To wake up and be already immersed in this sacred place, even using the groover takes on a holy significance worthy of ritual observance. The passing of the key, the communion vessel, with a quiet smile from the sister who bears it; the walk along the river's edge to the shelter of the confessional (though not of sins, but of humility); the opening of the key box that yields unto the women acknowledgement of their sacred bodily fluids.
To sit on the throne, contemplating the brightening dried blood red wall, the movement of the river, the soft, bushy fringe of green that takes its communion of the silty water, one passes the unneeded elements to where they'll soon be returned to the earth--to hell, if you will. Not to the fiery Catholic hell, however, but to the Nordic Goddess Hel who doesn't punish, who is rather a recycler of souls and all their earthly components.
And passing the waste you are cleansed, relieved, renewed, bottom wiped by precious, pure white paper and gentle breezes. There is something inexpressibly wonderful to being kissed by the Right Reverend Mother Nature in this way, and you go on your blessed way, returning the key to be used by the next eager congregant seeking the peace that passeth understanding.
May all your groovin' be as movin'.