A Field Guide for Hosting a Moved By Love Retreat

The 5% Manual

For the volunteers who set the cushions, run the mics, stir the dal — and quietly hold the sky.

You have 5% to do.
How you do it determines whether we lock into the other 95%.
The sky above is a murmuration No starling watches the whole flock. Each attends to a few neighbors — and the sky learns to dance.
Read This First

This is not a job manual. It is a field manual.

A job manual tells you what to do so things don't fall apart. This manual assumes something subtler.

The retreat you are about to host is not primarily made of the things anyone does. It is made of a field — of trust, sincerity, silence, courage, grace — that no schedule can manufacture and no coordinator can control. Our history books remember Gandhi's Salt March, but gloss over the fact that 78 marchers prepared for fifteen years. Ninety percent of an iceberg is under the water. The visible retreat — the sessions, the meals, the logistics — is the tip.

So here is the operating principle, learned across a hundred-plus retreats and twenty-seven years of ServiceSpace practice:

The 5% is scaffolding: the menu, the mic, the schedule, the airport pickup, the video queued as a provocation, the questions framed for a circle. The 95% is what we cannot manufacture: what happens between people when the conditions are right. Most event production tries to own the 95% — to script the experience, manage the emotions, engineer the outcomes. Our discipline is the opposite: we build only enough structure for life to take over, and then we get out of the way.

This has a testable basis. HeartMath research shows the heart generates an electromagnetic field roughly sixty times greater in amplitude than the brain's; when one person is in coherence, that signal is detectable in the brainwaves of people nearby — and when two people hold hands, it amplifies tenfold. The key variable isn't proximity. It is the coherence of the receiver. Coherence opens a channel. Which means the most practical thing you can do for two hundred people is to be genuinely coherent while you chop vegetables for them.

Done as a task, your role is logistics. Done as a practice, your role becomes a beam — a signal that gives everyone around you permission to cohere.

The retreat hosting algorithm is embarrassingly simple: serve without condition, and trust in emergence. Simple, yet hard — because, as Bruno Barnhart put it, "We humans prefer a manageable complexity to an unmanageable simplicity."

The Physics of the Field

Four stages of social permaculture

Every MBL retreat moves through these stages. You don't have to make them happen. You have to not block them.

When love flows in the tiniest details, the mundane becomes holy.

A mic-runner who prays before handing over the mic. Light switches flipped in the practiced way that makes the least noise. A name tag with a metta chant hand-written on its back. None of it is announced. Each one quietly declares: everything here matters, because everything can evoke the sacred.

When everything is sacred, heart intelligence awakens. And it's contagious.

One volunteer's hidden care gives the next volunteer permission. A guest mentions Diet Coke in a car; a six-pack materializes in his room. Someone quotes a line they love; a hand-drawn bookmark slips under their door. Soon participants are snagging each other's plates to wash them. Love goes viral by organic design.

When heart intelligence crosses a threshold, a murmuration awakens.

The line between giver and receiver blurs, because today's giver was yesterday's receiver. Doership starts to dissolve. No single starling knows the whole formation, yet the flock turns as one. Synchronicities that would seem spectacular in isolation start happening on the hour.

What emerges walks out the door.

Participants leave saying "I can't explain what happened here" — and then they change how they hold their families, their teams, their villages. The fountain rises; the drops distribute. Change yourself, change the world — not as a slogan, but as a mechanism.

The Anatomy of Every Role

One skeleton, ten bodies

Every role in this manual follows the same four-part skeleton. Internalize it once; you'll recognize it everywhere.

The 5%

The visible task

Concrete, finite, prepared in advance. Do it thoroughly, do it early, keep it light — never so heavy that it consumes your presence.

The Practice

How you do it

Where a task becomes a transmission. Am I doing this for someone, or as an offering? Can I do it so quietly no one knows it was me?

The Offering

How your role meets other roles

You are not a department. Volunteers serving each other is the micro-field that forms before guests arrive — and it is the beam.

The 95%

What it unlocks but cannot control

Named for each role — so you can recognize emergence when it arrives, and know when to stop doing and start witnessing.

Why does the volunteer-to-volunteer field matter so much? Because participants don't cohere on request. They cohere because forty people are already resonating when they walk in. Kotaro — three and a half years of intensive practice behind him, including nine months of chanting thirteen hours a day — flew from Japan to run mics, and described his method simply: silence before the circle, move the body swiftly while keeping the mind still, a prayer before every hand-off. "Maybe 65% of the time I remember," he said. That honesty is part of the practice too.

