It was around dinnertime when the doorbell rang.
In my country, the doorbell is a signal to most folks that the person standing on your doormat is probably someone you don't want to meet.
But, unlike most folks, I'm not like most folks. I was genuinely happy to abandon the stove and the half-filled bath on the second storey. I took the stairs two at a time.
I opened the door to see two well-groomed young gentlemen in matching short-sleeved shirts. And I smiled.
These guys had each traveled from one side of the planet to the other to share something they really cared about, without any thought of financial gain. Most musicians can relate to this situation.
Many people turn these guys away, heckle or antagonise them, but most just ignore them completely. Most musicians can relate to this too.
They spend most of their time going from place to place, dreaming of speaking up and being truly heard, all the while vacillating between a profound conviction in their inherent brilliant worth and withering self-doubt. Musicians, again.
When I told them I was familiar with their material, their eyes were alive as four sunrises.
When they left, one of them handed me a small card with a painting of a prophet from long ago. Tenderly. As if it were a photograph of a lost puppy.
I don't need anything from them and I certainly don't need to be interrupted at dinnertime. I don't really need the conversation, their literature or their interpretations of world events.
I just love the sunlit eyes of new believers.