Holding pattern

Kind of a shaky day, one of those during which my mother's short-term memory seems to be evaporating before my eyes. My theory is to get her out for as much walking as she can do, since that helps to get blood circulating through her system. She talked with her friend Dorothy who is living in the A.L.O.I.S. Center near Cincinnati, Ohio. As always, they had a good laugh, re-hashing pretty much the same topics they always discuss, with an occasional surprising new item thrown in. This time it was Dorothy advising my mom on exercises she should try to keep herself standing more upright. Fortunately I was nearby and picked up on this part of the conversation so I can remind Mother of it later; otherwise she would forget it.
At night, I'm in Portugal again, picking up images of ancient churches and buildings, and granite mountains streaming with water. An excerpt from "A Journey to Portugal," by Jose Saramago:
"When the traveler is far away, back in that great city he calls home, and has had a hard day, he chooses to remember the lake with its watery arms penetrating the rocky valleys, sometimes even the fertile lands and human dwellings; he'll see in his mind's eye the flanks of pine trees all reflected on that superlative surface and then, within himself, a sea of silence will form, out of which comes the murmur, as if responding in the only way possible: 'I am.'"
As good a statement for getting out on stone as any I have heard.