Of meeting, of feasting, a celebration of tabernacles. A place of prayer, a sanctuary for the nomadic Ark of God, for the pegged out, for the stretched and straining of ropes and heartstrings, pulled too tight, the object and the subject of love with taut fingers reaching, far apart. A place to hide an inheritance, to fall down disrobedly drunk and disorderly after the first fruits fermented in the full spectrum of the rainbow, somewhere to woo the beloved, keep sacred chalices or feed angels in disguise.
Somewhere to understand impermanence, movement, displacement, somewhere to escape the fear of knocking, envelopes and officials. Here is freedom perhaps, smoked in a pipe of peace, found in a sweat lodge, a circle of joining outer and inner, staying and going, stillness and dance: all life is here, spiralling out from the centre.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015