As the sun goes down in Orlando, I’m an hour from boarding a return flight home to New England, where await the news, emails, telephone calls, and texts. Last time I checked, they weren’t going anywhere.

When I board, I’ll take my bag and one piece of carry-on luggage, but what will be invisible to the stewards will be an invisible hamper that overflows with gratitude:

To Mark, who responded to my email asking if I could come down for 6 days of rest and healing with the words: “Come now.” Who picked me up at airport and generously hosted me in his house, showing me immediately how to make coffee. Who chauffeured me around to the beach and other places, reminding me it was a cold Orlando winter so wrap the scarf around my neck, and who showed me some terrific episodes of Columbo on his big TV screen.

To Lori, who agreed to feed Auss when I was gone, and to friends who came around during the day to walk her. To Aussie, too, always a magnet for coming home. To the various pilots who brought me down here and who bring me home, the woman in the chair next to me shaking from fear of flying but smiling throughout the trip, and the husband next to her who patted her knee reassuringly. To the scrub oaks that line the roads in Lake Mary and the guard at the gate who let me in, deciding I didn’t look like a terrorist. To the blue skies and the gray skies that make life so interesting, and the sun that plays hide-and-seek day after day.

It’ll be cold tomorrow, but a 6-day break helps me appreciate the layers of white snow on the ground and the indefatigable birds who, one way or another, with or without our 6 birdfeeders, will survive the winter.

My brother said to me earlier today on the phone: “It’s great how you concluded that you needed a rest someplace warm and you went after it.”

“Everybody helped,” I told him. Including you readers, who provide support that enables me to take the trip, and who, in your way, give me courage.