End of January and, here I am, attempting to organize my thoughts. We’re beginning Year Three of Covid-19, most recently the Omicron variant. Everyone is worn down, bruised and battered, by the pandemic that seems to show no sign of ending any time soon. And winter—a Minnesota specialty—rages cold and fierce and snowy and gray. I’m not taking any walks outside these days. February 3rd will mark the one year anniversary of my wrist break. I made it through the anxiety, the pain, the rehab, the sleeplessness. No desire to repeat that. I make the pilgrimage to Mall of America a couple of times a week to walk for 1 1/2 hours in that hot-house environ.

And now, finally, to return to Spain. To Madrid. The pandemic started for me in Madrid, where I was quarantined for weeks inside my cozy apartment on Calle Olivar. Spring 2020 it was. And now, I’m so excited! To have desayuno (breakfast) at Cafe Peyma, to walk those old streets of Latina, Tirso Molina, Lavapies, Embajadores. To go out and hear live flamenco most every night. To hear the great artists, certainly; but also to hear those jobbers doing gigs, keeping the flame of aficion ever burning. Maybe, to rent a car for a couple of weeks and drive to Jerez, or Moron, or even Granada. Who knows? My time is mine alone.

To hang out with friends, some of whom I’ve known for more than 40 years, and whom I dearly love. How I miss them. And new friends, too, as my circle just keeps expanding. This is, to me, my true wealth. To play flamenco guitar, to understand some things about this arcane world, to participate, to enter in, to feel a part of. Wealth beyond measure. Aum shanti.