Written for my Irish friends
Like streams on the Mourne slopes, we merge round rock and turf, and descend together into still waters.
Like migratory birds we return to this table of friendship, to tell our stories, to remind ourselves of who we are. We are hard-wired to feast in this field together.
Time stills itself at the table of friendship as we bless our abundance and lift the cup our life. We chew and swallow the presence that inhabits the space between laughter, joy and sorrow.
The lime dressing soaks into our green leaves and beetroots, as spirit is drawn into matter. We are tossed together, refreshed by a foretaste of the merging feast that is our destiny.
We have come to a table where sacrifice lifts a glass to gratitude and sorrow reaches out to grasp the plate of joy.
We come to a table where our ego-shells resolve into porous membranes that we might pass beyond mere language into real presence.
And for all this feasting, still, only a glimpse of that broad heart-land that we are learning to make our homeland.