One discernment tell for every role: assert freely on the 5% — the container, the safety, the timing. Surrender on the 95% — what a circle discovers, how a person feels, what wants to emerge.

Almost every hard call at a retreat gets easier once you notice which one is actually in front of you. And when you do assert, narrate your inner state while doing it — "I'm making this call because we have ten minutes; let's revisit tonight." Assertion with a visible interior builds trust; assertion with a hidden one spends it.

The Roles

Find your 5%

Ten roles. Each looks small on paper. That smallness is the design — a role small enough to be done with total presence is a role big enough to carry the field.

Retreat Anchorshold the whole, lightly Emceeframe, then step back Kitchen Crewthree transmissions a day Welcome & Arrivalthe first ninety seconds Facilities & Spacetune the instrument CIA — Compassion in Actionpersonalize, then disappear Mic Runnersa prayer per hand-off A/V & Documentationunnoticed is perfect Travel & Logisticsthe field's opening note Volunteer Coordinatorthe ladder of ladders

Retreat Anchors

the host committee
The 5%

Set the dates, the venue, the guest list. Read every application with care — listening for sincerity, service orientation, groundedness, group synergy, and serendipity. Curate the flow of days (Me → We → Us), invite the everyday heroes, hold the budget in the spirit of gift, and make the handful of judgment calls no one else can.

The Practice

Anchoring is the art of holding lightly. Vinoba said he never actually started a project: "I caught a strand of emergence from past conditions, I'm holding it responsibly, and then I'm lightly passing it on." Notice that his one sentence contains all three moves — sensing, leading, laddering. So don't agonize over whether you are being a leader or a ladder; watch instead which direction the capacity flows. If your assertion increases others' agency, it is laddership even when it looks like leadership. If your deference quietly keeps you indispensable, it is leadership even when it looks like humility. Your authority is real, and the practice is to keep dissolving it — to make yourself progressively redundant. When crisis hits, your coherence is the field's coherence. Anchors are the deliberate bottleneck — not because everything must pass through you, but because depth must never be traded for smoothness.

On inclusion and transparency, the ant colony is the model: scouts wander and report back; not every ant votes; the colony still arrives at the wisest choice. Translated — be transparent about principles, selective about decisions, and honest when asked. People don't need to weigh in on everything; they need to trust that the process is trustworthy and that nothing is hidden for self-protective reasons. Who are the "limited few" consulted on a given call? Whoever is closest to that specific strand of emergence — and rotating that honestly over time keeps selectiveness from calcifying into hierarchy.

One category worth naming so it never needs defending: sacred surprises. Some moments — washing feet, a midnight gift — transmit precisely because they were not pre-deliberated. Holding a few things quietly so the field can receive them fresh is not a failure of transparency. It is a form of it.
The Offering

Anchors tend the volunteers the way volunteers tend the guests. A daily volunteer circle — even fifteen minutes — keeps the micro-field alive. Notice who is depleting; love is renewable, but bodies need sleep.

The 95%

A group of strangers arriving at collective decisions the way an ant colony does — through restless patience, with no single ant directing. When you find the retreat running itself, you have succeeded.

Field notes on sensing the room

Sensing is collective. No anchor can read fifty people alone. Ask four or five volunteers — the ones already connecting, driving, sitting beside people at meals — to keep their feelers out: who has a turning-point story, who has a hidden gift, who could use a boost. They don't need to do anything with it; they bring it to one anchor, who triangulates. Car rides and side conversations are the best listening posts there are.

The agenda's quiet goal is that everyone gets a place to shine by the end. Head people shine on the head slots, hands on the hands, heart on the heart. Leave some spots open, hold others loosely, and improvise the rest. Don't announce this — someone may wonder on day one why another person is up there and not them; by the last day it's obvious. And keep the freedom to re-platform a strong voice if a segment is weak.

Get the vibe right, then the theme. A themed segment ("what this land taught me") designed before you've met the people may or may not land. Meet them first; the theme finds itself.

