Lately there’s been a lot of dwelling on the spiritual nature of my wounding, and a deeper understanding that whatever I bring into the world will be left behind to speak for me when I’m gone. I don’t really know how much that matters – or if it matters at all – but something about the knowing of it hits me at the core of my existence.

It’s there when I’m sharpening my tools, when I’m sitting down to eat, or mowing the lawn. Not constantly in the forefront of things like a curtain blocking my view; but more like a shadow hovering behind them…always there, but only rising to the level of awareness on the occasion that it flickers.

A trick of the light, perhaps.

It’s good to find myself coming into the world in this way. There’s a feeling of arriving at a place I’ve just discovered, and yet it feels like coming home again. Home to the barefoot summers of a young child splashing in the creek or running wild through the Birches lining the coal banks at the end of that tiny, narrow street that – for a while – defined the essence of his days…