Home in Livingston tonight and so grateful, that like the Pope in his spryer days, I got off the plane and wanted to kiss the very ground. Instead, I threw myself into the arms of Wendy-the-Buddhist, who came to pick me up, and surrendered to the comfort of a good friend who was there when I arrived exhausted and brewing a viscous cold (I sound like a frog).

So now I’m on my couch, both dogs sprawled asleep beside me, the cat in my face purring in her semi-aggresive “where did you go for a week” kind of way. The house is clean because wonderful Nina sent her houscleaner here this week instead of having her clean her own house. There was a roasted chicken in the fridge, fruit in the bowl, flowers from friends, and although losing Patrick is the worst thing I can imagine, now that I’m home, I can begin to see that there may be a way through it.

Chicago was difficult in some specific ways, but there have been any number of blessings which I’ll blog about in coming days. It’s a terrible way to find out how many people love you, but on the other hand …