movement

I have been blessed with close friends that enjoy day trips as much as I do. I have also been blessed with friends that want nothing but joy and peace for my soul. At this moment in time, I am unsure as to which path will give me the most joy, the most peace... A fork in the road has come into view, and I can go this way or that way - I do not have any idea where I am going, and as the Cheshire Cat might say, it doesn't much matter which way I go.

On Saturday I went on a day trip with a close friend and we found ourselves lost north of the city we had stopped in to visit with her daughter. This is what we love to do, getting lost and finding adventure.

Seeing as it is only now the end of Winter and the biting chill of the frosty air is being warmed by the desert Sun, the trees are still bare - but the first signs of Spring have sprung in the forms of bulbs and balls and tiny blossoms.

There are various plants that do not shy away from the cold days and colder nights here in the desert during the winter months. Their resilience, their determination to bloom and grace the world with their colours, is inspiring.

So many things have happened in the last few days... So many thoughts are racing through my mind, begging for me to give them attention. I am trying so hard to balance everything painful and negative that comes into my head with positive vibes, but it is slowly becoming more difficult.

I haven't written much since putting The Fallen Silk up on the storytelling page... I have the next project ready for me, I just cannot find the words. There is too much uncertainty, too many questions about my future, and I cannot focus on anything else right now.

the fallen silk

Storytelling is my form of healing, of coping with the waves that wash my soul in darkness. I have struggled for nearly two decades with this current, constantly being threatened to be taken under, out to sea, to drown in my own sorrows. I have always sought refuge in the forests - those of my mind, or those of the natural world. There is something safe about the forest, something comforting and warm and inviting. But there are also shadows, things that defy what we know about our world. Hidden things, mysterious things.

Synopsis: Newly divorced Effie Wickes moves into her mother's forest cottage after her untimely death. As she is dealing with the loss, and the pain and fear from her abusive marriage, she is driven down the path to madness as her mother's ghost haunts her and something ancient and cold stalks her from the tree line that surrounds her home. Will she learn to live with the creature that haunts her day and night, or will it scare her into an early grave, just as it did her mother?

This ebook was inspired by the constant struggle I've had with depression, how the illness can sneak up on you, find you at your most vulnerable and destroy you from the inside. It is a silent stalker and often nestles into your soul years before you realise it has been living within you.

GO HERE TO COLLECT THE BOOK. 

I have so many people in my life that understand me, and I know that there are those out there that are not thusly blessed. Everyone needs someone to listen. If you are feeling dark, feeling abandoned, feeling misunderstood, please reach out to someone - you may not believe me, but your light would be sorely missed, should you snuff out your flame. There are people who believe in you, who cherish you, who look for your face in a crowd or hope that it will be your voice on the other end of a call.

I hope that any who visit and enjoy my words are inspired to share the publication of this project. <3

Here is the Pinterest board for the project, and here is the Goodreads page.

As with all of my books, this tale has a deep and personal hidden meaning. If you are in need of assistance or someone to just sit and listen, please seek the help you need. There are so many wonderful resources out there, and I would hate to live in a world without your light. <3

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (USA) 1-800-273-8255

Suicide Hotlines (USA and International)

Sanctuary: An Initiative (my offering of an ear to listen)

wild songs

I have been spending a lot of time thinking about the world outside of my home. I do not spend much time out of doors, which hurts my soul in a way that nothing else does. Over the last few days, the winds have been violent, the air freezing to the point of chilling the bones, and the sky has been dark and covered in a grey blanket. Some days have been better than others - most mornings I wake up to a blue sky and soft breezes and warm sunlight, but there is always that lingering chill in the air. I know that this is Winter's time, and I am grateful for the respite from the heat of the desert the rest of the year, but there is something foreboding about these clouds that drift overhead, something dark about the winds that howl over the desert sands.

I have been drowned by thoughts of the wind... my breath catches when I hear it, battering against my windows; my heart races when the gusts pick up dust and leaves and bits of debris from the surrounding streets and yards; I am both calmed and excited by the smell of the wild on the breeze. The wind has stories to tell, and it is begging me to put pen to paper, to let the words flow. Wild songs of storms and hoofbeats across the red dirt and crumbling rocks, buried beneath the pale grass and manzanita and mesquite trees - my soul dances to their melodies, it longs for the vastness of this barren land teeming with life and magic. How can I deny my spirit?

alone & alive

"…Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you."— David Whyte

As an act of self-love, I have stepped out of myself and have joined a few courses to help me reconnect and deepen my spiritual beliefs. I was browsing through my Instagram feed and came across some lovely spiritual journaling pages. In the description, I noticed that the poster was offering free admission to one of their courses and I had to look into it. From there, my Soul took over and here I am.

