Life has overtaken me and I have fallen away, like a piece of fruit off its branch. Falling away hasn't been for distraction. Truth told, it's been an effort born of resentment. I haven't written a thing, for the place in line that writing has been relegated to. If I can't prioritize writing, I won't write.

Until this moment, when I cut into a nectarine and the scent overcame me. Better than the stunning scented candle, Beach House by LAFCO. Better than my new perfume, Infusion d'Iris by Prada. This nectarine actually said something, recited itself in poetic form. It said: we're almost there. Summer.

With summer, everything else stops and the real thing can start again - and I mean that figuratively. When it stops for me, I return to Maine and to the writings of Mary McCarthy and EB White, the poetry of Philip Booth and, maybe this summer, Rachel Carson. To drives along miles that only stop at the water. I will think about what I'm reading in the New York Times and tell you about finds and favorites. All of this will be in an effort to rise above the concerted distraction and reach up to that highest shelf, the one where we stick our journals once we write in them (no matter how long ago that was). That shelf's where the good ideas are stacked.