The Dance of Three

This Trinity Sunday, I find myself returning not to doctrine, but to rhythm. Not to the architecture of belief, but to the felt sense of harmony—of life arranged, again and again, in patterns of three.

It began on Friday night with my Mater Misericordiae circle. We gathered for a simple, joyful evening of praying the rosary, sharing our lives, and flower arranging. The room was fragrant with mint and peony, the table strewn with wild grasses and sun-warmed flox. Our teacher spoke to us like a quiet breeze, inviting us to play with form and flow. But when she spoke of the artistic principle of three, something in me clicked into place.

“Three creates movement,” she said. “It draws the eye. It opens the heart.”

One is a gesture.
Two is a relationship.
Three is a story.

As I cradled a delicate peony, a curling frond of fern, and a blade of sweetgrass, I felt the familiar pulse of something I’ve long known but rarely named: the power of three. It lives not just in flowers and design, but in spirit, in psyche, in the soul’s deep grammar.

The next day, I laboured in the garden at FoxHaven. It was one of those full days that begins with birdsong and ends with dirt under the nails and gratitude in the bones. We split hostas, weeded and sculpted beds, paused in the welcoming shade and listened to the chorus of pond frogs. Tasks came and went. Dogs barked and chased shadows. Insects buzzed. Breezes whispered mysteries. We soaked tired muscles in the warm waters of gratitude.

And again—three.
Body, soul, spirit.
Labour, beauty, rest.
Earth, water, sun.

By evening I was bone-tired, and full of that quiet joy that arises not from performance, but participation.

Later that night, I was treated to a belated birthday dinner by my mother—a gift from her to me. My husband joined us, and we returned to our favourite French bistro, where we’ve celebrated many milestones. The three of us once travelled together to France, not for leisure alone, but for a cooking course. In a rustic kitchen in the Uzés, we learned the sacred science of butter and broth, the art of slow food and shared joy. We chopped shallots and whisked cream, drank wine and shared stories with stranger who became friends. It wasn’t just about the meals. It was about the making.

The night, as we savoured French cuisine made by our hands, and clinked glasses over shared memories and emerging dreams, I saw how that memory braided itself into the present moment. Three chairs, one table. Three lives, still woven together. Three stories, still unfolding.

And all of this returned me to a deeper remembering.

Years ago, I had the great blessing of studying with Marion Woodman. Among the many gifts she offered, one continues to echo through my life: the Dance of Three. In that sacred work of BodySoul, three women take on three roles—dancer, witness, and container—and move together in a ritual of healing. One moves from the soul. One bears witness with presence. One holds the whole with love.

It was in that triadic dance that I first experienced the profound healing that arises not from interpretation, but from being seen, supported, and allowed to move with the truth of the body.

While Jung often lauds the symbol of the four—quaternity as the image of wholeness, of the mandala complete—I have found that in the feminine, the number three pulses with life. Maiden, mother, crone. Birth, death, rebirth. Dancer, witness, container. There is movement in three, a spiral rather than a square. Not a fixed completeness, but a flowing, relational becoming. This is the pattern of love. Of life itself.

And isn’t that the Trinity?
Not a logic to be solved, but a dance to be entered.
Not symmetry, but love in motion.

Today, I placed three stems in a vase on my altar: a peony, a branch of late lilac, and a sprig of ivy. They do not match. But together, they sing. My Trinity Bouquet.

And I thought: this is how God lives. Not in stillness, but in flow.
Not in perfection, but in relationship.
Not in isolation, but in the weaving of three.

So today I give thanks:
For the flower arrangement and the peals of laughter on Friday night.
For the ache of my body after Saturday’s labour.
For my mother’s bright eyes across a bistro table, and the old story of France rekindled in a spoonful of sauce.

For the holy dance of life that keeps inviting me back into love.

Three petals.
Three voices.
Three persons.
One mystery.
And all of it, somehow, home.

Amen.