There is something about a pile or two of unread books that is comforting, like having a month’s supply of two pairs of special socks for Sunday through Saturday, the drawer overflowing, its own sign of abundance. Such piles speak to curiosity and inspiration and (I wish) long afternoons of enough sun and shade next to a large body of water, towel spread, water jug at hand, inquisitive gray gull just out of reach wondering if maybe there’s a french fry forthcoming.  It has been over a year since I have been to the seaside, walked at tide’s edge, smelled the salt, felt the wind, heard the crash or susurration of waves running up to tickle my toes, me prancing backwards like a plover, but too slow to miss getting wet.

Terry Tempest Williams says “We are animal.  We are earth.  We are water.”  I am drying out – the moon’s pull easing away and leaving me adrift in a vast universe – too close to lost for any comfort, even from socks, and so books anchor this drifting vessel to something more tactile than dreams, tell me I am not alone even though that’s the way it feels.  And I don’t even have to begin at the beginning.