These are sacred times and you’re so glad part of them. Sacred, sacred times. You’re moving slowly, appreciatively. You’re not rushing anything. You’re moving so very, very slowly and yet your senses are incredibly alert. Nothing escapes you. The world is lush, vibrant, enigmatic and yet full of unspoken menace. You don’t know where you are or how you got there but somehow that doesn’t seem to matter. Your story is starting all over again – you thought it was over but it wasn’t. Now a new story is starting; you don’t understand what’s happening in this story but that’s okay. So what if it doesn’t make any sense? It’s rich, vibrant and evocative of mysterious things. Deeply evocative of mysterious things. Strange stirrings are occurring in the rich luxuriant undergrowth of your subconscious mind. So rich, so luxuriant! I thought that my story was over but it isn’t. These are sacred times, I told myself – move slowly and don’t disturb anything. Tread carefully – danger could be anywhere, waiting for its chance to explode into your face like a Jack-in-the-box. That’s how it always is with danger. The air is full of unidentified smells. Little Zephyr breezes blowing this way and that, as if unsure of which way to go. A new story is beginning but it isn’t yours – you thought it was but it isn’t. It’s a story that belongs to no one, no one at all.  Tentative beginnings, unsure of which way to go. So very tentative! You’re in some kind of lush uncharted land and rich luxuriant vegetation is springing up all around you. ‘Whose story is it?’ you ask. You realise that it isn’t anyone’s. Not this time. Sacred, sacred times but you’re not part of them. Danger all around  – but for who? The noises of the birds, the rustlings of the insects. The birds singing in the trees, the insects hurrying about their business. The meadows and the fields. The rivers flowing where they will, swans and ducks sailing upon them. Mist rising in the early morning. It’s important to tread carefully, you don’t want to disturb anything. It’s important to go slowly. ‘Whose story is it?’ you ask. ‘Whose story is it?’ Not yours, anyway. Not yours and not anyone’s…








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