'never enough darkness to extinguish a single candle'

Yoga after such an absence: night dropping, rain fingering the roof, candles in this simple uncluttered space where I can breathe out again, come back in. The myths all tell us that the way out is the way through – that one has to enter the darkness. My shape on the floor is the Hanged Man of the tarot, Odin on the World Tree – let go into earth – all that I am, that I think, that I possess simply falling away.

I listen to the tides of blood breath brain; remember John Cage in his an-echoic chamber expecting utter silence and hearing instead the high whine of his central nervous system, the deep hum of his blood.

I am slowed back into three dimensions, borne up on my own tides. Simply to rest in the ground

of being

(where I have known earth and the flight of birds, the silken shift of water and the wild exuberance of fire).

Sister owl sounds the night – one pure long white note – and I ride it until I am home, again, everywhere