I have always considered being alone as a sign of weakness - I've felt, for most of my life, that my worth is defined by my relationship status. If I am single, that means that no one wants me or appreciates me. I have felt more lonely while being married than I ever felt while being single. This is not the way it is supposed to be. Though I have always found solace in having my own time, I have also feared it with an intensity that sometimes scares me.

I often use the metaphor of dark, cold water or darkness and shadows creeping up behind someone to explain depression, but I have yet to explore (in writing) the cathartic nature of darkness, the healing that it offers. There are different types of darkness, definitely - shadows versus the night versus the inky black of depression.

Being alone does not have to be terrifying; as an introvert, I am well aware of the energising nature of spending the day in quiet solitude, but feeling as if no one will ever choose you is where that solitude takes a horrible turn. Being cradled in darkness is often my preferred state - I do my best work, am the most inspired, at night; but when that darkness no longer cradles you but strangles you into silence, that is when it becomes something nearly uncontrollable.

photo: artur rutkowski

My journey inward - and downward - has always been a path through a dark forest. This journey is also a fragmented one; I may stray from the path, get distracted by the flora and fauna around me, but I always find my way back and continue.

The tales I weave have always been a contribution to this journey, and when I find myself unable to write I know that it is a period of trailblazing. I may lose myself in the brush, but a few sweet words can so easily draw me back. I feel the most alive when I am called back and my own gentle and dreamy words flow from my soul. I have entered into a period of reflection, of continuing down that dark path in the forest, inward and downward into my soul.

truth

photo: splashi

I have spent years fighting against the truth that my soul sings. I have walked away from things that I felt were wrong, that would not serve me on the path I was walking - with everything happening in my life right now, I find myself stepping into the fog of uncertainty in order to find those truths once again.

In times of great stress and change and sorrow, I am drawn back to the candles and crystals and the magic around me. I am welcomed by the warmth of the Sun and the acceptance of the Moon, and the Stars above me speak poetry to my soul.

It has been difficult to single out a truth that I have hidden from both myself and those around me. I am an open and honest person - there are times when I have been told that I share too much too soon with people.

photo: leoleobobeo

Perhaps the only truth that I have yet to speak is that I do not know. I am constantly asked questions, and though I wish desperately to answer honestly, I lie - How are you doing today? I am doing great! In reality, I do not know how I am today or any day. I am confused, I am in pain, and I am struggling. I have so many concerns, but there are few people that I can open up to and lay bare my fears and worries.

soul & ego

Speaking to my soul is a terrifying challenge. My higher self is a very quiet person, a very simple person. She is not too forthcoming with answers and requires a bit of coaxing before she is willing to agree to anything. Her lack of verbal, or typical, communication skills has made reconnecting with her difficult in the past - but it seems that creative expression is the way to interact with her.

I have spent years perfecting my ego - my social mask, the image I have created for myself - because I was always told that no one would understand the true me, the me that begs daily to be let out. Over these last few years, I have met many people who are more than willing to work at understanding me, to be there even though I may be having a dark day.

I have spent very little time working with my soul. I am consumed by my ego on a daily basis. Though there are times when I wish I could cast my ego aside, I know that it is necessary for my soul to express herself in the physical world.

There are times, each year, when I meet with my soul, having the full intent of reconnecting and learning to balance the influence of my ego. And, as if it were destined from the beginning, something comes along that convinces me to put the masks back on, to hide, to shy away from my spirit and her wisdom.

I have sorely missed digital art, and when I first saw the double exposures floating around online, I was intrigued, but I did not attempt to create one. Today, thinking on the topic of soul and ego, it felt right to try my hand at the technique. It was a treat, and it helped me to consider the connection between the ego (the body in the images) and the soul (the landscapes exposed over the bodies).

detox

There is so much darkness arising in the world - I cannot say that I pay much attention to headlines or politics, but I am not entirely ignorant of the things that are happening in my country. In the midst of everything happening around me, I have found myself wandering in the afternoon and getting lost in thoughts of things I haven't lit on for almost a year. I have lost - and found - myself so many times over the years, and it is time I regain that connection with myself.

