Standing like a spirit in the room, there was a drama going on. I had walked a little behind the front scene in which there was some sort of commercial for different single malt whiskeys; one was brewed in San Francisco and they were very proud of this fact, even though they had long since quit brewing it in the bathtubs of the ceiling-patched townhouse and moved to an industrial warehouse batch facility. Slightly behind, was Katie, on a couch wrapped in a hand-knit blanket, crying with her head in her hands. She was looking up at her sister who could not see us; she was lost. I stood there, a ghost, and bowed to her, namaskar. I did this several times slowly and meditatively.
She looks up. I am vaguely surprised that she can see me. "None of your business," she says in a thick baby-voice accent so thick I had to ask her to repeat herself. She does, and I respond,"I'm simply honoring you." Then I remember the judgments she has about connecting deeply and simply in a heartfelt way, so I add, "Like some hippy."
I break off and reflect that perhaps she is crying because she allowed her spirit to get so cold that she got frostbite in her hands, and that now she will never have feeling in them again. That would be very sad. I floated around, looking at crystal growths and wondering which Lama around here would be able to guide me successfully in Dream Yoga. One peridot cluster growing from the rock wall was glowing, beckoning.
