The world begins anew with every birth, my father used to say. He forgot to say, with every death it ends. Or did not think he needed to. Because for a goodly part of his life he worked in a graveyard.

Because it strikes me there is something greater than judgement. I think it is called mercy.

And whatever my life had been up to that day, it was another life after that. And that is the gospel truth.

There is such solace in the mere sight of water. It clothes us delicately in its blowing salt and scent, gossamer items that medicate the poor soul

It is always worth itemising happiness, there is so much of the other thing in a life, you had better put down the markers for happiness while you can.

That is because at the close of the day the ship we sail in is the soul, not the body.

It is funny, but it strikes me that a person without anecdotes that they nurse while they live, and that survive them, are more likely to be utterly lost not only to history but the family following them. Of course this is the fate of most souls, reducing entire lives, no matter how vivid and wonderful, to those sad black names on withering family trees, with half a date dangling after and a question mark.