It was the dry season on the central coast of California when my mother packed the car up and took me down the coast to Big Sur - crashing waves to the west and the sound of the waterfall thundering to the east filled my ears and the promise of exploring one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen excited me. Our hike was steep and difficult for my small body, but being with my mother out in nature fuelled the experience. Once at the top of the hill that we had challenged ourselves with climbing, I looked out over... clouds. There was a sea of white and grey clouds stretching out forever before me, and I could see nothing below them. We were so high in the hills that the world was wrapped in the foggy blanket.

I felt alive, on top of that hill. I felt complete. I felt all of the energy of the world held within the cradle of the cliffs and ocean that I knew was below us. I felt the divine energy of the universe around me. I was surrounded by the dry, golden grass that grew on the hill - but, even though the life seemed to have been taken away from the ground, I knew that it was still there. I felt the heartbeat of the land, the breath of the wind whispering and speaking wisdom to my young soul.

My mother's lessons on the divine were simple back then - spending time in nature was how she taught me about spirituality. They were profound lessons, and I will never forget any of them because of their simplicity. I knew that I was connected to the world around me, and I knew the truth that my soul spoke.

I have often wondered where (and when) the disconnect between who I am now, and who I was then, occurred. It has always saddened me that I am this cynical, unbelieving adult when I was such a free-spirited child. During a recent meditation to find the answer to those exact questions, I learned the answer.

Once my mother had started teaching me about the divine, I began paying attention to those around me and their beliefs - I wanted to learn as much as I could about this connection I had with the energy around us. During Sunday school (my mother was very open and supportive of my learning about different belief systems), I let slip my experiences with the divine. When asked what belief system we practised at home, I was honest with the teacher and told her that my mother was a Witch (my mother's label for herself). I was shunned and attacked for this, and began to believe that my personal experiences with the divine were wrong. It was a painful experience to have at such a young age, to be taught not to listen to my soul, to the wind and the waves and singing of thunder on the horizon. Everything that had once been so familiar to me was beginning to darken, to appear false. Since that day, in Sunday school, I have struggled with my soul, with my connection to the divine. I have fought against the pull on my heart to dance in the rain and sing songs to flowers.

It is time for me to reclaim myself, my soul - to relearn how to listen to myself and reconnect with the energy of the universe, with the divine. I am terrified that, once I open myself, I will no longer know what is what in my life. I am terrified of the changes that I know this process will bring about, but at the same time, I am ready to come home to my soul. I have missed the connection I once had to the divine.

The women on my mother's side taught me to trust my intuition, to listen to my soul - my soul has always known what is right. From a young age, a curiosity for the unknown was fostered in me, and I am working on bringing those magical aspects back into my life. It is the little things, the simple things - like a single tree blooming when the breeze still chills the bones, bringing the inspiration of Spring to the world despite Winter's desire to keep the land prisoner.

sunrise

My mornings are simple, quiet--it is often a time of reflection for me. I have never been much of a morning person, but there is something magical about the sunrise and how it casts light through the darkness, breaks the clouds, and inspires us. There is something about that light that brings a smile to my face every morning. Having children has made me a morning person, whether I fall asleep early or late. I am always awake for the sunrise.

From my kitchen window, I saw the rays of the sun hitting the clouds and showering the world in an orange-pink glow. It was beautiful, and I had to try to capture the light. Phone cameras are limited and grainy, but the final product is perfect. It is poetry for our eyes--it is raw and filled with the emotions of the moment. Well posed and articulated photos are usually preferred, but the primitive features of a smartphone camera have their place in the early morning or the late hours, in the laughter and the tears of private conversations, in the sharing of intimate moments with friends you haven't seen in years.

The clouds were otherworldly this morning. They were waves in the sky, breaking against each other, flirting with the sunlight and dancing across the blue expanse above.

