Oh turn me on the wheel of time, turn my soul out of my spirit, imprisoned by temporal madness.

Turn my face to face the morning light, yesterday at my back.

Unlock me to walk among flowers and meadows fresh and dewey with the promise of going on.

Suffer me to cross the river of amnesia. Spare me the memory of so many flowers now wilted ghosts in once familiar rooms from which I, now a supplicant, must try to reclaim my soul.

Let the faint and distant music on the horizon before me enfold those wonderful senses which bear it, so they may not have to endure the cacophony of old tunes winged with whispers of so recent sentiment now discarded.

Allow me to address myself with kindness, to speak with a loving tongue.

Shelter me from the harsh winds of March, cradle me in the softness of the evenings of June, gentle promises of surcease of pain.

For I do hope to turn again, but turn not back upon the road on which I came.

Grant me the freedom from my imprisonment of myself by myself.

I shall look then, to the sun rising and in that cataclysmic fire make ashes of my sadness and purify my soul.


Helene Harris
Reflections on the turning year 15/16

The turning of the year is a formality and yet so significant – different numbers and season called by the same names and yet have never happened before.
The world turns while time measures nothing of value – only the heart understands this and one day the mind will know too when it is past its own vanity.
We do not need to move beyond this world to know of the beyond – and all the talk of dying to be reborn – why can’t this be that in its moment we can be both there and here.
I invite you in the new year to live this way – and yet of course in your own way…..
To pray or not to pray – is that the question? Our life is as an asking, all mankind is in a state of asking – everything however deviant or pure is a message cast into the cosmic ocean……must we be taught how to cast such bottled messages into the nothingness of everywhere?
Truth is not in hiding – it is us, behind the many masks of making and believing.
Love as the Teacher is always true.