The table was a heavy, darkened, large plank of wood. It appeared polished from the decades, if not centuries, of elbows and hands sitting at the table. Hands that pushed up and away from the table, or eased someone’s way down to the heavy bench that waited to bear the load of a weary guest. Hands that may have slapped the table in hearty laughter. Or smacked it in riled anger. Hands that sat listless as they came to rest after a days work, a days journey, or life’s anguish.
Today’s hands lay casually, on either side, of the steaming bowl of stew. Each hand lying on it’s side, as if they were going to close in and circle around the bowl. But they didn’t. The small plate of crusty bread sat just inches away. A heavy cider in a large mug sent out steamy messages of apples and cloves dancing together.
There was no hurry.
Though hungry, it would wait a few minutes. For thanks to be given, the quiet gratitude being the first course, the start of settling the appetite.
When gratitude is as tangible and necessary as the bread and drink to sustain …. life takes on a clarity.
Life, and living, is good.