I was reminded today that, sometimes, it’s the stuff in between that can be the most important; the silent note, the unspoken word. Let me be more clear: I was once explaining to my friend Occa about my gardens (and I’m not a terribly good gardener, but not bad, either) that it’s the spaces in-between that make a good garden—yes, you can pile on beautiful patch after beautiful patch, but it’s the respite between the two that makes all the difference. And I think that is what I am doing right now. I have traveled for 86 days and have seen some amazing sights and, here I am, stuck in my house because of rain. There’s no Rand-McNally dictating my next move, no National Park just around the bend, there is just a pile of laundry that needs tending to. And that’s OK. It stands in contrast to everything I’ve just been witness to, but perhaps a much-needed contrast. It (this ridiculous pile of laundry) makes everything that I have seen and done all the more special. So, with that, I am going to pour in my detergent and spend the afternoon folding because tomorrow, who knows, though I dearly hope it will involve dragons.