we tend to think that, as our children grow older, they will stop pulling all the cushions off the sofa and making a nest somewhere on the floor. However, in this house at least, nothing has changed in the field of sofa-destruction. But, nevertheless, change is upon us  - as they grow older, major changes are ahead of us - like leaving school, maybe leaving home, gap years, college, career choices, empty nests. Where will it take us all? It's exciting and scary in equal measure. 
Likewise, the uncertain fate of blip is both scary and exciting. Aside from concerns about the fate of the blip-centralists, I'm also thinking about what I will do if blip stops? It's become an essential part of my life - can I let it go that easily? what will I do instead? After sitting in this seat so comfortably for so long, it will be weird to be out on the open road again, trying to find my way....do I still want to take a photo a day or do I want to do something else? what and where and how? I feel challenged and alarmed but also excited about the possibilities. Of course, it would be easier if blip kept on forever but pragmatism says it won't. Do I copy and back up everything or do I just let it go - it was and in the future it won't be? Blip has become a daily "meditation" for me, maybe letting go is the final challenge of this part of my journey? Who knows what the next step is?



Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?