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I write this on the day of the first frost of the year - a white veil, a frosted curtain laid over grass and shrubs. Shostakovich is on Radio 3 and Iran and Iraq are split and moved. The earth groaning in anticipation of change.

The earth does not shift here - well not for many years. I remember my wardrobe waking me one morning by performing a percussion against the bedroom wall back in the early 1980's.

I rethink purpose - what is the motivation for living and breathing on such a day? I pray and filter out my conspicuous faults through my visible breath in the crisp air - and the awareness of another realm - found for example in a patch of golden light or in the exquisite beauty of a yellow hawthorn leaf on the background of dark leaf litter -
I shed my old skin and am renewed again in this garden of delights.


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