I am with a group of friends in Santa Cruz, and am in reverie about the philosophical links that I have with Santa Cruz, the work I have done there, the very wide range of experiences that I have had there. Suddenly, another friend walks in carrying a very large child oddly draped in a broadcloth cape. When I am able to observe the child directly, I see that she is a very old woman—extremely pale and fragile, but her face shows refined features beneath smooth, paper-thin skin. She is so old that I wonder how she could be alive, and yet there is a deep vitality in her. Although she is being carried, I become increasingly sensitive to her adult character.

As I continue with my stories, my friend and her companion are patiently present. The child is capable of standing on her own two feet and, at a pause, the woman sets her in a corner. I note heavy shoes. My friend comes near and inclining toward the child tells me, “This is Alfred North Whitehead.” I am dazzled beyond belief at the whole situation.

After more time passes and the occasion is concluding, I am able to approach the child-figure. The closer I get, the more I am able to discern that this is indeed the face and body of a very old man who is shrunken with age. However, his intactness becomes more clear and defined. He speaks to me, makes a sociable comment about my speech, and I hear the timbre of his voice—and am aware that the mind of Whitehead is fully present in this exotic form.

With this realization, I take up an impassioned statement about the profound value of his work in my life. “I have read every one of your books,” I tell him, “And I have studied each one of them intensely, very intensely. Process philosophy is… is… so deeply important to me.” I am so moved with passion that tears roll down my face. I think these tears are excessive, but it is inappropriate in the moment to wipe them away.

Whitehead is empathetic and appreciative, concerned with the ongoing work. I continue to be absolutely stunned and overwhelmed that I am meeting Alfred North Whitehead in person—in most extraordinary circumstances. The very immediate, actual occasion is numinous.

Then Whitehead states that he needs to make a phone call. “Do you need assistance?” I ask him, as he enters the swinging door to a service room. “No, I am fine,” he responds. I stand outside the door with another fellow, and I am reeling with the powers weaving through everything. Waiting. More waiting.

In a room at the end of the corridor (painted a rich carnelian red—as are all the rooms), is a dance class of young girls, all in dance outfits. They are barely more than toddlers. Some of them have just learned to stand up, but they are also fully engaged with an adept teacher, and the whole situation is very active and celebratory. Impressive movements are being realized.

Whitehead returns, now more invigorated and self-sufficient—though still small. It seems we are going to resume our conversation. I am amazed with the total situation and all these miraculous turns of events.