Page 1 of All the Way to the River

O n the morning of my fifty-fourth birthday, I woke up at dawn and instantly realized that my partner, Rayya, was in the bedroom with me.

This was an extremely impressive accomplishment on her part, because at that point she had been dead for more than five years.

Yet here she was—a churning, energetic current of pure Rayyaness, roiling through my tiny New York City apartment in wave after unmistakable wave of her .

I was neither alarmed nor frightened (I would know her anywhere, I would love her anywhere), but I was surprised, for it had been awhile since she’d made such an appearance.

And oh, how I’d missed her! She used to visit me like this all the time in the raw and bewildering months immediately following her death.

Back then, she’d been so incredibly present, so consistently accessible, so funny and loving and demanding, that I used to joke: “Rayya is more vivid in death than most people are in life!”

It wasn’t that I could see her in those long-ago visitations—she was not some spectral Victorian ghost bride—but I could feel her unmistakable presence, and I could distinctly hear her voice, speaking straight into my consciousness.

The clarity of communication between us had been extraordinary back then, right after she died.

It was as though she’d rigged up a strikingly effective supernatural Dixie-cup telephone system, through which she could chat with me across the cosmos using a long, long strand of yarn.

The effect had been so intimate as to be sensual .

Sometimes it was even fun. I would be out there in public, smiling and nodding and trying to act like a normal person, but Rayya and I would be having private conversations inside my head the entire time.

At a party in Los Angeles about six months after Rayya passed away, a woman I’d never met before came up to me, placed her hand on my arm, and said, “I understand that your lover left her body recently, and I’m sorry for your loss.

But I need to tell you something important.

She’s been coming to me lately in dreams. I’m a professional intuitive, and I have a sensitivity for such things.

Rayya has instructed me to tell you that she misses you terribly, and that she longs to communicate with you. ”

Tell this bitch she can fuck right off , said Rayya, from inside my head.

“Thank you for your kindness,” I told the stranger.

The woman pressed a business card into my hand. “Here’s my number, if you ever want to speak with Rayya directly.”

Tell this idiot she can jump directly up my dead fucking ass , said Rayya.

It had been so wild and glorious back then—to feel my Rayya still commanding the room, even from beyond the grave!

But her visitations had diminished as the years went by.

Two years had passed.

Then three years.

Four.

Life moves on —isn’t that what people say?

Rayya’s voice faded.

More than five years passed.

The world had changed in that time, and so had I.

There had been a global pandemic. There were new wars, new emergencies, new deaths.

Babies were born whom Rayya would never meet.

I wrote books that Rayya would never read.

Everyone was talking about new TV shows that Rayya would never see.

In a desperate bid to replace sorrow with infatuation, I had even dated someone for a while after Rayya died (“detonated myself upon them” might be a more accurate description of the encounter), but that relationship had ended in swift, shattering, predictable heartbreak.

I had not pursued anyone since.

Instead, I’d spent those years working on myself.

I had gotten sober—not only putting down alcohol and drugs but also stepping away from all sexual distraction and romantic entanglement.

I’d let go of every substance or person that intoxicated me, numbed me, took control over me, or altered my mood or mind in any way.

I’d been learning how to feel my feelings and process my emotions without reaching for anything or anyone to take the edge off.

I’d been using my voice, setting new rules and boundaries, and living in my own integrity as guided by my own higher power.

One day at a time, I was getting my inner house in order.

And I’d made new friends—healthy friends from the rooms of twelve-step recovery. Friends who would never know Rayya.

Through it all, Rayya’s presence flickered and dimmed until the day arrived when I couldn’t hear her at all anymore—not even when I called out to her by name, not even when I asked for direct guidance or love.

There came to be a great, boundaryless silence where her voice had once vibrated so powerfully.

This was devastating and confusing to me. It was almost like a second death.

Where had she gone ?

Had she moved on, or had I left her behind?

I could make no sense of it.

It was as if she’d stepped out of the universe for a pack of cigarettes and had never come back.

But now—on the morning of my fifty-fourth birthday—suddenly she was here.

I mean really here .

The room was humming with big Rayya energy, and I felt chills up my entire body. I started laughing and crying at the same time.

“Baby!” I said. “You’ve come to see me!”

I wanted to celebrate, but I could sense there was something she wanted to tell me—something that demanded my fullest attention.

The sensation was one of being grabbed by the collar and shaken.

Rayya had not traveled all this great distance for a casual visit, I gathered; she’d come to transmit a message of the highest importance.

Words and information were pouring out of her and into my mind, almost too fast for me to gather.

The inside of my head sounded like an arcade.

I grabbed the journal that I always keep by my bed and started writing down everything she was saying—everything I could catch.

And here is what Rayya had to tell me:

Happy birthday, Baby Dude!

I’m right here and I love you!

I LOVE YOU!

I’m so fucking proud of you!

Don’t worry about leaving me behind—I’ll be waiting for you at the river when all this is over, and then everything will make sense!

I know you still get pissed off at me sometimes for some of the shit that went down between us at the end, but that’s okay.

Be mad if you need to be mad, babe. Just be honest about it, and write your way through it.

But stay in your program, and don’t worry about how I did things, or what I would think of the way you’re doing things.

I love you and I want this freedom for you!

I’m so proud of your sobriety—you’re really fucking doing it!

You’re going all the way, man! You’re a star, keep going!

Don’t let me or anyone else ever hold you back!

And stop worrying about people so much, okay?

You think about other people way too fucking much!

Don’t ever babysit anyone again! Don’t let anyone bullshit you, or pull you down into their drama, or make you take care of them.

Let everyone find their own path—it’s good for them and it’s good for you.

You have such good friends now, but they don’t need you to carry them!

Breathe, baby, breathe …

I’m right here with you. I’m not fading out …

Breathe, baby, breathe …

Let me just look at you for a minute. Look at your little rainbow eyes! Look at your little sparkling tears! You’re so beautiful!

There’s something you need to understand, babe, and I’m gonna break it down for you, so listen up: The reason I don’t come around here anymore is because you and I both want you to have your own journey—and that’s what needs to happen now.

I know you want me to say that I’m always here for you if you need me, but the reality is you don’t need me anymore—and that’s great fucking news.

Why would you think I wouldn’t celebrate that?

I used to need to be needed, but I don’t need that anymore—and neither do you.

I want you to be free of all need—and you’re finally getting there!

Breathe, baby, breathe …

You have everything you need now. Stay on your path.

You’re on the right track. You found your God—and your God is fucking awesome.

Your God is lit ! Your community’s got you covered and you never need to be degraded by dependency of any kind, ever again.

You’re really gonna shine now! It’s your time!

My mom says hi, by the way, and thanks you for everything you did for me. She knows what you did and wants me to tell you that she loves you!

But babe, listen: Between us and about us, shit got super fucked up at the end—and that wasn’t your fault or my fault.

It wasn’t even wrong, how things went. It just had to be.

There was a job we had to do in each other’s stories—and we did it just right.

Everything went down exactly the way it was supposed to—even all the bullshit and the insanity.

But underneath all the stories, there was a truth: We loved each other so much.

We just loved each other. We loved each other.

We loved each other. We loved each other.

WE LOVED EACH OTHER SO MUCH!

When the day comes for you to leave this life, I’m gonna come get you, okay?

You got that? I’ll be waiting for you at the river, and you’ll know my face.

When I tell you to take my hand, just take it.

I’ll bring you over and show you around.

That’s my role in your life now, babe, and it is a sacred one.

I’ll carry it out with strength, honor, and compassion—were those our words?

I forget. Fuck it, just know I’ll be there …