I’m sitting in sunlight. The gargantuan snow pack and massive ice bergs that surrounded my country home have receded, and although piles of thoroughly objectionable quasi-processed animal digestive mementos randomly float in pockets of thin snow melt, the skies are blue. I hear bird song in the morning, and even the tempestuous ranting of the manic klepto-king is muted in this sloppy overture signaling earth’s reawakening.

I’ve got plans to sort out, finally, postponed trips to plan, places to visit, people to see, all very exciting and reminiscent of our lives in California and Oregon, treasured days of wonder, and friendship, and meaning. I do love the daily rituals in this quiet life, particularly those that remind me that my family (and our dogs) are clever, kind, and a great comfort as I fumble for words and forget what nachos are. I start to miss them even before I’ve agreed to travel. Speaking of nachos, this planning stuff is tricky enough as airports have become hellscapes and my memories of the recession of ‘78 surface unbidden. Cost of gas? Savings melting?

Yeah, there is plenty to worry about in packing up for a visit with college pals in Michigan or heading into New Hampshire with my superannuated acapella group for the annual Grill ‘N Chill in Henniker. I’ll be spending the night with people I quite like, but people who live entirely ordinary human lives. Getting back to nachos (I’ve looked them up, and they are the foodstuff I mean to reference), I don’t eat them. I don’t eat mammals. I don’t eat burgers. I don’t eat steak, or lamb chops, or ham. I don’t eat fish. I don’t eat seafood. Other people do, frequently, and frequently when welcoming visitors. 

Putting up with me is more than challenging enough without having to put up with my finicky, oddly specific dietary limitations. Without going into an even more exhaustive account of things I don’t/won/t eat (mayonnaise, salad dressing, cilantro), I’m a pill. Some of my discomfort is attached to sensory discomfort around texture or aroma, but the biggest menu kill for me is in my conviction that mammals (such as I) have a soul. I’m convinced that I am not my body, and I’m pretty sure every dog on his/her worst day is as rich in spirit as I am on my best. Remember Koko the gorilla meeting Fred Rogers? Spirit all over the place. Both of ‘em. 

“Namaste, Koko”. “Namaste, Fred”. That which is of the essential and eternal in me sees and honors that which is of the essential and eternal in you. Both of you. 

So, I’m somewhere on the non deistic pagan, druidic, eclectic animistic, spirit of the universe non-mammal-eating continuum and a pain in the butt houseguest. 

Where was I?

Oh, yes, planning for a trip to New Hampshire.

So, I pack protein bars, fruit, veggie snacks, and corn chips. 

I worry that I will be a drag and a drip at the dinner table, and I will be tempted to amp up my chat and chatter, to unearth the last moderately amusing anecdotes I’ve packed with my energy bars, to try to sparkle and impress. On a good day, however, and increasingly, I ask questions instead. I ask questions that allow me to see my friends as they have become. I ask questions about every aspect of their lives and find myself intrigued with how they’ve become the person they are.

It’s better than bacon, and worth the embarrassment of admitting how quirky I myself have become. 

Let’s see, three nights in New Hampshire? That’s six energy bars, a bag of tangerines, six apples, pretzels, and pray for pizza.