I have been present with Ginny at her gatherings for over thirty years, off and on, which is longer than I’ve been part of anything in my life, except writing itself. My entire second book of poetry was formed there, even though the point of gatherings has never been specifically to do ‘creative writing.’ They are freewrites, journaling, even nothing more than just being there, sometimes. Most important, they are a way to become still – a state we all are rapidly forgetting how to find, and in that forgetting, losing our ways to uncover what is beneath what is inside. Stillness flows from Ginny’s voice, from her breath. The paths the stories of the meditations she weaves are wholly revealing, or wholly irrelevant; I often don’t remember the story at all. I remember becoming still. I remember being unfettered. And not thinking about how I got there, or how to get back, because I was connected to the silk rope of Ginny’s voice.