I step into the outdoor composting loo and burst into tears: I’m sorry I sob, I’m sorry that I am so full of fear. Love, where is love when the worst thoughts pile up and there is just a dung hill of poop? Well, look to the garden man, turn that fear into compost for the growth of the next season.

We have dreamt big dreams, sown cosmic seeds of hi-bar consequence - we made worlds, seeded the ground and all of that - well, it needs as you said - resilience and dedication. It also needs care, kindness and loads of love. For in the creative process we are laid bare. We speak our hearts and this is deeply vulnerable. We open our lives to be utterly changed and we cannot know what will happen. So, with great tenderness I lift these fears into the heap, mix them with old corn stalks, grass clippings and the right ratio of carbon:nitrogen - and let the heat break it down.

There is fire in your eyes. The call to go to the Morigan’s cave and sit with the psyliopsybe for three nights is right. It is contesting with the dark night - with the terror of death, loss and dismemberment. Love calls upon the steel in ones own body. It also gives a soothing touch and can say it will all be ok, love, it will work it’s way though.

So, here in the light of a new day, I say yes to love and off you go to work fear, get in the belly of the earth and be transformed.