They were not performing for anyone in particular. They danced because the dance lived in them, and the earth beneath their boots asked for it. The audience was small, grateful, curious. The drums spoke an older language. And something in me, that had been quiet for too long, stood up and listened.

That was the moment I remembered. Who I am. Why I was born into this world. What I came here to create. How important it is to keep growing inwardly, to keep reaching with your senses toward the sky while your feet stay rooted to the earth. The balance of soil and stars. That is the whole secret.

I did not need a teacher to tell me. I needed a rhythm that was honest enough to wake me up. Malambo did that. My children do that. Vietnamese mornings do that. And now, this place — built slowly, with love and with care — is my way of offering the same to you.

Nad ei tantsinud kellelegi kindlale. Nad tantsisid, sest tants elas nende sees ja maa nende saabaste all nõudis seda. Publik oli väike, tänulik, uudishimulik. Trummid rääkisid vanemat keelt. Ja miski minus, mis oli liiga kaua vaikinud, tõusis üles ja kuulas.

See oli hetk, mil tuletasin meelde. Kes ma olen. Miks olen siia ilma sündinud. Mida tulin siia looma. Kui tähtis on olla pidevas hingelises kasvamises, sirutuda meeltega kosmose poole ja olla samal ajal jalgadega maandatud maa peale. Maa ja tähtede tasakaal. Kogu saladus on seal.

Mul ei olnud vaja õpetajat, kes seda mulle oleks öelnud. Mul oli vaja rütmi, mis oli nii aus, et äratas mu üles. Malambo tegi seda. Mu lapsed teevad seda. Vietnami hommikud teevad seda. Ja nüüd see koht — ehitatud aeglaselt, armastusega ja hoolega — on minu viis seda sama sulle pakkuda.