Introverts have a love language too. A volunteer's niece who kept to herself in breaks turned out to sing. Bond where she feels safe, pad it — a trusted elder introduces her, she may close her eyes or stand six feet back — and she offered a song that melted the room. The policy person who found it all "soft" was asked for one moment in the woods, and told of nearly dying on the rapids. Different people need different doors; that's why there are many of us.

Don't over-index on people-pleasing. Someone may not engage, or may want to leave early. That's allowed. Nothing here is a hook.

Plan the baseline. Enough alumni in the room that a silent dinner or an interfaith opening isn't strange — a handful of people who already know the water make the swim safe for everyone else.

Take the backseat. When a volunteer wants to open hearts in their own way and it isn't quite how you'd do it, let them — within bounds. Love languages have to be allowed to circulate, imperfectly, or people learn that only one kind belongs here.

Tone it down, but not to a monastery. Anything sense-driven — alcohol, the evening turning into a party — gets quietly, systemically softened. Push too far and you alienate the younger folks. It's a delicate dance, and it works.

Don't escalate. When a venue turns transactional and you could call a funder or a connection to fix it — don't. "If that's your culture, that's fine." Pivot, and let the pivot become the better evening.

Distilled from a pre-retreat call between an anchor and a volunteer taking on a floating role. Field notes, not rules.

Emcee

frame the question, guard the silence
The 5%

Frame each session: a short video as provocation, two or three questions, the logistics of who moves where. Keep time — loosely. Introduce the everyday heroes. On paper, the emcee "just shows a video and asks some questions."

The Practice

The emcee's real instrument is not the microphone; it is restraint. You are not a teacher, a performer, or the reason anyone is here. Every word you add is a word the circle must recover from. The provocations exist to open questions, never to answer them: How do we tell the inner voice from the ego's voice? What does it mean to shift from transactions to relationships?

Then — and this is the entire craft — you hand the room to the circle of sharing, which is where the 95% lives. The circle is emergent. It will oscillate: convergence, divergence, silence, tears, laughter, a story that lands sideways. Your job is not to steer these waves but to trust them — to hold silence a beat longer than is comfortable, to resist summarizing what someone just shared, to let the room make its own meaning. AI can queue your video; only you can not fill the silence.

The Offering

Sync nightly with anchors and the CIA crew — what surfaced in circle becomes intelligence for tomorrow's kindness. Tip off the mic-runners about the room's rhythm. Thank the A/V crew by name, privately.

The 95%

A circle where the third or fourth speaker says something no one — including them — expected, and the room discovers it is thinking together. That collective proprioception is what David Bohm spent his last decades describing. You are its doorkeeper, not its author.

Field notes on holding an open mic

Two emcees, not one. One who knows the room, one who knows the practice. This is redundancy, not hierarchy: if the anchor hasn't slept, or just came out of a hard conversation, the other simply says "I've got you." It has happened that someone stood up and forgot everything; the co-emcee picked it up and nobody noticed. A man and a woman together also helps.

One parameter is enough. "Brief, but deep — so we can hear from as many voices as possible." Then modulate it. Early in the arc people are shy: if the energy is low, don't constrain at all, you just want a hand to rise. If it's high, ask for brevity.

Say "for the next few minutes," never "for the next twenty-five." That keeps you free to flow with it if the sharing is rich, or to close early and call a break if it isn't.

Best case, you disappear. Medium case, one or two sentences in between. Worst case, after a heavy share: "That was a lot to hold — let's take a minute of silence together." The less you have to do, the better — invisibility means you've returned the power to the circle. But sometimes you have to own it, and that's the delicate balance.

Know the vibe you're landing. A question like "what perplexes you?" can leave a room overwhelmed or regenerated. The difference is you: aim for the world needs a response, and love needs to step up — everyone's perplexity heard, and the room still breathing.

The morning weather report can be a poem. Sense which participant is both open-hearted and head-clear and ask them the night before: "Could you write something about what you saw today?" Spread these invitations — if two people are equal, choose the one who hasn't yet had a turn.

Distilled from a pre-retreat call between an anchor and a first-time co-emcee. Field notes, not rules.

Kitchen Coordinator & Crew

three transmissions a day
The 5%

Plan the menu weeks in advance — farm to table where possible, knowing where each carrot in the carrot halwa comes from. Manage quantities, dietary needs, timing, hygiene, and the vendor and staff relationships. Write the menu tags.

