Meeting Bobinsana: Christine's Story
I turn a long-handled wooden spoon in five gallons of steaming liquid, bringing up a dense purple paste from the bottom, making sure it dissolves evenly, self-hypnotizing through repetitive motion. Mason jars of various sizes, and funnels and ladles and filters, are scattered about the counters, along with local honey and tumblers of fresh rosemary, spilanthes, mint. Flocks of tiny yellow finches and various other songbirds murmur about, the breeze caresses my bare legs, a landmate in the distance collects blossoms for this morning’s flower mandala. As I stir, I hum a low chant and think of all the people who need love energy and pull that through my body and hands and voice and send it into the tea. When it reaches a just-so medium-density, medium-transparency brownish pink, I turn off the fire and my friend K and I work to transfer ...
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