gathered so far as a journey of cues to a fermenting vision, from the heart, from under the skin, through the sourdough of that matter at my fingertips. The matter that is mother.  

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The mo/ti/ons of the moon

High - low tide

Empty vessels

Full cups

Waters waves soils perhaps songs of endangered species of care. 

This is one of the visions dripped so far. 

The Moon Salon springs into a new iteration, setting a ‘feral table’ with attention, food, reverence, deep listening, slowing down, nourishment, microorganisms and beauty. 

An embroidered glossary of care. Bread and roses. Inner and outer fermentations, metamorphosis, emergent memory. 

Collective care looks like love shared. Bread shared. Silence shared. Listening together. Small gestures. The sense of touch, having touch, touching, being touched. Another almost lost language.

I continue to explore what arises through aliveness, through a field of resonant intuitive truths, through synchronicity. 

And now, I feel the roots of my family offering a floor, strength, and a structure of windows to be opened when the time ripens. Or when comes a certain wind of heart. Maybe as a prayer. 

I learnt from my family of origin to recognize food as a language of care and love. Always available, always abundant, ever present. 

I learnt to thresh green peas and defoliate corn sat on the floor, running through fields of flowers and playing under fig trees pregnant with the luscious fruits and their milk, their stickiness, the sap, their staying on the fingers. I learnt in those early days what now feels like a promise to bring back to the outer circle of my action and service: to offer food as medicine, as love, as care, as beauty, as delight, as living edible prayers.

Food as a language of reconciliation, of bonding, of tending, of feeding utopias.

Of home 

Of shelter. 

Of belonging.

Food as a nest where being nourished is a both a soul quest, and a soul expression.

This table, this food, these gestures, scents, voices start to tell a manifesto of care. 

As I tend to the mother inside, I notice how the mother principle sneaks in, touching my relationship my own mother, with the mother starter in all ferments, with mother cells, mother land, mother tongue, with the moon and earth mothers. And their sacred polarities. The polarity that generates motion, and thus, is life giving. 

The translation of this landscape happens through lived experience turned embroidered reality. In free flow between what is seen and what is masked. Maybe using traditional embroidery techniques. 

A mapping that takes place at the table 

Over time 

With the shared experience of very small and intimate groups of people

Sensing

Smelling

Tasting

Listening

Communing

Like entering a semi kaleidoscopic dreamlike space.

Like touching an altered state of perception, immersion in slowness.

The landscape happens in layers. 

A tender map in the making, encapsulating our voices, human and more than human, from all directions and elemental families. 

A tender map of stories and emotional topographies, a felt sense of care that at last becomes activated through waters, motions and emotions. Through an ecology of micro life that continues the breath. 

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