Five o'clock and five-thirty, I must be there to regather my young ones, all played out with dates I arranged just today. Friendships in the making, with mother's full support...their containers. Latin root, continere, to hold together. Reflections of themselves, their worlds seen in others, a gracious exchange.
Words, words in staccato, I know I know. Still seeking that free space where I soared above all, plucking from the fruit trees all that would serve me, listening in between. Where the soul arises of its own doing, the not-doing place, the arising without acting.
It's just. Such open forgiveness and allowing clears the space, and the sounds are suggested...the words its translation. Rudolph Steiner and his eurhythmy, where consonants and vowels suggest the course. And all we have to do is wait and receive, finding gratitude for its obedient way.