In Love

No more shop talk, baby
Come to bed and we'll talk about philosophy and psychology
And love and loss
And the moon and the stars
The sun on the water
The call of the birds
The rustle of the leaves
And the depths of our soul.

Go West

Speed.  Rush. Rhythm. Tears.  Longing.  Ache. Reverberation. Beat. Escape. Proximity. West. Memory. Oh well.
  

Amber

A flash of amber in the sun
A rainbow glistens on a silky web
The gentle rush of wind in pines
And sound of waves below
Everything is more beautiful with you here

Loss, grief and moving on

I think we have this social rule that loss or pain is simply bad.

We could think of it more as being like a piece of metal plunged into a blacksmiths forge - it burns to the core - but ending up being shaped as something good.

I think I have been through and passed the forge, and am on the hammering stage.

Sitting in St Patricks Square

The cathedral sits amongst the bustle of the city, creamy stone against grey concrete tiling.  The clouds speed past the steeple carried by a strong westerly wind.

A bell calls the faithful to mass.  Constant and regular it chimes.  Like a heartbeat. 

How long have these people been a part of this body?  Is the regular chime like a heartbeat to them.  Life bringing.  Life affirming.

Is the chime a new kind of music?

I am not drawn to the body of the church, but the steady sound of hammer on metal reminds me that a few days of escape are coming to an end.  I have been in hiding for two days, but the steady chime of my family heartbeat calls me back.

Do St Patricks' parishioners ever run away from the obligations their commitment to their family has placed them under?  Their obligation is no less a choice than mine.

Although having some insight into the mind of the faithful, I know walking away is possible.  Sometimes easy.  Sometimes inevitable.  And sometimes necessary.

The chimes call us back.  Like a heartbeat.  Some bodies can be left. And some can't.