain so.

Amid the shouts of excited children and reprimanding adults, in the sharp gusts of wind and the sparkling flickers of sun on the sea, only pockets of peace exist now. We walk through it all, slowing at the end, which is really the beginning, where it is warm and spring-like at last.

In this strange notebook, it is not quite clear where one should begin writing. The last page looks exactly the same as the first, and what’s in between is so empty, so vast, it is daunting at best and prohibitive at worst. Such emptiness can instill a fright so absolute that it has felled many more talented than me – and quite frankly that just means I have stupid, foolhardy, careless and crazy resilience. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. On this day, it has broken the blank page, as I sit in a piano bar in Ogunquit.

My writing, a somewhat anti-social activity that I will eventually put down in favor of conversation with a few new friends, is accompanied by the singing of a growing group of gentlemen and a few ladies, who gather around the piano and regale each other with Broadway classics and standard chestnuts that withstand the test of time. They sing of love and romance, of loss and grief, of times long gone and times yet to come.

I write in this simple notebook, and it suddenly strikes me as old-fashioned – because no one seems to write by hand anymore. People don’t even use full words, much less full sentences. It’s all acronyms and abbreviations, but I pine for the completeness of a phrase and a sentence, or the simple glory of a complete word, spelled out in its entirety, sprawling across the page, unfettered by character-limits or miniscule text screens.

My lament is interrupted by the growing crowd. In a few minutes, the spaced has filled up, and suddenly every table is full. People angle and vie for the next available spot in jovial spurts of polite anticipation. I put this notebook away and engage with those around me. There are too many ways of distancing ourselves from each other. Usually it’s on a smart phone, hunched over, head down, and oblivious to the world. I don’t like that. I want to lift my head to the lilacs, inhale the richness of the spring around us, or simply say hello to a friendly stranger.

Here, in Ogunquit, I tend to put the phone down. I return to pen and paper, or I simply take it all in. There is too much to experience – the sights, the sounds, the food – and every sense should be poised to take it all in.

Too often I find myself dulling my appreciation of these things by scrolling through my FaceBook feed or Tweeting out some nonsense while the world spins so gorgeously around me. In Maine, I get back to the real world, and its accompanying simplicity and joy.

As I walk back to the guest house, I take my time and examine all the flowers along the way. In the past, I used plants as guideposts, recalling where I needed to turn with a sweet stretch of honeysuckle or the fading leaves of a daffodil patch.

Lining the path to our home-away-from-home is a hedge of lilacs. They make a fine marker, their fragrance written in the sky.

It’s one of the few places on earth where I don’t feel any pressure to dress to impress.

That doesn’t mean I don’t get dolled up for a fancy dinner now and then, but it does mean I don’t often feel the need.

Unless you dress like I do, you can’t know what a relief that is.

One of the best parts of this year’s trip to Ogunquit was the opportunity to see friends from all around the world. This weekend we were lucky enough to have Eileen and Raf (from Toronto) and Eric and Lonnie as our dinner companions. Though we cherish our time alone (and it sometimes seems that Ogunquit is one of the only places that affords such intimacy) Andy and I most certainly enjoy the friends we’ve made in that Beautiful Place By the Sea, and sometimes only those who love Ogunquit as much as we do understand what that’s like.

It’s wonderful when such a happy place is inhabited by such great people ~ people who have become like family from a far-away home.