We are coming to the eye, the heart of the storm, and in that heart, that eye, sits Spirit.

The tiny Welsh village where I live, enclosed by a great river and ancient mountains, values peace and the steady rhythm of nature and timeless tradition. There are no fireworks nor burnings of effigies on this or any other Bonfire Night, but the smell of woodsmoke hangs in the frosty air as a reminder of fire celebrations all over the world, and of the imminence of winter.

Like you, perhaps, I have been separated from the world forcibly this weekend, because of snowstorms that have isolated my home in a way I have never known before.

Heavy winds pounded my home last night, and its cedar frame rocked like a ship on rough seas as wood outside and inside crackled and  the great River Wye roared her power.