to write in this light without you – to write a life or a page without you – is seriously empty, today — which makes me embarrassed, as always, and want to shush the thrumming of my human heart — when I know that the love that I feel is no cause for shame but is in fact the calling song of this bigger game that I’m playing in — yet today I mope around, sniffing for you, wishing for you, pretending that I’ve got better things to do — and the innocence of missing! the importance of it, how it signals towards the things that matter! —of course, dramatics are my demon barbers – they snip the angel hairs, the innocent fingers that stroke the heavens — but when you stood in your kitchen yesterday trying to busy your idle hands, missing your little ones, I saw the soul shine through a father’s face — then in the bathtub candlelight, your words were earth speaking of the legacy of land and the spirit of food — your soul in the soil — and I know how to let life speak through me — just as I shall miss you because there’s life in the missing — just as there’s life to be found in every pocket — if life is lived the way we know it to be lived, simply and with connection to myth, culture and earth, then it shall be nourishing in the utmost degree — a rustic bread kneaded by unthinking hands — I write this over a cup of tea in an in-between place — morning has passed, I no longer drink of its ethereal light – the sun is screaming high noon and demanding of me – what? – I don’t know – I don’t know but my car is packed with things that might be useful stepping into this unknown — and my body is slow — dreaming of sleeping for days — and when I sleep I’m sleeping in strange ways — visiting my family home, feeling her demons beckoning with enrapturing fingers — every move is a move towards something, something —