So it is Christmas - end of the year, full of good cheer - presents and children - croissants, paper and stockings - up all night trying to find the right moment - mysterious energies at play, magic causing children to rise mid -night. That tight feeling, gone in my chest - the spectre of Yeats and his musing of the axial turnings - of the age of religion - that comes and goes like ocean waves - rising and falling - taking Jesus and making Steve Jobs and Elon Musk - the tide is turning towards the human heart - that machine of blood and flesh - unknown as the far flung galaxies - able to hold everything and be ok with nothing.

This.

Still point.

Pointed out that I had not lost my way - by some great marvel had turned to a side road and found in the darkness, my own soul. Still as a wild deer, still alive and ready to run, off into wilderness, off to the scent of its own home found not in the speaker of my iphone - in the utter dark, grief body - where down deep my truth lay, when lifted up became a balm of everlasting portent - my soud lifted to God, like an angel holding a life-less child in its arms.

The pearly gates have never been an interest - but the hallowed way of the soul of a man a woman and how it makes it passage via human life - now you have my attention.