But the vacation was as much a retreat, as much a time to think, as pure escape. And, like me, my friend thinks with his fingers.
I talked with a friend who was grieving a loss. A deep loss, the kind that, when you think about it, rips your guts. And he was talking about this loss pretty analytically. And feeling bad about it.
I reminded my friend that if he were a woodworker, he would go build something, lose himself in physical work. And we would look at that and think that was somehow noble grief. But my friend works with his mind, not chisels. He carves detailed arguments, he sands away imprecisions, he assembles understanding from carefully measured, Kilns-dried lumber. And so, of course, he is working out his grief with the tools he knows.
It is possible, of course, that I have odd friends.
It is possible, of course, that grieving and resting take acceptably different forms for different people.
It is possible, of course, that my friends understand how their brains work.
It is possible, of course, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.
(It is possible that someone caught the C.S. Lewis allusion and will win a copy of “Poems” – just because they tell me what the reference is.)