We are Embodied Souls
"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." — Thorin Oakenshield
Spiritual formation, good or bad, is always profoundly social... Strictly speaking there is nothing ‘just between me and God.’
— Dallas Willard
Certain work, and certain blessings, can only happen when the Sons and Daughters of a loving Father share a room. There’s something irreplaceable, sacred, and holy in the bread, the laughter, and the silence shared. In an industry where remote work and virtual meetings are the norm it is a genuine sacrifice to leave our homes, disrupt our schedules, and make fellowship manifest at a table set with care.
The Road is where our doorstep meets destiny and Emmaus is an archetype. The House is where we rest, or learn, or sharpen our swords.
But The Table...oh the table...this is where Imladris was born and breathes best the scents of Heaven.
Foster records the line that saves the anxious host: a guest saying, “I don’t want any coffee… I just want to visit. Won’t you sit down and talk with us!”
Ol’ Benedict tells us to receive the guest as Christ. The abbot eats with the travelers. The Holy Spirit of Hospitality was our first, and most enduring, impulse. If Imladris has a flagship, it is this: a feast, in the forest, with friends.
How we feast
Each in-person event is limited to about 120 people on purpose. As The Art of Gathering puts it, this is about where “intimacy and trust is still palpable at the level of the whole group, and before it becomes an audience.” Intimacy, serendipitous meetings, and the chance to meet future allies is the goal. The event is crafted to host the Holy Spirit first, and our guests in that warm embrace.
Places set
Envision a vineyard in a Shire-like setting. Now add gardens and waterfalls, an abbey and ale made by methodical monks. We come to the garden to find rest for souls and reflection for our upcoming quests.
This is our flagship feast where we focus primarily on renewing our battle-weary souls.
Picture a fire, in a castle, in March, in Colorado Springs. The red rocks of Glen Eyrie stand at attention as our spring feast attends chiefly to gaming’s cultural response.
Gondolin is yet aspirational, but when the Lord makes a way this is the name we are keeping warm.
Imagine hickory, both the smoke and the sight, in a brisk southern autumn where slow water wanders alongside a board set in the morning mist. The music still whispers from last night's worship, and the brave company cheers the wins and warriors of our shared celebration.
Lórien is yet aspirational, but when the Lord makes a way this is the name we are keeping warm.
Meetings between feasts
These are not retreats. They are meals in someone else’s city. Come if you are already in the room. The list hears the restaurant first.
Wedgwood Circle — dinner. Friday, November 13, 2026. Franklin, Tennessee. A table beside the Circle, pondering Lórien in the nearness.
GDC — lunch. Tuesday, March 3, 2027. San Francisco. We eat together during the week the industry gathers. Not a booth. A board.
If you will be in either city, leave word. Seats are few on purpose.