Today, as I heated up my tea water in our electric kettle inside our home, the memory of preparing tea at the gathering arose within and brought a sharp pang of longing. Each morning, I would head down from my tent to the central campfire, and join at least a couple of elders and several others of our community who would be sitting around it. I'd share of the hot water in one of the kettles sitting over the fire, then fill up the container for the next folks if it was running low.
I feel a well of longing and sadness within me, for the deep-rooted companionship we all shared there, living in the open air, the safety and encouragement to be as weird and fantastic as we all are, the easy joviality and silliness, the shared treasuring of the village we create together.
