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We are all made of stories
According to my calendar, I haven’t written properly in almost a fortnight. Sickness meant that I didn’t have the focus, and depression added to the weight pulling me away from the page. Today, I feel well enough (with the addition of medication), but a clingy kidlet kept me away from the computer instead.
It feels strange. To not be writing, though I have been reading. To be haunted by those days as they pass. Haunted by all the shoulds: I should be further along in my career, I should be better/stronger/more than I am right now.
Meandering through my books brought me to the biography of Alice Sheldon/James Tiptree Jr, purchased a while ago and languishing unread. I have been enthralled by her, absolutely fascinated by what made her. She didn’t start writing seriously until she was much older than I am now, and look at what she produced. There is still time.
Here is still time.
And the stories, they will come.
Yesterday afternoon, in a break between the unseasonable rain, I walked the land. I hadn’t been out walking for too long, thanks to sickness, and I’d almost forgotten how much it makes me whole. I follow a druidic path, and just being out beneath the sky and the trees, the earth beneath my feet feeds everything that makes me.
There are stories in the land, if you only take the time to see them.
Aided by my trusty Atrix, I captured some of them.
A vacant lot, the house bulldozed but not built on yet. The previous owner had planted poppies in the garden, and left untended, they seeded across the soil. The rain had them blooming red and vibrant in the grey afternoon.
A Moreton Bay Fig tree in one of my favourite parks, etched by people. The name Sophie was inscribed several times on the bark, a story waiting to be told.
Mirrored from Stephanie Gunn.
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Sorry you've been feeling sick. <3 I hope things start to improve now.