The flower doesn’t dream of the bee. It blossoms and the bee comes.
Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
It has been hard these days to let the world go and just sit with quiet, with dreaming. But although my mind is clutching on to news piece after news piece, for that is what it does when anxious - equating information quite ridiculously with a sense of control - my heart agrees with Patricia McKillip when she writes in Winter Rose,
I did not want to think about people. I wanted the trees, the scents and colours, the shifting shadows of the wood, which spoke a language I understood. I wished I could simply disappear in it, live like a bird or a fox through the winter, and leave the things I had glimpsed to resolve themselves without me.
Someone said to me yesterday that they no longer knew how to cope with a world so full of hatred, corruption, and cruelty. They said this only a few minutes after I had been looking at the new Patreon page for Hedgespoken. I wanted to tell them, look for the helpers. Look for the people bringing wonder and beauty. But I did not say it, because the world these days leaves me speechless. And yet we really must not give up knowing that there is goodness out there. And furthermore that we ourselves can be goodness within ourselves.
We can tell the gorgeous stories that don't necessarily solve anything, or speak to any injustice, but that act as flowers beside the hard road.
And by telling the stories I mean writing books, or making a phone call, or baking someone's favourite cake, or setting a moth free out the window, or saying good afternoon to a passing stranger. Everything is a story about what we believe the world can be.