I was holding your small hand in mine as we crossed the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge, our dog Chloé at your father’s side walking beside us. We heard about the Dalai Lama Peace March coming to town, and the meeting place was the Sausalito waterfront, where we lived. It was both a solemn and festive occasion, and we showed up in our most colorful and finest hippie attire: long flowing hair and bandanas – de rigueur for everyone – tattered jeans and embroidered Guatemalan shirts, layered petticoats and fringes and for me, ankle bracelets that jingled with every step I took. My flower-child years were the only ones when I…