My parents left yesterday morning after a long and pleasant visit. All week I had wanted to show them . . . the sights. What now I love most about where I live. It used to be, when first I came to live here, that my parents' visits were excuses to range from city to shore, miles and miles of forest and river's edge rushing by on our way to museums and parks and formal gardens. This house, this town, only a place to sleep and wash. But my bliss has contracted these days. The sights I wanted them to see were all within a smaller circle now. Or I thought they were. I kept trying to take them to see . . . something. But nothing seemed to be here.
Says Thoreau this morning, while we're sitting together in the sun:
When I detect a beauty in any of the recesses of nature, I am reminded, by the serene and retired spirit in which it requires to be contemplated, of the inexpressible privacy of a life - how silent and unabmitious it is . . .