The call of the novel can’t compete with May

I got up Sunday thinking that I’d work on my novel before our niece’s late afternoon wedding. But we were in a nice hotel in downtown Orlando and the day seemed ripe for exploring.

We walked a few blocks to Lake Eola on a glorious sunny day, the kind you treasure before the heat descends. A soft breeze blew over the column of young men walking in step for charity. My sister-in-law’s jeweled sandals clack-clacked over the path as we circled the lake.

Dogs and their humans massed in one patch of grass, enjoying a tail-wagging gabfest. A white swan guarded her nest of five large eggs, her sharp eyes daring anyone to step closer. A black cormorant flapped its wings, drying and posing ironically on a silver sculpture of birds. A claque of turtles gathered on a rock at water’s edge, piling on top of each other in a reptilian conclave. Humans, all sizes, shapes and ages, lingered in a Sunday kind of slowness, seeming as happy as we were.

Bliss. After a long, cold winter, the symphony of nature was tuning up for its best performance of the season – the critically acclaimed month of May. To waste a day like Sunday inside, hunched over a computer, would be wasting life itself. For what is life without taking time to savor its beautiful moments?