I awake in the meditation spring. I’m sitting over a crack in the earth when Todd appears to me. He’s a ghost, a diaphanous form but himself as we last saw him alive. He descends into me, I accept him in some sort of communion and now he is with me. The mood is similar to yesterday when I felt that grace for all of the family. I’ve accepted the Todd spirit, embraced him in his pain and struggle, his warmth and humor, his entirety.
I flash back over twenty years. All the times I’ve spent escaping – in every way: the times I sat in this spring after Burning Man, exhausted from wandering the Playa night and day, talking till my tongue actually swelled up, escaping from suburban New Jersey to the farthest reaches of California, dissolving into mystical Judaism, initiated by a Yaqui shaman-for-hire, re-engaging the psychedelic teenage search, traipsing around the country in a rocknroll circus, always running. I’m tired of escaping. Maybe I’m ready to stay put. Maybe I’ve turned 50.
Late in the day, Bob and I drive to Loyalton in search of a package store and find nothing open, hardly any businesses at all to speak of. Bob finds a barroom and goes inside to see if they’ll sell to go. There he discovers eight or so senior couples social dancing to country music and a pair of shitkickers at the bar. It’s a brilliant sunset in the valley and Bob takes phone-shots while I drive.