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Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you. Hey-hey-hey, your rolling river.

❤️ Editor's Note

Staying in the Song

We arrived back home from a week in Paris early on New Year’s Day. It took us several days to re-acclimate to the time shift. It felt good to be home. To be unpacked. And to have the week ahead as a fresh beginning to the year.

Then, on Saturday, the news came. A text from our dear friend Alice. Bob Weir had passed away.

The news was surreal. First, disbelief. Then, panic. The kind you feel when you realize something meaningful has shifted for many people at the same time. We felt it immediately: the quick reaching out, the instinct to connect, the knowing that everywhere out there other Deadheads were pausing too — thinking, is this real? Then being flooded with remembering shows, voices, moments when the music carried us through. Wondering: Is it really gone?

We want to say this plainly: if you’re holding sadness, gratitude, disorientation, and deep affection all at once—you’re not alone. This community has always known how to gather. Not just in joy and motion, but in reflection. In listening. In holding space for one another while the song keeps going.

Bob’s life was never about holding the music still. It was about staying inside it as it changed — tempos slowing, meanings deepening, rooms shifting, generations arriving. He trusted the long arc. He trusted listening over forcing. He trusted that if you stayed present long enough, the music would carry you somewhere deeply meaningful.

That posture — patient, open, unafraid of evolution — is the quiet through-line of this issue and where we share examples of this through Bob Weir’s legacy, as well as how we experienced Paris.

This isn’t a traditional tribute issue. There are many of those, and they’re beautiful. This is something else. This issue reflects what we’ve learned by listening to Bob—and to this music—over many years: how to stay in tune by paying attention, how to remain present without trying to control the outcome, how to let meaning expand rather than be pinned down.

It’s about continuity. About how music—like wisdom—doesn’t end. It moves. It stretches. It finds new hands, new ears, and in our case in Paris—new streets to walk down.

Bob Weir didn’t show us how to hold on to the music.
​He showed us how to stay in it — while it keeps changing.

And that lesson, like the song itself, is very much alive.

🌊Wander

Wandering doesn’t mean abandoning direction.

Sometimes it begins with a plan — and then listening for when it wants to change.

We went to Paris with an itinerary. We’d marked the places we wanted to see, the museums, the cafés, the neighborhoods. Each morning, those little books gave us shape and orientation. And then — almost without trying — the days bent. A street pulled us one way. A smell of bread or coffee pulled us another. The plan didn’t disappear; it softened.

Some days we stayed together. Other days we split into smaller groups, each following a different curiosity. What never changed was the return — evenings back at the Airbnb, sharing the highs of the day, flipping through our itineraries again, smiling at how differently things had unfolded.

One afternoon in Montmartre, surrounded by artists painting in the square, something unexpected happened. We sat down, ordered hot mochas, pulled out sketch paper and pencils—and joined in. For a moment, we weren’t watching art being made; we were making it ourselves.

That’s wandering as we experienced it:
not drifting aimlessly,
but allowing ourselves to be redirected.

It’s a posture Bob Weir embodied his entire life—honoring the structure of the song while staying responsive to the moment inside it. The setlist existed. The chords were known. But the real music lived in how he listened—night after night—to what the room, the band, and the silence between notes offered back. Wandering, in that sense, wasn’t deviation. It was attentiveness. A willingness to let the song become what it needed to be, rather than what it was the night before.

Wander, then, isn’t about losing your way.
It’s about staying open enough to find a slightly different one.

🔎 Discover

Discovery rarely looks the way we imagine it will.

When we arrived, we assumed taxis and car services would carry us through the city—efficient, familiar, contained. That assumption lasted about a day. Very quickly, we discovered the Paris Metro: intuitive, fast, and quietly elegant. Each ride underground delivered us somewhere new. The city opened itself not by effort, but by learning how to move with it.

We also discovered something about people. Everywhere we went, locals were warm, patient, and generous with space—even as a group of seven. Tables appeared. Sidewalks widened. We were never rushed. The city made room.