The moon, in all of her glory, hung in the Western sky, offering a final kiss to her lover across the world, watching as he rose and she was forced set, forced to hide until the next time their fingers could reach out and touch for the briefest of moments. The clouds were wrapped around her like a blanket, soothing her broken heart--how I wish I could have been held in the clouds, wrapped in their billowing and wispy arms. How comforting to know that the same clouds your lover illuminated were there to lull you into sleep.

confusion

This time of year in the desert is always a confusing time--the days are getting longer, the sun rising earlier and setting later, but the air still holds the bite of Winter and the threat of at least one more Winter Storm looms on the horizon. The mountains are still covered in white and grey patches of snow and rocks, yet the bees are out searching for flowers and the sun is almost too warm on my skin.

I recently started feeling restless; I've needed to get out of the house and breathe in fresh air and see something other than my living room--we went for a walk this evening, just before sunset, and at first we stopped at a small rest area on the side of the road near our home, and I let my children run around and play. They were not entirely enthused with the idea of not having a playground to climb on, so we continued on down the street to an actual park where they could run and jump and climb and swing. I sat on the swingset for a while they exerted their energy, and I truly enjoyed having a moment of calm even though their laughter and squeals were rather loud.

I always forget how peaceful just taking a moment outside really is. During the Winter months, I tend to stay inside--not because I dislike the cold, but because I am usually sick during my favourite time of year, which is rather unfortunate. Even though both kids have been sick recently, I knew that getting out of the house and running and playing would be a good thing for them.

 I am ready for the breath of life that Spring brings to this dry and tired space, but I dread the loss of cool breezes and tolerable days that the returning sun promises. My health suffers in the Summer just as much as it does in the Winter but in different ways. I miss the year-round cool mornings and comfortable days of being on the coast, and the fog--oh the glorious fog.

I am looking forward to future opportunities to capture the growth and life of this place--I do love the desert, it has a special draw to it, a magic that is completely different from the magic that the sea holds, or the forests and mountains. It is primal, animalistic, merciless in its vastness. I hope to capture that fierceness in the coming months.

evening

It has been a while since I last sat outside and watched the moon rise. I missed the beauty of the sunsets, how the light casts vivid colours on the clouds and paints streaks of pink in the distance. The days are getting longer, the sun is setting later each day, and I am told--by the warm breeze and the bright sun--that Spring is not far off. I know we have at least one more cold spell in store; the desert is fickle when it comes to the changing weather, and sometimes graces us with March snows. I do not miss the heat of Summer (I am not overly fond of high temperatures), but I am looking forward to the many activities that Summer promises to bring. 

In the desert, the sky is a canvas and light is the paint--the colours that are spread over the white clouds range from pink to orange to purple. Some of the most gorgeous scenes are seen at dusk, and I don't think anywhere else has the same beauty as the desert. It is so open, so clear. Yes, I miss the ocean and the forests and the perpetually overcast days--but I could not have left my home for a more beautiful place. 

This weekend promises to be a lovely one, with the sky being lit by the full moon, a partial lunar eclipse teasing us, and a comet in the skies. There must be something special about this weekend--or perhaps the goings-on above us is what is special. Either way, I feel magic in the air and something is calling me to honour the Great Spirit this weekend. 

persephone and hades

Mythology has always inspired me. There is nothing more exciting than a well-written legend, and the tales of various deities from around the world are some of the best stories in history. Greek mythology has interested me since I was a young girl, and the tale of Persephone and Hades has always been one that intrigued me.

During the writing of this tale, I was honouring Persephone and Hades on a regular basis in my spiritual practice. I wrote this tale as a tribute, in honour of them, and as a way to use my greatest skill in a way that would benefit me spiritually.

Synopsis: We all know the myth of how Hades saw Persephone and just had to have her as his wife. In the myth, there is an abduction and other negative things that paint Hades in a horrible way. But, what if the truth of that myth was something beautiful and filled with love and longing and destiny? What if Demeter, Persephone's mother who was heartbroken at her daughter leaving her and enraged by the fact that she would be in the Underworld, spread lies about their story? This tale sheds a new light on what happened between Persephone and Hades, and it shows that there can be light in the darkest of places, and darkness in the sunlight.

I know that the typical myth of Persephone and Hades deals with kidnapping and rape, however that has never been my experience with the deities. I have seen nothing but love and admiration between them--there is no fear, no distrust, no hatred. Because of this, I always assumed that Persephone left of her own choice and her mother, in a jealous rage, spread lies and rumours about the entire situation. This is what I chose to bring to light in this tale.

