Dear friends, several moons ago I shared a mental image of Baba Yaga standing in the airport with a wheeled suitcase. I don't recall the exact context, but someone replied saying they'd like to read that story. So I wrote it.
The book is resting now in quiet for a while, which is a new practice for me. I try to walk in medicinal ways, and right now going slow is what I need. Many people with chronic illnesses speak of spoons, but that metaphor has never quite resonated with me. I think instead in terms of footing it through the wind: slow or dance-like or running or resting: going or not-going while the sky rushes or drifts or pelts down or holds you still. But I can never go anywhere, nor even rest awhile, without something in my pockets. So I've been thinking about the next story. I've been taking out gathered acorns, breaking them open, to find the charms inside. One is a stolen moon. One is a secret in a house full of strange and beautiful stories. One is a woman walking her grandmother home along sacred paths using a map of flower, sunrise, stone, memory. One is a moonbear weeping in the night. I don't know which of them I'll eventually write. I've been speaking with story itself (writing early pages, seeing if tale-voice matches my voice). I've been asking people what they'd most like. We'll see, we'll see. The part before writing is always the hardest part.
photograph by eduard i. militaru