The stories have stopped writing themselves the way they usually do. My best days no longer have stories. They are spent dreaming beside a river, watching as the sun like Midas turns everything around me to gold. Captivated by a spider spinning a web in the tree above me. Tasting the tangy crispiness of clover for the first time. Laughing at nothing with my lover. Kissing in underground caverns. Dancing on rocks with the river sprites who call themselves my friends. Way too many whippets and White Claw.
There is a lovely quote from Rumi that describes these days so well.
Observe the wonders as they occur around you. Don’t claim them. Feel the artistry moving through, and be silent.-Rumi
My life is a lot more silent than it used to be, and I like it this way.
I don’t miss my old life, my old job. I don’t even miss the money anymore. I can no longer buy the life I have now. You can buy fantasy, but not magic. Fantasies are stories that can be told, but magic can only be felt.
Like an eighteen wheeler skidding on ice, the stories are grinding their way back to me. I can hear them coming; I can feel them coming. I have accepted that this is my fate. I don’t dread it, but I do savor the sweet smell of honeysuckle more than I used to, the sound of my mother’s voice over the phone, the nap I can take in the middle of the afternoon.
It is my hope that you, too, have managed to find at least a sliver of peace in the midst of the madness and a few good-natured travelers to help you navigate through the worst of the storms.
If, like me, your life no longer has stories, I hope you like it that way too. Perhaps the best stories are the ones we cannot tell, because you can buy fantasy, but magic is not for sale.