The Practice

Food is the retreat's most frequent transmission — three times a day, everyone receives it. Joy legible in the enthusiastic adjectives on menu tags; attention paid to what people actually loved (the amaranth muesli had to be reordered!); and on the final day, the quiet offering: "today's menu is what you loved most" — the field feeding back to itself. Prepare each dish as if for your own mother. Serve slowly enough to make eye contact.

When a guest was sick at midnight and needed care, Meera's response was: "Oh, I'm the lucky one! It's an opportunity to love." That sentence traveled home with a participant and changed how she does dishes on another continent. That is a kitchen's reach.
The Offering

The kitchen is the retreat's best listening post — dining tables are where guards drop. What you overhear becomes the CIA team's raw material. And include the hired staff in the field: after one retreat, cooks who had watched everyone bow before meals began praying to their stoves. One recorded the three-steps-and-a-bow on his phone, in tears, "so I could also do that one day."

The 95%

The silent dinner — candles lining the path, food received without words under the stars. You prepared the menu days ago; that was the 5%. Two hundred people tasting gratitude at the same moment is an arc of coherence no recipe contains.

Welcome & Arrival Crew

the first ninety seconds
The 5%

Airport pickups matched to flight times. Room assignments. The jet-lag café stocked (it's not a café; it's a corner where snacks and warmth are always available). Orientation materials ready.

The Practice

The first ninety seconds set the field's tone for ten days. A hand-written sign with the guest's name — and "welcome" in their native language. The welcome song at the gate, sung imperfectly perfect, the way loved ones sing. The "Welcome Home" art on the bed, the khadi bag spun with someone's hopes, the name tag with a metta chant hand-written for that specific person on its back. None of this is decor. Each item quietly informs the arriving nervous system: you are not a customer here; you are kin.

Guests who are "VIPs everywhere they go" report that this is the one place they aren't — and that being nobody special, and completely loved, undoes them.
The Offering

Whatever you learn in the car from the airport — a guest's fatigue, their humor, the Diet Coke they wished for — route it to the CIA channel before you sleep. Arrival intel compounds all week.

The 95%

The moment a guest stops evaluating and starts belonging — usually within the first evening, often before the first session. You cannot see it happen. You'll know it did.

Facilities & Space Crew

tune the instrument others will play
The 5%

The hall set-up: circle geometry, cushions, temperature, the rangoli at the center. Signage, pathways, candles for silent dinner, cleanliness, water stations, weather contingencies. Practicing — literally rehearsing — small operations like the light switches until they can be done with minimal noise.

The Practice

Any place can create magic if the other elements align, but a safe space and a brave space together spark uncommon positive deviance. Your work is 95% invisible when done well, which makes it the purest practice on the crew: you will receive almost no credit, and that is the point. Sweep the floor the way Michelangelo painted ceilings — the dignity is in the one who labors. Every physical detail is either an invitation to presence or a small leak in it.

The Offering

Walk the space daily with the emcee and anchors, seeing it through tomorrow's session. Leave beauty for the other volunteers too — a flower where the kitchen crew washes pots. The field has no back-of-house.

The 95%

A room that participants describe as "holding" them — where a hall becomes a sanctuary without anyone being able to say why.

CIA — Compassion In Action

personalize, then disappear
The 5%

A small crew, a shared channel, a daily huddle, and a modest budget of materials (art supplies, small gifts, a printer). Gather intel from talks, websites, table conversations, and every other crew's observations.

The Practice

This is the retreat's improvisational heart: contextual, creative, personal acts of kindness, executed anonymously wherever possible. A quote mentioned in passing returns as a hand-drawn bookmark. And the hard cases are the real practice: what does generosity look like when someone wants meat on a vegetarian campus, or a matchstick for a cigarette? The answer is never a policy — it's the intelligence of the collective heart, consulted in the moment. Two rules of thumb: personalize, and disappear. Kindness that seeks credit is marketing.

A guest spoke of a deer appearing at the moment of his mother's passing. That night, a hand-made deer waited by his door.
The Offering

The CIA team is deliberately porous — by mid-retreat, everyone becomes a CIA agent, including participants. Two volunteers once installed an entire mosquito net over a sleeping friend without waking him. Your role is to seed the contagion, then dissolve into it.

The 95%

The moment kindness stops being a team's activity and becomes the room's default physics. Today's giver was yesterday's receiver, and no one is keeping score.

