As I make my slow pilgrimage through the world,
a certain sense of beautiful mystery
seems to gather and grow.
- A.C. Benson
I went out to the garden, picked basil, and came in and made pesto last night.
It was a hot, tiring week in Houston. I was sent there Sunday for a 4-day conference in a giant glass building with fast elevators. The pace was all wrong- too fast and frantic, then boring and blah. The hotel (didn't I used to enjoy them?) was impersonal and loud. The presentations were slick but slow. The traffic set me on edge. I felt out of place all week, and when I got in the rental car to make the drive home, I nearly cried out with relief.
I got home, went out to the garden, picked basil, and made pesto. Then I smeared it over chicken, potatoes, peppers... whatever, didn't matter... and set the table. Then I lit candles and opened a bottle of wine and opened the door for Josh and filled our plates and everything was okay again.
Pilgrimages around the world are great, but I like them slow with gathered and grown dinners and flickering candles at the end.
Beautiful mystery optional.