|Bedroom of white-tailed deer|
|Playground of Carolina chickadee|
|Trunk of downy woodpecker|
|Glimpse of marsh|
|Sky of red-tailed hawk|
|Silhouette of Palm|
|Hang of Spanish moss|
|Here a moss, there a moss, everywhere a moss moss|
|Deck of bluejay|
It's my daily walk on Fripp Island from the sleeping house to the writing house, and it reminds me how lucky I am to have such good and generous friends. Sheila and Barbara and I are sharing a house on the island for the month of January—Sheila to work on photography, watercolor, and the spiritual art of being, maybe even a bit of poetry (SHE should be a blogger—you should see her stuff—but she'll not be talked into it)—I to coax the 9th draft out of the 8th—and Barbara to read and cook, yes, cook. I'm not talking the kind of cooking I do. I'm talking the ART of cooking—the spiritual pleasure of food and wine.
|One foggy morning|
|Chef Extraordinaire Barbara|
|The Spirit of Sheila|
As if that's not enough, I am the daytime guest in the vacation home of my good walking yaya, Peggy, whom you've met before. Peggy and her husband Bill are salt of the earth kind of people, the kind who make the world a better place to be. Peggy and I have walked together since before our babies were born. It's the sort of friendship that enriches life in ways you don't see coming until you discover you have a history of 30-plus years of sharing each other's good and bad times. Then. Then you know.
And when the sun goes down beyond the marsh, I walk again that deep-breathing mile, through the dusk and deer who have come out to feed, away from the blaze of sunset, back to the reading and eating and sleeping house, there to discover what fine food and wine we will share at the table. Last night it was poached flounder, arugula and radish salad, and this wine.