“In slowing down and living consciously, in coming home to ourselves, our very existence becomes the art form. The meaning is as rich or as poor as we claim it to be. To press linen is then as poised as backpacking the Maldives and packing tea before dawn roots us like barefooted steps across the Earth’s forest floor. Light lingers. The chipped paint on the shutters, all at once, writes words of brave perseverance. There is no destination, only moss covered resting beds scattered along the path of sweet relief. Won’t you rest?”

To be at one with community. To see beyond what we have known. To come home to our joy.