We gathered at QuiltArtist's home in the city, an old house jammed between gardens of daffodils and hyacinths blooming on a cold spring night. As I came in through the open kitchen door, warm air rushed at me with the smell of burning sage and sweetgrass, melting candle wax, and the simmering of essential oils. Ylang Ylang. Bergamot. Mandarin. Rosewood.
A fire was burning already, sending crackling noises into the room and wisps of light across the hardwood floors. The walls in the living room were hung with quilts that vibrate with colour. The table held oddly curving mugs made by local artists, handmade platters filled with cookies, an assortment of herbal teas.
We gathered in a circle, a group of women who have known each other for years. My kids tease me about this group of friends, referring to them as The FM Women. Spouse claims that there is a Saturday Night Live skit about us. One of the husbands started calling us The Wild Women because we go on a weekend together every fall to the mountains, and -- well, I guess he heard stories.
Tonight we were ready to be peaceful, rather than wild. ReikiWoman led a meditation. My body sunk slowly into the soft pillows of the couch, lulled into relaxation. We talked about children, partners, gardens. About spirit, body, food. We drank hot tea that gave off the scent of lemon.
We wrote our worries on scraps of paper and burned them in the fire. We laughed at mistakes and talked about letting go of regrets. We ended up gathered in the kitchen, clumped around the sink as we drank the last cup of hot tea before returning to our own homes and families. We were all talking faster by then, returning to our normal pace. We talked about men, about haircuts, about sex.
Driving home, the sky was cloud-covered, threatening rain, or perhaps even snow. But towards morning, the full moon moved across the sky, over my roof, and into the patch of night just outside my bedroom window, waking me up to talk in the early hours of the morning.