GO HERE TO COLLECT THE BOOK. Click "collect" and you will be taken to my PayPal.Me page (learn more). Because I have multiple projects listed, please specify the title you wish to collect.

I am forever grateful to everyone who has offered support over the years--writing is a labour of love, as well as blood-sweat-tears. Especially when I am inspired, I know that I can be rather difficult and I am overjoyed to have the love of those closest to me even in my moody moments. 

I hope that any who visit and enjoy my words are inspired to share the publication of this project. <3

Here is the Pinterest board for the project, and here is the Goodreads page.

excerpt

I have been working tirelessly on The Fallen Silk, trying to write every day regardless of my feelings of inadequacy and my atychiphobia; some days I write hundreds of words, other days I can barely force out a sentence or two.

I have been wrestling with my thoughts recently, with the things that are sure to come at some point in the near future. I am struggling with pain and a deep sense of loss--within the darkness, scattered points of light shine through and those glimpses of joy and smiles and laughter bring me a sense of calm. It is these feelings, all of the darkness broken by light here and there, that inspire this tale of grief and acceptance and understanding.

***

photo: nick west

My darling daughter, I know you will solve every puzzle you are faced with, and that there is no obstacle too large for you to overcome.

She opened her eyes to the soft white and pink and yellow light of morning. She couldn’t remember closing the window, but when she glanced to either side of the bed, she noticed that neither window was open. It was warm and bright in the bedroom, nothing like it had been only hours before. Nimbus had found her way onto the bed and had curled up under the comforter against Effie’s side. She ran her hand over the kitten’s fur and along her jawline, cooing to the feline to wake her.

Her mother’s words of encouragement echoed in her thoughts as she moved out from under the blanket and pulled her robe around her body. Nimbus stretched against the sheets but did not move from her place in the sea of white and mauve. With a final smile back at her companion, Effie left the bedroom for the kitchen.

The morning light had seeped through the lace curtains and cast filigree shadows on the floor and her feet as she padded over the warm wood to the stove. The coals had almost completely died out as she slept, which she assumed was the reason it had been so cold (seeing as a window had not been open), so Effie loaded another log and few pieces of paper and twigs into the belly of the metal stove and lit the paper with a match. The fire took, roared to life, and began to fill the room with a gentle warmth. She filled her kettle and set it on the burner, then set about preparing a plate of biscuits and fresh fruits from the harvest.

It was a peaceful and quiet morning, and for the first time since her mother’s death, Effie felt a joy that radiated through her ribs and up to her face, and she watched the woods from her kitchen window with a smile.

the witches of marble falls

Magic has always held tightly to my hand and inspired me. My spirituality is one of my muses, and I have always dreamt of writing something that deals deeply with the ancient roots of my soul. Deep forests, thundering waterfalls, long, silent roads--these are some of the places in which I find a connection with the Magic I was raised with. 

Synopsis: Nestled off the highway within trees, on the banks of a lake covered in fog and surrounded by mountains capped in white, rests the small town of Marble Falls. The Wakefield siblings--Emilia and Valerie and Daphne and Hayden--are sent to live with their aunts Agatha and Kittie after their parents are killed in a hit and run. Confused about their mother's fear of the town and inspired by their aunts' strange abilities, Emilia and Valerie dive into the towns rich history of Witchcraft and find that some questions are best left unanswered.

This ebook started as a completely different tale, but after finishing that manuscript I chose to take the tale in a different direction. I am so in love with the setting of this novella--Marble Falls is a fictional town I created, presumably in Montana near the southern border of the state. I pulled inspiration from numerous images and memories of beautiful lakes surrounded by mountains and forests. 

Your support is so amazing, and I am grateful that so many people encourage me and my writing. Thank you all for sticking beside me, even when I am moody and difficult and dark. 

I hope that any who visit and enjoy my words are inspired to share the publication of this project. <3

Here is the Pinterest board for the project, and here is the Goodreads page.

On the surface, this tale is simple--coming of age and finding our place in the world, but that isn't all that this story reveals in its pages. It touches on the concept that without the darkness, there would be no light and whether we like it or not, hard decisions need to be made, and there is always a reason as to why someone would choose to stray from a positive path.

