ut I was no longer bound by
Atmananda's interpretation of the world, I told myself. "Sweet
dreams," I said to the faces and rolled past them.

The next morning I crossed over the Hudson River into Albany and walked
up the hill toward the Governor Nelson A. Rockefeller Empire State
Plaza. Endowed with intricately sculptured arches and columns, the
majestic New York State capitol building contrasted with the modern
structures across the street, which included four towers labeled in
letters of gold. I sat by a reflecting pool where I watched wavering
images of pennies at the bottom. I thought about my financial
situation. I was doing okay. In Boston I had stopped paying
Atmananda's ever-increasing tuition, moved from a studio apartment to a
small room in a house, and commuted to my computer job each day by
bicycle. I had managed to pay off one student loan and, after selling
the car, to build a small buffer. Why, I now wondered as I tossed a
penny in the pool, did I feel so bad?

Because it was Atmananda, I suddenly realized, who had sent me to
computer school. It was Atmananda who had bought me that car. I felt
bad because I still considered myself to be in his debt. I needed to
distinguish, I told myself, between the effects of his unsolicited
gifts and the results of my own hard-earned efforts.

Two days later, as I continued to travel, the cars whizzing by served
as a constant, crushing reminder that towing a three-foot wide trailer
down a country road at night was probably not such a good idea. But
driven by the thought of staying with a friend in Utica, I continued
despite the danger. The road gradually rose into thick, dark woods,
and there were no houses in sight. To complicate matters, I was a
devout believer in the excitement and mystery of a journey and carried
no maps. I was completely lost.

The road began following a winding river, and it became increasingly
difficult to convince myself that a town or phone was just ahead.
Exhausted, I stopped at the edge of a clearing and set up the bent,
many-sided tent--another gift from Atmananda. I lay on my sleeping bag
and listened to the river and to voices from the past. I could almost
hear Atmananda talking, back in 1979, about the pending move from New
York to southern California.

"It's very important that the right people go," he had said to Rachel
and me.

We nodded.

"I'm not sure about Dana and Connie," he confided. "But I'm sure I