Calming

 For a short time, it was an oasis. 

We went out to dinner Monday night with a friend. A very old friend in that he is both a contemporary of ours as well as a person that my wife and I have known for more than forty years. There was an overwhelming sense of comfort as we sat down to pore over the menu, even though we had walked several blocks in the rain and the place was nearly empty. Nothing was going to creep into our evening to tip things away from the satisfaction of connecting with our tribe. 

This is not to say that there was no discussion of world events. We touched lightly on the burning topics of the day, but we did so without having to set an agenda. We were commiserating. There was no need to convince or cajole. We were all in accord with just how onerous and difficult being a thinking individual had become over the past four months. 

We also discussed books and movies. We shared stories of the past week as well as the past four decades. We ordered dinner and didn't mind the haphazard manner in which our obsequious server made his way to and from our table, answering the phone, bringing takeout orders to the front, and always remembering to circle back to us. In other circumstances this might have been cause for frustration, but not this evening. 

We talked about the olden days, including the geography of the high school we all attended. Which way to the band room? Where was American Studies? The front lawn where touch football games sometimes took precedence over attending class. We talked about the places and times we shared and left the details of the planet and politics aside in favor of the reverie of the recall of our youth. 

Somewhere in there was an earthquake. 

A real one. I know this because I received a text from the thread my co-workers share with me. Apparently it was quite the shake. 

For those who felt it. 

Less than thirty miles away from the epicenter, what we felt was safe. Fellowship. The rest of the Bay Area was trying to find calm. 

We found ours.