At 58, as viewed through the lens of the last bits of my second Saturn Return (something that happens roughly every 30 years), I am currently viewing my life in thirds. In doing so, it seems that I have spent this second third trying to assemble the jagged shards and broken pieces of the first third into some recognizable semblance of a life.

What I’m coming to discover is that the end of this second third is resulting in a sort of primordial glop in which I am beginning to find that something does lay beyond this life of efforting. Of striving to get it right. Trying to figure it out. To win the race to the finish line. I am coming to discover that there is no finish line. No there there.

This metamorphosis that sometimes felt like a burning, melting, metaphorical peeling of skin – a skin that had to be shed because it no longer fit – is beginning to reveal shimmering glimpses of light. A light that refuses to be contained. A light that cannot be diminished…