When collecting these tales, please remember to state the title you wish you have.

the ebb and flow of love

Love is probably the most sought after emotional connection the human race chases after. It is the most confusing and the most aggravating because there is no real way to describe it. I chose the word anagapesis for the most recent 'word of the day' because I have been dealing with the feeling of no longer loving certain people for a while now; now that I have had time to reflect on those thoughts and feelings, I can confidently say that this anagapesis has contributed to my recent darker state of mind. It doesn't seem to matter the time frame between when you were with someone and the present, falling out of love is painful.

photo: jenelle ball

Love is fluid, it comes and goes and ebbs and flows. As we grow and change, love grows and changes. We promise forever when there is no certainty in this life. I did not realise just how much my view on love has changed until someone from my past opened a dialogue with me. He has been very concerned about my state of mind recently and has not been quiet when voicing his feelings. I thought, for a moment, that perhaps in the future, we could give it another chance--but sitting here, now, after having the time to contemplate the prospect, I find that I am no longer in love with him. Granted, I still care for him and wish him a happy and healthy life, and the memory of what we shared still gives me butterflies, but there is no chance of a future for us. 

We believe that love gives us certainty, but in reality, it is one of the most uncertain emotions a person can experience. Falling out of love is not a guarantee--in fact, I believe that you can never fully fall out of love if you were ever truly in love. You will always carry a little piece of that person around with you, and in the wee hours of the night when the air is still and you are surrounded by silence, their face will appear in your mind and you will wonder what they are doing, how things could have been different. 

the twilight garden

As you may know, my most recent project has been finished. It was a labour of love, and it was the project I chose to focus on during November of 2016 (National Novel Writing Month). While the challenge is fun, I feel a bit like a cheater as I do not write novels--I write until the story is finished, regardless of the length. 

I've struggled with where and how to publish this book (and my others), and I have come to the conclusion that having my work for sale through distribution channels is not really my where I want my work to be. Yes, I would absolutely adore if people bought my work in mass numbers, but in the end my work is not meant for the masses. 

Synopsis: Josephine Bray is not insane. She is not delusional, nor are the things that she sees and hears mere hallucinations. She has a connection to every event that has ever happened on the grounds of her ancestral home, Whitmour Manor, whether traumatic or not. As a child, she thought they were her friends, imaginary or otherwise. She did not understand what she was experiencing. Put down and ignored by her mother, Josephine retreated into her own mind and began to develop relationships with the people that were not there. As she aged, her mother sought professional help for her daughter, but no one seemed to be able to help her. That is, until Doctor Leland Scott was called upon after the untimely death of Mr. Reginald Bray, Josephine's father. 
 
With the help of her psychiatrist, Josephine travels down the halls of her home and the memories that are hidden within the locked rooms, the boarded servants tunnels, and the mysterious garden tucked away in the foggy forest. Will Josephine and Leland find out the truth of what happened at Whitmour Manor? Will they ever be able to forget the connection they have?

This ebook was inspired by my mother's constant battle with Schizophrenia. For the longest time, I fought the idea that my mother was any less normal than the other parents around her--I created a concept that perhaps not all people diagnosed with Schizophrenia were actually suffering from a mental illness, perhaps they were just tuned into a higher frequency and communicated with spirits.


GO HERE TO COLLECT THE BOOK. Click "collect" and you will be taken to my PayPal.Me page (learn more). Because I have multiple projects listed, please specify the title you wish to collect.

I am forever grateful to everyone who has offered support over the years--writing is a labour of love, as well as blood-sweat-tears. Especially when I am inspired, I know that I can be rather difficult and I am overjoyed to have the love of those closest to me even in my moody moments. 

I hope that any who visit and enjoy my words are inspired to share the publication of this project. <3

Here is the Pinterest board for the project, and here is the Goodreads page.

