I lose track of my body easily.

At the sanctuary, though I would also lose track, each day Loba's lilting voice came drifting sweetly in like the aroma of the gourmet meal she walked down to me each day to prepare. A sample menu?

-Stinging nettle, garlic, and potato soup, dotted with fresh mozarella cheese and fresh clover pesto
-Corn on the cob
-Thick slice of home-baked bread with egg and garlic on top, toasted crunchy in an iron skillet
-Cranberry/blueberry/nut bread-pudding with a baked apple

Served to me on a plate or bowl arranged quickly yet deliberately and always beautifully by Loba as she talked softly on occasion, listened, and worked intently for me-----a gift I didn't take lightly-----mealtimes were quite special. Before eating (unless I forgot and stole a first taste, which happened once or twice), Loba took my hands, looked in my eyes, and said a blessing of gratitude over the food and over us, a ritual I'd mostly given up (but now wish to begin again, with a new attitude). This prayer served to summon me, rather like the wind that works its way into a small tornado summons the leaves and debris in its path to its form. I could focus on this moment and its beauty----on the delight of eating and the wonder of such bounty and color.

Even the tidying up afterward was special and reminded me of childhood Sundays as I watched my grandmother puttering around her kitchen picking up dishes, standing over the sink, washing them carefully and stacking them to dry as she finished up before taking a towel to rhythmically wipe them dry and set them back on the shelves.

What makes these simple moments so beautiful? The moments are full, blossomed open like flowers in their prime, no noise or hurry (like a television or radio blaring in the background) to disturb us, all focus on the coming meal or its satisfied passing. As the body's sacred needs are met, we are reminded of our connection to each other and the earth and grateful for the opportunity to take notice.