At that moment in the museum, I think I recognized my own brokenness in the torn scroll. She had been waiting all this time so that we could help each other; my tears nourished her parched soul, her pain shocked me into awareness. It took a few more years before I knew of what I was aware, but that scroll planted the seed.
We sat on the floor in a circle all last night to study, the lights low and floor strewn with rose petals. (As we did last year, although the petals had been carefully arranged before we got there. This time, instead, we picked our own flowers from a basket and created from them what we wished. Each few feet of space reflected its artist: a mosaic of petal fragments; the whole flower, unadorned; a mandala of careful, concentric rings of pink, white and red.) At 5AM we went upstairs to stand on the sidewalk for a few minutes and wonder how night could have passed in such a short time.
(To be continued.)