The lightmonger sets out his wares.  On navy blue velvet they rest: glittering phials and flasks, stoppered with cork. Each containing the spark of something: an idea, a match, the light of a distant star. Every day he has something new, something surprisingly vital to your needs: an hour of extra sunshine, a quiet glow of the fire. He has forged a lifetime’s work on gathering, collecting, hunting down those elusive strains of electrons, those slivers of energy. Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow I start anew. I have sought out all the light that I can, from the sun, from lamps, from candles. A new adventure in light awaits: the lightness of touch, the lightness of being, a light sponge cake.

I am a traveller of sorts. My journey has no end but transforms and develops, picking up new trails, circling around old ones.  I will rest here, contemplate the path behind, the path before, and move on. I will probably return.