Happy post-Thanksgiving Sunday, all. It's raining here; the kind of soft, susserating rain that wakes a sleeper gently, and provides a perfect soundtrack to continued dreams. We're having a slow start here at the ranch. Dear Daughter returned, a bit unexpectedly, last night from her holiday trip to New Orleans. I was in my beloved midtown with two most excellent friends, listening to three brilliant singer-songwriters ply their craft. The venue, aptly named "Otherlands," is an independent coffee shop that's been around for about 15 years now. An oasis of peace and comfort in an already-warm and funky neighborhood, it's the perfect spot for gathering, listening and contemplating.
I ran into several people from my past last night. It was so good to see familiar faces and talk of good days from a while back. I don't want to live in the past, but it's often pleasant to pay it a little visit. While I wouldn't be 23 again for anything, I like remembering that who I was then wasn't such a bad person after all.
After picking up Dear Daughter, we went back and caught the last of the show. We were up too late, but the music and company were excellent, and it's a day for reflection. It was so good to have her with me--she regaled our table with a middle-schooler's observation of breakfast at Commander's Palace, hugged the necks of people she loved and was cheerily polite to new friends. She nestled in my arms (not an easy feat for someone only three inches shorter) and snuggled while the music played on.
Today is a day to wrap up Thanksgiving and look forward to Advent, Christmas and Epiphany. I'm sorting through laundry, books, turkey leftovers, assorted memories and burgeoning plans. I have a new book of Scarlatti arrangements. I'm making a CD for a co-worker. The sponge is set for the Swedish rye bread.
I have things to do. I have a place to be.