The world we inhabit is built on cycles of life and death and rebirth. We bear witness through unseeing eyes to the rise and fall and return of the moon, the tides, the seasons, our bodies. Yet resurrection remains a brutal story from a book we read once that we think bears no resemblance to our lives; to be observed with a toss of the head or chocolate bunnies.

There are moments in our lives that are portals. Quantum leaps we make effortlessly that shunt our reality from here to so far over there. The most recent eclipse season was such an animal, brimming with shadow and light. Often it is only with the passage of time and hindsight that it begins to make sense. We feel precisely how our worlds have tipped on their axis. We accept that nothing will ever be the same. We recalibrate.

It is indeed wild in these streets shimmering with the lick and spittle of this mad season. Pisces eclipse season demands you surrender to its cunning craft, no small matter for a world overstuffed with recovering control freaks. The virgin's eclipse only offers rebirth to those willing to pay its price themselves.

Anger is a dirty word.

Somewhere between political correctness and passive aggression, it was decreed that outright rage must be channelled. Reframed. Somehow remade into something less confronting and more palatable.

Curious indeed the cages we pop ourselves in, the limits we place on our dreams and ambitions, the cultivation of hopelessness we can indulge from within. Even on the luckiest days trapping ourselves in prisons of our own making, then gilding the bars with misplaced matyrdom, easy bypass or excuses. Eclipse season arrives twice a year to rattle those bars and our lives in the process.

Some days this world continues to defy belief. The news breaks our hearts. It leaves us mute in shock, harried and hopeless. The scales feel tipped too far in the wrong direction, the hurdles tower over us and faith jumps a bus for the coast. Revolution leaves everyone weary and worm down, especially on days where it feels like the needle hasn't really moved at all.

After any torrid passage, on earth or in the stars, there is a yawning need for rest. Time to tend and digest all that has gone on. Space to muse on what has moved or been shaken beyond beyond former recognition. Room to wonder where and why as we align to a fresh bearing. Its good value won't wait for the dust to settle or the to do list to get done first.

Volatility is a curiously misunderstood force of nature. Its power is not held in fury nor fire but rather in uncertainty. Risk is measured in the size of the change made and weighed against its options, seen and hidden. Herein lies its magic. Those willing to harness themselves to unknowable futures and let their faith in themselves draw dividends their way.

Holding fast to hope in turbulent times is not an empty cup. It conjures far more from its enduring depths and places soft landing in our hands. Hope is not a wan promise, nor a weak vanity. It is a fierce courage that arises in response to troubling reality, holding us through and beyond it, planting seeds in our every footstep.

If your senses grow soft and stay sharp enough, you can feel yourself slipping between worlds and into wonder. The noise of our built environs, its grinding cogs of industry and inhumanity give way. The soft animal of your body, finely tuned and well eqipped to perceive magic, can intuit its rippling margins. Without warning or care you can find yourself delightfully beholden to its everyday miracles.

Revolution begins and ends in the dark corridors of heavy hearts. Out past the breaking point of loss and great griefs, beyond despairing resignation to currents and conditions. Sparked at the tiny cardiac altar when hope flickers low, craving a gust of wind or a strike of lightning to raise its flames to crackling.

The horror and the helplessness of war is unfathomable. Here we sit in our safe houses scrolling through terror and tyrannical spite spliced disquietingly between our regular programming. It is bewildering and beyond sense or reason. Our world gone mad - again - as the revolution is televised in real time and on sickening repeat.

This dystopian rollercoaster is quite the ride. Emotional flux daily. Changes in news / advice / laws even more often than that. Strange new conditions as old familiar routine dies quietly and without fanfare. A toll on so many fronts and a gnawing uncertainty as fear keeps peeking in the window from outside.

I have an almost unnatural aversion to the word should. It comes with a faint whiff of shame as a hypothetical nod to something other than prevailing reality. It smacks of obligation and expectation, rooting it in nose wrinkling disappointment. Too often it governs our choices, reducing them to someone else's idea of what's right for us. Perhaps that is the presumption that ever sticks in my craw.

As we collectively walk this revolutionary road in isolation, life has morphed into the mythological. Regular programming is surreal as we dance with the mystery of life but not as we know it. This virus has already crumpled the systems so many are shackled by. Everything is stopping to reset.

Maybe you have been lucky until now. Your life has whirled along, a sea of experiences that never stopped you in your tracks. That bad break up? You drowned it and moved on. The career hurdle? You switched gears. Life as you knew it had bones you put your weight on and the day to day was regular. Its tone and timbre was reliable. Your place in it and part to play known and understood.

The storm is here darklings and the sirens are ringing out around the world. To your bunkers, they cry. Seek shelter and protect yourself from the marauding virus that threatens life as we know it.

I bloody hope so. This tipping point has been ratcheting for some time.