This is the third part of Sensed – A Trilogy, which sits alongside my Earthed trilogy on place and — but turns inward. The same theological instinct that reads landscape as participant rather than backdrop, now applied to the body and to neurodivergent language experience. A confession before we begin. I am about to use the words prosoche, ecceitas, haecceitas, monotropism, and incarnational grammar in a paper arguing that encounter with the sacred does not require dense verbal mediation.

This is the second part of Sensed – A Trilogy, which sits alongside my Earthed trilogy on place and — but turns inward. The same theological instinct that reads landscape as participant rather than backdrop, now applied to the body and to neurodivergent language experience. Opening: A Question about the Designer... I think when we talk about inclusive worship we too often forget to ask a key question.

Royal Mail says its service is improving and that it is on track to hit the regulator Ofcom's reduced targets

The mouse came back on a morning in late spring. Not because anything had called it. Just because the church door was open and the light inside was particular — that low gold that only arrives when sun reaches the old glass at exactly the right angle and suddenly the whole interior remembers it is beautiful. The mouse sat in the doorway for a moment.

The crow came for the mouse on a night in early spring. Not the good spring. The early one — when cold still owned most of the air but something underneath the mud had decided otherwise. "Come," it said. "It's dark." "Yes." "I don't go out in the dark." "You didn't go beyond the churchyard wall either," the crow observed. "And yet."

This is "20's Plenty as a national urban speed limit" by 20's Plenty on Vimeo, the home for high quality videos and the people who love them.

Dublin City Council has signalled its clearest intention yet to replace the DublinBikes scheme with a different system by the time the current scheme’s contract ends next year. A briefing not…

Winter returned early that year. Not harshly. Just suddenly. One morning the village woke beneath silver frost and breath-cloud air, and the churchyard grass crackled quietly beneath every footstep. The mouse noticed something else too. The church had become quieter. Not empty. Never empty. But quieter. Christmas was still weeks away. The harvest suppers had ended. Weddings were long gone. Even the robin appeared less frequently now, arriving only occasionally like a remembered song.

Autumn arrived carrying smoke. Not fire exactly. Just the scent of distant bonfires drifting softly across the village after dusk, curling through the churchyard alongside falling leaves and evening mist. The mouse liked autumn. Summer asked creatures to be joyful in public. Autumn felt quieter. More honest somehow. The church itself had become busy again after the weddings faded. Harvest displays now appeared near the altar — apples, tins, pumpkins, awkward marrows of alarming size.

The University of California, Berkeley Law School has adopted a new, strict policy governing students’ use of AI. It forbids the use of AI for work submitted for credit.

The strange kinship between theology, fiction, and folklore People often speak as though theology, fiction, and folklore belong in separate rooms. Theology is supposed to deal with truth. Fiction with imagination. Folklore with old superstitions and half-remembered fears. But the older I get, the less convinced I am that the walls between them are real. Not because they are the same thing.

The Stories That Survive If you've been following along this short while or so, you'll have noticed a lot of fiction. Folklore. Fey edges and threshold moments and stories that don't quite resolve the way you might expect. There's older material here too, scattered through the archives. And underneath all of it — theology. This is why. The stories that survive across centuries usually do so because they touch something archetypal in us.

Not our precious troops! No! No!!

Statement follows speculation party would not field candidate in Makerfield or barely fight seat

Spring arrived slowly in the churchyard. Not all at once. Not with sudden blossom or dramatic warmth. It arrived first as softness. The ground loosened. The wind lost its sharpness. Rain began smelling of earth instead of stone. And the mouse, who had once only noticed crumbs and footsteps, now noticed seasons too. It had become, quite accidentally, a creature of attention.

After the robin left, the mouse found it difficult to return to being merely a mouse. Not because anything dramatic had changed. The church was still old. The draught beneath the vestry door still whistled on cold mornings. Mrs Evans still dropped biscuit crumbs after Wednesday prayer group without ever noticing she did so. Everything remained ordinary. And yet somehow nothing quite was.

The robin arrived first. Not with drama. Not with the blaze of wings poets always seem to give them. Just a small red breast against grey stone, landing lightly on the old gravestone near the yew tree as though it had always belonged there. The churchyard was quiet in that particular way old churchyards are quiet — not empty, never empty, but listening.

Cuba is struggling with devastating nationwide blackouts as the United States’ effective oil blockade strangles fuel supplies. But this crisis may also be accelerating a China-backed clean energy revolution that’s been quietly unfolding in the Caribbean nation.

Ok its a crow... but I call them the Raven Crow family The For-given words There was a woman who had lost her words. She hadn't noticed them go, which is how these things work. One day she simply opened her mouth and what came out was adequate, functional, the right shape for the space available. And she realised she couldn't remember the last time they had arrived of their own accord, unbidden, more than she'd reached for.

‘‘Why She Applied’’ It wasn’t the job description. She read the job description, yes — read it the morning it went live, read it three times before 9am, felt the particular recognition that is almost physical, the way certain words arrange themlselves into a shape that fits something you have been carrying without a name for it. That was real. That mattered.

Exclusive: Reform leader under pressure to "show the receipts" after our investigation finds undeclared election campaign flights on helicopter owned by party donor.