One thing I want to say is that trying to be gentle-hearted, and loving peaceful things, doesn't mean being passionless. Doesn't mean not being wild inside.
You can crochet doilies and cry over this song because it's just so deeply beautiful it sounds like the cry of an old star across the dark. You can wear lace over your tattooes. You can put on Doc Martins and sit quietly, drinking tea, watching a Jane Austen movie while sandalwood incence fills your room and your feral, maskless imagination - you don't have to stomp, or dance, or run, in order to be something vast and magical inside.
You can utterly devote yourself to a wind-hearted, storm-singing god and still want to say prayers at the dinner table. And when the hurricane comes, you can take the jewelled clips out of your hair, and kiss your husband, and see your children tucked safe in bed with stars of light spinning across the walls, and then go out quietly, so gently, to watch the sky reveal its fierce, tameless, awe-inspiring, soul. It's kindred soul.
Spirit is a naked thing. Peace has no style at all.
(I can not crochet doilies, I do not wear jewelled clips, this is a generalised post - but oh my giddy aunt, I do love Matthew Perryman's music.)