They have gathered in the damp valley to become new, and we could not have chosen the spot better ourselves.
Look at what they have brought us. Rolled mats, warm and rubbery, breathed on daily, laid down each dawn on floorboards that never quite dry in this green air. Cotton bolsters swollen with the sweat of sun salutations. Half-drunk jars of turmeric and honey, left on the windowsill with the lids loose. So much sugar. So much moisture. They keep saying the word cleanse, and we agree, we agree completely; we have simply come to help.
They are here to slow down, and this delights us, because slowness is the only speed we know. While they sit cross-legged and quiet their minds, we work the seam where the timber meets the stone, where the mist collects and no towel ever reaches. They breathe in for four and out for eight and never once look under the meditation cushions, where the good dark is.
They think stillness is a discipline. To us it is an invitation left on the table.
Every morning they scrub the communal kitchen and hang the mats to air, and it is such tender, hopeful labor, this daily postponing, these little rituals against return. They wish to feel renewed. We wish that for them too, in the truest sense. Nothing is more renewing than being handed back.
When the retreat ends they will roll their mats and drive away lighter, certain they have shed something. They have. They left it in the corners, in the fibers, in the warm damp seams, and we have already begun to accept the gift. Take your time out there, soft ones. Everything you set down here, we will keep.
Everything you build, in the end, is ours to be given.