I am going home, at long last, to the Misted Hills.
You know that I often talk about the way that weaving doesn’t begin with the first throw of the shuttle. It begins with the first glimmer of an idea.
So does this homecoming. Where did it begin? There was the night in Soho when I wandered into a little Tibetan shop and bought a lock shaped like a fish. This, I promised myself, was the lock for my potting shed door. Of course I had no potting shed, but I suddenly had the promise of one.
I may stay there for one or two years, living somewhat reclusively in this hilltop retreat. The past few weeks have been the steepest part of the journey, and I know I am almost there. I have to hold on to what energy remains, to get myself there. So much of my personal energy has gone into it, melting obstacles in my path and generally forcing communication despite Mercury retrograde.