For my weekly writing spot on this site, see the One-Minute Mystic, with a new meditation posted every Monday. Also see The Village, the story of Misty Longings, England's most beautiful village, posted episode by episode earlier this year.       I am terrified by the emotions flying round my kitchen. The rage seethes and bubbles like a cauldron of hot tar; the lid buckling and barely held down. But then it was my choice to listen to the radio phone-in. These days, we're not so much New-Age Britain, as New-Rage Britain; the land where everyone is righteous, everyone is angry and everyone will tell it as it is. And how is it? Well, it's a flamin' disgrace what with all these personal details lost, and car clamping, and mortgage rises, and knife carrying youth, and expensive petrol, and prisoners released, and corrupt politicians, and cheap alcohol, and fat cats, and Northern Rock, and where are the police? And what are our children learning? And what's the government doing? And is the Archbishop Muslim or something? This is Rip-Off Britain, where everyone's getting right royally ripped off by everyone else; New-Rage Britain where the problem is not me. It's Angry Land where the rich just see scroungers and Sick-Note Sallies; where the Middle-Class feels squeezed, unloved and way too decent for its own good; where the poor just see a load of soft-heads with gardens, who don't know they're born; and generally, where the centre can no longer hold; an anarchy of festering resentment loosed upon the green and pleasant land. The corrosive power of untreated anger is not hard to discern in ourselves. The trouble is, very few of us have been fortunate enough to see anger well-modelled. We've seen it poorly modelled, of course: we've seen it repressed and turn into depression; we've seen it unleashed in random and savage ways; we've seen it denied and become resentment; we've seen it demonise others; we've seen it ignored and transmute within, into uncaring and stubborn ways; we've seen it go underground, and seep out in snide and bitchy comments; and we've seen it buried only to rise again as polite envy and spite. But well-handled? Is there an alchemist out there who can turn rage's wild and desperate energies into energies of a different kind? Possibly, but this dear soul best not expect a hero's welcome, and garlands of flowers around their neck. Most dread the coming of one such as this; most fear the alchemist, for their rage is how they define themselves; their fury furtively feeding their identity. And who wants to lose their identity? The redemption of their wrath would mean the redemption of their past and them selves – and that's a redemption too far in Angry Land. So as I say, everyone on the phone is furious; and to be honest, everyone has a point. As the book of Proverbs reminds us, the last one to speak is always the most convincing – until the next one. But what am I to do, in the small kitchen of my psyche? The kettle's steaming, the saucepan's boiling over and the radio's red-hot. It's all the rage, apparently. More writings © Simon Parke