After two stressful weeks for both of us, we ran away for two days and a night to a yurt in the Salinas Valley. We forgot our phones. Trouble seemed not to exist, or not to have followed us, like in these antique sentences from Steinbeck’s The Pastures of Heaven: “The farmers at last lived prosperously and at peace. Their land was rich and easy to work. The fruits of their gardens were the finest produced in central California.”
He remembered he had a little pot on him, but it hardly seemed worth it. Every part of the landscape and sky—especially at night with stars multiplying and whining coyotes trotting somewhere in the distance—was like an outward expression of inner life.