Some of our best moments came from small bends in the plan. A turn taken without intention led to neighborhoods we hadn’t marked, shops we hadn’t researched, moments we couldn’t have scheduled.

An early morning brought us to Père Lachaise Cemetery. We went to see Jim Morrison’s grave, but what stayed with us was the wandering itself—quiet paths, stained glass catching the light, headstones tended with care. A place associated with endings that somehow held extraordinary beauty.

And then there was the food. Every meal felt intentional. Unhurried. Thoughtful. Even the smallest rituals carried care—the noisettes we came to love, sipped slowly, always accompanied by a square of chocolate. Enough, but not too much.

What all of this revealed—gently, over time—is that discovery isn’t about accumulation. It’s about attention. About learning new rhythms. Trusting unfamiliar systems. Letting the world meet you halfway.

Bob understood this deeply. He honored the form of the songs while remaining open to what they could become. Not by abandoning structure, but by trusting it enough to stretch. That openness eventually allowed the music to breathe in entirely new ways—finding room for orchestras, strings, horns, and symphonic scale. What once lived in clubs and arenas expanded into concert halls without losing its soul.

What changed wasn’t the music’s identity, but our angle of listening. The melodies were the same. The emotional core was intact. What Bob discovered—and kept discovering—was that depth reveals itself when you’re willing to hear something familiar through a new frame.

The discovery wasn’t that the music had changed.

It was that it had always been capable of this.

Discovery, we found, often lives in small details—the way light lands, the way streets curve, the way mornings begin.

A few of those details are better shown than told.

​A Paris sketchbook.​

🎧 Listen

Songs to Sit With

Some songs don’t ask to be analyzed.
They ask to be entered.

These are pieces we keep returning to — not because they explain anything, but because they hold space for whatever arrives. Played slowly. Received differently each time.

​Only A River​

This one feels like a distillation of Bob’s late-life wisdom. Nothing urgent. Nothing forced. Just the quiet reassurance that movement continues — with or without our understanding. A song about scale. About humility. About trusting the flow.

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​Brokedown Palace​

Not an ending, but a return. A place of rest after a long road. This song has always carried comfort, but it also carries release — the permission to lay things down without needing to resolve them. Gentle. Human. Enduring.

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​Ripple​

If there is a song that captures the spirit of continuity, this might be it. Wisdom passed hand to hand. Meaning shared, not owned. A reminder that the song doesn’t belong to the singer — it belongs to whoever is listening.

We’re not suggesting a sequence, or a mood, or a right way to hear these.
Just a moment of attention.
A few minutes where the world doesn’t need to be fixed.

Let the river move.
Let the song finish when it finishes.

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A Small Keepsake

A postcard we made from a photo that captured Bobby at the 60th Anniversary shows in San Francisco. Download it, keep it somewhere visible, or pass it along. Let it be a small reminder to stay in the song.

💧 A Ripple Moment Before We Go

Find a place today where you can slow down — a café, a park bench, a quiet room, a familiar street.

Be generous with your attention.
Offer patience where it isn’t expected.
Leave a little more space than you take.

Reach out to your local Deadhead community. They might be needing some extra comfort. Invite them to a coffee meetup.

You may not see the effect.
That’s okay.

Ripples don’t announce themselves.
They just keep moving.

NFA 🌹🌻

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More soon. Stay kind...

Todd & Michelle

​China Cat Chat​

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💌 Got a Story to Share?

We want your tales from the trail! Whether it’s a recipe from Shakedown Street, a memory from the lot, your all-time favorite show, or just a lyric that’s stayed with you—we’d love to hear it. China Cat Chat is for Deadheads, by Deadheads, and your voice makes this community what it is.

We’re also always looking for folks to interview in upcoming issues. If the music has touched your life in a special way, or you’ve got a perspective to share, drop us a line!

Tell Us Your Story | Be Interviewed