1972- Sherborne House, Thanksgiving:
Before the plates emerged from the Servery, Mr. Bennett stood. Together we invoked the prayer that he had created, imprinting in us one of Gurdjieff’s primary principles, The Law of Reciprocal Maintenance.
All life is one, and everything that lives is Holy.
Plants, animals and Man—
all must eat to live and nourish one another.
We bless the lives that have died to give us food.
Let us eat consciously, resolving by our Work
to pay the debt of our existence.
Meals were usually eaten in silence, but not tonight. I saved a chair for Jack, who was serving as were Fish and Larry. When they could, the guys joined us with heaping plates. Next to me, Jack pushed his fine hair out of his face, lifting his fork.
Remembering Thanksgivings at home, I turned and asked, “Hey Jack, you missing your family?”
“No. I’m eating mashed potatoes.”
“Oh, come on!” I gave him a shove. “Really.”
Jack looked up from his plate, fork in hand and admitted, “Yeah, I miss them.”
The moment passed and we fell back into our conversations. Animated voices rose, hands gestured, elbows propped chins, wine poured. I was having a great time dusting off my social personality for the first time since arriving at Sherborne House.
Above the growing din, Mick Sutton stood, looking dapper in his jacket, tapping a wine glass until the chatter and clatter of eating grew quiet. Mr. Bennett looked up from his plate, encompassing the room with his Cheshire grin and announced in his distinct British accent, “Let us all meet in the ballroom for Movements in fifteen minutes. Our honored guests,” he nodded to Harry the Postmaster and his wife, Mavis, “are invited to observe. I would like everyone to help clean up so the kitchen crew can participate also.”
Shock—an inaudible groan floating around the room. Movements? How are we going to do Movements stuffed with food and saturated with wine? He’s got to be kidding!
The silent answer resonated within me: Super Effort.
I thought of Mrs. Popoff and the maxim, “Do what It doesn’t want to do.” How else can we become our own Master?
Voices started up, subdued. People began rising from the tables, scraping and stacking plates, carrying them to the servery. Thoughts of a wine-hazed, lazy evening evaporated. Everyone pitched in to help. The student body had fifteen minutes to do what the usual cleanup crew did in 1 1/2 hours.
Efficiently, dishes moved from dining room to Servery. Practiced hands scraped, stacked, washed and rinsed hundreds of plates, glasses and silverware. Others wiped down the large wooden tables, rearranged and set them up for breakfast, while still others swept the floor. The kitchen downstairs clanged with the washing of huge metal pots, mixing bowls, serving utensils and cutlery. Food was wrapped, labeled and stored, counter tops cleaned, the floor swept and mopped. Everyone knew what to do and did it.
Fifteen minutes later, we filed into the ballroom, all of us.
Harry and Mavis, always polite and curious, sat with Elizabeth, Dick Holland, and other staff members. What were our guests thinking, I wondered, as they faced us in our feast-day finery and bare feet? We filled the ballroom, standing row behind row. It was pitch black outside.
Well done!