The luxury of old friends

My jet lag has given me the dubious pleasure of witnessing the black-fades-to-gray Minnesota winter sunrise this morning. All the better to blog to you, my dearies.

I'm home, luxuriating in the presence of friends and family (hell, even warm bodies) and snuggling up to the old-but-never-forgotten comforts of well-worn literary friends. Next to the dry, dull ache of being alone, I miss my books more than anything: and here they are, lined up on the shelves in my father's spare bedroom mother's bookshelves grandma's basement. The history of my ideas and passions. The friends who have formed and shaped and directed me almost as much as the flesh-and-blood ones. The soulmates who have introduced me gently to the wonders and paradoxes of other cultures other places other times other rules.

It is a small but very, very needed respite from what has become a frugal existence: the luxuries of human and literary companionship have become, over there, something to hoard in anticipation of drought or flood, to ration carefully and cover protectively with my arms over my chest. But here is immense luxury. Here my bookshelves and my social calendar and my heart are full to bursting. Do you remember that undulating sea of colorful plastic balls that you could dive into and fill your arms with colorful beauty and emerge triumphantly sending your armful heavenward? Here I am, arms full, filling the skies with my rainbows. And the blessings come raining back down on me from every direction.