“ . . . I did not even try to explain anything to myself, so strong was the impression of the vast, unknown fields opening up before me.” —G.I. Gurdjieff
How easily the old table moves to the touch of our family of hands. Alone, or in pairs, we only gather here to partake in the ritual of food. Travelers in the history of a day’s work. Only on special evenings at those perfect times each year when we all meet do the spoons and bowls get their chance to dance. And the still and starry night outside those ancestral rooms sits cross-legged in the lotus of the heavens in trance. With age we learn to rise above our needs. To make do with a good meal and a wish. To watch carefully how the pendulum swings in the corner on the old clock. And the way the candle flickers from its own breath on an evening without wind. For a million years we have gathered like this around the tables made of rock and of wood. In families. Raising our voices in prayer. Talking to the men and women of night. Until the sun comes up over the mountains. And we dream of perfect islands of love, and are there.