I had the delight of a very quiet shabbos evening, and the arrival, today, of two old friends from the East Coast who have been camping for weeks, hauling their tiny teardrop trailer behind their pickup.
For someone who moved around as much as I did all throughout my childhood and early adulthood---until we came to Boulder, in fact---it is a wonder and a grace to visit with a friend who has known me for forty-four years. We have seen each other through our marriages, through developments and changes of profession, through the deaths of our parents. We ate, visited, hiked, rested, ate, walked, visited some more. Tomorrow, we share breakfast, then they pack up and take off, the little teardrop behind the pickup truck. Strange that even the magnificent photos they shared of the Rio Grande, Canyon lands, Anasazi dwellings, cliffs, petroglyphs do not waken in me an urge to travel to see them myself. I am extremely happy to visit with my friends, and delighted at their delight in their travels. And I, who once wandered footloose in my VW camper van with a change of clothes, sketchpad and guitar, who lived in so many places, am fiercely content to stay home, here in this house still so full of my beloved. I skipped an annual conference of storytellers today to visit with these friends whom I rarely see, and feel content with the trade. People who have known us through all our changes are a rare treasure.
Tomorrow morning they resume travel, and I resume the weekday work (which, in my case, means making sure I have truly memorized all the verses to the song I will sing for the upcoming benefit concert, among other things.)
I wish us all a fruitful week ahead.