One thing is a perpetual internal issue for me. I never have anyone around to talk to about the real things of life, the issues that touch my heart and have meaning for me. I had that in Phoenix with my roommate Steve, but I didn’t realize the value until I didn’t have it. And the truth is through most of my life I have not had people around me with whom I have been able to communicate about the deep things that matter to me. I just move around too much. My many true friends are scattered all over, so we have to rely on the telephone and e-mail. It’s really no substitute for true heart to heart, eyeball to eyeball, sharing.

The people that I relate to regularly never seem to have the slightest interest in my ideas or what I am writing. That means I am always interacting in a mind-world that is not mine. I get no stimulation or feedback to contribute to my “philosophy.” It also means when I am with others I am constantly dragged away from my interests to deal with worldly matters that are of no particular appeal to me. This does not mean I don’t love being helpful to my friends and family, for I do. I always will be concerned with all of their problems. I just seem to be missing something.

However, in Houston I have some real friends from the past who definitely are sharers. Truthfully, I had thought these old friends would be happy to come out here for a weekend to take a break in a peaceful environment. As it turns out, the only thing harder than living in the city is getting out of the city. Everyone works weekdays, so their weekends are packed with errands and responsibilities.

Occasionally, my family comes out. Being able to spend time with them after so many years is certainly a benefit for being here. Again it's me being my active, not contemplative, self. Up until now, since I’m getting the house and yard in order, a lot of our time is spent on home projects. They help me with the big projects. Once when they were here, Lattie helped me dig out weeds and plant tomato and pepper plants while Michael and Billy put up the fence around the garden.

Certainly, part of the situation arises because I am not particularly inclined to talk about myself— and never have been, not even when I was your ordinary unconscious housewife. However, since my brother is providing a home for me, regularly I have made a point to mention my progress with writing or interactions with the literary agent at family gatherings. The subject is always quickly changed, as if they have no interest—or maybe they think I’m off in left field. [AM I?] I finally adjust to the fact that no one ever mentions me—neither my interests nor my writing. I wonder what they would feel if they did pause to perceive my life for a moment. I suppose my long-time friend Oswald hit it when he said, “Nancy, you don’t really think a lawyer is going to understand what kind of person you are, do you?”

Nevertheless, it always startles me when my brother and I cannot even communicate about my projects on the property. He does not like it that I had all the weeds and briars rototilled out of the back section to plant the wildflower seeds. He says that you just have to scatter seeds around and they will come up. If it’s that easy, why did he leave them in his refrigerator for five years waiting to be planted, I mentally note. He says he wants to be able to walk around his property in his boots without having to avoid seedlings. He thought the stain I used to waterproof the deck was too dark, although I used the exact product that he had specified. Then I took painstaking efforts to apply it lightly so it wouldn't have a shiny look to it. Neither did I do the garden the right. Although I placed it exactly where we discussed putting it, it was in the wrong place. Anytime he arrives, he first takes a survey and gives me a patriarchal critique of the home projects. If I have a criminal defense attorney for a landlord, what am I to expect? It's beginning to look as if I have unconsciously made a compromise for the sake of security.

However, Helen was one rare exception, someone whom I could relate and who took a moment to comprehend me. Actually, Helen is a nomad, or perhaps a troubadour, who goes from place to place counseling people. She has no home, so she carries only her clothes and a few books.

Charming and genteel, her wealth of wisdom is not just gathered from books, but from confronting and dealing with her own life. When she speaks, you get a sense that she has lived and loved, suffered and rejoiced, like everyone. Nevertheless, it is clear that she has found a deep space within where she lives peacefully while flying around the country, staying one week here, one week there.

When she and Auriel arrive, my family also is here for the weekend, so Helen has an opportunity to give freely of her wisdom to them. When they leave for the city, Helen and I are able to spend a few moments together. Also a plant lover, she is anxious to take a tour around the property to examine the local flora. We view the May apples with their tiny green fruits, the unusual native citrus that is too full of seeds, and palmetta, a small local palm tree indigenous to this area, as well as the many edible greens. She is as inspired as I am about the possibilities of seeding in mushrooms and other wild delicacies.

Then we stalk over to one shady cove of the woods, where I have found two wonderful jack-in-the-pulpits. Their flowers are not the big flashy ones that abound in Vermont, but have tiny slender sheaths. The “jack” is a thin needle that shoots up six inches above the little pulpit. Past glaciers pushed soil—with a myriad of seeds—from New England right down to Louisiana and east Texas. Because of the shady environment of the pine forest, many of the varieties were able to adapt, the most notable being a dozen varieties of terrestrial orchids, including the yellow lady slipper. I suppose that’s the origin of these jack-in-the-pulpits. Helen is excited, as she had never seen any plant like this before either.

She also takes the opportunity to find out what I am doing here and why. When I explain that I am writing about my India travels, she is quite encouraging of my project. Since I am living, working, writing, gardening, I forget that I have an important role of telling about India. That ancient world seems so far away when I am dealing with electricians, plumbers and tree cutters. She seemed to comprehend my task, for she exclaimed, “Oh yes, this is important work; you must complete it.” Such an affirmation is a true gift.