For me, one of the most salient features about Virginia Wolf’s “To the Lighthouse,” involves completion. The Ramseys never get there, FYI.

Which explains why this is such a wonderful day. As Jane and I were getting up, preparing for a Monday without scheduled events or responsibilities, various ideas were bandied about. Principal among them, driving to Half Moon Bay. Why? From this introvert’s perspective, a drive, some highway exposure to nature, has a way of getting me out of myself. Seeing the big picture, vis-à-vis the Pacific Ocean. Which led us into a discussion of other things. That is to say, matters relational. And by the time we were done with that, actually the idea of staying home and enjoying each other’s company was beginning to sound better. In fact, it predominated. And for this, let us give praise. Let us be thankful that we have each other. That we have the capacity to grow with each other. And then we have another Monday, not a limitless resource, to enjoy.

Besides, life is full of surprises. Even at Canyon Market. Jane sent me there in search of farro. What is farro? Not the Egyptian guy of “let my people go,“ but a grain. Who knew? Well, I sort of knew, but by the end of this shopping expedition, I had learned that it is the first wheat. And presumably there is, or was, a second. But we don’t need to know that. Ancient grains will do. Meanwhile, our small upscale market seems to be part of my extended family. Carlos, recently transferred from produce to meat, told me that this has been a real promotion. He is learning a lot. Go, Carlos. Quinn is planning another trip. Maybe Ireland. And there’s always Vietnam. I wished him well.

Next? Bello Coffee, of course. Once I had ordered my cappuccino, the next step was to get to a table. This involved some maneuvering. And this required some movement from a table of three, no one quite understanding what my intention was. Each stood up and moved a chair. Always in the wrong direction. Still, I persevered, and noting that they were speaking French, observed in my lame way “je suis désolé.” Which they either ignored, or didn’t hear, my French being so appalling. 

Never mind. I had my coffee, had my table, and all was well. Until the coffee tumbled from my hands. I find this extremely embarrassing. But the neuromuscular facts of life require that I consciously remember to hold things. The feeling in my left hand, dwindling like everything else over neurological time, isn’t good enough to tell me how good my grip is. So, the general advice to “get a grip” is excellent in my case. If you see me at Bello, go right ahead and say it.

But unfortunately on this particular day, my coffee cup went tumbling. Fortunately, being of the cardboard variety, it didn’t break. But it did land with an embarrassing smack, the remaining cappuccino flooding the concrete floor. Which is where the guy from the French table appeared, clutching a wad of napkins, and going about the task of cleaning up my mess. Now I said it loud and clear, that I was in fact désolé. I even added that the cardboard cup, now drained of coffee was destined for la poubelle. Now he heard. We were speaking the same language. My version pathetic, but somehow this didn’t matter. I even joined them for a minute. I talked about the death of my cousin Bob in le Vésinet à l’ouest de Paris. And for a moment it didn’t matter about the coffee or the disability or the limitations of life. Besides, I had a wife who was making some remarkably healthy thing out of a lost grain. So, I rolled homeward up the hill feeling that I wasn’t lost, in fact was gradually, eternally finding my way.