Yesterday we went to a great party out in the Sonoma hills. The guy who owns the property is a chef, and many of the guests were foodies. We roasted a pig for most of the day, drank wine and let the kids run wild with water guns. As usual the men did nearly all the cooking (yummy, for so many reasons). Roasted beet salad (two different kinds), roasted corn, white and green bean salad, then 30 different desserts.
The weather was absolutely gorgeous and the company great. About 60 people (not including the rug rats) many of whom I didn't know. It was a beautiful day.
After the party we walked the 1/2 mile back the car. Juju was exhausted, nearly asleep (read 30lbs of dead weight) and I had to carry her. As I was walking I had this random thought occur to me: If I were in the Sudan and both of our lives were dependent on my being able to carry her, how far could I go?
Not far enough or fast enough, I fear. The road was dirt and gravel and I kept slipping in my sandals. She felt so heavy. Such a sweet, heavy burden. And though fear for our lives would certainly a strong motivator to keep going, I couldn't help but think about what a weakling I am.
I realize the juxtapostion of these two thoughts is rather odd. Darfur and Sonoma. They don't have much in common. But I think this may be the work of my conscience, trying to keep me grounded and appreciative of the good things in my life, as I walk home, tipsy and happy from a day in the sun.