So, yesterday I was talking about home, travel, pilgrims, and the like. And I know I’m not the only one for whom these threads run deep, woven into their stories.
I have friends and family who have moved far more often than I, some who still haven’t settled down—in one form or another—in spite of nearing the autumn of their lives.
Perhaps that someone is you.
And I wish I had something magnificent and meaningful to say about it. Something that would feel at least a little bit like home.
Then I thought about writers, those whose words resonate the most with me, those with whom I feel at home. Even though I’ve never met them or they lived long before me.
I shared a short quote by Frederick Buechner yesterday. He is one of those writers. Over the past 12 years or so, since another favorite writer, Ken Gire, recommended him, I’ve read nearly everything Buechner has written.
Frederick Buechner passed away last year, three days before my 40th birthday, at the age of 94 or 95. A part of me had wished I’d been able to meet him when he was still in this world.
Actually, back to the topic of Zillow and searching for homes in random places, I knew Buechner lived in Vermont and for a time thought that would be the perfect place to live … meaning, the perfect place to write.
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