We had a little dinner party last night. Old friends who moved away to Virginia are back for a visit. Also here was another set of friends from L.A. who came out on a Monday despite their demanding jobs. And my oldest L.A. friends who are now traveling around the country in their travel trailer in between his chemotherapy. And a friend from Ojai drove here directly from visiting her parents in Las Vegas.
Two in attendance have lung cancer. One had her hand in a brace from some sort of injury. One forgot to take his diabetes meds. Two of us are grieving the loss of the men we loved (not even counting my mom in this--at 90; she's grieving practically everyone.) Everything was glorious. No one turned the water into wine. No one jumped off the boat dock and walked on water. Yet I had this feeling all night that I was in the presence of the miraculous. At the end of the evening as I escorted people out the door, my rose bushes gleamed under the street lights, and every single one of us seemed filled with the same white light.
An hour or so later my friends from Virginia and I sat on the couch in my living room talking and looking out at the night. "Oh, oh," my friend Sandy said, "I just saw a shooting star." I wanted to tell her to wish on it. To wish for this very same night a year from now. But I said nothing. If I opened my mouth I knew I'd burst into tears or laughter or maybe even hot white flames. I held all those feelings in, hoping.
|Enchilada pie, broccoli salad, green salad with garlic sautéed shitake mushrooms, assorted fruit|
|Flan!!!!! There were actually two kinds of flan. One made with brown sugar, one with maple syrup.|