At five o’clock Pacific time in San Rafael, California, empowered with a replacement rental car the steering of which I do not have to fight, I set out for Sausalito.  I had nothing to commend me to the Universe but a vague connection with angels and a memory that my friend Cheri Cole Simpkins had once recommended a restaurant on the Bay.  I messaged her on Facebook, got the name, and Googled my way to a hostess who assured me that yes, they welcomed parties of one.  I stifled my suspicion and started south.

On the way, I received several messages — friends in Kansas City; a newly found kindred soul in San Francisco, and even my son.  I knew that some force beyond my comprehension must be at work, but whether it be angels, a Divine entity, or my own intuition, I could not say.  In due course, down Highway 101, this vegetarian sat at a table with a view at Scoma’s Sausalito, put aside her squeamishness, and ordered Lobster Risotto.  Expense be damned:  I even troubled the waiter for a Sonoma County Chardonnay, thinking of Ellen Cox, wondering if she would approve the pairing.

I ordered in quiet tones but still attracted the attention of the woman at the table closer to the window.  I had noticed her, of course.  How could I not?  A radiant smile; a gentle bearing; the lilt of her accent.  The south, I thought to myself, memories of Arkansas, and Carla, and Molly, and their daughter Kori springing to mind.  I saw the woman touch her partner’s hand with the lightest of motions.  His answering smile radiated love, and passion, and tenderness.

The maitre d’ stopped, several times; and I thanked him for his attention.  I checked into the place from Facebook, noting its gracious atmosphere, its acceptance of a single woman diner, and the virtues of the food — though the word of a vegetarian eating seafood might lack credibility.  I added the cost of the meal to my growing budget over-run but deemed it beyond worth.  My hand wandered to the soreness in my calf, where I knew a large bruise grew from the doctor’s assault with his  probing needle and deadly poison.  He increased the Botox this time, since my challenging spasticity did not respond to the measured dose of the first two sessions.  All with the goal of keeping you walking, young lady, said he, then talked to me of his medical mission to China while I struggled with the tears that had risen in my eyes.

Hours later, over Caprese salad and the lobster, I reflected on his twinkle; and his disingenuous false modesty; and the slight frown he wore when he did not realize that I had my eyes trained on his face.  I had seen the involuntary shake of his head as multiple machines recorded the throb of my muscle.  I asked, What is it? and he acknowledged what I suspected:  Hear that?  It should be silent.  It should be silent.  The room echoed with the throb of my misbehaving legs.  He patted my knee — the fake one; but he had forgotten.  I let it pass.

Night fell over the Bay as I sipped coffee, and I realized that I should be heading back to my snug little Air B-n-B in San Rafael.  I signaled for the check, but the waiter shrugged.  It’s taken care of, he told me, and I gasped.   He gestured to the couple who gazed over the ocean, his protective arm encircling her body, ash-blonde hair trailing down her back and grazing his shoulder.  I stood, then, to thank them, and met two of the sweetest souls ever to migrate northward from Alabama.  At least, she hailed from the south; as for him, he mostly smiled, and let his lovely Tara tell me their story, and then the two of them promised to pray for the steadiness of my doctor’s hands as they care for me on Monday.

Wondrous, and mysterious, indeed, the ways of the angels and the Spirit which guides them.

It’s the ninth day of the thirty-third month of My [Endless] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues, and it carries me with it.