The pretext for 10 days in California is a writer's conference.
I'll sit in workshops, rub elbows with authors and (hopefully) learn heaps.
But the first part of my trip has been spent enjoying the company of family and friends.
My dad and step mom flew in from Ohio; friends, Chelsea, Frankie and Leanne have come from Utah, Seattle and Los Angeles for a night or two of catching up.
If you've lived abroad, you probably understand what happens upon a return to the old country – people want to see you, hug you, hear your stories.
It reminds me of what happens when I return home to Papamoa after a half hour outside the house.
My dog goes nuts – jumping up and down, whining to be picked up. Visiting America is similar, except no one has licked my face.
As a teenager, my parents used to tell me friends would come and go, but no one would be there for me like kin.
I've tested this theory while mostly living far from home since the age of 17.
My folks were right about the fact they'd always offer counsel, a bed and a meal (good food in my family is a sacrament). To them, I raise a grateful forkful.
But what I've found just as stirring and perhaps surprising (given the earlier warning) is my friends have been reliable anchors, plucking me from chasms, opening me to new adventures, and introducing me to even more people who are bright, bold, kind, self-assured and self-deprecating-sometimes, at once. Have you ever written your imaginary epitaph?
Mine reads: Mother, wife, daughter, curator of marvellous mates.
Two of the friends I've seen so far in California provided support when my late husband was sick; another has shown me what it means to live a life of challenges sandwiched between gratitude and wonder.
My pals in New Zealand have hung together during times of adversity – such as when one of us was seriously ill or in a failing relationship; and during bouts of adventure – like when we disappear into the woods to run, walk, and break skin (the last, usually my job).
About a dozen of us have nearly accomplished something a single person was unlikely to do on her own – raised all but $2000 (of $40,000 needed) to get our friend, Josie, a second cochlear implant.
Often, friendship allows us to hear things in a way we've never heard before.
Another mate, Debbie, finished the Tarawera Ultramarathon in Rotorua last weekend with her husband – 102 kilometres on foot.
Her good friend, Jackie, was alongside for the last 22 kilometres of the race. Sometimes, friendship provides fresh legs when our own limbs ache for respite.
I'm travelling without my children thanks to a friend's kindness.
If not for Sarah, I would've flagged the writing conference.
My husband works out of town, meaning there's no one to look after my 12 and 14-year-olds when I'm gone.
I told my eldest I wanted to cry when Sarah offered to move into our house for a week.
"I can't believe she'd do that for me." Miss 14 replied, "Wouldn't you do the same?" I told her, "Yes, but that's different…" Why? I've learned friends who offer help are almost always sincere, regardless of whether I feel worthy of their gift.
We reciprocate. That's what friends do. No woman is an island, though she may inhabit one.
Marcel Proust said people who make us happy are "charming gardeners who make our souls blossom".
In times where more and more of us shift from our birth place to far-flung locales, it's comfort to have access to new ears, fresh legs and charming gardeners around the globe.
Thanks, friends.
