The psychological space in which lists seem to matter. Cool honey in the middle of summer. Mushrooms sliced and fried in butter, later salted and tossed with red peppers. Tea counteracts some but not all the effects of a hangover. Her son died, which made idle conversation impossible. We swam in the river at dusk and later observed what we both agreed might possibly have been an angel. Dogs wait, it's what they have in common with certain types of people. Jesus must you always be an enigma? There is as always a light by your shoulder. Shiva did it, which explains a lot. Where two roads met – and a great deal of summer greenery seemed to contain all that could be said of the human condition – a wheel turned, dropping silver tendrils of water into a cresting, otherwise irrelevant river. Blue herons taking flight where the road turns. Hunger was another theme, one we took up rarely. You want my advice? You wake up and you walk if you can and when you get back you make coffee. Stop saying you want a new religion. Try this: there is no such thing as a mistake. The deer - which signified treasure, which signified imagination - was standing at the side of the road, waiting to cross into shadows. Wild blueberries for those who care. Because that's when you're most comfortable with the necessary invitation, that's why.