It continues. The discernment of wild forces was strengthening in itself. So too was the realisation that staying in position was the place of hope.

So I stayed while everyone left.

Stayed still. Not rushing hither and thither. Stayed in the small circumference of the garden, the seaside, the station and the park. Dwelling myself into home, to wholeness, to hope and to trust.

I did ordinary things. Tending the flowers, the laundry, the thoughts and the imagination.

It seemed like nothing. But the seeming was not true.

The staying still revealed the rush of everything; long days at work, long calls listening to friends, trains, planes, fretful self-displacements searching for places to hide, be found, regroup, distract.

The more the rush appeared, the more the stillness showed its value.

I’m still not there yet, not there, a somewhere that some part of me knows I am going towards but cannot speed up, or even really know where it is, just that it is. There is a somewhere and part of me knows how to get there.

The rest of me must follow, blind.