Wednesday, 5 June 2013

Kilter (II)

The master said nothing. He put his bowl of half-eaten cereals on the wooden floor. The bowl filled with milk and flakes of sun-ripened corn. Harvest in a bowl. He smiled, then got to his feet. With his forefinger extended, he drew an imaginary circle onto the floor. Then invited us to draw a circle on a fresh page of our notebooks. Here, within his imaginary circle, and within the circles we had each drawn, we had created a sacred space. A place of safety. Protective sacred circles in which we were invited to record our innermost thoughts without fear of being made to feel foolish. Each person put pen to paper and began to write. Ah, the therapeutic sound of collective pens rolling words onto paper! The odd sound of thought becoming an almost tangible thing in the room while the master became invisible, invisible to our eyes but a presence in our thoughts. I took up my pen and began to write.

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