The table was set upon concrete slabs, looking as if it were something out of a religious painting. The pitcher was placed to the right of a platter, oozing steam from beneath the glass dome. My feet were moving forward, first one and then the other, slowly at first and then all at once to reach that pitcher and the platter. My hands reached out to drink but stopped. The leaves hanging around the concrete were swaying; there was a breeze here that hadn’t been felt for many years. I rarely left the cave. My eyes rarely saw offerings like this, and my brain wondered if I should take them. My throat was thirsty with days of sand and wind; my stomach rumbled with emptiness.

Yet, the monk had sent me here to learn to feel this - and not act.

My feet walked away from the table and when my neck turned back to look again, the scene was gone.