I didn't go to that field for spirit-listening. I was only cutting through. But in the wild and weedy way between footpaths, only a span of ten minutes or so, my life changed.
I have been writing a few essays about the magical spirits which share this neighbourhood with me. It was my intention to compile enough for a book, but that isn't looking likely at this stage without diminishing the work in an effort to expand the word count. I have therefore been considering other ways I can share the essays and, through them, the lost bunyips, small dirt dragons, bean sidhe, singing mice, and other beautiful, wild, and often endangered, creatures I have met over the years.
The pieces are too long for blogposts, and too dear to me to simply go out as e-letters. One thought I've had is creating a six week series of booklets which I would distribute via email (or perhaps actual mail) in return for a donation to our fund.
Is this something which would interest you? If so, please leave a comment, send me an email (knitting the wind at yahoo dot com) or click the "reading quietly" button. If I have enough of a response, I will go ahead. Otherwise I will think of some other channel for the essays. They are important to me; they are my small way of trying to help a group of refugees who are unconsidered in council plans and climate warning models, but who suffer perhaps even more than we do from the strains of our modern civilisation.
In the end, when my story has unravelled and I'm left standing with the shells and jellyfish below the gritty white tidemark, I can only look out and wonder. I swear I tried to leave, years ago. But she caught me like a pilchard, like a crying gull. She wrapped foam, wool, knowing, around my ankles so I could not abscond. And occassionally she tugs, a reminder that she can reel me in at any moment as she does the sea and her sultry silent daughter. And then I will be like a broken piece of coral tumbling at her feet. She will consider me – and, I think most likely, make me into what I have been all along, inside my bones. A hill-dreaming storm.
In the meanwhile, I am also working on a different novel when I find the right moments.