This isn't really an ode, and I shouldn't even be writing on this blog right now. I should be working on my opening night book signing party preparations for October 22nd, but I'm too filled with thoughts not to write. Too filled with gratitude for friends.

There have been times in my life, especially when I was younger, when I felt like friends were few and far between. I've ached for someone I could talk to, someone  who would understand me. In time, as I'm sure many of you have also  experienced, friends began to appear. Not because they hadn't been there before, but because they either reached their arms further toward me, or because I eventually saw friendship in "small" acts.  

Today is one of those friendship awareness days. It began with a greater understanding of the expanded kindness Josi Kilpack has recently shown me. As I was working on mundane, household chores, I thought about the fact that I had confided in her about my feelings of nervousness for the release of my book. With a quick response that is so characteristic of her, she showed me, both in word and deed, online and personal support of me and my writing. She is a friend, and I am very blessed.

A short time later, I read an e-mail from a fellow member of Author's Incognito. She had amazing news she wanted to share with us, because, even though the information wasn't related to writing, she said that some of her greatest, personal supporters are in our group. Knowing you can share honest feelings with someone, no matter when or where you are, is a true blessing. Like my fellow AI-er, I'm grateful I'm part of such a group. 

Finally, a few minutes ago, I saw an episode of "Leave It to Beaver." Some of you know I enjoy old shows. One reason for that is because they are often poignant without apology. Goodness is expected and endorsed. I love that. Anyway, in this episode, Beaver was sick with the chicken pox. He asked his brother Wally to take care of his pigeons while he was sick. After a series of misfortunes, and no matter how careful Wally was, the pigeons died. They were killed by a cat. The part that touched my heart, however, was when two of Beaver's friends came over to the house with a shovel and a box. They said they were there to give the pigeons a funeral. They would bury them in the backyard where Beaver could see them from his bedroom. As they asked Beaver's parents permission to hold the funeral, one of the friends said, "We know Beaver would do that for us."

That's what friendship is, and that's what my life is filled with. People who reach out and lift others. People who listen with interest no matter where we are. People who show compassion and love because they have experienced the same pain and know how to succor it. I hope I, in my turn, will be the same kind of friend.