A minor miracle: I arrived safely while holding the speed limit as the motorcycle, the Tesla, and the SUV drove over and above. Or – as I heard on the New Yorker radio hour en route - it is the miracle of two - young then but older now - Black men wrongfully accused of a murder in the 80s. One was only 16 and the other in his early 20s. So much promise and then the corrupt and unfair justice system failed them. Finally years later they had served their horrendous sentences and were home free… or so it seemed. But not quite, as they were still being called “guilty. “

What is it about setting the table? I have no childhood memories of my mother setting the table or that we kids were given the chore. Perhaps for me it dates back to the shutdown and to having my life shut down in so many ways. But at least I could count on the meals and the cooking and the setting and the sitting at the table. Was it then that Robert and I took the places we still occupy each evening we are home to sit, arranging ourselves habitually. I have a view to the garden. The one he rarely goes out to unless throwing a ball for Asher, down the breezeway with not much glance to my pots of perennials or the blooms on the Hellebores or the lemon tree which refuses to lemon or even to the wall of Jasmine he helped to create. His place is in view of the kitchen and Asher’s bed so he can note if the dog is napping or chewing on the soft corners.

My brain is buzzing. Can I even hold in the same breath my friend’s multiple myeloma and my son’s engagement? I am zigzagging among the weeds or the bulrushes or the fields of bright dahlias. I wish the field of multi colored blooms was still available in Pescadero. The field of many years ago. Pick your own. Create a bouquet. Pay as you leave. Take your time. Dive right in and wander.

I have verification. Barbra Streisand was a patient of my father’s. His dual practice In cardiology and internal medicine in Beverly Hills included a number of Hollywood types. Steve McQueen – a story for a different day - Groucho Marx and company – again for another day – and Richard Crenna. Remember The Real McCoys? Someone once referred to my Dad as , “doctor to the stars.” But my father was very understated. He wasn’t in awe of those who often had such troubled and unhappy personal lives. We, my siblings and I, were hardly aware of those he ministered to

The door locks were frozen on the driver’s side of my grey BMW. The 2002 model my parents had bought for me, years earlier. I was living in Greeley, Colorado with the husband I would later wonder why I had married even when voices inside expressed my mixed feelings from the moment he proposed. Seeking security and some separation from my family, I agreed to the marriage and the move to this cold piece of landscape in the flatlands of Colorado.

War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things…a poster from 1966. To protest the Vietnam War. I was in high school and it all seemed so very far away. Israel seemed closer. I still can’t sort the history though a Mezuzah graces my front door, and I wear the small, gold one my parents gave me whenever I travel. A talisman to keep me safe.

You could say that rescue dogs, the ones of various or unknown breeds, are like mixed drinks. Like the ones I served years ago to the mixed breed of customers, often men, who appeared in my station at the Coffee Cantata on Union Street. Long before I even knew of any such dogs entangled from birth

Tact is overrated. It is a fine line…this business of choosing ones’ words carefully or just blurting it out. Is it possible to forge a path between the two? A gentle, sloping path through the morass of words and feelings and opinions. Driving over the bridge today I was almost mesmerized, but not dangerously so, while listening to an interview of Robert Kennedy, the son of the first and the nephew of Jackie’s husband. He was being questioned by David Remnick of the New Yorker. Robert Jr has a rough, hoarse voice as if he is ill or the victim of years of cigarettes. I am not sure which or even if.

I don’t want to think about a train wreck. Sometimes it is a euphemism for a collision of ideas. Or some crazy life situation that backfired, overturned, rolled and landed in a heap of emotional wreckage.

Travel changes the texture of your life. The texture of my life has sometimes been smooth, silky, soft. A slip which is barely felt or the nightgown I wore on my honeymoon. It was made of crème silk with an abstract print. A loose watercolor of pale pink flowers. Roses maybe. At other times the texture is one I can hardly tolerate. Almost repulsive, but not quite. I can’t remove the scratchy wool or smooth the nubbiness which refuses to lie flat. Lots of earth colors which are often my favorite but when hot, heavy and oppressive, I want only to shed them. And there is everything in between. Years of dance and travel, relationships with a full texture of men and the birth of my precious son. Birth and death, divorce and reconciliation. The textures continue to vary and my emotions reflect this constant change of wardrobe.