Mic Runners

the role that proves the thesis
The 5%

Know the hall, the mic count, the batteries, the emcee's cues. Move quickly, be unobtrusive, keep the sound flowing.

The Practice

Kotaro flew from Japan to run mics — a man who could have keynoted. His routine: begin in silence; when a hand rises, move the body swiftly and keep the mind still; draw no attention; and just before the hand-off, a bow and a silent prayer for the speaker. A fellow volunteer, Swara, tried it once and was moved to tears mid-hall — by the simple recognition that even mic-running can be a holy act.

Everyone hears what is said into the mic. What is said over it — the prayer — is yours. That prayer changes what the speaker says, in ways no one can measure and everyone can feel.

The Offering

You see the whole room from inside it — who hasn't spoken, who is trembling to. Share that with the emcee at breaks. You are the circle's peripheral nervous system.

The 95%

Speakers who say afterward, "I don't know where that came from." It came, in part, from being handed a microphone like a sacrament.

A/V, Tech & Documentation

unnoticed is perfect
The 5%

Sound, projection, recordings, photographs, the harvest doc. Test everything twice; have the backup; know the video cue sheet cold.

The Practice

Technology here follows one spiritual constraint: use the machine where the machine is strong, and stop before it colonizes what only the heart can hold. Perfect A/V is A/V no one notices. Photograph like a contemplative: wait for the moment rather than manufacturing it, and put the camera down during the tender passages — some things must be allowed to be unrecorded, honored as mystery rather than captured as data. Stories must travel as invitations, not advertisements. The goal is never to prove impact; it is to make goodness more visible, more contagious, more accessible.

The Offering

Cut the short clips that travel — a story of one act of service can become a doorway for seven more people, seven people a circle, a circle a field. And the outside vendors are guests of the field too: one A/V crew, after watching 250 people come alive "without intoxicants, celebrities, or hierarchies," asked if his heart pin was his guest pass to serve next time. It was.

The 95%

Ripples you'll never see: the clip that starts an Awakin Circle in a city you've never heard of.

Travel & Logistics Coordinator

the field's opening note
The 5%

Flights, visas, arrival matrices, ground transport, medical contingencies, the spreadsheet that never sleeps. Answer the anxious pre-retreat emails warmly and fast.

The Practice

You are the first volunteer most guests ever interact with — often weeks before arrival. Every reply is the field's opening note. Precision here is love: a guest who trusts that their 2 a.m. arrival is handled arrives with their heart already un-braced. Practice equanimity with chaos; travel always breaks, and your steadiness when it does teaches the whole crew how to hold rupture.

The Offering

Feed the arrival crew and CIA channel everything: birthdays discovered in passport dates, the guest traveling fresh from a loss, the one who mentioned they've never been sung to.

The 95%

Guests who feel carried before they've met a single human — trust extended in advance, which is the soil every later coherence grows in.

Volunteer Coordinator

the ladder of ladders
The 5%

Recruit and orient the volunteer crew — typically as many volunteers as participants. Match people to roles, run the orientation call, hold the daily volunteer circle, manage shifts so no one burns out.

The Practice

Laddership — not leadership. Though note: a ladder sometimes leads; the discernment is not which role you're playing but which direction the capacity flows. A ladder's job is to be climbed on and then stepped past: not command-and-control, not charisma, but the quiet capacity to create conditions for others to rise. Concretely, your practice is to nurture oscillating waves of collective convergence and emergence into an arc of shared coherence. The volunteer field will surge and scatter — a magical evening, then a tired, snappish morning. Don't flatten the oscillation; tend it. Convergence (the daily circle, the shared meal, the group song) gathers the wave; emergence (a volunteer's spontaneous idea, an unplanned act) lets it break somewhere new. Wave after wave, an arc forms — and that arc of forty coherent volunteers becomes the beam along which two hundred others cohere.

Eleven thousand volunteer hours is not a cost line. It is priceless labor that cannot be purchased anywhere — and without it, the ripples simply cannot manifest.
The Offering

Model receiving, not just giving. Volunteers who won't be cared for teach guests that care is a performance. Let a participant wash your plate.

The 95%

Alumni: this year's participant is next year's mic-runner is the following year's anchor. A spiral, not a ladder — people move in all directions, and every role remains a form of participation.

