Nirvana

My book has six middle-aged women crawling into a sweat lodge resembling a blue Volkswagen beetle, then sitting on flattened cardboard boxes and hoping desperately for elusive bliss. I'm sitting at the river studying variations in the calls of a red-winged black bird and of a goldfinch. I would rescue the fictional women if I could, invite them to my porch, hand them inflated floats, and lead the way down the rocky sidewalk to drip a mixture of salt and spring water. Found.

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