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My thoughts and emotions were in turmoil throughout the drive back to the Boston area. Driving, paying tolls, getting gas, eating, stopping for coffee, and changing highway routes all blurred into one another. My body was in the car attending to the physical necessities of the return trip, but my mind was engaged in a journey of its own.

While I had been with Brian, my emotions had, for the most part, been at low ebb. At that time, I might have been in a state of shock from the intensity of the impact that his words were having on me.

Now, however, riptides of emotion were pulling me every which way. Shame, doubt, anger, uncertainty, confusion, helplessness, anxiety, bewilderment, sadness, and frustration were creating, both individually, as well as in different combinations, their own currents and undertows.

Brian's discussion had spanned across an incredible range of topics: Native spirituality, ecology, democracy, history, jurisprudence, politics, education, justice, bigotry, Vietnam, and economics. Probably, there were a few other themes as well that had become lost, temporarily or otherwise, somewhere in my memory.

As soon as I began to think about one set of issues, other ideas would barge into consciousness and disrupt my focus. I couldn't sort it out. I didn't know what to do with the information and ideas which had been given to me. I had no inkling of how to form a plan of action, let alone how to go about implementing any such plan.

Brian seemed to hint that a, or, perhaps, the, key to gaining a working understanding of everything was caught up with the Botclofots. Wonderful!

All I had to do was go down to one of those hardware stores that always seem to have everything, and ask for a couple of Botclofots. If I was really lucky, they might say: Sorry, Dr. Phelps, we're all out. Why don't you try again on Wednesday.

Botclofots?...Botclofots? The word drew a complete blank.

Were they an obscure Native tribe? An organization of some sort? Political activists? A community or human rights group? How would I go about trying to locate them? Somehow, I had a feeling they were not in the phone book.

Why didn't Brian give me a person's name or an address or a phone number?

Why was he so mysterious about the whole thing?

This aspect of the discussion was kind of irritating. I had gone with the intention of being helpful in some way. Yet, Brian seemed to be toying with me by remaining vague in relation to the one area where he appeared to feel there was some possibility of my being able to lend assistance.

In fairness to Brian, however, he had indicated that whatever he might say on the issue was more likely to create problems for me than it was to be of assistance. Brian also had said something about my being safer in not knowing.

The ominous note which was being sounded in this aspect of things didn't exactly thrill me. Besides, if safety was a factor, why bother to say anything at all? There seemed to be an inconsistency of sorts here.

Perhaps Brian didn't trust me with certain information. If so, then the vagueness made sense. Yet, once again, the same question arose: why say anything at all?

Brian's statement, right at the end of our meeting, about my having lost my sense of spirituality had bothered me as he had predicted it would. Yet, the cause of my being upset was not necessarily entirely for the reasons he might have thought.

To be sure, I felt he was being rather judgmental, if not presumptuous, in saying that I would be a liability to myself and others as long as there was an absence of spirituality in my life. I also didn't care much for his contention that my complicity in all the things about which he talked might be a lot greater than I imagined.

However, what bothered me the most was that I felt a very unsettling resonance with his words. In ways that I couldn't articulate or clearly understand, something in me recognized the presence of a truth of some kind contained within his comment to me.

The image of Beth came to mind. I didn't know what I was going to tell her. She had seemed annoyingly confident that the person in her vision would be able to help her brother.

However, I was coming back from my visit with pretty much empty hands. The only clue was the mysterious Botclofots.

A glimmer of hope flickered in my darkness. Surely, Beth would know about the Botclofots.

In any event, the only option available to me was just to relate to her what had happened during the visit. She might be able to throw some light on the situation or give some suggestions. Moreover, the very act of going through a sort of debriefing process with her might generate its own set of possibilities.

I got back to Boston around five in the morning. I was physically tired and emotionally exhausted.

On the way to my apartment, I decided to check for mail. There were a few pieces of junk mail in the box along with a letter from a foundation whose name didn't ring a bell with me.

More than likely, someone was looking for either a cash donation or some sort of professional volunteer assistance. I would take a look at it later in the day or, possibly, tomorrow.

As I rode up in the elevator, I decided that I would delay calling Beth for a day or two. There were a few loose ends from the school year that needed my attention. Furthermore, I wanted the contents of my visit with Brian to percolate a bit longer before I said anything to her. There didn't seem to be any urgency to our getting together. I didn't think she would mind waiting a day or two.

Nonetheless, she might appreciate being informed about what I had in mind. Since she had given me both her work and home phone numbers, I would call her from my college office. When I reached her, we also could set a time and place to meet.

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