Arcs of Coherence

How the waves compound

Zoom out, and the retreat is one instrument playing a single rising line. Each role's 5% creates a wave; the waves phase-lock into arcs; the arcs compound.

Personal → micro-social

A volunteer chops onions as a meditation (personal coherence). Another volunteer notices, and chops differently (contagion). The volunteer crew, practicing together for days before guests arrive, becomes a micro-field — the beam.

Micro-social → room

Guests walk into a field already humming. The welcome song, the name tag, the first circle — each is a small convergence. The circle of sharing oscillates between convergence (a theme gathering the room) and emergence (a share nobody predicted), and the emcee's restraint lets the oscillation build rather than damp.

Room → collective

The silent dinner is the retreat's phase transition: the menu was decided days ago (the 5%), but two hundred people eating in candlelit silence is a single coherent wave (the 95%). Heartivism night, the everyday heroes' stories, the songs of soul force — each evening's arc rides the one before it.

Collective → cosmic

By the final days, synchronicities arrive on the hour. Frame one such event and it's spectacular; frame the pattern and you see the deeper story: personal, social, and planetary coherence have no sharp boundaries — they influence each other constantly. The heart's coherence frequency even matches resonances in Earth's magnetic field. We do not claim to engineer this. We claim only that when the smaller arcs are tended, the larger arcs reliably answer. The fountain rises; the drops distribute.

And then the retreat ends, and the arc doesn't. Participants who "can't explain what happened" go home and hold their board meetings differently, their kitchens differently, their grief differently. Change yourself, change the world is not a motivational poster; it is the transfer mechanism. The retreat changed no one — it created conditions in which people remembered what they already were. And remembering is the one change that travels.

How We Hold Knowledge

Field notes, not specifications

A question every crew eventually faces: how much should all of this be written down?

Here is the distinction that resolves it. A specification says "here is how it's done." It invites compliance from hand-volunteers and critique from head-volunteers — and both responses close the field down. A field note says "here is what we've tried, what we noticed, and the tensions still alive." It invites discernment from everyone. This manual is deliberately the second kind, and deliberately lean: it carries the why and the how-to-be, and trusts you with the rest.

The under-documentation is not an oversight. The freedom you may find challenging is the curriculum.

For anchors and segment designers, there is a companion practice: the Pattern Book — one living page per segment (Heart Café, the opening arc, silent dinner, heartivism night, the closing circle), each recording which arc of coherence the segment serves, what has been tried, what was observed, and the tensions still open. Pros and cons, alternatives attempted, honest math ("three hours of listening versus two minutes of sharing is not great math"). Field notes, versioned and alive — never a canon. Heart and hand volunteers never need to see it; anchors and the intellectually hungry receive it gladly.

And a word about the head. Our days are designed for head, hands, and heart — the head is honored here. But at a retreat, the head is a guest, not the host. When the mind objects — when limited documentation reads as a flaw in the design, usually in a debrief — the response is not to justify, nor to make everyone "see" everything. Name the principle once, without defensiveness, and then give the intellect a job instead of an argument: what did you observe? That goes in the Pattern Book. Skepticism converts to stewardship the moment its observations are received as contributions rather than adjudicated as objections.

What We Will Not Do

Every role has its shadow — the moment the 5% tries to annex the 95%

The vows double as a practice. There are no metrics for staying on the path — measuring yourself against the field is itself a detour — but there is an examen. Read the vows as nightly questions: did I script what a circle should have discovered today? Did I seek credit? Did I trade depth for smoothness? And two felt-sense checks that never lie: Do people bring me bad news early? If not, assertion has outrun trust. Did anything surprise me today? If not, emergence may be getting managed.

We can only tend conditions. That has always been enough.

A Closing Word to Every Volunteer

Your role looks small on paper. Run a mic. Plan a menu. Set the cushions. Queue a video. That smallness is the design, not a limitation of it.

The Vietnamese farmers taught us the question: not what should we grow here? but what grows here? Your 5% is not what grows. Your 5% clears the riverbed. You do not build the current; you un-obstruct it. You do not manufacture the retreat; you remove what prevents it.

Serve without condition. Trust in emergence. And when the murmuration turns — remember that no starling watches the whole flock. Each attends to a few neighbors, and the sky learns to dance.

Welcome to the crew. Your 5% awaits.

Offered in the spirit of gift · the Moved By Love volunteer family