Dance was my way of praying, of listening, of celebrating, it was my way of being as beautiful as the life around me. Now I feel hideous, unloved, abandoned. I lie down and sob and I feel a screeching hunger for mil, for some essence to flow from the sky and reach down through my shattered mind and reconnect me to warmth and calm. And very gradually it happens. The life in the trees and grass and the warm rocks enters my body and joins me to them. One morning, I sit up and see the incandescent trees in silent communion with each other, immersed in love. This is the world, I think, the real world. Whatever happens to me, the world is still this luminous mystery.
"No, son, we're not finished. We just don't need us a book anymore. You can just come and visit anyway. I might go to see your family too. I hear there's a good fishing your way. We did this book just like we said we would. We did our best. I don't care if nothing else happens with it or if somebody was to print a hundred copies. I'll have my own copy and I can read now."
"You've accomplished a lot."
"That's right. Yet judge me not for the deeds I've done. But for the life I've lived. Son, people think one hundred years is a long time. Most folks just don't understand. My life hasn't been as long at all; seems short to me. It's all gone by so fast. Life is so good and it gets better every day."
