The final few weeks in Amsterdam, the end of March through the first weeks of April, were tranquil. That day of reflection had enabled me to put away ambition and to live in peace my final weeks before returning to America. I spent many days at Bloem with Daniel and friends, soaking in their presence, their relaxed manner of living day to day, appreciating the magical way in which they made what appeared to be mundane and routine pregnant with fulfillment. Living well came so naturally and easily for them. They modeled the method, and I learned by observing and practicing their pace. They had managed to live an Amazonian shamanism in an urban environment. Accomplishing this in a Westernized city was extraordinary.

I spent many days alone wandering around the city, occasionally meeting new people, spending an afternoon or evening with them, but often I spent time alone with myself whether out in the city or at home in my apartment. I continued to shroom and the experiences became more rooted even as they expanded. Breathing was becoming a way of life, the form of movement I cherished most. Simply sitting, in my apartment or in a cafe, looking out onto the streets at the people passing by, at the architecture of the buildings, listening to the sounds of cycles and cars and conversation, of the rain falling, of the wind whipping, feeling the warmth inside and the bracing cold outside, feeling the light and darkness of day and night and artificial light, savoring pastries and espressos, being transported by the smells of bakeries.

I experienced none of the ecstatic highs of the early days. I had become the rhythm of the city, and the city matched the rhythms within me. I spoke very little those last few weeks, mostly observing through sensation, allowing feelings to come and go, to remain still whether sitting or moving. I knew the enterprise was coming to a conclusion, but I felt pangs of attachment, of wanting to stay forever, of dreading my departure.

The day before I left I felt a deep sadness, but it had the potent fragrance of ripened fruit. I could recall all the experiences I’d had without even remembering them. They were simply there, accessible. I didn’t dwell on them or feel nostalgia, but as I sat alone most of the last day, simply looking out the window while drinking coffee and listening to quiet music, instead they meshed with the steady drizzle outside.

Susan, the woman who had rented her apartment to me, returned from the Caribbean during my last couple of days in Amsterdam. I had decided to stay an extra week so she was surprised that I was still there when she returned. I offered to leave and stay at a hotel for my final days so she could have her apartment to herself after such a long time away, but she insisted that I stay. We had lovely conversations and learned more about one another.

She was a fascinating woman. She was around 50 years old and during the 1980s she and her boyfriend drove an RV to India. They were hippies. She described how different the world was at that time, how it was possible to drive through Afghanistan and the Middle East without danger. Not that the trip was without its perils, but the times were different; it was while Russia was invading Afghanistan, but before the United States got involved. It was a simpler time.

Susan and her boyfriend, who later became her husband, became Buddhists and it seemed that that was due mostly to their experiences in India. She was retired, but she had worked in some fashion, an import/export business, between The Netherlands, India, and the Middle East. She still had friends there, a point which would become important in the future, though neither of us knew that at the time. In fact, had I not stayed those extra days which allowed us to get to know one another, I’m not sure there would have been a future between us. But, that’s the wonder of travel, of being open to possibilities when meeting others who are open to possibilities.

I had come to appreciate Buddhism through painting my meditative experiences. I couldn’t formally call my way of life or my way of thinking Buddhist. However, it’s no accident that shrooming often leads to a lifestyle that is commensurate with Buddhism. When I later read about the practices of Buddhism I realized that coming to those Ways would have been impossible for me by only reading. Shrooming, at least the way I was creating my experiences, led to living in a way akin to Buddhism, shamanism, aestheticism, and athleticism. My compassion for myself and others had expanded, my appreciation of life had been renewed, and my wonder at natural and beauty and design flourished.

A lifetime had passed since I had fallen into despair and I wondered if there was any reason to continue living, and yet it was only seven months earlier that I had felt that way. When I sat in front of my computer in Wisconsin, after finishing a work project with no immediate work that needed to be done, I felt nothing, thought nothing. There was a hollow within me, the culmination of a year-long depression which had chewed away at what I had valued in life. The depression arose from aging and physical ailments; it was American life, a culture of material deadness, of meaningless production, of empty consumerism, and a place with no
 outlet for the soul

My deepest wonder was whether it would be possible to integrate the way of life I had developed in Amsterdam into a way of life back in the States. What would I do if that proved impossible? I barely considered the question before discarding it. My focus was entirely on consciously integrating a life of wonder, creativity, and play combined with compassion, kindness, and courage.

