Another moment in time. For the past year I took myself off every morning to Santa Fe’s public library where I sat writing my book in the quiet reading room, along with other like-minded souls. One of these was a slim man with a rampant red beard and long wiry red hair, seated every day at the same table, amidst reference books and an array of writing materials. An eccentric, a wanderer, a hobo?  He wrote in a thick notebook, by hand, which, eventually, he explained to me, was because one day computers would all explode and he would still have his handwritten copy. Now, with his wildish looks and ways, he wasn’t one you’d think you might easily make friends with.  For several months, we nodded silently to each other from our separate tables in the library, progressing to the hint of a smile. When one Sunday I was waiting for the library to open (at 1pm on Sundays), I came upon him sitting on a bench outside and simply went to sit beside him. Stories are what we all tell each other, in brief or at length, in words or in gestures. He lives in a tent, in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, a few miles outside of Santa Fe. He mostly walks to and fro, sometimes managing to hitch a ride. He doesn’t take any food there because of bears. He is the cleanest camper I’ve ever seen; his face fresh and ruddy, his clothes spotless.  He doesn’t take money from the government. I asked how he lived. There are certain people, he said, to whom he gives counsel and receives small payments in return.  I invited him for coffee one day because I wanted to talk to him about something.  I was immediately struck by the clarity in his eyes, and by his undivided attention when listening.  I won’t go into what I asked him, or how he responded.  I was moved, and reassured, by how concisely he read me and pointed me towards what I already knew. I don’t know where my words come from, he said. They just come to me.  Eccentric, maybe; a seer, certainly. His lifestyle is so pared down, he sees.  There is no room for stuff; not in his thoughts nor in his belongings.

I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks, having finished my book. Yesterday, I went to the library to print some research. As I opened the main door, he was coming out.  He threw his arms wide in the air with a very big smile, and his blue eyes twinkled.  I stepped forward to let his arms enfold me.  The best friends must have plenty of space until they meet by chance.