Sometimes I forget that there is really only one story and that we are all either telling it or listening to it, the story that has loss or near-disaster somewhere in the beginning or middle, maybe it brings us to tears or to our knees, maybe we are overcome by a deluge of water or sorrow, maybe we are swarmed by locusts or cells gone wild, maybe fear of the dark threatens to ravage every chance of happiness, maybe there is a fire burning out of control in the secret chambers of our hearts. Maybe we can't quite remember why we have been trying so hard to be good, or why we are pushing these boulders up the steepest hill again and again, maybe we just can't remember who we are. Forgetting is so easy. And yet, and yet. If we are what we eat then I'm hoping this meal, this moment, this sharing of hearts and minds and bodies and breath will bring us back to ourselves at last. We will look into each other's eyes and know that even in the coldest part of winter, under layers of dead leaves and scarred soil, a new returning to life is already beginning; what seems lost is merely dormant before the next awakening. And what we have learned together is that we are enough, we are exactly enough and more, we are already full of everything we need, and there is so much more to go around, there is more and more and more.