There is a vine in the Outer Banks of North Carolina that refuses to be tamed. You see it everywhere — slinking up trees, coiling through bushes, creeping back into garden beds we thought we’d cleared. 

Every year we cut it to the ground. Every year it returns. We mulch over it, try to smother it. And every three or four years, we bring in the professionals to flatten the wildness in the free spaces, to gain ground back. But it always returns.

With a vengeance.

Because of this wily vine, the garden beds around our rental house need taming annually, especially before the renters arrive. It’s a ritual now. 

That morning I’d just finished spreading the last of the mulch, a small victory in the ongoing war, when I got a text:

"Live music at Duck’s Cottage. And she plays John Prine. Should I come get you?"

The responsible thing would have been to say no. The work wasn't done — it never is. But it was 65 degrees and sunny. I grabbed the purple tie-dye bucket hat I'd found abandoned on the boardwalk last week and waited for my ride.

What followed was magical.

A woman, strumming an electric guitar as if it were acoustic, tucked in a clearing of white Adirondack chairs and benches near a small lake. Birdhouses dotted the trees around us, and as we listened to the music — Bob Marley, Sierra Ferrell, and of course, John Prine — the air filled with birdsong and wings. Sparrows, wrens, starlings, ospreys, crows, and the occasional duck flew through our little scene like we were sitting in a nature documentary scored with folk tunes.

We weren't alone. There were other couples like us, weathered and worn. A younger woman with a large Kate Spade bag leaned in to kiss her female companion. A family wrangled three children under five, one of whom nearly went headfirst into the lake. A man in overalls paced the lake perimeter, trimmers in hand, moving to the rhythm of the music.

After the last song, we wandered through the shops. The highlight? A hug and chat with photographer/writer/friend Eve Turek of SeaDragon and Yellowhouse Gallery. 

Eventually, we settled in for fish tacos at the boardwalk cantina, which opens each May — a final seasonal treat before we migrate north to Pennsylvania for the summer.

I could have said no to that text. I could have stayed buried in mulch and weeds, doing the work I’ll have to do again next year. The vines will be there tomorrow. Next week. Next year.

Always.

So why not walk away for a while?

The garden will keep growing wild. 

But happiness rarely texts.