I’ve started but I’ve barely begun. The forest is deep even along its edges. Its heart is too well hidden even though one can feel its presence in every thing and every creature. Maps are mere tools for pretending to know the paths, perhaps only good enough to mark the waystations of longing and loneliness. Trigger warnings.
So many layers of hard walls and sharp boundaries before I even dared to declare that I was getting anywhere. Duties and daily life drain so much spirit. So much magic lost in the concrete and the false lights.
So slow, I go. Circumnavigating my own defenses and fears. I fight even myself, as if there aren’t enough dragons along the way. As if there are only dragons. As if I have so much life to spare.
I clutch my worthless scribbles close, checking from time to time if maybe something has changed to reveal a clue, a secret, a signature. For this is known, that the forest seeds itself in all heart-creation, and grows into a Story when it is Time.
The blue-heart boy visits the forest in his dreams, and wakes up afraid to sleep again. He does not know why. Nor does he understand the weight in his own heart as if it had grown many hands and clutch at the earth wishing to be still and quiet and waiting.
And my own quest? Only half-known, half-remembered. Something to do with breaking. Something to do with finding and being found. Something to do with waking. And falling. And being still while moving everywhere. A lot to do with bringing forth the impossible. Of grasping the chaos within order, and the order within chaos.
Something about escape and coming home and realising that the North is a place of the soul. Of re-wilding what has been tamed. Relearning what has always been known.
So much to do and I am so slow. And often so afraid, and weak, and so terribly, terribly lonely.
STORIES are what happen in the Impossible Garden & the Wildforest. They are the overheard conversations, the gossip of the flowers and the trees, the fragments written on bones and stones. They are the secrets whispered by the wind, the tales of the stars, the knowledge earned or traded with the forest dwellers. They are the fairy tales that had been forgotten or never told. They are the rules and the history and how they are repeatedly broken and rewritten. They are the murmurings of magic, the language of hidden love, the wildness beneath every order and the pattern beneath every chaos. They are truths and they are lies and in the end they are real to those who have the heart to see.
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