Who is this bird, yellow breasted, who stands sentry over the garden?

Whose are the clouds, pink above the mountains?

Whose was the star Venus - bursting across the sliver moon last eve?

We belong to everything and to no thing.

This morning is cold - and I am ill dressed to sit in my giant’s chair - still - the crisp air nourishes my lungs - breakfast is sorted and I need to step out into something that I can’t control. This life is unfolding and asks that I trust the process - the process of undressing myself in front of you - knives, daggers out, or no.

This life requires that I join her completely - whole heart - complete openness to find the truth unfolding in the moment - I lean back - feel the footsteps of the fishermen - of Big Mike, stepping his holy feet past my waiting soul.

I was moved to sobs by Moriaty’s story of a quiet Irish island village and the mystical transit of Big Mike - the most unlikely saint who brought a whole village a murmuring each time he moved his mystical muscles - each time his presence made them have to adjust in entirety to his presence among them.

I am that man.

And my mystical heart seeks the deep waters where the fishing, not fishing is good, very good.