I spent my last night with Daniel at Bloem. There were few customers and I stayed late, well past closing, and it was just Daniel and I who drank beer while we talked deep into the night. I wasn’t sure if or when I would return to Amsterdam. I felt heartbroken. It seemed inevitable, but as I walked home I wondered if I would return. I had given the keys to my bike to Daniel, telling him that I’d rather he use it or find a friend who needed a bike rather than just let it remained locked at a stand indefinitely.

I woke up the next day, showered and packed for my flight, had breakfast with Susan, and called a taxi to to the airport. I rode in silence, watching the rain. It had been some time since I had been outside the city center and surrounding neighborhoods so the shock of seeing the efficiency of 20th-century functionality was profound. I knew it was going to be even worse when I arrived in Chicago and took the commuter to Wisconsin. As I picked up my ticket at Schiphol and made my way to the gate, I realized more fully that I was leaving and that I might never return. I had spent a lot of money, especially during my first trip. I needed time to regain financial stability.

Fortunately, I had to focus on getting through customs, which was surprisingly easy, and then getting some food before the flight. I was exhausted from being out late the previous night and hadn’t thought ahead to bring food with me. The only restaurant that was open inside my gate was McDonald’s. I made myself order a quarter pounder with cheese because I didn’t want to be hungry on the flight. It was a terrible mistake. I had truly forgotten how greasy American food was. I felt nauseous after eating a few bites and couldn’t stomach more than a few fries. Within minutes, I made a beeline to the restroom and squatted on the toilet. A furious spray of sewage spewed forth. Even though I was somewhat relieved, I could still feel the coating of grease lining my insides.

I was distracted from the reality of leaving Amsterdam, though. Once seated on the flight, I felt more relaxed. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn’t. I was extremely happy I hadn’t slept when the plane flew over the southern portion of Greenland. The glaciers were magnificent, otherworldly, absolutely mammoth. I took several photos and then offered the woman sitting next to me a chance to sit next to the window so she could look out. She was thrilled. Once we had passed Greenland, we had a lovely chat. She was a Christian from Rotterdam. I didn’t realize that there were Christians in Holland. It made sense that there were, but I was still surprised. I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, and she had none of the earmarks of fundamentalist Christians. I didn’t get her denomination, but whatever it was it seemed Christian in the best sense as she was welcoming, kind, and excited about traveling to America. She even got me to become mildly excited about returning. I had forgotten how America was perceived by foreigners, that it had had a reputation as a wonderfully diverse democracy. For her, at least, it still held the promise of possibility. I wasn’t sure if she was naive or filled with optimism [she was optimistic].

We exchanged contact information as we disembarked and then waited to get through customs. It was a madhouse: hot, congested, and confusing. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason. After an hour in line, I finally got through. After that, chaos reigned again. I finally figured out which terminal I needed and made it to my gate on time to board my flight. Fortunately, there was plenty of space on the puddle jumper to Wisconsin so I was able to stretch out and relax, finally falling asleep once we took flight.

The good thing about arriving in a small airport is that navigating is easy and luggage is unloaded quickly. I was able to get an airport transport back to the house I was renting. It was a nice day, partly sunny and 60 degrees. It was a bit weird to think in Fahrenheit again, but I discovered I liked it. I was excited when I arrived back home at the house. I adjusted my watch to local time, about 4:00 in the afternoon. I unloaded all of my bags with the help of the taxi driver. I got a kick out of hearing his Wisconsin accent, too.

Once I was inside I was pleased to see how clean I had left the apartment. I left all my luggage by the door, went to the kitchen to drink water, and walked upstairs to the bedroom. I took off my clothes, whipped back the blanket and sheet, and climbed into bed.