Many a writer or artist creates their work as a form of therapy, whether they realise it or not; much of themselves is inevitably revealed to their audience should they choose to analyse. You cannot help but be coloured by the dust of your road. The writings reveal the creator, hence we can read much into Dicken's life and beliefs by reading his books. . .  and Van Gogh's painting he did after lopping off his ear, for what ever reason, reveals something disturbing in his own life. A whimsical thought crossed my mind about the creation of man on Earth and if we are a reflection of the divine oneness, he might be in as much need of help as we are. Try not to read too much into the words or sketch above, as all is not as it seems. Oh dear, I hope I've not said too much ! This wasn't my idea. . .  don't think badly of me. . .  perhaps I should delete it. . .  er. ..

It took some time before a translator could be found that could be trusted with what he suspected might be in the letter from Russia; from a deep and long lost part of that vast country that was still in touch with mystic roots.  It was a letter describing the events around the passing of one of those special people in life, often called spiritual leaders, Gurus or the like. They have some special skills or knowledge that allows them to intuit or vision things that most of us might only see in the dream time. The letter explained that she, the letter writer who needs must remain nameless, was at the bedside on the final day. She sat quietly waiting for him to speak, for she needed to know the great secret so that it was not lost forever. After some hours of patient waiting he beckoned her to the bedside and said, 'it is time for me to go, I know you desire to have the great secret. Whatever you do in life hold what I now shall tell you close to your heart. It is nothing yet it is everything. . .  keep it simple . . . that is all there is, there is nothing more I can tell you. . . '  Now we too are blessed with the knowledge of the great secret.
The question is, can we live by it?    

This photo brings a whole new meaning to the blues.
Was this old joanna dumped and discarded all forlorn by the roadside or was it placed with care as a monument to some cherished event. Does time and the weather forbid it to play a tune, doleful or full of joy? Despite the apparent destruction can it still play the part dreamed of by its maker? Surely if it could it would play the blues.
Who owned it? Does anyone own anything, isn't it all borrowed, the piano, our body, all from the Earth and one day she will come and ask for it back? That's the blues allright. 

Any journey consists of movement of the body, the mind or both. Some journeys are spontaneous, you might not even realise you were on it, some are planned. Some are inconsequential and some of great significance; whichever they are, they are identified by moving from one place to another. . .  like crossing a river on stepping stones. Some journeys are not without risk, all are helped by having a guide . . .  one who has gone before. When you are half way there you know what is behind you but the future will always be a mystery, for it may not be as it seems. Each step needs to be examined and taken carefully. . . even appreciated for what it can give you. Do you value what might lie ahead more than the past or do you value the place and moment in which you find yourself. Perhaps to find yourself was the purpose of the journey. Each step is necessary in order to understand the journey; should you miss a step and arrive on the other side you can never know the step you missed. . .  it may have had a message for you. . .  perhaps it’s the step that would tell you, ‘this is the wrong way, there is a better way, turn back’.  You will never know if you miss a stepping stone. Each one in its turn will support and nurture you. . . therefore care less for the destination and more for the step. . .  for you may never reach the other side.