It was early June before my husband and I finally arrived at our log cabin in Maine where we would again spend the summer. As usual, we looked forward to the joys we knew awaited us. There would be days with children and grandchildren, visits with friends, hours on the water. Most important was the click of familiarity we recognized the moment we stepped foot on the ground. The landscape, the seascape, the blackberry bushes in front of the cabin, the views from the porch. All of it, after 40-some years, is part of our very selves.

Once we pulled off the road into our parking space, we knew what to do: find the special key hidden in an odd niche and unlock the doors, get the wheelbarrow out of its storage location to make carrying our stuff a little easier, unload the car and begin to unpack. Even Jasper the Westie knew he was in Maine, as he jumped down from his crowded place in the overfilled back seat. After a quick pee at a favorite tree, he bounded toward the kitchen door, ready for a drink and his dinner.

But even as I anticipated this annual reconnection to Maine, I knew that this year would begin a bit differently. All was not quite as it always had been. Over several long months during the past winter and spring, I had experienced some losses and some changes that had depleted my energy, dampened my spirits, and stifled my normal sense of enthusiasm. An obvious explanation was that I had finally come down with COVID late in the spring, and though my case was light, my recovery was longer than I had expected. Also, though, was the fact that we had moved — yes, several years ago by now — to a new community. It was an appropriate move, but one that required significant adjustment. Life was having its way with me, clearly, and I didn’t like it one bit.

In the early summer, I still struggled with the realities of low energy. In addition, unexpected doubts and concerns had begun to invade my psyche. I just was not myself. Would the weeks ahead at my cherished cabin offer the consolation I had yet to find elsewhere? Only time would tell.

Fortunately the next few hours went as we hoped they would. After opening up windows and doors, we pulled out the necessities from bags and boxes, picked up groceries at the local Hannaford, and made a simple supper of pesto pasta and a salad to enjoy on the porch. Our bay was quiet by then, and the pinks of the sunset behind us lent a warm glow to our east-facing sky. Last year’s candles remained handy on a nearby shelf and encouraged us to sit outside till after dark. Dishes washed and Jasper walked, we turned in early.

Things were less routine in the morning. Yes, I did my regular yoga practice. And my brother-in-law came by at 7:30, as planned, for our morning walk, his two Corgis in tow. But it took only a few minutes for me to realize that I was not yet up to the steep hills and the distance we usually covered. So, with encouragement from my husband and his brother, I mapped out an alternate route that let me go with the two of them for part of the way. We continued, with me hoping for the best in the short term and crossing my fingers that I would eventually regain my energy.

My new route had its own pleasures — a cutoff onto a trail I rarely walked, closer views of other cabins I mostly only drove by, and patches of wild blueberries where I hadn’t known they existed. Returning home to take my coffee and granola out to the porch for breakfast, I was glad for the new knowledge I had of our community. Even with pangs of regret over missing the longer walk, I consoled myself with the reminder that summer had just begun.

After breakfast, I turned again to my unpacking, looking to find the book I’d been reading, along with my notebook, pen, and pencil. My Maine basket sat ready on the floor near my desk. Filling it with a sweater, hat, and the necessities of reading and writing, I set out toward the shore to find the right place. Over the years, there have been many good choices. Sometimes I’ve gone to the float at the end of the pier to sit with my back against our old, red canoe. There, the wind can be gentle or gusty, the float easy for writing or impossible. Other times, I’ve stayed on the porch, which is more protected. Or I’ve headed to a shaded spot near the water, a stand of bayberry directly behind me. Wherever I am, though, gulls squawk overhead, lobster boats stop to pull traps, and osprey dive for fish. On this fine morning I decided to settle close to the shore on a comfortable rock.

While I read or wrote, my husband generally worked at his computer. Still happily employed, he gravitated toward mornings in the good-enough office he had set up for himself many years ago.

And so began the first day in Maine, one similar to many others over the years. I didn’t have an exact schedule, but there was a regularity to our activities that was reassuring. Plans for later in the day varied according to weather, visitors or just our whims. If it was sunny and not too windy, we took advantage and got out in a boat. Often that would be followed by a swim.

I don’t mean to portray an idyllic existence once we had resumed our usual Maine ways. As always, the unpredictable loomed. A pipe leaked, an element burned out in the water heater, a neighbor shared her health concerns or told us of a death. In a recent storm, a large tree fell nearby, grazing the porch. There were brighter and darker moments.

Even so, especially during this less settled time for me, living rustically and more quietly offered calming habits and comforting routines. And there were the practical considerations of life in a log cabin that were continually and usefully demanding. These too were essential, as I sought a return to feeling like myself.

One evening as July gave way to August, I began a project of reviewing old file folders from a drawer of my desk. In one I found a small collection of poetry I didn’t remember writing. After recognizing that this material was indeed mine, I felt a surprising sense of pleasure. I had nearly forgotten that I wrote poetry. In one of the pieces, deliberately modeled on Mary Oliver’s “Messenger,” I had composed this final stanza:

At last I am transported, returned to

My beloved Maine. I stand, feet on the rocky shore, as

The icy waters of my ocean

Bathe me, awaken my mind — give me a name.

Mary K. Otto, formerly of Norwich, lives in Shelburne, Vt. Readers may email her at maryotto13@gmail.com