Each of my books have a deeper meaning, under the surface. This one not only deals with the idea that perhaps those suffering from Schizophrenia are tuned into something more than we can hear or see, but also the struggle a person has to comprehend their place in the world and the problems we can develop, as children, due to our elders actions--whether out of sight or not.

hushed

I cannot make any resolutions for this new year. I cannot choose a word to define the coming months. Time is too fluid, the days too much like water--ebbing and flowing, following the path yet so easily do they carve out new ways to be, to move. To assign a single word to the changing nature of the days and weeks and months would do this year an injustice; this year has the potential to be both wonderful and disappointing, to show a darkness in the light and a light in the darkness. How can I choose one mixture of letters to define everything that can, and will, happen this year? I cannot, so I sit here, hushed into a contemplative silence, surrounded by the cold air of winter. The sun rests in the sky, sharing a bit of warmth on these frigid January days.

the fallen silk--excerpt

A plate of jam biscuits and a cup of steaming tea sat on the side table, and Effie moved around the room, carrying boxes covered in dust from the closet and placing them on the floor and the bed. She couldn’t put it off, she knew she had to go through her mother’s things, but there was a pain in her heart that wouldn’t go away.

Satisfied that she had enough boxes to fill a few hours, Effie sat in the centre of her bed and opened the first box—it was filled with journals and books and dusty, faded letters written on handmade paper. The writing was definitely her mother’s, and the subjects ranged from longing to excitement to a dark depression Effie hadn’t known her mother had experienced until recently. She placed the letters in a pile beside her, hoping to go through them all at a later date.

photo: lia leslie

The diaries were just as jumpy—some entries were so bright that Effie felt blinded by her mother’s happiness, yet scattered throughout the pages were such dark thoughts and feelings that confused her. How had her mother dealt with such a jumble of emotions? Effie stacked the diaries to one side of the letters, planning on putting them all together to form the story of Theola Wickes in a way that she might be able to understand her mother’s illness better.

The books excited something in her that hadn’t shown itself in years; the childlike wonder and curiosity of old tales and fables, the undying innocence of stories that taught morals and valuable lessons but still caused such a deep fear within the readers that they would never dare do what the characters had done. There were bookmarks made of cloth, leaves, bits of paper stuck between pages, corners bent; she felt that each page held a clue to what her mother had felt and thought throughout the years.

Finding these things made her feel closer to Theola, made the loss of her mother more bearable as if she had not died at all but was only away indefinitely. 

lypophrenia

It happens at the strangest times—in the morning, just after waking; at the store, buying groceries; laughing with friends about silly things. It doesn’t always happen when I am alone—in fact, most times it happens when I am around others. I live knee deep in dark water daily, but there are times when the tide comes in and I am wading up to my waist in the searing cold waves.

When it happens—when the tide comes in—it takes days for me to recover. There is no build up, there are no clues, as to when this will happen. It just… happens. The sadness washes over me, dulls my mind and stabs my soul. It is a painful experience.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t suffer from this onslaught of darkness, but for the last year it hasn’t been so terrible. I finally chose to seek medication for my depression, and though I always have this level of depression, of dark water, my random cycles aren’t as deafening as they used to be. 

lacuna

Her finger traced the edge of the photograph, ran over the face of the person pictured—it had been six years, but the pain in her heart had not yet faded. Though he was not gone from the world, every day felt as though she had buried him instead of having been left by him. His absence had left a hole in her soul, a single piece of the puzzle that was lost and she could never regain, never find again.

She had no idea where he was, and she knew that even if she attempted to find him, it would lead nowhere. He had made his mind up, his decision rather clear—though he loved her, he could not be with her, and he could not bear to see her again. He had left in the morning, having gathered all of his things in the weeks proceeding his departure, and had given her a final kiss. There was so much longing, so much tenderness, in that single gesture that she wished she had stopped him; even years later, as she sat on her porch as the sun rose over the trees, casting its yellow rays through the branches, she remembered the feeling of his lips on hers.

photo: daniel peters

There was no point in daydreaming, in recalling those lost feelings and thoughts from a life she had left behind. There was no point in longing for a person who, most likely, never thought of her—but, even though she knew she had to let go, she could not bring herself to drop the photograph, to burn the letters, to erase his voice and his smile and his eyes from her memory. All of the pain these images, these memories, brought her could not, and would not, inspire her to forget the time they had shared.

He had finished the puzzle that was her soul, he had found all of the scattered and lost pieces of her mind and had glued them back together with his gentle touches and soft kisses. He had been the one, and just as she had always known would happen, he left. He left when he had realised that she was too broken, even after having brought her shattered pieces together, and it was too much for him. But he was not weak, she was just too complicated.

