We danced all night.  Sam had tapes of Native American dances and chants to play on a portable cassette player, but we danced to everything - Uncle Laf's Zigeuner music, Hungarian rhapsodies, and Jersey's favorite wild Celtic songs that were feverishly danced, so she used to tell Sam and me, at every Irish wedding and every wake - fast and slow, exciting and magical, powerful and mysterious.
We danced barefoot around the fire, then outside in the dark meadow atop the mountain that smelled of the first cornflowers of early summer.  Sometimes we touched one another, held hands or danced in each other's arms, but often we danced alone, a different and fascinating experience.
As I danced on and on, it seemed that I truly felt my own body for the first time - not only more centered and balanced within itself, thought that was true too, but also completely connected in some mysterious fashion with the earth and sky.  I felt parts of me dying, falling away in pieces, spinning out into the universe and turning into stars in the vast midnight space, a space spangled with galaxies that seemed to go on forever.
We danced into the morning, until the coals of our fire had flickered out, then we danced out into the wildflower meadow once more, to see the first grey light of dawn bleeding red into the morning sky.  And still we kept on dancing...

The vine represents the journey into the outer world, the quest.  The ivy describes the journey within, the labyrinth.

Kairos and tide wait for no man.  In the Greek tongue, there are two words for time: chronos and kairos.  The first means time as the sun passes through the heavens.  But kairos means the necessary moment - the critical instant when one must catch the tide or be swept under and utterly destroyed.

I don't believe in coincidences, young man… I believe only in destiny.