Category Spiritual practice
How is it women of the village know to come? But they do, one by one, to sit with Balboa, with our memories of her childhood, moments of laughter and tears. We breathe. We are present, witness to her grief, sharing her sorrow.
Gorged on wild berries, I’m deliciously full and sticky, lying here on the grass beside the stream, hat over my face, filtering just enough of the sun.
Janine has woven the greens, browns, and yellows of the hills, the muted colors of the woods on one side, and the brilliant splotches of the flowering meadows in front. I can smell the rich moldy soil of the woods underfoot and the crisp drying grasses in the summer heat.
At table, we don’t say much the first few minutes. I suspect the others are as hungry as I. We nearly disgrace ourselves slurping and gorging.
I give thanks for the twins, for this day, opening calm and sweet, for each one of the villagers, for a peaceful world, for this most beautiful Earth, for Spirit who helped us all to learn compassion and to grow peace in our hearts.