She had always known that she was not meant for the fairy tale happy ending—from a young age, she knew that she would end up alone. But it was the fact that she had found that love, that one person who completed her, and she had lost him. It broke her. She would never be the same again.

She set the photograph on the table and took a sip of her tea, watching as the shadows of the trees played and danced in the sunlight, as the soft breeze moved the branches—movement to her right drew her attention away from the scenery and to a figure standing just outside of the makeshift fence.

He had changed little since the day he had left—his eyes still held the mischief that had first drawn her to him, and his lips still pulled up on one side in a grin. He gave her a gentle wink with a nod, which sent a chill down her spine.

It had been six years, but there he stood, in his uniform, his bag slung over his shoulder, and it was as if no time had passed. It was as if he had never left, never said goodbye. He had found his way back to her, found her in the depths of the forest in a foreign land. She ran to him, opened the gate, and jumped into his arms. Her tears soaked his shirt, her sobs drowned out his calming whispers. She would never let go of him, she would never leave his side.

Perhaps, against all odds, against all of her feelings of being inadequate, she was meant for a fairy tale love after all...

solivagant

The forest, dark and silent and alive, calls to me and begs me to visit. From my porch, I can see the trees on the mountainside, waving and beckoning, drawing me closer if only in my mind. I almost wish I could fly, or move through space in the blink of an eye, in order to be in that place, surrounded by their old and ancient arms; limbs twisting and turning, wrapping around me, holding me, comforting me in a way that only Nature can comfort. To wander the paths up and down the mountains, in and out of groves, around rocks and over streams, utterly alone save for the soft whispers of the wind through their branches and leaves. The ability to sit in silence, receiving their wisdom and their grace through simple meditation, to balance me and bring me back to reality just by breathing in their life and their inspiration. Wandering alone in the forest, with no destination, no goal but to connect once again with the natural world.  

photo: jordan sanchez

She stepped off the bus and adjusted the strap of her messenger bag on her shoulder. She had had to pay the driver extra to take her closer to the entrance of the park, but it had been worth it—not having to take an additional three hours to walk from the interstate into the forest was a blessing.

‘I’m good, thanks!’ She turned and waved at the driver, who tipped his hat and shut the door. He drove on down the dirt road (which, according to her map, turned back on itself and opened onto the interstate three miles away). She was alone, surrounded by silence and the damp air that seemed to breathe with life. Taking a deep breath, she took the first step forward onto a path that led away from the road. Before she moved to far away from the waning light, she checked her map breathed a sigh of relief as she noted that the check in station was only half a mile away from the road.

The trees grew close together near the path, but through the gaps between their trunks she was able to see that they spread out farther into the forest; the setting sun cast eerie shadows over the needle and leaf strewn path, arms and fingers twisting and turning from unseen figures hidden within the trees. She hugged herself, her breath rhythmic in an attempt to calm herself. She always found it funny, how she was terrified of being alone in the forest but always chose to go out to the cabins alone. She couldn’t much stand the company of her peers most days, and being isolated in the woods with a group of them sounded utterly horrific.

The check-in station was a small hut on the left side of the path—beyond it, protected only by a simple wood-plank fence, sat a group of cabins spaced out sporadically.

‘Nella Taylor. I reserved Cabin 6 for the weekend.’ She offered, handing the guard her identification card and reservation receipt. He checked her information against his book and nodded, handing her a key and her information through the small window. She gave him a silent salute and turned back to the entrance to the park.

Three of the ten cabins seemed to be occupied—there were lights on, and some noise from inside, but she didn’t see a single person as she passed the structures. Her cabin, number six, was located at the end of the main path, before it branched off and led deep into the forest to both the east and the west.

Nella unlocked the cabin door and stepped into the single room building—to the left of the door was a bed and a dresser, to the right was a small wood-burning stove, a small water-basin, a single cabinet, and a dining table. It was sparse, but that was part of the charm of the park. It promoted simplistic living in an effort to centre the mind and bring a sense of balance to life. There was no Wi-Fi and spotty cellphone reception, but otherwise the cabins were well prepared for each inhabitant.

Nella set her bag on the dresser next to the bed, then fell back onto the sheets and closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh air that filled the cabin. It was good to be alone, to be in silence; she felt at peace, and at home, within the forest.