Now, little ship

"It takes only three weeks to change the wardrobe," Peter said. He balanced well, the cellular science with exemplar metaphor. It was heartening, if a tad challenging, to take that in, after thirty years of staring at my wardrobe, rarely to examine critically the old, now ill-fitting survival suit, invisibility cloak, hair shirt, pre-Teflon heart-armour waistcoat, trauma truss, social straight-jacket, Tenna Max pants for when the sum of all fears short-circuits all muscular control. So, cast off in my little ship, naked and alone, what garment serves me now?  I hear a quiet voice.  "Find me" whispers the life-jacket of unconditional self-love.

Walk with me your wayside meadows. I want to see the hummingbirds among the little Angel flowers of your sun-kissed land - a wondrous union. Oh, if we can love like that!

Sitting in my Wetherspoons pub, reading chapter one of James Hollis' What Matters Most  speaking of Blake and Jung and Eliot and Nietzsche and beloved Rilke, and a moment long ago leaks through psyche's floorboard into conciousness .  I am on page four, with two hundred and fifty-two to go. The scales are falling from my eyes, the shield wall round my heart is fracturing. The alcoholic medication is no longer sufficient to stem the flood. So, let slip the moorings of my little ship . There is no time, only now.