Am in a vintage building, perhaps of craftsman vintage. Very solid, a little shopworn, the floors well-trodden and in places thread-bare.  Somewhat dusty, unkempt. Very occupied and still holding its own repose. It is an established Jung center, of some order or another—continuing, experienced. There is a staff, long-term, a woman who presides at a desk and lived-in work area. There are others who center in upon her location and tap into her sense of the structure of how things happen, how things are proposed and disposed. She acknowledges my presence, and she indeed seems to know why I am on the site though I have not conversed with her, have done nothing to identify myself or what I am doing or even that I know what I am doing. I am a little awkward, in fact, and at one point I spill the ingredients of the usual office tea-coffee-set-up adjacent to her desk. Without a word between us, I accept responsibility for my clumsiness and go about cleaning up my accident. This is all well and good, so what.

And at last I begin intentionally the process of preparing to meet up with Roloff. We are going to work together. A group is convening—out of the blue, out of thin air, and coming into focus more or less spontaneously. First thing is to choose a meeting room, among those available. We do find one. There is a majestic old stone fireplace. A few folks arrive. Somehow a small fire has ignited, but there is little wood available. Since the chairs seem clearly to be forming near the hearth, I go in search of additional wood, without much confidence of succeeding.

In a back room, I am probing around in a space which I am just discovering, and yet I am feeling more and more immediately at home, given permission, belonging. In a corner I see a modest stack of very dry, apparently forgotten, firewood. I grab some hefty blocks and head back into the core area and to our workroom. Behind me I hear some scurrying sounds, and I think, “rodents.” But I am not sure. I’m not worried. It’s not my immediate priority. I trust the process whatever it is and may require—I move along.

Returned, there are additional participants, I lay in more wood, kindle the flames actively. Lee and I have not discussed anything whatsoever about what we are going to do. It doesn’t cross my mind to ask, to discuss, to worry, or even to wonder. It just is as it is becoming. The fire is a warming factor, yes, and seems obviously important. Something is happening as it should.

I keep waiting for Lee to say some opening words, but he doesn’t. I wonder if that is up to me, if I should speak and make a move to initiate the formation. But next thing I know, he is fully engaged, being himself, working his magic. I am ready to participate in whatever is to be.

But I am called away. Don’t know where, don’t know why, don’t know for how long.

When I return the group has experienced something powerfully transformative with Lee. I feel a bit extraneous. Superfluous even. I’m not sure where Lee has led, or how the leading has come about. I feel slightly displaced or misplaced, out of attunement with what has obviously happened and is still happening. Yet I know that Lee has somehow created the impression that I have something to say, that the situation is whole and intact. I am not sure about the timing. I am not sure about time, sequential time, time available, time remaining, running time—any modality of the times. But I know there is a readiness among the group, and even if it is overtly clear that I don’t know what’s going to happen next, there is consensual trust in the process.

I find myself forming the group into a line, something of a dance line, a serpentine chain of interlinking bodies. And as this formation develops, I instigate a slithering, modulating wave-form, pulsing through our bodies. Something of a slow-motion whiplash. I am concerned about how everyone is doing with this, if it’s okay, if it’s working, if everyone is secure, and if the whole happening is transformative. It is authentic contact dance among total strangers—a very diverse group of strangers, in a big city ambiance, at that. But then I can discern, and accept, that this is important, exactly as it is happening. I am aware that I am experienced and prepared, and that I can trust the emergence—primordially-emergent emerging—in a sacred order that is not to be reckoned mentally but rather accepted and served adeptly.

The group slants and slithers forward a few steps, falling over ourselves, reaching, searching, advancing, and I am one of the participants, and yet I am also the convener, conductor, charged with configuring the wave-form and preserving the vessel of the presently momentous and vividly engaging emptiness/saturating intimacy.

There is one pulsation in one direction, then reverse, another pulsation of motion back through the spinal cord of multiple humans. A lot of heat is generating. Instinctual and erotic verily, but not invasive, not entropic but reverential, all in all.

When this is done—Lee has been out of the room for this part and returns—it is clear that the evening session is complete. We have worked in coordination. There is nothing more to do and nothing whatsoever to say. Everything has happened as was to happen and is.

And music fills my being and our being-here-together. It is a distinct postlude sequence of chords with rhythm and harmony.

Da-da-  dah-dah- dahhhh…

da-DA-da-da-da-da>>>

tone shift up a half-key

Da-da-  dah-dah- dahhhh…

DA-da-da-da-da-da…

And repeat…

A repeating loop…

Moebial musical loop…

I am aware of those who are feeling some awe toward Roloff. Picking up on that, I say, “Well, yes, we’ve done quite a lot of work together. And I know that this work can be deeply affecting. Some of you may be very deeply affected. Affect. Affect. Affect. But this is the work. If you want more, you know where to come.”