Dancing with Mountains is not a destination. It is not a school. It is not a set of teachings. It is the flicker of something else—something that moves when you stop looking directly at it.

Here, in the aftermath of the answer, where the floor gives way and language loses its grip, we gather. Not to be fixed, but to fall together into deeper forms of noticing. Not to win the fight, but to touch the wound and listen for what leaks through.

We meet in the places where the world no longer behaves - where maps fray, where reason stutters, where old gods stammer new names. In the company of mountains and mycelia, thresholds and thunder, we practice a kind of trembling attention. We ask what it means to be in crisis without rushing to be resolved by it.