“How is it in the world with you,” he asked in small-talk jest. “Hope it’s kind and not instructive.” I laughed and told him truly, “If the world were kind, would I be here?” adjusting words to fit what was?” “Would I rather sail to Barcelona, or ride a bike along the coast, a day or two to south Laguna, “or live again the day that dawned solution for a counour, pulled by raucous points, “or be hiking like John Muir, cold along Sierra’s crest, noticing a house fly at thirteen thousand feet, “or digging ‘taters in the dirt from where I planted eyes last spring, then weeded, watered, waited? “Of course I’d rather do those things when future world was kind and offered few adversities, had little to instruct.”