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.