Suddenly,
from out of nowhere,
flying at me like a mad dog,
just one tooth at the end of a wooden haft,
the spear that was thrown long ago,
that should have pierced me
before I started running.

It’s finally caught up.

It opens me
and inside I am empty
and hollow as the old yew tree
on which my ragged carcass is hung.

And of course the ravens come.

And of course He’s amongst them –
my God who hung on the yew 
in raven form for nine nights
pierced by the same damn spear.

I always knew my turn would come.

And so He comes to sit beside me
and I go to visit Him and we are one –
the tree, the spear, the hung, the void,
the hollowness within and without.

And this moment is within us. 

This drawing and poem record a rite I undertook before the Winter Solstice in 2025 – nine days in meditation at the Abyss with my God. Looking back, on the one hand it had worth as a devotional offering, but on the other it wasn’t the healthiest of impulses. It opened a can of worms leading to my recent insights about how my monasticism and asceticism had partly been driven by the unhealthy restrictive and self-destructive impulses that also drove my eating disorder.