You can go home again, but...

I reach into the pocket of my good blue wool coat, feeling the buttery black leather gloves: this coat I wear to funerals and visitations and Celebrations of Life.

I have come home, home to the world of the dead and the dying.  Every month, it seems a wake, or a celebration of a spent life, life spent in common coinage, spent in the pursuit of the Sacred Ordinary.

The bleak February sky holds the icy tentacles of winter.  I pull my coat tight around me, fit the soft gloves around each finger and step into the passed.

In Your Wildest Dreams

Listening to Leonard Cohen on a cold February late afternoon - somewhere 'between memory and a dream' (Tom Petty's phrase).  Maybe not enough coffee, maybe not enough chocolate.  Maybe, maybe.

Old friends, old dreams, old heartaches concatenate in a gypsy soul.  Can one experience a contented melancholia?  Maybe, in February.

I wish I could remember my wildest dreams - I'd see you there,
in my wildest dreams.

I'd take a tramp steamer, or a barge down to New Orleans, in my wildest dreams.

I'd live on the beach or a cabin on a lake...
I'd be dancing to the satiny light of the moon, dancing to an ancient melody,
dancing through my wildest dreams.

You'd be there, in my wildest dreams.

The February moon lies low in the cold eastern sky, shadows
across the old familiar lane
into my wildest dreams.